#this is not me saying that i have it worse but that i think this conversation is nuanced and can easily be different from person to person

[sceletaflores]

I COULD PLAY THE DOCTOR (I CAN CURE YOUR DISEASE)

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4.1k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, logan's pov, written with origins!logan in mind, nat veering dangerously closer to a/b/o territory with every passing day, rut cycles, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, gratuitous amounts of dirty talk, p in v, rough sex, biting, hair pulling, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, one (1) single use of the word daddy, scent kink, pain kink, breeding kink ofc, knotting (don’t look at me…), squirting, porn w/ plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: don’t look at me…i don’t know how many times i swore up and down i’d never write something like this but i’m a confirmed liar apparently so…here. i mean i just figured i'm in a rut artistically so therefore the only answer is writing logan in a rut physically...i can do what i want and i don't need to explain myself or my horny thoughts. also, i debated posting this in the wake of everything that's gone down over the past two days that is still escalating and will continue to escalate in the coming weeks, but i think everyone could use a little escape from how scary things may seem right now. take a break from all the terrifying news sites and read about logan wanting to breed you :) kisses!

divider by angel @saradika-graphics!

it's been another six months, and logan needs your help...

The burn starts on the walk home from work, a pulse of heat deep in Logan's gut that grows with every step.

It spreads slowly, sinking into his muscles and seeping up his spine as he rounds the last corner, your place less than a block away now.

It caught him off guard this time, an itch burying itself under his skin earlier in the day only to get worse and worse as he worked.

He usually knew the signs well enough to feel them start creeping in, and he was dead sure it wasn't for another few weeks.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Logan’s jaw clenches as he picks up his pace, every nerve ending in his body straining to break into a full blown sprint at the thought of you, all alone and waiting for him.

His fingers curl into tight fists, nails pressing into his palms to ground himself, though it’s hardly enough. The faint scent of you drifts up from his shirt, not even a long day at the lumberyard enough to drown it out.

By the time he reaches your door, his heartbeat is a heavy thud in his ears, syncing with the building ache of desire wracking through his body like the earth rattling boom of a raging thunder storm.

He fumbles through getting his key into the lock, hands unsteady as he tugs the door open with a little more force than necessary and finally steps inside.

The second he closes the door behind him, the heat surges, thrumming through his veins and flooding his chest. Your scent fills the air completely, stronger now, wrapping around him so thick and sweet.

"Darlin'?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends, but he's beyond caring.

Your voice floats from the other room, casual, warm enough to send a jolt through him. Logan drops his axe from his shoulder, leaning it against the door as he starts down the familiar path to your bedroom.

You're spread out on his side of the bed—oblivious, curled up with a book, wrapped in one of the flannels he must have left the last time he stayed over.

Just the sight of you does something to him, like a match dragged against a strike pad, damned on setting everything ablaze.

You glance up, and the soft smile on your lips falters as you catch sight of him.

Logan knows what he must look like, his eyes all dark and predatory, chest heaving as he rakes his hungry gaze over you like a wolf watches a lamb grazing too close to its den.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stalks toward you with a purpose that’s as undeniable as the heat pouring off him in waves.

The book slips from your fingers, forgotten, as you lean back, the small sound of your breath hitching under the weight of his gaze is music to his ears.

Logan pauses at the edge of the bed, towering over you, letting himself drink in the way you look. So soft and serene, like some kind of invitation that begs him closer. His flannel draped loosely over your shoulders–shrouding you in his scent. 

The urge to pounce on you fights against his normal instinct to savor every second, to draw it out until the heat pooling in his gut becomes downright unbearable.

“Been thinkin’ about you all damn day,” he mutters, voice thick and dark as molasses, rough from restraint he’s quickly losing. His knuckles brush against your thigh, then tighten, holding you in place as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. “Thinkin’ about what I was gonna when I finally got my hands on you.”

Your skin blooms with warmth beneath his touch, and he grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth grazing you just enough to make you squirm. He growls low in his throat, that itch he’s been fighting nearly all day clawing its way up to the surface with a vengeance.

The primal urge inside of him screaming to claim claim claim take take take mate mate mate breed breed breed.

You tilt your head to the side with a soft sigh, freeing up more space for him to nose along your skin. “Is it time?”

Logan's breath catches as your question hangs in the air, thick with anticipation. The soft simplicity of it ignites the wildfire burning in his gut, every ounce of restraint slipping away like sand through his fingers.

“Yeah, baby,” he growls, slipping his fingers under the worn cotton of your shorts, feeling the bare skin beneath. “It’s time.”

You shift, hands going to the buttons of his flannel like you’re going to take it off. Logan stops you, taking your wrists in his free hand.

“Don’t,” he breathes, shaking his head hard enough that his hair flows with it. “Leave it on.”

The thought of you covered in his scent, of his scent mixing with yours to claim you on a level only he can discern sends his mind buzzing.

You look up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and something in him cracks wide open. The tenderness of your gaze pulls at him, like a tether pulling him back from the edge, but that heat still smolders in his blood, fierce and unyielding.

Logan runs his thumb along the racing pulse of your wrist before he drops them. His hands venture lower, fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh, tracing a deliberate path that makes your body tremble under his touch.

You let out a shuddering breath, the scent of your arousal swirling through the air is enough to make him crave more.

In one rough tug, Logan yanks you towards the edge of the bed as he falls to his knees. Your hips held tight in his hands as he lurches forward, burying his nose in the soft junction where your leg and inner thigh meet.

He inhales deep, greedy lungfuls of your scent. A guttural growl rumbles through his chest, his eyes screwing shut at the sheer amount of too much that courses through him. He feels dizzy with it, high on the pheromones pumping from you in waves.

You’re soaked already, the wet fabric of your shorts melded to the shape of your cunt. He can’t help but run his nose along the slick seam of you, reveling in the way your legs twitch on either side of his head, in the short gasp you let out.

“Logan.” Your voice is nothing but a mewl, pleading and desperate.

“Missed you,” he rasps, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable. The edge of need in him makes his hands shake, sliding up your thighs, urging them even further apart as he settles between them.

Logan’s fingers dig into your skin, he lets his thumbs brush up, hooking them into the waistband of your shorts to tug them down your legs in one sharp yank. He groans at the sight of you completely bare, no underwear.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grates, his thumb coming down to slip through your dripping cunt. Your hole flutters desperately around him, needy little clenches like it’s trying to suck him in. “She’s all ready for me, huh? Been waiting for me to come home and give her some attention?”

“Please,” you whimper, your voice thick with longing, the sound going straight to his head, clouding his thoughts. 

Logan’s pulse races as he watches your body arch instinctively toward his touch, the desperate need in your eyes igniting the raw urges coursing through him.

He can’t deny you; he never could. You’re a feast laid out before him, and he’s starving.

Logan leans closer, letting his tongue flick out to taste you like he’s wanted to since he left for work this morning. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, closing his eyes and losing himself in the moment. He licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring the way your body responds, the way your legs tremble and your hips twitch against his mouth, seeking more. “Tastes like fuckin’ heaven, sweetheart.”

The taste of you is intoxicating—sweet and tangy, flooding his senses with every drag and swirl of his tongue.

Logan can’t help but moan against you, the sound vibrating through your body as he dives deeper, his nose nudging against your slick entrance as he shakes his head back and forth like an animal—rubbing the plush skin of your inner thighs red and raw with each rough drag of his coarse beard.

Every flick of his tongue sends a shockwave through you, and he revels in the sounds you make—each whimper, each moan, a siren’s call urging him deeper. He laves his tongue around your clit, sucking it gently, pulling at it with his lips as you writhe beneath him, begging for more. 

He keeps your thighs spread wide, two strong hands pinning them to the mattress so he can devour you just the way you deserve, the sharp dig of your heels into his shoulders only spurs him on.

Your hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging him closer, and he groans into you, letting his tongue delve deeper, seeking out every bit of sweetness he can coax from you. 

It’s pure sin, each sound you make, each shiver that runs through you as he takes his time, drinking you down like a man starved. 

The ache in him intensifies, his own need growing, pulsing. He’s hard, has been hard since he walked through the front door.

His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, need pulsing in time with each pump of his blood through his shaft, circling around the base, threatening to expand even without the tight grip of your pussy surrounding him. His hips jerk up on their own volition, desperate for any friction.

“Just like that, Logan,” you gasp, voice breathy and trembling with pleasure. 

The way you say his name—raw, desperate—makes his blood run hotter. He grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you to the bed as he drinks you in, wanting to lose himself in you completely.

Logan pulls away just long enough to catch his breath, looking up at you with lust-drunk eyes, drinking in the sight of your sweaty cheeks, your heavy-lidded gaze, the way your chest rises and falls with each shuddering breath.

The pulse of his cock intensifies, urging him to speed things along. The base desire of his own instincts is getting harder and harder to ignore under your adoring stare.

He feeds his fingers into your clenching hole with no warning, a satisfied smirk tugging his lips up at your sharp gasp. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, the entire lower half of his face still shining with your essence.

Your cunt swallows him, two thick fingers sinking into the velvety heat like it’s nothing.

Logan groans as he feels you clench around him, your walls fluttering and drawing him in deeper. “That’s it, baby,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with need. “So fuckin’ ready for me, so ready for daddy’s fingers in your pussy.”

Your mouth drops open in another devastatingly desperate noise, your hands twist his hair roughly, soft breasts rising and falling each time you gasp for air. The dim light of the sunset filters in through the blinds, highlighting the curves of your body, slick and shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

Every clench of your walls around his fingers shoots a thrill straight to his cock, making him ache with the urge to bury himself inside you. The overwhelming need to take you completely, to mark you and fill you, pulses through his veins until he feels like he might explode.

But he’s not done tasting you yet. Not until you’re practically dripping onto the sheets.

He lowers his mouth back to your core, sucking your clit into his mouth as his fingers pump faster. The sudden intensity makes your thighs shake around his head, and he grins against you. He wants to see you fall apart—wants to feel it.

“Logan—please, I…” You can barely get the words out, voice breaking as your whole body strains against him, desperate and needy.

The wet slap of his palm against your spit soaked cunt is loud in the quiet of your bedroom, blending with the loud keens that fall from your parted lips. He crooks his fingers, rubbing at that soft, spongy spot inside of you.

“Come on,” he mutters, slick lips brushing against your clit as he speaks. “Give it to me, baby. Show me you're ready for my cock."

He drags the sharp edge of his canine against your pulsing clit with barely any pressure, and you're coming.

Your whole body tenses, back bowing off the mattress as you let out a broken cry of his name. The bite of your nails digging into his scalp feels harsh enough to draw blood, a feeble attempt at grounding yourself against the onslaught of pleasure. 

Your trembling thighs tighten around his shoulders, gripping him like a vice as your shaking cunt gushes around his fingers. Logan groans at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as you drench his wrist and chin in your juices.

Even then, he doesn’t let up, fingers pumping relentlessly as he draws out every pulse, every aftershock of your climax, every tiny spray of your release splashing against his wrist. 

He’s lost in the feel of you—slick and trembling under his hands, the scent of your release filling his lungs, thick and intoxicating.

You slump back against the bed, body limp and spent. His own need is a driving, aching force now, clawing at his insides, demanding more.

He slips his fingers free from your dripping heat, dragging them through the wetness coating his chin as he licks them clean with a growl, savoring every taste.

“Good girl,” he purrs, voice thick with pride and satisfaction as he pulls back, leaving your thighs twitching in the wake of his touch. But he still isn’t finished. Not even close.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Logan crawls up the bed, his eyes locked on you, pupils blown with need. He looms over you, hands planting on either side of your head. His cock grinds against you through the rough denim, and you can feel just how thick and hard he is, throbbing through the fabric, demanding to be freed.

With a low groan, he shifts his hips, dragging his bulge along your soaked cunt, sending another jolt of pleasure racing through you. His hands are all over you, gripping your waist, hot and possessive.

“Feel that?” he asks, pressing his lips the wild flutter of your pulse, the need to sink his teeth in the soft skin of your neck raises the hair on the back of his neck. “That’s what you do to me baby. Got me hard as a fuckin’ rock, just aching to be inside you.”

Your arms circle his shoulders, clawing at the fabric off his shirt. “Need you inside me, Logan. Please, want it so bad.”

The pure need lacing your words, your scent calling out to him, the way he can feel the front of his jeans getting soaked through with the slick pouring from your cunt all pull him deeper into the recesses of his hind-brain. 

The mounting desperation to stuff you full of his cock finally reaches a fever pitch.

With a deep growl, Logan rears back as far as he can bear, just enough to tear his shirt over his head before he fumbles with the heavy buckle of his belt to free his aching cock.

He shoves his jeans down, boxers quickly following until there’s nothing separating him from the cool air of your bedroom. His cock springs free, hot and flushed an angry red color, drooling from the tip enough that it drips down to stain the pretty floral sheets of your bed.

Your eyes zero in on him, mouth dropping open at the sight. His cock so heavy it doesn’t curve upward to slap against his stomach, instead it hangs down to sway between his thighs as he moves closer. 

Your legs spread as he nears, slick covered thighs parting to make room for him to slot between them. So obedient, so good, so well trained.

Logan takes himself in his hand, nearly wincing at the blazing temperature of his skin. He secures his hand around the base, squeezing where his knot threatens to pop before he’s even got in you.

He slips the angry head through the folds of your cunt, slapping it against your clit with a wet ‘thwack’ sound. He can feel the way it twitches and shakes, just as desperate as him.

“Look at that,” he mutters darkly, eyes glued to where he’s laid his cock flat against your stomach, leaking pre-come all over your soft skin. “How’s it gonna fit, baby?” He shifts his hips, sawing his length back and forth to see just how deep in you he’ll be.

Your glassy eyes drop, a broken moan passing through your slack lips when you take in the sight. Your hips rise off the bed, grinding your cunt along the seam of his heavy balls, along the prominent vein trailing up the underside.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Logan grits out, eyes hooded and dark as he watches you grind against him. “You’re gonna take it all. Gonna make you feel every last fuckin’ bit of me.”

He groans, gritting his teeth as he presses in further, each inch a battle against the tight, molten heat that grips him like a vice. Your body shudders as he fills you, your slick warmth pulling him deeper and deeper, and he sinks down until he’s fully seated, his hips flush with yours. 

The pressure is mind-numbing, your walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that make his vision blur. He stills for just a second, savoring the way your body stretches around him, hugging him in a way that feels like it was made for him alone.

Logan watches your face as you adjust to the stretch, your brows pinched together, each breath coming fast and shallow, your eyes glazed with pleasure.

Then, your hands come to his shoulders, nails digging little crescent moons into his skin as you nod your head, ready.

It’s all the confirmation he needs. His hips pull back before he slams in again, the force of it jolting your whole body. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, teeth bared as he muffles a snarl against your skin.

Logan thrusts again, and again, and again, hips setting a merciless pace as he watches the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, each little shudder.

His mouth waters with the need to taste, to sink his teeth into your supple skin hard enough to pierce clean through, hard enough to scar.

Sweat drips down the length of his spine, across his brow. It mats down the hair scattered over his chest, his dog tags slick with it when they bounce off his skin with each thrust. The grip of his hands tightens on your hips, it’s taking everything in him to hold back and yet he knows you’ll still bruise tomorrow. 

Pretty hues of dark purples and yellows in the shape of his fingers, ones he’ll catch you admiring in the bathroom mirror, pressing your own fingertips into them to feel the dull ache—to remember this moment.

“Made for this, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice dark and possessive. “Made to take me, to be mine.”

The words barely leave his mouth before he’s bending down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as he drives into you, pushing you both closer to that sweet edge.

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp, breaking the kiss as your body trembles under him. “Can–ah!–can feel you in my stomach…”

Your hand drops from his shoulder, slipping between your bodies to rest over the sweaty expanse of your belly. Logan’s eyes follow your path, a feral growl bursting from his chest before he can stop it.

He’s transfixed by it, sure that if he pressed his hand to the soft skin of your lower stomach right over your own, that he’d feel it. Feel the way his cock punches up against your insides, so deep it's like he’s rearranging your guts to make room.

“Fuck.” His voice is nothing but a gravelly rumble, hoarse and dark as midnight. His hips speed up impossibly faster, chasing the feeling of your clenching walls choking the length of his cock so tight he thinks it might snap off at the base.

The flimsy headboard of your bed slams against the wall, creaky mattress springs screaming under his ministrations.

You feel like salvation, like the first rays of light after too many years spent in the dark.

He feels it with each kiss of his cock against your cervix, in the way your lips fit in the junction of his neck, in the red welts your nails leave on the skin of his back. He feels alive, truly alive, for the first time in decades.

“Say my name,” he grates, his hand cupping the back of your neck, coaxing you to look up at him, lips close enough to taste the heat radiating from his skin. “Tell me who you belong to.”

"Logan," you gasp, your voice breathy, edged with desperation as he pushes you closer to the brink. "Yours. Only yours."

A broken, shaky noise falls from his lips as he buries his face in your neck. He mouths at your skin desperately, presses his nose to where your scent is the strongest. 

Flashes of his release spraying your insides play behind his closed eyes, thoughts of drenching you so thoroughly that it has to take only forcing his hips to slam against the rippling muscle of your ass like you have your own magnetic pull. He feels it building, the slow swell of his knot presses against your folds, ready to burst.

“Come on, honey,” he begs, thumb coming down to rub slow circles over your slick clit. “Come with me, soak my cock. Show me how much you love it, how much you love me.”

Pathetic little uh uh uh’s fall from you with every thrust, broken up only by the breathy whines of his name as he pounds into you hard enough to push your body higher up the mattress. Finally, with a loud roar, he stuffs his growing knot inside of your cunt. 

Logan’s teeth sink into your neck before he can even think twice about it, the thick spray of his come filling you as his hands pull your hips down even further over his cock. He needs to be as deep in you as possible, to press forward until he can’t anymore, until his aching balls are flush with your gushing cunt.

He watches with rapt attention as you come with a loud wail, just from the feeling of his knot slotting into place. The clamp of your thighs over his hips is nearly as tight as the way your cunt seizes around him like it’s scared he’ll leave.

He groans at the over stimulation of your cunt milking his cock. Your slick leaks around the base of him, your shaking hole plugged so full it can only slip along the creamy ring to splash weakly against his thighs and hips.

Logan licks along the spot where his teeth pierced your skin, planting one last kiss before he’s taking you in his arms and rolling onto his back atop the mattress. The plush comforter sticks to his skin, your own sweaty body slipping against his as he tries his best to not jostle you too much while keeping you stuffed full of his cock.

He holds you to his chest until your breathing evens out, until your body stops trembling on top of his, until you’re nosing along the column of his neck.

“Logan?” Your voice is tiny, hoarse and scratchy. He feels your hand drawing absent minded shapes along the skin of his stomach. A circle, a star, a figure eight, a heart.

“Yeah baby?” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, eyes slipping shut at the content feeling that spreads through him.

“Love you,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, the words slipping out without hesitation.

It’s the first time you’ve said it today, and hearing those three words from you sends warmth flooding through him.

Logan shifts slightly, pulling you even closer, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling you with a kind of tenderness he used to think he’d never be capable of. “I love you too, darlin’. More than you know.”

Your body relaxes against him, the lingering effects of your shared intimacy still buzzing through your limbs, but now there’s a sense of peace, of safety, and a deeper connection.

He can feel the way your fingers curl lightly against his skin, the quiet smile that must be tugging at your lips as you press a kiss to the side of his neck.

And in that moment, with everything settled around him, Logan knows that this, right here, is everything.

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[ms-demeanor]

"I'm sorry my evil empire killed your friends but I'm going to keep working to make sure myself and all the other imperials get clean sidewalks and fluffy socks and sandwiches :)"

Let's be honest the only good ending here is the collapse of the USA. I hope for your sake it's relatively quick and bloodless but I hope more that it happens.

What can I say? I am sorry that the evil empire I live in killed your friends. I don't think it should do that. I've been protesting wars since 2003 because I don't think it should do that.

I'm sorry you have it worse than me, and I'm sorry if the things that I'm doing to help people in an area where I can help people don't make your life better. That's rough buddy, but I'm not sure why you're talking to me about it because the things you're doing aren't going to make much of an impact on my day either.

I'm not sure if you're familiar with how US anarchists work, but generally when we talk about handing out hygiene kits and food, it is to unhoused people. If you think that unhoused Americans deserve to be hungry, or don't deserve clean socks or wipes to help prevent debilitating infections because they live in an imperialist nation that bombs people and installs dictators, well, you kind of sound like a piece of shit and it doesn't make me particularly sympathetic to your position.

[p0orbaby]

Getting You Alone Isn’t Easy

summary: two reckless lovers, one ill-timed call, and zero chance of stopping

warnings: suggestive but not explicit

a/n: the length of time it took me to decide on a title for this was painful

word count: 1.5k

-

You’re draped over Alexia, straddling her in the faint, golden light that sneaks through the blinds. Her hands grip your hips in that familiar way, like you’re the last thing keeping her from floating off. You’re gasping, breathless, clinging to the taut warmth of her body beneath you as though the world is ending and this is your only way to stay grounded. Her hands, usually gentle, are digging in hard enough to leave bruises, but she’s sweet like that, knows exactly when you need to feel it. You can almost picture the bruises they’ll leave behind, thumbprints like violet ink smudged across your skin, each one a reminder that she was here, and that she wanted you badly enough to leave a mark.

It’s been a day, one of those long ones that started with a sun-blinded hangover, progressed into a searing headache, and then—once you forced yourself to actually acknowledge the calls you missed last night—moved rapidly toward near apocalyptic levels of panic.

Somewhere between the drink you had to “take the edge off” and the fourth one you drank without even thinking about it, Alexia texted you, and it felt like a solution, or maybe a distraction, though those two things are the same to you most of the time.

So here you are, in the thick of it, your bodies wrapped around each other, your mind slipping into that strange, dreamlike state where it feels like your skin isn’t your own. Everything’s heightened—her touch, her scent, the whisper of her breath on your neck. You’re right at the edge, teetering, and then—

Your phone rings.

Of course it fucking does.

At first, you ignore it. The vibrating hum is muffled against the sheets, barely noticeable above your own heartbeat, but then it rings again, louder this time, insistent. It’s like a drill sergeant at dawn, determined to ruin whatever peace you’d managed to find. You freeze, eyes half-closed, but Alexia’s hands don’t loosen. She’s looking up at you with an expression that’s half bemused, half annoyed, as if she’s only just managed to convince herself that you’re here, and now you’re about to ruin it with some petty, buzzing bit of reality.

You almost get through it, on the cusp letting it go to voicemail or hurling the damn thing into the bottom of your Birkin where it belongs. But something in you—a survival instinct, maybe—forces you to reach for it, fumbling as you do so. Alexia’s eyes follow your hand, then flick back up to yours with an exasperated look that says, Really? Now?

You manage to grab it without rolling entirely off her, though it’s a close call. Her hands move down to your waist, still holding you in place as you glance at the screen, and of course, it’s George. It’s always George. You swear he has some kind of sixth sense, an uncanny ability to detect the exact moment you’ve slipped into some semblance of happiness, so he can yank you back with some catastrophe or another. The man is a walking interruption.

“Don’t,” Alexia murmurs, pulling you back to the matter at hand, her voice soft but firm, her hands slipping up to your ribs with a kind of slow, determined patience. But you know better. If you don’t answer now, he’ll only call back five more times, and each time, he’ll sound more panicked, until he finally leaves you a voice note that’s somehow worse than the call itself.

“I have to,” you mutter, as you answer, attempting to clear your throat and sound like you weren’t just seconds away from giving in to everything she was doing to you.

“Hello?” you say, trying and failing to keep the breathlessness out of your voice.

George’s voice crackles through the speaker, shrill and brimming with that particular brand of theatrical urgency agents reserve for “crises.” He sounds faintly nasal, the sort of voice you imagine would belong to a man with an allergy to anything fun. You imagine him sitting in his cold, grey office somewhere in Soho, every surface immaculate and white, his expression permanently fixed into a grimace of perpetual disappointment.

“You need to sit down,” he says, voice pitched in that “I’m barely holding it together” tone that never actually means anything good.

“I am sitting,” you manage, though it comes out sounding more like a gasp than anything else, because Alexia—God bless her—is now trailing her lips along the column of your throat, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re very much occupied now. In fact, you’re convinced she’s doing this on purpose, her eyes meeting yours with that devilish glint that says she’s fully aware of what she’s doing. You pull back and give her a look—part warning, part exasperation—but she only grins, slowly, like she’s daring you to keep up the charade.

George doesn’t miss a beat. “There are photos,” he says, each syllable dripping with an ominous weight that would make anyone else think he was delivering news of a tragedy.

“Photos?” you ask, as Alexia’s hand slips a little higher, her fingers just grazing the edge of your panties. You’re barely holding it together, biting down hard on your lip to keep from making a sound. “George, there are always photos. What are you on about?”

He sighs, the kind of exasperated sigh he reserves for when he’s forced to explain the intricacies of your own life to you. “Not just any photos,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper that somehow makes everything sound worse. “These are… explicit”

“Explicit?” you repeat, your voice catching because Alexia’s lips are trailing across your collarbone now, her fingers dangerously close to places that make it impossible to sound remotely professional. “Define explicit, George”

He pauses, a beat of silence so thick with hesitation you can practically see his nervous, tight-lipped expression. “You and Alexia. On that yacht. Full-on… everything. Let’s just say someone with a very long-range lens took a rather extensive interest in your… activities”

It takes a second for the words to register, but when they do, it’s like being doused in cold water. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—the sweat on your skin, Alexia’s fingers toying with you, her mouth now having moved to the swell of your exposed breast. You can’t tell if you’re more annoyed or amused by the fact that, somehow, your most private moments have once again become public property.

Alexia looks up at you once more, eyes glinting with something between curiosity and enjoyment, as if she can tell exactly what George is saying and finds the whole thing hilarious.

“So you’re telling me,” you say, trying to sound casual, though it’s hard with Alexia’s hands and mouth all over you, “that someone out there’s publishing wildlife documentaries of my sex life?”

“Don’t be flippant,” George snaps, though his voice cracks a little, like he’s barely holding it together. “This is serious. The Daily Mail already has them. And they’re… well, they’re explicit. The kind of thing they’d plaster on the front page if they could get away with it”

For a moment, you consider the insanity of it all—your life, reduced to some tawdry tabloid spread, the kind of thing boring nosey housewives read in supermarket queues. You imagine the headlines, the breathless, shocked tones they’d use to describe “the scandal.” Never mind the fact that you’re not the first celebrity to get caught like this, nor will you be the last. But still, it stings in that strange, twisted way fame always does, a reminder that your life isn’t really your own.

“I’m sorry, George,” you say, barely stifling a moan as Alexia’s hand moves just right, making it almost impossible to keep up the conversation. “But I don’t exactly have a solution for you right now”

George lets out a strangled noise. “Well, you bloody well better come up with one. Unless you want the world to know what you look like without your clothes on. Which, I might add, is not exactly… career-friendly”

You stifle a laugh, more out of habit than anything else. Alexia’s fingers are moving with that slow, calculated patience she knows drives you mad, and you can feel your resolve slipping. “Look, George,” you say, your voice strained, “I’ll call you back. After I… handle things”

“What? You can’t just hang up on me!” he practically shrieks, but you’re already pressing ‘end call’ and tossing the phone aside.

The phone lands back somewhere on the bed, George’s panicked voice cutting off abruptly. For a moment, there’s silence, and then Alexia lets out a low, throaty laugh, her eyes alight with amusement. She reaches her free hand up, trailing her fingers along your jaw, and there’s something wicked in her smile that makes you forget the world outside the bedroom.

“Where were we?” you murmur, leaning down to capture her lips in a kiss, slow and lingering, the kind of kiss that makes you forget everything else.

“Right here,” she whispers, her voice soft but possessive, and you can’t help but smile as she pulls you back down, your bodies tangling once more as you lose yourself in her warmth.

[rxmxa]

random astro observations part 14. ⋆.˚🦋༘⋆✨

✨just for fun im just talking random ass shit based on PERSONALL observations..✨ part 13 here. 🎬

tw: mention of death on the last observations.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅pisces, cancer and scorpio risings WILLL be treating the date like a job interview. With that earth 7h (virgo, capricorn and taurus) TRUST that we have checked out your references and will get back to you in 2-5 business days. 💅 but no fr we need security bc we are real strict over here.🔒

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅its only to protect our hearts bc we just truly desire someone we can emotionally connect with (water 5h) and also be open to talk to about our fears and desires and the other shit we keep to ourselves (air 8h + 12h) 😤

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅my friend was telling me about how the lines that actors get immense praise for end up being improvised most of the time and that really reminded me of the aqua-leo axis. When you detach and are willing to experiment (aqua) the more likely you are to be recognized because you are becoming in tune with your natural talents (leo).

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅Every single time I'm in the shower I always get an epiphany or an idea of some sort or make a connection (usually its me thinking about peoples birth charts LOL) but every single fucking time im like wtf I gotta remember this when I get out this is good ass info! and I always forget!!!

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅^ It has to be my uranus in the 12h triggering that. Uranus= sudden downloads of information. 12h= secluded spaces, like the shower. I guess thats why I forgot so easily though (real 12h subconcious shit). Next time im bringing a whiteboard in there or some shit

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ I was talking to my pisces venus coworker and she was saying that for as long as she could remember she had always daydreamed of love. She said she would was always trying to mold herself into the ideal version of what her crushes liked (its in her 7h) and as a 7h sun myself I was shook but I also understood how this happens even in a subconcious way u can mirror people. but the love she's looking for is literally HERS. she has so much love to give and she was like who can accept this? YOU. GIVE it to yourself.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ She had been in a relationship before with someone who was SHIT person but its like she kept forgiving him or in a sense blocking it out. like thats the thing about pisces placements they will talk about some unhinge ass shit someone does to them in a such a casual way it will have you being like oh okay for a sec until you're like oh,, oh yeah no thats bad.. really bad. I say this as a pisces rising.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ and AGAIN AND AGAIN that's what helps me as someone with a lot of neptune aspects, a pisces rising, pluto squares, pluto in the 10h, lilith in the 11h, like ppl have done me FUCKING DIRTY in social and groups settings and I use to make it so much worse for myself by not nipping it in the bud. that's why anytime someone does some shit that FEELS FUCKED up you take that as a sign.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ^ dont sit there and try to rationalize it, dont try to put logic in it, dont talk about how well, when they were in 2nd grade their hamster died so maybe its their trauma. When people show you who they are you ACCEPT IT. if someone does something that a piece of shit would only do, then accept that maybe they suck. I dont mean your friend forgot to get you a straw when they bought you a drink. I mean when people do shit on purpose that puts your well-being (emotional, mental, physical) in harms way. trust me bby ik what im talking about >___<

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ and honestly, if you are plutonian or have a lot of neptune aspects or saturn in your chart as well, you're gonna learn shit the hard way. With different energy ofc. Pluto energy = will have you learning through trauma like someone passing away or trying to sabotage you. Neptune energy = will have you learning through deception like someone backstabbing you. Saturn energy= will have you learning through roadblocks, like other people being able to get shit the easy way out like a parent paying for their stuff and you having to bust your ass to get it.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ pluto in your chart can also show where people try to humble you, not like a saturnian restrictive way but more like to put you in your place because they could feel intimidated. for ex I have pluto in the 10h and my coworkers will say backhanded shit like "Oh woooow you really are going all out huh?" like instead of being normal and being like wow that is great work! they try to subtly hint that maybe im the one doing too much instead of it being them doing the bare minimum.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ If you have pluto in the 1h people could just say in general that "you're too much" or "too much to deal with" or "abrasive." Pluto in the 3h and during conversations people might look around, eyes wide, wanting you to tone it down or say that you're being inappropriate or too intense. Pluto in the 4h and people ESPECIALLY your family trying to humble you by bringing up the past: "Oh you like that now? I remember when you were a kid you..." Pluto in the 4h will especially get humbled by their family anytime they want to change or try something different than the way they were raised, like girl?! this is a family not a damn CULT.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ I have a pluto in the 4h friend who has family members that will tell the most fucked up stories about what they do to each other but then sigh and be like "but family is family so we have to accept them" or her family members say stuff like "blood is thicker than water." like no... pluto in the 4h ppl, family is who YOU CHOSE!

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ I have a coworker who is sooo nice to me but still theres something that makes me feel suspicious of her and it makes me feel so bad BUT TO BE FAIR she does have her mars in my 7h and we did have a slight rift when we first started working together. but even now, im still like do u secretly hate me...

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ She has mars in the 12th house and I also feel like thats a big factor in it because 12h house energy is so... MUTED. with placements there you really gotta focus on peoples subtle acts of support that reveal their intentions versus their words (or lack of). And so far she has been a very supportive and helpful coworker. But yeah thats 12h energy honestly like my friends brother is a cancer sun and mercury in the 12h and she feels like hes so unloving and unsupportive and its bc baby boy is not gonna be straight up telling her! she needs to watch his actions, his mannerisms. she needs to understand him more through his actions over time rather than words. ofc it varies from chart to chart.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ people with 12h mars could often have people WONDERING, "oh are they mad at me?" or sun 12h ppl could have people wondering, "oh what are they hiding from me?" or mercury in the 12h could have people wondering, "Oh, what is that they are not saying?"

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ Do you follow your profection years? For me, it’s wild how they line up. When I was in a 7H year, I got into my first serious relationship (classic 7H relationships vibe). When I was 7 years old, in my 8H year, my dad passed away (8H ruling death). Fast forward to my 9H year (travel), I visited family abroad after four years—that’s the longest I’ve EVER gone without seeing them.Then, in my 10H year (careers), I literally started my career. My 12H year? traumatic as fuck (I got into a serious car accident with friends and my back was fucked up and my friend had internal bleeding) but honestly the aftermath of that really forced me to grow the fuck up and surprise surprise, all of that happened bc I wasnt trusting my gut on who I was hanging out with. but anyhoo. Now I’m in a 1H year, and it’s all about me. I’m actually focusing on myself and being way more gentle in the process. It’s been kind of nice, honestly. if u wanna know yours just google annual profections it'll show u the wheel :)

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ Saturn transits in your chart mean fucking BUSINESS! I remember my friend got married when saturn (commitments) was transiting her 7h (marriage/ contracts). Saturn transits will have you reflecting on what you want long term in your life and what desperately needs to be checked in on or discarded or cleaned up.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ Saturn in pisces transiting in my first house had me acting right. I remember when a "friend" aka someone who was at fault with that whole car accident shit (someone who I dont speak to anymore) had asked me to do some shady shit after it. I was like FUCK NO! no bc 1) I have integrity but also 2) if I tried to take the easy way out or bullshit I knew saturn was gonna beat my ass HARDER. im glad I trusted myself and was the bigger person.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ Saturn was still transiting my 1H during the accident, but it had just come out of my 12H, where I was actively in therapy. In my 1H, I’d been feeling way more at peace and healed, so when I started making questionable choices with who I was hanging out with, it was like Saturn decided it was time to knock some sense into me.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ Me: walking on the ledge, ignoring my instincts, hanging with toxic people Saturn: "Don’t do that, you’re gonna fall." Me: falls Saturn: "DIDN’T I FUCKING TELL YOUUU?!"

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ but you know you live and you learn and at the end of the day it could have been so much worse (aka all of us being dead) but me and friend made a full recovery and everyone else had minor injuries.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ I was watching this video called "the root cause of addiction" and in the video he said that at the end of the day we're are just looking for ways to go back to that child we once were and to experience genuine joy. and that was so 5h coded to me. He said in the video we do things like cooking or play video games because we want to get that joy back. The 5th house is all about sex, good fortune, art, creativity, pleasure, entertainment, birth, children. We really can use our 5th house to actively nurture our inner child.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ for example, cancer or moon in the 5th house wants to go back to space where they feel safe, warm, and comfortable. feeling free to express ur softness and vulnerability. a place you love going back to! they can do this through cooking, baking, or watching your childhood favorite movie with family.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ the little things, like baking a pie or getting out an old art project help us connect with the childlike wonder and happiness that we still have inside us. You can find your own special, simple pleasures by looking into the 5th House in your chart. And even if ur childhood was not the best (I completely get that) you can nurture your inner child now !! your hobbies and fave past times r not silly they matter too

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ and think about the 5h-11h axis, if anything your hobbies and creativity (5h) helps you find your people and be in groups that actually align with what u love and care about (11h)

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚and think about how sometimes that hobby or passion (5h) can bring u immense success, recognition and profit (11h)

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ with pluto in aqua we are going to see people (aqua) transforming (pluto) their lives in all aspects in regard to their hobbies and passions (5h). People are gonna continue to explore what they love and find their niche and for some their success will skyrocket over night, for others the process might be slower. think about the ppl making bank rn from tiktok videos organizing their fridge. bc it just makes them happy to do it.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ tw: death. I'm not trying to end on a dark note, its merely a thought I had so please take this with a grain of salt. but speaking of pluto in aqua, that reminds me of this video I was watching about how the Romans would have the Gladiatorial games, where combatants fought each other or wild animals to the death, BECAUSE they were so overindulgent in all other areas in life....

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ like you have sooo much that your idea of pleasure just gets distorted in this sense. what do you want when you have had everything?. The scale of these events was astonishing, with sometimes hundreds of animals being killed in a single day. Pluto in aqua is going to transform the way as a society we view, experience and talk about death.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ there are ppl that are gonna have so much wealth and power and be so fucking bored that maybe in 20 years from now someone gets jailed or some shit to try to recreate that. I remember reading this story in high school about this rich man who had an isolated island and he would have people lost on it to hunt them for sport. iM NOT SAYING we're about to get put on the wall like those deers when pluto goes into aqua, im SAYING THO that shit like that, ideas like that, could pop up

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ I was also thinking about how pluto in aqua could mean more video games or tech or simulations (aqua) where you can try out how it feels like to die (pluto). like you can pick how and what you want to feel. some kind of shit like that. tech is only gonna keep getting more and more advanced now. we talk about the ipad kids and how they be on there typing and facetiming ppl and therye like 2 but imagine the kids growing up during pluto in aqua, I already know theyre gonna think we're soo uncool hahaha

[dontbesoweirdkira]

There's just so much potential for platonic !yan Tim Drake that isn't really explored. This post may flop but I like to imagine that yan! Tim Drake is actually the worse out of all his brothers...

Masterlist

Requests: always open

Look...you and i both know that Tim is canonically unhinged. But Batsis!reader doesn't. It's so easy for you to forget that your brother Tim is so dangerous. I mean he doesn't really seem all that different from any other nerdy 19 year old. His body doesn't loom over you like the more bulky of your brothers, and his presence is rather...calming? I mean there's still a bit of uneasiness there but it's so subtle that you can brush it off

He's normal when he interacts with you. He doesn't bug you to spend time with him or uncomfortably touch you like Dick does. He is sweet and gentle...He knows how you prefer to be engaged with and respects what you don't like.

But, that's what makes him so dangerous. He knows you. Every. Last. Detail. He's gotten so good at being a nasty little fly on the wall that sometimes you forget he's even in the room. He's always around you, observing and collecting data. He's got you wrapped around his fingers and you don't realize it.

But it's not your fault. It's hard to even imagine that someone as mellow as Tim could ever share the same traits as his brothers.

Yan! Tim fully picked up just how intuitive you are and how you can spot red flags easily. He's so calculated and careful with every interaction. It's amazing how natural he makes these conversations flow. Well, they better. He's spent hours analyzing and practicing how to speak to you. His heart is pounding with anticipation, as every shred of information you give him is going right into his files on you.

Oh! The files he has on you? When Jason and Dick asked him about how many he had, he said only 4. Which is true. but those 4 files have much more information and pictures of you than they could comprehend. ...and he wasn't accounting for the hard drives and physical stacks of papers he stole. I believe Tim knows more about you than you do. When was the last time you've seen your medical records? Passports? Birth certificate? Is your ID even in your wallet? Don't worry, your brother Tim is keeping them safe for you.

Yan! Tim is a little stalker who may or may not have put a tracking/listening devices in your bag so he can keep tabs on you. <33 That's why he's always wearing headphones so he cab listen in. A small piece of missed information could cost him so much. Don't be mad, batsis! He cannot risk making you suspicious of him by asking you invasive questions so this is the only way.

I Like to think you automatically sit by him. whether it be during breakfast, watching a movie or in the car. You feel safer with him and it's a better option in your head than being with Dick who will be overbearing. Tim always acts cool, even a little annoyed by you at times but inside he's screaming. Your scent, your small smiles at him and nudge his shoulders when he makes a funny remark all send him into overdrive.

But i must say, it's exhausting for him to hold back his obsession all of the time. Sometimes he envies his siblings and how shameless they are in their obsessions. Tim Drake thinks about how great it would to be to just be hugged by you or for you to want to fall asleep on him like you do with Jason.

Sometimes, our creepy detective will slip up. He will say or do something that is odd to you

"I cannot remember the name of that song i used to listen to...what was it.."

"It's this one by that local band, sis."

"oh, yeah! wait...how did you-"

"I know you better than i know myself..."

"...what?"

*an incident happened where dick basically forced you to say i love you back. Tim was there and he was so so jealous*

"You love me the most though, right?"

You laughed, thinking it was a joke\

"Sure, Tim. You are my favorite Robin."

*Tim is very visibly becoming feral. Almost in the same way as Dick and you are slightly alarmed*

"...I'm your favorite Robin? So you do love me more than them."

"0-o"

He repeats it over and over again in his mind. If he was recording it like he does with many of your interaction, it will be on instant replay every morning as an affirmation.

That one time you were chilling in the study with Tim. His head was ducked, low into the computer. It was super late by this time and you didn't really want to bother him so you ended up leaving without saying anything, and headed to your room. Tim was beyond hurt that you were breaking his version of bonding time and you had the audacity to not even announce your exit. He's so swift that it startled you when he grabbed your wrist from behind. His grip was....strong.... to say the least..... and he questioned why you were leaving him.

speaking of his strength, Tim is so skinny that you forget he is well trained with a nice bit of muscle. Maybe not as strong as his brothers or Bruce but he can easily subdue you.

He's definitely broken a lock or two, to get into your room at the dead of night and watch you sleep. This is the only time when he can be as fucked up as he wants to. The unhinged look in his eyes while going through your things and taking what's interesting..The adrenaline that you might catch him, excites him. He can't help but to sickly smile as he makes his way over to you and observes. A gentle hand caresses the sides of your face. You're so perfect. He whispers on and on things he wishes he could tell you while you were awake and wouldn't think it was weird....

Maybe even once he's crawled into bed with you, wrapping his arms around you. So happy to be able to finally be able to cuddle like this.

And if you happened to wake up, and realize your dear brother, Tim was there...he has a plan for that. He knows how to play mind games on you and makes you seem like the crazy one. No one would believe you anyways. The locks are all fixed by the morning.

[basilpaste]

ive been trying very hard to formulate a way to say this that doesnt make me sound like an asshole but honestly ive like. given up.

youre gonna drive yourselves fucking nuts with all the doom posting. and all the "its gonna be okay, you have to live" posting isnt any less doom posting. its all the same song to a different tune.

its shitty and terrible and youre allowed to feel shitty and terrible. but its not like. gonna change because you feel shitty about it. and constantly thinking about how shitty you feel about it is just gonna make you feel worse.

go like. eat a snack or something. play a game you like. i dunno. its shitty! but dont spend your time catastrophizing. drink some fuckin water or whatever other cheesy bullshit keeps you occupied while you process.

[creativesplat]

Sometimes I think about how Ford bested Stan at everything in the show and think about the episode Little Dipper. 

Stan knows he’s the dummer sweatier version of Ford, who rides on his brother’s coattails and cheats and lies - he is told this all his life. That hurts, of course it does.

The real blows are on Stan’s home turf though.

Stan used to draw comics, he does taxidermy, he's the artistic 'free spirit', but Ford does it better. Ford’s illustrations in the journals are lifelike and beautiful with an artistic flare that Stan doesn’t think he can compare to. 

But hey, at least he’s better at hitting things. It’s not an amazing talent and he probably shouldn’t brag about it, but at least there's that. He used to be a boxer, he had to use street smarts and violence during his life on the road. That’s something Ford doesn’t have. 

But then Ford comes out of the portal. He attacks Stan and wins. He’s better at punching. 

Stan is better at people - more charismatic - but when he runs for mayor, Mabel and Dipper ask Ford to help them mind control him because he is obviously going to loose. Even when it’s about people, about charisma, Ford helps Mabel and Dipper outdo him. 

Pacifica says Ford is more attractive than Stan in the Lost Legends - you can bet that wasn’t an unknown opinion. 

Stan isn’t smart but Ford is a genius. 

Stan has artistic talents but Ford’s are better. 

Stan used to be better than Ford at boxing. Ford can now easily overpower him. 

Even in suffering and lifestyle (and trust me twins compare that sort of thing) Ford has beaten him. 

Stan’s homeless for 10 years, Ford is dimensionless for 30. 

Stan’s made powerful enemies (aka Rico), Ford made the most powerful enemy in the entire universe (Bill).

Stan spends 30 years of his life on the reconstruction of a portal to save Ford, Ford spends 30 years of his life on the construction of a super weapon to save the multiverse. 

Stan (the cheat) is wanted in multiple countries, Ford (the hero) is one of the most wanted men in the entire multiverse. 

No wonder Stan thinks he’s the worse twin. In universe the show just keeps telling him that he’s the lesser twin of a brilliant dangerous long suffering hero. He can't win.

[the-mad-stone]

SKILL ISSUE. LOOK. WE CAN FIX THIS

The solution is to remember what is and what is not within your control. I tortured myself with this for years because hearing [well i can't do anything about it] made me want to howl in despair even more. I thought that by giving up caring I'd be giving up my drive/duty to fix things. Doesn't being catastrophically worried mean I care? I used to have a partner who smoked and i worried myself into panic attacks over the possible risks of that. and now I see that the problem was. thinking that my lack of power there was a moral failing on my part. like. it wasn't. I had it backwards. My “caring” wasn't making me a better or worse person. All it did was make me feel certain emotions, from simmering anxiety to righteous fury - but feeling emotions/being aware isn't the same as changing the actual situation in real life. They're completely different dimensions of reality.

I think what we can do here gently untangle the following:

emotions (they're valid. if you're "catastrophically worried and miserably horrified then that sounds horrible and sucks. OP said they miss being regular sad - I miss that for them too, it really sounds overwhelming. The post is light-hearted but the emotions in it are very real and it would be okay to really let yourself feel this despair without trivialising it. At the same time, let's wait before letting our emotions dictate our actions.)

worries (OP is upset about something. What about? Something they value must be threatened. What is it? Climate, human rights? It's good to have values. It's good to care about something. It fucking sucks that it's facing problems, but for now, let's appreciate that this person cares about something instead of being consumed by apathy. Let's put a pin in that.)

actions (It's not that you can't single-handedly fix climate change - stoic texts say we actually can't control anything in this world but ourselves, hell, we can't control our own bodies and thoughts half the time. most of the time, maybe. Look at that post - "I miss being regular sad". Well, who's in charge of your head? You are. You can be regular sad about the world. It's easier said than done, but it can be done.)

We can let go of worrying about the things beyond our control - not to let ourselves off the hook, but because it makes sense in our material reality. What we can do instead is 1. feel that terror (MANDATORY STEP. DON'T DISMISS YOURSELF), 2. find out where it's coming from, 3. redirect our efforts. That's all we can do, and that's all we need to do. Is it the perfect solution? No. But that's exactly the point. Perfection is beyond our control. This isn't.

[sashayed]

I haven't said as much about electoral politics this year as I have in previous cycles, because I am exhausted like everyone else and have nothing new or helpful to add. That is still true, so caveat lector I guess lmao!!! Happy American Election Day Fellow Sufferers!!

I have been experiencing an internal backlash the last few years to my extremely Sorkinpilled D.C. private school upbringing -- my childhood spent as a kind of convent schoolgirl in the faith of The System Is Good If We All Participate, which of course has a uhhh let's say generously a minimal engagement with the ways in which many of us are by design shut out of participating. I don't think idealism is necessarily childish, but I think MY idealism certainly has childish qualities, an undergirding of 90s feel-goodism, of civic participation as a subtle ego stroke and of voting -- although I would never have consciously put it this way -- as a way to feel superior to people who don't vote.

Lately there has bubbled up in me a sludgy, adolescent fury at this whole stupid country that has made it very very hard to feel like I should do even the bare minimum. For these people? AMERICANS? The ones that not only want Donald Trump to be president but saw what happened the first time and were like, We love this, do it again but worse? Whatever, fuckos. "I hope you people get your dearest wish and it chews you to death slowly," I may have thought.

I have also thought: why is it so controversial to ask elected officials to stop funding a genocide? Why are we treating people who make that ask, who are watching the current administration directly fund death on a mass scale and objecting to that choice, as if they are being babies and just need to get over it? How are they supposed to get over it? Why is anybody over it?

Anyway all this means that I, a known chipper door-knocker and caller of congresspeople, have been pretty low-key this current cycle. I think that is OK. I don't want to make this a big dramatic confessional about how I didn't write enough postcards or whatever. We all get exhausted and this was my turn.

But it has also been an illuminating cycle in that it's made it clear to me how much at my big age I still want politics to make me feel good, and when they don't, I still have the urge to throw a lil tantrum about it! I can get very superior and intellectual about how right-wing operatives manipulate their voters emotionally WITHOUT EVEN NOTICING that I too have been manipulated, in my case into the feeling that nonparticipation is a kind of revolutionary act.* Just absolute "I threw it on the GROUND" logic happening inside my head. "Maybe if I don't vote I will be doing Quiet Quitting, which is uhhhhh anticapitalist." I'm not a part of your system!!!

Anyway, I am trying to have self-compassion about it, and one way for me to do that is to project my internal experience onto a theoretical reader. That would be you, my imaginary friend who clicked on this post for some reason even though you have already decided not to vote! I just want to tell you that I am more sympathetic to your point of view than I have ever been in my whole life, and I'm sorry I have historically been a glib, holier-than-thou asshole about it in ways that may actually have made you MORE resistant to civic participation.

And you're right: it doesn't make that big a difference whether I personally vote or not, or whether you do. But if there are hundreds of us, and I think there are, then each of those people individually do starts to matter.

I guess I would humbly request that you and I both pay attention to what people who need help are actually asking for. I would ask that we both notice who wins when we abdicate this single responsibility. I would remind us both that participating in the electoral process is not some kind of weird either-or with participating in decentralized community building and mutual aid, and the best people we know do both. Isn't it interesting that somehow, insidiously, without even consciously becoming aware of this belief, we have started to think that you can only do one or the other? Who is telling us that story? Who does it serve?

Anyway. I took the stupid 90 minute round trip to my polling place which was VERY hot for some reason and I stood in the stupid line and some babies waved at me and I cast my vote for Kamala Harris and I'm glad I did it in the same way I'm glad after I do the dishes or take a stupid shower. Doing work doesn't always feel like anything. I also saw a really wonderful small black and white dog that I thought was a cat on a leash. I would not have seen that dog if I hadn't gone to vote. So politics can still make you feel good!!!

*I mean all this analysis is cute and everything BUT ALSO i did switch antidepressants twice in the last year, an astonishingly grueling process that almost made me [affect the trout population]. Could these things be related? hmmmmmmm, don't understand the question, won't respond to it.

[always-just-red]

Hi!

Can I request a fic where the reader starts realizing they have feelings for Sylus and gets so nervous around him that they can’t resonate anymore?

And Sylus thinks that the reader is scared/disgusted by him again so the reader is forced to confess their feelings to not create a bigger misunderstanding

Thanks!

- 🌻

The moment I got this request I was like HELLO— sunflower anon, you just get me 😌 Anyway! Am back from my break and I hope everyone’s ready for some Vulnerable Sylus™️, because I have got him hot to go!!!

A Gentle Touch

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You really can’t let Sylus into your head this time— he’s living there rent-free already.

Genre: Angst + Fluff (& some Luke and Kieran shenanigans because they were not feeling the angst)

Warnings/Additional Tags: f!reader, injury detail, mentions of possible trauma, humour, some intimacy at the end 😘, Luke and Kieran are having the time of their lives

| Word count: 3.2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

If you asked, Sylus would tell you.

You catch glimpses: dark, sharp flickers of something monstrous, maybe even infernal. Blood, everywhere— thick in your mouth and your nose. All over your hands. You feel it, too: a yearning, so intense, and you couldn’t say whom it belongs to. Then there’s death. Searing white. Bottomless black. In the middle of all of it— crimson eyes like dying stars.

Every time you resonate, it envelops you, is laid out bare before you: a nightmare you’re caught in the centre of but forced to watch from outside. An other, a spectator. It’s a show, just for you, but it isn’t quite ready yet; someone’s still rehearsing their lines.

If you asked, Sylus would let you see it. It’s a power you have over him, a constant, self-sacrificial: you want it? It’s yours. So you don’t ask. You never ask. Like words mumbled in a haze of wine or sleep, you let him hold onto it. His hands are open, yes, but you don’t have to take.  

Besides, you have your own, world-changing little secret, and he’s going to see it too.

He’s slumped in front of you, blood sheeting down from two bullet wounds just below his shoulder. He catches his breath— one, two— before he peeks over this desk you’ve overturned for cover. You should be peeking over as well: should be counting your enemies, scouting your next move.

Instead, you’re looking at him and holding back. One minute ago you had no idea where he was, how he was, and it’d been eating away at you from the moment you got separated. Now he’s with you— he found you— and the relief is desperate, gushing; it has to escape somehow. It drips: forbidden daydreams, one after the other, like…

How you want to hold his face and urge him to speak so you can just hear his voice.

How you want to press a hand to his heart and feel the beat of it beneath your palm.

How you want to kiss him, want to taste the blood on his split lip, because this is your story, isn’t it? Messy. Violent. Defiant.

He looks at you, that same blood carving a thin line through the pale of his chin. It drops down onto his silk shirt. “What are you thinking about, kitten?” he grins. His best guess: “This is a fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, hmm?”

It’s a fine mess he got you into. “Yeah.” You make yourself look away from him, glancing over the desk to assess how much worse the situation is getting. The answer? Significantly. 

Sylus chuckles, drawing your eyes back as he reloads his gun. “Don’t say I never treat you to anything, sweetie.” He fires a few rounds towards the encroaching danger.

Voices go up across the room. Gunshots ring out, louder. Sylus slinks back down, wincing, holding his shoulder, and his fingers turn red. He deftly undoes the first few buttons on his shirt, peeling it back so he can examine his wounds. His jaw clenches; the punctures aren’t closing over fast enough. It’s too much blood, too quick, and he’ll—

He catches you staring. There’s a sheepish sincerity in the way he smiles, as honest and vulnerable as the holes in his shoulder. He holds out his hand. “Time for an energy storm, don’t you think?”

“No,” you snap. “Save your energy. We might need it later.”

“Oh?” An eyebrow perks up in interest, and it’s just like him to spot a double entendre in the midst of all this chaos.

But you’re staring at his chest through his open shirt and you’re such a hypocrite. “Things might get worse,” you explain.

“Worse?” he repeats as bullets fly over your heads, striking the wall across from you and scattering plaster over the floor. He watches it crumble. “Paint me a picture, kitten— what would worse look like?”

Even Rafayel might struggle with that particular creative prompt.

“Come on,” Sylus insists, using the excuse of your silence to push his hand closer to you. “Now’s not the time to play coy.”

“Sylus, I really don’t—”

He grasps your hand, his fingers locking with yours and squeezing tight. Your heart jumps at the touch. It strangles the protests in your throat and stays there, strung up by anticipation and dread.

You’re feeling so much that it takes you too long to realise nothing is happening.

Sylus’s eyes are fixed on your connected palms. He’s squinting, concentrating, and when that doesn’t work— when your hand is paling in the vice of his— he loosens his grip, his thumb feathering over yours as he mumbles a quick: “forgive me.”

He doesn’t let you go. You can still feel him, all of him, imploring to just let him in.

You don’t, and his eyes meet yours, for a moment— like another bullet has bitten through his flesh. Your mouth drops in fake surprise; you’re always so innocent when you pull a trigger on him.

This time, there’s no wound you can push your hands against in a guilty effort to staunch the bleeding. You have to apologise. Have to stitch it up with every word you’ve been guarding, saving, and it isn’t supposed to be like this. “Sylus, it’s not what you think. I—”

Something metal clatters across the floor behind you, bounces like a failing, stuttering heartbeat, then explodes.

…

“Good news, boss! We figured it out!”

Sylus groans, looking up from a report he’s not really been reading as two figures crash into his room. Not good, he thinks, as Kieran flings himself into the nearest armchair. Whatever this is, it’s not good. Luke settles on its arm.

With a sigh, Sylus removes his reading glasses. They stay, hooked on a finger, as he pushes his hair back like he can feel a headache coming on. His eyes flutter closed, and when they open, the twins are both leaning forward, bristling with excitement.

“Ask us,” Luke whispers in a way that makes Sylus think he might not realise he’s speaking out loud.

Another sigh. “What did you figure out?”

Kieran whips out a tired-looking notepad from behind his back. He clears his throat— “ahem!”— then starts to read: “Reasons why Miss Hunter was not able to resonate with you. Number one...”

“How did you find out about—”

“Sshhhh,” Kieran interrupts, putting a finger to where his lips should be. Sylus’s eyes widen in indignation, and Luke comes to his twin’s rescue, silently indicating Mephisto with a few tips of his head. The crow shrinks down on his perch.

“Number one,” Kieran repeats, matter-of-factly. “Your height.”

“My… height?”

Luke nods solemnly as Kieran continues: “humanityandconquer.com/power-dynamics describes tallness as a ‘natural advantage when trying to dominate a smaller individual.’ You are very tall. Try crouching when you speak to Miss Hunter.” He glances over the top of his notepad. “If you approach her at her level, she’ll know you mean no—”

“Nope. Next,” Sylus dismisses, waving his hand in a fast-forward motion. That headache is coming on.

“Reason two,” Kieran acquiesces, gaze falling, “your eyes.”

“Oh, for gods’ sake—”

“They’re red,” the twin pushes on, “and red means danger. In fiction, red eyes are symony—” he stops, spells it out— “synonymous with the supernatural. Vampires especially. Plus, lots of bad stuff is red.” He’s going off-script. “Blood. Fire. Sunburns.”

“Sunburns are pink,” Luke muses.

“No, like, bad sunburns, y’know?”

“Oh right, yeah.” There’s a shrug of agreement.

Sylus’s will to live is hanging by a thread, and they really don’t have a care in the world, do they? It must be nice. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for your little investigation. If that’s all, I would—”

“Reason three!” Luke chirps, wiggling the same number of fingers, and Sylus’s head lolls back against the sofa.

“Miss Hunter is struggling to separate this version of you from your first impression,” Kieran says.

Sylus looks up. “What?”

Luke is rubbing his hands together eagerly, like they’ve finally gotten to the good stuff. “Well, you remember how you and Miss Hunter met,” his twin explains.

Words won’t do it justice, apparently, because the man begins to act it out. He reaches to grip Luke by the throat and Luke pretends to choke, fingers clawing at the grasp. Then Kieran stands up— throws Luke down into the chair and pins him there with his foot before snatching up his hand.

“See what I mean?” Kieran asks over his shoulder. “I mean, it must have been pretty traumatic. You kinda tore her away from everything she knew. Forced her to use her power, et cetera, et cetera.”

Sylus has gone quiet. He’s vaguely aware that the twins are moving, saying more, but he can’t hear it. He feels sick. Then he feels something different: someone poking at his arm. A hand is waved in front of his face, but he doesn’t react.

“Oh, we so got it,” Luke whispers conspiratorially behind him.

“Hell yeah we did!” Kieran whispers back.

There’s the sound of them high-fiving, and it spurs Sylus into action. He’s up out of his seat, out of their shadows, and then the door as well— long before they can stop him. He needs to breathe. He needs the cold night air and the quiet, and his strides drive him towards it, but not fast enough.

He’s about to use his Evol. To let himself evaporate so he can be whole again somewhere else, somewhere easier, but then he stops. He’s by an open door, glancing in at a decadent living room, where you’re sprawled over a black leather couch. This isn’t easier. This hurts, and it hurts more as he forces himself to close the distance between you.

You’re still asleep. You’ve been unconscious ever since that grenade went off, and it’s for the best, really; getting out of that place was… messy. Sylus’s shoulder still aches, the blood on his shirt now crusty and dark. Some of it’s his. Some of it’s yours.

He’s not sure why he’s still wearing it.

The twins did a pretty good job of patching you up, but— looking over you— he would have done better. It was his role, after all. His duty to you, or maybe just a reason to get close to you. He couldn’t do it today. Couldn’t touch you, no matter how noble the intention. And a little part of him was glad for the excuse; his hands always shake.

A blanket is half on your legs, half on the floor, and Sylus stoops to collect the edge of it. He draws it over your shoulder, adjusting it around your arms— at rest by your face. He’s close, now, and he…

He can’t help himself. When has he ever been able to help himself? He lifts his hand slowly; he wants to kiss you. Even though your blood is still drying on his shirt and it’s all his fault.

…

Someone’s hand is on your face.

The touch draws you back into consciousness, tender, careful, then suddenly sharp. “Ah,” you hiss. “Sylus?” Always first on your mind and your lips.

“Not even close,” quips the shadow above you.

“Kieran?”

“Bingo.”  

You use your hand to block some of the room’s light as you open your eyes— a birdlike silhouette taking shape through the gaps in your fingers. “Where’s Sylus?” you ask, teeth clenching as the twin applies a thin strip of surgical tape to a cut on your cheek. “Is he ok?”

“Sheesh, relax. He’s fine,” Kieran tuts, then seems to reconsider, “well…”

“He’s brooding,” chimes a voice from behind you. “Out on the balcony.” Luke.

You rub at your eyes, still drowsy with sleep. “Why’s he brooding? What did you do?”

“Told him he traumatised you,” they speak in unison.

“What?! Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s true,” Kieran shrugs. “That’s why you and boss couldn’t, you know…” He twinkles his fingers.

Resonate? Ugh. You slide your feet onto the floor, sitting up straight for a solid second before you bury your face in your hands, omitting a few, pained whines. This is such a mess, and it only got worse while you were asleep. First that stupid grenade, now the twins.

A hand pats at your back. “There, there,” Luke soothes.

You turn to glare at him. His hand retreats.

Forget it; you have to find Sylus.

…

You step out onto the balcony, head full of apologies you’ve had all of a minute to prepare, and it isn’t enough. It felt fitting, in the middle of a shootout— everything was allowed to be frantic and from the heart. Here it’s calm, and if you ruin something— break anything— it’s going to be obvious. There’s no other violence to blame.

Sylus must hear you join him, but he doesn’t turn. He’s leant forwards against the rail, one arm folded upon it, the other outstretched: sporting a glass of liquor that hangs from the tips of his fingers and that he swirls gently, his gaze far away.

The twins really weren’t kidding.

“Hey,” you greet, and it’s sort of pathetic, but you don’t know what else to say.

“Hey,” Sylus returns, “are you—” he looks back at you over his shoulder— “are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you smile warmly. “I mean, the twins are giving me a headache, but that’s, like, standard.”  

He smiles back: a courtesy. You’ve seen him grin through almost every type of pain imaginable, but this one is new. Think about what Luke and Kieran said. What he must be thinking. “Sylus, I—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he stops you, turning his body towards you. “Honestly, I’d… rather you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he chuckles, masking a deeper hurt as he lifts his glass to his lips. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

You are; you hold his gaze as he takes a deliberately slow sip of his drink. He smirks, surrenders at once and admits: “I’m really not that strong, sweetie. That’s why.”

“What if I want to explain?”

The smirk falters, and his eyes make their own, sad, silent confession. If you want to explain? He’ll let you. He’ll stand here, listening patiently while you call him a thing of nightmares. While you break him, bit by tortuous bit, by reminding him just how frightening he is.

He turns back to the view, shrugs, but none of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Go on, then.”

“Sylus?”

“Mmm?”

“You don’t scare me, you know.”

His hand tightens around his glass. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Pity me,” he grimaces. “I don’t need it. I know what I am. I’d just… forgotten what I was to you.”

Your captor. Your monster. Except that was a lifetime ago and he’s been so many more things to you since then. Tell him. “Sylus…”

“I felt it,” he snaps, because your voice is still so reluctant, and he’s going to save you the trouble. “When we tried to resonate, I felt it— your fear— just as deep as it used to be. I heard that same voice in your head, the one saying you wouldn’t let me in, couldn’t let me in, so don’t tell me I don’t scare you, sweetie.” The term of endearment tastes sour, you can tell. “I know how you feel. I know—”

“I like you, Sylus.”

“…What?”

You couldn’t take it anymore. “I like you,” you say again, and your heart is beating too quickly for eloquence, so you just have simplicity. “You don’t scare me at all, Sy. I care about you. A lot.”

Sylus stares at you, his eyes wide. There’s no confidence. No smile or drawn-out breath of relief. He sets his glass aside on the railing, gaze leaving yours for a moment, and you get the feeling he needs that moment as much as he needed the drink itself.

Then he looks at you again. Asks in a way that makes you ache: “do you mean it?”

Look at him. Your throat stings. “Of course I mean it.”

“Say it again.”

“I mean it, Sylus. I care about—”

His lips are on yours and the rest of your words are lost in his mouth. You, you say with the way you kiss him back, soft and slow, like you’re relishing something that might slip away. You, you insist— your hand finding his face, his hair, as he kisses you deeper, and you, you, you, when he doesn’t stop.

“Is this alright?” he murmurs, his fingers around your chin and his thumb tugging at your bottom lip.

“Mmm,” you confirm, equally breathless.

He laughs as he withdraws a little, still caressing your face like you’re something of a dream. “You’re not making this easy, kitten.”

“Worried you might traumatise me again?”    

It's a low blow. He scoffs. “Luke and Kieran said—”

“Luke and Kieran once bought arts-and-crafts feathers for Mephisto because they thought the colours would make him, and I quote: more aerodynamic.” You pinch his ear playfully. “I can’t believe you let them get to you.”

“I know,” he groans, lifting your hand so he can press chaste kisses along the line of your knuckles. “Not my finest moment.” He guides your palm to his cheek— leans into it as he leans into an idea. “They said you hated my eyes,” he pouts.

You can’t help giggling. He frowns. “I mean— aww, no,” you scramble, but you’re still laughing. You can’t stop. “Your eyes are… yeah. So pretty.”

“You had to think about it?”

“There were just too many adjectives, y’know? I was struggling to—”

He kisses you again, saving you: crushing your laughter with his own, lightheaded smile. His hand finds yours as his lips move against you, your fingers interlocking as you resonate— chasing an instinct, a need to be impossibly closer— and you let him see everything. Feel everything.

It’s a mad tangle of opposites. Heaven. Hell. Life. Death. You don’t know what any of it means, but it’s yours and it’s his and it doesn’t scare you half as much as it should. Sylus breaks your kiss. He pushes his forehead against your own with a sigh of contentment, and it doesn’t scare him, either.  

Savour each second. Think of some better adjectives, while you still have the time.

He’s going to earn every single one.

…

✨Epilogue✨

Inside, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling windows that separate the room from the balcony, Luke and Kieran stand, looking awfully smug.   

“Mission accomplished,” Kieran nods, flipping closed his notepad, aptly titled: 101 Ways To Get Boss Laid! (There are only, currently, fifty-two.)

Luke’s arms are folded. “We’re like, the best wingmen ever.”

Kieran is silent. He repeats carefully: “Wingmen. Wingmen.”

The beaks of the crow masks gradually turn to face one-another. There’s a mutual epiphany, and both twins almost fall over laughing.

[ms-demeanor]

I also really hope this isn't how you talk to your homeless beneficiaries when one of them breaks down in front of you.

My unhoused neighbors aren't screaming at me that I should go to hell if I give a covid test to a friend who's a teacher instead of moving out of my house so that they can live there.

Anon is a rando frothing at me that any effort any person in the US makes to help one another (or, for that matter, anyone else) is not only useless but is detrimental.

I don't know if the anon claiming that the country I live in killed their friends is the same anon who is in my country saying that picking up trash funds the police or is the same anon who sent two asks to tell me that actually anon is right and i'm being a big meanie who doesn't respect hurt people (you, you are that last one).

Anon has not been approaching me in good faith, they are looking for a punching bag because they are hurt and angry and nothing that I do or say will make them feel better or hurt less because they don't want to feel better, they want to make me feel worse. Nothing that they have done today has been anything but an attempt to pour misery on my attempts to comfort people who are feeling helpless and point them in the direction of things they can do to make the world one iota less shitty.

And not only is that cruel, it is boring. You are not making me doubt myself, you are not making me doubt the things that autonomous groups can do, you are not making me feel bad, you are serving as a useful didactic tool for countering doomerism but it's all getting a bit repetitive.

I strongly suspect that you're the same person who came to yell about HRT several hours ago, and that you're the anon with the dead friends, and that you're the anon who thinks that trash cleanup buys tanks for cops. I'm, once again, not blocking because we're all having a bad day, but I think that you've tipped over from being a useful example of how stupid/useless doomerism is and an overall entertaining dunk into being a time suck instead.

Please eat a meal and drink some water before you head back to 4chan or wherever it was that spawned you. Even if you're a shithead, you deserve bread, and roses too.

[cherryblossomshadow]

[Image ID and source: Tweet from Velodus✨ (@/velodus) reading

The single worst thing about Trump to me will always be how much he's changed people. I've watched friends and relatives become entirely new, worse people in the wake of his political rise. Like it's not merely that he's a terrible guy, it's that he's ruined people.

/end ID]

.

Further tweets from the thread:

qiwave (@/qiwave1)

Another chance for me to quote Pete Buttigieg. “My faith teaches me that the world isn’t made of good and bad people, but rather that each of us is capable of good and bad things,” he said. “And I believe leaders matter because of what they bring out in each of us: the good or the bad.”

.

Mat Douglas (@/MatPDouglas)

I think he just gave them license to be the awful people they always were, but were hiding before

Velodus✨ (@/velodus) replied:

The seeds were obviously there the whole time for them all, which sucks because it'd be easier to process if he had 100% brainwashed them instead of them choosing to like him. But I also will never ever forgive him for giving ppl that permission structure.

.

You can obviously disagree with me. But I ascribe to the notion of "No such thing as monsters," which acknowledges that every human has the capability to be "good" or "bad." "Monstrosity" is not an inherent quality of a person, but an action. This action can be varying degrees of "their choice," depending on the context of the situation.

But if we say that we judge people on actions, then yes, Trump made them worse. Maybe they would have wanted to say that slur before, but Trump emboldened them to actually do it. Trump gave people permission to care for themselves more than others, and I think that made them worse people than they would be otherwise.

My utopia isn't a society filled with Good Humans, bc I don't believe they exist. My utopia would be a flexible, supportive society that is able to react and adjust to the needs of the humans that comprise it (not the humans living "under it" or "in it," but the humans making up the fabric of the society) and encourages the humans to be their best selves.

Is this feasible? Experience tells me no. But it's a much better goal than "get rid of all the Bad Evil Humans."

[hoshifighting]

ask translation: today's rant, girls, i can't get it out of my head that jeonghan is totally that "friend" who sends you a message a second after you remove the @ of your last relationship from your bio. "baby, I saw that you deleted his @, did something happen? Is everything okay? you know you can talk about anything with your hannie, right?" "wow, what an jerk, do you want to come over today, princess?" WARNINGS: smut, fingering, doggy-style, friend!jeonghan, recent break-up

PORTUGUESE VERSION

it’s a matter of seconds. you barely take his @ out of your bio, and the “ding” from your phone already notifies you. guess who? that’s right—jeonghan. and you know exactly what he’s going to say before you even open the message. it’s almost automatic; his timing is so damn perfect that you almost think he’s been stalking your profile, waiting for the smallest slip-up, a little sign.

“hey, baby,” he starts, casual as ever, “saw you took his name out of your bio… something happened?” you read it and can practically see his smug little smile while he’s typing, just loving the drama. “tsk, motherfucker,” you mutter to yourself, but you’re laughing. then he follows up: “you know you can tell your hannie anything, right?”

you roll your eyes, but ignoring him? impossible. the next message doesn’t even let you hesitate.

“god, what an idiot. wanna come over tonight, princess? got that wine you love…”

and there he’s got you. he knows it. he knows that the “heart-to-heart” is just a flimsy excuse, you know what he wants, and that “motherfucker” you muttered? already forgotten. the worst part is you don’t even resist. you’re already texting back before you can think twice:

“give me fifteen. actually have the wine, or i’m out,” you shoot back, adding that little side-eye emoji he always teases you for.

not even five seconds later, he replies: “bet.”

at his place, things start slow—he hands you the glass and goes, “spill it all, babe.” you actually try talking about your ex, maybe add some drama for effect… but he cuts you off, saying he doesn’t wanna hear about that “loser,” and before you know it, the conversation’s become something else entirely. he teases you, like always, and it doesn’t take long before that “friendly” vibe slips into something much more serious.

the wine might as well have gone straight between your legs. minutes later, jeonghan’s there, face buried between your thighs, his mouth working over the wet clit while he keeps his eyes locked on yours. he makes it look like an art form, taking his time, slow, drawing you out more and more—and you, impatient as hell, nearly losing it every time he stops just to throw in some little comment. he lifts his head slightly, lips glistening, with that smug glint in his eye.

“how could he lose you, huh?” he���s not actually asking; he just wants to see you needier. you press your thighs against him, trying to make him shut up and eat you out, but he just laughs, naughty.

“god, you’re so impatient, knew you’d be like this…” he knows exactly the effect he has on you.

you let out a frustrated moan, and he laughs again—he’s clearly feeding off this. “relax, princess, not gonna leave you hanging.” he says it, but he doesn’t speed up. you’re practically begging by the time he finally decides to quit playing games.

he fucks you so good that if you’d known it would always be like this with him, the idea of dating anyone but jeonghan would’ve never even crossed your mind.

he’s got you on all fours on his couch, no mercy, thrusting deep with that thick cock, your cries coming out rough and strained, head tilted back as he holds nothing back, fingers gripping your hair just to make you scream his name louder. the angle leaves your gasps sounding suffered, desperate.

jeonghan, obviously, is eating this up. he notices when you’re already dripping all over his couch, and just to make it even worse, he gathers up that little drip and rubs it right on your sensitive clit, making you melt like jelly, your body going limp on his couch until he eases his grip on your hair so he doesn’t hurt you.

he moans shamelessly, the sound probably even louder than yours, and it catches you off guard. he doesn’t hold back, telling you how long he’s wanted this, how many times he’s dreamed about fucking you exactly like this.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this pretty pussy, baby…” he whispers, and you feel that delicious shiver on the back of your neck. “if you hadn’t picked that dumbass… we could’ve been fucking like this ages ago.”

he thrusts deeper, but moving slower, just so you can feel every inch as he murmurs in your ear. his touch is firm, fingers gliding down to squeeze that sensitive spot, giving it a playful pinch just to watch you shiver, rolling your eyes as you gasp out his name.

“this is what you wanted, princess? gonna appear here on my place, begging for my cock again.. and im going to give you what you want... always.”

[mywritersmind]

CURB FLIRTING - LN4

summary : In which Lando finds a girl crying on the side of the road and decides to help her a bit.

listen up : this is the cutest thing i’ve ever written. no pt.2‼️

word count : 1438

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Tears stream down my face, I try to control my breathing but I'm still in shock. Even though I'm sobbing, I want to laugh.

I’m sitting on a curb outside of a club, it’s gross and there’s cigarette butts by my feet. I can only smell alcohol and the scent of my vanilla perfume.

I want to rip it off my body. I try to take a deep breath but my chest hurts and I start coughing. People around me ask if I'm okay but when I nod they leave.

Until a man’s shoes appear in front of me, “Are you alright?” I look up, breathing heavily still before nodding and looking back down at his shoes. I like them.

He sits next to me, “You sure?” He has an accent. British, I think.

“No.” I laugh as he cracks a smile.

“I’m Lando.” He holds out his hand for me to shake, so I do. His ring is cold against my burning skin. When I meet his eyes again, I realize they’re green and unfairly stunning.

In fact, his whole face is stunning. He’s got curly hair, dark and mullet-ish, his clothes are light and his jewelry is nice.

“I’m Y/n.” I sniffle, wiping a tear from my face, “I like your shoes.”

He smiles again, “Thank you. I like your dress.” I glance down to my bare legs, hot and uncomfortable with the icy air. He seems to notice my body language and shrugs off his jacket, laying it over my legs.

I frown, crying more, “Hey- I didn’t mean to make it worse.” He looks genuinely worried.

“You didn’t. I’m just- Thank you.” He nods, “I’m kinda embarrassed.”

“No need. Plenty of strangers have seen me cry.” He shrugs, eyeing my hair and earrings, “You don’t need to worry though, you’re a pretty crier.”

I let out a laugh, something I haven’t done for a few hours, “I doubt you aren’t.” His presence is oddly comforting yet also awkward because I was bawling in front of him.

His smile is kind and soft while his body looks sharp and hard. “You flatter me, Y/n.” I like the way he says my name. But that could just be because of my tears.

“What’s your deal, Mr. Lando no last name?” My eyes are still wet but my tears are no longer falling, “Are those your friends?”

We both look over to the group on the other side of the road, three men staring. Lando eyes them but quickly looks back at me, “Uh, yeah.”

“Do they think a twenty four year old woman is going to hurt you?” I look at them again, “Because they sure are protective.”

He laughs, “Protective is a good word for it. Where are your friends?” This makes me frown and he sees it instantly, “Are you visiting Monaco?”

I nod, “Yeah. Are you?”

He shakes his head, “I live here.” My eyes instinctively widen at this. He looks young. I mean, he could be studying here I guess but still.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty five.” This makes my brows pull together, he laughs at this.

“Are you… rich?” I whisper it as if it’s illegal.

He leans it a bit close, “Sort of.”

I hum, “How…?”

“I’ll tell you if you come and sit in my car with me.” I raise a brow at this, crossing my arms, “I promise it’s just because I'm worried you’re gonna catch a cold.” I look at him skeptically too, “You can hold my keys if it makes you feel better.”

I stand, holding his jacket close to me as he drops his keys into my hand. I stare down at them, blink. “A McLaren?” I roll my eyes.

“An eye roll is not the usual reaction I get for that!” He starts walking and I follow him.

“Oh, so you bring all the girls you find crying in the street into your car?” He eyes me, a slight smirk on his face.

“Only the pretty ones.”

I roll my eyes, “You’re going to let a stranger take the keys to your McLaren?” He just shrugs.

“I know your name. You know mine.”

He lets me sit in the driver's seat, he turns the car on and Mamma Mia starts blasting. “Shit.” He mumbles, turning it down quickly as I giggle.

“A musical fan…?” His face is serious and definitely embarrassed. I can’t help but laugh more, “Okay, Okay. How are you, Mr. very mysterious Lando no last name, rich?”

He stretches his arms up, grinning but staying silent. Oh god. He’s fit as hell.

“Oh no.” I feel doom approaching me.

“What?” he asks.

“Don’t tell me you’re a footballer.”

He looks horrified, “An american footballer?” I did forget about that one little difference between us. “Why would I be an American footballer?”

“Well you’re-” He raises a brow as I groan, “You clearly work out.” He laughs at me. “Lando! I’m serious, you’re an athlete aren’t you? Oh god I don’t want to know. Do you play soccer? You’ve got the height for it.”

His jaw is dropped at this point, “Calling me hot then calling me short is insane!”

“I did not say, ‘hot’!” I scoff, turning towards him, “Tell me what you really do then. Are you in the Mafia?”

He sighs, leaning his head against the glass of his car. I hadn't realized before, but I'm much more comfortable here. Well, I suppose a McLaren has got to be more comfortable than a street corner.

It’s quieter and definitely warmer. Plus, I do feel safe with Lando which is a bit odd because I just met the guy.

“I’m a formula 1 driver.”

Oh?

“Oh.” I nod. I don’t know anything about motorsport so I'm a bit lost, but I guess I got my answer, “So you drive cars?”

He looks happy at my answer, his smile making my cheeks heat, “Yeah… Yeah I drive cars.”

Lando Norris.

An interesting name for an interesting man. We stay in his car for another… hour? I don’t know. I lose track of time when Lando starts telling me about everywhere he’s traveled.

He lets me rant or stay silent, something I've been waiting for all night. Or maybe all my life.

He leaves me for five minutes alone, in which I peek around his car, finding absolutely nothing but a golf ball and a bag of chips. He comes back with a smile on his face and an ask.

I move to the passenger seat, saying hi to his friends. He said that he wanted me to feel safe and after the conversation with his friends, I really do. I don’t think I've ever laughed harder at a man’s friend group.

He plays ‘Thank you for the music’ on low while I look out the window, my hair blowing in the wind.

“Hey uh-” he clears his throat, “Could I get your number? Just to check in tomorrow.” I bite my lip as he hands me his phone, smiling to myself as I type in my number.

“Dont abuse it.” I joke as he taps his finger against the wheel.

He's grinning again, “Can’t promise anything.”

I sigh, watching the city pass by me, some of the boats on the water quiet and some bright and loud. I like it here. Even if me crying had to get me in such a good mood.

“Thanks for driving me.”

“Of course, I hope to do it again, one day.”

“You know we're probably not going to see eachother again, right?” I see the corner of his mouth quirk downwards, “I’m going home tomorrow.”

“And I have access to private planes.” He shrugs as I scoff.

“Lando. I just met you. What if I was some crazy stalker?” Does this man not know stranger danger?

He eyes me, “Well, are you?”

“No…”

“So,” he glances at me, a curl falling into his face, “I'll see you soon.”

Sadly, my hotel isn’t far and when he pulls up to the front, I get an odd sensation of sadness washing over me. “Want me to walk you up?”

I shake my head, “You’ve done enough for me.” I lean over the middle console and press a soft kiss to his cheek, “Have a good night, Lando.”

“You too, Y/n.” I grab my bag, and slip out the expensive car, looking back one last time to see Lando watching me. His eyes are meaningful and something I have a feeling I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

[mattsnight]

Hide it - Matt Sturniolo

Summary: in which Matt hides his feelings for you, but eventually can’t take it anymore.

Warnings: fluff, cursing,

A/N:

Matt couldn’t hide it any longer. He couldn’t hide his love for you. His feelings were hard to control when you were around. It was sickening. He didn’t say anything about it, because he didn’t want to hurt you or ruin the friendship you guys have. It was too important for, but he also couldn’t stuff his feelings away any longer. He was in love with you and that was a problem.

Every time you hang out with Nick Matt’s in the room. He’s always staring at you, but when you turn to look at him he quickly turns away. You didn’t think much of it, until things changed. Matt started acting weird. He was always stuttering around you and didn’t have proper conversations with you.

You had come to the triplets’ house to make some pictures with Nick. The house was mostly quiet, only soft sounds were heard from Matt’s room. He was most likely playing fortnight. You sat down on the couch, waiting for Nick to return from his room.

“Oh hey y/n..” you suddenly hear a voice say. You look at the figure, it’s Matt. A small smile forms on your face as you wave at him. He freezes at your smile, regretting his decision of coming out of his room. He was already getting nervous at the fact of his crush being infront of him. Suddenly a wave of confidence washes over him. It was now or never. “Y/N i can’t do this anymore.” He says, swallowing.

“Can’t do what?” You ask, looking at him in confusion.

“I-“ he runs his hand through his hair. There’s a moment of silence. He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t just say ‘hey im in love with you! Can we make out?’ can he? Another deep breath leaves his mouth as he tries to get himself together. “Fucking hell..” He holds his breath as he looks into your eyes to see any kind of reaction. “Can’t you see how obsessed i am with you?” A surprised sound leaves your mouth. You don’t say anything for a while, surprised by his confession.

“Jesus Y/N, say something please.” He begs. His nervousness gets worse within seconds. Did you hate him now? “I- you like me?” You ask. Realization hits you hard. He actually likes you. Your mind goes blank at the thought, all your thoughts vanishing. He slides both his hands into his pockets, hiding how badly he’s sweating.

“Yes Y/N and im tired of you not noticing! I tried everything to make you look at me, yet it’s not working.” He groans mentally, blaming himself for raising his voice at you. “Sorry… i-“ he starts, but gets cut off when you slam your lips against his. This kiss was everything he needed. Everything he needed to know you had the same feeling about him and it was amazing. It wasn’t passionate, just full of love and desperation.

Your hands slide into his hair, gently pulling at it to get closer. His hands go down your sides, gripping you tightly. You slowly start backing up into a wall, which he does too. Then he pulls back to get some air. You look up into his blue eyes, smiling. He smiles back almost immediately, wiping your hair out of your face. “That was..” he chuckles, still a hit breathless. “So fuckin’ amazing.”

Suddenly you hear a laugh behind you. You turn around to see Nick standing there. He had watched the whole scene and was laughing by it. Matt rolls his eyes, before looking away. “Took you long enough, kid. Will you stop bothering me now you’ve kissed the girl?” Nick smiles, before looking at you. “He wouldn’t stop talking about you. Seriously. It was so tiring.”

A small smile forms on your face. You look at Matt who’s now filled up with embarrassment. “I’ll leave you guys alone. Let’s do the pictures another time, alright?” Nick suggests. You nod, knowing you need time to let this sink in and spend some time with Matt.

This was gonna be great.

no nut november fic 3! I hope yall like this💞 (also i wont be posting as much since i need to learn for assignments and stuff</3)

[writerdownbookworder]

“What’re you doing here?” I mumble over my shoulder. Although I’m not looking, I know without a doubt who it is.

Ray sighs. “Look, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Not worth much,” I say, staring at the picture of my partner, framed and unnatural. She never would have wanted this. Her family didn’t know her anymore, why were they allowed to make these choices?

A groan behind me finally makes me turn. Ray stands there with his arms crossed, full disguise. I stare at him so long - not thinking much of anything, just numb - that I startle when he clears his throat.

“How long are you going to mope like this, Saga?”” He uses my code name, although I’m not dressed in my usual clothes. I didn’t take much care with my disguise today, just throwing on my mask and hood over dark clothes for the funeral.

I look away. “”If you came here to fight, let’s just get it over with. I’m not in the mood today.”

He sighs again. Why does he keep doing that? “I’m not here to fight. I’m here to pay my respects. I know you and Kya were close.”

“It’s my fault,” I whisper, turning back to the picture. She wasn’t just my partner, she was my best friend. I knew she was still a newbie, and I told her to go by herself. I thought she could handle it. 

By the time I got there, it was too late.

“Hey,” Ray says gently, shocking me. “It wasn’t your fault. I was there, remember? No one could have predicted that a normal everyday occurrence would turn so violent.” 

It was true. Ray had been there, for the same reason I was. Our fight had traveled several blocks and we happened to chance upon the scene. My fight with Ray had been forgotten as I rushed to Kya’s aid, and until this moment, I had forgotten he had been there at all.

I start walking toward the door, unable to stay a moment longer. 

Ray follows me. “It’s okay to be sad, Saga.”

I stubbornly ignore him.

He rolls his eyes behind me and I scoff. “You know I can see you. Why do you insist on being rude anyway?”

He grins. “It’s what I do best. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Argh!” I whip around to face him, face red with anger. Ray actually takes a step back. “I am not okay! My rookie died because of something I told them to do! My best friend is gone because I wasn’t there for her! And worst of all, she never got the chance to do anything she wanted to do! She was only 19…” My voice trails off with a sob.

Ray opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “No, you know what’s worse? You, coming here, to her funeral to mock me. Follow me, fight me, yell at me to your heart's content, but don’t sit here and mock me by pretending you care about Kya or my feelings!”

“Fine!” he snaps back, finally losing his temper. “I’ll tell you the truth if you want!”

I throw my hands up in frustration. “What I really want is for you to leave me alone, but go ahead!”

Ray’s voice drops back down in volume, slightly lower than his regular speaking tone, his voice shaking slightly with anger. “I’m not pretending anything. I may not have known Kya much at all, but I do know that on the few occasions I saw her, she seemed to be a genuinely good and happy person.”

“Why do you-”

“I’m not finished!” he snaps, before continuing again. “As for you, I do know you. I knew you would blame yourself, I knew you would be upset and sad, I knew that you would be here, and I knew you would stay long after everyone else left. I know you. Your feelings haven’t been a mystery to me for years! 

“The truth is, I know who you are.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he says it. “Inside, outside, underneath the mask and hood. You aren’t a mystery to me. I honestly thought you would recognize me long before now.”

I stare at him, unable to speak, trying to understand what he is telling me. “You-”

Ray looks up into my eyes, voice soft. “Emma.”

He slowly pulls off the mask, revealing the one face I didn’t expect to see.

The one that equal parts of me hated and loved, unable to decide between desire and defense. Part of me never wanted to see him again, had hoped he died.

Part of me was so relieved that I wanted to cry.

I chose the latter.

your a super Villian/super hero who's partner just died. When the funeral was supposed to be attended, nobody came, except for one person, your arch nemesis, who came there to comfort you through these tough times