#I've been reflecting this for WAY too long...

[ao3commentoftheday]

Firstly, please allow me to thank you for all that you do.

My ask is this, how do you and your followers reconcile with possibility of being trapped by your own work? I want to branch out and write originals, which i have done previously and uploaded to my blog but traffic to them was slim and i quickly realized that it’s a big ask for people to want to read a story when they come on a social app. I recently wrote a fic that i uploaded to ao3 that is within the same fandom but not related to the character i typically write for but my own ocs. I had one hit. I was overcome with the feeling that i cannot exist creatively outside of this character that i’ve been writing for for the last 3-4 years, that I’ve pigeon-holed myself and left no contingency plan for the future. I cannot do any other type of art the way i do writing, it gives me the most challenge, the most joy and the most reward. And i thought i was of the mind that i didn’t care if no one read my work, but now seeing it reflected back to me on the screen, it stings and i cannot but feel embarrassed, discouraged, disheartened and frustrated.

I'm so sorry that it's taken me so long to reply to this ask, and I'm even sorrier that you were feeling like this to begin with 💗 I hope that this was a momentary crisis and it hasn't continued, but in case it has:

You are so much more than the number of hits that you get on AO3. Your talent can't be measured by hits or kudos or comments. Your creativity isn't trapped inside a single character, and the more that you stretch yourself and grow the more you'll be able to feel like that's true.

Embarrassment and discouragement are the natural reactions when you share something you've worked on and get relative silence in response. I've felt disheartened and frustrated too in a similar situation.

From what you've written in this ask, it feels like you've lost confidence in your writing. You're worried that you can't do this thing that you love to do so much. You're looking for "proof" in the hits and other numbers - reassurance that you're a good writer. Reassurance that you can write outside of that one thing.

I've written before, and I'll never stop saying it - AO3 stats will not give you that reassurance, and if they do, it won't last long. To get the kind of reassurance and support that will help you regain your confidence in branching out, you really need someone (or multiple someones) that you can have ongoing conversations with about your writing.

Maybe it's a writer's group IRL. Maybe it's a discord server. Maybe it's your best friends in a group chat. Maybe it's your mom. Whoever it is, whoever they are, they'll have the context of knowing how nervous or uncertain you feel and they'll also know you well enough to know how you need to be supported.

I hope you've already figured this out in the intervening year since you dropped this in my inbox, and I really hope that you're still writing all of the things that you love to write.

[drdemonprince]

I learned about "pressured speech" and read up on it a bit. I saw myself in this lit. but it felt unfair and patronizing. I'm and AuDHDer, afab, and Black. I have known since I was young that people find it tedious, annoying, and unimportant when I talk, so I've learned to talk to very fast in the hopes that people might find me less annoying and listen to me. But, I didn't see any of this reflected in the literature. My Q: are the speech pathologists buggin, or is it me who should chill out?

I think a *lot* of speech language pathology involves targeting the individual for standing out in some noticeable way rather than focusing on the social exclusion & judgement that's actually the source of their communication problems.

Lots of gay kids get sent to the speech language pathologist at school purely for having the gay lisp (which is different from other forms of lisps, and doesn't really affect comprehensability!), for instance.

Relatedly, for a long time I believed that there was no such thing as "proper posture" or correct form for doing most activities; it all seemed like ableism and conformity to me. As an undiagnosed Autistic kid, I was constantly getting sent into special classes to correct how I held a pen, sat, carried myself, and so on, and all it ever did was make me feel defective and othered, when I was perfectly content prior to that "treatment" to just let my body do whatever it did. So I am with you on principle that a lot of what gets pathologized is unfairly targeted.

However, my recent experience of having a severe injury caused by unaddressed hypermobility AND what I've learned from working closely with a voice teacher who specializes in trans voices & pathology have convinced me to walk back a bit from my older belief that proper posture is completely fake, proper body movement forms aren't real, there is no "correct" way to speak and it's all equally valid diversity that has needlessly been pathologized.

Two things are true at once, I feel: completely benign differences in how people move/hold their body/speak/etc are being treated as pathological simply because they look different, AND people can really harm their bodies in a lasting way from misuse. Misuse is often caused by unaccommodated disability, trauma, dysphoria, stigma, or the holding in of stress.

It is not your body that is pathological -- it's how you have been treated, and your body responds to that.

It sounds like you have had quietly, pervasively traumatic experiences that have hampered your ability to communicate with other people in a relaxed way, and your way of coping with repeated hostility (speaking really fast) could potentially cause vocal damage and breathing problems as well as tension in your abs, throat, neck, upper back, and even your pelvic floor (this stuff really is all connected!).

I speak "too" rapidly too, because I am anxious with racing thoughts and I don't believe that people will listen to me, and that (among other quirks in how I speak, such as forcibly lowering my pitch using my tongue) has caused me to have a REALLY tight throat that can barely expel air correctly, a tight jaw, trouble exhaling, and what my singing teacher said were just about the tensest back and shoulder that she's ever seen. So if you're pushing your speech out rapidly the way that I did, you probably *are* causing yourself a lot of pain and strain that makes it harder not just to communicate, but also to just be in the world.

Some questions to consider:

Do you find the act of speaking exhausting? Do you run out of the energy to continue a conversation sooner than most people do?

When you speak, do you feel like you are pushing air out with your abs by force? (speaking *should* feel like the air is flowing through your vocal cords effortlessly, with about the same effort as passive breathing).

Do you experience a lot of vocal cracking/trouble controlling your pitch at either high or low notes?

When you breathe, does it feel like you're never really getting a full breath, either because you can't take enough air in, or you can't let it all out?

Do you feel like you have run out of breath at the end of a sentence pretty often?

Are your shoulders hunched?

Do you have "tech neck" posture?

Are your abs tight?

Is your pelvic floor tight? Do you find it difficult to relax enough to insert anything you want to into your vagina?

Does your jaw feel tense?

If yes to a majority of these, you probably *are* speaking in a way that causes you significant strain. And that is because your body is carrying a TON of stress and trauma from people mistreating you! This stuff takes a real TOLL. If your brain has come to expect that nobody cares about you and no one will listen to you, then your body has learned that message too, and that affects how you carry yourself.

But!!! You can undo a lot of this stuff and de-stress your body, and you don't have to focus on changing your speech or making yourself more in alignment with what is considered "normal." You can just start with body relaxation, breathing exercises, jaw massage, using a lacrosse ball to roll out your upper back tension, using a foam roller to relax your abs, doing some gentle kegels, etc.

In the past several months I have been learning a LOT about this subject and making major strides but I'm not confident enough to write about it formally yet. Watch this space!!

[sooverwhitesandpinks]

Coach Cam 🏀 R.C.

.⋆☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆.⋆☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆.⋆☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆

littlebrother'scoach!rafe x female!reader

warnings: none

I've never written for Rafe before, so I'm nervous. But enjoy!!

~1.5k words

ᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩

ᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩

“It’s not this turn, it’s the next one,” your little brother grumbled from the passenger seat of your car. At the age of 8, he had the type of attitude only bestowed upon the lone son of a single mother of 3. 

“You’ll be fine without your leg sleeve for practice, I’m sure it wasn’t gonna make you that much faster anyway,” you said with a smile. He begged you to turn around just past the halfway point for the overpriced piece of fabric he’d annoyed your mom into buying him after he saw his favorite NBA player wearing one. 

“You’re so dramatic.” 

“We could’ve turned around,” he rolled his eyes.

“Not if we wanted to make it on time,” you rebutted. 

He’d resorted to sulking out the window at the finality of your decision. And it wasn’t like you were denying him a knee brace or anything either, just a purely decorative hunk of spandex and nylon. 

He didn’t spare you another word as you parked the car and headed into the local middle school’s gymnasium. The walls were painted white and the wooden floor reflected the overhead lights. Windows lined the very top of one wall, allowing ample enough daylight to luminate the space. Familiar in the way all middle school gyms tend to be, but completely new otherwise.

Your mom moved from Florida back to her hometown of Kildare, North Carolina just before your final year of college. Everyone joined you at school for the holidays, so you hadn’t seen the island yet, but you still hadn’t bagged a job straight out of college so why not take a long rent-free vacation. 

Free was a stretch if you counted spending your Saturday morning at Leo’s basketball practice as currency, but you didn’t mind. You hadn’t made any friends yet besides your sister so there wasn’t really anything else demanding your attention. 

Your brother ran across the floor toward the corner where a few boys were still tying their shoes. Basketballs pounding the floor already echoed throughout the gym, sneakers squeaking from the couple of kids already warming up. There were quiet hums from the bleachers where a few of the parents seemed to be catching up. 

You took an empty aisle seat just above and to the right of a group of three moms who seemed like they’d been meeting together at basketball practice since their kids could walk. 

You scanned the gym briefly, looking over the kids playing around before practice began, cones and basketballs laying around, two tall men standing at the corner of the court. One of them had dark hair and a clipboard, talking animatedly about something. The other stood broad with buzzed hair, a whistle perched between his lips and his blue eyes already on you. 

Your eyes flitted from him when you realized he was already looking at you–but they returned when it registered that it wasn’t by coincidence. The corners of his lips raised, and you felt like yours might too. So, you looked back over to where Leo was finally starting to shoot around with his friend, leg sleeve forgotten. Despite your eyes on the court, your mind was on Coach Hottie-Pants.

Was that his coach? He was fine, you thought. Your mom did not warn you about that. Your mom definitely should’ve warned you about that. You probably would’ve thrown on more than biker shorts and an old tee. Maybe even gone wild and put some mascara on. 

You blinked away your thoughts, eyes dropping to the group of moms below you. They were already looking at you too. Was that going to be a theme on this island? 

Your eyebrows furrowed, confused about their attention and the group-wide staring problem until you finally clued into someone stepping up the bleachers toward you. You weren’t sure how he’d gotten that close without you realizing it. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met yet, I’m Coach Cam, but you can call me Rafe,” he spoke smoothly, hand reaching out. “I like to introduce myself to all of my players’ families.”

You gently put your hand in his, shaking it slowly as you gave him your name.

“Leo told me about his older sisters,” he smiled lazily, dropping down to the stairs beside your seat. His hand stayed on the conveniently placed rail, giving you a perfect view of the way his t-shirt clung to his bicep.

“Did he?” You questioned, hoping the brat hadn’t told his fine ass coach something embarrassing. 

“Are you the one that used to hoop?” He nodded and asked, eyes meeting yours intently.

“I did in high school, yeah. I was pretty good,” you answered smugly.

“How come I didn’t hear about you?” He cocked his head.

“I’m not from around here,” you shrugged with one shoulder, hoping you were reading this as flirting correctly. 

“I knew you couldn’t be, or I would’ve known you looked like this before today,” he definitely flirted, eyes running over your whole face.

“Cute,” you jokingly sneered, scrunching your nose. He smiled, lips parting to speak again when his name was called. 

Your attention turned to his clipboard-wielding friend who was presumably ready to start practice, judging by the group of little boys surrounding him with their attention set on you and Rafe. 

“I better go before Coach Kelce makes me run sprints,” he joked, rising from his spot beside you. He turned to walk off, but doubled-back to stretch his hand out for another handshake. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” you smiled and returned the handshake, happy to let your palm rest in his for a moment before he finally rushed off. 

You watched him join the huddle, eyes floating from him to your little brother, whose face was subtly screwed up in disapproval at the attention his coach was giving you. He kept his eyes on you for a beat before his head shook slowly once, twice, before he turned his attention to the clipboard in front of him. 

Practice went by in a rush of blown whistles and sneakers chirping as they traveled across the glossy, wooden floorboards. Soon enough you were being dragged out of the gym by your brother, barely managing a glance at Rafe before you were back in the parking lot of Kildare County Middle School and into the bright, hot heat of the North Carolina sun. 

“What’s the rush? You barely even changed shoes,” you asked Leo, lost on why he slipped into his slides and had you to the car within a minute or two of practice ending. 

“You can’t get with Coach Cam, it’s weird,” he muttered, yanking open the door to your car and getting in. You followed, jaw slack.

“Who says I’m trying to get with Coach Cam?” You asked, incredulously. You slid the key into the ignition and started the car.

“You guys were flirting. Coach Kelce said so,” he crossed his arms. “Then the guys kept asking me if Coach Cameron was gonna bang my sister for the rest of practice.”

“It's disgusting that I speak to your coach once and a bunch of twelve year olds are asking if he’s gonna bang me,” you huffed. “He was just introducing himself.”

Part of you was glad that Coach Kelce confirmed your suspicions on whether or not Rafe had been flirting with you. Leo just rolled his eyes, already nose deep in his phone. You shook your head, turning your body as you put the car in reverse to back out of your parking spot. 

A sharp knock at your window made you jump, hand clutching your chest. You flipped around to see none other than Coach Cameron at your window, apologetic smile gracing his lips. You threw your car back into park, trying to calm the heat in your cheeks as you rolled down the window.

“Sorry,” he said first, but you just shook your head.

“What’s up?” You asked, hoping you didn’t sound too eager.

“You guys left so quick, I just wanted to remind you guys that our first game is Monday evening. We’re gonna wear the blue jerseys,” he directed the last part to Leo, but the first sentence was all yours, or at least that was the story his eyes told. 

“Noted. Thank you,” you smiled softly. 

“I’ll see you there?” Rafe’s eyes met yours again, chin tilted down like he was really hoping for a certain answer.

You pretended to think on it for a beat before you conceded with an, “I think I can make that work.” 

“I’ll see you there,” he affirmed, smile widening as he backed away from your car.

You rolled your window up as he sauntered off toward a black truck. You redirected your attention toward your journey home and trying your best not to look at Leo. 

“Please don’t make me ask you not to bang my coach again,” he piped up before you were even out of the parking lot. 

“I am not gonna bang Rafe–I mean Coach Cam!” 

ᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩ᯓᡣ𐭩

Hope you liked it! *ੈ✩‧₊˚💋ྀི ˚. ᵎᵎ

[ttdamian]

I apologize for erm not updating for like 2 weeks... i've been very unmotivated to write and even thought of quitting (´∀｀；) but hello hi i wont do that... as apology please take this little snippet of the next chapter i just started working on. Thank you so much for all the support as well, it has really been the reason why i keep writing.

It had been two weeks.

Fourteen days of waking up in sheets that didn’t feel like yours.

Fourteen nights of lying awake in a bed too big, too stiff, too quiet.

The silence here wasn’t peace. It was something else. Something heavier.

The kind that pressed on your chest when the lights went out.

The kind that made you flinch at every creak in the floorboards—because even the house itself seemed to sigh in disappointment when you moved.

Wayne Manor wasn’t a home. It was a museum of people who used to matter. Every hallway whispered someone else’s name. Every photo on the wall looked like it had been taken just to be seen by the world, not remembered by a family.

You weren’t part of the curation. You were something left in the margins. A misprint in an otherwise perfect collection.

And nothing had changed.

Bruce still hadn’t looked at you.

Not directly.

Not once.

You’d memorized the angles of his avoidance.

The way his eyes would land just past your shoulder.

The way his footsteps would speed up when he heard yours down the hall.

The way he spoke only when he had to, and never in words meant for you.

He was the kind of absent that didn’t need distance.

And Alfred… Alfred tried.

You saw it in the soft way he said your name. In the tea left outside your door that was always still warm. In the way he didn’t flinch when you asked the question you already knew the answer to.

“Why won’t he talk to me?”

Alfred’s pause was long. Weighted. Then, in a voice full of gentle regret:

“He’s grieving, Miss. He sees… her. When he sees you.”

Her.

Your mother.

The ghost you wore on your face.

In your laugh. Your smile. The slope of your nose.

Maybe that was why Bruce couldn’t bear to look at you. Because you weren’t just a reminder of what he lost. You were living proof that she’d been here, once—and that she was never coming back.

So, you tried. You really, truly tried.

Tried to stay quiet.

Tried to make yourself small enough not to bother him.

Tried to be good—whatever that meant in a house that didn’t know what to do with you.

But the thought still came, uninvited, gnawing at the edge of your mind.

‘He could still grieve… and love me.’

It repeated like a heartbeat. Soft. Steady. Inevitable.

You hated yourself for thinking it.

Hated the way it made you feel—needy, demanding, like a child too greedy for affection.

Selfish.

You were being selfish.

That’s what you told yourself.

That’s what your mother would’ve said, wouldn’t she?

She raised you to be reasonable. To be patient. To understand that people were made of hurts you couldn’t always see.

She raised you to make room for other people’s pain.

But still…

Still you wondered why no one seemed willing to make room for yours.

Some nights you cried into the pillow just to feel something warm. Some mornings you looked in the mirror and tried to smile, just to see if you still could. The reflection didn’t feel like you anymore. You didn’t recognize the girl with the tired eyes and the hope she kept crushing down like it was dangerous.

The girl who had stopped expecting good things a long time ago.

The girl who was trying so hard not to ask for anything, just in case the answer was silence.

At first, it hurt—like ripping out something soft and fragile from your own chest.

But then came the numbness.

The slow settling of silence in your bones.

The quiet understanding that maybe some things just weren’t meant for you.

You started telling yourself it was fine. That you didn’t need him to say your name.

Didn’t need him to see you.

Didn’t need to be loved by someone who’d already chosen to forget you existed.

And maybe—if you said it enough times—you’d start to believe it.

Because what other choice did you have? The longer the silence lasted, the more it started to feel like a kind of answer. Like absence was just another way of saying no.

No, he wouldn’t come around.

No, you weren’t part of this family.

No, he didn’t want you.

Not here.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

So, you stopped waiting.

And instead, you began to move through the house like a ghost. Quiet. Careful. Always out of the way. You learned which floorboards to avoid. Which rooms were safest to cry in. Which corners let you disappear just enough.

The walls never stopped groaning when you passed. Like even they were tired of your footsteps.

Like even they knew:

You didn’t belong here.

And maybe—just maybe—you were starting to believe it too.

taglist : @cssammyyarts @wendee-go @sadeem575 @c4xcocoa @time-shardz @whaaaaaaaaat111 @noone1233nobody @justanerd1 @bbmgirll @bakuraloverr @myjumper @cupid73 @lordbugs @cheappremingerfromdelululand @lovebug-apple @justafank @chemicalwindexbottle @welpthisisboring @totallynotacat13 @nininehaaa @yuyuzi-ling @yarn-mony @eyeless-kun 

[auxiliaryslinky]

10 HELLENIC POLYTHEISM JOURNAL/REFLECTION PROMPTS, from yours truly - long prompts edition

ᶦᵐ ˢᵒʳʳʸ ᶠᵒʳ ᵛᵃⁿᶦˢʰᶦⁿᵍ ᶦ ʷᵃˢ ᵉⁿʲᵒʸᶦⁿᵍ ᵐʸ ᵛᵃᶜᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿ ᵖˡˢ ᵈᵒⁿᵗ ᵇᵘʳⁿ ᵐᵉ ᵃᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖʸʳᵉ

Icarus was told never to fly too close to the sun, but he, too, was reminded not to fly so near the sea. We all have had instances where we soared too high and fell grandly. But have you been so afraid to take a risk that it became the reason for your downfall or regret?

Even if you do not worship or actively practice with them, which deity, in terms of what they represent, their values and virtues, and even in personality, do you think you share the most in common with? Or alternatively, which one do you have the most affinity for?

In terms of hubris, man is blinded in two ways. Do you see so much of what you have that you forget you are lacking, or do you only see the absence of what you do not own, so that you cannot cherish what is there?

Spear to your throat, answer me: aimlessly yearn for the one who has long vanished, or slowly grow resentful of the one who stayed but changed?

Love exists beyond romantic and sexual connotations. Which of the seven forms do you find you embody the most? Which love is the one you give most wholeheartedly to others?

Xenia, the virtue of hospitality, is not merely to show excellent social graces, but as a mode of building community, care, and compassion for fellow man. How do you honor the spirit of xenia in your daily life? How do others do it for you?

Do you believe that the essence of the gods exists in every person you meet, that some people exist like mortal effigies of godly faces? If so, has any particular individual struck you or given you the energy of a particular deity? In what way?

Create a playlist for a particular epithet or title of a god you worship, focusing on that specific quality highlighted by the title given to the deity. For each song, either A) highlight a set of lyrics that connect it to the deity's epithet, or B) explain in no more than two sentences why this song was selected and added.

Out of the four cardinal virtues of Prudence (practical discernment), Justice (lawful uprightness), Temperance (conscious moderation), and Fortitude (resilient courage), which ones do you feel you have the most mastery over? And which ones do you feel you must further improve on?

SURPRISE FANDOM QUESTION! Name a famous or renowned person (deceased or currently living) that you think might quite literally just be a god hiding amongst the mortals and has done quite a good job at it thus far.

that's it for now, 10 long prompts to get your gears working!! You can recommend some prompt themes in my inbox, and if I've got the time or motivation, I can probably work on them, but I cannot guarantee constant online presence. Blessed day, have fun!!

-thio of (@auxiliaryslinky and @zineovator)

[secretlycursedd]

Okay, I've been thinking about this for a long time, so here's my (probably unpopular) take on Jack and Dean's relationship (With examples of Dean loving and caring for Jack).

Let me start by saying that I don't consider myself either a Dean girl or a Sam girl (If you think about it, I'm actually more of a Jack girl), so my opinion is unbiased and doesn't lean towards just one brother (I love them equally).

I think the main reason why people think Dean really hated Jack is because of the complexity of his character.

Dean's defense mechanism is aggression, so every time he is scared, upset, doesn't know what to do, he starts getting angry and aggressive, and obviously this is not a healthy coping mechanism, but no one said that Dean is obviously a positive character who only does good. No, this is a complex character with childhood trauma, a soldier's upbringing and a lot of problems and responsibilities on his shoulders, he will not waste time sorting out all his feelings and putting them on the shelves, he will act in a way that is best for the majority, but this doesn't mean that his actions are necessarily right or that his actions fully reflect his feelings to a particular situation. His main rule in life is literally "Shoot first, think later." And because of that, a lot of things he said to Jack or did to him were mean or evil, but that doesn't mean Dean actually hated him to the core.

For example, after Mary died, Dean literally told Castiel that he was dead to him, and then they didn't talk and Dean didn't even want to hear about taking a step towards Castiel and forgiving him, but for some reason I haven't seen people say that Dean hates Castiel. Because he doesn't, and the same thing is true with Jack.

"Oh but Dean was mad at Jack, all those horrible things he said" Because Jack killed his mom???? Like are you trying to tell me you wouldn't be mad at the person who killed your mom (even if he didn't do it on purpose)? Dean's reaction and behavior were completely justified, and I'm not saying the things he said or did were right or good, I'm saying they were realistic. Dean may have loved Jack and cared about him, but he always loved his mom more, and of course her death (which happened not for the first time) hit Dean harder than Jack needing support.

And it's precisely because of Dean's complexity and character that characters like Sam and Castiel seemed like great father figures to Jack, because they had the privilege of emotions and time, and it always had been that way.

Sam was always able to show weakness and express his emotions, precisely because Dean didn't have that luxury. Sam always had time to think things through and be more gentle because Dean, who was always on guard, had his back. And it's not that Sam loved Jack more, it's that he had the opportunity to approach Jack from a different angle, and Dean was the one who gave him that opportunity.

The funny thing is that Jack and Dean are mirrors of each other in some ways. I think a lot of people focused so much on how the show paralleled Sam and Jack that the parallels between Dean and Jack went unnoticed because they weren't so obvious, but that doesn't mean they weren't there.

Both Jack and Dean grew up without mothers, had abusive fathers, were forced to grow up way too early, and were both forced to grow up into a life of hunters and warriors, neither of them asking for it, but they had no choice.

Dean and Jack loved the same people (Sam and Castiel) and were willing to do anything to protect them, even sacrifice themselves, but they both forgot that they weren't the only ones who could love, and that all these people they were trying to protect loved them too, and that's what's problematic about their relationship. It's not about hate, it's because they're actually so similar, and to some extent it was difficult for both of them to see their own feelings reflected in each other.

For example, when Dean insisted on letting Jack die, he literally did it to save the only and most important person he had left (Sam), but Jack himself was willing to do it, not only to atone for his guilt for Mary's death, but also to save his family.

Dean and Jack did not hate each other, they just had people they loved more than each other, and to protect them they were both willing to do anything, which once again parallels them.

And in a world where everyone only remembers the bad between Jack and Dean, let's remember the good.

For example, how Dean worried about Jack when he was in pain and dying, and he tried to do everything to ease his pain and make everything better.

Overall, this entire episode (14x07) confirms everything I wrote above.

Like the parallels such as Jack saying he doesn't want to be special anymore and that before he dies he just wants to live his life, and that's literally Dean's entire arc in season 15, how he wanted to break free from God's control and live his own life. The way Jack himself says he's like Dean, and Dean gently denies it, even though we then literally get visual confirmation that they are similar. The way Dean wanted to give Jack a day filled with the things Dean loved, and how Jack ultimately wanted to go fishing because Dean told him he did it with John. Jack always saw Dean as his third father, and there's no arguing with that.

How Dean couldn't stand to see Jack die, but Jack needed him.

The fact that Jack's heaven included all three of the most important people in his life - Sam, Dean, and Castiel.

Also some of my favorite moments are how Dean constantly calls Jack "their kid" (which just goes to show that he always loved and accepted Jack).

And the fact that even Nick talks about Jack having three dads.

And one of my favorite moments, which even made me cry when I watched it for the first time, was when Dean baked Jack a birthday cake.

They were always a full-fledged family, Dean has always been as much of a father to Jack as Sam or Castiel, and Dean always took care of Jack, and I think their relationship is one of the best and most complex in the entire series. Yes, Jack was not the most important person in Dean's life, just as Dean was not the most important person for Jack, but they still loved each other and did so until the very end.

[blueminnies-blog]

Chapter 6: " Where the Silence Almost Spoke "

That is one of the longest chapters I've ever written. Enjoy it yall and have a great time.

The world outside her apartment felt too loud, too cold, too filled with a kind of life that her feverish body couldn’t keep up with. She’d been curled in bed for most of the day, skin clammy, her throat raw, nose chafed from too many tissues. The space was dim except for the soft golden glow of a single lamp beside her, painting long shadows on the walls that somehow felt like company.

She hadn’t texted anyone. Not because she didn’t want to. Because everything—every motion, every breath—felt like too much.

But Jihoon knew.

Somehow, he always did.

He noticed the empty seat at her usual corner in his music lounge — where she'd sit curled up with her tea and that fraying novel. Day one, he figured she was busy. Day two, he frowned. Day three, he found himself checking his phone, half-expecting a “Hey, wanna grab tteokbokki?” text that never came.

By the end of the week, worry had settled in his chest like a weight he couldn’t shake.

It was a quiet moment, she didn’t remember clearly—maybe she sounded too breathless in a voice memo, or maybe she didn’t reply to Jihoon’s check-in texts fast enough. Either way, by the time Mingyu knew, he was already halfway out the door.

“Are you sure?” he’d asked Jihoon, standing at the entryway of the studio, keys jangling in one hand, phone in the other.

Jihoon’s voice didn’t hesitate. “She’s not gonna ask for help. She’s still too proud of that. But… she sounded bad this morning in the voice memo. I left some meds and groceries, but I couldn’t stay. I've lots of work at the studio ”

Another beat of silence. The kind that made Jihoon sigh deeply.

“Look… I know it’s complicated. But she’s alone. And she’s stubborn. She won’t ask for help even if she’s drowning. You know that better than anyone.”

Mingyu closed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to cross a line.”

“I left her spare key in your mailbox.”

“Jihoon....”

“I’m not asking you to win her back,” Jihoon said. “I’m asking you not to let her suffer alone.”

The words settled heavy in Mingyu’s chest.

'Do I trust me with it?'

Still, he went.

It took Mingyu three hours to get to her apartment.

Three hours of pacing his living room. Picking up soup. picked it again because the first one didn’t feel warm enough. Buying two more types of tea because he couldn’t remember which she liked best. Grabbing a pink fuzzy blanket on a whim. Staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror like he could rehearse how not to scare her.

The moment he stepped into the building, his breath caught. Memories lived in these hallways like ghosts with soft footsteps. He stood outside her door, spare key in hand, heartbeat in his ears.

What if she slammed the door in his face? What if she was fine and he’d crossed a line?

He gathered his courage before sliding the key into the lock.

The apartment was dim, quiet, and smelled like menthol and tissues.

She lay curled up on the couch, surrounded by tissues, her hair matted to her forehead with sweat. Her lips were cracked. Skin pale. She didn’t even stir.

His chest tightened. He gently set down the bags and moved slowly. Carefully. Like any loud movement, it might shatter something fragile.

He placed a bottle of water by her side. Wet a towel. Wiped her forehead gently.

When she stirred, eyes fluttering open, she didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch.

"Mingyu...?” Her voice was rough. Barely a whisper.

He knelt beside her, eyes soft. “Hey. Jihoon told me you weren’t feeling well.”

"You came...”

His smile was tentative. “Of course I did.”

She blinked at him, dazed. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’ll go if you want me to,” he said, already rising.

But her hand — weak, trembling — brushed his wrist.

"Stay...”

Silence. Then, she closed her eyes again, lips parting with a breathless sigh. She didn’t protest, didn’t ask him to leave either

He took that as permission but inside, his heart thundered. Her vulnerability shook something loose in him. He hadn’t seen her like this in so long—soft, undone, human in a way that made his throat ache.

The Care Begins. The next hour moved in soft, quiet steps.

He moved around her apartment like a gentle storm — controlled, careful, intentional. He reheated the Miso soup Jihoon had left in the fridge. Found her old hot water bag in the cabinet and filled it. Changed her pillowcase and bed sheets. Cleaned up the used tissues piling on the nightstand.

He sat beside her, quietly urging her to eat a little. Holding the spoon when her hands trembled too much. He tucked her hair behind her ear when it clung to her skin.

Every touch was feather-light. Every breath between them was loud.

He didn’t speak much. He didn’t have to. But inside his mind, a storm raged.

'Why didn’t I see her like this before? Why did I only remember how to love her once I’d lost her?'

When she coughed, he brought water and medication before she could ask. When she drifted back to sleep, he sat cross-legged nearby, a book open in his lap — the same one Jihoon had returned to her — reading aloud softly like he used to.

“And there, beneath the stars, they realized that silence could speak. And in that language, they were understood.”

His voice shook, just barely—but he kept reading.

Outside, night had fallen in layers. The windows reflected nothing but black, and the soft hiss of rain deepened into a steady downpour. The thunder came suddenly—crackling, violent—snapping her from sleep like a slap to the senses.

She blinked, breath caught in her throat.

He was still there. Still reading, still breathing, still beside her like some unshakable constant in a world that refused to stay still.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, softly—barely more than breath—she whispered, “Gyu…”

His eyes lifted to meet hers. There was something searching in the way he looked at her—like he was scanning her for cracks. She sounded better. Not whole, not healed, but not like she might break open if he touched her with a single word. A fragile kind of better.

Her fingers reached for her phone, screen lighting up her face with a cool glow. She squinted at it, frowned. “It’s a thunder storming,” she murmured, voice rasped with sleep and something heavier. “Great...”

“I’ll call a cab,” Mingyu offered, already pushing himself to his feet with that quiet steadiness of his.

She watched as he scrolled, thumb moving faster than his breath. There was a pause—one beat, two—and then a muted sigh.

“No cabs available,” he said without looking at her. “Maybe the subway?”

Another app. Another pause. Then: “Suspended.”

Thunder growled again, longer this time. The kind that made the windows tremble in their frames. She glanced toward them, and for a moment, she just sat there. Watching the rain slam into glass in wild streaks, the wind howling like some feral thing trying to claw its way inside.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.

Then, finally, her voice was barely audible. She said, “You can stay.”

Her eyes didn’t meet his. She stared at the floor instead, like the words had crawled out of her without permission. “If you want. I mean... the floor’s all yours.”

The silence that followed was so still. It almost made her regret it.

Mingyu didn’t answer right away. He stood there, tall and motionless, like he was weighing something heavier than a sleepover. His gaze flicked between her, the window, the storm.

Then he nodded. “Okay. The floor’s fine.”

She nodded, too, maybe too quickly. She rose, pulling out an extra pillow and a thick blanket from the basket by the wall. The woven one with frayed edges and soft pilling from too many nights of needing comfort.

The apartment wasn’t much. Just a studio, small and quiet and cluttered in a lived-in kind of way. A worn brown couch sat under the window, its cushions slightly sunken from nights spent curled up on it with books and unfinished thoughts. A low coffee table scattered with mugs of ginger tea, folded tissues, and an old candle she never lit anymore.

The only light came from the small electric fireplace near the corner. It buzzed faintly, casting a warm, flickering glow across the wooden floorboards. The orange light flickered against the walls like a heartbeat. Shadows danced along the shelves lined with knick-knacks—tiny framed photos, a chipped ceramic cat, and a dried lavender bundle hung like a charm.

It was quiet. Safe. Home, in that imperfect, unspoken way.

She handed him the blanket, their fingers brushing briefly—warm skin, cool hesitation. He didn’t say anything, just offered a small nod, then sat on the floor next to the couch.

Not too close. Not far either.

She climbed back onto the cushions, tucking her knees to her chest, and leaned into the worn fabric like it knew her shape. Her eyes drifted to the storm beyond the glass, but her ears—her heart—stayed with the soft sounds beside her. The shuffle of Mingyu settling in. The faint hum of the heater. The echo of her pulse.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

He lay awake on the floor, blanket drawn up to his chest. She curled above him, listening not just to the thunder outside but to the space between their breaths.

And in that tiny studio, wrapped in the storm and the hush of everything unsaid, she felt time slow to something sacred.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was full—of what they didn’t say, of what neither dared to ask for, and of every heartbeat they could both hear stretching into the dark.

Waiting.

Not for something to happen.

But for something to change.

The rain had softened into mist by dawn, gentle drops clinging to the windows like tiny pearls of memory. The storm had passed, but its echo lingered in the petrichor curling through the cracked window, the subtle dampness in the air. Outside, the world was washed clean. Trees glistened. Puddles shimmered like liquid mirrors. A small bird chirped on the fire escape — tentative, like testing if the silence was safe.

Inside the apartment, everything felt suspended in the hush of morning. The soft whirr of the refrigerator. The low buzz of the heating system. The faint smell of lemon balm from the abandoned tea mugs on the coffee table.

She slept curled tightly on the couch, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other lost beneath the covers. Her face, no longer flushed with fever, looked softer in the dawn light. Her lashes were long, casting shadows like wings on her cheeks. The hoodie she wore had slipped off one shoulder, exposing a sliver of skin kissed by the glow of sunrise.

Mingyu lay on the mat that was on the floor beside her, one arm draped over his eyes, the other loosely holding the edge of his blanket. His breathing was even, his features relaxed — but not quite peaceful. There were creases between his brows, as if even in rest, something in him couldn’t quite let go.

The space between them was only inches. The kind of closeness that could be accidental — or intentional. Her fingers twitched once in her sleep. His shifted in response, but neither woke, the approximate with too fragile, too peaceful to break.

The light grew slowly. Golden shafts filtered through the blinds, striping the wooden floor with quiet warmth. The rainclouds had left behind a sky painted in gradients — pale peach, bruised lavender, hints of gold.

On the windowsill, a forgotten cup of tea sat half-full, steam long gone but the scent still faintly present. The blanket on the floor had been kicked halfway off. Her pillow had fallen from the couch, now resting beside his arm.

The room smelled like fabric softener and warmth. Like maybe, just maybe, things were shifting.

After breakfast, the dishes sat in the sink — not messy, just waiting. A small trace of life lived.

Mingyu was still there, still present, folding the spare blanket with delicate care. He didn’t offer more. Didn’t hover. But the way he moved — soft, intentional, non-invasive — it was louder than anything he could’ve said.

She watched him from the edge of the couch, knees tucked to her chest. Her fever had broken. Her body was still heavy, but her heart — her heart felt... unsettled. In a good way. Or maybe a terrifying way.

He glanced at her only once. Just a check-in. Like he used to. Like he still remembered how to ask without words.

She said nothing, just nodded.

He smiled, folded the pillow too, and set them both neatly aside. No suggestion of staying longer. No silent plea. Just… presence.

She wanted to say something. Anything. But the words tangled with a storm of emotions she hadn’t named yet.

Instead, she cleared her throat, lightly. “You forgot your tea.”

He looked down at the mug he hadn’t touched. “Right.”

“Still warm,” she added, not sure why that mattered.

He picked it up and sat on the floor again — not on the makeshift bedding, just nearby. Not too close. Just… enough. The soft lamp above them pooled warm light over his features. His hair curled slightly at the ends, still damp from earlier.

She caught herself staring. He looked up. Their eyes locked. And held. This time, she didn’t look away.

“You make other things and my sickness … less heavy,” she said quietly. Her voice, barely audible under the hum of rain that started again about an hour ago still pattering on the windowpane.

His breath hitched slightly.

“Even when you were the heavy thing?” he said, half-joking — but only half.

She let the pause breathe between them.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Even then.”

His lips parted like he might say something or say the words he always wanted to say — but no words came.

So, instead, he took another sip. His hands were so big around her mug, and yet… gentle. Always gentle with her and her stuff.

She wondered when that shift had happened. When her instinct to brace around him had melted into curiosity again.

Maybe it was when he wiped the table without asking. Maybe when he read to her while she slept. Maybe it was when he respected her space even when he was in her apartment.

A sharp memory flickered — that suspended moment, them in their shared apartment back then making dinner together, his arms around her waist resting his head on her shoulder.

She shifted slightly, her knee brushing his shoulder. He looked up, startled. But didn’t move away. “I used to imagine…” she started, then stopped herself.

His eyes softened. “What?”

She looked down into her mug. Swallowed. “Back when everything was still broken… I used to imagine what it would’ve been like if you’d just shown up. Not with apologies. Just… soup.”

He let out a breath — part laugh, part heartbreak. “Took me too long to understand that love isn’t words. It’s… warmth.”

“Yeah.”

“Even if it’s in soup.”

She snorted, gently. “You’re terrible at metaphors.”

“I’m learning.” he giggled.

She tilted her head, smiling just enough for him to feel it. “I noticed.”

They sat like that for a while — tea halfway finished, warmth pooled between them like candlelight.

The storm had softened outside, but the thunder in her chest hadn’t. And maybe, she thought, that was okay now, but the thunder will come soon even if the skies are blue now.

Any opinions?

And to everyone who thinks that she forgave him just because she let him to take care of no, nope, that never happened. I wrote this story from my perspective, and if I were in her shoes and sick, then my ex came to take care of me. I'd appreciate not because I'm leaning in but because he came regarding any other agreement or something. Plus, mingyu gave her a space even when he was under the same roof as her. He didn’t pressure her to talk about them now. And she, she was waiting for herself to get better and ofc she won't shut down talking about why that happened.

Anyways, things will be clearer and slightly more complicated soon. Until then, enjoy:)

[joyridingmp3]

2 years to the date that all of my hard work paid off and i was able to buy a home for myself and finally, at long long long long last, able to escape my abusive parents house. not just a house, but a home, and that difference has always been important to me. i feel mostly astounded by how quickly the years have passed since then, but also proud. not just of the achievement but also the way that i've been able to get to know myself, develop my identity, and figure out who i am in that short period of time. it's amazing the way you get to flourish in a world with stability (and not just in the material sense but that too!) when you're not spending every second running from and avoiding life altering trauma. i have some really exciting opportunities coming up to better help me work towards that very soon and hopefully the trajectory continues. it was such a difficult 24 years in getting there a couple of years ago and i really didn't think i'd even make it at times but my god it was so worth waiting for.

[hiratelier]

Many thoughts running through my head as I prepare to upload my last UTAU cover of the year because I'll barely touch the silly singing robot program next year when I have more exciting things to work on...but even then it feels like you're saying goodbye to a close friend you've been with for almost 9 years

[kandicon]

Fun fact! I am taking the liberty to say Kofi Young for Pain I Cannot Mend but!! That's not actually how they're listed in the song credits!! For some reason, despite the others being listed by their actual names, they are inexplicably put in the credits as Marius von Raum (as in. The fictional space pirate character played by Kofi Young in The Mechanisms).

This happens a lot for various ex-mechanisms, both pre and post The Mechanisms splitting up (as it did in 2020), tho particularly in the pre-2020 albums, like Half-Sin, Half-Virtue (which Pain I Cannot Mend is from).

Added note after writing this all out: I reached tag limit :(

Challenging you all!

Put your music library on shuffle, then list the first five songs that come up in a poll to let people vote for which one they like the most!

Then tag Tumblr friends to keep the game going!

[the-fallen-blue]

I've been seeing a lot of discourse about the Murderbot casting, to the tune of "Wells says she imagined it as brown"/"the narrator of the audiobook is a man"/"the writing just sounds female, the types of things it notices and cares to mention and the way it puts its sentences together is how a woman would"/"it's canonically agender wtf"/"agender people can look masculine you asshole"/"it's supposed to look big and average that means white male"/"that's your own cultural bias in play and evidence says the average in its universe is brown"/"that's your bias in play there's no ironclad indication what the average is in the Corporation Rim"/"here's every single canon description of Murderbot it has no canon physical attributes other than Tall it could be played by literally anyone Checkmate Atheists" etc etc etc and it all just... misses the point?

No one is annoyed with Skarsgård!MB because "white dude" isn't canon.

They're annoyed because written Murderbot presents a level of identification and recognition for them that "white dude" does not.

Or, in other words: it is difficult to imagine a level of abuse more profound than not having the freedom of your own literal thoughts, consigned to a cripplingly limited and cruel social role from which any deviation is met with brutal pain. And it is all too easy to imagine a demographic who are presumed violent, hostile, and inferior, good only for labor and violence, who must be controlled and denied and unpersoned for the good of the rest. The lines aren't hard to draw, here; Murderbot is deeply relatable to many people who are not (visibly masculine) white men, specifically because they are not (visibly masculine) white men. Because they share with it the experience of oppression, marginalization, and being known on sight as wrong, being punished for the slightest deviance. Because it is not just another in the long boring line of ten thousand thousand grizzled white space marine heroman types; it is the thematic opposite of that.

And yeah duh obviously you can look like a boilerplate white dude and still suffer plenty of oppression, but film is a visual medium. Character design is a crucial part of its language, especially when a specific character is the only example of its type available to the audience. It is a shorthand that the audience will understand as a reflection on the wider setting. Which means that casting Skarsgård is, whether they meant it or not, a subtle statement that the ultimate bigotry in Murderbot's universe is against and about conventional white dudes.

Or in other other words, you cannot refute complaints about Skarsgård!MB with ~canon~ because canon has nothing to do with it. It's a thematic inconsistency, a failure to understand the not the story's text, but its subtext and its place in the wider cultural conversation of sci-fi (or at least to accurately translate those meta considerations to the satisfaction of a decent segment of the audience).

Like you can still yell about how bullshit you think that is if you want. Casting's not that deep or it's an important queer metaphor to pass and still struggle or people have no inherent 'right' to representation or whatever else. I'm not telling anyone what to say or believe. But just understand that that's what you're actually arguing with (or for, for that matter), is all I'm saying.

[rafecameronssl4t]

73 Questions with Vogue || Drew Starkey x actress!reader

Summary: just you participating in 73 Questions with Vogue and it goes viral!!!

Warnings: fluff!!!

Word count: 1,935

A/n: It's been so long since I've written a Drew fic!!!!!!! Also I got inspired by my previous acc's fic so if it seems familiar to some of you who followed me from there, don't come at me, I loved the idea too much lol. CAN SOMEONE PLS SEND ME REQUESTS FOR DREW FICS???

MASTERLIST

divider by @h-aewo

"Hello!" You greet the interviewer with a bright smile, swinging open the door to reveal him and his camera. "Hi, Y/n! Mind if we come in and ask you 73 questions?" he asks, his tone friendly and warm. "Yeah, of course! Come on in," you say, stepping aside and holding the door wide open, gesturing for them to enter as the camera pans through the foyer of your house. The space is beautifully designed, with soft lighting that gives it a cozy, inviting atmosphere.

"Wow, what a gorgeous house you have," the interviewer remarks, his voice filled with genuine awe as his eyes take in the sophisticated yet comfortable décor. "Thank you!" you respond, the compliment warming you as you flash a radiant smile. "Is this your favourite house?" The interviewer asks, already settling into the rhythm of the questions as you lead them down the hallway and into the open-plan living area.

"Yes, it definitely is. It's in my home city, and Charleston means so much to me, just like this house does," you say, your eyes lighting up as you gesture around. The view of the beach through the large windows makes the space feel even more special. "I love the view," the interviewer comments, looking out at the sunset that bathes the room in warm golden light. "The sunset looks amazing from here."

"It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?" you say with a soft chuckle. "I love spending time in this room specifically. It feels like a little sanctuary." You both share a laugh, enjoying the peaceful moment. "What's your morning routine like?" The interviewer asks as the camera follows you through the coastal-themed living room toward the kitchen. You pause for a moment, thinking about your answer.

"I haven't had much of a routine the past few months because of work, but currently, I wake up to a strong cup of coffee and a walk through downtown," you share with a soft smile. "It’s become a little ritual to clear my mind before everything gets too busy." As you stroll through the warm, inviting spaces of your home, the camera captures the personal touches that reflect your personality—a mix of elegance and laid-back comfort.

A question about your career comes next, and you happily share some behind-the-scenes anecdotes from your latest film. "This," you begin, the affection in your tone unmistakable, "is a magnet Sydney gave me when we wrapped filming Immaculate earlier this year." You glance at the picture, a grin spreading across your face. "It’s a photo of the two of us in our nun costumes... let’s just say, not doing very nun-like things." You laugh, the absurdity of the memory still fresh, and hold the magnet up for the camera to focus.

The image shows the two of you mid-laughter, each holding a cigarette with exaggerated defiance, your habits slightly askew, as though caught mid-rebellion. "What's the best compliment you've received?" the interviewer asks, a hint of curiosity in their voice. You pause, your expression thoughtful. "Oh, that's a tough one," you say, your lips curling into a playful smile.

"I think the best compliment I’ve ever gotten was when someone said, 'You're like Meryl Streep… but, you know, with fewer Oscars.’" You chuckle, shaking your head in amusement. "It was the kind of backhanded compliment that made me laugh for days." The interviewer laughs along with you. "That’s a good one," he says, clearly entertained. As you make your way towards the outside deck, the interviewer continues with another question. "Texting, calling, or FaceTiming?"

You grin as you lean casually against the railing, looking out at the beach below. "Oh, definitely FaceTiming," you say with a mischievous glint in your eyes. "I’m terrible at replying to text messages. I’d much rather see people's live reactions, y’know?" A more personal question comes next, and you smile thoughtfully as the interviewer asks, “How do you handle the pressures of fame?”

You nod, taking a moment before responding. "I lean on my family and friends—they keep me grounded. And I remind myself that pressure is a privilege. It means people care about what I do, and that means a lot." Your voice softens as you speak, the sincerity of your words clear as you step into your home office, showcasing the awards and accolades lining the shelves. The conversation turns to your personal life, and a warm, affectionate smile spreads across your face.

"Congratulations on reaching your two-year anniversary with Drew!" The interviewer says with a grin, and you beam in response. "Thank you!" you reply, your eyes sparkling as you think of him. "Drew is incredible. He’s my biggest supporter, my partner in everything, and honestly, just my favourite person. It’s been such a special journey since starting my career, and I’m so grateful to have him by my side."

"What's the key to a successful relationship?" He asks. You pause as you walk through the hallway, your gaze softening as you think. "I think it’s communication and a lot of patience. No relationship is perfect, but being able to talk things through and genuinely listen to each other makes all the difference." You smile, adding, "Oh, and laughter—if you can laugh together, you can get through just about anything."

The sound of the front door creaking open interrupts the moment, and a familiar voice rings out, instantly making your face light up. "Oh, there’s Drew right now!" you say, smiling brightly as you move toward the foyer. The camera follows you, capturing the scene as Drew enters, with Nellie, your cocker spaniel, bounding beside him. "Hey, baby," He greets you as he slips off his sunglasses, pulling you close for a tender kiss

When he pulls back, his eyes widen slightly as he spots the camera. "Oh, 73 Questions with Vogue?" he asks, a playful grin tugging at his lips. You giggle, nodding your head. "I forgot you were doing that today," he chuckles. “Go ahead, continue your interview," he adds with a fond look before walking off with Nellie. As the camera returns to you, you make your way toward the stairs, glancing over your shoulder to find Drew already on the floor, happily playing with Nellie.

A soft giggle escapes your lips, captured by the camera momentarily fixated on the fleeting connection. "What's something people don’t know about you?" the interviewer asks, pulling you back into the conversation. You pause, thinking for a second. "I’m actually allergic to most flowers," you reveal with a sheepish laugh. "Really? I wouldn’t have known," the interviewer responds, clearly surprised. "Oh, absolutely! When we film Outer Banks, they have to shoot around the flowers, or I'd be a sneezing mess," you confess, casually walking backward while maintaining a steady gaze with the camera.

The tour continues through luxurious walk-in closet, filled with designer attire. “What’s your pet peeve?” You laugh, shaking your head in mock exasperation. "Oh, definitely when people chew loudly. It’s like nails on a chalkboard for me. Chase is notorious for doing it on purpose, so I avoid him during my lunch breaks," you add, giggling at the memory. "Where was the best vacation you’ve been taken to?" the interviewer inquires as you step into your shared bedroom with Drew, the ocean stretching out just outside the windows.

"I think I’d have to say Vienna with Drew for my birthday," you say, smiling over your shoulder as you look out at the view. “A song you replay often?” "Hm, I think Charlie, Last Name Wilson," you say with a grin, rifling through the records. "It never gets old, and it’s super catchy." You smile as you pick it out. "Most of you guys would know that this song is also Drew and Austin’s favourite, so we always play it on set," you chuckle. "Does the rest of the Outer Banks cast like it too?" the interviewer asks, laughing along. "They don’t have much choice," you joke with a grin.

"Is there anything from any set that you've taken home with you?" The interviewer asks eagerly. “Oh, I love this question!" you exclaim, opening a drawer to reveal a variety of souvenirs. "This is the bag my character 'Whiskey' from Glass Onion owned," you say, showing off the brown frill bag. "And here’s a pack of Italian cigarettes from Immaculate, they’re just props, by the way," you add with a wink.

You pull out a cowboy hat. "This one’s from Tom on the set of Billy the Kid," you explain. "And this," you say with a smile, holding up a ring on a necklace. "This is Rafe's ring, the one he gave my character." "What a beautiful photo of the two of you," the interviewer notes, pointing to the large black-and-white photo of you and Drew at a Vogue photoshoot above your bed.

"It is! That day was actually so special for us. We both got the call saying we’d been cast in our respective roles that we’d been auditioning for," you explain, your face lighting up with nostalgia. The interviewer then asks about Drew’s upcoming movie. "Speaking of which, Drew’s film Queer is coming out very soon. Are you excited to watch it on the big screen?" "Yes, of course!" you say, your voice full of pride.

"I was so incredibly proud of him when he got the role. He was definitely excited too, especially since it’s, you know, the Luca Guadagnino." You chuckle. "I got the privilege to actually be on set for a bit, and it was amazing. Plus, I got to catch up with Daniel," you mention. "It was really nice to see him again." You smile, the pride evident in your expression as you talk about Drew's accomplishments.

The conversation is interrupted by a gentle knock at the door, and both you and the interviewer turn your attention toward it. Drew’s head peeks around the corner, his grin lighting up the frame as the camera zooms in on him. "I made some iced teas—yours is half and half," he says casually, stepping into the room with a tray holding two glasses. You can’t help but beam as he hands you your drink. "Aww, thanks, babe," you say gratefully, your fingers brushing his for a brief moment as you take the glass.

Drew hands the other glass to the interviewer, who looks pleasantly surprised. "Wow, thank you, Drew!" he says with a wide smile. "Of course," Drew replies warmly before glancing at you. "Let me know if you need anything else," he says, shooting you a quick wink before stepping out of the room. The camera lingers on him for a beat as he walks away, capturing his effortless charm.

You take a sip of the iced tea, the cool, refreshing taste spreading through you as you let out a content sigh. "Is this something you drink often?" the interviewer asks, clearly curious. You nod enthusiastically. "Oh, absolutely. I like mine half and half, and I drink it like 24/7," you say with a chuckle, the glass still in your hand. The interviewer grins before asking a more personal question. "I can tell Drew is very thoughtful. What’s your favourite trait of his?"

You laugh softly, caught off guard by the difficult question. "You can’t make me choose—I love everything about him!" you say with a playful grin, your tone light but sincere. The interviewer chuckles along with you, clearly charmed by your response. "Okay, okay, fair enough. But if you had to pick just one thing that comes to mind?"

You pause for a moment, your expression softening as you think. "Hmmm," you hum, swirling your iced tea absentmindedly. "I love the little things he does," you begin, your voice warm with affection. "Like how he always remembers my coffee order or when he leaves me little notes when I’m on set. It’s those small, thoughtful moments that really mean the most to me."

The camera captures your tender smile, and the interviewer smiles himself, visibly touched by your response. "That’s so sweet," he says, his tone genuine. "It really is," you smile, a soft, almost bashful grin spreading across your face. "He’s the best boyfriend I could have ever asked for," you say, your tone filled with warmth and sincerity.

The interviewer watches you with an amused smile, clearly endeared by the dreamy, almost schoolgirl-like look on your face as you think about Drew.

~

The Vogue 73 Questions interview quickly becomes an internet sensation, captivating fans. It was everywhere. Clips of your candid answers and sweet, unscripted moments—especially the one where Drew casually walked in with iced tea—became the ultimate proof of why you were Hollywood’s darling. Within hours of its release, the hashtag #73QuestionsWithY/n trends worldwide.

The comments section was flooded with fans losing their minds over the glimpse into your life. "Can we talk about how Drew KNOWS her iced tea order by heart? If this isn’t relationship goals, I don’t know what is." "Y/n casually being gorgeous, funny, and real in her Charleston dream home? I’m in love." "The way Drew looked at her when he walked in… I CAN’T. He’s so whipped, and I’m here for it."

Memes circulate, celebrating your witty remarks and playful demeanor, while your thoughtful insights and open vulnerability spark heartfelt discussions. The part where Drew sneaks into the interview with iced tea becomes a fan-favourite, with many dubbing it "the cutest boyfriend moment of the year."

“I love how real she is,” one fan tweeted, accompanied by screenshots of your answer about Drew’s little notes and coffee orders. Another post with a screenshot of you laughing at Drew’s confused “Oh, Vogue’s here” reaction read, “You can just tell they’re best friends. I want a love like this.”

The media couldn’t get enough, either. Everyone from gossip sites to prestigious magazines weighed in on how you’d managed to blend the glamour of your career with the warmth of your personality. The buzz reignites interest in your past projects and elevates anticipation for your upcoming ones. Your social media following soars as fans, old and new, praise your ability to remain grounded despite your success.

Meanwhile, Drew’s small but sweet cameo sparks renewed admiration for your relationship, with countless threads and videos dedicated to celebrating your bond. “Y/n and Drew are proof that true love exists,” one viral tweet declares, garnering thousands of likes and retweets. Another fan edits together a montage of your cutest moments from the interview, set to a romantic song, which quickly racks up millions of views.

Drew couldn’t stop teasing you about how viral the iced tea moment had become. “You’re lucky I didn’t walk in shirtless,” he joked one night as you scrolled through TikTok, finding yet another edit of you two. “Please,” you said, giggling, your hand affectionately stroking Nellie, “half the internet would’ve fainted.” “Half?” He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “I think you’re underestimating me, babe.”

[justakaku]

Another load of Jealousy - Yunho x f!reader

Summary: Yunho isn't about to even entertain the idea of his girlfriend talking to another man. It doesn't matter how many loads of love, care, and cum it takes to make her remember that she is his and he is hers. Genre: smut (mdni!!!) Pairings: bf!Yunho x f!reader Tags/Warnings: SMUT MDNI, mean dom!yunho (kinda sweet after some time), sub!reader, fingering(?), penetration, unprotected sex, established relationship, jealousy, possessiveness, breeding kink, choking, bulge (lmk if something is missing, I have never done this) A/N: This is the 3rd smut I've ever written in my life... I haven't posted the first two since they were written a couple years ago and were bad, so I hope this is worth posting. The plot isn't anything great because this was mostly for trying to see what it's like to write smut and I didn't want to waste a good plot on this if this turned out bad LOLLL. So please, keep in mind that I've almost never written smut! Word count: 2 300 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ If someone asked you if you loved Yunho, you’d answer ‘yes’ in a heartbeat. He was more than just a lover or a boyfriend; he was your worshipper, kissing the ground you walked on. And if someone asked you if you’d ever cheat on him, you’d give a firm ‘no’ and tell the person off. Although you wanted to make it clear to everyone you were Yunho’s girl because you loved him, it wasn’t the only reason to push people away. You’d be in big trouble if he started to consider the possibility of you holding affectionate feelings for anyone else than him. 

“Baby, what are you doing? ~” 

Despite Yunho’s needy tone and presence next to you on the couch, you couldn’t tear your gaze off of your phone. 

“Wait a second, Yuyu,” you murmured. 

He watched as your fingers tap-danced on the small screen, obviously writing a message to someone. Someone who was robbing him of your attention. Your eyes reflected the light coming from the phone screen but Yunho’s eyes shone with something else. He was getting frustrated. 

“Please, I’m lonely,” he whined, his hand creeping up on your thigh, trying to go unnoticed yet wanting desperately for you to pay attention to him. 

Still, you didn’t even glance at him. It was subtle but Yunho noticed how you tried to hide your phone screen, leaning away ever so slightly. 

The longer your attention was on the mysterious person you were talking to, the angrier Yunho became. 

You felt him squeeze your thigh, silently demanding you to finally look at him in the eyes. It was a final warning. Only when his long fingers dug onto your inner thigh, you turned to face him. 

“Who are you talking to?” 

Yunho’s icy voice shouldn’t have surprised you – this was nothing new, given his possessive nature. And like always, while it made you nervous, it also caused your pussy to clench around nothing. You couldn’t help but get horny when he looked like he’d devour you any second now. 

“Just work stuff,” you murmured, taking a glance at his hand. No matter how many times his beautiful fingers had been inside you, reaching the deepest, sweetest spots, you just couldn’t get enough. 

“At this hour? That’s bullshit.” 

While Yunho’s eyes were cold, they were undeniably burning with both fury and lust. You knew the look way too well just like he knew your body. 

“I’m friends with him so I feel comfortable texting him even in the evening. It’s just about a work project.” 

“Him?” Yunho’s eyes narrowed. 

You were too nervous to break eye contact with him, but you didn’t need to see to feel his hand hover over your core, so close but so far. Even though he was barely touching you, he was probably able to feel how your wetness seeped through your night shorts. 

“Please, Yunho... Don’t tease me,” you let out a quiet whine, hoping it’d persuade Yunho into touching you. 

Immediately, he pulled you roughly into a kiss. In a normal situation he would have kept you begging for him, but right now his desire and anger towards you were too much to handle for both of you. His lips claimed yours and showed no mercy or signs of going easy on you. You were enthusiastic to kiss him back, but his need to have you was even stronger. 

The way he started nearly biting on your lips would have soon left bruises, if you hadn’t pulled away. The both of you were breathing heavily after the intense moment, but Yunho wasted no time in trying to rest. 

“Who is that coworker? A friend you say?” 

You felt your pussy get wetter by his demanding words and you tried your best to give him an answer – one that would satisfy him enough yet encourage him to fuck you senseless. 

“We’re not close, but enough to be considered friends-! Yunho!..” 

He interrupted you with his fingers suddenly under your clothing, circling your clit. 

“What do you need friends for when I’m here? Don’t I give you all you need?” 

You squirmed around at the movements of Yunho’s skillful hands. It was hard not to feel even slightly embarrassed; you didn’t want him to know how aroused his possessiveness made you. 

“Y-You can’t do work projects for me... I need him.” 

Your choice of words pushed the wrong buttons in Yunho, and he took his hand out of your panties. He didn’t care when you whined at the loss of contact, just pure jealousy burning in his eyes. 

“You say you need him? Baby, I’m all you need,” his voice was low and dangerous, “There’s nothing and no-one else.” 

It didn’t take long for him to have dragged you into the bedroom, his fingers wrapped around your wrist in a bruising grip. You tried to savor every moment despite knowing there were more to come after this. 

The streetlights outside were the only source of light in your dim bedroom. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust to the darkness, but apparently Yunho saw well enough to push you onto the bed. Maybe he wouldn’t have cared anyways if he had pushed you accidentally on the floor. Whenever he got like this, satisfying his need to claim you was the top priority. 

“Strip.” 

You immediately started taking off your nightwear which you had just changed to after shower. Your hair was still damp and smelling like your shampoo. It was definite you’d have to take a shower again after this – preferably with Yunho. 

“You’re too slow,” he scolded. The way he started pulling your shorts and panties off was surprisingly gentle; even though he was mad at you, he was still your mere worshipper and saw you as his goddess. 

Finally, when you saw him properly, your breath caught in your throat. He wasn’t standing, just on his knees on the bed, but his height was still intimidating. You loved it though. You loved every moment of this, and your pussy throbbed with desire to have him fill you up to the brim. 

His chest was heaving with anticipation, and although seeing it bare always excited you, your eyes were fixated on that cock of his. 

“I-It’s bigger than I remembered...” 

“You’re going to take it nonetheless. You don’t deserve this after how you’ve acted but I need this now,” Yunho stated, his tone leaving no room for discussion. 

You felt like a prey, his next meal, as you watched him crawl closer on the bed and lay you down rather harshly. The intense eye contact just added to the arousal you felt leaking out of you. You needed him so bad, and your legs spread open automatically to give him way to your core that was aching for him. 

“You need a damn reminder every week of who you belong to. I don’t know if I want you to stop teasing me like that or not,” Yunho whispered, his right hand finding its way to your neck, “At least I get to fuck you like this.” 

He turned your gaze back up to him by gripping your neck, when you tried to look at his cock. You managed to see how its tip was covered in clear precum. It was as hard as it always was when you had moments like this, if not even harder. You wondered how it had ever managed to fit inside you with the impressive girth and length. 

“Look at me in the eyes. I want you to look at me clearly so you’ll remember my face every time you talk to another man.” 

You didn’t have time to process Yunho’s words. As he pushed his cock inside you, it was impossible to think about anything else than him. Although you were as wet as ever for him, it was still almost hard to take him in. No matter how many times he had made love to or fucked you, no matter how fast and rough or slow and romantic, he stretched you up nicely every time. 

“My girl. My baby,” Yunho muttered more to himself than to you. His hips had started moving some time ago already, but only now you were coming down back to Earth. 

His hand was on your neck like to use it to support himself, but the grip was still somewhat gentle. It tightened every time he thrusted in, and the lack of air just made you lose your mind in the pleasure even more. 

Your walls were slippery and starting to adjust to his size, so he slid inside with ease. It didn’t mean there was no delicious friction left though. 

“Who do you belong to? Him or me?” he growled into your ear. Although the pace of his hips had grown faster, he made sure to push deep inside you, drawing out every moan he could get from you. 

Your attempt to answer was cut off quickly as Yunho’s hands started squeezing your throat. It would have been hard to breathe even if you weren’t breathless already from having him ram your insides. 

“Answer me. A little choking shouldn’t shut you up like this.” 

Again, you tried to tell Yunho that you were only his to love, fuck, and take care of. But he held your throat tighter again, clearly teasing you. It was impossible to win this game, and you loved it that way. 

A mocking smirk spread on Yunho’s lips, “You don’t have to say it. I know you’re mine by the way I’m the only who ever gets to be balls deep inside you.” 

He released your neck and pressed his hand lightly on your lower stomach. It was no secret that your boyfriend’s cock was big, but the way you could see a clear bulge, the way your lower abdomen moved up and down with Yunho’s thrusts, made you clench down on him. 

“F-Fuck... You make it so hard to stay mad at you,” he groaned out. 

You watched his eyebrows furrow as if he was holding back. Finally, you had been able to catch your breath, although it was still difficult due to his relentless thrusts. 

“I love you. I’m yours, Yunho...” 

Your pleasured admission not only softened his heart a bit but made him even more lustful. He knew you were his. If you tried to leave him, he’d find a way to make you stay – even with force if necessary. But hearing you say out loud once again that you were his satisfied him. 

“I know. I know, my pretty girl, and I love you too,” his eyes met yours in a gentle way even. 

A loud moan slipped past your lips as Yunho’s fingers found your clit, finally continuing what he had started on the couch in the living room. Circling, pressing, and pinching on it – he did it all. Your sensitive skin tingled and almost felt like on fire. 

“W-Will you fill me up?” you grasped at the sheets under you, making them all rumpled and look unkempt. They were dirty anyways due to the sweating. 

Yunho moved your hands on his shoulders. There was nothing more that he wanted than to see your nail scrapes on his skin, a mark of who he belonged to. 

“I’ll fill you up, baby. My cum will be leaking out,” he looked at you before turning his eyes to his cock, slightly amused, “I’ll just fuck a new load tomorrow then. You’ll have my babies in no time.” 

His talk about breeding you brought you closer to your release, and he definitely noticed it by the way your pussy squeezed his thick cock. 

“Look at your pussy, how it’s clenching down on me. It likes to be bred, huh?” 

“Yunho, I-I'm close... so close,” you whimpered, gripping his shoulders like they were your savior. But you knew nothing could save you from the climax you were reaching quickly. 

Yunho smiled down at you a bit cockily, “Have I made clear who you belong to?” 

“Yes!” you whined, thighs trembling. 

“And who do you belong to, baby?” 

If you weren’t in such a state of mind-blowing pleasure, you could have teased him on purpose and said the name of your coworker. However, now that you were so close to coming, you couldn’t ruin this. 

“You! You, Yunho!..” 

A genuine, sweet smile tugged the corners of his lips slightly upwards. By looking at his furrowed eyebrows, it was clear he was holding back as well, near to orgasm but fighting back for your sake. 

And Yunho knew your body so well, that he recognized your sounds of enjoyment and body language, so that just when you reached the peak, he closed the distance between your lips. Your cries of pure pleasure were muffled by his mouth. 

His body shook and it didn’t take long for him to go over the edge, to let out a few stifled groans. Hot cum spurted out inside you, filling you just like Yunho had promised. 

“So, you’re going to block that man’s number, right?” Yunho mumbled, his head lying down on your chest. He could hear your heart beating rapidly after the intense session but eventually calming down to steady, slow beats. 

You chuckled, caressing his hair slightly damp from the sweat, “I can’t block my coworker’s number.” 

A surprised and disappointed whine fell past your lips as Yunho got up and pulled his now softened cock out of you. He looked down at your pussy, watching with glee how his fresh cum leaked out. There was a lot of it still inside you, but it wasn’t enough for him. Nothing was ever enough for him when it came to you. 

“I guess you can take another load then.” 

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Werewolf Headcanons

I've been stalked by the guilty feeling that my Romanian Werewolf boy got a lot of backstory but not much romance or interaction. So there you have it: some headcanons featuring the ancient Beast, a post-kidnapping sequel.

Content: female reader, obsessive behavior, monster romance, mild NSFW at the end, ridiculously older yandere

You followed the gargantuan stranger back into the city, leaving the bloodbath behind as if it was just a distant dream. Admittedly, you’d expected to be dragged into some mountainous cave or an abandoned mansion, not the cozy - albeit a little dusty - apartment on a main, historical street. On second thought, he did function as a human outside of his monstrous escapades, so it made sense. “Is this your place?”, you sheepishly asked while he wiped the thick layers of blood off him. “One of them, yes”, he answered curtly. “It’s central”, you remarked, trying to make conversation. “Well, I didn’t know about it back then. It’s been a few decades.”

Your ears perked up at the words. Gazing at his features, he didn’t seem necessarily aged to you. The deep creases contouring his face felt more like a sign that he’s lived sorrows beyond most people’s comprehension. “How old are you?” You finally asked as curiosity replaced your initial fear. He abruptly stopped his movements and leaned back, brows furrowed in deep contemplation. “I’m not so sure anymore. I was born in the 80s”, he concluded. “That’s not too far back, is it?” You inquired, this time more relaxed. “80 BC, I meant. You do the math.”

He freshened himself up as you counted the millennia on your fingers, frowning in confusion. He chuckled at your intense focus, then quickly looked up into the mirror. When was the last time he smiled like this? The reflection was a foreign sight to him. “We’ll get you everything you need tomorrow”, he continued, still in a daze. What a strange idea, having someone to speak to after an eternity. And suddenly, it occurred to him just how rusted his communication had gotten: “I’m so sorry, I haven’t asked for your name once”, he said, embarrassed. “It’s (Y/N). And you are...?" Might as well introduce yourself to your benevolent captor.

The dreaded question. How did they call him back in the day? He hasn't had anyone spell it out for him, nor did he feel the need at any point to say it himself. Why would he? He hadn't anticipated meeting you. With pursed lips, he searched his mind. Eventually, from the depths or memories, from days of yore, it made its way back: "Daos."

Given your first gory encounter (where he quite literally murdered everyone else), you were surprised to find out he's otherwise a calm and polite individual. Well, he's had centuries to mature, you suppose. You've also noticed he has that rather old-fashioned chivalry to him. He's very attentive despite his stoic demeanor, and often follows with acts of service.

"You're insulting me. I can carry this myself with ease", you'll argue. "I never doubted you can. Nonetheless, it is my wish to do it for you."

As the days pass, your reluctance seems to vanish as well. In fact, you've become particularly cheeky, encouraged by his warm, unperturbed behavior. Maybe you haven't gotten the worst deal out there, after all.

"You know, you talk like an old man", you've teased him once. He was visibly taken aback by your statement, and you could discern a faint blush on his face. "Do I? My apologies, I haven't spoken to anyone in a long time. I'm not familiar with modern speech. Have I embarrassed you somehow?"

He spends his free time reading, though he will frequently take you on walks. It's an interesting affair to say the least. You can feel the curious eyes of the passersby and hear their not-so-discreet whispered gossip. You can't truly blame them: Daos is enormous even as a human. He towers above everyone else with his imposing appearance. To match, his voice is deep and coarse as a result of not using it much until recently.

The ancient werewolf is a living history book. If asked, he will narrate to you important events or details you might be curious about regarding his culture. Once, when he'd been in a good mood, he even shared fragments of his life before turning into a creature. He'd been a high-ranked Dacian warrior, spending his days training or fighting. He still remembers the flag he carried with bitter fondness, yet another irony to his fate: a wolf-headed serpent. It was meant to showcase their way of life; barbarians with no fear of death. They'd greeted the Roman Empire with nothing but a sword and a shield, no shred of doubt.

He might've been betrayed by his people, but the pride remains. The pride of a soldier who's never known defeat. You learned quickly that his beastly form doesn't count as a significant change by any means, save for appearances. The man has brute strength even as a human. You'd once strayed from his view, and a stranger approached with a daring whistle, gawking you up and down. Before you could react, Daos clawed him by the throat. You heard the twist of the skin and the creak of the bones giving in to the immense pressure of his large hand.

"It's the second time I have exposed you to such unpleasant sights", he said, discarding the body as if it was any other garbage. "Forgive me, but I will not have you disrespected like this."

He is very much aware he's taken you away from the world out of his own selfish desire. The fact that you accepted it is more than he could ever ask for. That's what he keeps telling himself, even as his eyes wander to your lips whenever you speak. Or as his hand lingers a moment too long against the curve of your back. Or as he hungrily takes in your scent whenever you're nearby.

He might be unhealthily possessive of you, but Daos will never do anything against your will. No matter how obvious his urges are. In fact, no amount of flirting or teasing will shake his resolve. You will have to be very direct with your approval.

Once the reality settles in, he'll become extremely affectionate, bordering on obsessive. To think he could have you in every way possible. Oh, he's waited thousands of years for you. All the suffering, the loneliness, the anger, they're stripped of any meaning now that he has you.

The city strolls at an awkward distance have since become a habitual excuse to hold your hand and show you off to the mortals. The quiet evenings of passing time with a book now include your merely noticeable weight cuddled into his lap. You didn't expect him to be this adoring. Being touch-starved for millennia counts as one reason, naturally, but there's more to it, so much more. And it all leads back to you.

He is a little taken aback when you ask him to do the deed in his werewolf form. "Don't be foolish. I can't overcome my instincts as well when I'm a creature. I could harm you", he'll lecture you. "Besides, you can barely take it as it currently is", he'll add, smirking at your baffled expression. It seems he's picked up on your cheekiness.

After a lot of pleading and waiting for the right moment - when he's ravaging you in a daze - he finally agrees. True to his word, his tune instantly changes. The tender hold turns into a desperate grasp sinking into your skin, and the thrusts become irregular, almost frantic. His drool cools your burning cheeks as you hold onto the coarse fur, feverish and overwhelmed.

His golden eyes rest on the small human squirming underneath him, and suddenly, he can't help but notice: you have the perfect birthing hips.

[eufezco]

LOGAN AS A GIRL DAD°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

just pure fluff with pregnant!reader and logan <3

BEFORE PREGNANCY

being a dad at his age was something logan never imagined. starting a family seemed so out of reach, after everything he’d lived, he never thought that dad was a title he deserved. but then laura came into your life, and it was hard for him because you were a natural, effortlessly knowing how to care for her.

bit by bit, he began to follow your lead, picking up your habit of checking on her before bed and tucking her in, keeping an eye on her plate and making sure she finished her veggie, checking on her when she played outside and even sitting through her favorite cartoons.

and as you watched him, you’d catch yourself wondering what it would be like to bring another little life into this family you were building. the idea of getting pregnant crossed your mind more than once, and you could see it flicker in his eyes too, like an unspoken thought that made its way between you.

—you ever thought of having kids? —he asked, quiet but serious.

you took a few seconds to think about his question. not that you needed them, you'd always wanted to have his kids, and having laura had changed things, deepened the bond between you and logan, and brought your maternal instinct back. she wasn’t your biological child, but in every other way, she was yours.

the thought of bringing up the idea of getting pregnant to logan felt selfish, especially when you knew how much he had already given and how tired he was, you knew that, so you kept your hopes to yourself, not wanting to ask for more than the peace you had found with him and laura.

—we have laura —. you answered.

—yeah, we do. but… that’s not what i’m talking about.

there was a few seconds of silence while he waited for your answer.

—yes, i've thought about it but—

—have you thought about it recently?

you nodded to his question, feeling guilty.

he slowly nodded back to you. —i've been thinking about it too.

DURING PREGNANCY

logan started helping caliban in the kitchen, something that surprised you at first because he had never been much of a cook. but the two of them would work together, preparing meals that were good for you and the baby. logan would quietly chop vegetables or stir a pot, taking caliban’s instructions (also surprising because he had not followed anyone's instructions in a long time) as they worked to make sure you had everything you needed to stay healthy.

he’d help you with things like showering when it became difficult for you to balance or reach certain places. his touch was always gentle, his movements careful, making sure you felt safe. it became an intimate routine, his fingers massaged your scalp with care.

every night he'd gently rub lotion on your growing belly, helping to care for the stretch marks that had started to appear. he knew how self-conscious they made you feel. he could see it in the way you’d glance at your reflection, letting out a frustrated huff each time you noticed a new one, how you’d try to hide it from him, or how you’d wrap yourself in a towel quickly after a shower. so he took his time applying the lotion with steady hands, his eyes focused as if making sure he was doing it right.

—another one? —you muttered, feeling the weight of it.

—doesn’t change a thing —. logan just shook his head, kneeling beside you. —it’s just a mark. i'm covered in marks, and you never cared, right?

laura sat close to you, her eyes focused on your belly as logan gently massaged your skin. she was waiting, as she always did, hoping to see her future sister move. each time logan’s hand smoothed over your growing bump, laura’s gaze would sharpen, her small body leaning forward saying come on, little sis, just one kick. sometimes she’d place her hand beside logan’s, her touch gentle but curious.

—is she going to move soon? —she’d ask in a hushed voice.

logan glanced at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. —she’s already kickin' when you’re not looking —. he teased lightly as he rubbed the cream over your stretch marks, carefully. laura’s eyes never left your belly, waiting for that one special moment.

and he'd give you foot massages, his calloused hands rubbing away the soreness from carrying extra weight. you’d close your eyes, sighing in relief, and he’d smile.

when your clothes stopped fitting, it was he who offered up his own. he’d hand over his t-shirts and flannels, which hung loose on you and smelled like him, making you feel him close to you even when he was away at work.

logan was a bit reluctant at first but when the doctor told him how important prenatal yoga was to you, he didn't have to think about it twice. he wanted to be there and help you in every way he could even though he felt a bit out of place among the soft music, peaceful atmosphere, and expectant mothers, but he never let it show.

he'd help you find comfort in each of the poses the instructor guided everyone. he was often the only man in the class, which certainly caught the attention of the other moms. perhaps they noticed the age gap between you and logan, but more likely, their attention was drawn to your undeniably handsome partner. some of them whispered to each other, half-jokingly expressing their jealousy at how lucky you were to have such a dedicated partner. you both noticed the glances but you were too focused on each other.

as the weeks went by, the mothers would often smile at him, offering you two the kindest words as they saw how attentive he was to your needs.

at the end of the class, logan leaned in and kissed you softly, his hand resting on your back. —you did great —. he murmured, his voice full of pride. as you started to gather your things, one of the mothers nearby smiled and said, you're a lucky girl.

you couldn’t help but blush a little. he gave a small, almost shy smirk in response but didn’t say anything. instead, he focused on helping you with your bag.

the moment you found out you were pregnant, he quit smoking. it was almost instinctive, he wanted nothing but the best for you and the baby, and that included kicking the habit that had stuck with him for years.

and giving up cigarettes was one thing, but quitting drinking was way harder. there were nights he’d sit in the kitchen, staring at the bottle in the cabinet, knowing he could just reach for it. but he remembered you asleep in the other room, a hand resting protectively over your belly, and he’d push the thought away. he didn’t want his daughter growing up with memories of whiskey lingering on her father’s breath.

DURING LABOR

logan was more terrified than he'd ever let you know. he had faced, battles survived unimaginable pain, and lived through horrors but this was different. watching you in pain, knowing that your body was going through something so intense shook him to his core.

he stayed by your side, gripping your hand tightly and leaning in close, his voice encouraging you to push. he'd brush the damp strands of hair that were sticking to your face and press his forehead to yours.

when the baby’s first cry filled the room, logan sighed in relief, his grip on your hand softening as he finally allowed himself to breathe. once the doctors placed her on your chest, logan leaned in by your side, his eyes shining as he looked at you. you did so good, baby, thank you so much he murmured as he kissed your sweaty forehead and one of his fingers brushed across the baby’s little cheek.

AFTER PREGNANCY

at first, he was terrified every time he held her, his usually steady hands suddenly unsure. he was afraid that even his touch might be too much. she was so tiny, so soft and fragile, and her chest rose and fell so peacefully even though her small fingers wrapped around logan's thick ones with such strength. he found himself holding his breath whenever he picked her up.

in those first few days after labor, logan seemed to be everywhere at once. checking on the baby, bringing you food, making sure you were sleeping and laura wasn't trying to sneak into your room to see the baby. she was fascinated by her little sister, how could a human being be so small? laura often asked herself.

logan would catch her on her tiptoes, face with curiosity, and he’d stop her with a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder. laura would pout, glancing past him with wide eyes, eager to get closer, but logan wasn’t having it.

you surprised him when you caught him slipping into a soft, almost comical baby voice whenever he spoke to his daughter. but it was completely unintentional, just something that happened whenever he looked down at her tiny face, her big eyes blinking up at him. oh, what’s that little face all about, huh? you got somethin’ to say, little one? he’d murmur, his voice high and gentle as he rubbed one of her cheeks.

logan never thought he’d find joy in something as simple as dressing up his little girl, but there he was, surrounded by tiny clothes, immersed in a world of pastels and patterns. the laughter that escaped his lips as he put together the outfits was genuine. alright, sweetheart, what do you think of this one? he would ask her, holding the little one in front of the mirror. the baby had no idea what was going on, but logan nodded, approving the outfit. he’d try on multiple outfits, taking photos, and sending them to you for your opinion. how about this for school? he’d text you, proudly. this one’s a bold choice, but i think you can pull it off, he’d tease, pretending to be a fashion critic.

leaving for work each day became one of the hardest things logan had to do. he hated those hours he spent apart from the three of you. and every night when he came home, the baby was already sleeping but he'd tiptoe over to the crib, and he'd place a gentle kiss on the top of her head. then he’d make his way to bed, crawling next to you and pulling you close against his chest. he’d nuzzle his head close, murmuring softly, you okay, darlin’? and though you’d only mumble a half-coherent answer, he’d still give a small, satisfied nod.

and when he gets out of work earlier, he comes home exhausted, and you can see it in his face, the tired lines around his eyes, the slight droop of his shoulders, the way he rubs the back of his neck, but despite that, he is never too tired to play with his baby girl.

as the baby grew, logan took on new challenges, like driving her to school each morning, packing her tiny backpack with her favorite snacks, and doing her hair. with dark brown locks just like laura's and his own, he gathered them into two little ponytails, a bit clumsy at first, his fingers were used to fighting and rough work, not delicate hairstyles.

laura, after seeing how much fun logan had with the little girl’s hair, wanted no less. she’d approach him, eyes bright with excitement. —can you do my hair too, logan?

—your mom can do it for you. she's much better at it than i am —. he answered, not sure if his hairdressing skills would meet the older girl's expectations.

—but i want you to do it!

logan huffed, ruffling her hair with his free hand. he used the same care gathering laura's long hair as he did for her baby sister and he found it incredibly satisfying to see laura's face light up when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

after all, he was meant to be a girl's dad. every moment with you and your daughters reminded him that all those years of solitude and struggles, had led him here to a life filled with love. he might have thought being a dad was beyond his reach, but now, he knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.

[teaboot]

Sorry if this comes off as rude, or too personal, but how do you still have the mental strength to be like you are, after everything you've gone through? Like, not to make suffering a competition, but from what you've shared, it seems like you've had to deal with so much more than most, and yet you're still able to create, engage in the things you love and enjoy, and even wish better for the people who'd only want the worst for you. As someone who hasn't been able to do any of those for a while now, or feel anything beyond a sticky sense of resentment, I'd appreciate the words of someone who's been in shit miles deeper, if that isn't too much trouble. Sorry if this whole thing sounds weird, and thanks for being one of the weird funny guys on my dash, you've given me lots of laughs when I've needed them.

Oh, wow. Uh.

I think first off- not to minimize my experiences cause my therapist says not to do that- but I have a LOT of friends and loved ones who have been through much worse and are also doing good now, so that kinda helps. Knowing that if they got through things, I can too, and they don’t think less of ME for struggling.

Secondly… I think I used to not be so happy about life. I was really angry, really sharp and ascerbic, and when people who met me matched my energy, they’d be sharp and ascerbic back. And so I’d trap myself in this place where life ALREADY sucked, and then everyone around me was awful, so I’D be awful, and it would turn into this absolute mire of bad feeding bad.

And then one day I think after a long good cry in a public toilet, I just felt… better? Not BETTER, because I still had all my problems, but I think I was riding that post-cry high you get sometimes and the sun just looked brighter, and the annoying kids around me were just… less aggravating. The dumb teen boys being idiots were less “stupid morons with no depth who don’t care and can’t think” were just… regular old dumbasses having fun. And then I said hello to someone with a smile, and they smiled back, and we had this great conversation I never would have had otherwise, and I figured out that people are kind to you when you’re kind first.

Which seems obvious, but like… it’s hard to see anyone else when you’re hurting. And so when people are cruel or rude to me, I just think… wow. People probably see you being an asshole and treat you like an asshole. You probably see your own bad attitude reflected back at you everywhere you go, just like I did, and you probably have no idea. Every stranger you meet is a rude bitch who hates your face, and you’ll never be able to go anywhere that isn’t full of tense, defensive, cranky bastards until you figure out that YOU are causing the bulk of it. Like a dog trying to run from the shit on its tail.

And the idea of living your whole life where nobody is happy to see you, nobody truly enjoys your company, everyone is walking on eggshells and waiting for you to snap on them…. That’s a pretty sad and painful way to live your whole entire life.

So like. I try to treat people kindly, and in return I get to see happy people wherever I go. I try to make them laugh, and listen to them talk, and once they do they aren’t frightening or annoying or strange anymore.

most people, at least.

So like… I don’t think “look on the bright side” is the right answer, but maybe… find something good to believe in, and hold on.

I believe that people at large are good and kind or at least trying their best, and that those who can’t or aren’t are… sort of pitiable.

They don’t know where their pain is coming from, and they can’t make it go away, and it’s been like that so long they probably think the whole world is just LIKE that. So they never really get to experience the good things. And that’s… kind of like a hell, I think, in a way.

I don’t believe in karma. I don’t think I’m religious. I just think that we all want similar things, and we all fear similar things, and the ways we go about getting to or running from those things is different.

….if any of that makes sense.