#when they fuck each other over up and forever

[darknight3904]

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦

𝘓𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘓𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘓𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘋𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭, 𝘓𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘭 & 𝘞𝘰𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘦 (2024). 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘰𝘺𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘦𝘯 𝘝, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘕𝘦𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘳 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘦.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵.

𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘝𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘦.

𝘐 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥/𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳 30𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨.

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 3.3 𝘬

𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 / 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 / 𝘔𝘺 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

"You have got to joking."

The loud pounding of a fist on the door wakes home from his sleep. On the other side of the room, Logan, with all his enhanced senses, was still somehow asleep.

"Holy fuck, what are you dying?" Wade hisses as he whips his bedroom door open, "It's 5am!"

"Logan!" You growl, pushing past him.

"Fuck off." The older mutant mumbles, turning to face the wall.

Wade sighed and closed the door to his room before padding out to the couch and tossing himself onto it. He often wondered if this was going to go on for eternity, the arguing that his. Unfortunately, for him, you aged slowly and Logan was granted healing powers on par with his own. Eternity could literally be forever with the two of you.

Through the closed door he could hear you and Logan going at it. And no, he doesn't mean in a fun way.

For all his poking and prodding, he had yet to get you or Logan to disclose the reason for all the animosity. He suspected it was some deeply tragic event or something. Although Logan's was easier to figure out, Wade presumed he had lost you when the humans went mutant hunting and killed off the other X-Men. As for you...well that was still a mystery to him.

Wade liked you. Not in the possible dating realm but he liked to hang out with you. You were a bit rough around the edges but he didn't mind. You'd be even more likable if you just calmed the hell down and let whatever grudge you had against Logan go, it was starting to exhaust him.

The sound of his bedroom door opening again had him sitting back up. He makes eye contact with you as the streetlights outside slightly illuminate the room.

"He left the toilet seat up again. I went to pee and fell into the toilet." You sigh

Wade suppresses a laugh and slowly nods, bidding you goodnight.

Back in his room, he sees Logan lying on his back, his one hand pinching at the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

"I swear I'm going to kill her one day." He grumbles

Wade turns over and gently pats Mary's head. He wonders if now's a good time to tell either of you that he's the one who left the seat up, not Logan.

"You're such a loser." Storm teases

"Alright, that, is rude!" You gasp, smiling

"It's not rude if it's true! You're following him around the school like...like a lovesick puppy!" She points out

"I do not!" You roll your eyes

You always hated how perceptive Storm was. Seriously, how could she even tell that you and Logan were seeing each other?

"Look at you, new skirt?"

Logan's big arms circle around your waist, pulling you close to him. He buries his face in your neck and takes a deep inhale.

"You even smell good." He laughs into your skin

"New body wash. Got it at the mall." You sigh, resting your head on his shoulder

Logan lets out a small hum of acknowledgment as his hands flip your skirt up.

"Logan!" You gasp, pushing his hands off your body, "This is...this is a classroom, what if a kid walks in? Storm was just here a few minutes ago!"

"I don't see her now. Or any kids for that matter."

"If we're going..."

Logan raises a brow, a twitch of amusement on his face.

"If we're going to fool around, we can't do it in a classroom." You declare.

"Alright." A devious smirk stretches across his face as he reaches for your hand.

The car's windows were foggy with steam as Logan rolled off you, his chest heaving with euphoria. His big hand gently pats your thigh and he makes some crude comment about this being Scott's car.

He glances over at you as you fiddle with the hem of your skirt. You catch his eye and feel your breath hitch in your throat. He was so handsome, it made your chest hurt.

"You alright?" He asks

You nod your head and lean into his side, hoping for some tenderness from him. You wrap yourself around one of his arms, resting your head on his shoulder.

Logan lets out a deep sigh and gently pushes you off him.

"Thought we said no attachment." He reminds you, "Casual, right?"

You can't help the disappointment that sinks in your chest. It had been nearly a month of this, secret hookups and what you swore were stolen glances between classes and missions.

"Right." You whisper

"Good." Logan says quickly, gently tapping your thigh twice with his hand, "See you later"

The car door slams and he leaves you there, sweaty and alone.

The peeling paint is the first thing that catches your eye as you wake up. A groan escapes your lips as you run a hand over your face.

"You okay?"

You turn on your side to look at Laura who is sitting on her bed, her phone in her hands.

"M' fine." You sigh

"Really? Cuz' you've got a tear running down your face." She points out

You scoff and wipe it away, "Just a weird dream. No big deal."

She nodded slowly before placing her attention on whatever was on the little screen in her hands.

The clock reads 9:30 as you make your appearance in the kitchen. Al sits at the table, eating a bagel, Mary at her feet, begging for a taste of cream cheese. You glance over at Logan who also sits at the table, a big bowl of cereal in front of him. You know it's not fair to this version of him but you can't help it. The anger that boils up in your system when he looks up at you. You want to punch him all the way into next week.

"What?" Logan asks, his spoon halfway to his mouth, completely unaware of your anger.

"She's probably checking out those pants of yours. Told you the ladies love Hello Kitty!" Wade chimes in as he enters the room, toupee stapled to his head.

"Only wearing 'em cuz I need to do laundry." Logan growls

"Right. Just say you like the matching pajamas I got us, Peanut. Acceptance is easier than avoidance."

You watch as Wade easily dodges Logan's fist before scampering off to grab breakfast for himself. You tiredly sigh and try to ignore the way your skin is burning. That dream was far too realistic for your liking, it had been just like the real memory that sat deep in your mind.

You spend your day off lounging in your room with Laura. The two of you sit in comfortable silence and every once in awhile she'll show you a funny video from whatever app she's scrolling through.

When Laura had first encountered you in The Void, she hadn't told you how she knew you, or well your other self. It took months but she eventually told you how you died saving her from being kidnapped by some killing machine that was grown in a lab. Of course, she hadn't let out the better stuff like how you brushed her hair and taught her to floss. It sounded nice, whatever life she had lived with you, minus you dying and the fact that your body was shutting down. What you couldn't wrap your head around was whatever relationship you had led with Logan. The way Laura described it, it sounded like it was out of some romance novel.

Logan couldn't quite place the look you had given him this morning. After last night's screaming about the toilet seat, you were surprisingly docile. Staying in your room all day with Laura, he's pretty sure this is the first time he's gone nearly a whole day without arguing with you. He sighs and takes another sip of his beer, you were confusing the hell out of him. Just a few days ago you'd gone to get coffee with him, blew up in his face over rain, and now you had avoided him all day. It was all so confusing.

The jiggling of keys has him groaning as Wade returns home. So much for peace and quiet.

"Wow. You're still in one piece." Wade observes

"Of course I am." He huffs

"I just thought that an entire day of being home together, the two of you would've tried to kill each other. Surprised she didn't blow your head off." Wade explains

"Haven't seen her all day. Been locked in her room with the kid and your dog." Logan explains

"Oh." Wade glances at the closed bedroom door, "What'd you say?"

"I didn't say anything. She ate breakfast and disappeared into her room. Hasn't come out since." Logan honestly says

"Wellll then you did something." Wade surmises

"Why do you presume I did something?" He groans, "What if she's just...not feeling well?"

"How long has it been since you were around a woman? You're more clueless than a virgin at senior prom." Wade says, taking the opportunity to plop down on the couch next to him.

Logan thought about it. How long had it been since he spent time with any woman? The closest his brain came up with was the one bartender at the local bar he frequented since getting brought here.

"If you're thinking about it, it's probably not a good sign." Wade sighs

"Shut up," Logan says but there's no real bite behind it.

"Mmhm. If you excuse me, I'm going to go shower. I showed a car to this one guy today who, I swear had lice in his hair."

Logan turns to look at Wade in disgust. Sure, he didn't have any hair, minus the toupee. But, that didn't mean there wasn't lice living in his clothes or something nasty.

As Wade disappears into the bathroom, Laura shoves you out into the hall, pointing to the living room where he is. You look like a kid who's been scolded by her mother as you take Wade's spot and Laura switches on the TV.

"Bonding time. The two of you and your constant fighting is going to drive me nuts." Laura says, falling into Al's recliner and scoping up the remote.

"Whatever. " You murmur as you stare at the TV.

Logan can't help but notice that you look a bit sad today. And perhaps a bit angry as you sit there with your arms crossed watching whatever show Laura picked.

His mind conjures up something Wade once said. Something about acts of service in a relationship. Not that he was interested in a relationship, it just seemed applicable now.

He stands and walks off into the kitchen to rummage through the pantry and fridge. Much to his dismay the fridge has nothing but beer, condiments, and a half gallon of milk. The pantry isn't much better but his eyes do land on a big family-size can of SpaghettiOs. This would have to do.

A few minutes over the stove, and three bowls later, he's returning to you and Laura, offering you both supper. He half expects you to toss it at his face but you surprise him and take the food. He's sure he even heard you murmur a thank you as he passes a bowl to Laura.

Laura puts on a movie called Hereditary and Logan is pleasantly surprised with the plot. It's just the right amount of scary as he sits there beside you.

"Fuck." You jump beside him

He lets out a small snort, which has you glaring at him, "It's not that scary, bub."

"Yeah well, whatever. Not everyone has nerves of steel. Or should I say adamantium?" You groan

Logan looks at you, you genuinely look terrified. Laura's eyes are glued to the screen as he decides this could be his moment. Or perhaps you'll rip his arm off...either way, he's taking a chance, truly he can't help it.

He scoots across the couch cushions and gently places an arm around your shoulder. To his surprise, you let him, staying perfectly still next to him.

"I'll keep you safe from the evil movie." He teases, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

"I hope whatever spirit is after that kid, comes to get you next." You say

Logan shakes his head but can't help the giddy feeling in his chest when you don't pull away. It feels like it's been a lifetime since he got to hold you like this. Even if it's a different, much angrier version of you, he can't help but be greedy and savor it.

Logan watches as you sigh and put that yellow monstrosity back into its box. He feels a bit bad but he pushes the feeling down. He was not wearing a giant yellow suit to fight anything. His normal clothes were fine.

"You're a difficult man." You say

"You love it." He finds himself grinning

He pulls you close to him and his nose brushes yours. Smaller hands clutch at the dark shirt he has on.

"I do."

The soft feel of your lips brushing his has him smiling as he kisses you. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as your hands raked up his body, tangling in his hair. Soft silence wrapped around the two of you, as he gently pressed his forehead to yours. He tried to ignore the way his stomach tightened when you spoke again. He tried to ignore the way he was falling in love.

"Shit."

The flash of a camera pulled him from his blissful dream, rubbing his eyes.

"Go back to sleep." Wade's voice whispers

Logan looks around and his eyes land on Wade who has a neon pink Polaroid camera in his hands. Logan looks to his right to see you curled up into his side, head resting on his chest as he reclines into the corner of the sofa. A big afghan covers the two of you, he presumes is from Laura as he looks at Wade standing there.

"Fuck off," Logan says simply

"I'll give you the picture in the morning." Wade grins as he stares at the photo in the darkness.

Logan grumbles in disgust as Wade blows him a kiss before disappearing again. He looks down at you, still asleep warm body pressed to his. He can hear the slow breathes you take along with the peaceful thump of your heart. You're at peace here in his arms. He finds himself smiling as he lets his head fall back into the soft material of the couch. It seemed like he too, was at peace with you here tucked away safely in his arms.

Logan stared at the picture in his hands. He had woken up this morning to you absent from his side. He presumed you had run off to your job at that little bookstore. The picture had his heart tightening in his chest. Memories that he tried to suppress were rattling around in his mind.

"Logan," You're calling after him as he stalks down the hall towards the front door, "Logan stop...Would you please slow down?"

"What?" He spins around as you nearly crash into him

"Where are you running off to?" You ask

"None of your business." He grumbles, pretending like the pout that falls on your face doesn't hurt him.

"Don't be like that. Let's go back upstairs." You coaxed, "We can watch a movie."

"Don't want to." He sighs

"Is it about Scott? I'll tell him to forget it about the suit, I know you hate it."

"S' not that. It's...everything. I'm just not interested in being a part of some crime-fighting band." He lies

"Oh come on, we're not all bad." You smile

"Forget about it. M' no good for you anyway, bub." He shakes his head, reaching for the door.

The gravel of the front walkway crunches in his ears as he hears you call his name again from the doorstep. He waves you off, uninterested in turning around.

"Nice photo."

He turns to see Laura standing in his doorway. He turns away from her and slips the photo between the pages of an anger management book Wade had jokingly given him one day.

"I'm being serious," She says sitting next to him on the bed, "You two look good together."

"Please, she hates me," Logan says

"She doesn't hate you." Laura gently nudges his shoulder with her own.

Logan turns to her, a look on his face telling her she's full of shit.

"Okay, she doesn't exactly like you," Laura admits

"Oh really?" Logan shook his head

"I think it's probably something her Logan did." Laura surmises

"Maybe. Or she just hates me." He says

"She has these dreams sometimes, wakes up crying from them. I've asked her about them but she never wants to talk about them." Laura replies, ignoring his comment.

"That could be about anything, kid." Logan points out

"Don't you want to know why she hates you so much?" Laura turns to him.

"I do but," He sighs

"You're scared." Laura finishes for him

Logan immediately backpedals, "I'm not scared."

Laura throws his own look back in his face, the you're full of shit one from earlier.

"You said in The Void, you lost the X-Men to humans. She was one of them wasn't she?" Laura asked

Logan sighs and looks down at his feet, he doesn't like how she seems to know him so well. Just how much time did she spend with her version of Logan and you that she knew the both of you so well?

"You're a know it all, aren't you?" He dodges the question

"I know that the two of you arguing into forever isn't going to work the way you think it will." Laura points out

"You tell her all this too?" He asks, trying to think of her telling you off like this

"More or less. She told me to fuck off and that she hated you." Laura says

Logan chuckles, he has to admit it's a good response, one he's said often to you.

"I just...don't think the two of you belong fighting like you're mortal enemies." She murmured

"Oh and what should we be doing? Going out on dates and sleeping in the same bed at night?" He scoffs

He'd never say it to anyone and certainly not you but some part of him still wanted that. He wanted what he lost that night after he walked away from you. And yet, here he was denying it all.

"No, you two don't have to do that either..." Laura looks at her hands, "But you guys could at least be friends."

"You shouldn't expect us to be exactly like them. "

Logan and Laura turn their heads to look at you, leaning against the door frame, a small frown on your face.

"Just cuz' we look like them doesn't mean we're going to become some fairytale couple overnight. So don't expect something like that."

"I'm not expecting that." Laura scowls

"Good." You say before walking off

Logan looks over at Laura who keeps her gaze on the ground, ignoring him. Obviously, your words must've struck a nerve. He knew that the Logan in her world was in some romantic relationship with you. He didn't really blame Laura for trying to set something up between him and you. Sometimes he forgot she really was just a kid. A kid who probably wanted her family back.

"Ignore her." Logan advised, "She's full of shit."

"So are you." Laura declared

Logan snorted, she was right about that. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He couldn't believe he was going to say this.

"I'll try to get along with her." He said, "I'll try more than I already was. I can't promise anything about her though."

Laura's head spins to look at him, a soft smile on her face.

"Thank you."

Part Three - Coming Soon

In Promise, we had Reader pining for Logan. I'd like to flip that on its head for this fic. That being said, let me introduce to you all, pining Logan. He makes his debut next chapter. He's a bit of a simp so buckle up.

Something terrible happened to me today, my acrylic nail ripped off after I jammed it in my dresser. I am now missing like...half my nail on my right pinky. There go my plans for cunty Halloween nails.

Comment to be added to the tag list.

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[almostfoxglove]

THE PRETTIEST

written for @quinnnfabrgay-writes & @hauntedhowlett-writes' #MONSTERSMASH2024 challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Max Phillips x f!Reader CREATURE: GHOST + MAX PHILLIPS WORD COUNT: 4.3k CW: Smut (piv), voyeurism/non-consensual voyeurism (he's invisible and reader doesn't know he's watching), Max is a bit of a creep okay he's doing his best here, protective!max, jealous!max, enough manager speak that I got tech startup flashbacks.

SUMMARY: After a restructuring at the company, Max finds himself dead—this time for good—and haunting his old duplex. Lucky for him, you move in.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

Of all the hell holes where one might waste eternity, Max is pretty sure his vacant duplex is the worst of them. Six rooms, two floors spined by a spiral staircase—all boring and hollow and dusty. Disgusting. How difficult would it have been to let him haunt the office? He could’ve leered over all those pathetic little office drones, driven them crazy forever. Fucked with their desk chairs, their hard drives, mixed up all their coffee mugs. Not that Max has mastered the art of affecting the material world yet, but he will.

Petty? Sure. But you can’t blame a guy for feeling a little owed after all management’s little reorganization. His relocation to the goddamn fucking afterlife—and to this prison of an apartment where there’s no one to subjugate or fuck, no less. 

What a waste of his potential. His talents.

Who knows how long he spends stuck alone in this place until someone shows up, but eventually people do. The real estate agent—Doreen and her little beehive hairdo, her eyebrows always penciled on too thin—and, over what Max estimates to be about three weeks, a parade of nobodies she tours around, preaching godless, truthless sermons of the duplex’s good bones and the good life they could have in these dreary fucking rooms. He’d be proud of her sales pitch if he weren’t so goddamn pissed.

He tries, he really does. Yells often, I’m right here, Dor-een, honey, right fucking here! And waves his arms in front of her face, but he can scream as loud as he likes; nobody hears a thing. 

For the first time in his many lives, people walk straight through him. 

There might be, possibly, some karma in that. 

Max doesn’t care for it.

It’s misery until the day Doreen brings him you.

Come on, Max whines, slouching lazily on your couch. Curled up with your bedsheets cloaked over your head, you rot on the cushions beside him, four hours deep in a Desperate Housewives marathon, oblivious to his company: your usual Sunday routine.

As usual you don’t hear him, don’t see him either. Sitting right beside you, making no dents in the pillows, his glossy dress shoes kicked up on the coffee table. Still he finds himself complaining, one hand gesticulating wildly at the screen, You’re killing me, baby. It’s obviously the fucking neighbor! Guy’s got a box of death under his pool!

Meanwhile you just sit there, enthralled as Eva Longoria struts about in her tiny skirts and tiny shoes. Max tells himself the only reason he stays in the room when you watch this garbage is for her and all the other pretty housewives or to leer at what bits of you peek out from your duvet each time you reach for your tea on the coffee table—a wrist, your elbow, and when you knock over the popcorn bowl and slip the sheets from your head, the lovely hollow of your perfect neck. Truth is, if you were to quiz him, he’d be able to cite the plot of the whole season beat for beat.

Not that he’s enjoying this, this—this garbage. Never.

No fucking way. He’s just perceptive. Has an excellent memory.

Plus this is the one way he gets to be close to you. Such a pretty little thing, taunting him without ever knowing it. That sweet mouth, those clever eyes. Showering with the bathroom door sometimes cracked like you know he’s here and dying to peek through the veil of your jasmine-laced steam. Chewing the ends of your pencils while you sketch out some masterpiece on looseleaf that you never get around to painting.

Sitting on your couch, at your dining table, at the foot of your bed while you brush out your hair after a long day—it’s the closest Max gets to feeling like being stuck here might not be hell, just purgatory: always a breath away from the thing he’d like to touch, but at least he’s not simmering in battery acid or being flogged. He’s had his share of blood-bag roommates—brief fascinations that drained so quickly—but you? You’ve lived in Max’s apartment for three months and he’s no less drunk on you than he was the day Doreen toured you around. Can’t quite put his finger on why. Maybe it’s the longing, the forest fire that sears through his ice-box chest every time your eyes skim his face by accident, never lingering. 

What can he say? Max is a man, after all. Under all the blood and monster.

And you’re the prettiest creature he’s ever seen.

When the show cuts to commercial you mute the TV, immune to the serpent-tongued promises of liars like him. Lured by nothing, by nobody. Already slinking from your bedsheet cave, all bare legs and cute little ankles striding out of the room, leaving him with the ghost of you, the smell of your perfume kissed into the duvet.

What he wouldn’t give for the chance to sell himself to you. He’d charm you all the way to your perfect knees.

In a way, you and Max are the perfect couple. You’re free to do as you wish, and he’s free to watch you every second that you spend at home, miserable the moment you leave for work in those tight fucking pencil skirts. No better than a dog, he spends his vagrant hours of isolation alternating between puppy-eyed pouting and anxious pacing, tortured until your evening return. 

How did he ever live here alone? Alive or otherwise. He can’t remember now. There are too many rooms, too few sounds, too few breaths, too few footsteps. He misses you. Your bedhead and pajamas, your blanket nest in front of the TV, the cute way you answer the phone. 

Today, you don’t come home till eight fifteen—and Max has spent thirteen hours losing what’s left of his mind.

Baby, he sighs, rushing for the front room at the first turn of the lock, a grin stretched to dimples in his cheeks. Seems even if you can’t hear him, Max can’t help talking to you, perhaps childlike in his belief that someday you will. Where the hell have you—

His sentence hacks itself in half, drops to silence, because you’re blushing when you come in, eyes shyly downcast, one hand shaking the rain loose from your hair, tendrils clinging to your cheeks. “Here,” you say, and for a beat Max thinks you’re speaking to him. His mouth drops, stunned. 

Is this it? Can you finally see him?

“Come in, come in,” you say.

Then a man steps in behind you, shuts the door behind his hulking form, and if there were any blood to speak of in his veins, Max is certain it’d boil at the sight of him. Tall and empty-headed, dopey as a dog, stomping his blocky, muddy shoes all over your hallway. Yours and Max’s. Getting goddamn filth on your hall carpet. Given just a few material cells, Max’d have this guy dead before he makes it to the living room, wouldn’t even bother drinking him. This breed of dumbass isn’t worth the mess.

But he’s useless. Less than a gnat. Sentenced to watch you trail this motherfucker who wouldn’t know Tom Ford from his Brioni into your kitchen, jackets shedding and small talk traded—boring, boring, boring, but you laugh when the guy makes a shitty joke about the weather. 

This guy, this nobody, gets to make you laugh while Max never even gets a chance to try.

On second thought, maybe this is hell after all.

“S’a nice place,” the dumbass says, laying his knockoff blazer over the back of a barstool. Cheap stitching. Terrible, too-thin lapels.

You look about the room as if standing in it for the first time and for a moment your eyes pass right over Max, whose long-dead heart winces. Yelps. If you could see him, there’s no way you’d entertain this guy. This nameless little worker bee. Max would make you laugh properly, how you laugh when something funny happens on TV or when you get a letter in the mail from your brother. Sudden and twinkling, often ending in a snort. Adorable.

Shrugging, you turn into your fridge and say, “Yeah, I like it,” and exhume two slim cans of vodka seltzer to set on the kitchen island.

Thank you, Max says, his arms crossed over his chest.

The dumbass’ brows flicker up as he regards your offering. Idiot. What was he expecting from a girl like you, a PBR? These are delicious. Elegant. Calorie wise. Max understands. Max would drink that with a smile and a thank you. 

Or maybe he’d skip right to drinking you.

Sensing his hesitation, you crack your can and take a sip. “They’re not as bad as they look,” you say, a nervous chuckle bittering your lips as you watch your date open his can and bring it to his nose to sniff. “Sorry. I don’t have anything else.”

You can do so much better, baby, Max sighs. You’ve got better right here.

Against his will, the hours pass. The evening goes on. You and the dumbass only drink half a can each—him with a half-snarled lip and you with a self-conscious twinge—but somehow by nightfall he’s got you scooching your barstool closer to him, allowing his slimy hand to rest on your thigh. 

Max bristles. Seethes. Don’t do it, he pleads to you, unheard. He’s not gonna fuck you right, just look at him. Send this idiot home and watch TV with me. Do anything but this guy, baby, anything but him.

You bend in slow motion and it’s agonizing, the tilt of your head as you press your lips to his. The wet slurp of his mouth taking the second you meet. A terrible kiss, though you’re polite enough not to flinch. Breaking from the prod of his pink-slug tongue to offer your neck, his mouth immediately moving, and fuck baby, it’s like you’re trying to kill him all over again. Drive a stake straight through Max’s blackened heart by giving up what he longs to claim.

In an instant, anger births itself from the hollow of his chest. His hand shoots out in useless violence, swinging as if to strike a seltzer can from the countertop and knowing it won’t do a lick of good as ire devours him, igneous and fervid, searing hot as life in his icy hands.

The can jumps from the counter and clunks to the floor, its contents gluggluglug-ing across the tiles.

“The fuck?” Max hears the dumbass gasp as he leaps from his barstool, eyes bugged wide and child-like and weak. You freeze, lips pink and swollen, staring down at the emptying can. 

It’s a shame neither of you can see the way Max smiles. 

Now that’s what I’m talking about, he crows. Finally a little substance around here! 

This is good. No, it’s better than good. This is the rush after a promotion, after the deal that closes out the quarter over target. The look on every sad sack’s face knowing they lost and he won.

This is the bite that finally breaks skin.

Maddening, burgeoning, addictive.

He’s real again. A goddamn Beetlejuice for you, baby. He’s gonna scare this fucknut out of here and have you to himself. First was the can, next is you, and he’s gonna kiss you so much better than that. In celebration, Max kicks one foot to send the can soaring across the kitchen floor and watches his shoe pass right through it, aluminum undisturbed on the floor. No, he mutters, kicking again. No, fucking—come on, you worthless piece of shit—

Your nervous laugh is too far away to comfort him. Distant too is your voice saying, “My room’s this way,” and the shuffling of your footsteps as Max loses his shit on the seltzer can that now refuses to budge no matter the swell of his outrage. By the time he snaps from his incensed trance, your barstools are empty. He blinks, breathless with muscle memory—his lungs wheezing because they remember wheezing, not out of need.

Baby? he calls out.

But you reply. A murmur too lusty to be a giggle—Max’s body coils up at the sound, taut and needy, and carries him toward the sound. He forgets, briefly, who you’re with. Believes he’ll find you in your bedroom alone beneath the covers, hands fluttering as you bring yourself to the edge of release. How beautiful you’d be, gasping in pleasure. He might close his eyes and pretend it’s him drawing out your every breathy, needy sound.

You’ve left the bedroom door cracked, and though in death he’s no longer bound by silly things like permission, Max has since you moved in found himself in the habit of respecting closed doors. Walls are chalk outlines over which he’s free to step, but he doesn’t, not if you’ve closed the gate. He’s not a monster. Or not a total monster—whatever, semantics. Point is that he only spies on your showers if you’ve cracked the door. Indulges in the soft moments of you sleeping only when you’ve left him that sliver of room.

Like the room you’ve left him now: slender and tempting, this stripe of your bedroom wall. A Degas print in a copper frame, the wooden post at the foot of your bed. 

Your sweet voice cooing here, like this, and the creak of your mattress.

Something black and silty sinks in Max’s stomach when he steps inside. Not the rage from moments ago. Something darker, heavier. Jealousy. Half-sheeted by your duvet, the dumbass you’ve brought home rocks above you, his shirt gone, his beefcake arm blocking the view of your chest, and though you’re making all the right sounds it’s obvious this isn’t any good.

He’s not fucking you right.

Your hands clawing at his back are too stiff. Your yeses a beat too slow. As the idiot pants—thrusts choppy and graceless—Max watches your hand tap his shoulder blade as you breathe, “Flip over.”

“What?” bumbles the guy, his hips stalling. “Oh shit—fuck yeah. Okay.”

Another grunt, then he rolls off and Max gets a glimpse of you—your red bra lacy and see through, your nipples so pretty underneath. It just isn’t right, the awkwardness of this colossal douchebag as he settles on his back and you ruck back the covers to straddle him, not at all breathless, hardly even flushed, your hair all messy at the back from disappointing friction.

“Shit,” the guy gasps as you sink down on him, clamping those boorish hands onto your waist.

You don’t even whine, not even as you start to rock, though his breathing gallops beneath you. Guy looks two seconds from nutting while you look years away from anything even loosely resembling an orgasm—your rhythm changing often as you try and fail to find a pace that suits you. “Christ—oh my god, ” the guy groans.

Max sucks his front teeth, tongue soiled with venom.

“Touch me,” you sigh, bouncing now. The curtain of your hair shivering down your back. 

This guy fucks like he’s never touched a woman before. At your request his knuckles only pale, fingers pinching you tighter. That’s not what she means, Max growls. Touch her fucking clit, you pin-dicked imbecile. Can’t fucking please a woman, should be fucking ashamed—

His pointless ranting is cut short by a sudden moan as the guy lifts you off him in time to come all over his stomach, chest rapid in its heaving, upper lip snarled in pleasure he doesn’t have the goddamn decency to return to you. For a long moment you hover above him, waiting, but his head just slumps back against the pillow, satisfied. 

Done.

He’s actually done. Motherfucker.

When you crawl off him to sit back against your headboard—arms crossing over your stomach self-consciously—Max sees red. Sees fire. Sees the roiling magma at the center of the earth where someone oughta make this fucker take a nice hot bath. 

He’d do this right. He’d fuck you properly, have you coming apart at the seams, go down on you until you beg for his cock and edge himself for as long as it takes to have you screaming his name. Can’t you see that? Can’t you feel him here, right now? Can’t you feel how bad he wants you? Can’t you imagine how much better he’d be? How good he’d make you feel?

Letting out an airy chuckle, the brute wipes the back of his hand across his sweaty brow and pushes himself to his feet. Redresses with a goddamn smirk on his face—not one of cruelty, but it might as well be. He thinks this is a job well done. Time to go home. 

A peck to your lips, then he’s rattling on about calling you, seeing you again, maybe Thursday? Friday? While you just sit there, blinking up at him in disbelief. “Sure,” you say, dazed and not quite thinking. “I’ll call you.”

Yeah, she’s not calling you, Max snarls, following the guy out of the room. Watching as the jackass plucks his jacket from the back of your barstool, steps over the mess of seltzer without a thought to clean it up for you, and waltzes right out the door. Not a care in the goddamn world. 

Though he hears you get up shortly after to use the bathroom, you don’t emerge from your bedroom and Max doesn’t disturb you. He spends that time in the kitchen, grabbing and grabbing and grabbing at the dish towel hung over the handle on the oven door, trying to pull it off. 

For at least an hour, his hand glides through the towel as if it’s water, not a flutter or sway in the fabric. Not even a brush, a compromise. It just hangs there, indignant. Mocking him. Deaddeaddeaddeaddead. Maybe it’s the Senior Sales Manager in him, the apex predator at the top of the food chain—but Max can do this all night. He’s not backing down, not letting a stupid fucking towel get the better of him. That lazy curtain of terrycloth will disintegrate before he waves the white flag. 

Beyond the picture frame windows that stare out into the barren, colorless street, the sun has shied to navy blue, letting out the round-mouthed moon, and you have not emerged from your bedroom for hours. He wants to check on you, ask if you’re okay. Frankly, baby, he’s getting a little worried. On the next sweep of his hand, the towel gives up the ghost; Max pulls it from the oven handle, marveling at the toothy fabric. He’s holding it, really holding it, all on his own. 

Thank fuck he’s not haunting the office. If any of those bull-brained fucks saw him now, as he kneels on your kitchen floor, he’d have to die all over again. Somehow. The technicals aren’t important—what’s important is that no one’s here to see him on his fucking knees, mopping up the spilled drink. Something like joy burbles in his chest when he reaches for the can and seizes it, placing it safely on your counter. The floor dry and shining again, clean. 

Max folds the towel carefully and returns it to the rack. 

As if on cue, the bedroom door croaks down the hall and you emerge. A huge t-shirt slumps from your frame; you’ve tied your hair up, put your glasses back on. Dressed down for the last dregs of night, rubbing the back of your hand in one eye, tired. 

You look so, so tired.

I’d rub your shoulders, baby, Max sighs quietly and though you won’t hear him, it still—after three whole months—doesn’t feel any less right to hope.

He steps out of your way as you round the corner into the kitchen with a yawn, hands clasped behind his back, cheek dimpled and eyes alight. Just like he wanted, just like he hoped, your eyes fall immediately to the floor where the can is missing, the spill wiped. Lashes flickering—the towel dark at the hem on its handle, the empty can on the counter. Your brows pinch low over your nose, curious. 

Pretty good for a dead guy, Max grins.

How sweet, that lifting flinch at your mouth’s sharp, pink corner. The soft hm you make in reply. It’s not much, but this strange, fluttery feeling in the dark cavity one might wrongly call his heart? It doesn’t feel half bad. 

Not bad at all.

He’s getting better at it. Not great, but the projections look good. Give him a little time, he’ll have this whole place dancing. Put on a big show, announce himself properly. 

In the meantime he practices when you’re not looking. Small stuff—he opens cupboards. Shuts them. Hits start on the dryer when you forget to press it yourself. Some days he wastes reaching for things and coming up empty, but now again his luck sparkles. Things move. Bend to his will. Isn’t long until he can hold it for a while—gathering the matter to run the vacuum around, or reorganize your pantry. A tidy house makes a tidy mind, baby. No good living in a dump. You’re so busy, always cracking around like a ping pong ball, and hell, it’s not like Max can leave this place, get a little air in his idle lungs.

He likes being useful to you. Likes that tiny smirk on your lips when you find something fixed or organized for you, even though you likely chalk it up to having forgotten that you did it yourself. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need the credit. Isn’t that strange? How often he smiles at you? How perfect he finds the taste of your name.

Winter has arrived like a secret—whispered about for weeks and then suddenly let loose on the world. You come home from work in the evenings with icing sugar hair. Usually unbothered, far as Max can tell, but today you stagger in flushed from the cold and dark in the eyes.

Shit, baby, Max says when he sees you. Bad day?

Sniffling, you drop your coat right there in the hall, let it puddle over your shoes, and stalk off on a mission, barreling into the kitchen. The fridge door rips open, casting blue-white light over your face, and you must feel a hell of a lot worse than you feel because you don’t even blink at the contents inside. All the shelves wiped clean, the bottles arranged with the labels facing out, those wilted, bad greens deposited in the compost. You just reach in for the half-drunk bottle of Riesling that to Max smelled mostly like juice and swipe off the lid.

You chug on your way to the couch, leaving the fridge door open behind you.

Max closes it when you’ve gone, the TV already switched on in the living room, the lilting strings of the Desperate Housewives theme song swimming through the air. When he turns the corner he finds you wrapped in the throw blanket he now knows the texture of—supple and velvet, weighted and warm—with the wine bottle nestled in your lap. 

A silver tear hangs on your cheek. 

Really bad day, whatever it was. 

He wants to ask. Wants to pull you into his arms and pet back your hair. Wants to lick that sadness from your skin. 

Maybe this isn’t the show he’s imagined. Not much of a reveal—but you look so small right now, alone on your couch. Wine splashing in its bottle as you bring it to your lips, not bothering to wipe that tear away. If Max had a heart that beat, it’d stutter as he watches you. Helpless isn’t something he cares to feel.

No time like the present. Max sighs, scrubs a hand down his face as he ticks his jaw to one side, and nods. Alright, baby, he relents. Hang on.

On his way to the bathroom he cracks all the knuckles on his left hand, rolls his neck, swings his shoulders. Stretches himself long and limber like he’s about to run—but this is it. Curtain’s coming up. Time to find out if one glimpse of him sends you sprinting for the hills. Though he casts no reflection, Max stands before the mirror hanging over the sink and straightens his tie, corrects his lapels. Old habits, but it never hurts to look good.

Hand waggling, then, over the tissue box on the counter. He slaps himself hard, sending a delicious ripple of pain across his cheek. Come on, he begs. Don’t play hard to get.

The box lifts.

Here he comes: tissue box in hand, stalking tall and proud down your hallway with his chin up, shoulders back. Gets the momentum rolling, doesn’t hesitate, just waltzes in.

Your head snaps in his direction, eyes round and brows rising. To you it must look like the tissues float through the air to your side. Max steps back with butterflies jittering in his bones. 

Don’t be scared, he pleads. It’s just me.

With your head cocked to one side you consider this, though you’ve not heard his voice. Probably for the best. Came out a little softer than he meant it to, a little needy, and that’s just not becoming of a man like him. He has a reputation to uphold, even now. 

After a long, bludgeoning pause you click your tongue, swiping one white tissue from the box to turn over in your hand. Deliberating. Then your face cracks, possessed by a slithering smirk. Your gaze flickering so close to him it’s almost as if you’ve looked him in the eye. 

Deep in his chest, Max feels a strange throb—his stirring heart—as you say out loud, 

“I knew someone was there.”

dividers by @saradika-graphics - tag list & some mutuals!

@ak-vintage @thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @harriedandharassed 

@burntheedges @jolapeno @la-eterna-enamorada29 @iknowisoundcrazy @guiltyasdave

@littlemisspascal @luxurychristmaspudding @tonysopranosrobe @evolnoomym @sweetpascal 

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @biggetywitch @wannab-urs @helenanell

@pedgito @pastelpinkflowerlife @jessthebaker @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours 

@noisynightmarepoetry @kyberblade @beezusvreeland @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack 

@pedrospatch @yopossum @toomanytookas @sawymredfox @galway-girlatwork

@ppascalrain @bbyanarchist @amanitacowboy @milla-frenchy @schnarfer

[thingsmysplattershotjrtoldme]

I love Deep Cut. I love them so much. Even moreso after the Grand Festival results dialogue.

They love each other so deeply (ha!) and genuinely.

Do you know how much of Frye's pride she had to push aside to tell Big Man he was right about Splatsville and Inkopolis getting along? How HARD that must have been for someone so sound of mind she was on the right side of the conflict? And yet she never stumbled over her words or looked upset when saying them. Remember just how upset she was when admitting that the New Squidbeak Splatoon was actually pretty chill about the treasure?

And Shiver agrees with her....HUMBLY! This woman will (gently) lorde her victories over her friends at any chance, pull an "I always believed!" at the drop of a hat, but no. She just simply agrees that Big Man was right, that she could see his reasoning in everyone's happy faces. And it also feels....like an apology for Big Betrayal. Especially after she learned Liquid Sunshine was a charity collab and all the profits went to Splatsville; her turf, her people, the people she fights so hard for everyday so they can have an easier life in their humble little city.

And Big Man...... FLIPPING BIG MAN!

He accepts these statements, the unspoken apology, after everything! And then doubles down on being only their songwriter, because he also sorta also fucked up by going behind their backs for the collab. (It also feels like an unspoken apology from him as well)

And then the other two say they want him to themselves, because he's the best at his job, that they'll always be Deep Cut and always be awesome.

Because they're the Best

The Brightest

And Bandmates Forever!

I'm sorry, but if even after that entire exchange, you still think that they're boring, or they secretly hate each other, or have no personality or purpose, then I truly don't think you've been paying attention.

They love each other so damn much I wanna cry.

You will always be famous to me, Deep Cut 💙💛❤️

[simcardiac-arrested]

no actually I’d like to hear your thoughts on the isat ending

Like i said it felt really tropey and by that i meant that it’s just Everything Good Happens forever and…..that’s it ? like idk we were building up to this huge catharsis sort of thing and then we got to it and it was so sudden and not a good payoff and just kind of nothingburger of an ending . the fact that everyone just forgives siffrin bothers me, or at least the fact that they don’t confront them about the shit they’ve said and done. call me a mental illness villainizer but i think if you’re a fucking asshole and doing the most insensitive things to the people you care about then hey, i think those ppl have a right to fucking tell you off for it. likeeee idk being at your lowest point …… not an excuse …. not feeling it chief ……. like sure the message is to move past your mistakes or whatever but ? that doesn’t mean just getting away with it ??? and i just really don’t understand Why everyone forgives him. honestly at the end of the day the ending is just one problem, the root of which are the characters. everyone feels like trope cardboard cutouts. oh, this is the smart one. this is the smol bean. this is the himbo. and they all care for each other btw. Did u hear that? they all care for each other. we’re not really going to explain to you why these people are so close or what they went through together but just trust me man they’re sooo found famy. like …. okay. i’ve played 30 hours of this game and not once did i buy that any of the characters really cared about each other. like??? why???? You’re telling me everyone super cares about siffrin even though they barely know them?? you’re telling me siffrin cares about everyone sooo much even though he never even bothered to find out their problems before ? Wat ? and this just breaks the ending more because literally whyyy do these people care about him so bad. and then it’s just whyyy does siffrin Have to tell them anything he doesn’t even seem to know them that well. everyone feels like colleagues and Just Friends at best. and so the ending just seems really forced. like it was written by that type of tumblr user who’s always talking about aww why does the found family have to break up after the end of the journey :( which is like fiiiiine. i guess. but u guys know that u have to build up to it right?? you can’t just tell me they’re Family Members(tm) 102829 times and that they super care about each other source: trust. you can’t just do that and then expect me to believe it ….. It feels unearned. the ending feels unearned and i don’ttttt understand what i’m supposed to take away from it . that it’s ok to fuck people up because you’re traumatized and insecure?? that you have to talk about your deepest problems with people you barely know??? i just dont know. Like i said if im being honest the problems with this game’s writing are more than just the ending, it just stands out so much because there’s a lot of build up and then just …… That

[forestgreenlesbian]

.

[back-in-a-bit]

wow i'm just looking at roy's thought process in the lead up to this call:

he's just gotten a ridiculous amount of flowers from the armstrong intelligence agent and he needs to do something with them, and his mind immediately goes "give them to riza".

like, bradley JUST called this man's ass out for wearing his heart on his sleeve and yet he just. keeps simping.

(you know what that is folks? king shit.)

(maybe he thought since he's not her boss right now he could get away with it. high key obsessed by that manga panel in the 'selim b is homunculus' convo where roy asks her out and riza shoots him down not having a CLUE that's what he's doing:

man's REALLY trying to shoot his shot pray for him y'all.)

and not only does roy decide to give her the flowers he decides to start off the call doing a goofy little bit.

like, my precious subordinate must be super stressed working under wrath! i know, i'll bring her some flowers and also use them as an excuse to check in on her and i'll ALSO honk my clown nose to get her to laugh or roll her eyes fondly at me! yes boyfriend of the year right here

i repeat, roy knows riza's going through a tough time and his game plan is to bring her flowers and try and make her laugh.

i'm frankly amazed these two weren't written up for fraternization before this. only the bad guys ever bring it up and no-one else ever calls them out on it in-universe but these two are NOT subtle.

[cerealmonster15]

haikaveh... save me haikaveh...

i KNOW it's been talked about to death but. the haikaveh research project. it literally haunts my mind. i cannot get over the implications. alhaitham going through his school life as someone that most people dont even really know about because he keeps to himself and doesn't socialize, with kaveh being the one exception to that, finding his way into his life as his Best Friend, and then leading to alhaithams one and only time he participated in a research topic. his bio says he only ever did ONE joint project!!! one!!! the one with kaveh his best friend and i think also his only friend at the time!!!! and then it ended in not only the project falling apart but also alhaithams only friendship. kavehs best friendship. they were each others closest person. they had no family around - alhaithams parents having died when he was young and his grandmother dying before he joined the akademiya, and kaveh's dad dying when he was young and his mom having moved to fontaine. like even if you dont look at it through a romantic lens it's still undeniable how important they were [and are] to each other..........

i'm getting off track but my point is very specifically for alhaitham, the one time he got close to someone, made a friend, even agreed to join one(1) group project ever, it ended in disaster. it led him into a fight so bad that his one and only friend said he regretted that friendship!!!! it was so bad alhaitham left the project and he and kaveh didnt speak for ages until they just happened to run into each other again at the tavern!!!!! like obviously it has to be incredibly awful for both of them but i just think how this probably had alhaitham in the cynical mindset that friendships and collaborations like that might just never work out for him because the one time he let someone into his life, it blew up on him and he was all alone again. even though alhaitham never seems to care much if people dont like him, that clearly cant still apply to someone he was exceptionally close to. like if he didnt care he woudlnt have been the one to take his name off the project and mutually not speak to kaveh...... kavehs words are the ones that hit the most significantly to alhaitham.......... kaveh is said/implied to have had at least some other friends while at school / people knew who he was, but not so much alhaitham. people didnt know him and the ones that did just knew he didnt socialize/he was not easy to get along with. he only had kaveh and then, for a while, he lost him too!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[justsumtransdude2000]

QuillKiller's Easy Beginnings

I know that a lot of people enjoy the internalized homophobia narrative in relation to relationships involving DE's and purebloods, and I often enjoy it too, when done correctly. However, QuillKiller is one of the instances where I think, characterization wise, it simply doesn't work. Specifically, I'm thinking when the internalized homophobia narrative is pushed onto Bellatrix.

Why? Well, what do we know about Bellatrix? She is dangerous, clinically insane, murderous and undyingly loyal to whatever she applies herself to, and canonically that thing is the dark lord, yes, but what else? She is self assured. When she battles people she taunts them because she is sure she'll beat them, when she argues she does it sardonically and with the very distinct air of I'm right, you're wrong, fuck off and die before I crucio you. Everything she does is with a sense of superiority and self respect. She knows who she is, and she wouldn't brush that off (especially in her teenage years, because Bellatrix as a teenager was a spitfire and a rebel in one way or another) to replace it with being who she needs to be.

So, when she realizes she's gay she doesn't think, she knows. She isn't afraid of it, or angry at it, guilt doesn't eat her alive about it, she doesn't dread not being the perfect daughter about it, because she's Bellatrix fucking Black, when has she ever been the perfect daughter, and when has trying to ever been fun? But this, her queerness and being able to weaponize it to piss off her family? That's fun. Bellatrix takes everything about herself and sharpens it until it's the perfect thing to ruin people with, especially when she is filled with teenage rebellion and hate.

Enter stage left Rita Skeeter, the openly lesbian trans girl (because fuck Terf-k Rowling, Rita deserves to be queer and trans and she is beautiful because of it) who is in everybody's business and runs a gossip column for Hogwarts. I imagine it starts 3rd year. Bellatrix has discovered this powerful, sharp thing about herself, and there is someone just as self actualized as her. Rita knows who she is, knows how to prove that to people. She runs smear campaigns against people who are transphobic towards her, and occasionally gets in trouble for hexing students who say nasty things, and she is a bit dangerous because of her abilities and Bellatrix loves it. She loves how being close with Rita is this game, loves how she walks a narrow tight rope of being loves and being smeared, loves the adrenaline rush it gives her (because she is so adrenaline junky coded).

And that love for all that Rita Skeeter is turns into love for her in 5th year.

And Rita Skeeter is intrigued by Bellatrix. By her ideology, the way she thinks and acts and is quick witted. The way she defends her so easily, the way curses flow from her wand with ease that Rita can tell is actually years of training and practicing (she ignores the thoughts about who she has had to practice on). And maybe it starts out as a story, but it turns into something else. It turns into this weird feeling in her hears, and sneaking into Bella's dorm, and learning what she likes to eat for breakfast, and wearing each other's ties on purpose and smearing transphobes together, and feelings.

And it's quite easy for them to fall in love.

[rouge-the-bat]

MAN. the dynamic of "just wants to be loved and desired and wanted" x "fantasizes about locking you up so i can have you all to myself forever" HOOOOO

[bandedbulbussnarfblat]

having thoughts about louis de pointe du lac. (as one does)

how lestat once told him he was never cruel. how he's been having these petty, cruel moments in dubai. how he was absolutely vicious in that fight with armand from san francisco in 73. then thinking about this passage from the iwtv book that louis says to armand:

"You showed me the only thing that I could really hope to become, what depth of evil, what degree of coldness I would have to attain to end my pain. And I accepted that. And so that passion, that love you saw in me, was extinguished. And you see now simply a mirror of yourself."

[oc-cinematic-universe]

extremely fucked up realizing joe and dara literally met before what i call their first meeting. they technically didnt talk to each other or otherwise interact much at all but they WERE both at lily and april's wedding

[milkweedman]

ah, the ever-more-frequent Urge To Explode My Brain from unending migraines. a migraine that just lasts the day already sucks so bad. whole day is gone in a blur of pain and misery, right ? a migraine that lasts multiple days is sort of like if hell was real and you were in it. time has no meaning, only pain, etc.

months of migraines... with no break or end or effective treatment and also you still have to work and behave like a normal person because you cannot lie in bed for months not paying rent. well id describe it you but ive fucking lost the plot. its gone on so long and its so bad that when the migraine ISN'T at its peaking on the pain scale and making me feel like if i was hit by a truck that would be an improvement, i start to feel like my head is a vestigial organ that has been removed. cant access sensation in my head and it feels literally disconnected from my body. meanwhile the pain is still there (along with the brain fog, vertigo, nausea, etc) but it feels like its happening to somebody else.

[seventh-district]

i’m not like other girls, my “Rest” stats are a heart rate of 110bpm and a HRV of 14 fucking milliseconds. :)

[caracello]

the mission where you meet quiet is so fucking funny. ocelot kaz shut up right now.

[bonestrouslingbones]

have officially hit the point where i kinda wish people i would like to call friends drifting away for the millionth time in a row actually WAS personal so that then i wouldnt feel so fucking stupid for getting so upset about it every time

[pretty-emo-dad]

If I ever come across as a Nancy anti I promise I’m not, she’s one of my favorite of the older teens and I love her, but when I’m talking about characters like Mike and Jonathan, some of their main conflicts are the result of her stubbornness/inability to recognize when she’s wrong