#this is a terrible place to leave off but it's all i have time for tonight

[deathbxnny]

Ooh ooh i love your headcanons, would it be possible if i request some headcanons of Capitano, Baizhu and Childe with a Jingliu!Reader please?

Genshin men with a Jingliu!Gn!Reader. | Capitano, Baizhu, Childe

Here you go, Anon!!<3

Content: Angst, Reader is a bit unhinged, battles, established romantic relationships, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》CAPITANO

He knew you from way before your nation fell. You were a legend. A well-known and respected warrior who carried themselves with pride at all times. Your blade never rusted nor dulled. You were strong. And he looked up to you for as long as he could remember you.

But alas, the curse had even gotten to you. It didn't rot you from the inside out but instead corroded your mind permanently. Nothing you did was as clean or precise anymore. You were unpredictable and near unhinged at times, your bloodlust a tragic insult to your previous legacy as you yearned for battle. He entertained you in such moments often, just to keep you from hurting others.

Your memories have faded even for him, but that doesn't mean that he isn't willing to remind you of anything you want to know when asked. He's patient and calm, knowing that deep down, you were still stuck in a never-ending battle, but this time against yourself.

Since there is no cure for either of you, you've become content in eachothers company. You are kind and soft whenever you aren't lusting for death and carnage, so life isn't all too terrible. You lead troops at his side and train them to perfection naturally.

Capitano is thankful for every moment you decide to spend at his side, as that way, he still at least has one good thing going for him in this cruel world.

》BAIZHU

He met you in terrible condition, as you were suffering from severe side effects from your condition. It took him a while to figure out how to heal you the best he could and eventually settled on simply blindfolding you to alleviate the pain and sudden outbursts from you. You didn't leave after you got back onto your feet and stayed at his side ever since.

You made his life a lot brighter and warmer than it previously was. You were kind and patient with his condition, even visibly concerned for him on days when he could barely stand. You both know that his end was near, yet yours would eventually come too. In a way, you both found yourselves to be equals in that sense, which made your bond grow stronger.

Your bloodlust and need for battle make you very unpredictable and even dangerous at times, but he has learned how to deal with it perfectly over time. He's in fact the only one that can make you snap out of it when needed.

With that said, neither you nor Qiqi are permitted to run around Liyue alone together. One of you would always forget what you even went out for to begin with, whilst the other would ponder about life philosophies and completely derail your quest of getting the thing you were even sent out for. It was a mess every time, and he decided that the chaos was just not worth it...

》CHILDE

You had met during one of your unpredictable outbursts. A violent battle ensued, and by the end of it, he felt a connection to you that left him breathless. He could tell that you were a warrior, a very skilled one. And so, he stuck by your side ever since, never letting you shake him off until you've accepted his place at your side.

He's perhaps the best person to end up with due to your need for battle and blood. Your outbursts are handled with concerning ease every time, as he enjoys the thrill of it. He loves the way you don't hold back, never the one to acknowledge that you truly didn't have control over it to begin with.

Childe begs you to train with him and to teach him everything you know. He's very much obsessed and doesn't hide it either, to say the least. Daily hard-core workout sessions that last far into the night are definitely the norm for you both... but what he begins to eventually enjoy the most is how kindly and lovingly you treat him afterward. Your patience and gentle self were deeply appreciated by him.

He brags about you to everyone and everything that his ears, his family, friends, and colleagues become near sick of him by the end of it. But he is just so thankful to have you and wants to make sure you know this.

[alisdarkwrites]

Yan! Oikawa and iwa Drabble <3

Fem pov

Tw: noncon, stalking, yandere behavior/themes, drugging, bullying, implied murder briefly mentioned, they put their cum into the drink (is that a tw?)

A/n: I feel like I talked weird in this but I kinda enjoy it and ahhhhh I’ve been gone so longggggg

Mdni

Everything is under the cut!

Oikawa falling inlove with someone so unpopular and insignificant to him that he can’t help but ask himself why? Why fall for her?

To cope with it Oikawa starts to make fun of her. The way she looks, dresses, acts. Despite the fact that he loves every single one of these things.

When he finds out iwaizumi feels the same way about her he isn’t happy at first. But as their feelings for poor, unsuspecting girl they have a crush on spiral into mad obsession they can’t help but work together.

Oikawa has some of his more insane, deluded fan girls stalk his darling, while iwaizumi takes out the trash. He scares off any potential suitors, whether by threatening them, or a more permanent solution.

Of course this isn’t enough! So oikawa throws a party, inviting everyone including his darling.

It’s perfect!

He has iwaizumi go up to her, acting all nice. Iwaizumi flirts with her a little bit and then offers to get her a drink. Once he goes off he has oikawa get the special little drink they made for her <3

They know it’s terrible, putting a sedative and a tiny bit of their cum into the drink but it’s ok… you’ll forgive them right?

Iwaizumi goes back to you, all kind and sweet, it’s to bad you don’t notice that gleam in his eye.

Once it finally kicks in, he asks if you need some rest. Of course you accept. Iwaizumi would never do anything bad right?

He brings you to oikawa bedroom, gently placing you on the bed. He leaves, locking the door behind him. You can’t help but drift into a deep, deep sleep…

When you wake up you can barely move. It’s hard to open your eyes but when you eventually do you see Oikawa in front of you. He beams at seeing you wake up. You feel someone wrap their forearm around your neck, putting you in a chokehold. You look up and realize it’s Iwaizumi.

You try to escape but your limbs feel so, so heavy. Iwaizumi grabs your arms, holding both of the with only one of his hands, pressing them out against your stomach. That’s when you realize that you were naked.

You started to freak out, begging them to stop and give you your clothes back. But oikawa just laughs and rubs you on the head.

Oikawa removes all of his clothes, gently pressing his cock against your hole. You beg him, beg and beg and beg him to not do this but nothing you say detours him.

He forces himself in

It’s painful, a burning sensation. It hurts before it’s even all the way in. Your telling him that he’s to big, that it hurts, but he just kisses you on the head.

His pace doesn’t make it any better. The second he thinks you’ve had enough time to adjust he pulls out most of the way. You feel relieved for a few seconds before he slams back in.

It goes on for hours, constant begging for it to stop and him mercilessly thrusting into you. Iwaizumi just kisses you, telling you that it’s ok <3

[cursedextrovert]

People comparing CaitVi dynamic season 1 and 2, are we watching two different shows or y'all just forgot what happened in the middle. There was literally a war going on, Cait's mom fucking died like are they just gonna be lovey dovey with all these politics going on? And then one moment they leave everything to just be with each other in that jail cell you are also mad like wdyw?

Also people who say their sex scene is not necessary and/or a bad representation.

Firstly, JayceMel also got a sex scene in season 1 so its not like they invented sex just for these two lesbians.

Secondly, they didnt just fuck. Vi was beating herself up thinking she made the wrong decision and fucking things up like always and Cait told her that she actually let the guards go so Vi can do that exact thing she wanted. Ultimately saying a) she trusted Vi when she said Jinx has changed and wanted Vi to let the girl out b) she wanted Vi to be happy more than she wanted revenge even tho just some months ago she was the opposite.

Thirdly, we see the detail, Cait hesitates when she sees the bandage where she used to hit Vi. We see Cait taking off her clothes and showing her all, being vulnerable because Vi deserves that much from her.

Fuck. I get it, ok? This is a rare time we got a wlw relationship where both are main characters, and in a big show like this so you want it to be perfect and deprive of all flaws. But wouldnt you rather have two well-written characters where they relationship is tangled with the core of who they are than just a wlw couple with no conflict, no personal development no nothing? Hows that a good representation? Their relationship doesnt solve the conflict between them and their politics but is the reason why they were intertwined in the first place.

And dont come at me about systematic problems as well like Im a poc myself living in a white country and a sociology graduate. I understand Caitlyn did terrible things and is a war criminal herself with how she stands aside letting Ambessa did the thing she did and for gasing Zaun just to seek revenge. But she, just like everyone is a product of her sociocultural surroundings, shes a human affected by their beliefs and emotions. Isnt that the point of the show?

I dont think she got her happy ending just because she lives, I think being alive is her purnishment. She has her whole life to make up for what she did and I believe she will. What other fate you think she deserves? Her death will not undo her crimes, so is prison, they will also prevent her from actually fixing what she caused and ultimately using her priviledge for good(which shes doing, you can read my post about it). And Im not about to start the whole ethic debate on prison. How does one define a purnishment worthy? How do one define what a person deserves?

Finally, you know who else was a war criminal and walked away with what he wanted? Singed. Reality is like that, not black and white. People dont get what we think they deserve, ever.

[ichore]

tags: nanami kento x afab!reader, smut, reader is a simp for rin itoshi

synopsis: kento takes you to pound town while you're waiting for your take-out dinner to be delivered

Nanami Kento is the type of man who likes to take care of dinner. It doesn't matter if it's on a busy weekday or a lazy sunday afternoon, he's insistent on putting a plate full of love ahead of you before you go to bed.

However, sometimes, these love bites mean a take-out from your favorite Korean restaurant instead of his home cooked meals. Not that you mind. Not that you could when that means he has more time to have his hands occupied with you.

"The app says it's an hour until the food gets here," he says, turning the volume up on his phone before locking the screen and putting the device on the coffee table. His back smoothes against the couch while he loosens his tie as his other hand gently caresses your freshly shaven and lotioned leg. "Already took a shower without me?"

"I was feeling gross. It's hard to dress up for this terrible weather; one minute I'm freezing, the next I'm all sweaty," you explain with your head resting in your palm, wearing nothing but a crimson robe as your fiance hums in understanding. "What should we do until the food gets here? Do you want to continue Blue Lock?"

"I have a better idea," he says as his caresses become rubs on your calves. He places a tender kiss on your knee while fingerpads travel to your thighs, gingerly sinking into your flesh to have you reveal your already throbbing ache. "Can't have that green-eyed monster occupy your mind when I need you the most, can I?"

"Green-eyed monster?" you throw your head back as you laugh, and Kento almost finds it hard not to smile at his own joke when such hearty sounds leave your chest. "I'd choose you over Rin every single day, handsome,"

"You really mean that?" he mumbles against the supple flesh of your inner thigh, the edge of his teeth grazing up after he gets on his knees on the ground and pulls you closer to himself. You slowly untie your robe, letting it fall halfway off your shoulders as you arch your back. Your fingers rake through the softness of his blond hair, your breath hitches as his own tickles against your wetness.

"Mhm," you nod eagerly, your eyes getting lost in his questioning, darkened gaze. "Fuck, I'd choose you in every life,"

"I'm so glad, my love," Kento says before his tongue finally rushes across between your folds. His face gets completely buried between your thighs as each of his hands interlocks with yours, and you gasp each time he takes his tongue out of you to suck on your clit. Your ragged breathing turns into moans when he lets go of your hands to have two of his fingers inside you and his free hand teasing your hardened nipple. His upper lip and tongue focuses on your sensitive bud as his fingers fasten, hitting and massaging your sweetest spot until your walls tighten around their thickness and a gush of wetness drips out of you while you moan his name. "I love how your voice changes right before you orgasm," he says as he wipes off the mixture of his saliva and your cum with the back of his hand.

"I love you so fucking much, Kento," you whisper while you watch him unbuckle his belt; his usually pouting lips curving into a proud smile and his normally perfect hair all disheveled, falling right against his forehead - happiness looks like a divine light on Nanami Kento. And as his dick expertly slides into you and his smile turns into a groan against your lips, tears begin to gather in your eyes.

"I love you more," Kento mumbles to you in between swallowing your moans as he thrusts in and out of you, making the room fill with the fragrance of sweaty sex and the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the wet quenching of your pussy each time he pulls away. "More," he says again when his fingers wrap around your throat and the movements of his hips become harder, and you see the furrow between his brows deepen as he's edging close to his own orgasm. A sharp knot in your stomach begins to harden, the spams of your own orgasm nearly drive him mad in an instant, making him grunt and groan along, his hold tightening around your neck as you ride through your peak. "So. Much. More." each word comes with a hard thrust, sending his cum deeper with every stroke while his hand lets go of your throat, and cups your jawline. His tongue circles in your mouth as the remnants of his orgasm rush across him, and your fingers caress across his sweaty shoulders and back.

"That was amazing," you whisper when he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against yours, earning a gentle smile from him while he entirely pulls himself out of you.

"Didn't choke you too hard, did I?" he glances at the redness that thrones on your skin while he dresses up again, and you tie back your robe.

"You were perfect, as always," you smile at him, your hair all messy and your cheeks still flushed and your lips a rosy raw from his loving. If it's not for his phone ringing, he would tell you that you are the most beautiful being he's ever laid eyes on.

Kento fixes his hair with a brush of his comb before he takes the food from the delivery man who leaves with a generous tip for having the perfect timing. But Kento cannot help, but offer a plea of a smile to you when he comes back and Rin Itoshi welcomes him on the TV screen.

[playstation-dreamcast]

guys, wanna see the commission I wrote for @nshtn !!!!

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Summary: After a long day at the lab, Wesker comes home with a terrible migraine, and you run him a bath to help him feel better :) Warnings: Some slight Yandere themes and possessive behavior, but for the most part this is pure, SFW fluff!

Wesker never would have called himself an “obsessive” man before. Driven, focused, compulsive even, sure. But never obsessive. He wasn’t quite sure when that changed, but he knew that at some point it had. And it had everything to do with you. 

Today had been long. It wasn’t often he left you in your shared home alone, but he knew he was on thin ice after the last time you had been to the lab with him. He spent hours coaxing you back into his arms after you saw the true nature of his research, and realized he wasn’t the do-gooder looking for cures that you thought he was. If you had seen what he was working on today, you would have been packing your bags for sure.

Not that you would ever actually be able to leave him. No, he was sure that you both knew that you were in  far far too deep for that. But, you being complacent in your imprisonment situation made things a lot easier, for all parties involved. He preferred you that way, anyways. Your love had always been so much sweeter when freely given. 

Still, a part of him had wished he had dragged you with him to the lab today anyway, if for no other reason than because your presence just made the day easier. He could feel the tension headache forming at the back of his skull. A soft sigh of relief left him as he entered the home he made for you. He shrugged off his jacket and kicked off his heavy boots, more suited for a battlefield than they ever were for lab work.

He wasn’t shocked when you didn’t come to greet him. Your reaction to his work with the plaga had been…less than ideal. He expected you’d be cold to him for the next few days while you processed it all. Still, he felt your absence acutely in the silence, and it set him on edge. He was used to you talking about, well anything really as you took each other's coats off and made your way to the shower to wash the day off. It had become one of the comforts he didn’t even realize was a comfort until it was gone. His fingers twitched with the need to grab. pull. hold you. 

This headache was quickly becoming a migraine. He decided to just call the day here and head to the bedroom, hoping to find you there, and crash for the night. He rubbed his eyes  from under his sunglasses as he opened the door, struggling not to flinch at even the soft light of the bedroom.

“Al?” your sweet, soft, voice called and instantly he felt his shoulders relax- even if it was just for a fraction of a second.

He removed his hand from his eyes and gave you a soft smile. You looked so adorable, curled up in his blankets, reading one of the books he bought you, in the bed you shared with him. Safe, was the primary word that came to mind. “Good evening Dearheart, I trust that you had a good day?” he asked.

You ignored him. “What time is it?” You asked as you checked the alarm clock on your nightstand. It was only 3:30. “You’re home early.” You noted. It wasn’t like him to ever leave work early. 

He nodded in acknowledgement, not even really bothering to change out of his work clothes before collapsing into the bed. Not like he worked with any samples today. “I wasn’t feeling well, so I left early,” He explained. 

He suppressed a smile as you placed your cool hand against his forehead, checking for a fever. “You don’t feel warm,” you muttered, “Another migraine?” 

“Heading that way.” He said, pulling you against his chest. You didn’t fight him. You were good like that. He closed his eyes as he focused on your breathing, and the steady thrum of your heartbeat against his own. The world was slowly starting to feel right again. Having you by his side, safe in his arms, was the only way he could feel human whole these days. His soul craved you, and no matter how much he may resent that fact, there was no changing it now.

You nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, and looked at him through your eyelashes. “You smell like the lab.” You pointed out.

He gave a humorless huff of a laugh. “No doubt. I’ve been in it all day.” He muttered, closing his eyes to try and block out lowlights of the lamps in your bedroom. You hummed and patted his chest, silently requesting to be released.

He held you tighter. No, he wasn’t ready to let you go yet. He just got you back, and you couldn’t even give him five minutes? Ungrateful little-

“Al.” You said softly, patting him again, “I’d like to get up.” He held back a growl. He wanted to tell you no, but…your voice was so soft, and tender. And he knew you still weren’t happy with him. He was trying to sew you back to his side with a very delicate thread, and he had to be careful where he pulled. 

So he sighed as he let you go, scowling softly as you got up. He didn’t open his eyes, but he did notice you turn off the lamp for him, and listened as you padded into the ensuite bathroom. 

🧬🧬🧬

“Al…” your soft voice cut through the darkness. How long had it been? Had he fallen asleep? “Albert.” You said a bit more forcefully this time, placing a gentle hand on him

“Yes Dearheart?” He finally said, not removing the arm from over his eyes. When did it get there? 

“I, uh…I ran you a bath.” You whispered.

He lifted his arm and finally looked at you. Someone took off his sunglasses, he noted. “Did you now?” He asked as he sat up. 

“Mmhm” you nodded as you led him to the bathroom. The fresh scent of a douglas fir hit him as he walked in, followed by the realization that the bathroom was only lit with your candles. Fine by him, overhead lights were his enemy at the moment. He stretched out his neck to try and relieve some of the tension there, and as he did you moved to start undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Albert made no move to stop you. He’d always liked when you undressed him. He smirked as you undid his belt, a familiar smirk you knew all too well, joined by a small chuckle.

You couldn’t help the flush that came to your cheeks. “Shush.” you reprimanded.

He returned it with a condescending smile. “I didn’t say anything.” He pointed out.

“You didn’t need to.” You giggled softly as you finished undressing him. Wesker gave your face a loving caress before going and sinking down into the lush bubbles of the warm bath. He was taken a bit by surprise by the jets being on, but quickly came to appreciate them as they started to work the stress knots out of his back. 

He didn’t hide his near lascivious grin as he watched you undress. He knew the big bath tub was worth the extra money. His eyes followed even your smallest movement as you got yourself ready for the bath, and lowered yourself into the water next to him. Migraine or not, Albert was quick to pull you close to him, kissing your neck and grinning into your skin at your soft giggle. 

Your hands naturally found his hair, carding it in a way that almost seems like muscle memory. His face was still in the crook of your neck as he dragged his teeth over the seemingly permanent bruise he left there. Any time it started to fade, he’d sink his canines into you again, revealing in the way you gasped maybe a little bit too much. It was a sacred ritual for him, as well as an idle pass time. He adored the way you looked covered in his marks, the evidence of his presence in your life almost impossible to ignore. 

You hissed a little as his teeth found their home in your neck. He held you tighter, delighting in the way you squirmed as he suckled on the delicate skin there. He pulled back to admire his work, only letting up once he was satisfied that his mark wasn’t going anywhere. Ever the perfectionist. 

“Oh, I almost forgot!” You muttered, moving over to the other side of the bath and to the basket of products you kept there, “I wanted you to try this.” You said as you held up a jar.

Albert took a second to read the container in your hand in the dim candle light, his cat-like eyes doing a lot of the heavy lifting here. “A face mask?” He asked, voice unamused. 

You nodded, “A hydrating face mask.” You clarified for him. 

“And why would I need that?” He questioned. Despite what one might think, Wesker wasn’t big on the whole “self care” thing. He took care of himself of course, but just washing his face at night felt like a more than adequate skin care routine.

You moved back to him. “Because they feel nice,” You explained, “And it’s not a crime to do something just because it’s fun every once in a while.” He found your word choice near comical, all things considered. As if he had ever cared about what the law said before. Still, He closed his eyes, letting you gently apply the mask with your fingers.

He wasn’t expecting the coldness of it, but, it wasn’t entirely unwelcome either. The scent of what could only be described as “clean” mixed with the fir of the candles and the lavender of the bubbles, and Wesker slowly came to the realization that his jaw was unclenched. Now, he had always been a man of science, but some small, secret part of him was sure you had cast some sort of spell to make that miracle happen.

Or, maybe it was just the way you lovingly applied the mask that made it happen. The tips of your bare fingers gliding over the apples of his cheeks and down his nose. You even earned a little huff (That you were reasonably sure was supposed to be a laugh) from him as you booped the tip of his nose.

He heard the soft tap of the container being put to the side, and felt you move behind him. “Now what?” He muttered, careful not to move his mouth too much and disrupt your work, as he leaned back into you. 

“Now we wait.” You informed him. Joy. Despite how often he found himself doing it, Wesker had never been a fan of waiting. He was willing to do it to reach his goals, and could in many ways even be described as a “patient” man. Still didn’t mean it was one of his favorite activities. 

He nearly jumped when he felt the warm water cascading over his hair. He hadn’t heard you pick up the cup to do so, but he definitely heard you chuckling now. “Sorry,” You said, though anyone could tell you were most definitely not sorry, “I should have warned you.” 

He gave an annoyed hum in response, leaning back into you. He was much more prepared for the water this time, and even found himself relaxing as you wet his hair. He heard the soft click of a shampoo bottle opening, followed by the feeling of you working your fingers into his hair. A soft, contented sigh left him as you massaged his scalp. He’d never admit it outloud, or even to himself for that matter, but the feeling of your hands in his hair would always be his favorite feeling in the world.

He tried to remember the last time he felt safe enough with someone to let their hands get this close to his neck while he had his eyes closed. Maybe William? And even then, it was mostly just that he trusted Birkin not to kill him while he slept. If he woke up to his hands in his hair, well…for one that would have been a very awkward conversation to have with Annette, but beyond that he probably would have punched him on reflex alone. 

He had never felt the need to keep his guard up that high around you though. You had always been so gentle, so sweet. A soft bunny that had no idea it was playing with ravenous wolves. Perfect for him to model the “comfort” action off of, for lack of better phrasing. He wasn’t sure when it changed. It happened when he wasn’t looking, it went from just another experiment to something more.

He felt that twinge in his chest again. The one he only got when he thought of you. The all too familiar and uncomfortable contraction that reminded him that no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, to run away from the fact, he still had a human heart. A human heart that beat in time with yours, for yours. A human heart that was always more yours than it ever was his. 

You were rinsing the shampoo out of his hair now, careful to make sure you got all of it out. His eyes were still closed. “No one’s ever washed my hair before.” He muttered.

“Yeah, that's not shocking to me,” you said, already working the conditioner into his hair, “All things considered.” It was more of an observation to himself, but- he did say it outloud- so he shouldn’t have been shocked by your commentary. He’d never been particularly open about his childhood with you. Mostly because he couldn’t bear the horrified, heart broken look in your eyes when he told you some of the lighter stories. Still, with the little information you had it didn’t take a giant leap of logic to figure out that Albert had spent his younger years isolated. Alone. 

Touch starved. Maybe that was why he always leaned into your touch, even the slightest graze. Why he insisted you be in his lap at all possible times. Why he could never really let you be that far away from him. 

Why he got jealous of any of the other researchers you spoke to. Why he had to know your location at all times, beyond just “wanting to make sure you’re safe.” Why you had become his own personal chew toy, covered in more “love bites” than you could ever hope to cover. Maybe he was just touch starved and making up for lost time. 

His hand found your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. You were both shocked it took him this long to do so. You flinched a little as you felt his nails did into the tender skin, but knew better than to say anything at this point. Wesker's love had always come blood soaked and tinged with pain. You were fairly sure it was the only way he really knew how to love.

His grip loosened before doing any real damage though, so progress was being made on that front. It was just a slow process. While you waited for the conditioner to set in his hair, you grabbed one of the soft rags from the towel bar, wetting it before gently wiping the mask away. He raised a hand to rub his cheek when you were done. You were right, his skin did feel noticeably softer.

Or maybe it was just the placebo effect. Who knows. He opened his eyes slowly, smiling as he saw yours looking back down at him. “Hello Gorgeous.” he hummed to you, smile growing as he watched your face warm up.

“Hey Handsome.” You replied, brushing a stray hair out of his face, “Close your eyes again.” You instructed. For once he did as you said without a fuss, letting you rinse the conditioner out of his hair. “Are you feeling any better?” You asked softly.

He has almost forgotten about the migraine entirely. “Much.” He confirmed, looking back up at you. Normally, he preferred you in his arms. But, he could get used to the inverse too. “Some days I feel like I don’t deserve you, my Dearheart.” He mused, taking your wrist and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. He relished how flustered you got as he did so. He always knew exactly what to say or do to get you worked up, and it was a sight that never got old for him. 

“Come on Al, don’t say that.” You shook your head at him, “We both know that’s not true.” 

His grin only got wider. He loved it when you played his game with him. You both knew the thought that he wasn’t absolutely entitled to you had never once crossed his mind, let alone the thought that he might not deserve you. But, you’d both hide behind the nicer interpretation of your words. “Will you be staying in the bedroom with me tonight?” he asked.

He didn’t have to put any emphasis on the “with me” for you to feel it. You had slipped off to sleep in the guest room last night after he had fallen asleep. An act of defiance that he would normally never let slide, purposefully ignored. He knew you were struggling with what you had seen in the lab, and had learned from you to give space when things such as this happened.

But you both knew he was tired of giving space. And it hadn’t even been a full twenty four hours yet. You were quiet for a moment, before you nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be in there with you tonight.”

“All night?” He didn’t mean for there to be that much edge to his voice, but after a long day he was done masking.

You nodded again. “All night.”

He smiled, reaching up and pulling you down for a quick kiss. “That's my good Bunny.” He praised, eliciting a delightful smile from you. You were still his, no matter what you had seen in that lab. You’d always be his, the red string of fate tangled and twisted around your necks, keeping you together no matter the circumstances. 

The water had gone tepid, and the froth of the bubbles had long since dissipated. He stood, holding out a hand to help you up. The bath was drained in favor of a quick shower, mostly to rinse away any remaining suds. As you stepped out, he wrapped a warm fluffy towel around you, a tender act that you returned in kind. 

You brushed his hair, telling him it was part of the “full princess treatment.” He allowed it, if for no other reason than it was yet another reason for you to play with his hair. He insisted on brushing yours as well, saying you deserved the “full princess treatment” just as much as he did. And yes, it was a thinly veiled excuse to play with your hair. 

Relieved from the migraine, the two of you were able to indulge in a movie to continue winding down for the night. He still insisted on cooking, being very vigilant of your diet. Nutrition was important, and he was a pretty good cook all things considered. He happily made your favorite before settling in to watch…

Whatever it was you put on. Honestly, he wasn’t really paying attention. He was far more occupied with the adorable pet on his lap, showering you with kisses and affection. Wesker was a fair man, he returned the treatment given to him. To the best of his ability. And he was more than happy to lavish you with his attention and praise. He didn’t realize just how much he missed you today until now.

He wasn’t going to do that again. If today had been any indication, even when you were scared of him, you still wanted to take care of him. Perhaps he had underestimated your tolerance for his work. Maybe you just needed to see more of it. Build up a tolerance via exposure. You’d come to see things his way eventually. You’d have to.

Before you knew it, he was holding impossibly close, against his chest, in bed, as if he was scared that if he let up you might disappear. A not impossible outcome, considering the night before. He buried his nose in your hair, getting lost in the familiar scent as he seemed to hold you just a little bit tighter. “I adore you, Dearheart.” He finally mumbled to you. 

 “I love you too, Al.” you promised, reaching out and turning off the lamp for the night. 

______________________________________________________________________________

A/N: AHHSDFHCDHIUHDVHV9UPAH I LOVE HIM SO MUCH IT’S NOT EVEN FUNNY!!!!!!!!! Thank you, so so much for commissioning me to do this, it has in fact, made me smile bunches! I just love writing for my lil Weskee.

Bonus! The song that has the lyric the fic was named for: Human Zoo - Aphrodite, Your Electric Sexiness ft. Will Wood (Animated Lyric Video)

[rowdyluv]

I just need a little Timeless blurb on how Quinn and Jack find out about Emmy and their reaction

previous blurb Rosey’s first trimester would be ending in October. Her and Luke decided they would wait until thanksgiving break to tell his brothers the news.

The exhausted college students that were Luke and Rosey were more than grateful to be home for a few days. Rosey was still fighting morning sickness, why they called it morning sickness she didn’t know because it lasted all day long for her. Yet she persevered and pushed through it.

“Luke are you sure they won’t be mad at you? At us?” Rosey fidgets with hem of her newly purchased umich hoodie.

“I’m not sure of anything but my love for you and that little baby in there,” He says placing a hand on her stomach and looking directly in her eyes. “but I know my brothers enough that if they are upset with me or us they won’t be too terribly rude about it. Especially Quinn.”

She audibly sighed and then relaxed. “It’s too late to worry about their opinion anyways. If they aren’t happy then they won’t see her.”

Luke let out a small quick laugh as leaned over to kiss her cheek, “Ro, we haven’t found out the gender yet. Don’t assume or get too attached to the thought of little bit being a girl. Gender grief is a thing…”

His words trailed off as footsteps were getting louder and closer to his room.

“Lukey you know the rules, doors open.” Jack tsked playfully before winking.

“Do you need something?” Luke asked annoyed with his brother’s words.

“I don’t need anything, but mom sent me to inform you that we are all waiting for you to acknowledge her text message that dinner is ready and to bring whatever gifts she’s referring to.” Jack left the room waving the two of them off. Ignoring the fact that Rosey launched herself off the bed and ran to the bathroom across the hall as he was leaving.

…

Dinner was nice and went smoothly. A typical Hughes dinner. Rosey picked at her food though, only non-typical gesture.

“Sweetie, do you want to go ahead and give Jack and Quinn their gifts?” Ellen asked at neither Luke or Rosey in particular but Luke got up to grab their bags.

“Please pull them out simultaneously, that way you’re both reading at the same time. The other can’t blurt it out until you know the other has comprehended.” Ellen explains. Jack and Quinn share a look because pulling out a jersey each and a card tied to the tag.

“Thanks for getting me my own jersey!” Jack chirpped. Then saw the note and his eyes fell on uncle instantly. His eyes were flipping between “uncle”, his baby brother, and older brother.

“Quinn. You?” Jack whispered.

“I’ve got it, but I need a minute. Please.” He choked bit.

“Q? Are you…mad?” Rosey whispered.

“No. I’m not mad. I’m just shocked…. I mean? Wow. Little Lukey. Is going to have his own little Lukey or little Rosey.” Quinn smiled. “And I’m an uncle? I get to see the kid but I can give it back. Best. Thing. Ever.”

Everybody around the table laughed at quinn and his over excitement. Rosey relaxed a little bit. Luke felt much more at ease now that his whole family knew. But what he didn’t realize was the stress only intensified when it came to baby shower planning. He’s just glad he didn’t have to attend.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Do you think that Ms. Bustier is overhated?

Not particularly. I don't have any strong feelings about her, but she's clearly a terrible teacher who is in way over her head. I totally understand why she sets some people off. If she was a real person that I actually had to deal with, then she'd probably set me off, too, because she so perfectly encapsulates toxic positivity. If you're not familiar with that term, then here's a quick definition:

Toxic positivity is the act of avoiding, suppressing, or rejecting negative emotions or experiences. This may take the form of denying your own emotions or someone else denying your emotions, insisting on positive thinking instead. Although setting aside difficult emotions is sometimes necessary temporarily, denying negative feelings long term is harmful because it can prevent people from processing their emotions and overcoming their distress.

Read that definition and then look at this scene from Zombiezou:

Marinette: But Miss Bustier, it's so not fair! It was Chloé, pulling another...Chloé! And...I'm the one who's getting in trouble?! Miss Bustier: Of course you're not in trouble, don't worry! As the class representative, I want you to set a good example for your classmates. Don't give into feelings of anger. Try to forgive Chloé instead. Marinette: I don't get it... Chloé is the meanest person I've ever known. Miss Bustier: Come on... There are much worse people in Paris right now than Chloé Bourgeois. I'm sure people like Chloé are capable of great things. The problem is, they only think of themselves. They don't understand the meaning of love, and we can't force them to change. But perhaps we can show them by setting a good example. That's why Marinettes are so important in today's world; because they have a lot of love to give. I'm counting on you. Marinette: Yes, Miss Bustier.

This is toxic positivity in action. Marinette is told to set aside her extremely valid feelings as if anger is a terrible thing, but it isn't. All emotions have their place and ignoring them can do real harm, a lesson that Miraculous really struggles with. It seems to see "negative" emotions as bad and they're really not. What matters is how we express and address our emotions, not that we experience them. If you want to see a family friendly piece of media do this topic right, then go watch Pixar's Inside Out.

There's also the fact that Chloé is never punished for her actions in this episode. She ruined a gift that probably took Marinette hours and yet Miss Bustier puts the onus to fix things on Marinette, blaming the victim and doing nothing to actually fix the situation. Canon mildly complicates this with Chloé's father's willingness to meddle, making punishing her apparently impossible, but Miss Bustier doesn't even acknowledge that here. The stated logic is that you need to be nice to your bully and that will hopefully magically fix things, which is a terrible lesson that I don't want any kid to learn! What kind of logic is that?

I'll admit that I'm a big fan of "an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind," but that doesn't mean that you should never acknowledge harm or fight back. It just means that you need to be measured in your responses and pick your battles wisely. If this episode was about that, then I'd be fine with it, but that's not the lesson here. There is no point where the wrong done to Marinette is even mildly acknowledged. Miss Bustier's initial reaction to seeing Marinette's ruined gift is:

Miss Bustier: Well, I think this present is wonderful. It'll be my new cosmetics bag! Then I'll be able to think of both of you every time I use it.

And we go straight from that to the toxic positivity.

Something is wrong with this woman. You shouldn't even take this approach with preschoolers! While I could see this being a good final solution to something like Chloé scribbling on Marinette's drawing, Chloé's behavior still needs to be addressed. She is still the one in the wrong here. The one whose behavior needs to change.

This is one of many cases where there are two paths to take with this character. The writers clearly want Miss Bustier to be a wonderful teacher, but they wrote a victim-blaming disaster who shouldn't be in charge of anyone. If you're ever adapting her, then it's up to you if you want to redesign her into her intended self or if you want to lean into the bad writing. I think both paths have merit because the writing is so bad that there is no way to make canon Caline work as a good teacher. She's too fundamentally flawed so you either acknowledge how awful she is or do a major overhaul where she's much less forgiving and actually acknowledges things like the Chloé problem.

[pepprs]

hi, everyone. i hope you all are doing well. i’ve been meaning and wanting to check in here for many months but i have also been too afraid to. but i want to do it now because im potentially at a turning point and i want you all (especially close friends and mutuals who i haven’t talked to in a long time) to know what’s going on because unfortunately i do not have the strength to reach out individually right now, as much as i desperately want to.

when i left this place a year ago my depression was extremely bad. i didn’t know how long i was going to be gone or whether i was leaving for good, but i knew i needed to make some changes in my life before i could be here healthily again. well… 2024 has been a year of IMMENSE change for me! a lot of it has been for the good. i made some progress in my life by moving out, and i’ve had a lot of joy and healing in (very slowly) building a home for myself and figuring out what kind of life i want to live and how i want to live it. (im learning how to drive! i have string lights and stuffed animals and a wii! i am capable of solo travel!)

but… a lot of the changes that have happened this year have been for the worse. in almost every respect 2024 has been one of the most difficult and painful years of my life (and that is saying something!). this year a couple of traumatic things have happened to me and around me, and it has been extremely hard to live my life despite and beyond them. i have been dealing with physical and mental health issues that have greatly impacted my quality of life and make it unbearably difficult for me to get through every day. i am constantly running on negative spoons. one of the most damaging outcomes of this is that i have almost completely withdrawn from society both online and off and that is not an exaggeration. ive stopped talking to all of my friends and family except for people i see every day at work. i impulsively isolate myself when im in pain / distress despite knowing both emotionally and logically that it makes literally everything worse and i don’t know how to (and often can’t muster the mental strength to) work through the shame and grief and anxiety to seek connection and support. and im struggling to take care of myself including physically and its having severe consequences in every aspect of my life and in the lives of people who care about me. i live alone and i still think that was the good and right choice for me to make, but i am profoundly and agonizingly lonely. my depression was extremely bad when i left here, but i think despite everything it might be even worse now.

all of this is to say: this week i finally decided i can’t suffer like this anymore, and i began the process of seeking a formal diagnosis for my depression and other mental health issues and exploring additional treatment beyond talk therapy (most likely meds but there may be other things too / instead; still at the very beginning stages of figuring it all out). i am extremely anxious about many dimensions of this but also hopeful that it will help me hurt less because when i tell you at this point my brain and heart physically ache from depression like 85% of every day…. lol. im really hoping that once i get my mental / emotional pain under control i’ll be able to start tending to the parts of my life that have withered while ive suffered and repair the damage of my neglect as best i can. (which is to say… if you’re my friend and you’re reading this please know i love you and i miss you terribly and i am so sorry we haven’t spoken and i am so sorry im telling you this in a tumblr post you may not even read instead of a reply or a call back. i still love you and i want you to know it is not you specifically i am ghosting, its everyone. i am trying to build the strength and im scared i can’t but i hope i can.)

that said… i have decided i am not going to be coming back to this blog. i miss this place and the community i felt connected to here, but the way i was using this website as a public diary was extremely unhealthy, and as much as i miss it and still crave the instant comfort/validation i see clearly now with months of distance how damaging it was. (i truly cannot believe i was oversharing like that lol i am so private now (yes due largely to mental illness but still!)) i am so grateful to everyone who reassured me when i was struggling and celebrated my successes. this was the first place, online or off, where i (misguidedly but it’s true!) could actually be honest and candid about things happening in my life and my reactions to them instead of communicating it all through metaphors in my art and poetry, and it truly mattered that i had that experience here so that i could seek out more spaces like it in my offline life. i know i already said thank you in a previous update but really… thank you. 💗🫂

im not planning on deleting this blog. i may come back here and share updates like this one from time to time, but otherwise i will leave it as it is. but… i do want to get back to using a few of my fandom-centered sideblogs because looking at and compiling art of things i like is a low-energy thing that makes me happy! so you may see activity there every once in a while (tbh during this hiatus i have opened tumblr from time to time to look at art and save a bunch of posts that i wanted to reblog eventually lol). but… if i notice myself slipping back into bad habits i may private the sideblogs or abandon them completely.

i don’t know how to end this post. actually wait yes i do. one of my all time favorite artists is anna-laura sullivan (@/annalaura_art on instagram) and this is one of my all time favorite drawings of hers (so much so that i made it my lock screen so i can look at it every day!). this saying has brought me a lot of comfort and i hope it (and her other art) will bring you comfort too if you’re also in a dark place.

one more thing: not to be kind of a freak but in writing this post i discovered a longer version of my goodbye post from last year in my drafts. i don’t remember why i didn’t post it and obviously it’s outdated now but i want to share the draft because i went into more detail about tumblr having been helpful for me specifically when it comes to my mutuals + info / disclaimers about how to reach me and i want you guys to hear that in my past self’s voice lol! i put it under the cut if you want to read it!

2023 tess said it best: i hope you know how much it’s meant to me to be in your company. thank you for sharing and thank you for listening. i love you. happy [almost] new year. be well. good luck. shine bright. until we meet again ☕️🐈🫂💗

[fatewoven]

Tevinter's ochre dirt blends well into clay; the consistency crafted into a town, then a city, then an expansion fit to swallow the horizon beneath its banners — the tint of blood evident in each brick and stone laid out across the famed highway. True, it's an empire built on countless slaves, each one broken and ground into the foundation; defining itself as much of a graveyard as the Necropolis is, and it's a hungry thing, this land built from the ruined remnants of gods both terrible and flawed. It cares not whether the veins are noble-bred or slave-worthless as long as there's blood to spill. These are the observations he's gleaned from working on those soils — and as Valrys speaks, there's ever a moment to consider the truths slumbering under the sandstone-carven surface. How much blood has this man shed for his homeland? How much of it was his own?

The answer, Lucanis expects, is more than one might expect.

"Trust me, your first impressions were anything but." He leaves the comment at that, gaze trailing upward. The ceiling is not made of brackish water, held back by centuries-old (crumbling) magics, and neither is the room cold from the fathom-deep chill seeping through the cracks. It's a place to be, somewhere dark and quiet and warm. There's purpose here, at least, when the prospect of going home remains impermissible. You— We don't. Recognize it. Your city.

No, he thinks bitterly, having felt no different than a stranger as his steps walked once-familiar canals and rooftops.

Instead of dwelling, he slots those thoughts into their respective boxes. Seals each tight as coffins, only to be examined by dire necessity. "Valrys Sarithan, yes. A pleasure." The name rolls off the tongue with the exquisite ease of a decapitation. All sinew and gristle, familiar letters that stretch his mouth into a smile in the aftermath. "As for that question, you will simply have to find out. Here, I shall offer a few sentences at least," he adds, tone tinged thorn-teasing. A tut. A perceptive awareness conditioned in him to find those softer spots in people. "Even your pursuits of leisure are about winning. I wager you would be a rather dull opponent at cards. Wicked grace in particular."

Yet, even as his eyes shine at the simple response, he knows they are no different. A Dellamorte must live up to improbable expectations, and for that, they must attain the time-consuming ideal. "Train, mostly. Cooking is much a necessity as a hobby... If you ask what I might rather do, I would say: go see a wyvern. And if I ask you that same question, will you say agree to a game of cards?"

He's never been one to think of himself as mentor, teacher. But he nearly comes of age to be considered old, even in his false alias. Harder still to think of himself as admired, though even he is not not so humble in his denial as to recognize that what he is capable of with barely any effort at all would take another mortal a lifetime to be able to achieve, or two. "Oh, dear," he chuckles, "I can only imagine the picture she may have painted for you. I must come off as dreadfully serious and boring as a schoolteacher to you." He remembers himself then: the quiet, solitary academic. It was a perfect mask. It is not the worst impression to have been passed on, he supposes. Perhaps it explains things, too: Lucanis trying to impress and flatter like an inquisitive pupil. He watches the fidgeting, the looks, and there's a certain endearing quality to it. Endearing, because they are acts of life. Just as how the other's laugh is an enjoyable sound, even more so because he thinks it genuine; that he has coaxed out some rare emotion, like the sight of a rare bird's plumage. "I didn't necessarily say I disliked it," he says, just the barest hint of that dark, honeyed edge, but there's no further follow-through to it. The sentiment flies away as quickly as it came. "I suppose the question is, what kind of book are you?" He promptly asks, not ready to let the other slither away from the metaphor so easily. But it is a good one, he reasons; perhaps that is how he shall think of his team: his own little library. He offers an amused look, at first, as if to say: you know my name. He leans back, languid in form, one leg crossing over the other, like a god in repose. He's spoken the false word a thousand times, yet there are moments he feels more tired to say it than others. "Valrys," he offers, with a sweetness that only a lie could have, as he lets the palm of his hand rest atop of the cover of the book. The oh so simple question posed shouldn't be so hard to answer. "Chess, obviously," he replies first, with a twist of his lips. "I am notoriously good at it," he warns with the lightest tease. "I suppose I can even say that I beat an elvhen god at it," he muses, mentally noting that fact as a jab he can bring up at his next impromptu debate with the figure in his head. "Playing cards," he adds on, and thinks: what does he enjoy, other than beating others? He knows he should have more answers. "Does magic count as a hobby?" But it has never been so light a thing for him: it was serious as death. "And what does an assassin do on his days off?" He asks in turn, wanting to know, but also wanting to cut himself off from the embarrassment of struggling with further answers.

[bogkeep]

so so sick of every courier service that's not just Regular Local Mail. why do they make everything so difficult and complicated all the time auuggghhggg

[sysig]

My kingdom for a "So you say” (Patreon)

[arolesbianism]

Thinks oh so hard abt the spiraling upwards clan founders, especially the birchclan founders. Silly lil kitties who's pasts are drenched in blood with the primary regret of not drawing it sooner

[pancake-breakfast]

Stream-of-consciousness thoughts for Trigun Vol. 1, Chapters 7-8 below. (More detailed thoughts will be their own posts.)

Chapter 7: Rem

Who counts speed in decimal points of MPH?!

I'm laughing so hard over the ominous kyuru-kyuru-kyuru of the squeaking wheel.

IT WAS JUST A DISTRACTION!!!

Dang, that's so many communication tubes...

LOL, I can't believe Vash took the time to make a sign and stick it to one of the mook's backs.

"That blond twit" is probably one of the nicer things people have called Vash, TBF. I don't think that title would bother him much.

Heheheheheh, Vash just... randomly having high-tech lost technology tiny radio gadgets on him. Because of course he does.

This is true. Also, he probably doesn't want to. He should probably just explain by smiling and saying, "I'm Vash the Stampede!" That would probably be enough.

Aw, man. Things are already not going their way.

I love, love how strongly Vash reacts to realizing he accidentally injured someone badly. It hurts to see, but it tells us so much about his character.

Current favorite Vash Serious Pose:

Oh, child. Vash knows EXACTLY what he's doing and what the risks are.

Vash is telling Katie to remember Rem's name, but without context, it's just gonna be confusing for the kid.

I appreciate the little detail that, now that the injured peon is being treated for his wound, we see his face. Now he's no longer a faceless peon. Now he's a person.

I've seen other people say it, but I'm gonna say it, too. Vash is absolutely not underestimating people.

I love how Vash's face is covered in this panel. I love how it obscures our perception of how he's reacting to this. I love how hard this hits when you know his history.

"Your ticket to the future is always blank."

Yeah, Shinypants McGee gets it. He recognizes skill when he sees it.

Poor Vash has been running around too much with all this. He needs a nap and some juice. And... uh... medical treatment.

That... is the exact opposite of "the only clear room."

And yet, Vash's first concern is making sure Katie is safe.

Chapter 8: Duelists

Aww, colored Milly and Meryl!

And here the ship's captain is like, "Yep, I'm now putting all my hopes into the hands of some rando I haven't even met because he may or may not be giving Shinypants McGee trouble."

Someone's been dodging bullets again, I see...

Current favorite Vash Annoyed Pose:

Dear lord, this crotch shot. It's upsetting. Suffer with me (and the kid) as I post a picture of it.

Pfft. I'm pretty sure only a couple chapters back Vash was talking about how people's hearts in this world were so dry it made him wonder why folks go on living. I think he knows that reality isn't exactly pretty.

DERRINGER MERYL!!! DERRINGER MERYL!!!

LOL, Milly just inventing a cool name for herself on the spot.

Overlook today's events?? Why is she blaming Vash for today's events?! He's been doing his darndest to STOP today's events, and he certainly didn't put them in motion!

Hahahaha, seems like the peons didn't realize they were up against Mr. The Stampede.

Dang, Vash cutting right to the point there. He just straight-up deduces Shinypants McGee lost family in July. Shinypants denies it, but methinks this good sir doth protest too much.

Alas, no answers for anyone here.

Despite everything this guy's done, Vash trusts he'll honor the bargain of the duel and agrees to it.

I love that Meryl and Milly are still running around in their peon suits.

DRAMATIC COIN TOSS

Really, all Shinypants has to do is drag this out. He doesn't have to win. If he takes too long, the ship is lost regardless. But if he takes too too long, he'll go down with it.

This guy opens fire wildly, but Vash... he only shot a single bullet, yeah?

Oh, babygirl. Where's your band-aid??

Sure, he's honoring his bargain, but the situation just went from bad to worse.

[dawnwriterimagines]

The Guilty Plea

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x FEM!READER

Traitors Among Us (Part 1) and Innocents Among You (Part 2)

Verdict Due (Part 4) Clear Skies (Part 5)

Summary: As you're discharged from the infirmary, under watchful eye, you head to Laswell to talk on the rest of your now ruined military career. Of course, you're forced to confront your team as it happens, the last people on earth you'd like to see.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

Running your fingers along the raised, pink scar across you cheek, the feeling of it...it really looked terrible. A part of you thought it would disappear, hoped it would, but it didn't. It just became severely more noticeable. Looking at this, you knew you'd always have to think of it. You'd sport this reminder for the rest of your life.

Looking away from it, you find your own tired eyes in the mirror, you haven't been sleeping well. Or at all. You can't remember the last time you got 4 hours, let alone 8. Dark circles still surrounded them but at least the bruising and the swelling had gone down.

You couldn't recognize yourself. Not really.

This woman looked so exhausted, so frail and so goddamn angry. It was accurate, it was how you felt. All of it. So, you supposed that the mirror's reflection was the truth, this was you indeed.

"If you need another day or two, no one will ask questions."

You glance over towards your psychologist, your fucking therapist, a nice little 'gift' sent over by the bureau to check in on your mental state after your ordeal. Glaring at him through the reflection of your mirror, he sighs, putting down his pen that slaps against his notepad, "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

"I'm going to Laswell." Ignoring his statement, you speak. "I'm ready. I'll pack up. Get back to base. Vera had me discharged from the infirmary. I can start ov--"

"Vera?"

"My nurse. You met her," you continued, annoyance spiking at the interruption. Your wrist brace squeaking quietly under the pressure of your fist tightening beneath the table.

"Right..."

"Do you listen to a word I say outside of...my 'trauma'?" You wonder, bluntly.

Your psychologist blinks, surprised, before clearing his throat, appalled. "If you feel I can be more attentive to your state of well-being throughout our process, than by all means--"

"Oh, so 'no'?" you lean back into your seat, a strained laugh leaving you. His lips press together and you continue before he can find the words. "Because whenever I mention leaving this fucking team, you either adjust our schedule for another two weeks or suggest hypnotic therapy, as if I need anyone else digging around to fuck up my mental state."

"I never meant to imply--"

"Oh, you implied it," you interrupted, gritting your teeth. "I know what I want. And I want off Task Force 141."

He taps at the leather of his notebook. "Scars heal, just remember that, Ms. (L/n). The reminders of your experience shouldn't have to haunt you."

"It's not the scars, I've had my share way before this," you admitted, rising to your feet. You exhale deeply that tells to the effort of it, the steel gear hinges along your leg braces shift with your change of position. Still getting use to them. "It's the person."

"Has she changed, you think?" the psychologist begins to write, getting somewhere.

"She doesn't exist anymore."

Finally, placing the mirror down and onto the side table, you pushed off of the table, rolling your IV pole along with you. Passing the chair your psychologist sits on, he closes his notebook with a frustrated huff, looking over his shoulder. "Session over for you already, Ms. (L/n)?" he sighs. "We've still got the hour."

"I'm done," you take the knob in your hand. Turning.

In more ways than one.

"You understand that, informing your captain on your leave is required of you. Have you spoken to any of them, in the last few weeks?" he spoke up, quickly. "I'm sure giving them a space to open up, share from their view--"

"Why should I care--"

"--will give you better understanding, better clarity of the situation they were in--

Appalled. "What the fuck?" Jamming the door closed with a loud, shuttering thud, you whip around. "IT'S NOT ABOUT THEM!" you could just rip your hair out. "Who--who says that to someone?!"

Your psychologist sits there, eyes wide in confusion. "What--"

"Christ, can you hear me? Can you--can you see me? I've got metal plates in my spine, braces holding my knees in place and nerve damage that'll never heal! Who gives a fuck about them!" your skin feels red hot, your face twisted in rage. "I gave my life! My life to this! And then I'm tortured, I'm threatened, drugged and beaten by my own team, my f--my family for eight fucking years..."

You continue with a heavy chest. "And I'm supposed to invite them for dinner to talk and listen them bitch and moan about why they thought it was necessary to beat me to death for two weeks?! Fuck you!" you spat. "I don't owe them anything!"

"That's not what I was trying to say, Ms. (L/N). I apologize, I overstepped. Come sit down--"

"Of course you meant it," you interrupted, mock humor. "Don't be a pussy, own up to it. Revel in your truth. Be tter yet--" you snatch a journal from the cabinet. Tossing it his way. "Make a note of it."

Turning the knob, you leave the room with a slam of the metal door.

---

You were officially famous. On the base, you were now a legend.

A story that would be mentioned and told at lunch for months. Probably years.

First, you were a rat. Next, you were innocent. This was the most gossip any of those in service had ever seen in their years of service.

An interesting reminder to those in service that you weren't safe off duty either.

You learned a few days ago that there was an update put into the interrogational unit, something about how to properly go about dissecting evidence and being on the lookout for enemy spies in the militia.

You guessed you had been told about it in an effort to be appeased by the thought that the head of control paid attention to anything beyond their own noses for once. But, you had little to no faith in a system that's nearly killed you on and off the field by now, so it didn't matter.

You doubted the new rules would be followed though, there was a plethora of things they'd done to you in that cell that were both illegal and unsanctioned. Most of all, that were expected towards an enemy, a prisoner of war at best, and not a fellow marine.

You arrive at the housing quarters, swiping your key card, pulling the handle and entering the wing. Immediately, you're greeted by a dozen eyes, conversations stopping short and clothes ruffling to silence, suddenly whispers fill the space and eyes turn away.

"Oh, god, it's her..." says one man in the far corner.

"Shut the fuck up, man!" came a harsh whisper back.

"I didn't know it was that bad..."

All those eyes on you, makes you pause in your step, looking around at all of your fellow soldiers, the men and women you've served with for years. Many you recognized, ate with, fought beside that turned their backs to you now. Out of respect? Out of distaste, morale, nerves, pity, it all didn't matter. It all felt the same.

The wheels attached to your IV pole suddenly sounded much too loud on the polished flooring, as you walked down the hall as fast as you were able to.

Breathing out deeply, you get to an elevator, pushing on the button, once, twice, three times, just open goddamn it.

With a ding, the metal doors open, and suddenly you're aware that people could be in the elevator, they could be in this elevator, he could be in this elevator. Your eyes flicker down to the floor, your grip on the pole of your iv tightens, your shoulders stiffen, waiting for a blow that will never come.

You stand there as the doors open up, the small space empty, the metal walls reflect only her and a streak of lighting from the ceiling.

Looking up slowly, finally taking a breath, before sliding the iv up and onto the elevator, following it as you press your floor number along the way.

The ride up is fast, a little rumble as it stops, and then the doors open. Faster than you were prepared for.

Peeking out down the hallway, luckily no one to bump into, which you were thankful for. But, it didn't make this hall any less haunting. You'd been cornered in this same hall, you could recall being hauled out of the room after the solid handle of a knife hits your temple.

You don't go down fast enough, whipping around as you stumble to take the wrist of your attacker, mostly for balance, it's Price. In shock, you're unprepared as Johnny's arm encircle your neck, locking you into position as you both stumble backwards onto the floor. He blocks your airways, hushing you harshly as you struggle, feet kicking out and your vision blurring as your team surrounds you. Your family.

That was quite the headache to wakeup with afterwards.

You hadn't quite remembered until now. Being back served as a hell of a kickstart to your memory.

Just a few more reasons to get the fuck off of 141.

Getting off the elevators, the metal doors sliding closed behind you, you make your way down the hall. The polished flooring creates a subtle squeak through the wheels of your iv pole, your hand absently running over the fading stitches along your side.

Passing the shadows of your tortured memory, the doorway of the office was closed, locked.

You pass Kyle's room.

Johnny's.

Finally, you rush up to the next room on the left, grabbing the handle, before beginning to twist, but then you're yanking your hand back as if the metal had burned you. Your back ramming into the back wall, catching yourself, this wasn't your room.

It was Simon's.

You'd spent hours, days, in that room. More than your own.

Why wouldn't you? You were about to get married to the man. You had more in this room than you had in yours.

Sharp breaths leave you, shivering in your effort to keep yourself together, your head goes back into the wall, swallowing down the ache in your chest.

You wait, muscles tensed and your body pressing back into the wall, hoping it'd absorb you if that door opens. Listening for every sound, any pin drop, even an exhale from beyond that doorway. Luckily, Simon seemed to be out for the day.

Hurriedly, nearly running, you steady yourself against the wall as you rush down to the corner of the hallway, finally finding your room.

Turning the handle, it's not locked, it's broken. It opens with ease.

Entering the room slowly, pushing the doorway aside, the crackle of glass beneath your boots as you step forwards, clothes and picture frames laying scattered.

The mattress flipped and ripped open, springs and cotton cut from it. Your wall of metals and certificates, from acts of bravery and mementos of valor, discarded, later you'd find them in the trash, one with a bullet lodged into the gold.

Sniffling as you leaned down, picking a specific frame off the ground, the only one that hadn't been broken. Laying along the ruined rug, with no care for the glass digging through your jeans, you stare at the still shot of your family.

The only family you had outside of Task Force 141, your father and his sister, military brats themselves, until their retirement. Your mother had passed, or just up and left, days after your 5th birthday, you weren't completely sure, the story kept changing every year. But, these two were the only family you've ever known, ever had, until you joined the military, following in their footsteps.

They'd been so proud when you arrived back after your first assignment, in truth you were heavily traumatized, but seeing them, you just had to smile. Having a family that understood the harsh toll on the line of a trooper, now a lieutenant, it was always easier to bring your troubles to them. But, they were also military nuts so "suck it up" was also a quick go to answer from your aunt, while your father was the smoother talker.

They had met Simon, loved him, his rank, his love for you, his seriousness. They trusted him completely with your heart.

So, when he called them, after the evidence leaked...

They believed him.

"What're you talking about?" You took the handle of the chair in your grip, easing you down into it as your legs do weak at what you were hearing. "I didn't...I didn't do it, Dad."

"Do you know how humiliating and disappointing--how it felt to hear him say that to me, hm?" he says, static crackles on the reciever. "My daughter...my own flesh and blood...working with terrorists--"

"I'm not working with anyone! Are you-" you huff out a breath of disbelief. "Are you even listening to me? I've never betrayed the code. How can you think that way of me?"

For a moment, he's silent. "Alright, then," he began. "Than, what'd you do? huh?"

"What--what..."

"Oh, come on, (Y/n)!" your father yells. "What did you do?! What could they possibly have had on you that made you the most likely target? You had to have had done something, been somewhere, were with somebody you weren't supposed to be with! They didn't just get that information from anywhere."

"What the fuck--" Your expression twists with frustration and misery, running your hand through your hair, pulling at it. "I've sacrificed every part of myself for this job, for this team, what do I have to gain from throwing that all away? They send me everywhere, places you've never heard of, places you'll never hear about and people you'll never have to meet, because of me! Why would you just believe Simon? Why couldn't you just wait to talk to me?!"

Hearing your father scoff at your words was painful. "What reason do I have not to believe him? He knows you, maybe even better than any of us. Besides, he was going to be my son in law--"

"I'm your daughter! Fuck Simon, what about me? You'd believe him instead?"

He sighs. "Listen, you're upsetting Cass. We didn't expect your call. I gotta make this brief..."

"You're upset?" pulling at your hair, sucking in sharply. "I'm the one who's permanently fucking altered here. What do either of you have to be upset about?!"

"Watch your fucking mouth!" he seethes. The anger in his voice isn't new, but the way he spits it at you is. "You did this to yourself, I didn't. Maybe that's what your nightmares were about, am I right? Your guilt?"

Wiping the streaks of tears that had fallen down your face, lips quivering and chest aching with sobs you frustratedly shoved down. "Why don't you believe me?"

"I don't deserve the disgrace that will come with you as my kin, I've lived my part of this war. No daughter of mine should even be in this fucking position," your father spat, disgusted into the receiver. Suddenly, he was the cruel, bitter old man your mother had always known him to be, you wished she had stayed to at least remind you of that. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much. "You should be ashamed of yourself, but at least you got yourself out it. The least you could do for us."

"Well--what does that mean?" you spoke, quietly.

"Don't call again..."

"Dad, no--" you break this time, a sob escaping you.

"Me and your Aunt Cass..."

"Daddy please, don't do this--"

"..We've decided to cut ties. We're not taking any heat from this, you're on your own," he finishes, clearing his throat, waiting a moment, listening to the pleads and cries of his only daughter, his once pride. "You take care of yourself. Goodbye, kid."

"Why can't you just believe me? Why?!" you cried.

"Don't come to the house."

"No, no,--" the line goes dead. And staring down at your phone, his caller id going blank and the call disconnecting.

Your phone all of a sudden feels heavy, the device and your hand falling down to your thigh, before the phone slips out of your grip and onto the floor. You sit there silently, until your tears drop up and even after.

Staring at the photo now was haunting in its own way, it was just another painful reminder.

Using the bed frame to stand to your feet, your grip on the frame is painful as you squeeze it, the glass cracks audibly.

"Bonnie..."

Whipping around at the sound of John MacTavish's voice, you back up a few steps at the sight of him, your back hitting the edge of your desk.

He reaches out as you stumble, before his fingers curl back into his palm as you find your balance, his hands receding back to his sides. He doesn't enter the room, just lingering just beyond the doorway, his eyes flickering around the room, guiltily.

"I didn't know--we didn't know you were out," he speaks quietly, as opposed prideful personality that translated into his voice usually.

You say nothing.

In the dark, your eyes are wide and your shoulders are tensed up, he can see the glint of your leg braces, the iv pole at the side, the scar beneath your eye. You looked terrified to see him.

"We were coming back to clean up today, just got back from...from a mission..." he stutters on his words, shifting his feet.

"It's been a week."

His lips press together hearing your voice. "I know..." Johnny glances around at the room he'd let those officers destroy, it hadn't been them, but they might as well had done it. "I know...we just...didn't know it was so bad."

"Really?" your voice is mockingly sweet, drawing out the word. "You didn't know? Well look..." you hold up your family photo, the light in the hallway catching on the glass. "You missed one."

Your hand dropping, the heavy frame comes down just as fast, ramming into the ground, the glass practically exploding on impact.

Johnny flinches, the photo of your family...He looks back to you, surprised. "Bonnie..."

Snatching the next closest thing from your desk, a ceramic cup. "Oh, wow, can't believe you guys missed this one," you chuck it into the wall. It breaks on impact, the remains scatter along the flipped mattress and onto the floor. "That used to be my favorite mug by the way."

The Scotsman worriedly steps forwards, 'Lass, I'm sorry--"

"FUCK YOU!" you spat, coming into the light. You're sure you look deranged, and you didn't care. You could've wrapped your hands around his throat, killed him right on the floor and you wouldn't have blinked. "It doesn't mean anything! 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', over and over and over again! As if you shouldn't be! Your apologies mean fuck all."

"I know...I know," he breathes. "But, I've gotta say it anyway, bonnie. I should've believed you, there was no reason not to. I know that now. I just--"

"Believe me!" you cut him off with a yell. "Trust me! Fucking 'HELP ME'!" you screamed with the same fever as your days in the interrogation room, that terrible cell, the cold, the burn and pain. "I cried it all to you, to all of you, and nobody came. Nobody came for me," you breathe in sharply. "It doesn't matter what you should've done. You didn't do it!"

Johnny's eyes are red, he opens his mouth, closes it and then swallows down whatever chokes him up as he looks at you. "I should've came for you. I wish I did. I wanted to, Bonnie..." he steps forwards, and you recede back away from him, your eyes narrowed with violence. "I'll never forgive myself for not listening to you. For not coming to help you. For laying a hand on you. I'm so sorry, (Y/n). I'm sorry..."

I'll never forgive myself... "That makes two of us," you assured.

Johnny's eyes widen, before they close, his guilt ever consuming. He can't help but understand, to respect your decision, to know things can never be ok again. "(Y/n)...."

Grabbing hold of the nearest thing, a pencil cup, you hurl it at Johnny. He doesn't put his hands up, flinching as it hits him, the metal clinking against his kevlar, eyes closing then opening, he stands still. "I don't forgive. I don't accept your apology. I don't fucking care about it!" with each sentence you throw something else his way, a broken frame, the trash bin, a pillow, the CD player.

His hand has to come up for the knife you unsheathe, a memento from one of your missions, it's rusted, ancient probably. But, you hadn't given it up to a museum or to pawn, you had nearly died on this mission, saving Johnny ironically. You had to keep it.

Seeing the weapon, his defensive position is instinctive but his hands drop just as fast, he understands, you need this. You deserve this. "If you need to..." he speaks. Your eyes flicker up to him, away from the knife. "If you need to, I get it..."

And you need to. You really fucking do.

Your grip on the knife is dangerously hard, it hurts.

Looking at Johnny, he'd been your brother in more than a few ways on and off the field, he had been your comfort, your friend, your family. You had bled with him, held onto him as he carried you from the battlefield, joked, laughed, screamed and cried. You've loved him for years.

He'd had a rough few nights you could see that. He was quieter, reserved. Almost as terrified to see you, as you had been of him.

And you could kill him right now and never bat an eye.

And so, throwing that knife was so fucking easy.

Johnny's eyes close as you do just that, fists clenching and teeth biting down on his tongue to prepare for the pain.

The ancient weapon whiz's through the air, the sound is sharp and he knows it will cut through him like butter.

The thud rings in the room, and Johnny's eyes blow open wide, holding his breath as he collapses to his knees, before turning to you.

You dig into the pile of clothes that had been cast aside, a pair of sneakers and a new shirt. You don't look at him a single time as you take it all, stuffing them in a bag, and leaving the room, passing him completely, a limp in your step.

Johnny releases a pained breath, tears finally leaving him as he looks up, the knife lodged into the frame of the doorway, just barely missing him. The sleeve of his uniform ripped open.

He sits there in the quiet, destroyed room. A testimony to the relationship he's destroyed between you.

Part 4!! OUT NOW

[atrwriting]

terrible company — logan howlett x reader

secret time i never used to like wolverine because i thought i was cool and then i saw deadpool 3 and my jaw dropped and i watched most of the x men movies in like three days and now here we are

side note the tiktok edits went absolutely crazy with this scene

back at school needed to write something to keep me sane enjoy

barely edited we die like overworked students men

minors fuck off plz n thnx

as always, warnings: smut smut smuttt, enemies to lovers, fingering, p in v sex, dirty talk, light face slapping (trust me!), logan's a dick

—

“what, sweetheart? — afraid you might like it?”

you rolled your eyes at the man before you: logan howlett, the most obnoxious and formidable man you had ever met. his eyes twinkled with mischief, but his smirk hinted at so much more. this was the fifth or sixth time or so that he had flirted with you outright since you had first met him, and you had still found yourself being caught off guard from his honesty and lack of embarrassment.

he was an enigma to you — such terrible company, always brooding over something. then, randomly, he would see you and his eyes would get that look — as if he forgot what made him so miserable — and flirt with you so inappropriately that you didn’t know what to do, nor feel.

you sighed, staring at him. “can always count on you for shock value, can’t it?”

he smirked then, and you rolled your eyes. continuing, you spoke, “i’ll never get you. you are so mean to everyone — besides the people you want to fuck, of course.”

you turned away then, shaking your head. you didn’t hear him follow you. you grew angry after that realization, causing another sharp breath of air to leave your nostrils in a huff. you weren’t sure if you were angry at the fact that he didn’t follow you and immediately apologize even though he would never do that, or if you were just angry at how you were upset he didn’t follow you.

you tried not to think about it. you had work to do.

your next mission would be based out in the north somewhere — cold, dark, barely any service or electricity, and horrific weather. all of that would’ve made anyone groan, but none of that was the worst part.

not even close.

the worst part was that logan was your partner.

it made bile rise in your throat at the thought.

you generally didn’t mind him — he was grumpy, sure, but someone like old yeller would be grumpy after how many years he’s been alive and after what he’s been through. what pissed you off and what you couldn’t forgive — is how he treated different groups of people. he picked on a lot of people, and even if it was just “harmless hazing” — you didn’t care. it wasn’t cool and it definitely wasn’t hot. it was hurtful and you didn’t like it. he made fun of your friends, and that was where the hate began — and there was no end in sight.

but the best part? oh — the fucking cherry on top? his endless flirtation. he flirted with you shamelessly as if he wasn’t ruthless with your friends moments prior. did he think you void of loyalty? did he think you would sleep with him after he roasted your friends just because he threw a few sleazy comments your way? how little respect did he have for you? or, worse — how little respect did he think you had for yourself?

made your fucking blood boil.

that no good, rotten, fucking —

“hey, sweetheart —“

when you were within fifteen feet of him, it felt like all you did was roll your fucking eyes and bite back a quip. all you wanted to do was put him in his fucking place, or stay as far away from him as possible. however, with a mission so important — so dire — you couldn’t ask for a reassignment and make the team succumb to immature whims. you put up with logan because neither you, the team, nor the government had more options or time.

“what, logan?” you spat, pursing your lips as you turned around to face him.

fuck, he was so goddamn handsome. his skin was tanned from constantly being outside, looking perfectly aged. his facial hair and hairstyle were out of the ordinary as well, but it only kept your attention on him longer. he was strong — so strong. his muscles could kill in mere seconds, and you realized you hated yourself for thinking this way. for falling into the trap of a man so annoying — so undeserving of your attraction — your only response was to clench your jaw and fucking glare at him.

he raised his eyebrow at your attitude. “others already took the cars and helicopter. looks like we’re takin’ in my chopper.”

he didn’t wait for you to disagree. in fact, as you were winding up your “aaaabsolutely not” he immediately turned around and left towards the front — where his motorcycle was parked outside.

you stared at him as he walked towards the bike — broad shoulders clad in the leather jacket he always wore. his legs, even covered in jeans, were so trim and muscular that you could see the power behind each stride. when he swung one leg over the seat, and two hands gripped the handle bars — you would’ve said he was attractive if it wasn’t for how horrendous he was. you would’ve bit your hand at how broad his shoulders were and the strength behind them. you should’ve torn your gaze away from him — because at that moment, the moment where you were contemplating your attraction towards him and how it worked with your hatred for him — he caught you staring.

he caught you staring — and the fucking bastard smirked.

you cursed then, and then started towards his bike. like he once did, you swung your leg over and wrapped your arms around his midsection.

“hold on tight, sweetheart,” he spoke, the vibrations of his deep voice felt against your chest. “can’t say i’d let anything bad happen to you, though.”

“just drive, logan,” you spat through gritted teeth.

he chuckled darkly then, revving his engine. “yes ma’am.”

with his back to you, unable to see his reaction — it was the one moment, the one fucking time that you didn’t roll your eyes at him. your reaction to his words — yes ma’am — was raw and surprising, unsettling almost. you shifted in your seat and adjusted your grip on him as a warmth settled in your stomach, and on the apples of your cheeks. your breaths turned shallow, too, as your whole body succumbed to the blush that overtook.

no, you thought. you think he’s hot. that’s fine. assholes can be hot — we just can’t act on how hot they are. that’s fine. it’s fine. everything is fine —

but the way he smelled? oh god, the way he fucking smelled? logan was what bath and body works modeled those mahogany or whisky or leather or whatever-the-fuck candles after. part of you wanted to curse him out, making up something to be mad at him for — but the other parts wanted to wrap your arms around him tighter and stick your nose in the back of his neck like a depraved lunatic.

but you couldn’t. you wouldn’t let yourself. you sat up straighter then — trying to put as much space as possible between you and him on a vehicle that was not meant for a rivalry between driver and passenger.

you were disgusted with yourself. so, so disgusted with yourself.

fuck, you thought. this is going to be a long night.

when you reached camp, you immediately began setting up. you set up shelter and got your supplies in order, and logan went out looking for food. that was logan’s one quality that not even you could take away from him — he was an excellent hunter. you tried to busy yourself as best as you could — setting up the tent, starting the fire, the works. the sun would almost be down before logan came back.

when you heard his footsteps, your head immediately flicked up towards him. there he was — dinner thrown over his shoulder, clad in a white tank top, and cigar in his mouth. a cloud of smoke followed behind him as he walked towards where you had set up camp.

“showing off?” you cast your gaze down, putting another log on the fire.

“…is it working?”

you couldn’t help it. you let out a small laugh.

fuck.

you cleared your throat immediately, hoping he didn’t hear it. unfortunately, there was no use in that. fear struck you when you saw the tiniest smirk on his face. you brushed it off, leaving him to go get a sweatshirt as he dressed and cleaned the animal.

“scared of a little blood, sweetheart?”

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his comment. “it’s an animal, logan. not our enemy.”

“…fuckin’ vegans.”

“okay, old yeller —“ you quipped, poking at the fire. “you don’t feel a drop of sadness when you go after bambi?”

“it’s meat,” that was all he said on the subject, and you didn’t feel like poking the bear.

you ate in silence and went to bed in silence. actually — you went to bed. logan stayed out by the fire until you retreated to your tent. you left him with a bottle of jameson on his right, and a cigar in his left hand. his eyes were trained on the fire.

you didn’t like the look on his face. it was either an expression of zoning out, sadness, or a mixture of both — you couldn’t be sure. any time someone had asked logan what was on his mind, it was usually met with some rude or mean insult from logan. old yeller didn’t like feelings, and that worked out well for you — because you didn’t want to hear about his feelings.

you thought he would stay out all night if he could, never sleeping. however, he did end up going to bed — but you only knew that because he woke up screaming from a nightmare.

him yelling was extremely inconvenient and frankly dangerous — it could blow your cover. in your exhausted state, you sprung up and out of your tent and dashed over to where logan was curled on the ground. he was thrashing at the air — knocking over his bottle of whisky and kicking at the fire.

“logan!” you hissed, trying to force yourself out of your discombobulated state. the thrashing continued, and in a moment of desperation — you got on top of him.

straddled him, to be more exact.

in a moment, his eyes snapped open. your back was on the ground and he was above you — one of his claws at your jugular. logan’s instincts woke up before he did as he laid on top of you and over you, breathing heavily as he kept his blade drawn at your neck with his eyes blown wide.

“you were having a nightmare,” you choked out. “you’re okay —“

he was still staring at you and breathing heavily. it was like he was in a trance — unaware of how to navigate the feeling of peace and a fight or flight response. his pupils, blown wide, showed no sign of calming down.

you reached both hands to grasp at his cheeks, feeling the tickle of his beard on your palms. “you’re safe — it’s alright.”

he dropped his head then — on your collarbone. it hung in shame, guilt, and exhaustion. the unholy trinity that followed logan howlett around for his entire life. one of your hands slid to the back of his neck, cupping the base of his head as his thumb stroked his skin.

“i’m sorry,” was all he said, head still in the crook of your neck.

“you’re good — i get them, too.”

“i’m not looking for a pity party, alright?” he snapped, pushing himself up.

that was it. the final straw.

you reached forward them, yanking him by the shirt so you were nose to nose — tongue on fire, throat hoarse with anger and tight with sadness. “you’re such an ass, you know that? all you do is insult my friends, expect me to sleep with you, and then the moment — the one fucking moment — you show any sign of humanity, i extend a fucking olive branch, and you snap at me? — the fuck is your problem, logan?”

he raised his brows then, almost in a beckoning fashion. “you think i need a shoulder to cry on, huh, sweetheart? — that’s the thing with you young people, why your friends annoy me so much — there’s no fucking time to spend whining when there’s a fucking job to do.”

“jealous, logan?” you spat, still gripping his shirt. “can’t stand the fact that i would rather console the people you insult rather than let you fuck me?”

“what you do in your spare time is yours, sweetheart —“ he scoffed. “if you want to spend it with people who don’t respect you, fine by me.”

“don’t respect me?!” you spat. your face was red and hot now, burning with rage. every word that left your mouth was coated in venom hoping to strike him like his words struck you. “you’d fuck me, leave, and then probably treat me with as much disdain as you treat everyone else — how the fuck is that better?!”

oh — you shouldn’t have.

you really, really shouldn’t have.

you felt the regret as soon the word “better” left your mouth — only a moment before you saw something switch in logan’s eyes. the switch was followed by a twitch in his jaw, the movement he makes before he basically uses someone’s spine as a tooth pick. you knew he wouldn’t hurt you — he couldn’t, he wouldn’t — but damn, the realization of how much weight your statement held in his chest concerned you.

you watched his nose crinkle in anger.

he let out a frustrated, slow breath.

another.

and another.

and then another. he was still on top of you then — staring down his nose at you. you were cocky, cocking your chin up at him — trying to feign looking him in the eyes despite your lack of height. you didn’t want to be a sexual object, there for his free use. you didn’t want to be something he could discard, worthless. you didn’t want logan to give you the same treatment he gave your friends — because that would mean you were no longer worth anything to him.

you braced yourself for his words — what you always thought would come, sooner or later. the end of flirting, and the beginning of rejection and hatred.

“that’s it, huh?” he spoke low then, fighting back anger. “the princess thought i’d leave?” his lips were barely touching yours then, threatening the barrier and final boundary of air between you two. your chest was rising and falling with every word, unable to keep your cool. he continued, “maybe i should — since now you sound like your friends — bunch of fucking whiners.”

you slammed at his chest then, trying to push him off for his hurtful words. he didn’t budge — he was the fucking wolverine, what could you do that would get him to actually move?

“the problem is, doll —“ he took both of your hands and pressed them down next to your head. “i know you’re not like them — and i like you too much to leave.”

you scoffed, gritting your teeth. “stop fucking —“

he let go of one of your wrists and grabbed your chin in his strong hand, silencing you. he stared down at you then, and no words had the chance to leave your lips. anger sent daggers from your eyes to his, but something swirled within his irises. something worse than anger — darker. stronger. harder.

“are you going to stop fucking whining and let me kiss you?” he spat. “or are you going to crawl away with your tail between your legs and be forced to use that stashed vibrator you keep in your bag?”

you sucked in a sharp breath then — eyes going wide as your lips fell open in surprise. he smirked then, obviously pleased. your chest was still rising and falling, but now it was with shallow breaths as something else filled your lungs and abdomen.

heat. pure heat. warmth spread throughout your ribs, abdomen, and core once you absorbed logan’s words. he was so mean — so fucking rude and mean — but his “no bullshit” attitude forced you to keep out of your own way in a way you didn’t want to admit you liked. you were still then — and all you could do was stare up at logan with your big, dark eyes as a smirk crept onto his face.

“that’s it, baby,” was all he whispered before he kissed you.

the hand that once held your face slid around the back of your head, holding the base of your skull up and out for him. he planted his spread knees in between your thighs, cementing himself in place as his other arm held himself up.

logan kissed you with demand in every movement. his lips lead you in a fashion that so passionate and so dominant that your brain and body were fucking putty — his to mold in his hands as he deemed fit. you should’ve been disgusted, tormented by the fact that he would do such a thing — but you couldn’t keep up the act any longer. having logan so close, so warm — it was the ultimate act of comfort.

men had kissed you before — but no man from before could kiss you like this. this. no man had the power to claim you in the open, dangerous air while on top of you and still making you feel so safe and protected. you didn’t feel the need to go out of your way to show dominance — and it felt so fucking good to turn your brain off, even for just a moment.

and logan? fuck — logan? he had wanted nothing more for months than to be exactly where he was now; on top of you, tongue exploring the mouth that loved to insult him. he knew how on edge you were, how you were always caring about everyone but yourself — he just wanted to see what you were like when you could only think about one thing, and one thing only: your own pleasure.

it started with his fingers tightening on the back of your neck ever so slightly. your throat let out a quiet sort of mewl — like he had squeezed the last shred of focus out of you. he wanted you out of focus — not necessarily under his control, he just wanted you to lose control. crying, screaming, taking out your anger on him for all he cared — but he just wanted to be the one that made you forget about everything for a little while.

…so when he felt your hands running up and down the length of his upper body, curious as to the muscles of his shoulders — he knew what to do. he couldn’t help himself, should’ve asked —

he lowered his lower body down and ground against your clothed core.

instinctively, your legs tried to wrap around his — trying to bring him closer. you were struggling, it was so cute to him. he thought about how mean it would be to tease you, even if it was for a little bit — but would quick fun honedtly help you? the stick up your ass would probably never leave, he thought — he had to do this right.

and when he did it again — the smallest whine built in the back of your throat, sending vibrations throughout your body and senses. logan’s hyper sensitive hearing sent shivers — actual shivers — up and down his spine, and right to his cock as his strained against his zipper.

he felt you clam up then, tighten — insecure. he could sense it. smell it.

“don’t you dare —“ he breathed, demanding another kiss from you. he would swallow you whole if given the choice. “those whines you make? those sweet, little noises? — they’re mine, doll. mine. you don’t get to take what’s mine, do you?”

“no —“ you whimpered, shakily. “but — i — i thought —“

he let your neck go, much to your dismay, but that empty feeling was replaced by his large, flat palm pressing against your clothes core. you jumped for a moment, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as you peered up at him through your lashes.

“thinkin’ i hate whiners?” he laughed, biting on the skin of your neck as he kept palming you. “not when they sound as pretty as you, doll. ‘m so hard for you — gotta know you want this as much as me.”

you almost let out a struggled gasp then, close to tears. he was so mean. the stress and pain of waiting could be felt all over. he was being so sweet — so generous with his touches — but you wanted more. needed more.

“wan’ it so bad, logan,” you gasped, almost hiccuping. “don’t fuck with me anymore, please — no more games.”

you felt his hand slide your zipper down its track, smirking. “no more games means you’re mine, doll. i don’t fucking share.”

you watched as his large hand — calloused from years of war, labor, and pain — found its way under your pretty, lacy thong. he wanted to rip it off you, free you from the tight clothing — but he needed you now. you needed him now, and he wouldn’t deny you any longer.

you were soaking wet when you felt two fingers slip in between your folds, sending a sharp breath to be sucked in between your lips. logan watched in awe as the flames of the fire caught the glistening wetness on his fingers, illuminating the reflection for both of you to see and witness.

it was obvious to him now — you wanted him so badly, for longer than you had ever let on.

he should’ve been slow, loving, maybe even tender — but that wasn’t him. never was, and never would be. your grip tightened on his as he slipped two fingers inside your pussy, sucking him in desperation.

you immediately tried to bite back a squeal when you felt his fingers finally slide all the way inside you, leaving no space undiscovered. the pads of his fingers were nudging at the roof of your pussy as the meat of his fleshy palm rubbed against your lonely clit — pink, puffy, and pathetic. so desperate. you were biting your lip now, screwing your eyes shut — trying to fight the urge to scream his name.

“oh, i don’t think so, doll,” he grunted. “look at me.”

you tried to look at him. you really did. when you couldn’t manage it, your eyes blurry — you couldn’t believe it: he lightly smacked your jaw.

it should’ve sent you reeling, absolutely fuming — but it only caught your attention. he was glaring down at you, fuming, with a pink hue on his cheeks. “what did i say, huh?”

you couldn’t respond. he had halted his movement, leaving you to buck into his hands.

“those moans are mine,” he spat. “you’re goin’ to be loud, and you’re goin’ to let me know exactly how it feels, alright?”

“okay,” you whimpered. “please just —“

“fucking christ —“ he spat exasperatedly. his movements were rougher now, more than ever — sending you closer and closer to the edge. “your wound so tight, you know that? so fucking concerned and always thinking — you’re goin’ to let go for me, doll, and i’m not taking my eyes off this pussy until it sings for me.”

“fuck, logan —“ you threw your head back, screwing your eyes shut.

“you wanna close your eyes, baby, huh?” he grunted with cockiness in his voice. “too much for you?” his voice was low and guttural, turning you on more and more. “need to see what it’s like when you break for me, baby. — lose it for me, yeah? come on — that’s it — that’s a girl —“

every muscle in your body was tightening with every word. you were straining against him — wanting to pull him close and push him far away at the same exact time. you wanted your orgasm, he wanted your orgasm — and you both fought the other for it. you were grinding your hips up to meet his hand — and he was pushing you back down to the ground so you’d sit-the-fuck-still and take whatever he gave you.

logan hovered over you, knees still planted between your thighs. he still worked at your pussy, still forcing it to consume everything he had to offer. his free hand grabbed at the hair at the top of your head, pulling it back so you were at his complete and total mercy, gasping and whimpering for him — and only him.

“yeah, baby — get lost in it. show daddy how much you needed this.”

you couldn’t take it anymore. you couldn’t. you just couldn’t. the relentless need to stay strong, to keep your cool, always remain calm — gone. all of it — gone. shockwaves went up and down your body, every muscle now taught. your neck stretched back and your back arched up into logan’s chest as your orgasm ran up, down, and through every vein. your throat was dry and cracked — as were any and all coherent words that left your mouth. gasps, cries, whimpers — they all went straight to logan’s cock the minute he smelled the sweet and tangy scent of your juice flowing onto his hands and palm. he wanted to lick you up and down, swallow you whole — but logan wasn’t a patient man, no — never.

and there he was. smirking, above you — not even slightly tired.

he kept up his torture — hand still working at your pussy.

“that’s it, baby — ride out that high,” he grunted in your ear, biting at your shoulder. “nice and easy. come down for me, sweetheart — daddy’s not done with you yet.”

you fell back against the dirt, gasping — wondering where the fuck you were and how logan got you there. everything about you — blurry. your eyesight, your hearing, your sense of smell — all of it: blurry. numb and tingling. you could feel everything and nothing all at once, all while trying to catch your breath.

the only thing you could do, the only thing — was reach for logan’s belt buckle, whining for more.

he smirked down at you then once more, taking his cock our for you to wrap your small, weak hand against its girthy base. you were still reeling from the orgasm, but he didn’t mind.

“greedy girl.” he kissed you, mouth hot and demanding. “pussy feels empty without me, huh? gotta change that.”

he threw one of your legs over his shoulder, your muscles stretching and conforming to his will. you pulled him close to you, whining into his kiss. he swallowed every feverish moan with everything he had, his mind now also buzzing with pleasure.

“bet your pussy feels so warm and wet —“ he breathed. “gonna let me use you, baby? hmm?”

you shook your head feverishly, tears coming to your eyes. “please, logan — please use me.”

that’s all he needed. he slid his long length inside you, and he felt every stretch. your pussy was so sweet — ready to mold to whatever he gave you. he heard your head fall back in pleasure, a loan erupting from your chest — but logan couldn’t care about that right now. all he could focus on was how your pussy opened wide for him, sucking him in like if needed him as much as he needed you. he felt himself grow longer and thicker inside of you, almost painfully.

“jesus fucking christ —“ he hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and shoving his face into the crook of your neck. his guttural, deep moans were sent straight through your ear and down every nerve in your body. he grunted, “gonna let me take what i need, baby? let daddy use you?”

“yes, please —“ you cried. “need it so bad.”

he bent your leg back to your chest now, and suddenly the head of his cock was hitting a spot you had never felt before. so deep, so hidden — hot tears sprung to your eyes when he found it. every part of you was sensitive, buzzing for his touch — and all you could think about how there was more and more to give to him, only his to take.

“right there —!” you sobbed.

“that’s your spot, huh?” he spat through gritted teeth. “no boy has found that, i can tell. i can fucking smell it. you want me to pound into you there, baby? gonna let a real man show you how he fucks his girl?”

you were sobbing at this point, pulling him closer and closer into you if there was any space. you couldn’t respond. you didn’t have the strength or the brain to do so. all you could do was bite down on logan’s shoulder as he fucked into that spot — that one fucking spot — as he let out animalistic groans in your ear.

“all mine.”

“my fucking pussy —“

“good fucking girl —“

“gonna cream in this pussy until you can’t take it.”

your second orgasm ripped through you then as tears leaked from your eyes. your teeth broke logan’s skin, blood flooding your mouth as he moaned. the pain coursed through him with the pleasure, mixing within his veins until everything else and around him was forgotten. the only thing that mattered was the greedy pussy sucking him in, and the sweet girl beneath him.

logan was a fucking animal with how he chased your high. he ripped and clawed at the dirt as he drank in your second orgasm, feeling you go limp beneath him. the adrenaline coursing through his veins had a mind of its own — he wrapped your arms around his neck as he took your hips in both of his hands. he held you both upright then — smashing your hips down to meet his as you hung on for dear life. deep, broken grunts were pushed through his gritted teeth as he fought tooth and nail for his orgasm. he dove head first into it, letting you both fall to the ground.

you felt logan’s body shake — fucking shake. you had never known him to succumb to something so peaceful and powerful — so demanding of him. his muscles strained against the control like they were chains and he needed to break free. he groaned into the crook of your neck and tresses of your hair as he fucked himself into your puffy pussy, your cries mixing with his groans. logan’s thrust were desperate as he fucked his cream inside you, part of it coming out and leaking onto his cock as it mixed with your juice. the sight of it ripped through him as the want to claim you again and again took him too. he found your lips once more, both of you gasping into a kiss as you both settled back into the dirt.

it was going to be a long, long night...

[physalian]

How to Make Your Writing Less Stiff Part 3

Crazy how one impulsive post has quickly outshined every other post I have made on this blog. Anyway here’s more to consider. Once again, I am recirculating tried-and-true writing advice that shouldn’t have to compromise your author voice and isn’t always applicable when the narrative demands otherwise.

Part 1

Part 2

1. Eliminating to-be verbs (passive voice)

Am/is/are/was/were are another type of filler that doesn’t add anything to your sentences.

There were fireworks in the sky tonight. /// Fireworks glittered in the sky tonight.

My cat was chirping at the lights on the ceiling. /// My cat chirped at the lights on the ceiling.

She was standing /// She stood

He was running /// He ran

Also applicable in present tense, of which I’ve been stuck writing lately.

There are two fish-net goals on either end of the improvised field. /// Two fish-net goals mark either end of the improvised field.

For once, it’s a cloudless night. /// For once, the stars shine clear.

Sometimes the sentence needs a little finagling to remove the bad verb and sometimes you can let a couple remain if it sounds better with the cadence or syntax. Generally, they’re not necessary and you won’t realize how strange it looks until you go back and delete them (it also helps shave off your word count).

Sometimes the to-be verb is necessary. You're writing in past-tense and must convey that.

He was running out of time does not have the same meaning as He ran out of time, and are not interchangeable. You'd have to change the entire sentence to something probably a lot wordier to escape the 'was'. To-be verbs are not the end of the world.

2. Putting character descriptors in the wrong place

I made a post already about motivated exposition, specifically about character descriptions and the mirror trope, saying character details in the wrong place can look odd and screw with the flow of the paragraph, especially if you throw in too many.

She ties her long, curly, brown tresses up in a messy bun. /// She ties her curls up in a messy brown bun. (bonus alliteration too)

Generally, I see this most often with hair, a terrible rule of threes. Eyes less so, but eyes have their own issue. Eye color gets repeated at an exhausting frequency. Whatever you have in your manuscript, you could probably delete 30-40% of the reminders that the love interest has baby blues and readers would be happy, especially if you use the same metaphor over and over again, like gemstones.

He rolled his bright, emerald eyes. /// He rolled his eyes, a vibrant green in the lamplight.

To me, one reads like you want to get the character description out as fast as possible, so the hand of the author comes in to wave and stop the story to give you the details. Fixing it, my way or another way, stands out less as exposition, which is what character descriptions boil down to—something the audience needs to know to appreciate and/or understand the story.

3. Lacking flow between sentences

Much like sentences that are all about the same length with little variety in syntax, sentences that follow each other like a grocery list or instruction manual instead of a proper narrative are difficult to find gripping.

Jack gets out a stock pot from the cupboard. He fills it with the tap and sets it on the stove. Then, he grabs russet potatoes and butter from the fridge. He leaves the butter out to soften, and sets the pot to boil. He then adds salt to the water.

From the cupboard, Jack drags a hefty stockpot. He fills it with the tap, adds salt to taste, and sets it on the stove.

Russet potatoes or yukon gold? Jack drums his fingers on the fridge door in thought. Russet—that’s what the recipe calls for. He tosses the bag on the counter and the butter beside it to soften.

This is just one version of a possible edit to the first paragraph, not the end-all, be-all perfect reconstruction. It’s not just about having transitions, like ‘then’, it’s about how one sentence flows into the next, and you can accomplish better flow in many different ways.

4. Getting too specific with movement.

I don’t see this super often, but when it happens, it tends to be pretty bad. I think it happens because writers feel the need to overcompensate and over-clarify on what’s happening. Remember: The more specific you get, the more your readers are going to wonder what’s so important about these details. This is fiction, so every detail matters.

A ridiculous example:

Jack walks over to his closet. He kneels down at the shoe rack and tugs his running shoes free. He walks back to his desk chair, sits down, and ties the laces.

Unless tying his shoes is a monumental achievement for this character, all readers would need is:

Jack shoves on his running shoes.

*quick note: Do not add "down" after the following: Kneels, stoops, crouches, squats. The "down" is already implied in the verb.

This also happens with multiple movements in succession.

Beth enters the room and steps on her shoelace, nearly causing her to trip. She kneels and ties her shoes. She stands upright and keeps moving.

Or

Beth walks in and nearly trips over her shoelace. She sighs, reties it, and keeps moving.

Even then, unless Beth is a chronically clumsy character or this near-trip is a side effect of her being late or tired (i.e. meaningful), tripping over a shoelace is kind of boring if it does nothing for her character. Miles Morales’ untied shoelaces are thematically part of his story.

Sometimes, over-describing a character’s movement is meant to show how nervous they are—overthinking everything they’re doing, second-guessing themselves ad nauseam. Or they’re autistic coded and this is how this character normally thinks as deeply methodical. Or, you’re trying to emphasize some mundanity about their life and doing it on purpose.

If you’re not writing something where the extra details service the character or the story at large, consider trimming it.

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These are *suggestions* and writing is highly subjective. Hope this helps!