#willing to be unkind to get it

[spurbleu]

ovulation with the 141

strangely, out of the four, i feel like soap would be the most educated. he grew up with sisters. helpful (in his own, clumsy way) with the blunt pains of menstruation. because at the end of the week, he knows he gets to have you as much as he wants you. you’re almost as horny as him. almost. relishes spending hours fucking like rabbits. not above cutting a night out short if you express you’re needy. a true gentleman- well, until he’s not.

gaz is also pretty keen on things like this. probably tracks it with you. and that man prepares. buys you a set of lingerie, aphrodisiac honey, tests new cologne, the works. sex is romantic with him, but if you’re asking to be treated a little unkind he’s very willing. definitely teases you about it, though. buries himself to the hilt for your third round as you float in a sensitive come down, whispering “so greedy, already need me again?” you’d get mad if it didn’t turn you on.

simon, frankly, doesn’t focus on the biology of ovulation, but welcomes the change in libido. especially likes that he can end and start his day burrowed in your cunt, and the sensitive alters to your body- how easy it is to have you. once he picks up on the patterns every month, he’ll always stick particularly close to you- hands on your lower back in the grocery store, wrapped on your waist at the bar, resting on your thigh during drives- slowly making their way to your waist band…sneaky bastard.

your beloved price does his best to keep up, he does, but he is not in his twenties anymore. approaching forty, his body doesn’t always align with his desires. however, he’s no man to keep a lady waiting and wanting, so he’ll place a thick palm over your gut and eat you out until your immobile. if you try and swat him away he’ll bite your inner thigh, reminding you that “you asked for this”. and when you look at him the way you do after, sex stupor drooling from your sore cunt and swollen lips, he places an order for viagra.

[thoodleoo]

have not been catholic in a hot minute but i'm legitimately sad to see francis go. he was a beacon of hope and kindness in a church i have known my entire life as a hateful, unkind place. i get that conclave is still very popular but please keep in mind as you make your 2 con 2 clave posts that the catholic church still holds an incredible amount of power and the chances of another pope as liberally-minded as francis being elected this time are incredibly slim. we can only hope that whoever is chosen is willing to wield that authority in the name of the charity and compassion the church so claims as its mission

grant us a pope who doubts, but more importantly grant us a pope who loves, without judgment and without condition

[starshipsofstarlord]

claimed | daryl dixon

summary. whilst in the company of the claimers, they take notice of you being the only woman upon them. you hadn’t felt safe prior to the prison being turned into a cascade of ruins, and their company only encompassed the paranoia that you felt. luckily, you weren’t alone, you had daryl. but will he help keep the claimers from arguing over of whom you belong to? (6.7k)

warnings. smut 18+ mdni, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), angst, mentions of death and violence, swearing, claiming a person, toxic men (the claimers, not daryl), harassment, some fluff and angst

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

A bed was something to be grateful for, there was no question about it. The firm yet malleable mattress felt like a cloud as you laid upon it, it was far better than the ground that you had been resting your head upon since the fall of the prison. “Claimed.” You barked to the claimers that you and Daryl had joined since losing Beth, ensuring that the bed was yours, and stupidly you felt prepared to fight for it.

“So it is.” Joe, the grey haired leader of the scavenging pack analysed, allowing his selfish eyes to scour over your splayed body for a second, until he trudged away, him and his miscreant followers going off to find their own sleeping arrangements for the eve. They were sick sons of bitches, and that one that went by the name of Len was a sleazy scoundrel, more so than the rest. Any chance that became opportune to begrudge you or Daryl with a punishment from the man in charge to him, he was willing to stick his neck out for it.

You hoped he died. Never had you wished the unkind deterrence of life of a person that wasn’t already infected and walking through the bloodthirsty vision of the afterlife since the Governor had struck against your people, and with wishful thinking and a whole lot of loss, including the emancipated prison that you had called your home for some time, that grubby, power hungry atrocity of a man was no longer alive. These claimers were no better, if they had charge of a citizenship likened to that of Woodbury, they would be stained with the same greedy fingers.

They wanted to take, rather than simply survive by any means necessary, as you had done, looting run down grocery shops and anywhere else that’d feed you for the day. It was pointless in mentioning Beth to them, it wasn’t in their souls to feel pity for her having disappeared, less aid you in locating her. And so you were stuck with the guilt and despair of being a witness to that car with the unknown driver whisk her to a destination that was incomprehensible.

You would find her, you tapped your temple with your knuckles in attempt to attain your attention span towards rest, which was difficult enough since most of the men that you were currently surrounded by were not trustworthy. The only one that was was Daryl. He had found you and brought you to the camp with the dormant rv in a time that felt long ago; the two of you had been hunting the same deer in the thick of the forest.

It ran before either one of you could shoot it down, at first you’d been pissed that he’d culled your walking menu, however he had found it in himself to offer to bring you back with him. Of course you were cautious of following a stranger in the woods, however you soon relaxed when you’d seen the residents that made up the makeshift community. There were families, mothers that were rightly protective of their children, a young boy and girl, one with a father and the other without. Daryl couldn’t have been so bad if his intentions were to bring the four legged herbivore back for them.

And he wasn’t, he could certainly been distant during his blistering moments, but you were glad that you weren’t by yourself in the aftermath of the prison’s attacked descent. A hand leant against the door frame you had yet to close to get some kind of privacy away from the grotesque excuses for humans, but as you stared straight ahead, you offered a small smile, it was all that you could muster up given everything that you had gone through and all that you had lost. It wasn’t a claimer, it was just Daryl who’d like you, put on the disguise of being one of them.

He looked disheveled, more so than usual, you could see it in his eyes that he was tired. His legs were probably aching too, you were experiencing the same sensation in your calves, and so you softly patted the mattress beside you, inviting your friend to join you. “Ain’t no beds left.” Daryl muttered, being quiet as he closed the door, stalking towards you with a weight of many things that put pressure on his shoulders. Of course you weren’t surprised, these men you were travelling with were selfish, and absolute jackasses, they’d offer him the floor to lay his head and that was it.

“There’s this one.” You offered, knowing that it couldn’t be that strange to share the bed considering you had previously slept side by side in the woods as an extra precaution due to the claimers. If you hadn’t, you dreaded that Len or one of the other greedy cronies would have tried something with you. And as a peace of mind for himself, Daryl had to make sure that you were safe, he couldn’t lose you too. That would be the last straw for him, your company and the diminishing hope that you would one day find the other members of your peculiarly arranged family was the only thing that was keeping him going.

“Thanks.” In your time living side by side, from the first camp to the prison, and then now in the middle of nowhere, somewhere along the way he had picked up on manners. And those manners were much appreciated as you drifted closer to your side of his bed so that he would have enough room to lay down with there still being some space between the both of you. The duvet was no doubt a little dusty, however you had each been covered in worse, such as walker guts and the insistent grime that living outdoors dawned on you. "Been tryna keep those creeps away from ya."

"They're quite persistent." You agreed with the nature of the claimers, turning to face him so that you were laid on your side and Daryl mirrored your actions, his large fingers digging into the pillow from the topic of conversation. It always riled him that Joe and his mindless cronies that acted like magpies eyed you as though you were a piece of meat. Sure, there had certainly been men at the prison that had cast attraction in your direction, however they would nevertheless treat you with the respect that you were a human being whom was surviving the tasking aftermath of the outbreak. "I'm scared D, I don't trust them."

Your voice was small, with fright hanging off of each syllable that you pronounced. Daryl had witnessed your fear in the past, such as in the imprisonment of the CDC when the impending self destruction was looming the large risk of death over your entire group. It was a no brainer that you had no intentions to die, albeit the likeness of some that had hopes to given the walking dead that had presumed certain demise over the planet and it’s inhabitants, you however were a fighter. You’d fight to your death if it gave you a chance, Daryl even had to drag you away from the falling prison.

When the Governor had attacked you had been adamant to protect the place that had become your home until the last breath, but the archer would not allow it. Now you could see that if you had remained at the sight of the carnage where the undead had earned free pass to roam through, you would be another victim of the cruel hand that the Governor had dealt the lot of you. It hadn't mattered to Phillip that those that had once been his people were consumed in the deadly result of his vengeful and violent actions, he never cared for any one of them; it was his fault and bloody hands that had lead to Andrea's faint hearted death.

"Me either." Daryl admitted, although it was an easy concept to realise considering that you had witnessed his distaste prominently since you had banded with him since the start of the apocalypse. You gulped, stupidly afraid of involving him in some of the details that you had heard whilst being in the company of the claimers. He would go ballistic from the truth that had weaselled its way around his peripheral, but the only route in which you could disintegrate the possibility of the plans that the crude men held in your direction was for you to confide in your overly protective friend.

"They were speaking the other day, when they thought we were chasing after that nest of rabbits." It was short of nothing new when it came to the brash men, they had their opinions and had enjoyment in sharing them to each of their own. The archer's eyes became awake and full of concentration as you spoke, shuffling closer to you as he reached for you hand. Daryl wasn't stupid, you wouldn't bring up anything that lacked importance, and the waver that staggered in your voice brought paranoia to his ears. "I'm the only woman here... And the topic of conversation was regarding who will claim me... I can't - I won't-"

A hand rushed to grasp your own, his avid temper rising as he realised what sick fucks they really were. They weren't considered gentleman, but at the end of the world their priorities sure were twisted. Tears slipped from your eyes as you attempted to continue, however there was no reason for you to, Daryl was already prepared to do whatever it took to keep you as safe as possible in the ragged state of the world. His form shot up, as his eyes darted around the room, before they landed upon your feeble frame again, his gaze softening at the sight of you.

"We can go. Get up an' leave. I ain't lettin' none of that shit happen to ya. I'll kill 'em before they even hav' a chance ter try." His tone was dangerous, laced with convicted agitation that bespoke that his threats were completely full of spite. Your head raised gently, as you ogled up at him with glossy eyes; nobody had dared to go to such lengths for you before, they’d never have ran from the bad in the old world with you, let alone be prepared to murder somebody for their triumphant disgrace. Your lips murmured the voice of nothing, wobbling uncomfortably as you attempted to verbalise your thoughts.

With conflict drawn knuckles, you grasped at your own knees that you had raised to be against your chest, rocking lightly as you let out a sigh of relief as Daryl refrained from pacing around the room - he knew that that stressed you out, he was assertive when it came to his realisations, and currently you were his priority, and it would kill him to bring you further distress. “I have an idea.” You croaked out, however you were quickly shut down. There was no need to be impulsive, Daryl thought, as he nervously raised his hand to your face to pat your strewn teardrops away with his thumb.

“Nah.” The tracker input his opinion, wishing to cocoon you in his protection. “We have ta go y/n/n, we hav’ ta.” He’d have to convince you, however you brushed his hand away, holding it between both of your palms, feeling every scar and crease that were sewn onto his fingers. “I can’t let anything’ happen to you, ya need to understan’ that peach.” With a piercing gaze of azure defiance, he shook his brunette head, still standing against your unspoken resolute.

“We can’t Daryl, we’ve experienced what it’s like out there.” A pang shot directly into your chest as inducing flashes of those that didn’t make it and the unknown destiny of others that had inhabited the prison shot in your vision. “I can’t lose you too, Beth’s already gone.” The lump in your throat felt unbearably heavy, the stern conjunction of terror and apprehension making it almost suffocating. “But the claimers can’t claim me… if you already have.”

“Y/n.” He had to talk some sense into you, to convert you away from this path that would only be a mistake. The scheme that you had conformed of the purpose of self preservation may have been to suffice the leering consumption of the claimers, and it angered him. You were no piece of fruit ripe for the picking, and if you were to call yourself his, then it would be of complete free will. You would want him for something more than to avoid being a trophy to one of those scoundrels, and it would mean more than your conveying control over your life.

"Daryl." His name left your lips, as you stared like a deer in headlights up at him, hand caressing the bare skin of his exposed arm which made pangs of electrical pulse fly through his stomach. "It's the smartest option that we have, unless we stumble across our friends. And I trust you more than anyone that I have ever met, please just do this for me. So that we can both breathe through this turmoil shit whilst we figure out a plan to get Beth back. We have nothing to go off to find her at the moment, but something might appear, and we have to be united for that, and if one of them claim me, they will never let me go... unless we kill them. And right now is not the time to have any more blood on our hands."

Even if you tried, the both of you would be severely outnumbered, and you had already escaped death one too many times. "Okay, okay." His tone was grave, full of surrender and failure, he had a habit to folding to you eventually, you were his weakness, and although he would have to traipse carefully, your stubborn streak repeatedly overpowered his. "Jus'- I um, I ain't jus' willin' to do this before I tell ya something." The time was now or never to reveal his feelings that he had hunkered down privately inside of himself, there never was a perfect moment to do so before, except maybe the prison. And when you thought you were safe and professed with security there, Daryl had convinced himself that you would reject him, and it would ruin any connection you shared.

There was no reason to hold back his emotions any longer, if it were to be his place to ‘claim’ you, his head ached as he built his mind up to one of the largest vindications of his life, that had the chance to have dire consequences. The implications could be hurtful, if you did not reciprocate the feelings that he was going to share with you, then the air would be unceasingly tense, and the last thing he wished for was to make you uncomfortable. He didn’t want you to see him as one of the men that were stalking you like a rabbit hopping from lurking danger, he was your friend, and if you recoiled from his love, then he hoped that you would still see him as your ally and comrade.

"You can tell me anything in the world Dar." With feathery touches that lingered in his heart, you wound your hand down his arm until you were holding his hand, with sweet tenderness. "I don't want to put any pressure on you, ever, so if you don't want to claim me that's okay too." Logically he was aware that your fail safe plan was the smartest, and he held in a complicated groan, he felt torn between running away from all of these problems or dealing with them, it was like a stand still that he was holding with himself. Daryl squeezed your hand, bringing the back of it to his lips so he could pledge a nervous skin on the thin flesh.

"Love yer, tha's wha' I wanted to say for so long." It was easier to rip the band aid off quick so that the mountainous sadness could wash over him as fast, his healing hopefully being a speedier process. But your reaction was not what he had anticipated, your gaze did not make him feel nauseous, rather it was contempt with a bright hue in your irises that sparkled with comfortability. Your lips twitched into a small yet powerful smile, which took his breath away for a few seconds, and he felt suddenly stupid for his expectation.

"I've been waiting to hear those words for a long time Dixon." You admitted aloud, rustling across the sheets until your body was brought closer to his own, your onyx pupils running across his mournful and tired face. "And I love you as well, how could I not?" He could think of a lot of ways, but it would burst the moment like a bubble if he were to begin listing them, and so he refrained, allowing you to continue on with your voice that was hushed so that the claimers couldn't listen in, but audible enough so that he could understand you. "I think I first realised it at the farm, I was in shock when Andrea shot you; I wasn't sure whether I wanted to kill her or kiss you. Obviously I did neither, but I wish I d-"

Your voice was drowned out from the pressure that Daryl placed on your lips with his own, he leant his head over, moving his mouth with languid motions, moaning lightly as you nibbled on his lower lip. You drove him crazy, and as calm as your company made him feel, he was getting worked up, and so he pulled away, raking a large hand through your locks as he kept his eyes closed for a moment until he slowly opened them, your face being the focus of his peripheral vision. To him you were a ray of all the things he had strove for in the events proceeding from the outbreak, you were the sun that scorched his skin during the day, and the whistling breeze that soothed said inflictions of the sun after it had rose beneath the moon.

He was the victim of love, he realised that now. And although you said those words back, he still felt like he was punching above his weight, as though he were reaching for the stars. "Don' wan' yer to think that's the only reason I sai' I love ya." You required no validation, if you had the will to go through with lovemaking with him, it would be your own choice, he didn’t want your decision to be swayed by the plight of feelings. “Need ya to want me like tha’ in yer own mind, we don’ have ta do nothin’.” He was perfectly fine with resting his head on the pillow and going to sleep beside you in the bed that you had offered to share with him, he had said his part and taken enough action to appease his internal instincts.

“I know it isn’t Daryl.” You admitted, and he knew that you never uttered around anything that was bothering you in the slightest, your straightforward attitude had at first intimidated him, hence the copious waiting time that it had taken him to confess. If you didn't love him, then you wouldn't have said it back. "And I do want all of you in every way, it doesn't have to be in that way, I could wait forever for you. I would if it came to it, I'd die for you if worse comes to worst." At the end of your heartfelt rant, Daryl winced, hating to hear those words leave your mouth. He had ensured your utmost survival from keeping an eye on you, even from afar, and he would not allow any living soul, or even a dead one to rid you from the earth.

Death was not in the books for you, unless the prospect of such a sentence was after you grew withered and old, full of wisdom and fond memories. “Don’ say tha’.” It was a command, albeit one that he wouldn’t physically force you to follow, however it was simultaneously a promise. He would not allow anything to happen to you, not in a million years, and if the only way to prevent any violence from condemning your life upon a noosed risk was by claiming you, then he simply could not reject the compromise. “Ya ain’ dying’ girl, not on my watch.” His eyes traced your the sweet harmony that your facial features composed, brushing the rough edge of his palm across your jawline, causing a wispy breath to escape your more than kissable lips.

It still felt surreal that his body had built up the courageous nerves to kiss you, and he was almost kicking himself for never having done it sooner. “Okay.” You agreed, all too aware that the fluid expense of death could not be decided by the mere human race, but you would try your best to live as many days as you could realistically manage just for him. Daryl was worth attempting the impossible for, he had proven as much through his countless loyal acts, and the fact that he never landed blame upon anybody with moments that could not be reversed. He’d never even been slightly pissed that Andrea had whisked a bullet across his temple, leaving a dangerous graze onto the vulnerable flesh. He still had a faint mark from the bullet engrained gash, and you ran the pads of your fingers across the light skinned line, realising how lucky you remained to still have him beside you.

“An’ don’ worry ‘bout the claimers,” it was difficult not to you thought in a solitary mental notes, cautious of how they would leer in whichever direction you surpassed, “I’ll do it. I’ll claim ya. Jus’ wanna ask yer to be mine first…” His way of asking you to be his partner was not traditional in the slightest, it was very Daryl like, and that made you smile. Your eyes were glazed with the reflection of love, claimed by the contortion of in the moment simply being a woman that felt for a man, and he was the suspect in question for being the thief that had silently stolen your heart and the arteries connected to it. You were like a love strung puppet, your arms noosed around his neck as you held the fixated archer closer, the tip of your noses crossing heartfelt paths in an affectionate notion.

“I already am Dar.” The simple yet confirming statement was the truth, you had reserved your amorous emotions for him alone, and there was nobody else who could capture your attention in such a way like he had. “I think I knew deep down that I did prior to me having the realisation of it.” As you spoke in a sultry tone that was hushed to give more definition to your words, your lips impulsively brushed against his own, until you licked inside of his mouth to explore it again. “So take me, claim me, anything. I just want to be close to you Dar.” To feel his lips coincide against the pressure of your own was still not enough, you rotated so that you were sprawled on your back, Daryl instinctively climbing upon you like a wolf that had began to feast on a vulnerable sheep that had already accepted its fate.

Hearing that you were his was a chronically inducing statement, it felt like he had injected a strong dose of adrenaline into his cordial veins, refracting an affect to take a masculine toll over his body. He had grown endearingly hard for you in his slack trousers, confined by the material that tightly hugged his aroused bulge, his balls felt as though they were being squeezed, driving him to impractical insanity. His torso rotated above you as he devoured your lips, his scuffed palm claiming it’s placement around your face. You had to breathe through your nose, as your eyes were screwed shut, your brows inclined in a distance closer together as your mouth attempted to keep up with the pace that Daryl had installed.

You felt strangely complete, having found a purpose to keep moving forwards in the hardships that were hurled sullenly in your direction. The two of you were alive, and almost strangely you had never felt so alive in your life beforehand, until those amorous words had left Daryl’s lips. No, not that he would claim you, but he loved you. It coiled your heart in tendrils of tender affection, to know that not only were your emotions most definitely reciprocated, but that he would do anything that was required to protect you. In the past, prior to the falling of the world, men had always sought power and held a regarded possessiveness upon anything that they wished, there were some profusely sick bastards out there.

And the pack of claimers were no exception, they’d seen you handle yourself and kill the walking dead with finesse and they still saw you as some sort of object. But you were a person, with shattered feelings and a stubbornness motivation to keep on striding onwards despite all that you had lost. There was a small inkling of a chance that not all of them had possibly have been such atrocious people in advance to the outbreak, though that was a heavy doubt. They acted depraved, and whilst they could physically take anything they saw fit without laws obstructing their greed, that did not mean that you were ripe for the picking. If they had been good men once, they certainly weren’t any more, not like Daryl.

“Ya alrigh’?” The question startled you from your trickling thoughts, grounding you in reality where you were overshadowed in the best way by Daryl’s body, and you reached your hands out, bringing them to his cheeks. You would be fine, his face told you as much without saying anything in regard to your troubles at all. He would be fine. Instead of replying in a verbal manner, you pulled him back down, causing his body to melt into one organism within your own. He sunk into your grip, loving how you tousled his messy locks between your fingers, wrapping your legs around his waist only with the intent to pull him closer.

He could practically quiver, you were both a weakness and a strength to him, there was not a single thing that he would not do in order to keep you alive, and rather than just keeping you breathing, he was making you feel impossibly safe, despite the masses of threats that you faced on the daily; there were obviously the saviours whose eyes roamed despicably over your silhouette, there was the threat of being parched and starved on the road, and of course the walkers that had stalked you both day and night.

All of that was forgotten for a moment of relaxation, as you began unbuttoning Daryl’s shirt, having already discarded the vest that bore angel wings on the back. Daryl almost wanted to object, for the significant scars that were forever painted on his flesh distorted his frame, though that impulse was swallowed down. Time was of the essence as it always was, and he wished not to waste a singular second of it that he had with you. It would be a sin, and whilst he usually did not care for the religious shit, he had to admit that this was rising to be a holy event in his life.

With him helping you, his shirt was tossed carelessly across the room, your own following soon after. There was no dignity held in your need to have your bare flesh entangled with Daryl’s, the hunger to be with him was too strong to restrain yourself. The kiss was messy, a furious sliding of tongues alongside each other, but you couldn’t care, you needed him in ways that you had never needed anything else. His hands scathed the flesh of your back, reaching for the clasp of your bra, though he staggered upon some difficulty in undoing it, so you granted him aid, easily releasing the fabric from its embrace around your form, slipping the straps from your arms and discarding it also.

“Fuck.” Daryl cursed aloud, pulling away from your lips to take in the sight of you half bare to his naked eyes. His hands grasped your waist in a gentle manner, as he regarded you with both admiration and loving lust that reigned his gaze. He was definitely in love. “Yer so beaut’ful.” His head dipped, littering a smattering of kisses along your bare chest, his chapped lips contrasting against the softness of your skin, until he finally got to your left nipple, taking the peak into his mouth, suckling gently causing you to arch your back. This instance had been long awaited, and it had been worth every agonising second of being without his touch. It was more sensual than you had ever expected, exceeding each dream that had occurred in your resting mind.

Your hands braced against the back of his head, gently combing through his hair, as you become wantonly lost in him… something that you had always wanted. “D.” There was an insistent impatience within your voice that made him look up. You were ready to surpass the foreplay and get straight to the main course, but Daryl knew that you deserved better than that. He had acknowledged you, though you refrained from reminding him of the urgency that was boiling in your veins as he began to kiss his way down your stomach, licking at your flesh as he descended.

He made your legs shake in their own spiral of suspense as he slowly dragged down the layers that conformed your lower half from your sights, deadly slow in fact. He was teasing you, leaving you on a jagged edge of screaming from the perilous waiting to be touched, although you couldn’t. You had to remain quiet to sustain a lack of suspicion from the saviours, the last thing you wanted was a singular one of the depraved men walking in, they’d most likely enjoy watching, which was a foul truth that tainted your mouth with disgust. “So pretty.” The scruff that outlined Daryl’s jaw scuffed at your thighs as his hands spread your legs, leaving you intimately vulnerable to his eyes.

This felt like this was the weakest that the man that you loved had ever seen you, despite the gruelling circumstances that you had faced in union, and the injuries that you had each endured that lathered you with the fear of death. You were exposed, and you whimpered at his sentimental statement, pressing your lips together as you watched him lean closer to your cunt. His breathing was laboured, he too needing this as much as you did. He inhaled your womanly scent, memorising it for a second before he leaned in to taste you, a light, restricted groan tumbling from his lips. A sharp inhale of air penetrated your lungs as you held it in, your hands still in his hair as he kissed your lower lips affectionately, spreading them so that he could suckle at your bud.

As he did, you felt his wide fingertips tracing your entrance, and then he slipped one inside of you, both his fingers and mouth bringing you to ecstasy. You just needed a little more and then you could reach that peak that ascended you into bliss, and Daryl seemed aware of that fact to, adding another digit within your walls as he reached inside of you deeper, angling his fingers so that they toyed with that heavenly spot that made you see stars. Daryl rode you through your orgasm, his pace slowed until he pulled away, bringing his cum coated fingers to his own lips, tasting your essence as though he couldn’t get enough of it.

“Ya taste so good.” Daryl confirmed your suspicions, leaning over you so that he could kiss you again, and you tasted yourself on his lips, making you hum in delight against his mouth. There was so much you wanted to say to him, so many thoughts you needed to share, but you dared not think about speaking them - if the claimers heard, then it would endanger your people if they were still out there, having survive the ruin that your home had succumbed to. As you leant away from the kiss, you reached your hand up to trace every line on his face, each warping of his skin that had battled the world long before it had ended. If he was the last thing that you would ever see, then you would die as happy as you could.

“I love you.” You reminded him, knowing that he hadn’t been told that enough in his life, and he repeated your words with a delicate softness that contrasted heavily with the subjected hardness that was pressing against your thigh. He kissed you again as, leaning down as he stood, removing his pants and undergarments to shed himself into full exposure, making you gasp as he clambered atop of you, his body weight pressing into you. It was almost serene, and it would have been if you knew that this blanket of safety would last, however you doubted it considering the companions that had taken you into their midsts. This was the solace that you had sought prior to the outbreak - Daryl. You weren’t willing to let him go any time soon.

Your fingernails dug with a bite into the flesh of his scarred shoulders as he sank into you, his length slowly sliding within your walls until you felt almost unbearable full. He grunted in his own abyss of pleasure, staring at you with eyes filled with love that you had long awaited to be the bearer of, and he leant back, only to thrust back between the apex of your thighs again. He was heaven and bliss rolled into the contrasting, angelic frame of the handsome archer. His movements claimed you with a reverent passion, your flesh pressing tightly against one another as you had the impulse to call out his name, but rather than uttering it loudly for everyone in the house to hear, you whispered it into his ear, like a mantra that you never wanted to stop repeating.

Their eyes continued to fixate upon you, as if you were prey, an animal for the killing and skinning. Len was the worst of them, he licked his disgusting lips with a feverish hunger, like an addict concentrating upon his next hit. It wouldn’t be you, you were secure in that as he traipsed towards you, his toxic demeanour making you wrinkle your nose in dismay. You didn’t like him one bit, any of them in fact. But you had to do what it took to survive, and for the time being it was forcing yourself to be in their presence until you could find a safe locale far away from their greedy hands, hopefully by then having found your friends, or at least the ones that were still living.

“Y/N.” Your name sounded like poison as it left his lips, and you held in your grimace, wishing not to cause more trouble than the group already inebriated like air, pausing your footfalls as you turned your stiff attention towards him. Joe stopped too, watching intently as his follower stalked towards you, grabbing your arm. His grip was too firm to pull away from without causing a fight, and the last thing you wanted was to provoke further bloodshed, despite your feral side wishing to kill him for simply laying a hand upon you. You clenched your jaw, nostrils flaring, as the air around you wafted a breeze.

The trees danced as in applause for the sickly balls that Len had grown since your presence within the claimers, and you resented nature for conforming to the scene. “Let me go.” It was an order, one that fell deafeningly short on the man’s ear, as his putrid grip only tightened, and you were sure that there would be fingertip bruises looming beyond the sleeves of your jacket. You tried to pull back, but it only made you strangle out a small cry of pain, Len selfishly not relenting. Joe cleared his cigarette smoked throat, as if telling him to back off without voicing the threatening tone that billowed in his eyes, clearly wanting to see where this went. Without much else to do, you kicked at his legs, foot landing upon his shin causing him to curse.

“I’m already claimed you fucking bastard.” Joe seemed unsurprised by your words, having witnessed Daryl to slink into the room that you had claimed for yourself. He was gladdened by the fact that Daryl was within the tree line, seeking out a rabbit or some other animal that would contend as supper, otherwise there would be another event to fuel the clear hatred that Daryl and Len regarded one another with. The leader was amused, watching you kick once more at Len until he finally backed off, the bone on his leg no doubt being sensitive from the feel of your boots pummelling it. He knew there’d be trouble allowing a woman within their ranks, and as much as he had the impulse to swoop in and proclaim that he had claimed you, he was far too entertained, and rules were rules, set by his example.

“Yeah?” Len’s teeth were on show as if he were prepared to growl at you from the tenderness and pain you had reigned onto his left limb. “By who?” He retorted, his eyes having gone wild and crazed from the retaliation that you had openly handed him. His gaze seared against your form, trailing down your body as if he were trying to find a name etched into your flesh. The bristle of bushes made his head dart to the side, ready to see a walker stumbling out from the shrouded clearing, but it was only Daryl. There was a rabbit attained to its holding at his waist, the animal helpless and dead, having been struck by a bolt that ended its life and creating a patch of blood upon its fawn brindled side.

“I claimed her. She’s mine.” Daryl had heard most of the interaction, unaware when Len had grabbed you, otherwise he would have revealed himself sooner, the last thing he wanted was for you to be harmed. He stalked closer, pulling you into his side, noticing how tense you were, and that you had your arm held out in flatulent pain. “She’s mine. I claim her.” He repeated, glad that you had fought back. He hadn’t initially wanted to leave you to hunt, but Joe had told him to do exactly that, he spat on the ground towards Len, physically showing his distaste for the man. You were not something to be claimed, you were a human being, one that he cared about, one that he loved. But he and you both would keep the charade up until you could get away, and hopefully return to the people that you belonged with.

It was going to be a gruelling journey onwards with these folks, with Len hissing in jealous spite, but you had each other; that would get you through this, you reminded yourself. You could still feel Daryl’s amorous kisses upon your skin, and it brought you a wave of comfort. Joe cleared his throat, diverting the attention of his men and you and Daryl towards him. “You heard that.” The grey haired man stated with control bordering his voice. “She is claimed.” They all knew what that meant, and they would have to respect the procedure that had you claimed as they would with any other object. Daryl’s hand touched your waist, and that look that he gave you alone was enough to give you something to fight for.

[solelifauna]

Yandere Batfam & Neglected Reader Prt.1

When your late mother had a one-night stand with Gotham's richest man, you find yourself at odds and cast aside by your father and his wayward family. Yet, it's only when you find peace that it all comes crumbling down.

TW: Neglect, injury, violence, death

(Y'all, it gets worse in the next post)

To be adopted by Bruce Wayne was akin to a golden ticket; rare but life-changing. You had been one of those (un)lucky souls who just happened to catch the infamous Bruce Wayne's attention, but not how you’d typically expect. You see, you weren't just some random kid, no, you were the byproduct of a one-night stand between your mother and Brucie Wayne. Of course, you obviously didn't know, and your mother was more than content in keeping who your father was a secret. So for the first 11 years of your life, you lived in ignorance of who your father was. Not that it really bothered you; your mother’s love was more than enough, and as long as you had her you knew you’d be fine. 

Then of course, tragedy struck. Your mother was caught in the crossfire between two rival gangs, a stray bullet lodging itself in the side of her head. You don't know how long you spent crying, cradling her dead body, willing her to come back to life. It wasn’t until police and paramedics had to pull you off your mother, that you realized the gravity of your situation. Without your mother and no father, you’d no doubt be sent into one of Gotham City's many orphanages left to be trafficked and killed. Running away seemed like the best option until a positive paternal DNA match came in for one Bruce Wayne. To say you were dumbstruck is an understatement. Bruce Wayne was your father? The man known for adopting children and loving them as his own was your father? You were both relieved and delighted. You didn't know Bruce Wayne personally, but just seeing the way he treated his other children gave you hope, hope that you could heal with this man and finally know your father.

So when child services dropped you at the manor, a small suitcase in tow and a shy, nervous smile on your face only to be met with poorly hidden annoyance and contempt; to say you were heartbroken would be a disservice to yourself. It was easy to discern that your presence was not welcome and considered a hindrance. Bruce spoke to you disconnectedly, offering a quick apology on the loss of your mother before handing you off to the family butler, Alfred. At least Alfred had the decency to apologize on your father’s behalf, taking his time to talk to you and show you around the manor. You liked Alfred, he seemed kind. It wasn't long until you both ran into one of your other siblings, the eldest brother, Richard or Dick Grayson. He seemed the kindest out of the bunch on tv, so you were hopeful he'd have a different reaction compared to your father. 

Disappointment was your friend once more when Dick gave you a strained smile and conversed with you with fake interest. He left as soon as the opportunity arose. Your other siblings were no different; Jason was rarely ever at the manor and when he was, he certainly didn't bother even acknowledging you (not that you minded, he was scary when he was mad). Tim couldn't care less about your presence, finding annoyance when you’d go up to him and try to converse.

Cass or Cassandra talked to you here and there, never unkind, but you knew you were just an afterthought for her; Stephanie on the other hand initially interacted with you, asking you questions and occasionally sitting and talking to you. It was soon that you realized she was just bored and you were the newest “thing” in the manor. Her interest wore off a week later, her interactions with you now short and dry.

The family as a whole just seemed to disregard you and often stilted their conversation around you. You’d notice the dining room would be filled with laughter and loud talking until you'd walk in; silence would overtake the once lively place as everyone switched to hushed conversations. It’s as if everyone but you knew something you didn't, a big inside secret that bonded everyone together. It wasn’t until you accidentally discovered that Bruce Wayne was Batman and that the rest of your siblings had vigilante alter egos that everything made sense. This had to be why everyone left you out! It was because they had a secret identity to protect and you obviously couldn't know!

You thought that once they knew that you were aware of their nightly activities, things would change for the better, that you’d be included and accepted. If anything, your admission was the worst possible thing you could have done. At least before, some of them had pretended to interact or say something to you. But now that you knew their big secret, they no longer had a reason to maintain their forced fronts and pretend to care (even if it was barely caring). They had bigger, better, more important things to worry about than some random girl who popped up and wasn't even a vigilante. 

But ever the idiot, you still tried. You still craved their love and affection, going out of your way to take gymnastics to impress Dick or take coding classes to try and engage with Tim. You even tried talking to Jason about books, something Alfred had mentioned was dear to Jason. You tried sign language with Cass but she was never around long enough for it to matter. None of your attempts were successful. You didn't even bother trying with Bruce, you knew that the man wanted nothing to do with you. 

The straw that broke the camel's back for you was when your half-brother, Damian Wayne was introduced to the manor. You thought that he'd be met with the same coldness as you, and that you’d finally have someone who was in the same boat as you, someone who'd understand. Boy were you wrong. Damian was met with such a warmth it made your skin itch and your eyes teary. You wanted to throw up, this isn't fair, he doesn't even try and he gets their love and attention, yet here you were begging for scraps. Regardless, you thought that at least you could try again with Damian, he was technically blood-related to you after all. Yet when he pulled a knife on you and almost cut your throat, instead leaving a cut on your cheek down to your jaw, you could only stare at him in shock. 

You expected outrage and at least some sort of punishment for Damian, considering he had attacked you unprovoked and that you had no prior martial arts training, you were just a civilian. Dick only pulled you aside after Alfred had patched you up, you’ll never forget the words he said to you.

“(Y/n), what Damian did was a mistake. He’s had a rough childhood with some very bad people and it's not his fault he reacted this way. I know you're hurting, and I promise that this will be the first and last time this ever happens. Please, forgive him.” Dick said softly and mourningly.

You just let out a quiet “okay” not even focusing on Dick’s words, no, your main point of focus was the large, warm hand tenderly cradling your injured cheek. You didn't even realize how touch starved you really were, practically melting into his palm. You almost verbally protested when he retracted his hand as soon as you said “okay”. He was leaving.

“Thanks (Y/n), we really appreciate it. He's a good kid, I promise, he just needs some love and attention is all. I’ll come around to check on you soon, okay?” He said, moving away from you, obviously distracted.

You just “hmmed” in response. You knew he was lying, he would never come see you after this, and you were partly right. He came around the manor all the time now, but never for you, only for your attacker. Damian never did apologize for attacking you by the way. He just moved on, most likely realizing that you weren't a threat and were not worth his energy. 

Your cheek would still forever be scared though, not that anyone cared.

That's okay though, you honestly didn't want to talk to him anyway. The entire “Damian” incident was forgotten about quickly as the family bonded and had movie nights, patrols, and hangouts that you were not invited to. Well technically you were, but you realized that your presence just ruined the overall mood so you just decided that it was better if you just stayed away. It's fine, you did NOT need them. You had other people in your corner that actually cared so you were fine (not really).

Thankfully, you had convinced Bruce (not that he really cared) to let you stay at your old school and not transfer to Gotham Prep. So you got to keep your friends, the only people who understood your plight at the manor, the only people who cared; it was after this that you decided to stop caring as well. You weren't chosen by Bruce Wayne, you were forced upon him. Wayne Manor was not your home, just a stop along the way.

So, you made your peace.

Then, of course things changed, and now the bat family was starting to turn their interests on you. 

Catching attention in Gotham was never a good thing.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Ballers

Leah Williamson x Sister!Reader

Summary: You're more similar than you think

She did it first.

Your sister.

You were watching it.

You were huddled in your dorm room, knees up to your chest in the pitch black. A crappy stream that kept cutting out and buffering played on your laptop.

You had class the next day and basketball practice and your heating broke so the cold weather of Storrs, Connecticut had you shivering.

Shivering because of the cold soon changed into shivering in horror.

Leah.

On the pitch.

Leah and her knee.

You stayed up all through the night.

Waiting.

Just waiting.

Waiting for the moment the announcement came.

An ACL.

An ACL and her World Cup dreams shattered.

Your big sister's career derailed in an instant.

And you just...

You went to class. You spoke to your friends. You went to your practice. You did your homework.

Leah had surgery. Leah had rehab.

And you lost the national championship.

Not that you really had a chance. Injuries seemed to have swept your team the year Leah did her ACL...and the year after.

Leah tore her ACL and you returned home from college for the summer empty handed of the thing you wanted the most.

Leah's torn ACL is bad, of course, but it wasn't much of a thought in your mind when you returned to college. Leah was strong. She was England captain. She was a Euros winner.

You knew Leah would get better.

Her career wasn't over.

Not yet.

Injuries were never really a thought in your mind. They happened, of course.

But they'd never happened to you.

You'd joked once with one of your teammates that it was all the milk you drank as a kid.

But then it happens as so many other injuries do.

The ball goes rebounding off the net and you jump up to grab it.

You don't even get the chance to decide who you're passing to. You don't even get the chance to decide if you're going to dribble or not.

You land.

You twist.

Your knee pops.

You're on the floor.

You stare at your knee now, wrapped up in bed with a brace on as all you do is stare.

A blank stare. A stare devoid of all feeling.

Just your eyes on your knee.

Your stupid knee.

Your stupid, stupid knee.

Your stupid, stupid, ruined knee.

Your phone rings.

Again.

You've been fending off phone calls all day. Not from your teammates, of course, because they're in their rooms after having brought you back from the hospital and making sure you didn't choke on dinner.

From your family.

Your mother was the first one to call. You ignored her. She called again.

You ignored again.

She gave up eventually then it was your dad. He only called once, clearly getting the hint that you weren't willing to talk.

Then your brother. You sent him a fairly unkind message that you hope he doesn't take personally.

Then Leah.

She calls and calls and calls.

You manage to tear your gaze away from your traitorous knee for a moment to see the flash of her profile picture.

You're leaning over the barrier at one of her matches, both of your faces squish together as you celebrate whatever game she had clearly won just a moment before.

Your screen goes black.

You breath a sigh of relief but it lights up again.

Leah's smiling face greets you and your hand twitches.

"Well," Leah says with a smile," We're two peas in a pod, huh? Maybe it's genetic."

Your face says what your mouth cannot.

"Too soon."

"Yes."

"Sorry."

There's silence for a beat. Just one blessed moment before Leah opens her mouth again.

"Are you coming home or-?"

"I'm doing rehab here," You say bluntly. You're not in the mood. You can't do this right now.

You can't sit here and chat to your sister and think of your future when it all seems to be slipping from your grip.

Your surgery was still fresh. You were allowed this.

You're allowed to wallow in self-loathing.

"Really?"

"Yes!" You snap, surprising even yourself with your tone. You go quiet for a second, gathering yourself before you sigh. "The team still have matches. I'm staying here. Our injury bench is big. I won't be alone."

Leah looks sceptical. "You sure?"

"I am."

"I'm here, you know. If you want to talk."

"Leah, honestly, I don't want to talk. Not about this. I just...It's late. I want to go to sleep."

"Will you though?"

"Will I what?"

"Will you sleep though?"

Damn Leah. Damn Leah for knowing exactly what you're like. Damn for calling you out on your bullshit when all you want is to not confront the situation you're in.

You hate her for it.

You hate her.

You hate her.

You hate her.

You put the phone down and you stare at her contact.

She doesn't call back. She doesn't really do anything.

At least not tonight.

She does nothing tonight and you take the respite.

You go to class. You fall back into your routine but you're too fresh out of surgery to start your rehab.

You sit off to the side in practice. You watch the dribbling of balls. You watch the shots fall.

You itch to join them but the injury bench is big, you weren't lying, so you have plenty of company.

Company to do homework with and to eat with and to lament your sorrows to even though that last one is more so them lamenting their sorrows at you and you sitting there.

Numb would be the way to describe.

Numb and dead inside.

Numb and dead and drowning.

You go through the motions. You go to class. You eat. You go out with your teammates. You laugh at dumb jokes.

But it doesn't feel like anything's touching you.

Like everything is so surface level that you can't possibly be feeling anything deeper.

Then she arrives.

She's not on crutches anymore. She not on crutches anymore and somehow that makes you angrier.

She's months ahead of you in her recovery. Of course she isn't on crutches.

But it makes your blood boil. It makes you grind your teeth, vein almost popping out of your forehead.

But then she's in front of you and suddenly you don't care that she's randomly showed up at practice.

Tears drop down your face before you can even think, choking on some secret part of you that you've kept inside and buried for so long.

But Leah's there and you don't even care that you're sobbing into her chest in front of all of your teammates.

All you care about is your sister.

Here and now.

Coming to see you even though both of your worlds have been rocked by the same injury

[sobbingscripter]

˚˖𓍢ִִ໋💙་༘Neighbours˚˖𓍢ִ💙.ִ࿐

Tags: [frank castle][mdni][mlw][just porn, no plot][literally a tester][something I'm typing while waiting for my food][lil drabble][analingus][squirting][doggy style][mating press][side fuck][there's a few other things he does that I don't know how to word]

A test drabble requested by @lucky-beheaded and @v1tale

Something, something about being Frank Castle's little personal nurse.

You're his neighbour, sharing the shitty little apartment building with the broken windows and the rusted burglar bars, peeling paint and rattling doorframes.

Obviously he's got a better furnished, and nicer warehouse but he's got quite a bit of business in this area, and Frank's not a man, if he doesn't care for his convenience and his time.

And it's not uncommon that when he's out punishing, he gets a little bruise or two, and comes to you to treat even the smallest little cuts.

Frank refuses to admit that it's because of your company and lies, saying he's trying to avoid the infections.

Frank's only willing to admit he likes your company when you're fucked out on your sofa, legs dangling aimlessly from broad, muscled shoulders, and your fingers limply interlaced behind his neck, manicured fingers snaking into the cropped hair and dragging along his scalp.

Frank's hips snap meanly, his face buried in your neck and hot pants of breath fan across the curve of your shoulder, his chest presses against yours and you can feel that delicious tuft of inky hair brush against your clit so teasingly when his hips grind into yours. You feel that flushed, rotund tip bruise that sweet gummy spot that has your toes curling beside either ear, your eyes rolling back and Frank's teeth scrape against your skin, leaving the faintest of marks because as much as he wants to, he can't fuck you into being his.

You're a classy girl. Good dates, good conversation is necessary instead of the usual grunts and murmured 'fuck you's that leave his lips.

But that doesn't mean he's above trying. In fact, he's so far below trying, that he has his cock bumping against your insides in a way that's as unkind as things can get.

A burly, tornado of a man, deep steely eyes staring into your pretty, half-lidded gaze, watching the way tears brim on your lower lashline, your nails scraping against his back, crossing out the scars left behind from the life he lives.

"Eyes on me, gorgeous."

Frank breathes out, hands shifting and hips slowing to a grinding halt, carved pelvis poking into the slightest chub of his belly, muscular thighs on either side of you and he groans.

The scent of liquor and minty toothpaste lingers on his tongue, but you're more preoccupied with the way the wet muscle licks up the perspiration that dots your skin.

Staring from the valley between your breasts and all the way up to the hollow beneath your ear.

And Frank whispers, like a fucking dream incarnate.

"Let me fuck a baby into you, dollface."

One slow pull back of his hips has you feeling each fucking inch, veins dragging against gummy walls and his hands move to your thigh, moving it to rest alongside it's partner on his other shoulder, before Frank comes closer, pressing the sloppiest and messiest kiss against your lips. Swallowing the gasp you let out when he stretches you out once again, and the thrusts are slow, painfully tantalizing as he grabs a handful of your ass, pulling you closer to meet each of his movements.

But Frank's not a gentle man.

He hasn't been in a long time and you're barely coherent when he begins to fuck into you like a man in heat, blunt nails digging into the cellulite of your thighs, dragging over stretch marks as he tries to palm as much as he can. He's desperate.

An orgasm far too close but it's not enough. It's just not enough.

Hips snap, your asscheeks feel like they're on fire and you nearly gasp when you're tossed onto your stomach, powerful hands hooked at your hips and pulling you back to meet his brutal movements. Frank watches, marvelling at the ripple of plush cheeks bouncing off the carved flesh of his hips, one hand pressing down at the dip in your spine, forcing your arch to deepen and the other moving to rest on one fleshy mound.

Spreading you open, only to spit down at where your furled entrance sits so pretty and undisturbed and Frank groans.

"Put your pretty fingers where the sun don't shine, gorgeous. Wanna see—... You fuck yourself..."

You nod weakly, drool slipping down your kiss swollen lips as one of your hands snake between your thighs and Frank's hips snap particularly harshly, the painful nudge of his thick, mushroom-y tip makes you gasp sharply.

"Not there, dollface." He hums, the hand on your cheek shifting ever so slightly, his calloused thumb brushing over your hole so teasingly. "Here."

You feel the wind leave your lungs, cheeks flushing even deeper and you nod your head so weakly, so shyly.

As you pop off the press-on on your middle finger, wetting your finger before reaching behind you.

Your digit pushes past the resistance, muscle tensed and tight around your finger but you persevere until your second knuckle from the base of your finger. And you're full.

You've never fucked yourself like this.

You've never been fucked like this.

Guess it really takes a man who has jack shit to live for, to make you squirt, soaking the cushions of your couch from the intensity. It's so depraved.

Sensations so fucking vivid that not even your sleep deprived mind could come up with fantasies that are half as amazing as the way Frank fucks you into oblivion.

You don't know how many orgasms you've had, you don't know when you started crying or even drooling but God, you don't wanna stop.

You feel a cool emptiness fill your core when Frank pulls out so abruptly, and you peek at him lazily, bleary eyes watching as he positions himself behind you. And you whine, shoving your face in the armrest as you feel his squirmy, salivating tongue dragging through your folds, all the way up to where your fingers thrust lazily into your ass.

And Frank pushes your hand away, muscular fingers digging into the fleshy mounds and he spreads you open in the most whorish way you could imagine.

And his tongue fucking pushes into you, and your brows furrow, nails clawing at the cushions and you nearly scream when he hikes your knee to rest on the backrest of the sofa.

And you feel like you're some kind of fucking dog, pissing on a hydrant when he fucks three, thick fingers into your weepy and overstimulated cunt.

Frank pants, dark eyes hazy and bleary. And all he's focused on, is making you a puddle of what you once were.

"I'm not fucking stopping." Frank breathes out, his voice a low, husky groan that has your insides twisting and turning.

"Not stopping until you're squirting yourself to dehydration."

[gogogodzilla]

✧ 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝟠 : 𝑀𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑐  ✧

【 𝑇𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤 】

╰› 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑒 𝑠𝑤𝑎𝑛 𝑥 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

╰› 〖 𝑆𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 〗: Your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, allowing you to reunite with Charlie after all these years

╰› 〖 𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 〗: nsfw 18+, slight age gap, light angst, charlie's pov, slight dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering

╰›  ✧ 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑡𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑚.𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ✧ 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑜3 ✧ 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑝𝑎𝑑 ✧

Rain patters against the roof of Swan Auto Repair, and the smell of motor oil, grease, and the remnants of old coffee fills the air. Charlie sits slumped at his desk in the back office of his shop, his head propped against his arm wrinkling the papers underneath. His faded flannel shirt is worn and rolled up to his elbows, exposing his oil-smudged hands and forearms. A distant ringing pulls him further out of his slumber and he blinks blearily as he attempts to regain his senses. 

He sits up with a groan, his back aching from his uncomfortable position. His steps toward the reception area are uncoordinated and he stumbles a little as he reaches for the phone on the wall. 

He picks up the phone and presses it against his ear. 

“Swan Auto” he answers, his voice thick with sleep. 

“Charlie?” your voice rings out on the other line. 

He straightens at the sound of your voice, and he’s surprised his heart didn’t lurch out of his chest. He can’t remember the last time he heard your voice, but it sounds just like it did the day you left.  

He forces himself out of his thoughts. “Been a while. Everything okay?” 

Your voice quivers as you speak. “I’d be better if my car didn’t break down in the middle of the night. Would you be willing to give an old friend a tow?” 

He likes to think you were more than old friends. The nights you used to spend tangled in his sheets surely meant something to him.

“Where are you?” 

He holds the phone with his shoulder as he searches for his jacket. You rattle off your location, which is mostly just a combination of landmarks. 

“Stay where you are. I’ll be there soon,” he says before hanging up. He grabs his jacket from a nearby coat rack and heads toward his tow truck. He wonders if you’ve changed at all. Forks had been a constant in his life, even after it felt like his world had been turned upside down by your departure. He figured the same could be applied to him. He hadn't changed except for a few more gray hairs and the sense not to get attached.

He sighs as he climbs into his ancient tow truck. It sputters to life, and Charlie begins his drive towards your location.  

He pulls in front of your car on the side of the road and hardly has enough time to throw it in park before he jumps out to meet you. You’re standing near your car, soaked to the bone. 

“Charlie!” you call as you head toward his truck. 

He wraps an arm around your shoulder and ushers you toward the passenger side of his truck. He practically shoves you in the seat before slamming the door behind you. 

He clambers into his truck, grateful to be out of the rain. He turns to look at you, taking in your appearance. The rain had soaked through your clothes, forcing them to cling tightly to your form. He can’t help his gaze from wandering, watching as water trickles down your neck and dips between the valley of your breasts.

“You’re drenched,” he says, forcing himself to look anywhere else but your tits. Your teeth begin to chatter and he reaches over to turn the heat up. 

“Why didn’t you just wait in the car?” he questions, his voice rough but not unkind. 

You shrug, “Felt weird just sitting there.”

His gaze softens as he looks at you, really looks at you, not just your soaking wet clothes. You hadn’t changed a bit. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d dreamed of just being in your presence once more, and now that he was really with you he didn’t know what to do. 

You turn to face him, “Thank you, Charlie. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” 

“Probably getting hypothermia,” he sighs. “Stay here while I hook your car up. We’ll take it back to the shop, and I can take a look at it there.” 

He doesn’t wait for your reply before jumping out of his truck. He works quickly to hook up your car, the rain only slightly inhibiting his progress. By the time he returns to you, he’s drenched and shivering. He’s thankful you’ve cranked the heat, and he takes a moment to defrost. 

“It’s good to see you, even if the circumstances aren’t exactly ideal,” you said, cutting through the awkward silence that fell upon you.  

He cleared his throat and started his truck. He was silent as he pulled out onto the road. Pine trees passed by in a flash as he picked up speed. The sooner he could get you back to his shop, the sooner he could get away from you. That’s what you wanted, right? 

“I told you to get rid of that piece of crap when you had the chance,” he mentioned, nodding his head toward his rearview mirror. 

You grinned, “It got me this far, hasn’t it?” 

“Speaking of, why now? Couldn’t find what you were looking for halfway across the country?” he questioned and it came out harsher than he intended. 

His words lingered between you, leaving a bad taste in his mouth. The silence that filled the cab of his truck was suffocating, and he counted down the seconds until he pulled into his shop. 

The rain had lightened up only slightly as he dropped your car off at his shop. You followed him into the back office as the tension simmered between you. He leans on the edge of his desk, taking in your appearance. You haven’t aged a day; you just look a bit more tired, maybe a little more sad. 

“M’sorry about earlier,” he begins. 

You wave him off, “I deserved it, don’t worry about it.”

“Still,” he shrugs, meeting your gaze, “it wasn’t fair. You had every right to leave this town and chase your dreams.”

You take a step towards him, “I shouldn’t have left the way I did. That wasn’t fair.” 

He resists the urge to pull you in and kiss all the regrets away. You shift on your feet before taking another step closer, situating yourself between his thighs. It almost seems like you’ve read his mind. 

You cup his face and he leans into your touch. A soft noise escapes him as you drag your thumb across his cheek. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs as he looks up at you. 

Your eyes search his for a moment, and the next thing he knows you’re leaning in. Your lips collide, and it's everything he’s dreamt about for the past few years. You kiss him, and it’s like nothing’s changed. It’s like you never left. 

You tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him impossibly closer. He groans against your mouth and slides his tongue against your bottom lip. His hands wander downward and squeeze your ass, earning a small yelp in response. He uses the opportunity and runs his tongue across the backs of your teeth. 

You pull away, panting, your breath tickling his cheeks. Your eyes meet, and the slight nod of your head is all it takes for the rest of his resolve to crumble underneath your fingertips. 

He grabs you and spins the two of you so you’re pressed against his desk. “Gotta get you outta these wet clothes, baby,” he mentions as his hands wander under the hem of your shirt. 

You hum, pulling him in by his flannel. Your lips meet in a sloppy kiss, and his hands skim across your body, almost as if memorizing the feel of your skin under his fingertips. Although, he doubts he could ever forget the feeling. 

One hand pops the closure of your jeans while the other wraps lightly around your neck, squeezing slightly as you kiss him. 

“You miss me as much as I miss you?” he questions as he dips his hand down your pants. His fingertips brush against your clothed core, and you gasp against him. He hums, “Certainly feels like you missed me.” 

He presses open-mouthed kisses against the side of your neck as he teases you through your underwear. You tucked yourself into the crook of his neck, and your quiet moans quickly turned into desperate pleas. 

The urge to have you desperate and crying for his cock nearly overwhelms him. A small part of him wants you to feel like he felt all those years– release just close enough that you can taste it but too far to fully grasp it. 

A larger, louder part of him wants to bury his cock in you and have you singing his name within the next 30 seconds. That part of him won. 

He pushes you back against the hard expanse of his desk and makes quick work of your jeans and underwear. He tugs them down and off your body, leaving you bare before him. He could’ve come just from the sight of you. You looked up at him as you spread your thighs, baring your glistening cunt for him. Just for him. 

He slides a finger through your folds, and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip, muffling a whine. 

He halts his movements. “Let me hear you, baby. Wanna hear those pretty little noises you make.” 

You give him an obedient nod, and he continues. He swipes a finger through your folds, gathering your slick as he circles your clit. You arch against his touch, moaning a little. 

His free hand moves upward to push up your t-shirt over your breasts. His fingers run over the lacy front of your bra, and when that isn’t enough for him, he pulls down the front of your bra. He circles your nipples, mirroring his ministrations on your clit, and the buds harden under his touch. 

He sinks his finger into your core, pumping it a few times and eliciting a breathy moan from you. He wants to take his time with you, despite the raging desire to ruin you. He wants you to keep crawling back to him because no one can make you feel the way that he does. 

You give him an all too familiar pleading look, and he decides to take mercy on you just this once. He pops the button on his jeans and eagerly pushes down his boxers just enough to let his cock spring free. He pulls out of you and coats his cock with your arousal. He pumps his hand a few times before sliding his cock through your folds. You whine each time his head hits your clit, and it's music to his ears. 

He plunges into you inch by tantalizing inch. Your legs wrap around his hips, pulling him in closer. You felt heavenly against him, squeezing him just right. The plush skin of your thigh sinks under his fingertips as he pushes your thighs near your chest, practically bending you in half. He begins to rock his hips, nearly getting lost in the sensation of you already. 

Your walls flutter and clench around him. You arch your back as he readjusts his angle, hitting the sensitive spot inside you. He reaches down to where the two of you meet and draws lazy figure-eights against your clit, earning a whine in response. 

The familiar heat builds within his abdomen and he wills himself to last a little longer. He needs to feel you cum around his cock, and the thought consumes him as he thrusts harder into you. 

He grabs your face with his free hand and leans down to press a sloppy kiss against your lips. It’s a mixture of tongue and teeth, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. The obscene sounds of your sopping heat and skin slapping against skin fill his back office. It’s nearly enough to make his cheeks flush. 

Your thighs clamp against his sides as you throw your head back and cum with a strangled cry. Your pussy squeezes him like a vice as your release crashes over you, and his thrusts falter. 

He grips your hips and juts into you for a final time as he cums hard, filling you just how you liked. A comfortable silence lingers between you as you both catch your breath. 

He slowly pulls out of you and watches as his release leaks over your folds. He attempts to commit the image to memory, just in case this is the last time you’ll be together like this. 

You grab at his flannel and tug him down for a kiss. It’s much softer than your previous ones. He prays it’s not a kiss goodbye. 

“You in town for long?” he questions as he pulls away. 

You shrug, “For the foreseeable future.”

“You got a place to stay tonight?” 

You shake your head and look up at him with those eyes he could never resist. 

“You can stay at my place, and I’ll take a look at your car in the morning. Deal?” 

You stand and press a chaste kiss to his lips. 

“Deal.”

[colleendoran]

So grateful to have to kind of support of the Dunmanifestin team, Terry Pratchett's estate, and Neil Gaiman who pushed back the GOOD OMENS deadline so I could recover from cancer treatment and shingles.

Wish I could say it's all smooth sailing, but it isn't, especially those exciting neuralgia events.

But with all this pressure now off my back, I am able to get a little more rest, restructure my schedule, and am working steady again.

I should also mention that I had various focus and health issues while working on the Neil Gaiman graphic novel adaptations for Dark Horse. https://amzn.to/44R3aML

Had Neil and Diana Schutz not been incredibly kind and patient, I'd have never made it through TROLL BRIDGE in the first place, and then there would have been no SNOW GLASS APPLES and no CHIVALRY. And of course, Daniel Chabon was a saint of patience with me on those. Never an unkind or cross word.

I know there are other people who never seem to stumble and hit every goal, but I'm not one of them. And certain people used to be very contemptuous of issues I was dealing with.

I don't work with those people anymore.

But I think you can see the results I can get when I'm working with people who are willing to be flexible and patient.

I'm very grateful to the Dunmanifestin team, Neil Gaiman, Diana Schutz, and Daniel Chabon.

Couldn't do it without you.

[richarlotte]

something on your mind?

Time to talk about love.

My friends, my good friends who are in Chicago, D.C., Montreal, Philly, and New York and who are in amazing relationships, share one thing: they focused on bettering their lives and themselves, and good men fit into the picture they were focused on painting. There was no “I’m going to find a good man and do the work later,” and there were no excuses made as to why they were neglecting themselves in favor of finding someone to take care of them; there were many distinct efforts made to better themselves, and when the right people came along, things fell into place naturally on both sides and progressed smoothly.

 

There’s a lot of focus on whether someone will fit into your life on Tumblr, but not a lot of talk about what’s going on on the other side. If you’re unhealed, uneducated, emotionally unstable, and unfit for a relationship, do you really think that you’ll find someone who’ll want to stay with you and do the healing for you? I say this not to be unkind but to be realistic. In order to form a strong, long-lasting relationship with someone, you have to be healthy and ready to deal with the conflicts and disappointments that occur in anyone’s life. If you have never had to deal with the things that can arise in any romantic relationship and you’re not mentally prepared to in the first place, you’ll find that it’ll be harder for you to keep things together and remain stable when life feels hard.

 

I have been in relationships before—healthy relationships—and I have thrived in them. But I’m also a person with trauma, and I know how that trauma presents itself and I know my triggers. It took me plenty of therapy, lots of listening to myself and acknowledging my feelings, and tons of breakups before I recognized both what I needed and what I was subconsciously seeking out. All of my friends who have made their longterm relationships last know what they’re looking for, know what they need, and know themselves well enough to walk away before things end on bad terms. Self-work must be done if you want to truly thrive in life, and you must have the ability to reflect on the things you could have done better.

 

Myself and the people I’ve known who’ve gone from struggling to thriving in relationships all share one common denominator: we’ve done the hard work associated with success, and we’re all willing to continue doing the work needed to get what we want. It’s incredibly hard and very damaging to one’s psyche to go through life with a clear image of what you want in your mind but a lack of awareness that limits you from getting what you want. It’s important to understand that you can overcome the obstacles in your own path and you can also overcome being an obstacle yourself. There are effective ways to heal, books you can immerse yourself in, therapists you can see, and things you can do to build yourself up so that you can thrive and feel more confident in your love life.

TL;DR:

You have to be willing to do the inner work before you seek out a romantic partner. A relationship won’t repair you if you feel broken; only you can heal yourself and fix your trauma. It’s an important part of finding yourself and finding a love that lasts and feels healthy.

[cipheramnesia]

Another thing I like about Farscape is how varied the infighting of the main cast gets. They range from small disagreements up to huge, angry shouting matches which I haven't quite seen accomplished very well, and especially not on science fiction television. What makes them particularly good is the way angry characters say things that are unfair and unkind, and sometimes obviously untrue. They'll say things like, "we would never suggest leaving you behind" or "I always support your plans" despite every single person on the ship regularly proposing they leave someone behind, and calling one another's ideas stupid. And it's good, really good to see that kind of angry exaggeration because it feels true, and it tracks with how much the core cast never forgets that, ultimately, their characters are mostly strangers to each other who never wanted to work together. It really sells how much every single character is living with trauma and going a bit mad. And then no one even argues about the hyperbole. One consequence is that any character could do something really selfish or traitorous and not be out of character. Almost all of them have something so important it tests their wills.

Anyway, I was thinking about how genuinely alarming it is when Pilot is angry, both because he is calm and even passive 90% of the time but also because when he's angry, you suddenly realize he's twice the size of anyone else and has four huge arms with claws. And he only reaches anger under extreme duress.

[strwberri-milk]

okay this might be silly—how would zayne and sylus react if they were put into an arranged marriage? I have no idea how/why a cardiac surgeon or a crime lord would have to marry a stranger, but let's pretend like they aren't cosmically linked to mc (to give the reader a chance lol). how willing are they about the whole thing? would they try to just keep the relationship "professional"? what if their fiancée actually started to fall in love with them :O

Zayne doesn't quite want to but he isn't going to be mean to you about it. He knows that you're both in an impossible situation and the best thing he can do for himself right now is to navigate it as best he can. He'll get to know you without really offering up any information about himself, coming off as incredibly private.

It'd take a while for him to even consider you as a romantic partner. At first things do indeed just stay professional - he makes appearances as your partner and is polite enough to all of your friends and family that you can genuinely see this ending well. You don't know if he'll ever fall in love with you but you know that at the very least, you'll have a reliable man at your side. He provides for you and acts like a partner, just minus the affection.

Slowly, over time he could fall in love with you. If you fall in love with him he'll be respectful about it and aware that it's happening, but still keep his distance if he doesn't feel the same. Zayne has the capacity (in my head) to fall in love through companionship. He already takes good care of you and you do the same for him - it'd be strange for him not to fall for you too.

Your relationship would be very strong because at its base is a deep understanding and appreciate for who the two of you are as people. He wouldn't really expect himself to fall in love with you but once he does he simply lets it be, allowing his affections to bloom until the two of you are joined by more than just words on a page.

Sylus wasn't happy about it but he also understood the importance of it. He wouldn't be unkind to you but he isn't exactly kind either. You can ask him for anything you need and he'll fulfill it through you - just always through proxy. You don't get to see him often because he's always working.

Sylus doesn't make it a habit to make time for you. He'll keep his busy schedule the way it is, occasionally saying hello whenever he sees you but other than that you get the sense that the two of you are really just acquaintances. You're glad he isn't cruel towards you at the very least but you wish that the two of you could at least become friends.

You two would have to become closer through the forced proximity trope. There would need to be a reason for him to get to know you, something that stops him from going through his regular routine. He might start to become friendlier with you but there's always this polite distance that he's putting between the two of you.

It would really take a lot for him to fall in love with someone through an arranged marriage as he didn't even want to get married in the first place. He feels as though he's far too busy to entertain such things. You'd have to be incredibly patient for him to start returning your feelings but once he does, he'll be sure to show it to you every single day you're together.

[nomie-11]

Snowed In

masterlist!

synopsis: after the third snowstorm of the season, you're finally able to repay the woman who has been shoveling your driveway

pairings: vi x reader (no use of y/n)

Shifting awkwardly on your heels, your gloved hands gripped the tray of brownies so tight you knew your knuckles were white. You couldn’t figure out who was shoveling your driveway after it snowed the first and second time you had woken up to a cleared driveway, but this time you woke up early and watched as the woman across the street—dressed in tight thermals that did everything to show off her toned upper body—emerged from her house with a shovel and cleared your driveway. 

Now, you didn’t really have money to spare to pay her. But you did know how to bake and which house she lived in, so here you were, at 7:00 p.m. on a stranger’s doorstep, waiting for her to open the door and take this stupid tray of brownies before you retreated back into the warmth and comfort of your house. 

The door swung open a little faster than you expected, making you jump. You looked up right into the unmistakable face of the woman you’d watch from your window earlier that morning. 

She was just as imposing up close, with those unmistakable pink locks half-tucked under a beanie, a grease-streaked hoodie hanging off one shoulder, and an eyebrow cocked in surprise. She didn’t say anything at first—just stared at you, her eyes flicking between your face and the tray in your hands. 

“You… uh—” You thrust the brownies toward her like a peace offering, voice cracking slightly with nerves. “Thanks. For the driveway. I can’t pay you, but I can bake. So… brownies.”

She blinked, and then her mouth curled into a smirk—sharp, but not unkind. 

“Well, damn,” she said, reaching out to take the tray. Her fingers brushed yours, warm despite the chill in the air. “I thought you were going to yell at me for trespassing.” 

You let out a nervous laugh. “I considered it. But then I remembered I can’t get my car out without your help.” 

Vi laughed—a low, light sound that settled comfortably in your chest. “Smart move.” She looked down at the brownies, eyes crinkling. “These homemade?” 

“Yeah. And if you’re allergic to anything, you’re probably fucked.” 

“Risk I’m willing to take,” Vi said, gently taking the tray from your hands. “Wanna come in? It’s freezing and you brought me food. Least I can do is offer some heat in return.” 

You hesitated for just a second, surprised by the offer—and maybe just a little too eager to say yes. 

“Sorry, I’ve got work,” you trailed off, backing away before you could tell yourself to just step into the doorway of her very nice and heated house. “Enjoy the brownies.”

She smiled, a little confused, and yelled a goodbye after you as you hurriedly walked down the path, desperate not to slip on the snow-slick stones. 

—---------------------------------

A few days later, you’re elbow-deep in dish soap when a knock rattles your front door. You peer out the window, half expecting a delivery. But it’s Vi—this time without the beanie, her pink hair pulled back showing off her undercut, and the now-empty brownie tray in her gloved hands. 

You dry off quickly and crack open the door, surprised by how nonchalant she looks, like this is just part of her weekly routine now. 

“Hey,” she says with a lazy half-smile, lifting the tray slightly. “Return delivery. Also, those brownies? Unreal. You got, like, a bakery you’re hiding from me?” 

You laugh, opening the door a little wider to take the tray. “Glad you liked them. No license—just an overachieving sweet tooth.” 

Vi lingers in the doorway a moment, rocking on her heels like she might say more. But then she nods toward the driveway across the street. “Looks like we’re getting more snow later this week.” 

“Oh,” you say, a small grin on your face. “Guess I better buy more sugar.” 

She grins back. “Guess you better.” 

She walks away without another word, tossing a lazy wave over her shoulder. You stand in the doorway longer than necessary, tray clutched in your hands, until the cold finally drives you back inside. 

—-------------------------------

The snow came heavier than expected. 

By the time you’d finished your work and looked out the front window, the whole street was buried in white. Your car was nothing more than a lumpy silhouette, and the walkway you’d salted down earlier was completely useless now. You sighed and shut the curtains, resigning yourself to another day snowed in—maybe two. 

You were mid-way debating what to scavenge from your fridge when the power flickered. Once. Twice. 

Then everything cut out. 

“No,” you whispered into the dim, humming silence. “No, no, no—come on.”

You scrambled for your phone, using its flashlight to dig out the drawer with your emergency candles. Within minutes, you had a small cluster of flickering lights on the kitchen counter, casting just enough glow to make the place feel a little less post-apocalyptic. The house was already getting colder. Fast. 

You were layering up—second hoodie, two pairs of socks—when another knock came at your door. 

This one wasn’t tentative. It was solid. Confident. 

You opened it to find Vi again, this time bundled in a thick coat with a scarf slung loosely around her neck and snowflakes dusting her hair. Her eyebrows lifted at the sight of you, wrapped in mismatched layers like a human burrito. 

“Lights out here too?” she asked, nodding toward your darkened hallway. 

“Yup,” you said. “Heat’s gone too. Pretty sure I’m a popsicle now.” 

She grinned. “Yeah, I thought so. Grid’s down for the whole block. I’ve got a gas heater and some chili on the stove. You wanna ride it out somewhere that isn’t subzero?” 

You blinked. “You’re inviting me over. Again.” 

“Hey, you brought brownies. This is just me returning the favor with beans and central heat,” she said, stepping back and jerking her head in the direction of her house. “C’mon. I won’t bite. Unless you brought more baked goods—because then I might have to.” 

You hesitated, heart thudding a little too fast, not entirely because of the cold. 

“...I’ve got peanut butter cookies in the pantry,” you said. 

She turned on her heel. “That’s a yes, then.” 

You grabbed the cookies, your boots, and your last shred of composure, and followed her across the street. 

The warmth hit you the second you stepped inside her house. It smelled like spice and something savory simmering low and slow on the stove. The lights were out here too, but she’d lit enough candles to make the living room glow soft and gold. Blankets were already piled on the couch, a few cushions tossed down like she’d been halfway to building a fort. 

Vi looked at you over her shoulder as she unzipped her coat. “Make yourself at home. I figured we could suffer together. Or, you know… try not to suffer.” 

You slipped off your boots, cheeks already warm from more than just the sudden temperature change. “You do this for all your neighbors, or am I just special?” 

Vi chuckled as she plucked the cookie container from your hands and popped the lid. “Guess you’ll have to keep baking if you wanna find out.” 

You tried to think of something clever to say, but she was already walking into the kitchen, stealing a cookie on the way and tossing you a wink over her shoulder. 

So, you followed—into the warmth, the flickering light, and whatever this weird little snowstorm relationship was becoming. 

Maybe being snowed in wasn’t so bad after all.

if you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

also send me requests i beg

[orellazalonia]

What You Can’t Heal

Summary: You would think being a healer made you careful, more cautious of getting hurt. However, it made you the opposite, more willing to throw yourself head first into danger. And your mission partner does not like that one bit. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to heal. You and Bucky get hurt in this.

Word Count: 1.7k+

A/N: To be honest, I want to write another version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. But I thought it’d be fun to explore the recklessness that having healing powers can bring.

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

The compound gym was almost empty when you slipped in, quiet as breath. Just the sound of gloves striking a punching bag. Slow, rhythmic, and methodical. The kind of pace that didn’t burn energy but burned thoughts. You stopped just inside the doorway, watching the man in front of it all.

Bucky Barnes.

His black t-shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat, muscles rippling beneath ink and scars. His metal arm glinted in the low light, the sound of knuckles against canvas falling into a pattern like a heartbeat. You hadn’t known he’d be here. Or maybe you had. Subconsciously.

He didn't look at you. Not right away.

“You gonna stand there all day or join in?” He asked, voice low, still facing the bag.

You blinked, then stepped in. “Didn’t want to interrupt. You looked like you were winning the argument.”

“Wasn’t an argument,” He muttered, grabbing a towel and rubbing the sweat from the back of his neck. “Just… quiet.”

He finally turned, eyes landing on you. Not unkind, but guarded, always guarded. Like he expected you to flinch at something he hadn’t said yet.

“You’re not on the rotation today,” He pointed out.

You shrugged, tapping the inside of your wrist where a faint mark from yesterday’s spar still lingered. “Figured I could use the practice.”

He scoffed softly. “You mean more bruises to fix.”

You smirked. “Lucky for me, I’m the easiest medic to find.”

He didn’t smile, not really , but something in his jaw relaxed.

“…You’re too comfortable with pain,” He said after a moment, picking up a pair of training pads.

“You’re too afraid of it,” You countered, stepping onto the mat.

He paused. That sharp glance again, not angry and not insulted. Just watching. Assessing. Like you’d said something truer than he wanted to admit.

“Alright, healer,” He said, tossing you a pair of gloves. “Let’s see if you’re as tough as you act.”

You caught them easily, grinning.

You didn’t notice the faint flicker in his expression, the one that wasn’t annoyance or frustration. It was worry. Care, maybe. Hidden so deep, not even he knew where it lived anymore.

The training room echoed with the dull thud of fists against pads and the occasional grunt of effort. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a sterile glow over the gym's scarred walls. Bucky Barnes stood in the center of the mat, arms crossed, the faintest trace of a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"You’re not supposed to let them hit you just to prove you can heal," He said, voice sharp but quiet, like thunder muffled by snow.

You shrugged, rolling your bruised shoulder. The bone was already snapping back into place beneath your skin, just a faint crunch and a soft hiss of pain. “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point.” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t need to take every hit. Healing doesn’t make you invincible.”

You hated how his gaze pinned you. The ex-soldier still wore that half-haunted, half-suspicious expression like a second skin. But you knew he meant it. Not just the words. The worry behind them.

“You’re treating this like a game,” Bucky continued. “Out there, if you rely on your powers like a crutch, someone’s going to find a way to break you faster than you can fix yourself.”

“I don’t use it as a crutch,” You tried to keep your tone even. “It’s a tool. Just like your arm. Or your training.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the steel of his vibranium arm caught the overhead light. “Difference is, my arm doesn’t stop me from bleeding out if I get cocky.”

You looked away, jaw tight.

That was always the line, wasn’t it? The part they didn’t say out loud, the assumption that your powers made you reckless. Untouchable. Like pain didn’t matter to you.

But it did. You just didn’t show it.

“I’m not afraid of getting hurt,” You said finally, sighing in the process.

Bucky’s voice softened, but the weight in it didn’t lift. “Then maybe you should be.”

You met his eyes again. Blue-gray, storm-worn, and so damn tired. He looked at you the way someone looks at a puzzle they’ve tried to solve too many times. His frustration wasn’t just with you. It was with himself too, but you didn’t know that.

“…We’ll start again tomorrow,” He turned away now. “Don’t show up unless you’re ready to stop playing superhero.”

Then he left you standing on the mat. Your shoulder was fully healed, but your chest aching in a way no power could fix.

Two days later, the mission came.

A Hydra splinter cell operating out of an abandoned medical research facility on the outskirts of Munich. Stark had muttered something about leftover tech, too unstable to be ignored. You and Bucky were assigned to go in quiet, extract the data, and disable any weapons they were cooking up.

Bucky didn’t speak to you much on the quinjet. Just the usual mission prep. Tactical. Tense. You sat across from him, checking your gear in silence, biting down the bitter aftertaste of his last words.

”Don’t show up unless you’re ready to stop throwing yourself into danger.”

You showed up anyway.

The facility was dark, corridors lit only by flickering emergency lights. It smelled of antiseptic and rust, of blood dried long ago. Bucky moved ahead of you, every step measured, gun raised, breathing steady. You were right behind him, senses stretched taut. It wasn’t fear of getting hurt, not really. It was the quiet between you, heavier than the air, more suffocating than the mission itself.

Then came the ambush.

The first explosion sent you both to the floor. Ears ringing, you scrambled behind a lab table, catching a glimpse of Bucky. He was bleeding from a small gash near his temple, dazed but moving.

Three Hydra operatives advanced from the left.

Bucky cursed, firing off a few shots, but they kept coming. One tackled him, knocking the gun from his hands, the two others circling like wolves. You bolted forward without thinking, slamming into one with your shoulder and catching a knife through your side in return.

Pain flared. Warm blood soaked your shirt.

You welcomed it.

Bucky’s voice cracked through the haze as he shouted your name.

He was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the soldier by the throat and slamming him into the wall with a growl. The second Hydra agent went for you, but your powers were already at work. The tissue knitting, nerves sparking back into place, the blade sliding out of you with a slick noise.

You stood, bloody but calm, and delivered a solid punch that sent him sprawling.

By the time it was over, Bucky was breathing hard, hands shaking. Not from the fight, but from seeing you go down.

“Are you insane?” He shouted, storming toward you. “You ran into a knife! You could’ve-“

“I healed.”

“That’s not the damn point!”

His eyes burned. Your heart pounded. Not from adrenaline, but from the sharp edges in his voice, the way they cut deeper than any wound.

“You said I wasn’t ready,” You defended, quietly. “I proved I was.”

“No,” He said, stepping closer, voice dropping. “You proved you’re still willing to throw yourself away.”

You didn’t have a response to that.

He reached for you suddenly; gloved fingers brushing your side, feeling the warm blood that was already drying. His touch hovered, unsure.

“Stop doing that,” He spoke softer now. “Stop making me watch you get hurt just because you can.”

There it was. Raw, bare, unguarded. Not anger. Not frustration. Fear.

“I’m not afraid…” The rebuttal came out, barely above a whisper.

“I am.”

His voice barely made a sound, but it hit you like a punch to the ribs. Not the Winter Soldier voice, cold and precise. Not the soldier tone that was tactical, measured, and distant. No, this was Bucky. Just Bucky. Human. Frayed around the edges. Afraid.

Of losing you.

You stood frozen, not from pain, that was already gone, but because of the crack in his walls. The thing no one else ever got to see.

“You’re afraid for me,” You corrected, voice steadier than you expected.

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, Bucky dragged a hand down his face, leaving a smear of blood on his cheekbone, yours or his, you didn’t know. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the mission.

“Every time you go down, even for a second…” He exhaled hard, shaking his head. “I forget you’ll get back up. My body still reacts like I’m watching someone die. Like I’m helpless again.”

Your breath caught. He didn’t mean to say that last part. Helpless.

The word hung between you like smoke in a locked room. Bucky Barnes, who’d had his mind torn apart, his hands used for things he didn’t choose. Of course he feared helplessness. And now you understood why watching you get hurt, even if you healed, chipped away at whatever fragile peace he’d built. Your voice came next.

“I didn’t think it scared you like that.”

“I know,” He replied. “That’s the part that scares me more.”

You stepped closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, to see the small tremor in his metal hand. Close enough that the scent of his sweat and blood mixed with yours.

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” You explained yourself softly. “I just don’t know how else to help. I can’t punch like you. I can’t take down ten guys with one arm.”

“No,” He said firmly, meeting your gaze, “But you run toward pain like it’s your job to carry it.”

Silence filled the air once again. Then, gently, like he thought he might scare you; Bucky reached out, his hand brushing the side of your jaw, just enough pressure to ground you.

“I don’t want to watch someone I care about get used up trying to make up for everything they can’t fix.”

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until those words.

Care about.

You leaned into his touch, just barely. Enough to let him know you weren’t running. Not from this. Not from him.

“I’m trying to learn,” You whispered. “Maybe… you could help me.”

Bucky’s thumb grazed your cheekbone, just once, before he let his hand fall. But something had shifted, something deeper than bone and scar tissue. His walls weren’t down, not completely, but they weren’t steel anymore. He nodded once.

“I’ll teach you how to fight smart,” He said, voice low. “And in exchange, you stop putting yourself in harm’s way every time.”

And just like that, the truce between you wasn't just tactical anymore.

It was personal.

[devout-khajiit]

As much as we should all be wary of fearmongering in spirit work spaces, it's also good to remember that not every spirit is kind.

It's fearmongering to act like there's ten million evil spirits all trying to hurt you specifically at all times.

But it's true to state that there are malefic entities out there that do want to do harm. It's just that most cases, it's not some super personal plot against you by all of the spirit worlds.

Yes, sometimes we piss off spirits and they want to hurt us in return. Yes, sometimes spirits have motives and plans for us that are unkind. Yes, sometimes we do just plainly get unlucky and interact with a less than kind spirit through no fault of our own. Yes, entities that will pretend to be other spirits do exist. Yes, entities that mean very, very serious harm do exist.

But by doing spirit work, you're not signing yourself up for a constant uphill battle against ten million tricksters, you're not putting a giant target on your back that makes every spirit in a ten mile radius want to kill you.

And the worst case scenarios are typically few and far between. Yes, I believe people when they say "A trickster pretended to be Apollo and tried to kill me in a car crash", but this isn't happening to every single person who puts a toe into spirit work.

To do spirit work is not the open invitation to suffering at the hands of spirits. As well, if the world was truly full of that many malefic spirits, they would not wait for you to start doing spirit work to hurt you. They'd just start as soon as they found you.

It's also good to remember that these spirits don't, in my experience, tend to be well liked by other, kinder spirits. My spirit guides loathed, still loathe, the spirits haunting me and did everything in their powers to help me deal with it, especially as these spirits often did pretend to be Them. So if you are dealing with these spirits, you're likely to have kinder spirits very willing to help handle the situation with/for you.

The world is not as scary, cruel, and evil as some spirit workers like to imply it is. And frankly, I think this stance is bad for many reasons, including that it scares away people from beginning spirit work themselves.

But, spirits are truly broad and vast in how they behave. There are still less than savory spirits out there. Just because there's less than some people claim doesn't mean there's zero total. The horror stories about hauntings and negative run-ins and everything like that exist because these less than savory spirits do exist. Just... not to the same degree as the fearmongering says.

Do what you need to feel and be safe. If you feel you need to/should always vet your spirit guides before talking to them, do so. And you should, honestly, have some kind of protection in place regardless of if you've had a personal run-in or not.

Just remember, not every spirit is kind, but not every spirit is cruel.

[floworence]

Contrast between Drusilla and Effie is so stark, telling and also flattering towards Effie. From the first meeting, Haymitch appreciated her sympathy and kindness, she might've been insensitive but she was still undoubtedly kind. That was what the tributes needed.

I also found it so interesting that no one joked about Drusilla in 12, they feared her, yet jokes about Effie were rampant, she wasn't seen as a threat.

Effie's kindness and comfort was what the tributes needed, they already faced enough cruelty but Effie was one positive aspect in the hell that was being reaped.

She was like the best stereotype of a Capitol person: ditzy, stupid but not unkind.

She was viewed as a human, not a killing machine and I'd wager that was one of the things that made Katniss be more aware that citizens of Capitol were STILL PEOPLE.

She also was just a cog in the machine, not a willing participant, someone wrapped into the Games by an accident. She didn't want to be an escort, she actually didn't get any pleasure from leading kids to their deaths and from Haymitch's pov it's clear that her positivity was a mask to save herself, a coping mechanism if you will.

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

Can you help me articulate what the happy medium is between "there is no such thing as perfect pet ownership" and "a lot of common sense pet ownership advice is wrong"?

There is no such thing as perfect pet ownership, but staying educated from credible sources matters. I don't have a good framing for it in terms of what the medium is, but I get the question you're asking.

What I've noticed over the almost-decade of running this blog (yikes) is that most people really want to do better by theirs pets, and in doing so they turn to whatever resources are most accessible to them. If people aren't exposed to scientific resources about behavior - if they don't know they exist or can't access them - then it makes sense they'd rely on "folk wisdom" about pets that's online or their family member who has had lots of pets. And yeah, a lot of that easily available "wisdom" is based on outdated behavioral concepts or rumor, but that's the unfortunate reality of the information ecosystem we live in.

When you know better, you do better. And I've seen this play out for years and years here. So many asks the blog gets are from people who have either identified a gap in their knowledge and are looking to fix it, or from people who are really worried they've been a bad pet owner for doing xyz without knowing better. But not everyone has the same access to information about animal care. It's unkind and unproductive to condemn someone for not knowing they didn't know something. So I think for me the middle ground is wanting people to try to do their best by their animals, and be willing to change their management practices if they learn there's a better way.

Realistically, no pet ownership is perfect. There are going to be times people have to limit their animal's life (e.g. crate rest for an injury) or result in negative experiences (vet visits). The goal is to do the best you can with what you know and the resources you have, and if people are aiming for that, I'm happy with it.