#they don’t get to abuse others because they have a bad life

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

In Love and War (8)

Summary: The aftermath of all her family secrets might be more chaotic than Reader bargained for when her powers suddenly start to flare. Good thing her Warlord has more than a few ideas how to help navigate it ;)

Content Warnings: Depressive thoughts, Reader mentions wanting to die; Suggestiveness, Slight SMUT; Canon Typical Violence

Author's Note: To make up for the last chapter being so short, please enjoy that flirty little bastard being a menace! ;)

Chapter 7/Masterlist

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

I don’t sleep at all that night. I lay there, Rhysand sleeping soundly beside me, exhausted from the events of the last couple of days. He’d barely kept his eyes open long enough to eat. I’d barely managed to choke down a few bites myself. The guilt has my stomach in a perpetual knot. I’ve dedicated so much of my life to hating this male, only to be wrong about all of it, and now I’m in too deep to even do anything about it.  I can’t go home. There is no home to go back to. My family slaughtered an innocent mother and daughter. Rhys received their heads in boxes like some sort of twisted gift. They were supposed to be allies and my father betrayed them in the worst possible way. He paid for it with his life, with my mother’s life; it should have been the end of it. Tamlin was given a mercy and he should have taken it. He should have abandoned my father’s teachings and become a better lord, a better man. Instead, he perpetuated the cycle of abuse and suffering. He encouraged me to hate these people, to covet everything they had as if they were undeserving of it. All these years I loathed our miserable existence thinking the Mother hated us and was being unjust in giving these people all these things that we were never allowed. But we deserved it! We were the bad guys all along.

I roll over onto my side to look at him. He still sleeps in his armor, knife still strapped to his thigh, sword resting against the tent pole only a foot away. He’s ready to be up and fighting in a moment's notice. Our father’s were so similar, and yet, he turned out to be merciful and kind and somehow, so startlingly gentle that I often forget he’s still capable of intense prowess. He is the only male I’ve ever truly felt comfortable with, because that gentleness came as a response to the violence he’d seen, not because that violence was never there. He’d felt the cold sting of it, and chose to be something gentle instead of returning it.

And here I am, with all that righteous anger that had kept me warm on my coldest days, choosing to return all the violence that had been inflicted on me onto others. Just as Tamlin did. Just as my father did. 

And looking at it I don’t want to be him. He ruined my mother! He took something good and kind and locked it away and used her for his own ends! I don’t even know if he ever really loved her. Why would you keep the things you love in a cage?

I sit up abruptly. Maybe he was as scared of being alone as I am. 

I can’t sit in this tent anymore! I can’t-

Rhysand jolts awake as soon as I move, hand twitching for his knife, shadows swirling off his body in response to what his sleep muddled mind thinks is a threat. “What’s wrong?”

I put a hand on his chest, spinning onto my knees so I can kiss his forehead. “Nothing, I just need to relieve myself.”

He lets me push him down onto the mat, body relaxing and pliant beneath my touch. “You sure?”

“Positive.” If he tried to follow me out now I think I really might explode. My stomach feels like it's ripping itself apart. My bones ache, my skin feels like it's stretched too tight over them. There is too much nervous energy bound inside my body. I just need to get out and stretch my legs; get some fresh air and clear my head. I will be fine if I can clear my head.

“Take your knife,” he says, eyes already drifting shut again. 

I strap it to my thigh as I slip from the tent, gulping down lungfuls of crisp, mountain air as I go. I just need to clear my head. Is finding a way to survive this fucked up world really me acting like my father? I’ve never killed innocent people. I’ve never withheld necessities or lorded my power over people. I’m just not being honest about my intentions. It’s shitty. I’m using a mating bond I’m still not wholly sure is real as a means to getting food and shelter and, hopefully, a decent helping of mind blowing sex.

Cauldron that sounds really, really fucked up.

But how am I supposed to tell him? Hey, I know that you really don’t like my family and they’ve done nothing but screw you over but I also accepted your offer to try and ruin your life and take all of your land and kinda only just changed my mind about it yesterday. And it would be really super cool if you just let that slide because I have nowhere else to go.

That would go over soooooo well. He’d be totally fine with it! 

I ground my palms into my eyes as I walk behind a couple trees to at least make it look like I really did need to go pee. There are men on guard duty, no doubt someone is going to see me wandering around camp.

My brain feels like it’s being squeezed by my skull. There has to be a way to go about this that doesn’t get me tossed out into the coming snow, while also not lying so deeply about it. I do care about him. It was a lie at first but now…

I put my back against the tree and slide down until I’m sitting on the rocky ground, head still in my hands. I don’t know if he’s my mate. There’s something there, I feel it pulling at me, even now, but I can’t give it a name. And I want to be here. Not just because of the story he’d told yesterday. When Lucien tried to get me to leave, I really didn’t want to go back with him. But how am I supposed to live with the truth? How am I supposed to look at him and see that he wants this so much more than I do, despite everything?

Actually, why does he want this, despite everything? He’d asked me why I stayed. I never asked him why he brought me here. There’s certainly enough bad blood between our families to make even a mate hesitate to bring me in.

I lean back against the tree, the rough scrape of the bark against my aching skin a relief. My body feels so strange, being around Rhysand’s magic has made it feel like there’s something beneath my skin.

Tomorrow, in the morning, I will ask him why he still brought me back. Then I will decide what to do. 

------

He certainly doesn’t make asking him easy. Rhys wakes me up with his lips on my throat, along the fading marks he’d left a couple days before,  trailing them down as his hands hike up my sweater. The heat of him against the early morning chill has my resolve slipping, all my plans slipping through my fingers as he runs his tongue over my peaked nipples.

I can’t think past the roaring in my ears; the ache in my body for more, more, more. There is nothing and no one but him as he trails lower, each kiss more forceful than the last as he heads for the waistband of my pants.

“Rhys,” I moan, voice still thick with sleep, even as my body arches under him. I want him everywhere. I need him everywhere. The stirring feeling beneath my skin is worse today, only quelled by the trail of his hands on my body. For once, my racing thoughts are quiet. If only we could stay like this. 

“Hmmm,” he hums into my stomach, just beneath my navel. There’s a bit of stubble along his jaw, the scrape of it against my oversensitive skin makes my eyes roll back into my head. “Did you want something, mate?”

“You,” I groan, hand reaching out to tangle in his hair to try and move him where I need him. 

He grins, I can feel the upturn of his lips against my stomach, but he refuses to budge. Just nips at the skin visible above my waistline. “You have me.”

Bastard! My whole body trembles beneath him. I can’t get a breath down fast enough. I need him everywhere all at once. “Need you inside me,” I bite out.

He simply hums again, hands tugging at my waistband with an inhumane slowness that makes me feel like I’m going to burst out of my skin. I use the hand not in his hair to grip the mat, trying to ground myself, trying to find some semblance of control again. I’m gripping so tight my bones ache, fingers feeling like they’re breaking. There’s a tearing sound, a pricking sensation in my palm and then a gush of something wet across my hand. 

Even he looks up at that, and when I turn to look, I’m more than a little surprised to find that I’ve grown claws, and I’ve just tore them right through my hand!

“Shit!” He’s gone from between my legs in an instant, all the heat in my body leaving with him. 

I can’t unfurl my hand. Can’t retract the claws, they’re stuck through my palm with my fist closed around it. I’ve only ever grown them in anger, how the hell had I done it now?

Rhysand comes back with a towel as I manage to sit up. “I thought you smelled different this morning,” he muses.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I hiss.

“Our magic can be protective. It can hide itself if it doesn’t feel safe. I don’t think you were born with too little, I think you were born with too much.” His fingers massage my wrist, trying to find the right pressure points to help me unclench my fist. “I think that it buried itself inside you to keep you safe. And I think, now that you’re here, it’s manifesting, and like the wards, it has its own scent.”

Fan-fucking-tastic!

“Well I’d like it to un-manifest,” I hiss. “I was doing just fine without it!” There’s blood dripping through the towel, if anything it feels like my claws are burrowing deeper into my palm. I can practically feel them trying to tear right through the back of my hand.

He can’t seem to find the right spot and trying to pry my fingers out of my palm is a no go. He frowns, lifting the towel for a better look. “I’m gonna try something.”

I’m prepared for a blow from his own magic, some form of glittering starlight or shadowy darkness, I am not prepared for him to kiss me again. The sound I make in surprise is somewhere between a growl and a gasp because what the hell is he doing? But even though my head is struggling to catch up, my body is not. On instinct, I lean back to allow him better access, his tongue slipping behind my teeth. The rolling feeling beneath my skin lessens, the tightness in my palm slowly releasing. I thread my functioning hand through his hair as my body gives what I can only describe as a sigh of relief. A moment later, the claws retract and I can finally unfurl my fist.

“Flair ups can be heavily tied to your emotions,” he says, lips barely off mine. “Probably wasn’t the best idea to tease you in the middle of one.” 

It takes him all of thirty seconds to find some rags and tie up my hand, even though the blood flow is already lessening. All I can do is stare at it while he does it. This is certainly a new and unwelcome development to this whole mess.

“Is that going to keep happening?”

Azriel pops his head into our tent, unannounced as usual. “Are you two done in here or what? I, personally, cannot live with Cassian if he beats us around the mountain.”

“We’ll be right there,” Rhysand huffs.

“I’m seeing a trend with him,” I mutter. 

He smirks, “It’s one of Azriel’s many charms.” 

He helps me to my feet, holding onto me like he thinks something else might just burst out of my skin. Truth be told, I can still feel something shifting around, a prowling animal begging to be released from its cage. I’d thought it was my unease this whole time, but maybe it’s worse than that. 

“We don’t know how deep your power well is,” Rhysand says. “And if it’s never fully manifested…” He blows out a breath. “When mine first started manifesting, I shredded a whole section of camp with starlight. There was a whole twenty-four hour period where my shadows blocked out the sun. And you’re my equal so, yes I think that will keep happening.”

Cauldron boil me!

“As long as you remain calm, it shouldn’t be too bad.”

“I should think you would know better than to tell a female to be calm, Rhysand.”

He grins, “Well you can also spend the day making out with me, since that seems to be such a lovely little distraction with you.”

I go to hiss an insult at him but the only thing that comes out is an actual, animal-like growl. I clamp a hand over my mouth in embarrassment while he bursts out laughing. 

“This is going to be fun!” He declares.

I am not at all inclined to agree.

----

I only manage to ride with him for an hour or two before the pull of his magic makes my skin start to itch. He was right about magic having a scent. Half way through the hour I suddenly become very aware of the jasmine scent of him. It’s everywhere. In every breath. Every brush of his chest against my back, every movement of his hands along the reins. My body is hyper aware of every place we do and don’t touch.

“Getting all worked up again, aren’t we?” He purrs in my ear.

My jaw feels like it’s snapping as a set of fangs tear through my gums, spurting blood into my mouth. Somehow his magic is the catalyst for my transformation and the balm all in one. I can’t be near him and I can’t be away from him, as I soon learn. When I jump off the horse and declare I’m going to walk beside him, my claws return, in both hands this time. At least they shoot out my nail beds and not my knuckles like Tamlin’s.

The thought of him makes another growl rumble through my chest and something that feels suspiciously like fur sprouts from the back of my neck.

“Wouldn’t recommend,” Rhysand warns.

The itchiness of my skin is even worse on the ground. I feel the wards tugging at me like I’ve been tied to the glittering magic that builds them with a string.  The jasmine and overripe fruit scent of them is enough to make my nose crinkle. Apparently the transformation heightens my senses as well.

“I’m gonna tear off my skin,” I snarl, fidgeting with my collar. Why is it so itchy? Is it supposed to be like this?

He slows his mount to keep pace with me and I do not miss the grumbled complaints of the males behind us. My ears twitch every time one of them speaks, the sound sometimes like a shout and others like a far off echo.

“Breathe,” he says gently. “The more worked up you get, the worse it will be until we can find a way to safely expel it.”

I draw a shaky breath, then another. 

“Good girl.”

A shiver works its way up my spine at that.

“Now come here,” he leans so far out of the saddle he’s only holding on with his thighs, and my first thought is how we can get this little caravan to pause so I can be the one beneath him. He gets an arm around my waist and hauls me back up onto the horse and damn if that’s not the hottest thing I’ve ever seen a male do!

“Let’s get these wards up-” I’m hyper-aware how every word rumbles through his chest, the way his body shifts on the horse. “-And we’ll find a place to camp soon enough, then you and I can work on this.”

“Make it stop,” I gently beg. “I don’t want it!” The itch beneath my skin is becoming unbearable! My claws scratch up my arms, tearing up my sweater. 

His free hand covers mine, intertwining our fingers, even as the horse begins to move. “Focus on me.”

I focus my attention on the way his body molds against mine. The way the leather of his glove slides over the back of my hand. I let my eyes drift shut, focusing on the brush of his chest against mine, the swaying motion of his hips as the horse moves over the rocky terrain. It’s not enough. Not like the feel of his lips on mine had been this morning. As if he knows it, he drops his head against my shoulder, nose brushing over the exposed skin of my throat. 

“I’m right here,” he continues. “Focus on me, just like you did this morning.”

This morning there had been a lot less clothes between us. 

“Breathe for me.”

It is a physical effort to draw a deep enough breath in; another to pull my claws away from my itching skin. He settles our joined hands against my stomach. 

“Again.”

I manage to do what I am told, just barely. 

“Good. Just like that.” His voice makes a shiver run down my spine as my mind spins with all the other things I want him to talk me through. I think I could do just about anything if he explained it to me in that rich, husky voice he was using in my ear. “Part of learning to control it is finding your center. Find a safe mental space to retreat to.”

“Like what?” There are few places in the world I have ever felt safe. Thinking about how I used to sit in the rocking chair with my mother and listen to her stories only fills me with pain now. Or perhaps a couple weeks ago I might have thought about all those summers I spent at the creek with Lucien, but now it only makes the thing beneath my skin rumble and shake like there’s some sort of animal that lives caged beneath my ribs and is trying desperately to break free. What makes me feel safe?

“A good memory, a happy time,” he lists. 

I have nothing. My eyes start to water and my throat starts to close, talons growing longer and sharper at my fingertips. I feel the give of my leather chest-piece beneath them. Everything good in my life has been a lie! Everyone that was supposed to protect me only ever hurt me in the end. None of it was ever real.

And this, this thing that could be something, that could be real, I had ruined it. I have to lie to keep it. I have to pretend that I had every right to hurt him, when it was really the other way around. The only person who had ever told me the truth, who could see me for what I was, and I had ruined any chance of it being real before it had even had the chance to start.

A sob slips out of me and with it, the tree we pass erupts in a flurry of leaves and twisting, screaming bark that makes the horse rear. The earth rumbles, random cracks splitting in the rock face, gnarled vines crawling out of them like tentacled monsters. The itching in my skin won’t stop! The more I try to trap it the more the world around us screams in protest. 

“Breathe, Y/N,” Rhysand orders in my ear. “You have to breathe.”

“I can’t!” I choke out. 

He slides his hand out of mine and brings it up against the side of my temple. It feels like a shadow unfurling from his fingertips, but the brush of it is not against my face, but inside my skull. Darkness clouds my vision from the inside out. It feels as if my brain is being emptied, piece by piece with shadows until there is nothing inside my mind but him. 

“Breathe,” he commands, the voice of a Warlord. “Now.”

I choke on each breath. 

“You are safe, Y/N,” he says, gentler. There is nothing in the world but the two of us in this dark little bubble. Nothing but the press of night chilled jasmine and calming, all consuming night. From somewhere far off, I hear music on the wind, the swell of stringed instruments pulling my attention away from the itch running beneath my skin.

“Why is this happening?” My body feels so impossibly small, yet like it’s being stretched beyond its capacity, my bones trying to tear through the confines of my skin all the same.

“Our powers can very easily get tangled with our emotions,” he explains, the hand on my temple drawing shapes into my skin. Somehow, after looking at the stitches in the tent walls, I know he’s spelling something out in Illyrian, but I’ll never know what. “The last twenty-four hours have been a lot for you, I’m sure.”

There is no room to think about it in this headspace, no twisted memories to plague me, only the music and the faint twinkle of stars for company. I let myself fall into it, let it swallow me and fill me until I feel disconnected from the pulling of my skin.

“I don’t want this power,” I whisper into the darkness.

The darkness caresses me, wraps itself around me as surely as his arm around my waist. “I know, but we don’t get a say in what we’re given, only what we do with it.”

When have I ever truly had a say in anything?

“What if I hurt somebody?” What if I am just as bad as my father in both intentions and power? If I am capable of plotting to ruin someone’s life based on a lie, how much more capable am I of turning these claws on someone else? Maybe power is passed from my mother, but that will never change the fact that I now carry the same weapons that were used to scar me, and Rhys, and probably his mother and sister. 

“You won’t,” he assures. “I’ll be right here to teach you. You can control it.”

He has far more faith in me than he should.

----

Once we’ve stopped for the night and camp is set up, Rhysand takes me by the hand and leads me out into the empty, grassy plains beneath the mountain. The knee-high yellow blades are brittle this time of year, cracking under our boots as we walk until only the smoke from the campfires pinpoints where we left the others. We’re far enough away that I won’t hurt anyone if I lose control again.

Shame flushes my cheeks. I’ve always prided myself on being the calm one of the family; always able to keep my emotions shoved deep down beneath the surface to keep them from getting the better of me. I thought I was good at it. I was wrong. It’s only been the constant brush of Rhysand’s shadows against my mind all afternoon that have kept me from tearing everything I touch to shreds. Even now, my hands ache from often my new claws have sprung and retracted from my fingertips.

I must feel about as awful as Rhysand looks. The circles under his eyes have not lessened in the slightest, and every once in a while I’ll see him start to sway, like it’s an effort to stay on his feet. The scent of his magic has lessened, the night blooming jasmine fading behind the citrus and salty scent of him. He shouldn’t be out here with me, he should be resting, recharging his own magic so he can be prepared for more warding tomorrow. According to Azriel and the scouts’ reports, we should meet up with Cassian and Mor’s group by this time tomorrow and Rhysand will need all his energy to ensure both ends of the wards are fully meshed together. 

We stop once we’re cushioned between two large hills, nothing but the chirp of crickets and the stars to keep us company. The Mountain looms dark and shadowy beneath the small sliver of the moon. 

“This looks like a good place,” he says as he finally releases my hand.

I keep my lower lip between my teeth, hands shaking at my sides. I don’t want to do this! Entertaining the idea that I have powers to train and use is foolish. I don’t need to learn to use them; I need to learn to shove them back down into the darkest parts of me where they can’t hurt anybody. 

“Let’s start with something simple,” he suggests. “Tell me where you feel your power the most.”

My hand comes up to poke between my rib cage, where the stirring and itchy feeling is the most concentrated. “Feels like something is trying to break out of my skin,” I say softly.

“The claws and the fangs could be a beast form,” he muses. “Or it could just be some shape-shifting powers you inherited from your father?”

The mention of that bastard makes the stirring in my chest feel like a tidal wave, raw energy crackling so hard and fast through my veins that I feel it crest out my fingertips. The grass around me withers and dies, the ground beneath it crackling and rumbling with what feels like the early stages of an earthquake. I can’t have powers like my fathers!

There is no shortage of pity in those violet eyes and I press my palms into my eyes with a groan. I can’t do this! It needs to stop! I need to bury it now before it runs away with me; while I still have some control over it. Because if it goes any further than this…

Maybe Tamlin was right to send me away. Maybe he did know about my powers and that was why he got rid of me. I couldn’t hurt anybody if I was alone in the woods.

Rhysands shadows drift along the floor until they can slither up my calves, rubbing affectionately against me in a way that reminds me of a cat. “It’s ok,” he soothes.

Tears stream down my cheeks. “Make it stop!” I beg. “Show me how to bury it again.”

His shadows trail higher, winding over my hips and waist, even as he steps closer, leaving barely a breath between us. “Y/N…” he shakes his head, trying to find the right words and I feel a strange pang beneath the movement in my chest.

“Please,” I whimper. “I’ll do anything! Just make it stop.”

He cups my cheek and I give myself the briefest moment to fall into the warmth of his touch.  “I know it’s scary, and that it hurts, but this is good. It has to be released. You will die if you don’t.”

Then let me. The words freeze on my tongue when a tendril of his power flicks over his shoulder, down his wrist, to brush against my cheek, but that doesn’t stop the spiraling of my thoughts. Let me be free of this pain. Let me go out before I become a monster like my father. Let that awful bastard be right; let me be useless and worthless and incapable of doing anything he could be proud of. 

As if spurred on by my thoughts, the grass around me continues to wither, until there’s a whole circle of dead earth surrounding me. The harder I try to draw it in, the wider the circle becomes. Power sizzle through my nerve endings, a fire that digs itself into my veins and when I curl my hands into fists to try and stop it, I pull weeds through the cracks in the earth, the gnarled, leafy branches reaching up like skeletal hands that wrap around my, and Rhysand’s ankles.

“Focus on that spot,” his free hand taps gently against my ribs. “Focus until it feels like you’re holding it.”

I try to imagine the power like a bowl filled with sloshing, dark liquid. I imagine myself reaching for the lip of the bowl, the cracked edges and rough wood a mirror to the one that used to sit on our kitchen table, full of apples I’d sneak when no one was looking. If I make it familiar, it feels easier to focus on. I imagine every crack in the bowl, every worn edge, focusing until I get a mental hold around the edges. Now all I need to do is tip the bowl over. If I spill out its contents, there will be nothing left inside me to unleash… right?

“Once you can hold it, focus on containing it. Imagine it like a bottle, get all that energy into the bottle, and put a lid on the top,” Rhys says like he can hear my plans.

The liquid inside the bowl bubbles and hisses as my conflicted feelings run circles through my head. He hasn’t been wrong this far, I should do as he says, but I can’t help but feel like indulging this is a mistake. I can hear my father’s voice inside my head, telling me that this is not how females are supposed to behave. 

I can feel the weeds I’d summoned dying around me. Can feel every blade of grass as if it was somehow attached to my skin. The longer I hold that imaginary bowl, the more aware of this power I become, but it doesn’t feel like control. It just feels like more things pulling at me, trying to move me in directions I’ve never decided I want to go in. 

The ground rumbles beneath my boots again as my mental grip slips, and when I open my eyes the weeds, dead as they are now, have slithered all the way up my chest, reaching for my throat like some decrypt hand. 

The air leaves my lungs in a rush and with it, the dead vegetation crumbles and turns to dust on the wind.

Rhysand should be looking at me like I’m a monster. He should be stepping away, shadows swirling, that giant sword in hand. We are supposed to be enemies and he should be looking at me like I am one. But he’s not. He reaches out and brushes some of the ruined plant off my shoulder instead.

“It’s ok,” he assures. “No one gets it on their first try. Not even me.”

That compassion and understanding makes my chest ache worse than any restless power ever has. I don’t deserve it. I wish he would treat me like the horrible creature I am. He would be better off if he tossed me out into the woods like Tam.

He stiffens and I can’t help but wonder if I accidentally said that out loud because his eyes darken as he closes the gap between us and takes my face in his hands. “Maybe I’m taking the wrong approach.” His voice is clipped, husky. 

Good, maybe he can finally see me for what I really am.

I am wholly unprepared for him to crash his lips against mine. My brain short circuits, the agitation I feel morphing into that desperate, needy thing I had felt this morning. Just as I tilt my head back, lips parting to let him in, he pulls back. 

“Let’s play a game.”

The power in my chest feels like it’s going to rip out of my skin again. 

“Match what I do and you’ll get a reward,” he explains. “If you can’t…” He takes a step back and it is an effort not to chase after him, but the message is clear enough: Matching his efforts means his hands, his lips, his body is on me again, fail to do so, and he puts space between us. It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t make me want to try, but I do. Gods I do! 

“Ok,” my voice shakes a little. In the back of my mind I still think it’s a bad idea. Maybe I will regret it in the end, but this thing between us is the only thing that makes sense. There is nothing between us when his lips are on mine. I need that distraction tonight.

He holds out a hand and a ball of shadows emerge, the tendrils of darkness crawling out from beneath his skin to form the swirling shape. “Find that spot in your chest and push it into your hand. It’s a part of you, it answers to you. Make it answer to you.”

I hold out my hand, matching his position and then close my eyes, reaching for that bowl of darkness again. Hesitantly, I tip it sideways, sloshing some of the dark liquid over the edge and imagine pulling it through my limbs. It makes my muscles spasm, my claws shooting out of my nail beds in defense.

“Breathe through it, you’ll pass out if you hold your breath.” 

Selfishly, I want to impress him. Want to show him I can. I want the reward of his lips on mine again. Want to not have to think about whether I should be doing this or that, the only thought in my head him and how good he feels. I do as he says, drawing in a breath as I keep pushing that bit of darkness in the direction I want it. It makes my head hurt, trying to focus so intently, but I’m nothing if not persistent. 

I feel the rumble of movement beneath my palm, and just when I’m starting to think that maybe I’m more capable than I thought, the tiniest, most wilted looking dandelion grows from my palm. And then immediately turns to ash. It’s the saddest excuse for power I’ve ever seen and I growl out a complaint like a literal beast as even the thing in my chest shows its disappointment.

Rhysand snorts out a laugh too, which makes it worse.

So much for powerful. 

He clears his throat as he steps back into my space. “It was a good attempt.”

“Don’t patronize me,” I hiss. “That was embarrassing.” 

He wraps his hand around my wrist and places his lips against my palm anyway, never mind that my claws are still out and drifting over his temple as he kisses right where my powers flared. “You still tried.”

I shiver at the contact of his plush lips against my skin, his breath warm against my palm. My senses are still incredibly heightened and even that bit of contact makes my skin buzz with excitement. 

He quirks a dark brow as he looks at me from where my hand is still pressed against his lips. “Try again for me?”

I nod, not trusting my voice when he’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. His pupils are blown wide, barely a ring of violet left to see. He keeps his lower lip between his perfect teeth as he watches me with an intensity that makes my thighs clench. 

Just like before, I imagine myself holding that bowl, this time, I draw a breath and tip it over, letting more of that strange darkness spill into the abyss that is my soul. It is strange to see it like this, to have some parts of it so clear and yet the rest of it is shrouded in fathomless depths. There might be anything living within the confines of my skin. I’d never bothered to look until now. 

I push it towards my fingertips, just as before. The same spasm in my muscles returns, a knot forming in my bicep that I do my best to ignore as I keep pushing my power towards my hand. I remind myself to breathe when it flares in my wrist, making my claws retract and pop back out. 

“Just like that,” Rhysand coaxes.

Cauldron his voice makes my insides feel like jelly. 

Crawling vines emerge one by one from beneath my palms, twining around my fingertips like tiny snakes. In the center sprouts another dandelion, a little taller than the last. I manage to hold it for all of five seconds before the knot in my bicep and wrist become too much and the vines and flower die together. My bones ache. How does he do this so easily?

“Better,” Rhysand praises as he places the next kiss on the inside of my wrist, his fingers massaging the knot forming there. 

“Is it supposed to hurt?” I grumble.

“It’s a process,” he murmurs into my skin, lips trailing higher, causing a shiver to run down my spine. “Think of it like building a muscle. The first couple days of using that muscle will hurt. You’ll be sore. But the more you build it, the stronger it becomes, and the less it hurts. Eventually, you’ll be able to perform bigger and bigger feats with less and less discomfort.” 

That sounds exhausting! 

I’m going to have to do this for the rest of my life? The thought sours my mood, once again turning my thoughts away from this lovely little distraction he’s been offering and back into the darkness that’s been threatening to overtake me all afternoon. 

I swear he can hear the thoughts spinning through my head as he suddenly nips at the tender flesh of the inside of my wrist. “You think you can give me one more?”

I have a headache just thinking about doing it again, but he keeps looking at me through those long lashes, the intensity in his gaze making all rational thought fly out the window. 

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises, lips trailing higher. He’s so warm and intoxicating, I think he might be capable of making me do anything, as long as his lips remain on my skin.

I focus on that spot, paying extra attention to breathe as I reach for that imaginary bowl a third time. Maybe if I let myself relax, lean a little heavier into the warmth of his touch, and stop trying so hard to hold on so tight, it won't hurt so bad. It has been like fighting a tide all this time; if I relax, go with the wave, will that make it easier?

I imagine that darkness spilling from the bowl like water instead, letting it flow like a river. The path from my chest to my fingertips is kind of like a stream, right? The water bubbling and rushing through me. There must be something to that thought process, because, when I open my eyes, there are more vines twining around my fingers and wrist, but this time, tiny yellow and pink flowers bloom from them. There is nothing dead or angry crawling out from beneath my skin, but something beautiful and alive. My claws retract as the vines spin around my fingers.

I can’t help but grin as I look to Rhys for his approval. “I did it!”

He grins right back, the sight so dazzling I think I might just stand here for hours summoning flower after flower to see it again. “That’s my girl!”

Instinctively, spurred by the excitement rushing through my veins, I stretch up on my toes and place a quick kiss on his lips. “You’re a good teacher,” and I mean it. Whatever this is between us, I am grateful for him, even if this is all we have. “Thank you.”

He slides a hand in my hair and kisses me back. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

I don’t know what it is I feel about it. It still feels wrong, or maybe it just feels different. Everything feels different these days, I’d rather not think too long about it. “Feels like I can breathe a little easier.” 

“Good.” He kisses me again. “We’ll practice some more tomorrow.”

I slide my hand into the silky strands of his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp as he rests his forehead on mine. I won’t let myself think about tomorrow, or about these new powers. There can only be this moment.

“Just promise me,” he continues, “that you’ll keep trying?”

“I might need some convincing,” I return, clinging to this distraction with every last bit of willpower I possess.

He grins at the challenge. This is the best I can give him today; the closest to the truth I can admit without laying everything bare. 

“I can be very persuasive,” he purrs and the next thing I know I am on my back in what’s left of the grass, the solid weight of him on top of me. “Maybe we should work on some self-defense while we’re at it. That was alarmingly easy.”

“The words every girl wants to hear when she’s beneath a man,” I retort.

“I just want you to be safe, is all,” he says as he kisses the tip of my nose. 

I reach up a hand and brush some of the hair that’s falling over his forehead into his eyes out of the way. He is breathtakingly beautiful under the moonlight. I wish I could paint or sketch, immortalize every glorious sharp edge of him in ink and paper. “I’m with you, how can I not be safe?”

Cauldron boil me, I mean that too.

It’s not until later that night, long after I’d fallen apart on his tongue in that field and then tumbled back into camp, nearly asleep on my feet to nestle down against his warm body that I remembered I’d meant to ask him this morning why he’d still let me in after everything between us. By now I’m too exhausted to care; maybe I’ll find the courage to ask in the morning.

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

Taglist:

@judig92 / @randomperson1234sblog /@nyxbranwenn /@lilah-asteria / @barb00235

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@landofpetrichor / @hjgdhghoe / @buttermilktea11 / @yourforeveryoungblog / @sassyn

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@zoeisdreaming6 / @minnieoo / @girl-math-aint-mathing / @raisam / @inloveallthetime

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@blessthepizzaman / @bxtchopolis / @erencvlt / @mylittle-flower-loves

Thank you all for being so patient with this update! As always, let me know if you want to be added to the taglist :)

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

What Carmy wants

IMPO it's pretty obvious that what he wants is Reparation by Opposition.

In Psychogenealogy and Transgenerational Therapy this means that when you come from a family that was the source of trauma, your responses can only be 3 potential ones: Repetition → status quo that only serves to perpetuate the trauma, Opposition → breaking the cycle but in spite, not as a reparation but as defiance, again: trauma response, OR REPARATION BY OPPOSITION → the only response that includes real healing and liberation from that trauma, which entails not perpetuating the toxic cycle, not acting in spite and just to challenge the status quo to prove "them" wrong or that they don't own us, etc. It's the only mature and healthy response, although the other two do not necessarily imply a conscious conflict. Some people can lead a seemingly "conflict-free" life even when perpetuating the status quo or opposing to it in an act of vengeance, like our case study here:

He wants his legacy to be all he never had growing up:

A panic-less environment.

Anxiety-free.

Be square with everything and everybody.

To make it good, he'd have to filter out the bad.

I already went over this in terms of the show in general because I firmly believe those lines are nothing but a huge foreshadowing of the show's whole arc, and as usual, Storer hid it in plain sight:

That is why MEAT was in the background, in the frame, in the center, because what Carmy was saying was the whole "meat" of the show:

However, as for Carmy, individually speaking, those lines are ANOTHER PIECE OF HARD EVIDENCE, we, Sydcarmy truthers can and should hold onto and go by, to back up our SYDCARMY ENDGAME claims and wishes. We are not delulu. Well, not because of believing in Sydcarmy endgame anyway...

There is no way on Earth Carmy can achieve all that with the C person. Someone who represents his past and triggers his trauma to the point of causing panic attacks, someone who he associates with the "old Carmy" he wants to outgrow to get to where he wants to be and spend the rest of his life in (his purpose). Of course, she represents the status quo for him, the literal girl next door who is totally familiar with his past family trauma and all the things he wants to leave behind. She is what his toxic family wanted for him. She is in no way, shape or form a symbol of progress or healing, you can read about that in pretty much ALL my C Person meta, here ↓

The only character on the whole show that represents change, evolution, growth, and progress, is:

Every one of Carmy's breakthroughs, had her presence in them, in one way or another.

He started turning The Beef around when she came along, even when everyone was still opposing his leadership because he wasn't alone anymore:

He accepted his shortcomings and vowed to change:

He shared his dream with her because he trusted her fully, even when he had only met her for a few months at that point (he didn't even trust C with his right number even after knowing her for years)

He shared her dream:

He put everything in her hands and then couldn't live with the guilt of having let her down, which triggered ALL HIS DEMONS.

She was also there when he gathered the strength to confront his abuser:

Summing up, the only one who can bring out this Carmy we all want, including himself, is Sydney and he already knows that, he told her:

Bonus track: What Syd always wanted and still does is this ↓

The great news is that what Syd and Carmy want are FULLY COMPATIBLE things.

which is the key to any healthy and lasting relationship love story. Not wanting the same things, none of us want the same things as our partners at all times, it's impossible and or childish because we are dynamic beings and individuals, and any relationship that annuls or censors our individuality can't or shouldn't last. Now, finding someone with whom you can be yourself, NOT LOGAN:

Being accepted by them and at the same time inspired and driven to change for the better, as opposed to remaining stuck in the past, THAT IS LOVE and that is at the very least PROMISING. A relationship based on that and on trust can only be a good one, no matter how toxic or hard it gets at times, as most relationships at some point do or might because that means that all the tools to "fix" it, are there, at hand.

Remember to follow my tag #Gingerpovs 💋

[thattheater-kid]

Everyone talks about how fucked up it was that people told kids, especially girls, that if someone picks on you it means they like you. And that is fucked up and should be talked about, but you know what else is fucked up?

Telling bullying victims to have sympathy for their bully because “they’re probably hurting too” (also that the best way to stop bullying is to ignore it, but that’s another post). That’s really harmful and just teaches kids to ignore mistreatment and abuse because the perpetrator has had a hard time too.

[quietwingsinthesky]

Dean is such a paradox for me because on the one hand, I have been actively triggered by him in the show, there are moments where, intentionally or not, the writers managed to create a portrayal of manipulation and abuse and control issues that it sets off actual alarms for me. And on the other hand, I would not have him any other way. There is something — not comforting, that’s too soft a word — about knowing where Dean’s actions stem from, having seen and learned all that we do about his childhood neglect and parentification and the trauma he goes through repeatedly in the show, and that he doesn’t come out clean. He comes out a goddamn mess who ends up hurting the people around him in reaction to his own pain!

There’s a reality there that’s. Almost nice, actually. Distressing to watch, but it is a fucking mess, it’s a good mess! He’s got zero healthy coping skills and a healthy relationship with say, his brother, is terrifying because it leaves him open to abandonment!

I’m not sure I’m wording this correctly. There is a way to be a good abuse victim. Take the pain, martyr yourself on it, and then, even if you have no support or idea how to, then you have to become a Good Person who never hurts anyone the way you have been learning to your entire life. Simply toss everything that shaped you out the door and emerge a saint with a tragic backstory. And Dean is not that. And that’s so fucking good. Everything that he has gone through continues to effect the way he treats the people around him, and he can’t fight the behaviors he might recognize as harmful because he also sees them as protecting him (or protecting Sam by keeping Sam with him.)

And sometimes, idk. It feels good to see a guy who didn’t heal the “right way.” Who mostly didn’t heal at all, just keeps the wound open because it’s easier that way.

[cookinguptales]

So I’ve been enjoying the Disney vs. DeSantis memes as much as anyone, but like. I do feel like a lot of people who had normal childhoods are missing some context to all this.

I was raised in the Bible Belt in a fairly fundie environment. My parents were reasonably cool about some things, compared to the rest of my family, but they certainly had their issues. But they did let me watch Disney movies, which turned out to be a point of major contention between them and my other relatives.

See, I think some people think this weird fight between Disney and fundies is new. It is very not new. I know that Disney’s attempts at inclusion in their media have been the source of a lot of mockery, but what a lot of people don’t understand is that as far as actual company policy goes, Disney has actually been an industry leader for queer rights. They’ve had policies assuring equal healthcare and partner benefits for queer employees since the early 90s.

I’m not sure how many people reading this right now remember the early 90s, but that was very much not industry standard. It was a big deal when Disney announced that non-married queer partners would be getting the same benefits as the married heterosexual ones.

Like — it went further than just saying that any unmarried partners would be eligible for spousal benefits. It straight-up said that non-same-sex partners would still need to be married to receive spousal benefits, but because same-sex partners couldn’t do that, proof that they lived together as an established couple would be enough.

In other words, it put long-term same-sex partners on a higher level than opposite-sex partners who just weren’t married yet. It put them on the exact same level as heterosexual married partners.

They weren’t the first company ever to do this, but they were super early. And they were certainly the first mainstream “family-friendly” company to do it.

Conservatives lost their damn minds.

Protests, boycotts, sermons, the whole nine yards. I can’t tell you how many books about the evils of Disney my grandmother tried to get my parents to read when I was a kid.

When we later moved to Florida, I realized just how many queer people work at Disney — because historically speaking, it’s been a company that has guaranteed them safety, non-discrimination, and equal rights. That’s when I became aware of their unofficial “Gay Days” and how Christians would show up from all over the country to protest them every year. Apparently my grandmother had been upset about these days for years, but my parents had just kind of ignored her.

Out of curiosity, I ended up reading one of the books my grandmother kept leaving at our house. And friends — it’s amazing how similar that (terrible, poorly written) rhetoric was to what people are saying these days. Disney hires gay pedophiles who want to abuse your children. Disney is trying to normalize Satanism in our beautiful, Christian America. 

Just tons of conspiracy theories in there that ranged from “a few bad things happened that weren’t actually Disney’s fault, but they did happen” to “Pocahontas is an evil movie, not because it distorts history and misrepresents indigenous life, but because it might teach children respect for nature. Which, as we all know, would cause them all to become Wiccans who believe in climate change.”

Like — please, take it from someone who knows. This weird fight between fundies and Disney is not new. This is not Disney’s first (gay) rodeo. These people have always believed that Disney is full of evil gays who are trying to groom and sexually abuse children.

The main difference now is that these beliefs are becoming mainstream. It’s not just conservative pastors who are talking about this. It’s not just church groups showing up to boycott Gay Day. Disney is starting to (reluctantly) say the quiet part out loud, and so are the Republicans. Disney is publicly supporting queer rights and announcing company-supported queer events and the Republican Party is publicly calling them pedophiles and enacting politically driven revenge.

This is important, because while this fight has always been important in the history of queer rights, it is now being magnified. The precedent that a fight like this could set is staggering. For better or for worse, we live in a corporation-driven country. I don’t like it any more than you do, and I’m not about to defend most of Disney’s business practices. But we do live in a nation where rights are largely tied to corporate approval, and the fact that we might be entering an age where even the most powerful corporations in the country are being banned from speaking out in favor of rights for marginalized people… that’s genuinely scary.

Like… I’ll just ask you this. Where do you think we’d be now, in 2023, if Disney had been prevented from promising its employees equal benefits in 1994? That was almost thirty years ago, and look how far things have come. When I looked up news articles for this post from that era, even then journalists, activists, and fundie church leaders were all talking about how a company of Disney’s prominence throwing their weight behind this movement could lead to the normalization of equal protections in this country.

The idea of it scared and thrilled people in equal parts even then. It still scares and thrills them now.

I keep seeing people say “I need them both to lose!” and I get it, I do. Disney has for sure done a lot of shit over the years. But I am begging you as a queer exvangelical to understand that no. You need Disney to win. You need Disney to wipe the fucking floor with these people.

Right now, this isn’t just a fight between a giant corporation and Ron DeSantis. This is a fight about the right of corporations to support marginalized groups. It’s a fight that ensures that companies like Disney still can offer benefits that a discriminatory government does not provide. It ensures that businesses much smaller than Disney can support activism.

Hell, it ensures that you can support activism.

The fight between weird Christian conspiracy theorists and Disney is not new, because the fight to prevent any tiny victory for marginalized groups is not new. The fight against the normalization of othered groups is not new.

That’s what they’re most afraid of. That each incremental victory will start to make marginalized groups feel safer, that each incremental victory will start to turn the tide of public opinion, that each incremental victory will eventually lead to sweeping law reform.

They’re afraid that they won’t be able to legally discriminate against us anymore.

So guys! Please. This fight, while hilarious, is also so fucking important. I am begging you to understand how old this fight is. These people always play the long game. They did it with Roe and they’re doing it with Disney.

We have! To keep! Pushing back!

[gor3sigil]

Before starting T, when I socially transitionned, I was surrounded by radical feminists who saw masculinity as gross and inherently evil, something to avoid, something to make fun of, something to destroy. The other transmascs in my friend group, sometimes, told me that they didn’t knew if they really were non-binary or if they just were scared shitless of saying “I am a man”. Because they saw this as a betrayal to their younger self who had been SAd and abused.

I saw many of my masc friends and trans men around me hate themselves, not outing themselves as men because it would imply so so much, it was like opening the Pandora Box. Even when we were just together, talking about our masculinity was always coated with bits like “I know we’re the privileged ones but…”, “I don’t want to sound like I have it bad but…”, “Women obviously have it worse, but last time…” and we were talking about terrible traumas we experienced while taking all the precautions in the world in the case the walls were a crowd of people in disguise waiting to get us if we didn’t downplay the violence we faced, or like crying and being upset and being traumatized and afraid and scared and to say it out loud would make us throw up the needles we were forced to swallow every second of every day living in our skin.

Most of us weren’t on T yet, some of us were catcalled every day and harassed in the streets or in abusive relationships nobody seemed to care to help them get out of because they were “strong enough” to do it by themselves.

I was using the gender swap face app and cried for ours when I saw my father looking back at me through the screen. The idea of transforming, of shedding into a body that would deprive me of love, tenderness, and safety, was absolutely terrifying. I knew I couldn’t stay in this body any longer because it wasn’t mine, but I also knew that if I was going to look like my dad, my brother, my abusers, it would be so much worse.

5 years later and I’m almost 2 years on T, and almost 2 months post top surgery.

I ditched my previous group of friends. I was bullied out of my local trans community. But let me tell you how free I am.

I was scared that T would break my singing voice: it made it sound more alive than ever.

I was scared that T would make me less attractive: it made me find myself hot for the first time in my life.

I was scared that T would make me gain weight: it did. But the weight I put on is not the weight I used to put on by binging and eating my body until I forgot that it even existed. It’s the weight of my body belonging to me, little by little. The wolf hunger for life.

I won’t tell you the same story I see everywhere, the one that goes “I started going to the gym 8 times a week, I put on some muscles, I started a diet and now I look like an action film actor”, in fact if you took pictures of me from 5 years ago vs now I’d just have more acne, I’d have longer hair and still look like I don’t know what to do with myself when I take selfies.

But the sparkle in my eyes, my smile, tell the whole story way better than this long ass stream of words could ever.

I want to say some things that I wish someone told me before starting medically transitionning.

It’s okay to take your time. It’s your body, it’s your journey, if you don’t feel comfortable taking full doses and want to go slow, the only voice you need to listen to is your own. Do what feels right.

If you feel overwhelmed, it’s okay to take a break, it’s okay to ask for support.

Trans people are holy. Everyone is. You didn’t lose your angel wings when you came out because you want to be masculine. You are not excluded from the joy of existence, from being proud of yourself, from being sad, from being scared, from being angry. The emotions and feelings you allowed yourself to feel while processing what you experienced when you grew up as a girl and was seen as a woman are still as valid as before. Nobody can take that from you. If someone tries to, don’t let them.

It’s perfectly normal to grieve some things you were and had before you started to transition, like your high soprano voice or even your chest. Hatching is painful. You can find comfort in things that don’t feel right, so making the decision to change can be incredibly scary and weird and you deserve to be heard and supported through this. Wanting top surgery doesn’t make the surgery less intense, less terrifying, less painful to recover from. When it becomes too much you have the right to take a break and take some deep breaths before going on.

You don’t have to have a radical, 180° change for your transition to be acceptable or valid or worthy of praise. Look at how far you’ve come already. It doesn’t have to show, you’re not made to be a spectacle, you’re human and it is your journey.

Oh, and last thing, you know when some people say “Oh this trans person has to grow out of the cringy phase where you think that you can write essays about being trans or transitionning or just their experience because it’s weird” ? If you ever hear this or see this online, remember all the people whose writing you read and, even if they were not professional writers, helped you more than any theorists did ? If you want to write, do it. It won’t be a waste. It can help people. Or it won’t, and even then, if it helped you, that’s enough.

Love every of my trans siblings, take care of yourselves. You deserve the world.

[novy2sirius]

THE MARS DEGREES

based on numerology

tw: sexualization, emotional/physical abuse, substance abuse/addiction, criminals, death ♥︎

the whole chart matters. take this with a grain of salt ♥︎

this is based on the numerical meanings (numerology) of these numbers not degree theory ♥︎

do not read if you aren’t 18+ ♥︎

♂ MARS AT 1°/10°/19°/28° · having these mars degrees indicates that you are someone who has a lot of sex appeal and people may obsess over you a lot. with this does come a lot of hate or envy from others as well. you can make lots of money from martian related topics such as modeling, athletics, sex, tattoo work, etc. people with these degrees in their mars are also extremely ambitious and never take no for an answer when they truly want something. when it comes to conflict these people don’t like passive aggressiveness they want you to be up front with them from the beginning and will also do the same. they like to resolve a conflict immediately when it first occurs or have time to themselves if they’re too angry to talk about anything. sexually the women with these degrees tend to love a dominant partner, but the men with these degrees tend to be the one’s that like to dominate in bed. they have a really high sex drive and may come off as very sexual people. when it comes to their presence these people can come off as intimidating at times and when lower vibrational they can be bullies or just very mean spirited. the one’s that are higher vibrational will not waste their energy on being mean to others or being vengeful, but instead will put their energy toward their passions in life

♂ MARS AT 2° · having this mars degree means that a lot of people will find your body to be sexually appealing. at times you may get sexualized a lot. when it comes to conflict these people are peacemakers and don’t like to stir the pot. they prefer to avoid conflict as much as possible because it makes them very anxious. when lower vibrational because of this they can be passive aggressive and bad at confronting conflict head on. when higher vibrational they will try to understand everyone’s perspective during conflict and be understanding while trying to resolve it in a healthy way. this is the most feminine mars degree you can have. usually these people have a more feminine vibe depending on the rest of their chart. a downside to this degree is that these people usually are not the best leaders

♂ MARS AT 3°/12°/21° · having these mars degrees means that you’re someone who needs a lot of communication to resolve conflict. you typically will not just naturally understand why someone is upset unless they tell you. when lower vibrational during conflict these people can be very impulsive with their words, harsh at times, and childish in conflict. when higher vibrational they tend to just be very straight forward in the way they communicate and straight to the point. these degrees in mars can also indicate that you have a sexy voice that many people find hot. you would benefit in life from speaking up for people and yourself. these people make great public speakers and activists because they usually aren’t afraid to use their voice when it comes to important matters. these are not the kind of people you want to get into a roast battle with because they will have you speechless with their comebacks. they tend to be very funny to a lot of people. these people are naturally very creative and can benefit from using their creativity toward their passions. something random i’ve noticed is low vibrational people with these degrees in their mars often get in trouble with the law/are criminals

♂ MARS AT 4°/13° · having these mars degrees means that you are someone who’s extremely hardworking. often these people are workhorses and will stop at nothing to have their desires. these people tend to have a super high sex drives and aren’t afraid to put in the work during sex to please their partner. people with these degrees in their mars typically have broad shoulders or a very muscular body type. when lower vibrational these degrees can be challenging because these people tend to be overly aggressive, violent, and have a lot of jealousy toward others. when higher vibrational these people are very disciplined and smart when it comes to the decisions they make in their life. these people could do really well in the criminal justice field. they would make great cops, criminal investigators, soldiers, etc. i don’t recommend that someone with one of these mars degrees goes into a career where they’re sitting around too much. they thrive more so in careers where they’re constantly being introduced to new tasks and moving a lot

♂ MARS AT 5°/14°/23° · having these mars degrees means that you’re someone that’s a bit on the wild side. you’re always down for an adventure and love to constantly be moving and traveling if you can. when unevolved these people can sometimes be players since 5 energy in numerology is very sexual and loves its freedom while Mars is about speed and moving fast. these people tend to love sex, but may struggle with confusing lust and love at times even if they don’t initially realize it. these people often have a lot of sex appeal and are very sexually attractive. they have a charm about them that others find very seductive and it makes many people desire them. these people are great entertainers and are very witty. they have a natural charisma about them that makes others addicted to them. although this can also create jealousy in others and make many people want to bring you down if you have these degrees in your mars out of hatred in themselves for not having what you have. at worst people with these degrees in their mars can be relationship/home wreckers, irresponsible, chaotic, alcoholics, or drug addicts. when it comes to conflict they don’t really like to dwell on things too much because they’re free spirits and want to just have fun. if you try telling them what to do or make them feel restricted in any way though they won’t want you in their life and will distance themselves from you. health wise these people tend to be very fit and have good diets

♂ MARS AT 6°/15°/24° · having these mars degrees means that you’re definitely really good in bed. these people like to please their partner before themselves in bed. they usually have high fertility. they also have praise kinks a lot of the time. when it comes to exercise these people can be lazy at times and bed rotters. they like staying in their comfort zone and don’t enjoy leaving it. the downside to these degrees in your mars is that it can make you on the lazier side and can make you lack ambition if you don’t have any placements to contradict this energy. often these people may not have good health because of this. they’re homebodies. they will be responsible whenever they need to though. when it comes to conflict they value their friendships and relationships a lot, so they try not to step on any toes. they’re very loving people, but when they’re mad.. they’re really mad and stubborn. it just takes a lot to get them to that point. when it comes to their family sometimes they do have family issues since mars is associated with the conflicts in our life and 6 is the number of family in numerology. they can lack intelligence if they don’t have any energies contradicting this in their chart

♂ MARS AT 7°/16°/25° · having these mars degrees means that you’re not someone who enjoys being involved in conflict and prefers to just mind your own business. when these people don’t like someone they usually won’t tell them. they’d rather avoid the drama of telling someone they wanna cut them off and just slowly walk away from a friendship/relationship. these people are often on the more introverted side and can be bad at communicating their feelings during conflict. they’re often misunderstood which makes them feel very lonely and struggle a lot with loneliness (sometimes even when they’re not alone). they could be surrounded by a group of people and still feel alone. people with these degrees are most likely to be narcissistic or psychopathic when at a very low vibration since 7 is the number of the psycho and mars represents aggressive energy. these degrees in your mars are some of the most challenging when it comes to romance/friendship as well. the positive to these mars degrees is that these people tend to be highly intelligent and very strong spiritually. they tend to have great instincts and be very intuitive. they notice a lot of things that others don’t notice

♂ MARS AT 8°/17°/26° · having these mars degrees indicates that you’re an amazing leader. you would do great in a career involving business related things or running your own business. these people seek power and can do very well in positions of power as long as they don’t take advantage of their power and use it for bad or act greedy. they often have good judgment of others and can tell the type of person someone is immediately when meeting them. they see things in people that others don’t. if they’re at a lower vibration they can be thoughtless and not think about how their actions may hurt others. at very worst they could be emotionally or physically abusive, ignorant, vengeful, obsessive, and cruel. when it comes to their career they tend to be very wealthy when they’re older, but may experience ups and downs with money in their childhood and in early adulthood. they are very hard workers when they really want something bad enough. if they don’t have a deep desire for something they will not put in any effort though. these people were actually meant to be materialistic in this life time just not to the point where it’s the only thing they value. these people do live a very karmic life which can be the challenge of having these degree in your mars. when they hurt others karma will come back to them quickly, but the vice versa also occurs if people hurt them (the people who hurt them will get bad karma quickly). sexually, these people have a lot of stamina in bed. even the men can last longer than most other men

♂ MARS AT 0°/9°/18°/27° · having these mars degrees can mean that you’re a powerful manifestor and have the ability to manifest more quickly than most others. manifestation ability is not reliant on placements, however it’s simply just that these people tend to have a better understanding earlier on of manifestation than most others which makes them usually have better manifesting skills. these people tend to have a quick death that happens suddenly since mars represents speed and 9 in numerology represents death. these people tend to be great adapters no matter what place you put them in. they are quick learners and very intelligent. when lower vibrational these people tend to have big egos and a superiority complex or need to “prove others wrong” since they have lack of respect for others opinions. they can also be violent, struggle with addiction, dramatic, liars, possessive, or be immoral when at a lower vibration. when at a higher vibration these people know how to use their emotional energy and turn it into amazing art whether that be in the form of music, acting, or literal artwork such as painting and drawing, etc. they can especially be amazing actors though since 9 is the number of illusion. they’re naturally good liars/fakers, so with that energy in mars the planet associated with intense emotions and enthusiasm they can act in a way that seems very realistic. they’re very compassionate and usually come off very charming and attractive to others. they can be good leaders or followers. in bed usually they’re switches and can enjoy being dominant or submissive depending on their mood

♂ MARS AT 11°/20°/29° · having these mars degrees can mean that you’re a very emotional person. it’s usually because of how spiritually connected these people are though and their ability to tap into others energies. sometimes unintentionally. often these people have psychic abilities and will dream about things before they occur in the physical realm. these people tend to dislike hookup culture a lot and prefer having a real and deep connection with someone before ever having sex with them. when it comes to work they do well in emotionally strenuous jobs like being an ICU nurse, 911 operator, etc. they would do well as an athlete, actor, rapper, life coach, salesman, etc though. these people have a lot of charisma and can seduce people into getting what they want. they are good manipulators, so be cautious if you do see this in someone’s chart in case they’re low vibrational. at very worst when these people are at a low vibration they could be the type to lure you in with charm and then hurt you especially if they’re emotionally unstable people. when it comes to conflict these people tend to be very empathetic toward others emotions when at a higher vibration and want the best for them, so they try to understand how the other person feels before explaining how they feel. however, when you hurt someone with one of these degrees in their mars it can be dangerous since these people have the power to make others really emotional

♂ MARS AT 22° · having this mars degree means that you’re very wise, especially when it comes to problem solving. they’re good at analyzing details that others can’t. they tend to also give very good advice to others when they need help with their problems or conflicts in life. they’re powerful people and leaders. they tend to be people that think outside of the box and the opposite of a follower. health wise these people tend to have very muscular bodies and can be very fit. these people can be great body builders if they want to be. emotionally these people can be pretty sensitive at times and if low vibrational very stubborn or ruthless. when at a higher vibration these people tend to use their energy toward things that help them become more powerful and achieve more. a downside is these people can be really stubborn when you try to give them advice. they don’t like taking it. sexually these people will feel more pleasure the more confident they feel and may enjoy more aggressive or intense sex

comment your mars degree and what posts you want me to make next. reblogs are appreciated!!

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

(Dark!) BNHA: Toxic Relationship

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

Female Reader

Boys -> Hawks + Bakugo + Dabi + Deku

Reaction: Moments from your toxic relationship with your Pro-Hero boyfriend.

WARNINGS: Toxic Relationship; Abuse; Manipulation; Non-con.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback.

Let me know if you like this reaction format or what 🙂

–

Hawks

“Y/n is a real clutz, y’know. Can’t even walk on even ground without tripping over her own feet.”

Your cheeks flame with humiliation as the camera pans to the crowd that laughs heartily at the demeaning words, as if Keigo had dropped the funniest joke they’ve ever heard. 

“That’s adorable.” the woman laughs, “Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she has no quirk? I believe you said she is quirkless, right?”

Keigo chuckles, nodding as he crosses an ankle over his knee.

“She sure is. Can’t even imagine what type of quirk she’d have, she’s just not the type.”

Your hand grips the remote tighter. What does he mean by that? Does he think you’re not good enough to have a quirk?

You consider turning off the TV, but fortunately the interviewer changes the subject. They casually speak about the current stance of heroes and their struggles on fighting off criminals and villains.

Keigo is charming as usual, delivering answers that are a perfect portrait of responsibility with a sprinkle of humor. He’s good like that, even though his previous answers left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Somehow, they end up reaching the topic of hobbies and free time. 

“Going Pro Hero leaves little time for myself, so sadly I don’t really have much time for hobbies. Wish I had.” he says humbly. “My girlfriend has lots of them, though.”

You inhale sharply. Not again. 

For your misfortune, the woman gets interested.

Perhaps because it’s an exclusive interview and her network channel gave her orders to squeeze every drop of information they can get on Hawks’ personal life. 

“What type of hobbies? She looks like she’s a great cook.” she tries to guess, but Keigo bursts laughing, holding his belly in an exaggerated mannerism. 

“Nah, cooking isn’t really her department. Burned eggs and half-cooked pancakes are more her style. She doesn’t even-”

You change channels in a heartbeat, bursting in tears at the low insults.

You’re not that bad. Sure, you’re not amazing at cooking, but never once did Keigo complain when he eats the food you diligently make after he returns from patrols. 

And now he slanders you on national television? 

And the worst part? It’s not even the first time he’s done this. 

Dabi

“There’s nothing to eat in the fridge.” 

“There is.” 

“There isn’t.” 

You stop writing your notes, swallowing back an annoyed sigh, already aware of what was happening.

“There is food in the fridge.” you repeat, “You just have to cook it.”

Dabi looks at you, unimpressed. 

“No shit Sherlock. Maybe you can do it for me.” 

“You serious?” 

Meeting his arrogant smirk, you huff. 

“Dead serious, babe. Not like you’re busy anyways.”

Your mouth drops at his audacity and you open your arms to indicate the mess of books, papers and pens in front of you. 

“I’m studying, Dabi. Can’t you see that? Grow up and cook for yourself, yeah?” you snap your attention back to your books, but your mood has already turned sour. 

You pretend to scribble down a few words when Dabi walks to you slowly. He peeks into your annotations, snorting. 

“That handwriting is kinda shitty.” he mocks you. “Besides, what exactly are you even studying for? You’re not exactly cut out to be a doctor, y’know? Not enough brain cells in you to become that.” 

You glare at him, angrily swatting away the hand that condescendingly tries to pet your hair. 

“You’re such an asshole, Dabi. Maybe if your life revolved around something other than your stupid daddy’s issues, you would actually get a job. Not like Endeavour is worried sick about you, not when he’s got Shoto.” you spit the words venously.

Not the nicest words, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to bother. 

A dark shade crosses Dabi’s face, his amused expression turning colder. You’d be lying if the sight didn’t ignite some fear in you.

“Is that so?” his crooked smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “And why would I need a job - or Endeavour, by that matter - when I have you?”

His hand reaches for your shoulder and there’s an edge in his eyes that immobilizes you. You shouldn’t have mentioned Endeavour. 

“I’m not with you because of that bitchy attitude, you know. I like my girl to know who’s in charge. Respect is really important in a relationship and your behavior is making me really upset, baby.” his tone is scaringly soft, and his hand travels to your neck.

You hold your breath when the staples on his hand scratch against the delicate skin of your throat. “So, if you need me to remind you of your place, I’ll gladly help you with that.”

His fingers heat up at a low temperature, not enough to actually burn you but it doesn’t stop the lonely tear that slides from your eye, the only sign of the chilling terror you’re feeling.

He leans forward, kissing your forehead before sliding his hand away. 

“Are we understood?” 

The nod you give him is shaky at best, but Dabi smiles nonetheless. 

“Now, how about that food you’re gonna make me?”

Bakugo

“I have to wake up early tomorrow.”

Besides a low hum, Bakugo doesn’t acknowledge you much, too busy French kissing your neck.

His hands head for your ass, provoking a wince in you when he gropes it with unnecessary strength, your left ass cheek being kneaded like it’s dough.

Katsuki uses his grip on your ass to push your hips forward even as you complain again. The thin fabric of his sweatpants does nothing to hide the hardness that shamelessly rubs against your thigh. 

“Katsuki.” 

Once again he gives no sign of hearing you, rolling his hips with more urgency and you barely catch the tired groan that almost rolls away from you.

The clock on your side reminds you that despite the early hour, you’ll only have 6 hours to sleep. 

You really have to sleep and if you’re being honest, tonight you’re not feeling sexy or horny enough to sleep with your boyfriend. 

But that doesn’t make you feel any less awkward when Bakugo’s movements turn more vigorous and needy, humping your naked thigh as if he’s fucking it while you remain as alive as a statue. 

“Fuck, this isn’t enough.” he growls against your skin, and your heart skips a beat when his hands reach for your shorts, tugging them down halfway until you panickedly grab his wrist, wiggling your body away from his.

“Seriously, Kats, I’m not in the mood tonight.” you say, quickly pulling back your shorts. 

“You fuckin’ serious right now?” he growls through gritted teeth, still hovering above you. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you timidly nod. 

“Maybe we can do this tomorrow? It’s just that-”

“Yeah, whatever. Not like you haven’t used that stupid excuse on me before.”  

Your eyebrows raise with surprise at the bitter tone on his voice as he gruffs, pushing himself off you. 

“I’m not making up excuses.”

“The hell you aren’t.” he looks at you, angry. “Every time I try to start something, you turn into a damn nun. Always too freakin’ tired,  too busy or not in the mood.”

He scowls, spiky blonde hair falling to his eyes. 

“All you have to do is open your goddamn legs and let me do the rest, and you can’t even do that.”

His words hit a sore spot and he turns his back on you, settling on the distant side of the bed after delivering strained punches to the pillow to soften it up.

“Maybe I go after those Dynamite's groupies that are always throwing themselves at me. Since you never want to fuck anymore.”

You’re left too stunned to speak, sadness blossoming at the cruel meaning of his words and it’s a struggle to swallow the tears. 

He wouldn’t really, would he? But your mind lingers on the disturbing thought. He’s popular with girls, even with his angry mood.

Bakugo is tall, muscular and not even the ever present scowl in his face is able to contradict the attractive facial features he’s been blessed with. Meanwhile you’re just mediocre, if even that...

Your insecurities strike back, taunting you. 

Your hand reaches for his arm before you even realize it, and you’re mildly surprised when he doesn’t shake you off. 

“The hell you want now?”

Pulling on his arm until he finally turns to the side, you kiss him. 

He groans against your lips, allowing your hand to rest on the warm plane of his chest and you let it slide lower until it touches his clothed member. 

Neither of you speak a word, but you feel Bakugo smirking against your lips while he practically shoves your shorts down. 

You allow yourself go limp underneath him, letting your boyfriend fuck you in the way he wants to. Holding back a tired sigh when the fluorescent numbers on the clock mock you. 

You really have to wake up early.

Deku

“Are you serious, Izuku?” 

The tall hero jumps, eyes widening almost comically when he realizes you’re standing on the bedroom’s doorway and not cleaning the kitchen, like he clearly assumed you to be. 

“I wasn’t- The phone-” he stammers with his words, plowing your phone onto the bed with a bit too much force.

Crossing your arms, you flash him a frustrated glare.

“You promised me you wouldn’t spy on my phone anymore, Izuku.” your stern tone has him frowning and Izuku practically sprints closer to you.

“I wasn’t spying! I was just- just checking the time.” his words aren’t convincing enough for you to actually believe in him. 

You squint your eyes at him, dodging his grabby hands with a nasty slap, despite the hurt expression on his face.

“Izuku.” 

“I wasn’t! C’mon, you gotta believe in me.” 

You don’t. 

“Even if I did go through your phone - which I didn’t - why would that be such a problem?” he complains, dragging his voice. “Do you have something to hide or what?”

You point a warning finger at him.

“Don’t you dare. This isn’t about me. You’re the one who went behind my back because you’re just too insecure to fully trust me.”

He shakes his head, emerald eyes turning feverish. 

“You’re being dramatic, of course I trust you.”

“You don’t, stop lying.”

“I do trust you!” his voice rises in volume.

“No, you don’t!” you scream, voice breaking before you crumble in tears. 

You’re exhausted. Of arguing, of dealing with Izuku, of everything. When did things turn so frustrating, so tiring? Why does he always have to ruin things for you?

Izuku curses under his breath before rushing to you, engulfing you in a comforting embrace as you cry on his chest. 

“You don’t. You never will and I know that.” he stays silent, not contradicting you this time. 

He lets you cry on his chest, his hand gently caressing your hair as he mutters apologies. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.” Izuku hugs you harder, arms tightening around you. “I’ll do better, okay? I promise, I will.” 

And like a fool, you accept his promise - even if you know it’s meant to be broken.

[stephreyna]

Book of Bill Spoiler

I wanna talk about this

I’ve been seeing an interesting divide in the fandom about how they feel about Dipper and Mabel’s parents having marital issues.

It changes the show a lot, in terms of how the kids act, why they got sent to Gravity Falls, why Dipper was looking for an idol, and why Mabel didn’t want summer to end. I’ve seen some people hate it and some people like it. I am the latter.

Marriage problems doesn’t always mean a terrible home life, or abuse. Dipper wasn’t supposed to hear it, which means his parents are keeping it behind closed doors and not letting their issues become the twins’.

Which makes me believe this isn’t an abusive situation. Alex will torture the shit out of Stan and Ford (we know this), but Dipper and Mabel are precious to him, I don’t think he would put them in a bad/dangerous home life.

If Dipper’s having nightmares about it, it’s because it’s Dipper. He’s an anxious and paranoid kid, who makes mountains out of molehills and overthinks absolutely everything.

We don’t know the status of Mr and Mrs. Pines’ relationship. For all we know, the summer was just what they needed to patch things up, and everything was fine when the kids came home. But if at the end of the summer they have the oh-so-infamous sit down with the twins about a change in their family, it’s not inherently a bad thing.

Yes. The twins would be devastated if their parents separated.

Dipper would be extra moody and angry and our hopeless romantic Mabel would fall into a depression. I can see them both diving into distractions and finding comfort more with their Gravity Falls family. Keeping up with the Stans, Soos and Melody, Wendy, and Pacifica.

But things would settle down eventually, theyd get into a routine and eventually see how much happier their parents are. I can also see Mabel being excited she gets to decorate two bedrooms for herself, and getting to play matchmaker for her parents. Dipper would learn to live with it eventually, and I’m sure all he wants is to see his parents happy, but I think he’d fight it longer than Mabel does.

But they’d be okay.

This stuff happens, and I honestly love the representation, as a child of divorced parents. I don’t see it very often in children’s media, and I couldn’t relate to characters who had parents who got along with each other when I was a kid. And usually if they had step-parents it was because one of the parents died or something.

This is, classic Alex, left up to interpretation as to what’s happening in the Piedmont Pines’ household.

But whatever it is, our Mystery Twins will go through it together

[nemesyaaa]

favorite crime // psycho!stalker!rafe x innocent!reader

summary ; sometimes being the obsession of someone can turn really bad. sometimes being friend to someone doesn't mean that you really know this person, and mostly, that your kindness will be returned.

warnings : dark content. stalking. manipulation. crimes : murder/kidnapping. smut. sick, poker face, and insane behavior. toxic attitude. innocence kink. violence. dubcon. fear/vulnerability enthousiast. jealousy. dark!mean!rafe. corruption. abuse of power. creepy behavior. minors dni. as always, be careful with the warnings please. don't joke with it.

author's note : i really love how all my concepts with rafe are so fucked up. it's around 2,6k words.

as a shy and innocent girl, too kind for your own good and too sweet to attract nice boys, you had always attracted rafe's attention. especially when you were the pretty employee at his favorite video game store. it was only for you that he spent hours in front of the cash register, trying to get to know you when in reality, he knew you by heart, every detail of your life. he was obsessed with you. he was already terribly sick, diving into your perfect kindness and purity.

you didn't understand why people were afraid of him or said bad things about him because you found him charming and lovely. that was the impression he forced himself to give you. he always had nicknames for you like pumpkin, doll, cupcake, sweet, pretty thing.

the first time he walked into the store, your store manager was yelling at you. and you felt so ashamed and small. there were customers and that made you nervous. you were already crying, impossible to contain your tears in the face of the excess anger you received from this man. it wasn't the first time he did this but maybe the last.

you quickly returned to work, still in tears facing the products on the shelves and the new customer came to you. with a box of donuts. strangely, you didn't know how he could know that you liked it and that it was your favorite. but the attention was touching, more important for you.

“i bought them especially for you. it would hurt my heart if you refused them.”

“you didn’t have to do that.” you replied politely and smiled.

“i know but i wanted to do it. someone has to pay attention to you, and check on your messy health, pumpkin.”

"oh my manager is usually nice. i don't know what's going on."

"you're lying. you're lying because you're too kind to say bad things about people when they're fucking assholes. but don't worry, it won't happen again."

“how can you be sure?”

“enjoy your donuts, don’t think about anything else. let me ease you, pretty thing. ”

the next day, your manager had never been so nice to you. and the other days too. and he always disappeared in rafe's presence. it brought you a lot closer together, because now he came every day. you didn't know if rafe HAD time, or he FOUND it just for you. all you knew was that he made your days in the store so much better.

by coming here, he had become a loyal customer but also someone you could talk to, and he pretended not to know every moment of your private life while he spied on you as soon as he left the store.

he could stay in his car for hours until you finished work. he wasn't just watching you, no, he had also hacked into the cameras at your workplace to be able to record, listen and follow everything you did. nothing escaped him.

he was a jealous person and above all someone who didn't like having his ego attacked. that meant he definitely wasn't going to put up with you having this cute and perfect attitude with the other customers. well, especially men.

you were only doing your job for which you were poorly paid. to avoid getting bored and because you were trying to work on your shyness, you tried to come out of your shell by talking with customers.

but you made a mistake today. you didn't know it yet but you were going to regret it deeply and learn it hard.

"i think you're really pretty and you're so interesting..." the boy began, stammering a little, his elbows resting on the checkout counter. "i mean, it's rare to find girls like you... would you go out with me... i mean tonight haha! we could play a game ? "

it wasn't the first time you'd been flirted with, but certainly the first time you'd accepted. you had never dated anyone, you had never been in a relationship, you didn't even know what it felt like to truly be in love, to feel something for someone. and even if you were, you were too shy to admit it. but it was different, you wanted to try. you didn't have a plan tonight.

"you don't have to accept but here's my number..." he wrote on a post-it and you smiled back. you put it in the back pocket of your jeans.

you were so deep in thought that you couldn't have seen that the minute your new friend left the store, rafe got out of his car. he doesn't entered yet, he had something to sort out first.

but when he went to the store, you felt him different. there were bruises on his face, as if he had been in a fight. “what happened? do you want me to call an ambulance? "

“it's alright, pumpkin. it's just a little blood.”

“do you want me to take care of that?”

"it would be bad of me to abuse your time and your kindness. i have better things to offer, how about I walk you home tonight? i know your work is not close to where you live and i have my car right here...'

you had been surprised that he knew information like this. “no, don’t worry. besides, i’m busy this evening. ”

rafe's jaw tensed and contracted. he gave a tense and forced smile.

“ let me do this for you. you must be tired. ”

“you don’t need to do this for me, although I truly appreciate it.”

“you're wrong, i need to do this for you, sweetheart. just like everything you do for me. ”

“if you insist, it can’t kill me!”

if only you knew…

“ you're really so nice, pumpkin..."

“is that a bad thing?”

he scratched his chin with a light but somewhat dramatic smile before looking into your eyes. you were in ambiguous proximity since you were both leaning over the counter. he was taller than you, so you looked up.

"to be kind? no, not at all, sweetheart. it's just dangerous for you not to know who you're nice to. not all people are that sweet. sometimes they're really mean.”

“ what do…”

“ anyways, don't make me wait later. and you know you look really pretty today, you should dress up for me more often.”

you smiled. you couldn't ignore how nice it felt to receive a compliment, and especially from a pretty handsome boy. in one day, everything had gone by so quickly. you had a date, and rafe was taking you home. your evening promised to be perfect and unforgettable. you couldn’t wait.

at the end of the day. you had cleaned, tidied up all the shelves, turned off all the consoles, counted your cash register then closed shop in a breath of glory. you could finally relax.

as promised, rafe was waiting for you. he was leaning against his car, hands in his pockets.

he had opened your car door in a relatively clever way and then stood inside. he had closed the doors. and he had started. except he wasn't going the way to your house, he was going in the opposite direction.

“rafe, it’s not towards my house…”

“ i know, sweetheart, since we’re not going to your house.”

“but you said you were taking me home?”

“pumpkin, i lie a lot too.”

"rafe, i want to go home... seriously, this isn't fun. i have to meet someone tonight and he's going to wait for me ! "

“trust me, he’s not waiting for you.”

you were starting to panic because this really wasn't the person you knew. this time he didn't seem to be playing a character to please you. he was natural. you looked at him with big eyes. fear gripped your stomach, because you didn't know where you were going and he could go anywhere. you were on the verge of exploding, you needed to get out of that car but he was driving too fast.

“slow down, rafe. please, slow down.”

"oh no sweet thing, i make the rules here. you can't beg because i absolutely don't want to hear anything from you, you understand? i want you to stay nice and quiet like you've always been."

“rafe, fucking stop that car. "

he stopped suddenly, your head had hit the dashboard badly. he had gently lifted your face, putting your hair back in place while you cried into his hands from the emotion and shock.

“see? what happens when you swear like that? do you understand why you have to be polite now? it's a waste for a pretty girl like you to have such vocabulary. ”

you felt the tips of his lips on your nose, they were cold but comforting. there was something so bitter and disturbing in his tenderness as if there was nothing good even in his kindness. that all this affection was manipulation.

“i really want to go home.”

“i have a surprise for you. can you be patient?”

“ rafe, what is wrong…?”

“i’m taking care of you right now.”

"it's a kidnapping! i'm going to call the police."

he smiled wickedly as he resumed driving. “in your place, i wouldn’t make a single move. ”

“why? are you going to kill me?”

" oh i could, pumpkin. for now, i like you alive but if you still want to play silly with me, i might really want to. no, i will. so stay still and don’t make me be mean to you, i’d hate to have to hurt you.”

“if you don’t like hurting me, why are you doing this to me?” your tears were hot, rivers shining down your eyes. he was cruel and insensitive there. it didn't matter to him.

“ i really hate you..."

" oh such a pleasure actually pumpkin. tell me how much you hate me with those pretty annoying crybaby tears on your face. and don't forget to tell me when you're dry, i will gladly make you cry again. “

your throat felt tight and you were desperate. you had a knot in your stomach, fear that made you even more stupid and lost than you already were. because certainly, there was hatred but a lot of fear. he drove quietly, but he was mean to you. he no longer had the kind words he had for you when he came to see you at work. it was as if he was mad at you for something.

“what can i do to get you to take me home? "

“i could make you do a lot of things, but under no circumstances will i take you home.”

“you want sex? "

"oh i'm not sure that the virgin that you are would be able to make me cum but you can always prove me wrong."

“are you really going to kill me?”

“the more you ask me, the more i have the impression that this is what you would like.”

“i want to stay alive and go home.”

"you had to think about that before flirting with that idiot."

he had parked in an abandoned place, on a completely deserted road. when he opened the doors, you took your chance.

what a stupid mistake.

he was much bigger and faster than you. he had caught up with you without even running out of breath. he pulled you by the waist, pinning his arm against your bare stomach. he was clearly abusing all of his power. you had bitten him and he had released you. you fell heavily to the ground, and he positioned himself on top of you, crushing you against the grass with his fully beefy weight.

“it’s not time to play yet. try to escape from me again sweet thing, and i promise you that i will make sure that you have no more energy to run, but especially to escape. ” he had grabbed your jaw with one hand, gripping his fingers tightly against your skin. “and even if you are innocent, pumpkin. you and i know very well that you are aware of what i mean by that.”

your heart rate had increased so quickly. you were trapped and vulnerable. you wanted to spit in his face but you weren’t that suicidal.

he took your hand and placed it on his bulge which literally distorted his pants. “that's all that your heartbeat and your accelerated breathing make me feel right now. is it big? yes, and believe me i can make this bigger and very painful for you. so, no more playing, pumpkin.”

you nodded and he kissed your forehead. “you got it well, sweetheart. don’t let me be mean to you again because you’re really going to hate it.”

he stood up and extended his hand towards you. his tenderness was so unhealthy. he had taken you to the car and pulled a tied up boy out of the trunk.

the one you were supposed to see this evening. you let out a huge cry, taking several steps back but rafe took your hand, wrapping it too tightly against your little wrist.

“why did you do that? please leave me alone. i don’t want to see that!”

"oh oh, you're not the one who makes the rules here. i’m the only one who makes the fucking rules, i'm the only one who decides and not only do i decide what happens but also what role you're going to play. you wanted to flirt with this guy, go on a date with him? you had to be smarter and not do it in front of my eyes now look what you did this poor man is going to die because of you.”

"are you serious? you can't kill an innocent person! he didn't do anything."

"pumpkin, my sweet pumpkin, for every word you say, for every tear you shed, he will take a bullet. so please continue to defend him. i think we are already more than twenty"

you wanted to stop crying but you couldn't because the situation was surreal, horrible and so crazy. you refused to believe that rafe cameron could be a man like that.

“almost fifty. you're really going to kill him, sweetheart. you could be nicer. "

he was so sick and bad. he was taking advantage of the situation. it was completely sadistic. “i beg you to spare him.”

"now you beg for him? pumpkin, i’m the only one you can and should beg for."

he had fired more than fifty bullets into this poor guy's body. without the slightest shame, the slightest remorse and the slightest guilt. he didn't really feel anything. as you collapsed, completely devastated and ruined by what he had just done to you.

he had just killed a man in front of your eyes.

people always said that a guy who killed for you was romantic. but you didn't find it romantic. on the contrary, it had downright tortured you. you were afraid of him. you didn't even know how you managed not to piss on yourself because clearly, he was so creepy.

" i think he's dead." it was ironic, but coming from rafe, it wasn't funny or reassuring.

"what's wrong with you? and what are you doing with a gun? all those video games that made you sick or those horror movies?"

“watch your tone. you see how i killed him? it could be your turn too. ”

“no, don’t kill me!”

he moved closer to you, a laugh passing his lips. he knelt down to caress your tears with his thumb.

“you see what happens when you want to please others? how are you going to fix this now? ”

“i beg you to not kill me. ” you couldn't even see the ground, you were crying so much. it was a traumatic scene.

“now it's time to play. maybe i should have waited before killing him. i mean i wish he could watch you get destroyed by my cock. get in the car, and don't try to escape from me. i can be even more cruel to you. ”

he was hot and cold. all the time. you went to the car while you guessed that he must bury or hide the body somewhere. it had seemed like an eternity before he came back but on the one hand, there was something comforting about the fact that you weren't alone in the forest and that there was someone. even if it was cool.

he had gotten into the car. and patted his thighs to signal you to come on top. you didn't argue and came on his legs. you immediately felt his erection against the fabric of your underwear. it could hardly be ignored because the bulge had literally made you a few centimeters taller.

“are you still crying? he was a poor guy. he had a fucking girlfriend. do you want to date a guy who cheats on you? it's not worth it. you are better than that, you deserve better than that. ”

“by better, does that mean you? ”

“it’s different...but sure i would treat you better.”

“you killed someone in front of my eyes!”

“see? anything i can do for you.”

"you're sick and you ruined my life!"

"i’m tired of all this hysteria. i was going to kindly offer to prepare you with lube, but since you're offering me these pretty tears, we'll make do with it..."

“rafe…”

“oh no pumpkin. it’s not time to say my name yet.”

when he pushed himself inside you, the leaking tip slipped in your folds slick with a hard and brutal thrust. he made his way, watching his own cock stretching your cunt. you cried out from the pain, but you can't help but felt a little slight pleasure. “ if you're still crying for him, i swear i'm gonna fuck you until you're dry. ”

you started to bounce on him with your trembling legs, your ass slapping his thick thighs, your hair shaking on your shoulders, and your face ruined by your multiples and messy whining. you were tense as his girth splitted your sweet virgin cunt. he forced you to sped up the pace, smacking your butt every time you were too slow. his hands was big and strong, enough to feel the pain. especially, when the rings on his fingers left a mark on your poor skin. your tits were now on his hands, pressed firmly and your nipples on his mouth. he spat on them a couple of times. they were filled with spittles and marks, the succions noises in synchro with your rocking bodies. he was stuffed you with his hard dick. making you arched your back, and he placed his heavy hands on your waist, reaching your hips to help you go deeper, to fully take him, every inches.

“ it's like your pussy begging me to breed you…”

“ what…w-what is it ? ” you were too innocent to know those kinds of things.

you had the face and the attitude of an angel, too perfect, too pure, too delicate. “ maybe, it's better to show you, pumpkin. with that, you will be more able to learn the lesson and don't make me mad again. ”

“ what ? ” you gasped. you felt giddy but at the same time, curious.

“ m’ gonna make you so dirty, angel. tonight, you will lose your wings and purity for me. ”

“ please, don't hurt me ! ”

“ oh sweetheart, you're the only one to hurt me, the only one to make me do those kind of things..."

tysm @ahhnini for the idea of psycho!stalker!rafe <33

[crimson-rain-smoked-flower]

I’m not trying to attack you, but do you know that proshipper means someone who supports and romanticizes pedophilia, incest, and abuse? Your reblog on that post seems to read that you think antis just hate on people for having ships they don’t like. But it’s completely different than that. Just looking on the proshipper side of Tumblr and the internet and you can see people happily shipping children and adults and making nsfw content of such things.

i appreciate that you're not being outright hostile, but i have to say, that on its own put you above basically every anti i've interacted with.

i understand where antis are coming from, i really do. there are a lot of things on the internet that make me deeply uncomfortable, including the minor/adult ships that you mention. i don't want to anything to do with those kinds of ships and i would be happiest if i never saw them again. which is why i'm proship.

nine times out of ten, if i see that kind of ship brought up on my dash, it's because i was following an anti without realizing it, and they brought it up unprompted and untagged, to talk about how bad it is that they exist. they are the ones putting that kind of content in front of my face and making it harder to avoid.

the thing about people who ship those ships is that they're generally very aware that not everyone wants to see that kind of content, and so they tag it. they make sideblogs to talk about it. they don't go out of their way to shove it in people's faces. that means i, and everyone else who doesn't like it, can avoid it.

what antis want is for it to not exist at all. they want the tags to be purged and blocked, and for anyone who uses those tags to have their accounts deleted. and sure, that might get rid of some of it, but do you know what would happen to the rest? it would stop being tagged. people who don't want to see it wouldn't have the tools to avoid it. this isn't just a hypothetical, that's what's happened any time a fan space has tried to do that.

that's not even getting into the rabbit hole of what should be banned and what shouldn't. obviously any content that depicts real children or real life abuse shouldn't exist and shouldn't be allowed to be posted, but basically any platform that people use already enforces those policies, and there's not much of a slippery slope to go down there. if it involves real living breathing people being abused, it's bad. end of discussion.

but the same can't be said for fiction. ask ten antis for a specific list of all the content that should be banned, and you'll get ten different answers. what about kink? what about roleplay? what about horror and murder and anything that involves fictional characters being graphically tortured? what about people using art to process terrible things that have happened to them? what about art that uses dark themes as a horror element? if you just want to ban anything questionable to anyone, that's the line of thinking that gets any mention of lgbt existence banned. and again, this isn't just a hypothetical, this has happened before, and that's generally where it leads.

i know, from personal experience, that antis do, in fact, send harassment to people just for shipping things they don't like. i've gotten accused of absolutely vile shit for shipping two fictional characters who were both consenting adults. i've seen ship wars turn into moral battlegrounds, over ships that an average person wouldn't bat an eye at.

the thing about "romanticization" is a whole other can of worms. the anti logic goes like this: if someone sees something (even if it's very obviously fictional) in a positive light enough times, they will start thinking it's okay in real life, and go on to hurt real people. the problem with that is that it's just. blatantly untrue.

if it were true every horror movie fan would be a serial killer, every person that studies dark media would be an unhinged psychopath, and everyone who is into ddlg would be a pedophile. but they're not. they just aren't. people have directed movies just as fucked up as the darkest shit on ao3, and are still capable of being normal human beings who know right from wrong in real life.

even if someone is that impressionable, scrubbing away the existence of every piece of questionable content isn't going to solve their problem, because they're still going to be vulnerable to con men, scams, and cultists. the only thing that would actually materially help someone like that is developing their own morals and critical thinking.

children are also more impressionable, and there's a lot of content that's not suitable for them, but that doesn't mean that content shouldn't exist. it just means that they should stick to spaces designed for them (which most social media sites, tumblr included, are not) or, if they're old enough to be responsible for their experience online, they, or a trusted adult in their lives, should block and filter out things that they aren't comfortable with.

which is what everyone on the internet should be doing. it's what i do, and it's made the internet a much more pleasant place to be. and it's why i sometimes worry for antis mental health, especially teenagers, because they're being told it's right and moral to seek out content that makes them uncomfortable and to engage with the people making it. and that's just. really bad. it's not good for the creators that they're harassing obviously, but it's also really bad for them! it's not healthy to seek out things that make you feel bad, and it's a terrible internet safety lesson to teach minors that it's okay for them to seek out and engage with people making adult content.

individual harassment and crusading is never going to succeed at removing dark content from the internet. it just isn't. at best you might get a small percentage of people who create that content to stop sharing it, at worst you're just going to make people stop tagging it, and either way, you're exposing yourself to things that make you feel bad, when you don't have to.

if you want to materially change the type of content you see, you can. the block button is your friend, use it liberally. same with content filtering and tag blocking.

[gb-patch]

GB Patch Games: Sensitivity Reader Update

Okay, well I am able to make another statement before Rose does. I can now explain much more easily why I didn’t fire Rose. There’s been new developments with the leakers. The people behind this have doxed Rose’s discord account (please don’t go looking for it) and also shared a screenshot of an email that was sent to my support address months ago. They believe that incriminates us somehow, but really all it’s done is shown in broad daylight what they were doing and why I was defending Rose so much. If I had brought up that email as a connection to this myself people understandably would’ve thought I was making a conspiracy.

However, it is out now. Here is the story- a few months ago someone who wanted to remain anonymous sent me an email with a screenshot where Rose called me a cracker. And I told them I appreciated the concern but it’s alright, was there evidence of Rose being unkind to players? They had nothing. No response.

As an aside, yes, I have been aware for a long time that Rose uses crude language when talking about me. That doesn’t mean I’ve hidden how evil they were from players. It means I’m allowed to choose what I’m comfortable with. That original “reveal” didn’t shock or upset me in any way. Our Life is a sensitive, wholesome game, but I’m a full-grown adult. I’m not innocent or pure. The game I released before OL is XOXO Blood Droplets. Something I wrote and released to the public is full of crude jokes, curse words, and violence. It’s cartoonish and comical, but edgy. Rose themselves likes to BS with bad words and I’m not accepting abuse because I think getting called a pussy is funny. I know Rose doesn’t hate me or wish me any harm. Rose also isn’t causing “discourse” for me and my games on purpose, they were joking that bringing up serious topics is “discourse” to some people. Ironically, the leakers who did this are trying to make some “discourse” on purpose.

Regardless, I initially thought that email was from someone earnestly worried for me and that they moved on when it was clear I was fine. But that’s not what happened. Them and at least one other person have been waiting for months to bring this up again. They went through almost a year’s worth of Rose’s private posts to collect as many unflattering screenshots as they could, and then they didn’t send them to me. They posted them publicly. I had a suspicion from the get go that it was the same person/people from before who couldn’t prove anything to me in private. And if true, how horrible is it that a bunch of the comments they shared were crude language towards me, something they already knew I’d brush off as nothing. They decided for me that it was wrong and they wanted the rest of the players to do the same. Or even less charitably, those extra posts were simply there to make Rose look as bad and untrustworthy as possible and they didn’t care that I was comfortable with it. I could not explain everything we were thinking/feeling at first, but behind the scenes we were discussing how this was personally motivated and not a knee-jerk act without forethought. And we do know for certain at least the main people involved now, and they do have personal issues with Rose.

Also, if you still believe that they just wanted to help the game at any length because Rose is that huge of a risk, showing that email and framing something innocuous about me (not fainting at the word “cracker” and politely being open to more proof) as serious “evidence of wrongdoing” at GB Patch Games makes me believe they want to smear Rose so bad they’ll try to turn players against me as well. Plus, the post is framed as “this email was anonymously sent to me”, but we know from account details that the people who could’ve gotten those screenshots of the discord and email are the same people who sent that email and started this situation, which is embarrassing. I’ve confirmed the screenshots shared in the email to me and the original public post came from the same private, “venting-safe” discord server. There’s very few people in there. We know it’s still you and not a separate source. I can’t prove they think I’m stupid or in their way, but I can’t see how anything they’re doing is trying to be beneficial to the creation of OL: NF. They told me in the email they’d give me more evidence if I requested it and I was ready to know, but instead they went silent for months and then did this.

I want it to be clear that this doesn’t mean players can’t wonder if Rose has enough experience to be a sensitivity reader right now, or to worry they’re so invested in the game that it’s going to effect how objective they are with their feedback, or to say that Rose is flawless and has never done anything hurtful. However, I hope you can understand why I was on Rose’s side and couldn’t just fire them over this. It felt so incredibly unfair. If another person tries to get their way by doing this in the future, I will not hail them as a hero and immediately fire at the target. And I don't tolerate any racial harassment of any kind to anyone on my team.

If those people want to continue to share Rose’s private posts in retaliation, you can fuck off. If you somehow reveal now that Rose is secretly a murderer, I’m not gonna apologize and say I was so wrong about you. If you had tons of evidence of Rose being horrible to players, you should’ve sent it all to me and with full context to begin with in the email like you offered to do. I just don’t understand.

Any players who like to see someone’s least flattering points portrayed in the worst possible way and continue flocking to the leaks as fandom drama, I don’t want you in this fandom. I don’t want you to enjoy my games.

Anyone who has been truly hurt by this and are left confused and angry, I do completely understand that. I didn’t know how to handle this, and it made a lot of people not know how to keep trusting me. I am still looking into getting a community manager to help me better communicate with players, especially when something serious happens. And I’ll always be around for you to reach out to if you have doubts about anything.

[cumikering]

Neighbour Ghost x reader

2.6k | fluff, mentions of physical abuse If Simon still had his family (part 2)

Simon Riley just got back to the safe house when he saw it.

Tommy Riley, 2 hours ago, 5 missed calls

It’s mum. Call back.         

His heart thumped as the phone rang. “Mum?” he said as soon as the line connected. ”Are you alright? Did something happen?”

“Oh, Simon…” her voice cracked.

His dad had always been an alcoholic ever since he could remember. He and his younger brother Tommy grew up witnessing his antics: stumbling through the door with slurred shouts in the wee hours of the night, often breaking things in the house, taunting them with the exotic animals he brought on occasions, if he even came home at all.

Mrs. Riley turned the other cheek, making excuses for him. As a child, Simon believed her, that people were short sometimes. Because daddy was tired at work, because mummy didn’t cook dinner right, or forgot to buy his favourite beer… Until he grew up and saw the behaviour as what it was.

But she never left, reassuring him his dad would never lay a hand on her. Simon didn’t trust that bastard of a man, but it was her choice to stay and he could only respect that. It was not his decision to make.

At least if he couldn’t bring her the happiness she deserved, he had to do something to distract himself from the hell at home and divert his aggression. That, and he wanted to help make the world a better place. When he left for the military, he firmly warned Tommy to take care of mum and to be there for her if anything was to happen.

Still, Simon spent his adult life painstakingly watching, waiting for the man’s first misstep so he could eliminate that cancer out of everyone’s life once and for all. The day was finally here. His dad had chased his mum about the house with a knife.

“I- I’ve got nothing but the clothes on my back. I walked barefoot to Tommy’s,” she said between sobs.

“How long has this-“ He stopped himself. It was not the time. He took a deep breath, his hand in a fist, knuckles white. “You’re catching the next train to Hereford,” he growled through gritted teeth. “You’ll stay at my flat until I’m back and we’ll figure things out. Someone from the base will call and help you out.”

“I don’t want to be a bother, Si. I just… I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re never a bother,” he said sternly. “I only go back home on the weekends, just stay there. I need you to be safe, mum. Please.”

In Hereford, on a chilly Tuesday night as you made your way down the hall to your flat, there stood a lady fumbling with the key to her own. On the floor laid bags overflowing with fresh produce. She turned as your footsteps approached.

“Hiya, sweetheart. Terribly sorry, but could you give me a hand please? I can’t seem to get the door.” She was middle aged, greying short hair, soft spoken with a Manchester accent.

 “’Course.” You smiled at her as she moved aside. “Don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” The key only turned halfway before stopping.

“I just got here some days ago.”

You grunted before turning it all the way. “There you go.” You pushed the door open.

“Oh, you’re an angel, luv.“ She thrusted a bag of apples towards you. “It’s not much, but here. Please have these as a thanks.”

“That won’t be necessary, ma’am. It’s nothing really.”

“Please, I insist.” She put her hand on yours. “And it’s Melanie.”

You smiled. “Welcome to the building, Melanie. I’m at the end of the hall if you need me.”

You spent Saturday morning baking, courtesy of Melanie’s delicious gift. Even that you devoured the apples throughout the days, you didn’t want to risk the rest going bad on you – you could only eat so much. As you let the pie cool, you cleaned up before making your way to her flat.

It didn’t take long for the door to open. Your smile fell as you blinked at the man staring down at you. His stature huge, almost filling the doorframe as he stood unmoving.

You cowered, eyes darting away. “Hi, uh, is Melanie in?”

“Melanie?” he repeated, voice gruff and cautious. He leaned his forearm against the frame, appearing even more intimidating than the situation needed him to be. “What does this concern?”

You took a step back. “Just… wanted to give this to her.” You held out the pie towards him.

“Who is it, Si?” a woman from behind him called.

The man stepped aside to reveal the much shorter Melanie.

Her face lit up. “Oh, hello, luv. What a surprise!”

“Thanks for the apples, Melanie. I made you this.” You trudged the pan towards her, shifting your weight.

“Come in, come in. This is my son, Simon.” She turned to the man, patting his arm. “She’s the bird who helped me with the door the other day.”

Still with the sharp stare, he gave you a curt nod before you followed Melanie in, placing the pie on the dining table.

“Lunch is almost ready. Would you care to stay, luv?” She made her way towards the stove and muttered, “I always cook too much.”

You smiled. “I’d love to, sure. It smells lovely.”

You helped set up the table as she finished up the soup and brought it out. Simon got himself a helping and sat across you with Melanie beside the both of you. The blond was a few years older than you, jaw lined with a light stubble, but those brown eyes. They were icy, calculating as he glared at you.

Even that the soup was tasty, you regretted saying yes to it as you ate under his scrutiny. Instead, you averted your gaze to take in the flat. The layout was similar to yours, but quality pieces furnished it instead. The large, dark couch in the corner of the living room looked particularly comfortable, behind it a tall shelf lined with books. It was sparsely decorated, and too tidy to be recently moved into without boxes about.

“Do you know if they’ve got a farmer’s market nearby, luv?”

“I don’t, sorry. I get by going to Tesco.” You gave her a soft laugh. “But I can help you ask around.”

She beamed. “That’d be very nice.”

“I do know a bakery a few blocks away with wonderful loaves though. I always buy there.”

While the both of you chatted about the area, Simon was wordless. In fact, he almost didn’t make a noise at all, but at least he’d stopped staring which allowed you to finally relax your back you didn’t realise had been tense. You thanked her again for lunch, and she promised to return the pie pan as soon as she could.

Later that evening, the knock on the door took you away from your laptop. You expected Melanie, but were instead greeted by Simon. Standing a respectable distance from the doorway, he didn’t look like he was trying to scare you this time even that his gaze was as stony.

“Thanks for the pie. Was mint.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his flat tone, taking the pan from him. “I’m glad you liked it.”

He grunted, averting his gaze. “I wanted to thank you, for how nice you’ve been to my mum.” He looked back up at you. “She’s having a bit of a hard time adjusting.”

Your shoulders relaxed. “I understand. It’s not always easy going somewhere new.”

“If you ever need anything, feel free to drop by.” He gave you a half smile before turning away.

The blond Mancunian was the last person you expected at your door on Wednesday night. You’d just taken your coat off as you arrived back from work.

“I got greedy and bought too much takeaway. Would you like to join us for dinner?”

You laughed. “Really? Too much food?”

“I’m not fond of leftovers.” He shrugged, inadvertently emphasising his size.

“Well, I haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Mon’ then.” He tiled his head towards his flat, his hands now shoved in the pockets of his black hoodie.

“Glad you could join us, luv.” Melanie smiled as she set the table.

“Hard to resist takeaway.” You chuckled as you approached. Takeaway boxes almost covered the entirety of the table. “Wow, this is a whole spread.”

“I said the same thing!”

“What can I say, I’m a hungry man,” he said gruffly behind you.

You turned to him in amusement. He gave you a shrug, but this time his eyes didn’t look as hard. In fact, you thought you saw a whisper of a smile on his lips.

Later that Saturday as you lounged around on the couch, you looked up from your book at the knock on the door. It was once again Simon in his hoodie, his posture impressive as always.

“My mum told me to run to the shops because we’re out of salt. Any chance you’ve got some to spare so I don’t have to?”

“Salt? Of course.” You headed to the kitchen, leaving the door open.

His fingertips brushed against yours as you handed him the ceramic container.

“She’s cooking pasta. Fancy some?” He tilted his head towards his flat.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” He raised an eyebrow.

You gave him an amused smile. “I’m starting to feel like a freeloader.”

“It’s the least we can offer in return of the salt.”

“It’s just salt.”

“We wouldn’t be eating without your salt, if I’m honest.”

The smile remained as you shook your head.

“Come, she’s waiting.”

At the stove, Melanie thanked you for the ‘life-saving’ salt when you should be the one thanking her for her hospitality. By now, you knew where the tableware was and started setting the table, but this time Simon trailed, grabbing glasses and closing the cabinet doors after you.

“It’s brilliant, really,” you said after the first bite of the tomato pasta. “You’re feeding me too well.”  

She smiled proudly. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I’m not a culinary prodigy at all, but please let me return the favour and make the meal next time.”

“Don’t wor-“

“When?” Simon piped up.

“Next weekend sounds good?”

“Can’t do.”

You hummed. “Well, I won’t have enough time to cook anything fancy on weekdays.”

Melanie swatted her hand. “Oh, you really don’t have to, luv.”

“But there’s still tomorrow. How does lunch sound? I’ll do the shopping today.”

“I’ll drive. Need to pick up a few things too.”

You smiled at him and turned to Melanie. “You want to come with?”

She shook her head. “You kids have fun.”

Simon cleaned up while you got ready before leaving in his SUV. In the sun, his eyes were gorgeous glimmers of deep caramel framed by long, blond lashes. He’d pushed his hoodie sleeves up to his elbows, revealing his toned forearms – the left one inked.

It flexed as his hand rested atop the steering wheel at the red light. You could see the details from here – skulls and rifles over fire adorned his pale skin. You wondered how far up the monochrome sleeve extended.

He still hadn’t said anything since he picked you up at your door. At this point, you couldn’t tell if he was awkward or simply didn’t like to talk. You tried your luck anyway.

“How do you find the building so far?”

“No complaints. Been there over a year.”

“Really? I don’t think I’d seen you before actually.”

“I don’t really live there. Just on the weekends, if any.”

“Didn’t Melanie say she just got here weeks ago?”

“She’s visiting.” He turned to you. “I meant it when I said she likes your company.”

You smiled. “She’s real sweet. I hope she enjoys her stay.”

When you arrived, he beat you to the basket at the entrance.

“I’ll get it. On you, luv.”

You got called ‘luv’ all the time, but the way he said it made you look away. You couldn’t ignore the tickle that ran down your spine.

On the way to the produce section, the offer sign caught your eye as you passed the biscuit aisle. You reached for the goldfish crackers you hadn’t had in a while.

“Two goldfish are in a tank…” he started behind you.

You turned to him, a brow raised.

“One looks at the other and says ‘You know how to drive this thing?’”

Nothing prepared you for a joke from him, the brooding man in oversized hoodies who barely spoke. You cackled embarrassingly loud in the empty aisle. It was your first time seeing him actually smile. He had pretty teeth, and his eyes finally thawed, crinkles by them.

“That’s a good one,” you said after your laughter died down, chucking a bag into the basket.

The ghost of a smile remained on his lips as he looked ahead. You took it as a cue to move along. He stood behind you as you moved about and picked ingredients, telling you the reason he couldn’t do next weekend was because he was in the military and would be gone on a mission. You didn’t know it, but his gaze lingered on you the whole time.

Before long, you were ready to check out, grabbing a box of English Breakfast tea on your way there. In the queue, Simon stood a touch closer behind you than he needed to, his arm splayed on the railing next to you. You didn’t make a move against it. Instead you tried to make out the rest of his tattoo, but the way his veins budged under the ink from holding the basket distracted you.

It occurred to you people had joined the line when you heard giggles behind the wall of Simon. You couldn’t help tuning into the rather loud conversation. One of the girls was dared to skydive after losing a round of beer pong, and the instructor was “so fucking hot summer came back to Birmingham”. She very much looked forward to their date the following week.

You bit back a smile. You were oddly proud of the stranger. You go, girl.

Simon tapped your shoulder and leaned into your ear. “Why don’t blind guys skydive?”

You only managed to turn a fraction before coming face to face with him. Your breath hitched, not expecting the proximity.

“Because it scares the shit out of their dogs.”

Your laughter boomed before you slapped a hand over your mouth and turning to him fully. His warm eyes returned with his smile, looking absolutely pleased with himself.

The eye contact remained a touch longer, only broken by the cashier calling for the next customer. You whipped towards the lady, gaze cast down as Simon hoisted the basket onto the counter.

He didn’t give you a chance to pay as he already had his phone ready at the receiver, shrugging off your protests. You didn’t mention the fact that he didn’t even pick up anything for himself.

It wasn’t a lot, but Simon carried all the shopping up to your flat. You gathered the bags from him after you opened the door.

You pulled a box of salt from one of them. “Here’s for your mum.”

He quickly took it and looked away.

“Thanks again for the ride. See you tomorrow, yeah?”

He nodded, but stood unmoving. His boots only thudded away when you’ve locked the door.

@tiredmetalenthusiast @shadofireshinobi @keegansshark @two-gh0sts @rowanyaboats

[metalandmagi]

Romance Anime Starter List

I don’t know about you guys, but I’m sick and tired of seeing “Top ___ Best Anime of All Time” lists that are nothing but shounen. So, with "My Happy Marriage" getting a little attention from the anime community, I wanted to put together a list of some romance anime that I consider good “starters” for the genre. Because if I were just now becoming an anime fan, I’d think all there was to offer was shounen action series.

And by “starters” I mean basic stuff that’s not too…out there, and actually involves the characters getting together instead of just harems or using romance as a side plot (sorry Ouran High School Host Club and My Next Life as a Villainess). 

So if you’re new to anime and want stuff that’s not just guys beating the shit out of each other (which is also fun, don’t get me wrong), here are some basics.

Taisho Maiden Fairy Tale- When the pessimistic Tamahiko Shima loses all function in his right arm, his family sends him away to live in the mountains with the cheerful, hard working Yuzuki Tachibana…who was purchased by the Shima family to pay off her family’s debts and basically act as a caretaker/future bride for Tamahiko so they’d never have to deal with him again. It’s a more cheerful version of My Happy Marriage (without the supernatural stuff), except in this one, the guy is the one who has massive self-esteem issues and an abusive family. There are still very serious themes, but ultimately it’s not meant to make you cry every episode. I swear it’s so good, but nobody watched it!

Horimiya- A slice of life in which pretty and popular high school queen bee Hori, finds out her quiet, unassuming classmate Miyamura is hiding piercings and tattoos that could get him expelled. The two gradually find out more about each other and get together in the most realistic way I’ve seen depicted in an anime. It’s also fucking hysterical and genuinely emotional.

Recovery of an MMO Junkie- Another slice of life that focuses on two adults who meet in an MMO game without realizing they also know each other in real life. I don’t want to say much more than that. It’s adorable, and the main character is so relatable it hurts.

Love with Yamada-kun at Level 999- Speaking of MMOs, this is a newer series about Akane Kinoshita, a college first year who’s reeling from a bad break up. In an attempt to get back at her ex, she winds up meeting Akito Yamada, a popular gamer who happens to be in her guild in the MMO they both play at an IRL meetup. The two go from acquaintances to something more as they keep running into each other. Even more relatable main characters and just wholesome relationships all around.

Snow White With The Red Hair- A fantasy in which an apothecary named Shirayuki (meaning, you guessed it, “snow white”) runs away from her home in order to escape becoming the concubine of her town’s prince. While fleeing, she is rescued by Zen, the prince of a neighboring country, and she ends up becoming an herbalist to repay him. It's super cute with some genuinely swoon worthy moments and a couple that just works so well together. I have a habit of comparing this to Akatsuki no Yona, even though the two aren’t really that alike. This is more romance driven while Akatsuki no Yona is more of a serious historical fantasy with romance elements (Yona manga is amazing, but the anime barely scratches the surface, so that’s why I didn’t include it).

Sasaki to Miyano- When the shy, easily flustered Miyano meets Sasaki, a cool “delinquent” upperclassmen, the two end up bonding over manga…specifically BL manga. That’s right, Miyano is a fudanshi, but due to his small stature and somewhat feminine appearance, he’s constantly trying to convince others that he’s not interested in having his own love story where he’d be reduced to a stereotypical doe-eyed uke. But as Sasaki and Miyano spend more time together, they realize that what they have is more than friendship, and they have to come to terms with their own perception of gay relationships. This is my favorite romance of all time. It’s a slow burn, but boy is it worth it. Their relationship is so natural and realistic, just like Horimiya. Just two people hanging out and bonding over things the way people do in real life!

Given: The story of some boys in a band with trauma. Enough said. It's great. Go watch it.

Bloom Into You- Yuu Koito is a high school girl who’s been waiting her whole life for her own perfect romance to start��but when she receives a confession, she realizes she doesn’t know how to respond when she’s just not into the guy. And then she gets another confession…this time from the cool student council president Touko Nanami, who basically jumpstarts her lesbian awakening. Very cute story about how we perceive the concept of love vs actually feeling it. Also has a canonically aro/ace side character, so that’s a win for me. Another show like this is Adachi to Shimamura (but I honestly don’t remember much about it. It just didn’t stick with me as much).

Ore Monogatari- Takeo Gouda is a tall, bulky high school first year with a sensitive heart of gold. He wants nothing more than to find his own true love, but most girls are intimidated by his enormous stature, and they end up falling for his conventionally attractive friend instead. That is, until he meets the tiny, adorable Rinko Yamato. He falls in love instantly, but he’s sure she’s interested in his best friend like everyone else, so he vows to help get them together, even though his heart is breaking. Peak himbo behavior. Pure of heart, dumb of ass.

Yuri on Ice- Yes it’s the gay figure skating anime everyone knows. And yes it’s a fucking romance, okay? I will die on this hill. The romance between Viktor and Yuri is just as important as the plot!

Kaguya-sama Love Is War- Two insanely smart high school students both have a crush on the other, but since they’re…you know…high schoolers, neither of them wants to admit it first. So they come up with increasingly convoluted plans to get the other to confess first. This will go down as one of the best of all time. It’s a hilarious yet poignant modern classic.

Fruits Basket- I’ve talked about it before and I’ll talk about it again. A romance “comedy” that slowly morphs into a drama about a girl named Tohru who finds herself living with the mysterious Sohma family after her mother dies. Little does she know, the Sohmas are the victims of a  (somewhat silly, but ultimately tragic) curse that she must fight to break. Even though I’m more into it for the family drama, the romance is still top tier and plays an important role in the story. This is my second favorite anime of all time, and it’s a classic for a reason. If anyone hasn’t watched it yet, GO WATCH IT! IT WILL RIP YOU TO SHREDS!

And now for some honorable mentions that didn't quite fit into the regular list:

Ride Your Wave- A movie about a surfer who falls in love with a firefighter……and I’m not going to say any more than that. Go into it blind. If you like stuff like Your Name, this is a good one to watch.

Gekkan Shoujo Nozaki-kun- A comedy about a high school girl who finds out the upperclassman she has a crush on is actually a shoujo manga artist, and no matter how she tries to confess to him, he just never gets it.

The Ice Guy and His Cool Female Colleague- A slow burn slice of life that focuses on a guy with ice powers who has a crush on his coworker. That’s it. That’s the show. When I say slow, I mean SLOW. It’s perfectly cute and fluffy, but my god does it take forever to get anywhere with these two.

Skip to Loafer- A high strung, small town girl decides to go to high school in Tokyo, where she meets a variety of classmates, including the laid back Sousuke Shima. The unlikely pair become friends, and soon enough, she starts to feel something more than friendship. The only reason I didn’t include it in the main list is because they don’t get together by the end of the first season, but it’s still really cute (also canonically trans character for the win!?)

So that’s my starter list. And no, I didn’t include Toradora, even though it’s a classic. I know it’s blasphemous, but I like it more as a comedy than a romance. It kinda lost me with the ending. But anyway, maybe someone will find something they like. Or maybe you'll just want to roast me and my picks 😅

[luxurychristmaspudding]

Pickup Truck

summary: frankie hates your boyfriend. in fact, everybody does. but he’s willing to give him a chance. you’re his best friend, after all. until frankie discovers something he can never forgive.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

ratings/warnings: 18+. MDNI. this fic contains allusions to, but no descriptions of, domestic abuse. please do not proceed if you know this will upset you.

frankie's pov. no lady and no baby for our boy. drinking, violence (against pos bf), angst, lots of hurt, allusions to dv. comfort, fluff. frankie to the rescue. unprotected p in v (wrap it irl!). oral, f receiving. creampie. bad spanish (again). kings of leon references. happy ending, of course.

wc: 9.8k

an: whew, this was an emotional one to write. but i hope a good love comes to all of you in time, no matter where you are at the moment. and if you already have it, may it always keep you safe. lovely divider from @saradika.

Frankie really doesn’t like your boyfriend.

Scratch that. Nobody does.

Nobody really knows where you found him, either. A sweet, smart girl like you, moved back to your small town from your big city life, and it looks like you picked up the very first guy who sidled up to you in a grimy bar.

Which, if you’re really honest, is exactly what happened. Because he was nice at first. Real nice. He was charming and sweet and interested - he bought you drinks all night and didn’t push to come in when he walked you home. You went for dinner a few times, and sure, he could be a little rude to the waitstaff, but it was only because he was so focused on you. He bought you flowers and took you for rides, and sure, sometimes he’d come home far too drunk after seeing his friends and get a little too close, a little too loud, but he always apologised.

And sure, he sometimes made you cry, but he always made it up to you. Sweet promises, small gifts. And he'd never laid a finger on you.

Not until last week, anyway.

You don’t know what to do. You don’t know who to turn to. The thought of it makes you so sick you have to lock yourself in the bathroom at work. How did this happen? How did it turn so sour?

And how do you get out?

Walk you home to see

Where you're livin' around

And I know this place

Frankie walks you home from the bonfire. He always does.

It’s his favourite moment of the night.

He gets to have you all to himself. Gets to watch your cheeks cool in the night air, watch as the blush from the heat of the fire subsides. Your giddy, wide eyes, your tipsy babbling about stories which had been swapped over the flames, picking out particularly scandalous details for you two to giggle about before doubling over into breathless laughter over something Benny had said. 

He likes to hold your elbow, your hand, as you catch him in your amusement, gripping onto his bicep. He loves to lose himself in this little pocket of time with you.

He loves the sparkle of the stars, the glow of the streetlights as they light your features.

Frankie loves you.

And he’s so glad you’ve moved back from your life in the big city to come and be around your real friends again. So glad that you’ve all found your way back to each other. Tonight has left him with such a mellow tingle in his bones that he finds he can’t stop smiling at you, looking at you, on your walk home.

Bonfire nights have always been your monthly hangout, a time when you can be sure you’ll get the whole gang together. There used to be more of you through highschool, and still a fair few during college. It dipped when the boys joined the forces, when people moved further east and further north. But eventually Frankie, Benny, Santi, and Will had come back. Jessa, your other best friend, had returned too. A few others coming and going - Lily, Marcus, Maggie - also back and forth from their new homes to their old ones. And then eventually folk had just… settled. 

Frankie felt like he was one of the last, like he was maybe the one finding it the hardest, retired to a life of civvy duties. Unable to hold down a girlfriend, struggling to stick at a job, sofa surfing around friends’ places. He was still flying whenever he could, but then this coke allegation happened, and it was like the world was finally swept from under him. 

You were the first person he had called, the first person to talk him down from his panic, that debilitating squeeze around his heart when he thought about the future. The first person who made him feel like it would be okay.

So of course his joy when you had come back had been immeasurable. Maybe this time, he’d thought.

And then you’d met Tanner.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as you drag your hand out of his, skipping a little further up the dark street until you reach a corner. Frankie watches as you spin on the spot in the quiet neighbourhood, gesturing down the pathway before you. 

‘This is me.’ You say.

But you don’t turn to keep walking. You watch him, a small, excited smile on your lips. Like you’re waiting for him to work it out. 

Frankie drags his eyes from you, away from thoughts of your new boyfriend, to look up and down the street you’ve led him to, and for a second he is pulled beneath the ebbing flow of memory, towed with the riptide of things forgotten. 

This is his grandmother’s street. Was his grandmother’s street.

The cracked concrete, the peeling paint of the porches. The weeds, the flowers, the smell.

He breathes your name like you’re the only thing tethering him to the now.

Breathes your name through the bright, sunny flashes of his childhood. His mama bringing him here with his brother, his papa swinging him by his legs in the flower-riddled front garden. Cartoons in the ripe heat of the afternoons, him and his cousins stuffing their faces with Guagitas and Frugele until they’d made themselves sick while the younger siblings napped in the sunbeams of the bedroom next door. Cycling over on his bike after school to sit at her kitchen table to do his homework, letting her fuss over him - his height, his friends, his grades, girls -

A skinnier, younger Frankie stopping by his abuela’s house with you to pick up her up for his nineteenth birthday party, along with her homemade tamales, her chiles rellenos, and specially made pumpkin sopaipillas for later on. The way you had chatted to her, natural, easy going, how you had made her laugh, her eyes sparkle. How, when you had taken some of the plates to the car, his abuela had pinched his cheek. I like her, she’d said, Será tuya algún día, mm, mijo? And Frankie had flushed bright red, batting her arms away as she chuckled at him. He had hidden in the back bedroom when you came in from outside, and listened a little longer to your conversation as he waited for the heat of his face to die down. When he reemerged, you had helped his grandmother into her shoes, her cardigan, and kept ahold of her arm until she got into Frankie’s beat up old car. At the end of the night, his abuela had kissed both your cheeks several times, rocked you back and forth in a hug, and clapped her hands as she said how she looked forward to seeing you again.

When you came home from college every summer, you’d have tea with her in her garden. She always asked Frankie about you, about how you are doing. When he told her you were coming home, she’d been so excited. Quizás este sea el momento? She’d said to him, squeezing his hand. He’d smiled, his heart quietly full of hope. Tal vez, abuela, he’d said.

When he called you two weeks later, his voice weak from crying, to tell you that she’d passed, you had been heartbroken. And it seemed like her wish, the red thread she’d seen between the two of you, had been snipped, too.

Pour yourself on me

And you know I'm the one

That you won't forget

Frankie likes to listen to you talk, because he’s never much been one for talking. 

He supposes you just bring it out of him, though. Because here on this street, in the moonlight, he tells you more about his grandmother. You spend hours walking up and down the pavement as he recounts every story he can remember; him and his brother, his parents, aunts and uncles, cousins. Birthdays, weddings, funerals. The street comes alive with the ghosts of people, the spectres of feelings. You and Frankie talk of growing up. Of falling in love. Of each other. 

Your small, well-loved house is half way down the street, four up from his abuela’s. It does something strange to his heart to have two of his favourite people, who loved each other in their own ways, so close but so far away. 

Your fingers hold his wrist as he shows you a scar on his palm from eating shit on his bike when he was eight, and when he looks up, your eyes are shining under the streetlights. There is a glint of moon in your teeth, and a shocking want so clear on your face, but when he meets your eye there is suddenly hesitation, a realisation, a shuttering. Frankie stops his story. There is a moment, and then it slips away like sand.

You shiver, chilled all of a sudden, and wrap your arms around yourself. Frankie tries not to look too hard at the goose bumps blossoming on your bare skin, tries to fight off the urge to kiss the little raises until you’re warm again under his touch.

‘Cold?’ he asks, and you smile back up at him. God, his heart.

‘As a hole,’ you giggle, and he feels himself smile goofily back at you. ‘We gotta warm up.’ You say, and then freeze.

It takes Frankie a little while longer to hear the inadvertent invitation in your words.

Boyfriend. Boyfriend.

You both stand on the porch, frozen, like some great frost has swept over the land. If Frankie squints, he can imagine the glitter of your eyeshadow, now fallen, dusted on your cheeks, is a collective of tiny constellations of ice. 

Your body is wracked with a shiver again, but when Frankie looks you in the eye, you’re burning up from the inside. He swallows.

If he could only make the steps towards you. If he could only will his heavy feet to move, if he could summon his nerves to do exactly what his brain says, he would already be in front of you. He would have your face in his hands, be able to look into your eyes to see that deep, hidden want again, and kiss you. Again and again and again, and he wouldn’t stop, because things like that shitty boyfriend of yours wouldn’t matter anymore.

No. The whole world would be glitter and stars and constellations of ice crystals.

And then you blink, smile softly, and wish him a goodnight.

When he can finally lift his foot to move, your door is already closed.

And in your denim eyes

I see that something's awry

And I see you’re weak

You don’t see Frankie for a while after that, always finding a way to brush off his attempts to hang out. 

At first he doesn’t worry too much about it. You’ve just moved back - you have a new job, a new place, new friends to get to know. Tanner. 

Frankie finds other things to do. He gets business cards made up for the flying school he’ll be setting up next month. He pilots people across the state, sometimes across the country. He sees the boys for drinks, even sees Jessa for a coffee. He starts to worry when they say their texts have gone mostly unanswered, and they haven’t seen you either.

It must be why he turns up on your front step one day, a six pack in hand. 

You open the door on the second ring of the doorbell, and Frankie finds himself rendered speechless. You look… different.

Tired and wary, a little thinner. And when he gets you chatting, you say you haven’t really been anywhere, done anything. You’ve been settling in, getting used to it. You have two beers each, but you seem on edge, like you’re waiting for a knock on the door. And then Frankie asks about Tanner, and your eyes linger on the entryway a little longer.

‘Yeah,’ you say, ‘He’s okay.’

Frankie’s jaw twitches, his stomach clenching uncomfortably.

‘Just okay?’ He asks. 

Because you should be excited. You should be gushing and giddy and falling in love. But you’re not.

‘Yeah,’ you shrug. ‘He’s good.’

There’s something in your eyes. Something which shrinks away, skitters back. Something drained, something sapped of life, of energy. Hurt, maybe. Fear, perhaps.

When Frankie thinks back now, he knows he should have pressed you harder. Maybe should have taken you to his, made you talk a little more for a little longer. Away from Tanner, the threat of his presence. But he didn’t. He didn’t.

And he hates himself for it.

When he comes around

I see you're fixin' to shine

And my face won't speak

When Frankie next sees you, you’ve had a hair cut, and there are deep, dark bags under your eyes. Both of these things worry him equally. 

Your beautiful hair that you’d been growing out since you were young, hair that you swore you’d never cut shorter than it was in seventh grade, when your mum had to chop it into a bob after you got gum caught in it. And here it is now, much shorter. 

Jessa says she likes it, and you give her a watery smile, a weak thank you. She asks where you had it done, when. She asks if you like it, and you shrug. You say you’re trying something new. You say Tanner likes it.

Over your shoulder, Frankie exchanges a look with Santi.

You’re quiet the whole time you're at the bar. Far too quiet, so far from the bubbly conversation you usually hold, your loud cackle, your bent-double amusement. Your affection for your friends - the hands on knees, arms around shoulders, kisses pressed to cheeks. It’s hardly there. 

Frankie offers to walk you home, but you wave him off kindly. Tanner’s picking me up, you say, he’s probably outside. Jessa frowns at you.

‘Are you sure, babe?’ She says. ‘It’s not even late yet.’

You smile and nod at her, gather your stuff to go. Jessa catches your arm.

‘We’re still on to go shopping Saturday, though - right?’ 

You smile at her, the first warm one you’ve mustered all night.

‘Of course,’ you say, ‘I’m looking forward to it.’ 

When you stand to leave, you hug everybody goodbye. Tightly, for longer than usual. Frankie doesn’t give you an option when he walks you out to Tanner’s car. The smug prick is hanging out the driver’s seat window. He watches Frankie as you walk up, hostile, threatening, arrogant, and somehow still ridiculous. And, Frankie thinks cruelly - ugly.

Frankie pulls you into his arms a few steps away from your boyfriend. He kisses your hair, and you sigh.

‘Have a good time on Saturday,’ he says softly. You twitch a smile at him. 

‘Thank you, Frankie.’ You say before stepping back and walking to open the passenger door. As you climb in, Tanner winks at him. 

‘Gettin’ a new one tomorrow,’ he says, stupid fucking grin on his face. ‘New car. Exciting stuff. Anyway, better get this one back,’ he says, squeezing your knee a little too hard. You don’t look at Frankie, something like humiliation colouring your cheeks. ‘See you around, Frank.’ Tanner says.

Frankie steps back from the car as it glides forwards, and he watches it disappear up the street. 

Deep anger burns in him. And a kind of fear. It crawls over his skin, cooling the sides of his neck. His heart churns uncomfortably in his chest.

He tells your friends about it when he returns to the table. And they form a plan. Jessa texts you a time she’ll pick you up on Saturday. You say you’re excited again, you need some new clothes.

But Frankie knows Jessa won’t take you shopping. 

No, she brings you here, to the beach, to the bonfire. To him, to Santi and Benny and Will. Because they’re worried.

So worried, they tell you.

They sit you down in one of the chairs around the fire, and they explain why they’re worried. They tell you they love you - so much - and they just need to know if you’re okay. Because they can help. They want to help, want you out of this, because he’s not good for you. The silence, the hair, the clothes you were going to buy. They tell you they hate the way he doesn’t let you speak, how he speaks to you. And you are so quiet through all of it, Frankie begins to get more worried. He speaks to you gently over the fire, but you can’t meet his eye. He tells you his worries, their love for you again. He swallows down his own confession, anything to make you see. How they don’t want you pushed closer to him, want you to be pulled closer to them instead.

But your eyes are so vacant, so far away, that Jessa leaves her deckchair next to you to sit on the burned up log closer to you on your other side. She takes your hands, and you finally, finally look at her. You open your mouth, and you say so quietly -

‘You’re right. You’re right.’ 

It feels like the biggest gulp of oxygen Frankie has ever taken. He feels lightheaded from the relief, from the knowledge. They were right, they were right, which is a terrible, terrible thing.

Will clears his throat, and Frankie looks at him to see similar thoughts flicking over his face like film reel. He licks his lips, opens his mouth, and -

Hate to be so emotional

I didn't aim to get physical

But when he pulled in and revved it up

I said, ‘You call that a pickup truck?’

And in the moonlight I throwed him down

Kickin', screamin' and rollin' around

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

Whatever Will is about to say is cut short by the sweep of headlights over the brush near the dunes. 

A beat up old pickup truck bumps up the track and pulls up alongside Will’s Ranger. The driver’s side window slides down, and Tanner’s face emerges from the gloom. He revs the engine loudly, making you and Jessa jump. A sick feeling curls in Frankie’s stomach as he watches him, this piece of shit who’s been so busy crushing you down. 

Tanner leaps out of the truck, and slams the door. Frankie looks over at you, visibly panicked on the other side of the fire. How the fuck did he find you?

‘Hey baby,’ Tanner says, sickly sweet as he strolls towards you, ducking to press a kiss to your unresponsive mouth. He turns to the rest of the group, eyes skating over Will and Ben until they land on Frankie. Tanner steps towards him, offers his hand.

‘Good to see you again, Frank,’ he says, ‘Told you I’d be getting a new ride.’ 

Frankie stares at his hand. He takes a deep swig of his beer, breathing deeply before looking Tanner in the eye, refusing to shake it.

‘I’m surprised to see you.’ He says to the dirty-haired man.

Tanner tries his best to appear unfazed, but there’s a glimmer of something hot behind his eyes.

‘’Course man, wanted to show off the new pickup.’ He says, grinning broadly. He looks around again, eyes falling hungrily on Jessa. She shifts uncomfortably on the log, rearranging her body so there’s less for him to look at. A deep heat begins to rise in Frankie’s chest.

He glances again at the ancient car that Tanner’s driven up in. The front bumper almost hanging off, the red paint aged and scratched, bumps caved in all up the sides, the roof sagging. 

‘You call that a pickup truck?’ Frankie says lightly. Tanner narrows his eyes at him, angry, before he catches the sound of Santi’s laugh.

He whirls around to the other man and spits -

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Frankie almost laughs, too. Almost.

Pope spreads his hands. He looks up at him through his brows, a glint in his eyes that Frankie is violently familiar with. You must notice it, too, because you clear your throat and say -

‘Santi’s one of my friends.’

Tanner doesn’t even look at you. Just keeps staring at Pope. 

The moment seems to last an eternity. Frankie feels like he’s watching everything through sludge, like he’s in someone else’s dream. His whole body is on edge, vibrating, ready to lunge - he’s just not sure at who. He looks between the two men before he catches your eye through the flames. The adrenaline in Frankie’s heart gutters at the look of panic in your eyes.

Please don’t let them do this. Please help me stop it.

Frankie glances back to Pope, and says, so softly only he can hear it -

‘Pope.’ 

And Santi immediately looks away, taking a swig of his beer.

Tanner stands there still, clearly baffled at Santi’s sudden lack of interest. Then he turns to the rest of the group like a petulant child, a toddler who has been ostensibly robbed of its favourite toy.

‘It’s a good truck,’ he says, before turning to you. ‘Ain’t it, baby?’

You hum your agreement as Tanner scoops a beer from the pile by Will’s chair, shucking off the top with his teeth. Jessa looks away, disgusted. He settles himself in the deckchair at your side.

‘Y’aint allowed to touch it, of course, sugar,’ he says to you, before laughing into his bottle. ‘Ruin everything you come into, anyway. Root of all my problems, ain’t ya?’ Tanner takes a pull of his beer. The group is silent around him. Around you. Tanner notices.

‘Boy, fun bunch you are.’ 

You look at him through your eyelashes.

‘Baby, that’s enough.’ You say as softly as possible, and Frankie cringes at the pet name. 

Tanner looks at you sharply. Dark, furious. It’s in the pinch of his jaw, the anger at what you’ve said so obviously rolling around in his skull.

Frankie hates him for it. And he hates that he hates him for it. There are already so many things he hates him for, but he’s so fucking stupid it’s almost funny. Not your equal in any way. In kindness, in conversation or in intellect. And not even willing to try. To learn. For you. Just trying to dumb you down instead, squash you into smaller, more digestible bites to chew on. 

When it comes down to it, Tanner has nothing smart to say back. He just pushes a short breath from his nostrils and mutters out a little -

‘Well, well, well.’

Then he flexes his fingers against the chair, and you flinch. 

You flinch hard, your brows coming together, chin scrunching, waiting for the blow to land. And when it doesn’t, your eyes flicker open slowly. Hollow, bereft, drained and dim. 

Tanner hasn’t noticed, but everyone else has.

The awful unveiling of your last secret.

Frankie forces the bile down his throat. His head swings forward to the ground of its own accord, a faint, resonant ringing in his ears. When he looks at his hands, they aren’t his own. In fact, he recognises no part of his body as the ringing gets louder, as he gently places his beer bottle on the floor. When his eyes leave the dirt, the mix of faces around the fire are all mirror reflections of each other. Horror, disgust, grief. Grief that this is what you hid from them, this is what they have taken too long to pull you from. The burning building splintering around you, your shell of a body immovable in the middle. 

You won’t meet his eye. You won’t meet anyone’s eye as your hand shakes around your bottle. Jessa notices. She stares at your trembling fingers for too long, but she can hardly say anything. None of them can. Her eyes shine like beacons from her seat, wet with tears. Frankie sees her bottom lip quiver, her chin dimple. And then she swallows, swallows again, and reaches for your hand.

You flinch again, softer this time, and Frankie is sure everyone around the fire - everyone in the town, the world, must hear his heart crack. Because he feels it so keenly, so deeply, that it takes the air from his lungs. His breath is caught in his throat, and no matter how hard he tries to draw it, it seems impossible to claw it down. He’s drowning. He’s drowning right here in front of everybody, and it makes it all the worse to know that this is how you must feel. Every damn day.

Come on, he hears Jessa say, Let’s go and get another drink. And through the dark swirling of his mind he watches the two of you stand slowly and disappear towards the back of Frankie’s truck. He waits until Jessa has you hidden from view, her arms around your hunched back as you bring your hands to your face - crying - and that’s when the thread snaps.

Frankie gets to his feet, slowly.

Pope and Will watch him. Benny is still staring at Tanner.

Tanner looks up at him, chin jutted out, smirking as Frankie approaches. 

He’s challenging him. He’s waiting for a war of words, for the shouting to begin, for the insults, the observations to fly.

He expected the wrong war from a soldier.

The first punch sprawls him out of his seat. It makes a satisfying cracking sound, and the first trickle of blood starts to bleed from behind his lip.

Then Frankie kicks him. He kicks him hard in the ribs, making sure he doesn’t have enough time to recover from the punch to deflect Frankie’s boot. 

Tanner clutches at his abdomen, wheezing, gazing up at Frankie with bewildered eyes. Fucking coward.

Frankie grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulls him upwards. He has nothing to say to him, but the fury he feels, this deep, endless, swirling pit of rage, he lets him see. He lets it fill him from the soles of his feet all the way up through his eyes, and he lets it bleed out. He lets the blackness flood the ground. He lets Tanner watch it, lets it petrify him, and then Frankie swings again. Tanner takes it on his chin this time, his jaw snapping closed, and when it goes lax, a couple jagged bits of tooth fall out. Frankie grunts in satisfaction and swings again, again, until blood spouts from Tanner’s eyebrow and his cheek begins to bruise and swell. Frankie breathes deeply, in rhythm, doesn’t even feel it when Tanner manages to land a lucky punch to his eye socket. He plants a knee into the other man’s crotch, lands him an elbow to the back of his head when he keels over, and then shoves him to the ground. Frankie gets on the floor with him, raining blows down on Tanner’s body, his face. He’s methodical about it, a punch to each eye, the crack of the cunt’s nose, one to either side of his mouth, then bloodying up his jaw. He’s aware, somewhere, that Tanner is screaming. Strangled, gargling sounds trying to claw up his throat. And then he’s aware of two pairs of hands around each armpit, dragging him away, pulling him up. Will is saying something in his ear, that’s enough, Frankie, alright now, and Benny is speaking, too, panicked - you’ll kill him, Fish, come on man.

Frankie blinks, really looks at Tanner where he lays bleeding on the dirt. His eyes already swelling, a couple more teeth scattered on the ground next to him. His face different shades of red and purple, a mess of a man, and Frankie is pleased. He could keep going. He wants to see him bleed much, much more. Will and Benny keep their grip on him.

‘Leave,’ Frankie growls, low, without a quiver in his voice. ‘And don’t you ever come back. You ever look at her again, I’ll gouge out your fuckin’ eyes. You ever touch her again, I’ll break every bone in your body. I’ll make sure they don’t find anything left of you.’

Tanner doesn’t say anything, which must be the only smart thing he’s ever done in his life. But he still doesn’t move.

The four men watch him for a moment, the silence heavy, broken only by the crackle of wood and Tanner’s heavy, wet breaths.

Then Benny lets Frankie go, steps forward and picks the man up by his collar, swinging him around to the direction of his truck. He throws him down on the dirt.

‘Move,’ he spits. ‘Get out of here. And if you have the courage on the way, wrap your fucking truck around a telephone pole.’

Tanner finally has the good sense to crawl over to the vehicle. He hauls himself up the scarred body work before creaking open the driver’s door and slipping inside. The truck sputters to life, yellow bulbs flooding the bonfire site again before it quickly backs away, turns, and drives off. Frankie watches its blinking red brake lights until he’s sure the cunt is gone, and then he turns around.

You’re stood with Santi’s arms wrapped around you, back from the fire where Tanner’s blood is drying. Pope strokes your hair, squeezes you tightly as your body shudders. And Frankie can only stare. 

Minutes might have passed. Hours. And Frankie is terrified. Terrified that he’s scared you, broken you, pushed you away. And then you turn your face on Pope’s chest, moving your head from shoulder to shoulder, and you’re looking at him. Eyes red-rimmed and raw, face flushed and damp, and it’s like Frankie’s trance breaks.

Frightened, he takes a step forward. He breathes your name.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and you shake your head. Fuck. What has he done? What has he allowed himself to do? ‘I’m sorry, querida, please - I know, I know -’ but what does he know? He looks to Santi, pleading for help, and the man offers him a small smile as you step out of his arms. 

Through a fog, you come towards him. Your chin wobbles. Your eyes swim. You’re a little wide-eyed, a little shocked. And something else, something beyond his reach. 

You get to him, and your arms make their silken way around his middle as you begin to cry. Hot tears stain the front of his shirt, and he cradles you to him, holding your skull gently, enveloping your abdomen. A loud sob looses from your ribs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’ You wrap your arms around him tighter, press your nose into his sternum.

‘I’m not scared of you, Frankie,’ you sob into his chest. He clutches at the back of your head, holds you even closer, strokes your hair. When you speak again your voice is higher, strained with your tears. ‘I could never be scared of you.’

The sting in Frankie’s throat becomes hot, burning. He doesn’t know whether to pull you impossibly closer or to push you away, to run as far as he can from your broken, heaving body in his arms. Because what he’s done should scare you. It should. He’d lost all control. The only thing he’d been able to see, to feel was his all-consuming, depthless fury. And Tanner’s face as it splintered, bloodied, swelled. And he’d wanted to keep going, until there was just pulp. No nerve endings, no teeth, no eyes, no mouth, no body that he could ever hurt you with again. He doesn’t want you to hurt any more.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers into your hair.

Trembling misery

And as cold as a hole

I hug your bones and skin

Frankie holds your hand the whole way home, the drive passing in a dazed silence.

You still don’t talk when you get to his place, when he unlocks the door, lets you in, and locks it behind him. You take his hand in the quiet cool of the house, lead him upstairs. He follows, slowly, sore, exhausted. Trying to process it all.

When you reach the landing, you turn on the bathroom light, and he trails behind you. He stands propped against the sink as you dig around in his medicine cabinet, finding wipes and bandages and anything else you think might be useful. You take Frankie’s hand again, examine his bruised, bleeding and swollen knuckles with solemn eyes. You are so gentle, twisting his hand in the light, inspecting. You look over it for a while, and Frankie watches you. When you reach for an antiseptic wipe, your hand is shaking.

Frankie winces silently when you start to dab at the blood on his knuckles, cleaning it away with minute swipes. You chase the dried rivulets of blood down his fingers, over his palm. The scar there from when he ate shit riding his bike.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. You ignore him, breathing shallowly as you inspect his hand, holding his wrist, cleaning blood which is no longer there.

‘Might be a hairline fracture or two,’ you say, distant. ‘I won’t bandage it, gonna let it dry out first. But you’ll need to rest it. And we’ll need to ice your eye.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, into your hair. You shake your head, and the light catches the different colours in every strand. Frankie’s throat tightens.

‘Please stop apologising.’ You whisper.

A shaky breath pushes itself from between Frankie’s lips.

‘No, querida,’ he says softly, ‘It wasn’t right. Shouldn’t have done it. And I shouldn’t have let you see -’ he swallows thickly, throat bobbing. He looks over your head at the white tiles behind you as your grip on his wrist tightens. You still don't look up at him. ‘But it’s not how you treat someone you love. Not how it should be. Should be protecting them, treating them right, loving them the way you love -’ him. He cuts himself off, because he realises as he says it he’s wrong. So wrong.

Right to be like you in your gentleness. In your care, your touch, your tenderness, your loving. But Tanner deserved none of those things. He didn’t deserve your faith, didn’t deserve your protection or your silence either. None of it. 

He closes his eyes.

An image of you flickers through Frankie’s mind. Your fingers on his wrist as they are now, your eyes shining under the streetlights. The glint of your teeth, and the want so clear on your face, then the hesitation, the fear, the shuttering - 

And if only he had kissed you then. If only you had taken him inside. He could have shown you what it was supposed to feel like. He could have saved you from the hurt, the fear which lay ahead.

There’s a splash of warmth on the pale skin of the underside of his forearm, and he opens his eyes again. You’re still hunched over his hand, but your movements have stilled. Frankie waits, confused, before another warm drop lands on his arm and you hiccup a sob out. He whispers out your name, and you turn your face up to him, devastated.

Frankie’s face crumples, and your grip on his wrist loosens enough for him to lift his hands to your face and cup your cheeks.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. I wasn’t thinking -’

‘You think I love him?’ You croak.

Frankie’s jaw works around his next sentence, his next thoughts. He tries to process what this means. That look in your eyes, your tears, your implication. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

‘I don’t love him, Frankie,’ you choke, ‘I don’t. Christ - I don’t think I ever did, I never could -’ you suck in a deep, stuttered breath. ‘I’ve never - never hated anyone more. I couldn’t stand him, couldn’t have him near me, couldn’t have him touch me -’ Frankie flinches at your words. ‘But I was so scared. And embarrassed. I didn’t know how to leave - I didn’t know how to tell anybody about what was going on. I was terrified of what he’d do. To me, to you guys, if he found out I’d spoken about it. And he made it so hard for me to see you, so hard for me to get away.’ You sob now, panic and relief forcing out your words. ‘I thought - wherever I go, he’ll find me. He’ll track me down, and he’ll bring me back - and somehow - somehow that was worse than if he tracked me down and - and - I don’t know, killed me or something -’

Frankie’s eyes shutter. He can’t even follow your thought, so awful is the image, the gaping emptiness. He pulls you close, he lets you cry. Curled into his chest, your body wracking with tears, shaking, tense and uncontrollable, the sounds you make rooting in his brain. They file themselves away in a box where very few things go. Deployment. Tom. The darkness after his investigation. You break and break in his arms, and it’s all he can do to hold the pieces of you together. To press kisses to your head, breathe in the smell of your hair, rub his hands over your back, cradle you like a child. 

He doesn’t know how long the two of you stand there for. He waits until you stop sobbing, stop crying softly, stop hiccuping, stop sniffing. He waits for a few more minutes in the silence, too. And when he pulls away, he presses a long, sweet kiss to your forehead. 

You blink up at him through red, swollen eyes.

‘You’re safe here.’ He says, and you nod.

‘I know. Thank you. For - everything.’ You say thickly. Frankie swallows, nods. You know it all anyway. Any time, for however long you need.

He pads downstairs to get you a glass of water, and while he’s pouring it, he can hear you blow your nose, wash your face. Somehow, they are the most perfect sounds in the world.

Crackling wood’s gone white

And my eye swole up now

I can see the light

Frankie gives you one of his sleep-stretched t-shirts and an old pair of shorts for you to wear to bed. 

The clothes dwarf you a little, and he can’t wipe the small, thrilled smile from his face, even when he looks away. You look fucking adorable. 

You giggle at him every time you see it, your little what? only making him smile harder. It stretches his mouth until it hurts and his cheeks start to cramp up, squishing his swollen eye. Stop he tries to say, but it comes out as an equally breathless huff of laughter - and that only makes you giggle more. So much so that he sweeps you up into his arms to stash you under the covers, and you laugh even harder as he tucks the sheets in tight around you, just like his mama used to do when she wanted him to stay put. 

He looks down at you from the side of the bed, hands on his hips, and you laugh back at him - eyes shining, mouth open in wide hoots of delight, your hands coming up in a desperate attempt to contain yourself. He points a finger at you.

‘You need to calm down,’ he says, voice tight with bridled amusement. ‘It’s bedtime.’

But you cackle back at him, this glorious puddle of sunshine in his bed, only howls of laughter for a response. Unable to help himself, he returns your joy, turning off the bedside lamps to slip in beside you.

In the darkness, your snorts subside into ragged breaths, and you turn on your side to look at him. You study him as though you never want to forget a single line on his face; such warmth, such affection in your eyes that Frankie’s whole body swells and lifts.

You take his hand beneath the sheets and hold it between your faces, smiling softly at him.

The first and only girl he’s really ever loved. This brilliant, fierce, bright, intelligent woman damped down by the waste of fucking space who had bled by the fire. At the thought of it, Frankie feels his heart fall out of his chest, down through the floorboards, and plummet towards the middle of the earth.

And finally, he begins to cry.

He tries to stop it, he really does. It’s selfish, he thinks, so awful and selfish to cry in front of you when it’s you who should be wrapped in his arms, swept away by emotion again if you needed to be, safe and warm and unworried, never having to fret about anything again.

But he can’t stop it. It comes out in great shuddering breaths - pained, wracked sounds slipping past his lips, and he can’t help it. He tries to gather them in his hands to shove them back in his mouth, tries to scoop them in his arms and press them back into the caving ache of his chest, but he can’t.

When Frankie was a child, he saw his dad cry once. Only once, and exactly like this, after his father’s brother was killed in a car accident. He had seen it through a crack in his parents’ bedroom door, and it had hurt him. It had wounded him, as a child, to see his father break with such grief, such pain, such emptiness, and to know there was nothing he could do about it. And now, he is split into those two people - younger self, older self - as he thinks of you lying next to him on the bed. This person who he loves so much, who is now so full of the knowledge of the worst parts of living, wound up so tight within you that you let it settle, let it unfurl around your bones. He sees your hurt, your grief, your pain refracted around him tenfold, and he hurts with you. He sees you as the boy he once was, this poor creature looking in at a heart breaking, as he has unknowingly watched yours break for months.

And he’s so sorry, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop saying it.

But here you are, still, performing the ultimate act of kindness. Comfort.

He feels the mattress move as you slide closer to him, and then your hand is on his back, swooping in gentle movements. He feels the scrabble of your fingers under the ribs he has pressed into the bed, the pressure of your arm moving under him so you can hold him properly. Frankie sobs harder, but he opens his body to you. You press closer to him, burying your face in his neck, and he breathes you in as he cries. Your scent is here, you are here. And like you heard him, you whisper -

‘It’s okay, Frankie. It’s okay. ’M here. I’m safe.’ And this realisation allows a little more air, but it doesn’t make Frankie’s guilt, his shame any better. But you’re right, he knows it. And somewhere in his crying, this turns his gasps to tears of relief. Softly, you retract your arms from around him.

You take his hands away from his face, and kiss the palms. You kiss each fingertip, each bruised and cracked knuckle. You lean forward and press a kiss to each tear, each trail of saltwater on his face. And you are so beautiful in the moonlight. Soft and wide eyed. Safe. Kind, always kind, and full of understanding. Frankie sees now that you have been crying against him, too, your eyelashes cloyed with tears. Sees his thoughts in your eyes as though you have had each of them zip to you through the air. When you were a child, you saw your dad cry once. Only once, and exactly like this, after…

A smile breaks through your eyes, chasing away the remnants of tears, glazing down, softening your lips. 

And Frankie doesn’t think this time. His feet don’t fail him. He doesn’t think of stars or glitter or constellations of ice crystals. He just kisses you. And kisses you and kisses you and kisses you. And he doesn’t stop, because nothing else matters anymore.

You’re safe. You’re warm. You’re in his bed. 

You’re here.

You tip your head back, deepening the kiss, licking into Frankie’s mouth. He gives in so easily to you he’s almost ashamed. But then your fingers clutch at him, ball at the bottom of his shirt, tangle in the thick of his hair, and all his thoughts are forgotten. He feels you slip a soft, strong leg over his, pulling him forward. You groan against him, and Frankie’s cock twitches. You feel it, you must do, as you pull your body closer to him, tight against him. Frankie is so lightheaded he doesn’t know where his hands are, what they’re doing - and when he concentrates, he finds them skating over your back, squeezing the tension out of the back of your neck, gripping your hip.

He moans against you as you rock your hips over his thigh, as he feels the heat of your sex against his skin. He feels like he’s on fire.

You slip a hand under his sleep shorts and palm him, brushing his silken length with two fingers, feeling him grow harder, thicker against you. You take him in your hand, pump him once, twice with the perfect grip, the perfect speed, like you were made for him. He’s gasping against you, panting as you suck his lower lip into your mouth.

‘Baby,’ he groans, breathless, ‘We don’t have to. We really don’t -’

You look up at him through gorgeous, glazed eyes.

‘I want to,’ you say, ‘Do you?’

Dangerous, dangerous question. 

Frankie tries to shake his head, look away, think of anything but the tight fist of your fingers around his cock.

‘I do,’ he says, ‘I do. But I don’t think - this is the right thing -’

You loosen your grip, draw away from him. His body aches with a shudder.

His eyes flick back to yours again - confused, hurt - fuck, he can’t do that to you, ever -

‘I - I don’t want to take advantage of it - of you,’ he says. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks as you look down the sheets towards your toes. His jaw tightens. ‘And - and I don’t want this to mean - different things for us. I don’t want it to ruin what we have.’ Frankie breathes out heavily through his nose. He has to tell you now. He has to. ‘I don’t want it to mean different things, because I love you. I always have. And if we do this, if I have you even just for a night, I - I’ll never recover from it.’ Tears spike in his eyes again. He tries to smile. ‘You’d ruin me. And I don’t think I’d ever forgive you for it.’

Your breath hitches in your throat, and Frankie watches as your eyes flit back up to his. They search his face, the dribble of his barely-shed tears, the slope of his sad smile. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, running your thumb over his scraps of beard. He closes his eyes.

‘What you said earlier,’ you begin. Frankie swallows. He waits for the blow of rejection. ‘About me - about me loving him.’ He opens his eyes slowly to find yours, bright and clear. Something begs to bubble over in them. Something golden and warm. ‘You were wrong - obviously. And I couldn’t tell you truly why, because I was afraid. So afraid of pushing you away, even though I think that’s all I’ve ever done. I’ve never thought I was worth it, Frankie. I don’t deserve you. And I am terrified of how much I love you.’ You beam at him, eyes bubbling over with that thing - love - ‘I love you,’ you say simply, like it’s not the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. 

A stunned little laugh ripples up his throat, and you copy it. He grips your face in his hands, and kisses you again, again, again.

‘I love you,’ he says.

‘I love you, too,’ you giggle.

‘And you are,’ he presses to your lips, ‘You are absolutely worth it.’

He rolls over on top of you, and begins to kiss your jaw, nipping at the skin there, before moving down your throat. He kisses you with a hot, open mouth, sucking marks into the sensitive skin at your pulse point. Mine, he groans, and you whimper against him, rubbing your thighs together.

Frankie pushes your shirt up - his shirt - so he can bite at your chest, press kisses to every bit of exposed skin. Every single part of you that deserves to be loved, every single place which has so far been unknown to him. He sucks each nipple into his mouth, delighted when you keen beneath him, panting, please, please Frankie, before he sinks lower down, peeling his shorts away from you to expose your glistening cunt. 

He groans, unable to take his eyes away from it as he leans forward, pressing his body into the mattress to lick a stripe from your asshole to your clit.

‘Frankie -’ you groan down at him as he begins to work at you, sucking and licking, nipping at your thigh before slipping his tongue into your hole, swiping and tasting everything you’re giving to him. He grinds himself into the mattress, hissing at the relief, the uncomfortable weight of his cock dragging below him.

‘Taste so good, baby,’ he tells you, and he doesn’t think he ever wants to taste, wants to smell anything else ever again. All he can do is eat at you, breathe you in, until you’re begging him -

‘Frankie, your fingers - please -’ And he flexes his hand at your hip before brushing a fingertip against your entrance and gasping at the pain. 

You try to bear down towards him, but he rips his hand away, lifting his head towards you.

‘Can’t,’ he gasps, and you mewl, bucking your hips up to his face, desperate. ‘Hand’s fucked,’ he says, and you still your movements before beginning to laugh again. It’s loud and from your belly, and it's bizarre. But Frankie gets it. He gets it, and he giggles too. He doesn’t try to fuck his broken knuckles into you, but he does try to continue lathing you with his tongue. You’re making it pretty fucking difficult, though.

‘Stop laughing,’ he huffs against your clit, ‘I’m trying to make you come.’

‘Okay,’ you say, gasping for air, ‘Okay. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. You’re doing really well, by the way.’ But this only makes him laugh. He groans, leaning his forehead against your inner thigh. ‘This is impossible.’ He pouts.

‘Nooo,’ you cry, leaning up on your elbows to pout down at him. ‘Please, baby. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. I won’t laugh anymore.’

‘Promise?’ He says. You hold out your pinky to him.

‘Pinky promise.’ You say.

Frankie stretches his hand out to you and tries to extend his pinky. He winces at the sharp pain which shoots from the movement, and grunts at you, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

‘You bastard,’ he says, trying and failing to hold his smile, ‘You knew I wouldn’t be able to do that.’

‘Just keeping you on your toes,’ you grin, and then before you can make any more smart remarks, Frankie resumes his ministrations, lapping and tonguing at your clit, your hole, mouthing hot, wet kisses to your pussy. He shakes his head from side to side, running your bud in tight, hard little circles until you’re a moaning, whimpering mess beneath him. Your hips buck unconsciously, and Frankie hooks both his arms around your thighs to hold you down, flattening his hands against your belly to keep you firmly in place. He reaches up to twist at your nipples and you gasp. 

‘God, Frankie, tongue feels so fucking good -’ 

He can feel you begin to pulse against his chin as your whines get higher in pitch, and he groans as you twist handfuls of his hair.

‘Come on, baby,’ he says, ‘Give it to me. Wanna see you come, querida. Wanna taste it. Come on my face.’

And you do, the sensation of it arching your back tight like a bow, a strangled moan cutting off into the ceiling.

‘Fuck, Frankie, fuck -’ as he drives you through it, nodding and murmuring against you as you try to wriggle free, squealing in protest until you manage to twist a leg and set a foot against his chest, pushing him off. 

‘Fucking - hell -’ You pant, and Frankie grins down at you, smug.

‘Good?’ He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

‘Oh, fuck you, Morales.’ You laugh, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss, moaning when you taste yourself on him. Your tongue explores every part of his mouth, every crevice behind every tooth, like you can’t get enough of him. Like there'll never be enough of him. ‘Now fuck me.’ You whisper.

And Frankie does not need to be told twice.

He rips his shirt up and off his back, shucks his shorts down his legs, and squeezes himself tight as he can in his left hand. He ruts into his palm, thumb swiping to slick his heavy beads of precum down his length.

‘Ready?’ he asks, looking down to find you staring wide-eyed at his cock. It twitches under your gaze.

‘What?’ He says, and you shake your head in quiet disbelief and amusement. You lift your eyes back to his face, and they are so dark with arousal he almost melts into the mattress.

‘Nothing,’ you shrug. ‘Just somehow never believed Pope and the boys when they said it was like two coke cans put together.’ 

‘Jesus Christ.’ Frankie laughs, his face pulling tight with a grin as he lines himself up at your entrance, swilling the head in your arousal.

‘I mean, what if it doesn’t fit?’ You babble, and he shakes his head.

‘It’ll fit, baby,’ he says. ‘We’ll make it fit.’ Then he sinks the first inch in, and just waits. He waits and watches you, watches as your mouth falls slack, all the smart things coming out your mouth grinding to a halt. He throbs at how tight you are around him, at how you clench already, trying to suck him in further. And fuck, you are so wet.

‘You okay, querida?’ He asks through gritted teeth.

You manage a nod, a broken whine escaping you.

‘Move Frankie, please baby -’ you beg, and he groans as he pushes further inside you, watching the obscene stretch of your pussy around him, the way it pulses, the way it gets wetter and warmer and tighter around him. When he bottoms out, he feels the hot rush of his orgasm leap towards him a little too quickly.

‘Fuck, baby,’ he breathes, closing his eyes just to make sure he doesn’t come right away. You squirm beneath him, canting your hips up, trying to fuck yourself. Frankie grips you, gritting his teeth. ‘Stay still,’ he hisses, flushing a little. ‘God, fuck, please - just for a minute.’ He opens his eyes to find you watching him, your bottom lip caught in your teeth. His eyes glaze down your body - his t-shirt bunched up around your chest, perfect tits, perfect belly, and your sweet, sopping cunt split open on his cock. 

He groans again, slipping out, watching as he retreats, soaked by you, before pushing back in. A high pitched whine leaves your lips, and you twitch your hands up to play with your tits. Frankie doesn’t think he’s ever seen something more sexy in his life.

‘That’s right,’ he says, ‘Keep playing with yourself like that, gorgeous. Look at you.’

So you do, looking up at him with doe-eyes as he fucks into you, soft at first, letting you adjust before quickening his pace, readjusting his angle, feeling you leak around him. His balls slap against your ass loudly, and you keen up at him, eyes wide, begging for something as you tighten like a coil around him, something you can’t quite voice. But Frankie knows.

He swipes his thumb against your clit, and your eyes roll into the back of your head, your back arching again. He groans at the sight, and works the bundle of nerve endings in tight circles, faster and harder, harder and faster, until you’re gripping him so tight he thinks you might push him out.

‘Come baby, come,’ he pants, ‘Please, querida, need to feel you - need to feel you soak me. Need you to come for me, come on this cock, baby, please -’

And he groans, long and loud as you clench and pulse around him, milking him, pulling him impossible deeper - fuck, Frankie, oh my god, feels so fucking good - the delicious pressure at the base of his spine at breaking point as he fucks you through it, as he pants and gasps -

‘Come, Frankie,’ you plead, ‘Please - want you, need you -’ and he spills himself deep inside you, hips stuttering, eyes clamping shut, overwhelmed and short circuited. He’s never known it could feel like this - good to the end of every synapse - and he’s fucking it in with three long thrusts, pulling out slowly just to watch it dribble out of you as he twitches against his thigh. He thumbs your clit just to watch you seize and sigh against him, then sits back on his knees to look at you.

‘You are something else,’ he says in disbelief.

You smile lazily at him.

‘Ain’t so bad yourself, Morales,’ and he laughs, throwing himself down next to you, kissing anywhere he can. I love you, I love you, I love you. Safe.

You lay there for a while afterwards, just feeling each other, calming your ragged breathing. Eventually, Frankie rises from the bed to grab a washcloth, coming back and swiping between your legs tenderly, gently, before collapsing back into bed and pulling you into his chest.

He feels like he’s in space, and he tells you as much. He spills secrets like a child at a sleepover. He tells you about the glitter and the stars and the constellations of ice crystals. You match him with a galaxy of feeling spanning the time he’s known you. And he feels that this is a dream, this love which floats like a nebula within the bed. He tries to keep his eyes open for as long as possible, even as you sleep. And even when he does drift off, he dreams of you. He dreams of you sparkling with stardust, waiting for him with your arms open.

When he wakes the next morning, you’re still there. Safe, soft and warm against him, furled into his ribcage, heart beating against the hand that’s pressed against your chest.

Everything’s okay. That red thread still intact, after all.

When the sun rises, bloody and mild, it’s never been so sweet.

A little piece of a bloody tooth

Just so you know I was thinking of you

[wndaswife]

Wanda returns to bad habits after her breakup with you.

Tags: references to smut, lot of angst!, self-destructive habits, toxic relationship, abuse, possibly triggering topics, unhealthy sex, cheerleader!wanda, references to fem!reader

Word count: 2438

Before being with you, Wanda didn’t know that there was any other way of having sex. In fact, she didn’t think sex was something one could even tie emotional connections to. 

You and Wanda never had sex until she was the one who brought it up, nearly two months into the relationship. Granted, in the beginning, Wanda never regarded it like a real relationship, taking your feelings for her for granted, using your love for her as entertainment. 

She was uncertain when you first had sex; you asked if she was feeling alright, if you were making her feel good, and you were gentle, taking time to run your hands over her body and get to know her in ways you hadn’t before. 

It made her feel so seen, so thought of. 

Wanda wondered about a lot of things for the first time when she watched as you kissed down her body, carefully undressing her and treating her delicately. 

When she laid on her back, her hip bone became more prominent and casted a shadow over a birthmark she had on her left hip, making it seem like it disappeared. Would you notice it while you were taking your time unbuttoning her pants and kissing her lower stomach?

She felt her bottom lip tremble and the back of her nose tingle with incoming tears when you pressed a kiss to it, your thumb brushing against it softly as you descended further. 

In some way, it felt good to have her clothes taken off of her so harshly her thighs burned briefly against the denim waistline of her jeans, to have nails digging into spots you would kiss tenderly, to know her body only ever belonged to you in the way you took her because she was only treated so harsh when she wasn't with you.

Wanda wasn’t close to the boys she slept with, though after being with you she didn’t quite have the same interest in being with as many as she used to. 

Vision was the only one Wanda had enough energy to see. He intellectualized his violence, at least — tried to explain that he couldn’t help but want to claim her and make her his. When he was able to pull at her hair, bend her how he wanted, slap her, spank her, redden her skin and bruise her flesh while he claimed her until he was fatigued, she belonged to him. 

She understood the rationale, enjoyed the distraction of being someone else’s rather than belonging to herself, or having to come to terms that she didn’t know herself enough to be anything on her own, or to be forced to realize that in her lack of herself, there was a lack of you too.

Why didn’t you fuck her until she was telling you it was too much? Why didn’t you make her question whether she’d reached either her threshold of pain or pleasure when she told you to stop?

Which she never did, because she never had to. 

It was miraculous the things you could read in her body — the twitching of her hips away from your fingers or a furrowing of her eyebrows.

You knew when she had enough, and when she needed more. 

Why didn’t you treat her like everyone else did?

“Was Y/N boring?” Vision asked, wrapping an arm around Wanda’s body and pulling her against his side. He took her chin in his hand and turned her head to the side to press a kiss to her lips. 

Wanda felt a pain in her chest when anyone mentioned you; the only role you had in her life now was when other people brought your name up. She was only able to interact with you through discussing her time with you in the past tense. 

“No,” she answered. “She wasn’t boring.”

He reasoned, “She didn’t know you at all.”

Wanda didn’t know whether she wanted to protest and give away what was special about her relationship with you to someone else. But then he added, “The CD she put together for you, the poems and all those dull gestures — you don’t like that.”

“And you know me better?” Wanda retorted, frowning and attempting to pull away from him slightly, only to be pulled back by how his arm wrapped around her shoulders completely. 

“I know how to treat a girl.”

She held back a scoff, mostly because she wasn’t interested in arguing about you; you were too precious of a memory to discuss in argument. 

You were a memory that was hers and hers only. 

But she couldn’t help but come to your defense, for a part of her did want to talk about you, to keep you in her life that way. 

“She tried her best,” she said, leaving out the part that you’d tried your best in spite of how terrible of a girlfriend she was to you, how she used you and your feelings for her to entertain her friends. “She cared.”

Some time close to the end of the first month you were together, you put together a CD of songs for her. Wanda had never been given something like that before, didn’t understand the significance nor what you were trying to do by gifting it. 

‘For Wanda,’ it said — so simple.

She didn’t think twice before giving it to her friends.

One of them put it into their laptops and they listened to it together, wanting to see what kind of things you put together for her for your sham relationship Wanda hadn’t been putting any effort into, though a part of her was curious in a way that her friends weren’t. 

After the first two songs, skipping through most of them to get a general idea of your effort, they moved onto something else, even resolving to throw the CD out. 

Wanda argued that that would’ve been a bad decision in case you asked about it or wondered where it had gone. 

When she got home, she put it into her own laptop, her chest filled with a feeling she couldn’t explain but often felt around you when she looked through the songs and found that a majority of them were ones you or she had mentioned before. She remembered you asking if she’d ever heard of some of them. 

She listened through the entire CD that evening, laying in bed as she did. 

It felt like every word was made for her, and it felt special; you listened to all of them too, picked them out, and put it together just for her. 

She loved them all. 

Vision’s expressed contorted. “Cared about what?”

“Cared about me,” Wanda spoke quietly. 

When she thought of you, the way you made her feel, the way you cared for her, Wanda wasn’t able to do it without the inevitable following of pain. 

You cared for her like no one else had ever, treated her so gently and loved her selflessly, and now you couldn’t, and now you didn’t. 

But to voice it out loud, to speak it out into existence that she had known your love, and more than that, to know that it was no more, felt different than just reminiscing, allowing her memory to form your love into a reality in which, maybe, you just didn’t love her as much as she remembered you did.��

As much as she knew you did. 

Did she ever make you feel loved?

One afternoon, the day the two of you were planning on going out for a picnic, you came to her apartment looking conflicted and confused and upset. One of Wanda’s friends had told you about how the relationship was initially meant to be a joke, that Wanda was dared to go out with you once one of her other friends noticed that you were into her.

The things you were told and then repeated to Wanda made the things she had done to you so much more real, for in the beginning, she didn’t quite take things seriously, so the terrible things she had done almost didn’t exist.

It almost felt like she had done it all to someone else.

For her, the relationship didn’t really start until she started falling in love with you.

Suddenly, you knew that she had cheated on you several times during the first month you were together, that she had shared your poems and the CD with her friends, that she repeated all the sweet and thoughtful things you did for her to them.

At the time they meant nothing to her — how could you love her, anyhow, how could the things you did mean anything to you?

They thought the dedication and feeling you put into a fake relationship was funny. Maybe they also couldn’t fathom Wanda as deserving of that kind of love either.

Wanda never thought it was funny so much as she thought it was absurd. It was as if someone was speaking a different language to her.

“How did she care about you?” Vision asked, sounding slightly defensive. “Did she treat you like I do?”

What a fucking joke, Wanda thought, for him to place himself in your likeness, even by distant comparison.

Wanda was becoming irritated, and she would’ve much rather when he told her that she was made for getting slapped around, forcing her to swallow the truth that she liked when he did. 

But her mind flooded with memories anyways in spite of her annoyance at Vision’s prodding. 

You’d called her beautiful before, so it wasn’t the first time she’d heard it, but there was once after you’d had sex for the first time that Wanda often thought about. 

She was laying on her side, cuddled close enough to you that she could lay the back of her hand against your stomach, close enough that your hair brushed against her forehead when she adjusted her head on her pillow. 

The both of you were under her blankets. She felt warm, wrapped in your body heat as your arm draped around her naked waist. 

Your arm unwrapped itself from her and Wanda opened her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping, but she liked how it felt not to talk and not to go anywhere — just to be close to you. 

She thought you might be leaving, but instead your hand came to her cheek, your palm warm from how it had been laying against her lower back. 

You brushed her hair away from her eyes. 

She couldn’t explain the way you looked at her; it wasn’t with any sort of intention to dominate or claim or dissect her. 

You were just looking at her, taking her in. 

At that moment, she felt a sort of pressure to perform, wondering if she should smile or blush or ask what you were looking at, but she could only look at you back, in silence. 

You’re so beautiful, you said. 

“She treats me nothing like you do,” Wanda presently told Vision, slightly resentful as she spoke. She was silent for a moment before adding, “She… made me feel special, and important.”

He could only scoff. “That’s pathetic.”

How could it be pathetic, the way you made her feel? The gentleness of your hands, the curiosity in your eyes, how loving your kisses were, how you made her feel beautiful.

Wanda laid, bored and as pathetic as Vision had said, as he unwrapped his arm from around her and turned her onto her stomach. 

Maybe if she was able to hate herself enough, she could prove you wrong, recall the memories of your love and see you as a liar or as deluded, in order to deal with the fact that she no longer had you.

Vision was good at it — making her feel deserving of hatred and filth. He would hurt her and spit the most degrading insults at her, and he’d tell her how wet she was getting, how he could feel her twitching around his cock, slap her across the face and feel her tighten, pull her hair and feel her pushing her ass back against him.

She felt the hatred and the degradation and the objectification, and each time, hoping that it would recode her body, recondition her skin to know only violence and hurt. But each time it only reminded Wanda that the feeling running through her wasn’t what she felt with you.

You’d never do these things to her, never make her feel this way.

Everything that distracted her from you could only ever be defined as a lack of you.

Anything different from you, wasn’t you.

To remedy that, she tried to think of how you might react to seeing her this way. She only felt shame; you’d think she was a monster, as fucked up like Vision had said.

If you saw the things she let happen to her, listened to the words she got off on, would you still love her, think she was beautiful?

Once, Vision asked if maybe Wanda would’ve liked you more if you’d treated her like he did. Maybe she wouldn’t have fucked around with your feelings for her if you treated Wanda as he knew she deserved.

The idea of those horrible words coming out of your mouth, the anger and the violence and the disgust, made Wanda nauseous. She remembered going home the night he suggested it and throwing up. 

You would never.

You’d never.

She tried to redefine you, thinking that maybe if you hated her you would, that you fantasized about hurting her, but even then, Wanda couldn’t imagine it. She couldn’t because she didn’t only see you as the way you loved her, but as who you were.

You were kind and gentle.

Every time she left Vision’s place, she thought every moment of her interactions with him over, trying to hate herself for things he did to her and things she let him do because she liked them. She wanted to go back to when the things you did for her meant nothing, when your love was a language she couldn’t understand.

But she couldn’t erase any of it from her memory, couldn’t rewrite it, couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen.

Anything she felt and experienced after you broke up with her was only an absence of you.

Wanda wondered if you often thought of her, or if she even crossed your mind. Maybe you were glad to have gotten rid of her. She hoped you hated her, so that way she could imagine that she didn’t cause you pain.

She hoped you might just forget about her altogether.