#barbed wire pattern

[closetofcuriosities]

Junya Watanabe - Barbed Wire Shirt - SS04

[pochapal]

this study scene is actually a fantasy illusion by beatrice to get the reader to hate every member of the family so much that they will not be as upset when she kills them all.

[caramelteaa]

A glow-up from the last one

If I can actually move in-game would be nice tho :')

[deathshamble]

what is life for if not to buy silly clothes that you cant wear to work

[astrolook]

⚡Natal Aspects Observations⚡

Note: These are all based on my personal observations and patterns I’ve noticed over the years. Western astrology based. Let me know in the comments if any of this hits home for you! And feel free to leave what doesn’t resonate.

Moon square Pluto - You wear your heart on your sleeve, but...it's a sleeve made of barbed wire. Your emotions are intense like an overcharged battery and when you feel threatened, you would go nuclear. Tests people to see whether they will stay through your bad times. Can be a control freak, in some cases.

Venus conjunct Ascendant - People feel your vibe before they see you like a song they recognize but can't name. Keeps part of yourself hidden. Both magnetic and invisible at the same time. Love in silence or from a distance where you can't be fully known. On the flip side, you're the one they dream about but you're out of their reach.

Sun trine Moon - Emotionally stable but secretly tired. Your head and heart usually agree. People assume you’re chill because you don’t scream in public, but they miss the eye twitches. The world would be burning and you would still stay calm and composed. A functional person.

Sun square Pluto - It is like trying to live your life with a volcano constantly humming under your skin. By age 25, you have already buried 5 versions of yourself for the better. Might intimidate people. Self-protection level 999.

Moon opposition Mars - You react fast, feel hard, and cool down way later than you’d like to admit. You hate being told to “calm down” because it makes you ten times louder. You want closeness, but the second something feels off, you're snapping or shutting down. Holds grudges and waits for the right time to show it. Expressive face.

Venus trine Uranus - Sometimes you’re a mystery, sometimes you’re the life of the party. You’re drawn to unconventional love and beauty, and you’re the type who’ll fall for someone who’s “different” in all the right (or wrong) ways. Gets bored fast. You probably have a thing for experimenting with style or constantly shifting your vibe/style.

Uranus trine Ascendant - Basically your “I was born this way” energy on steroids. You don't follow trends. You always think one step ahead of us. You’re a bit of a wildcard, but you don’t make a show of it. Leader, not a follower unless it's a dark place.

Moon square Neptune - You can sense everyone’s moods but have trouble deciphering your own. You’re looking for magic in a world that’s mostly mundane. Sleeps too much when depressed.

North Node conjunct Mercury Rx - It is like being handed a map and told to navigate, but the map is upside down and missing half the directions. Communication feels like a game of broken telephone; you’ll get the message, just not without the detours and delays. Your ideas are constantly evolving. Repeats the same old mistakes 10 times until reality checks in.

North Node conjunct Lilith - You're meant to own your badass side in this lifetime even if the society tells you to tone it down. Might raise a few eyebrows along the way but some rules are meant to be broken.

Venus square Saturn - Your heart wants to give, but your brain keeps reminding you about all the reasons why it’s a bad idea. Wants intimacy but build walls like a maze. An underrated or underappreciated person.

Mars trine Jupiter - You have a built-in engine that just never runs out of steam. Your laugh is contagious probably. When things get tough, you bounce back faster than most as you're not the type to sulk for long. You might occasionally bite off more than you can chew.

Wanna go deeper into the layers of your placements? DM me for a complete astrology reading or a 5 year/8 year marriage report or synastry reading🌙💬 and check out my pinned post for pricing + details 💫💸

Let’s decode your cosmic chaos together ⭐

[yanderedrabbles]

Misery - Part Three

Based on Misery by Stephen King

Stuck in the mountains, you foolishly decide to drive through a blizzard. The man that drags you from your wrecked car brings you to his cabin and patches you up. But as the snow piles up outside, you start to suspect that your rescuer's intentions may be far from pure.

Previous Chapter

After Andy left, you managed to change out of your clothes. The flannel shirt he gave you was worn down just enough to feel cozy and the smell of his cologne still lingered 'round the collar.

You settled against the headboard and almost dozed off before he came back. He'd taken off his jacket and carried a pile of firewood in his arms. He dumped the logs in the fireplace and stood up, revealing a wife beater and arms thick with muscle. You were right about his strength - his body was just further proof of it.

"Sorry 'bout that. I should have brought some in last night but well..."

He turned to you, dusting his hands. "I got a good look at the situation outside. You might not wanna hear it but we're totally snowed in. Phone lines are down too."

"Oh. I didn't realise it was that bad."

You felt a dull sort of trepidation. Andy had been nothing but kind to you, but being stuck out in the mountains frightened you.

"Any idea when things will open up again?"

He sat down in the chair beside your bed and stretched out. For a second, the only thought in your head was how dangerous and lean he looked. His dog tags caught the light and winked at you.

"Hard to tell. We're far off the beaten path. Only folks nearby are the Roydmans and they're a good few miles off. 'Sides, snows too deep to drive through so even if they clear off the main road, we ain't getting there anytime soon."

You felt your heart sink. "Do you think I need to go to the hospital?"

He raised a brow and skimmed his eyes across your body. "It ain't looking pretty, but I reckon you can handle it."

"Hurts like hell though."

"Sorry princess, but it'll take a while for this sort of hurt to heal. Best I can do is give you something strong for the pain."

Your ankle still throbbed mercilessly and hearing him say that made you all the more aware of it. You searched desperately around the room for a distraction.

The room was much larger than you realised, with a panelled wood ceiling and big bay windows. From your position, all you could see was the sky.

It was comfortable and starkly clean. Oh God, was this his room or a guest room?

"I haven't kicked you out of your room, have I?" you asked, suddenly unsure of yourself.

He grinned and rubbed his jaw. "I reckoned you needed a nice bed far more than I did."

"Shit, I'm so sorry!" Your hands fluttered to your lips. You felt terribly guilty. "I can't imagine how much I've put you out."

He waved you away. "It gets awful quiet up here. You have no idea how nice it is to have company."

His eyes dropped to the shirt you were wearing. "Real nice."

He reached up to play around with his dog tags and you finally noticed the tattoo across his forearm.

"Semper Fidelis?"

"Always loyal."

He reached forward and let you inspect his arm. You took hold of his wrist and traced the tattoo with your fingertips. The words themselves were small and neat, but the rest of it was an intricate pattern of barbed wire that wound round his forearm.

"Did it hurt?"

"Tell you the truth? It stung like a bitch."

He was watching your face and when you looked up at him, your eyes met. Those eyes on the other end of a gun would have sent you running for the hills. You pitied the soldiers that faced off against him.

You let go of his arm and swallowed.

"When did you get it?"

He let his forearm rest next to your thigh.

"When I was deployed for the first time."

He was close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne and the sweet smell of pine from the wood he chopped.

"How did you end up in the Marines anyway?"

"I've got you curious, do I?"

You felt yourself blush. "Maybe a little."

"Hmm." He rubbed at his jaw, like he was trying to rub away a smile.

"Maybe I'll tell you about it someday. For now though, you need to take some tablets and get some sleep."

"But what about you? I've kind of colonised your bed."

"First thing you learn in basic is to sleep standing up. I'll be fine sleeping on the couch. 'Sides, I ain't the one who went crashing off the road less than a day ago."

He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a blister pack of tablets.

"These are Novril. They pack a hell of a punch, so I expect you to sleep through the rest of the day. Best thing you can do right now is rest, got it?"

"Yes sir."

He dropped two shiny white pills into your open palm.

"Good girl. Now drink up."

He passed you a glass of water from the nightstand. The tablets left a slightly bitter taste behind, but you hurt too much to mind it.

Outside, the snow started up again.

You smiled at him. "How am I ever supposed to repay you?"

He studied you for a second.

The shirt you borrowed was missing a few buttons near the top and gaped open just a little at your tits, but you were too drowsy to notice.

He grinned that slow, lazy smile of his. "I'm sure you'll think of something, princess."

You hadn't fully realised just how intimate this all was. You were wearing his clothes. Sleeping in his bed. Entirely reliant on him to take care of you.

He stood up and shook his head.  "You must be hungry. Any requests?"

"Nope. I'll take anything at this point."

His eyes flickered to your chest and then quickly away. "I can make you regret that real fast, y'know."

"Come on, you can't be that bad of a chef."

He huffed and shook his head. "You just sit pretty and I'll be back."

He returned with a bowl of oats sprinkled with brown sugar. His fingers brushed yours when he handed it to you and he lingered for a second longer than needed.

"I'm afraid it's all hospital chow until you're stronger. It's too bad - I make a mean flapjack."

You played around with your spoon and then gave in. Plain oats or not, you needed your strength.

Andy was quiet while you ate, watching the snow swirl across the window.

He tugged at his dog tags again and spoke up, "Does anyone know you're out here? A boyfriend, a sibling, anyone that knows where you were headed?"

You carefully put your empty bowl down on the nightstand. With the tablets, the pain was mercifully retreating. Not gone, never entirely gone, but a tiny bit more manageable.

"No. I wanted to surprise a friend but they don't know I'm coming."

You felt unnaturally drowsy for this early in the day. He must have noticed it because he stood up and gently pressed at your shoulders.

"Lie down and I promise you'll be out like a light soon enough."

You listened to him and found your eyes drifting shut as soon as you hit the pillow.

"Y'know." Your voice was muffled by your pillow. "You're a really great guy."

"Thanks, but save that until after you're better, yeah?"

He pulled the duvet higher and carefully tucked it around your shoulders.

"Not a soul knows you're out here?"

You hummed in agreement. You were almost entirely asleep and barely felt the hand that drifted across your forehead, gently pushing the hair off your face.

"Just you and me, princess."

You didn't hear it, but there was a strange note to his voice. Fear, maybe. Or longing. Hard to tell, with how similar they can be.

Next Chapter [coming soon]

Masterlist

Taglist

@pleorexicz @lem-hhn @mybelovedjupiter

[jasperthehatchet]

Fabric bracelets part 2: embroidery

These took so long but it was so worth it, I'm very proud of these

[Image ID: six images of three different fabric cuff bracelets. One is a blue/purple cuff with green wavy leafy vine embroidery that curls towards both ends of the bracelet. The design is on both sides of the spikes down the length of the bracelet, same placement as the others. All three bracelets have small metal spikes down the middle. The second bracelet is a desaturated red color, with a gray barbed wire design along both sides of the spikes. The third bracelet is a red and black flannel pattern, with a lighter silvery gray barbed wire embroidery in a slightly different style. The first barbed wire design is a little more stylized while the one on the black and red cuff is a little more realistic looking in its shape, but both are simplistic designs. All bracelets have button closures and three buttons to allow the wearer to adjust the size. All bracelets are roughly 9-10.5 inches long when open and flat and 2.5 inches wide. End ID]

[torturedtypewritersdept]

i don't know if you are taking requests but can we get an angst/fluff reader with drew, reader and drew are having a lazy day when reader passes out from having an ovarian cysts ruptured? drew rushes her to hospital.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

✯ pairing:

bf!drew starkey x fem!reader

✯ warnings:

mentions of ovarian cysts, reproductive issues, surgery, internal bleeding, pain, etc.

✯ a/n:

this request means so much to me as a girlie with pcos and endometriosis whose has many of these surgeries. thank you for requesting, love. hope you enjoy babe!

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The bedroom is dimly lit, the soft glow from the nightstand lamp casting a warm haze over the ivory sheets that cover your shared bed. Drew lies beside you, his arm draped lazily over your waist, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against the skin of your hip. A random romcom plays in the background, but neither of you are paying attention. It’s just one of those nights where you're focused in solely on lying in his arms; nothing else able to penetrate the warmth within your bubble. Usually you would be ogling the gorgeous tan skin than lines his muscular arms, but tonight, you're not quite feeling like yourself. He seems to pick up on your energy as he asks you a question.

“You okay, baby?”

Drew’s voice is thick with sleep, but there’s an edge of concern beneath it.

You shift slightly against the pillows, wincing as a dull ache blooms low in your abdomen.

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Just kinda crampy, not feeling like myself.”

It’s nothing unusual—you’ve had cysts before. They’re painful, but manageable. You figure if you just ignore it, you’ll be fine.

But then, out of nowhere, a white-hot, searing pain tears through your lower stomach, sharp and agonizing, like something has exploded inside you or barbed wire has wrapped itself around your ovaries. Your breath catches, and for a moment, you can’t move, can’t speak. It feels like a knife twisting deep in your pelvis, sending pulsing waves of pain outward. Your legs tremble, nausea slamming into you like a tidal wave. You think for a split second that you might vomit on his chest and you fight to sit up before you have to live through the mortification of that. A strangled gasp escapes your lips as your body curls in on itself instinctively in an attempt to sit up.

Drew sits up instantly in sync with you.

“Hey—hey, what’s wrong?”

His hands are on you in an instant, one cradling your cheek, as he jumps over the side of the bed to look into your face. The other hand pressing lightly against your stomach like he can somehow take the pain away. You can’t even respond. Your vision blurs as a fresh wave of pain wracks through you, so intense it steals your breath. Cold sweat beads at the back of your neck, and you feel yourself shaking. Something is fucking wrong.

“Baby?”

His voice is urgent now, laced with panic. He brushes your hair back from your damp forehead, tucking the strands behind your ear as he studies your face.

“Talk to me, sweetheart. What’s going on?”

He asks urgently, more concern present in his voice than you've ever heard from him. He's bordering hysteria but remaining strong in the face of whatever this is. You suck in a shallow breath, fingers clutching his wrist like a lifeline.

“I—I don't know, something is wrong.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, choked by the agony gripping your body. It feels like your throbbing and burning alive at the same time.

His face pales.

“Okay. Okay. We’re going to the hospital.”

He replies. You try to shake your head, even as another searing, burning pain radiates through your stomach, stealing your breath.

“Just—just give me a minute—”

“No.”

His tone leaves no room for argument. He’s already moving, pushing the blankets off you, pulling on sweatpants and a hoodie in record time. Then he’s back at your side, easing you up and into his arms bridal style as carefully as he can. The shift makes you whimper, and Drew curses under his breath.

“I know, baby. I know. I’m so sorry.”

His arms wrap around you, strong and steady, his hand smoothing over your hair as he presses a kiss to your temple.

“We gotta go, though. I got you.”

Getting to the hospital is excruciating. Every bump in the road sends fresh spikes of pain through your abdomen, making you bite back cries. Drew’s hand never leaves yours, his grip firm but gentle, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles over your knuckles. As soon as you get there, he practically carries you inside, his voice urgent as he tells the nurse what’s happening. You’re rushed back within minutes, and Drew is right there beside you, his free hand brushing your hair back from your clammy forehead as the doctors work around you.

“They’re going to take care of you, baby”

He whispers, his lips brushing against your temple.

“I promise.”

The doctors confirm what you already know—a ruptured cyst, significant internal bleeding. You need emergency surgery. Drew never lets go of your hand, even when they prep you for the OR.

“I’m scared."

You admit, your voice small, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. Drew catches them with his thumb, leaning in to press the softest kiss to your forehead.

“I know, baby. But, you’re strong. You’re gonna be okay.”

His blue eyes are glassy with worry, his jaw tight, but he kisses you again, this time on your lips, lingering like he wishes he could take your pain away.

“I’ll be right here when you wake up. I swear.”

And he is.

When you finally open your eyes after surgery, groggy and in significant pain, your stomach feeling like its been torn open and ripped to shreds, the first thing you see is Drew slumped in the chair beside you, his fingers still curled around yours, his head resting against the mattress. He hasn’t let go. Not even for a second. You give his hand a weak squeeze, and his eyes flutter open immediately. Relief washes over his face as he leans in, brushing his lips over your knuckles.

“There you are, sweet girl.”

He breathes, smiling despite the exhaustion in his eyes.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry, baby.”

You mumble, your voice hoarse from the breathing tube they placed down your throat during surgery. He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Don’t be. Just… don’t do it again, okay? No more medical emergencies in the middle of the night.”

He says with no bite and his signature smirk.

You manage a small, tired smile.

“I’ll try.”

You whisper.

Drew presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment.

“I love you, precious angel. couldn't do life without you, you hear me?"

He asks.

You squeeze his hand a little tighter.

“I hear you, ditto; I love you too.”

And even though you’re in a hospital bed, exhausted and in pain, you’ve never felt safer in your entire life. Because he is safety and warmth; he is the sacred place.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

[ilium-ilia]

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Five: failed kintsugi

tw: none

Simon Riley does not exist. 

Right now, he’s far away, tucked in bed in that dilapidating apartment back in London, hibernating as the cold chill of winter swallows the city with algid fingers. Everything he loves is hidden away in a neat little box compartmentalized somewhere in the grey matter of his brain where neither light nor susurrus can reach it. He sleeps soundly—dormant, but creaking the way the earth does when magma boils beneath the surface, waiting to spew forth and devour. 

For now, there is only Ghost, and he is all sharp canines and malice. There is enough iron on his body—in the form of guns, bullets, and knives—to drown a man, and still he persists. Old viscera haunts the soles of his boots leaving behind stains that he can never quite rinse free, and a skull balaclava clings to his face like a second skin. He is nothing but dark eyes, ichor, and compos mentis among strewn offals for it to leave a sour taste on his tongue. A trained killer. A honed blade. 

But there are instances where Simon Riley and Ghost intersect. They intertwine like roots from different trees, or how blood from different bodies mix when they meet on a cold floor. One can’t survive without the other. 

At the moment, they’re both infatuated with a handkerchief. 

Black fabric patterned with silly, cartoonish dogs stare up at him as he holds it as gently as he can in his gloved hands. Though the soft leather and stiff fabric dulls his tactile senses, his thumb still runs over the cloth with mesmerizing motion. Something whispers low and dangerous in Ghost’s ear—Simon’s desires cut through the hum of the transport aircraft with a saccharine lull. 

Ghost smothers it before it can bear fruit. 

“Think he’s got a kid?” 

Though it’s difficult to hear Kyle over the humming of the engines as they soar thousands of feet in the air, Johnny hums as he leans back in his seat. “Sure hope not. I have a hard time imagining him around a kid.” 

Chuckling, Kyle glances back over at his lieutenant for a short moment, eyes still focused on that handkerchief. He’s bent forward, elbows resting on his knees, lost in his own world. 

“No, I think he’s got someone else waiting for him back home,” Johnny comments as he toys with the strap on his rifle. The red lighting inside the airbus makes his eyes throb as if they’re about to melt, but his lips quirk into a sly grin. “He’s got himself his own little ghost.” 

“Little ghost?” Kyle repeats incredulously. 

“Yeah, you know. A little phantom. A spectre. Ghostette?” Johnny eggs. 

Kyle shakes his head. “You’re taking the piss.” 

“What?” Johnny asks as if actually offended. “We call him Ghost. It’s only fitting that his girl gets a nickname, too.” 

“If there is a girl,” Kyle corrects. 

Lips pressing together, Johnny looks back at his superior just in time to watch him fold the handkerchief. It’s neatly done; a perfect square with crisp edges. Once finished, he leans to the side and shoves it into his back pocket for safe keeping. When his hands return back in front of him, he stares down at them as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore. 

“Oh, there’s a girl alright.” 

The next few weeks are brutal. October gloom slowly morphs into an algid January bite, and throughout it all, Simon fights. His trigger finger cramps with how often he pulls it these days, and he manages to snag a new hole in the sleeve of his jacket as barbed wire slices through his flesh like a butcher’s knife through a pig. For him, this is nothing new. He’s well acquainted with the way scar tissue mends over a wound and how gunpowder coalesces with blood into some noisome aroma that lurks in his dreams. 

Still, he has a slight reprieve in the form of that handkerchief. Thumb running over the threads, he fusses over it in the darkness of a safe house or in a snowy foxhole. Even when he’s halfway across the world, you still haunt him. 

The chill of winter follows him all the way back to London where he’s greeted by an empty apartment and a lugubrious heater that’s slow to turn on. He drags himself into the shower where he washes off weeks worth of toil and incessant eye black that still traces the rim of his eyes. When he’s finished, he can still smell the way death lingers on him, and he doesn’t feel any lighter and absolved from the violence he so expertly executed, but his freshly washed skin and clean clothes will have to do. 

He lays in bed on his back, ready to catch up on the infinite hours of sleep he’s lost, but it does not come easy. The rainy afternoon sun bleeds through his blinds and stains his floor with pale silver, but it’s not enough to snuff out that throe in his stomach. He’s being watched. That silly piece of cloth stares at him from the corner of his nightstand. 

You promise? That you’ll come see me? 

You’re in the living room when a knock interrupts your evening. 

Hands twitching, your head snaps towards the front door as your eyes narrow. The time on your phone says it’s just past seven—not exactly obnoxiously late, but concerning enough when you aren’t expecting any visitors. Pushing yourself to your feet, you carefully hop along the hallway as you avoid all the squeaky spots in the floor as you approach the door. You press your face against the wood as you gaze through the peephole, and the very moment your brain registers the hulking figure on the other side, your hand flies to the lock. 

Simon Riley stands in front of you with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. Water droplets from unforgiving rain adorns the fabric of his balaclava, framing his obsidian eyes like rhinestones. Once you’re able to get over your shock, a smile pulls at your lips. 

“Simon,” you exclaim softly as your hand falls from the door. 

It isn’t until you speak that you realize just how disheveled you are. Donning nothing but loose pajamas and large house slippers to stave off the cold, you feel underdressed. Naked in your own home. 

“It’s good to see you,” you continue breathlessly. “Do you want to come in and warm up a bit? That rain is brutal today.” 

Simon shifts and the wet heels of his boots squeak against the floor. Though his balaclava and hood obscures his face, his eyes are plenty easy to read. He studies you—observant as ever—as he traces the features of your face with his gaze. His shoulders loosen once he’s soaked you in.

“Don’t waste your evening on me,” he says. His voice is stiff and gruff; worn down from rigorous and relentless use. “Just keepin’ my promise.” 

As he speaks, his eyes unmistakably wander to the scar on the wall behind you. The hole Eric had punched into your wall has become nothing but a faint memory with a less than perfect patching job. Still, its presence has burned a hole in Simon’s mind, and he feels acrid annoyance boil in his stomach at the mere idea that it had ever soiled your home in the first place. 

“Please,” you insist as you step to the side to let him through. “I was just about to put the kettle on, and it’s freezing out. It’s no trouble at all.” 

There’s a short pause as Simon mulls your proposition over. “Alright,” he finally says. “Won’t keep you long.” 

The cold radiates off of his body as he takes a step through the entryway, closing the door behind him. He kneels to the floor to undo the shoelaces on his boots, halfing his height. You try not to let your eyes linger on him too long as you step backwards to give him space as you wander into the kitchen. 

“When did you get home?” you ask as you retrieve your kettle. 

“Couple hours ago,” he answers, voice still coarse. 

Running water spews from the sink as you begin to fill the kettle, and Simon’s boots gently thunk against the wall as he lines them up next to yours. You steal a glance at them and you try to ignore the fluttering in your stomach when you see the stark difference in size between his boots and your flimsy work shoes. 

“Late night traveling, then?” you ask as you set the kettle on the stove. You turn the heat on with a few clicks and then watch as the electric coils burn a bright red. 

“Something like that,” he mumbles. Once his boots are situated, he turns to face you as he stands in the doorway to the kitchen. Your throat grows dry when you note how his shoulders almost brush against either side of the frame. 

Nodding, you gesture to the lone couch in your living room. “Feel free to grab a seat. I’d hate to make you stand around. I’m sure you’re tired.” 

Simon hums as he follows your prompt and you watch his eyes dilate before he slowly stalks into the next room. “What’s in the box?” 

“Oh, that? Don’t mind that,” you wave off as you curiously follow behind him. “I bought myself a new lamp. I tried to glue the glass base of the other one back together, you know with like the gold glue and stuff? It didn’t really work out and I hate using the overhead light so I figured it was about time I bought a new one. Haven’t quite gotten it put together yet, though. Feel free to move it out of the way, it’s kind of an eyesore.” 

Teeth sinking into your lower lip, you duck back into the kitchen while Simon continues to wander around the room. As the water begins to boil, you rummage through your cupboards to raid it for tea. You’re met with mostly empty shelves coated with a painfully minute amount of sparse food. Rent has become a little more difficult to keep on top of these last few months. Though Eric wasn’t good for many things, he at least kept the kitchen stocked. Still, you’re saved by a stray box of breakfast tea shoved to the very back of the bottom shelf, and you eagerly snatch it with a huff. 

“You alright with breakfast tea?” you call as your fingers sort through the bags. 

Simon is quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Plain.” 

You manage to catch the kettle as soon as it begins to whistle, and you remove it from the stove as you prepare your cups. Retrieving your favorite Halloween mug for yourself, and a cheeky don’t talk to me until I’ve had my morning tea one for Simon, you let the bags steep before you’re pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of tearing cardboard. 

Wandering into the living room, you find Simon sitting on the floor with the box that belongs to your new lamp ripped open. Several parts and pieces lay out in front of him in their own separate bags, seemingly sorted into piles based on screws and main structural pieces. A small piece of paper sits in his hands as he carefully reads through the instructions. 

“Simon, you don’t have to do that,” you insist, dumbfounded. 

Ignoring you, he continues to read through the instructions before his eyes narrow. “Where the hell did you buy this from?” 

“Ikea…”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grumbles as he tosses the paper to the side. “Useless.” 

Without the help of any sort of direction, Simon begins to put your new table lamp together. Really, there doesn’t seem to be too many pieces, but even from a short distance you can make out about twenty different screws with several varying sizes. With his balaclava on and his hood pulled up over his head, Simon looks more like a robber than a handyman, yet here he is, building your lamp as if it’s his favorite hobby. 

Chuckling, you return to the kitchen to grab the tea before meandering back into the living room. After setting Simon’s mug on the coffee table, you curl up on the couch as you warm your hands on the ceramic while watching him work—brows furrowed, eyes steady, hands moving. 

How did the two of you get to this point? When did you go from strangers to… whatever this is? 

How do you name this feeling in your stomach—this fluttering sanguinity?

As you sip on the tea and revel in the warm liquid pooling in your stomach, you notice Simon has rolled the sleeves up on his jacket. It’s up far enough to reveal a myriad of tattoos on his left forearm—the very one you had seen a hint of that night at the pub all those weeks ago. Skulls, smoke, and dog tags wrap around his arm in a monochrome mural, bringing depth to his otherwise pale skin. On his other arm, you notice a still healing cut. It’s deep and angry with red, puffy scar tissue freshly formed over a long gash, and you watch as it pulls taut while the muscles underneath it dances as he works. 

“What happened to your arm?” you ask, unable to hide your solicitude. 

Simon turns his attention away from your lamp and looks up at you. His head tilts to the side in a way that sends butterflies scrambling in your stomach, and you feel your skin begin to tingle and burn as if you’ve been set ablaze. 

“Right,” you say with a breathy laugh. “Stupid question, I suppose.” 

Something of a titter leaves Simon as he stands from his spot on the floor. It feels like you have to break your neck just to keep looking at him, but the lamp is finally put together—lightbulb, lampshade, and the works. He picks it up from the floor and places it on the side table next to the couch before plugging it into the wall. You excitedly place your half finished tea on the coffee table before leaning over the arm of the couch and twisting the switch. Warm light pours out of it like a fond memory. 

“Well, would you look at that,” you beam. Really, it’s not anything spectacular; after all, it’s just a silly lamp. But it feels like—in some way—you’re getting a part of your life back. “Thank you.” 

“It’s nothing,” Simon responds simply. 

A small string of tension weaves throughout the room as Simon continues to stand with eyes flickering back and forth between you and the lamp. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you glance back at the coffee table. His tea remains untouched, and now cold. Really, you don’t know why you had expected him to drink it. He never takes his mask off. 

Perhaps that's why he asked for it plain; he doesn’t want to waste any milk or sweeteners. 

“I missed you,” you suddenly blurt out. 

This sudden revelation that spews from your lips surprises not only you, but Simon as well. You see it in the way his eyes land on you; how they flicker over your face—how they linger on your lips. He always lingers on your lips, but you know it’s not in the way the fuzziness in your stomach wants them to. Your tongue swipes over the corner of your lip as it prods against the painful reminder that Eric gave you all those months ago. 

“I never used to worry about you,” you continue as you shift in your spot on the couch. You feel smaller than a bug as he stands tall, looking down at you. “I mean, I knew you were in the military, so when you’d vanish without notice I would just assume that you were out saving the world, or something. But I… I worried this time.” You pause as your words and embarrassment begin to choke you. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you’re back.” 

“Course I came back,” he says as if stating a fact. “Had to make sure you weren’t getting into any more trouble.” 

You laugh, thankful for his teasing tone. It’s comforting to know he’s not put off by all of your awkward ramblings, or at least if he is, he’s good at hiding it. How you’ve managed not to annoy a quiet man like Simon is beyond you. 

“Yeah, well, I think you scared off any trouble that would find me,” you admit with a shy smile. 

“Brute force will do that.” 

Simon is… funny. In his own weird, macabre way. Everything about him seems to lure you in like a moth to a flame, and at this point you don’t think you even care about getting burned—you know the butterflies in your stomach certainly don’t. 

“Do you wanna catch a movie this weekend now that you’re back?” Once more, your mouth is opening and spewing out words before you even have the chance to think them through, but instead of retracting your statement, you double down. “It would be more relaxing than the pub, I’d imagine.” 

“What? Need protecting?” he asks dryly. 

You grin. “You never know when trouble is gonna find me.” 

Humming, Simon digs his hands into his coat pocket and retrieves his phone. The screen illuminates his face with dull light for a few seconds before he passes it over to you. It’s his contact list—the keyboard is waiting for a new recipient. 

“Text me the day and time, and I’ll be there.” 

The butterflies in your stomach begin to bloom. They flutter and tickle the walls of your stomach as you take his phone into your hands, but they begin to thrash the moment you write your name and number. They want more—need more. You fear that if you don’t give them more, they’ll devour you, bones and all. 

“Alright,” you say, handing his phone back to him with a coy grin. “It’s a date, then.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[rabidbatboy]

🧼 — THE FIRST RULE OF MOGAI CLUB IS:

TACTIKAL: a neogender umbrella that encompasses/connects to firearms, canines, camo and masks, among others, and how these qualities interact with ones gender. this can exist alongside or instead of other gender identities

(sidenote: this term is not about nor does it serve to romanticise war, genocide or school shooters. I do not care who uses my flags but I really hate the TCC/columbine dickriders. and, as always, free palestine)

QUALITIES

- guns, firearms, artillery

- the concept of being used as/wielded as a weapon

- guard dogs, hunting dogs, K9s

- dogtags, barbed wire, chains, spiked cuffs and collars

- camo patterns

- face masks, gas masks and face coverings

- combat knives, bowie knives, swiss army knives

GENERAL TERMINOLOGY

tactikine: masculine/feminine equivalent

tactikinity: masculinity/femininity equivalent

tactix: masc/fem equivalent

TACiN: tactikal in nature

as an equivalent to man/woman/person, a tactikine person is typically either called a weapon or a wielder. when one is both a weapon and a wielder, they are a crosshair. when one is neither weapon nor wielder, they are a target

this is not based on appearance or any kind of hierarchy. it’s mainly based on ones perception of themself, and is a subjective experience

ATTRACTION TERMINOLOGY

scopeship: tactikal relationship

trigger: tactikal crush

gunmate: tactikal partner

TAGGING: @radiomogai @obscurian @rwuffles @cloverpilled @love-letterworm @fangpunk @floraeth @boingogender @pupcoins @vndead-pvppy

YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT MOGAI CLUB — 🫧

[reiding-writing]

Can i get a workshop session? How about spencer with a reader who's actually smarter than him? Maybe she's younger too, thanksss

GENIUS² — SPENCER REID!

working alongside another genius was a blessing, in more ways than one.

early!seasons!spencer x reader | fluff | 1.3k | event masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n— the genius x genius trope is great i love it

Spencer Reid prided himself on being one of the smartest people in the room.

At 24 years old, he was a genius with an IQ of 187, three PhDs under his belt, and an eidetic memory that made him practically a walking encyclopaedia.

His mind moved faster than 99.7% of the world’s population, processing information, analysing patterns, and solving puzzles with ease.

But none of that prepared him for you.

You were younger than him by two years, and while you didn’t have a wall lined with degrees like Spencer, your intelligence was undeniable.

A bachelor’s degree in Theoretical Physics had been enough to earn you a spot in the BAU, something that had surprised even you.

Hotch had seen something in you—your ability to not only understand the unsub’s behavior but to intuitively connect pieces of information in ways most people couldn’t. It was something the team found invaluable.

And it didn’t take long for Spencer to notice.

Where Spencer excelled in academic brilliance, you had a talent for thinking outside the box. You connected dots faster than most people even realized there were dots to connect.

Spencer was used to being the one with all the answers, the one who could solve problems others struggled with, but you? You were different. You weren’t afraid to speak up, even if it meant contradicting his carefully constructed theories. You didn’t care about bruising egos, least of all his, and it fascinated him.

The first time Spencer realised you were special was during a particularly tough case.

The team had been chasing down a serial killer for weeks—a cryptic unsub who left strange, undecipherable messages at each crime scene.

Spencer had spent hours poring over the notes, scrawling down numbers, symbols, and trying to make sense of the pattern, but nothing clicked. His frustration was palpable; his fingers were tapping restlessly on the desk, and his usually sharp mind felt like it was hitting a wall.

An iron wall, covered in spikes and barbed wire.

Then you had walked in. Quietly, unassuming, you hovered over his shoulder for a moment before making a suggestion that cut through his fog of confusion.

“You might be thinking about this too literally,” You said casually, your voice breaking through the silence.

Spencer looked up, frowning slightly, both intrigued and a bit defensive. “What do you mean?”

You slid into the chair next to him, your eyes scanning the pages spread out across his desk. “You’re trying to solve this like a mathematical puzzle, but uh— the letters in the corners of his notes are literally just spelling out ‘library’, so I went to the nearest library and spoke to the librarian on staff, she gave me this,”

You pull out a scrap piece of paper from your pocket and hold it out towards him, a handwritten poem.

Spencer blinked, the pieces clicking together in his mind with almost audible force as he took the poem from you.

You’d identified the connection instantly, something Spencer would have done himself had his mind not been knotted up in frustration. But instead of feeling defeated, he was astonished.

“How did you-?” He asked, genuinely curious.

You shrugged, as if it were obviousLooking at the bigger picture can be really useful sometimes,”

Spencer stared at you for a moment longer, watching as you calmly began jotting down more notes, your mind racing ahead as if you’d never even paused for breath. He realised, in that moment, that you weren’t just another member of the team. You were his equal—possibly even more than that.

From then on, Spencer found himself constantly intrigued by you. The two of you often ended up working side by side, bouncing ideas off each other in a way that was both exciting and intimidating for Spencer.

You were quick, your mind moving in a different way than his, and he found himself almost eager to keep up with your train of thought. You saw things he didn’t, caught details he might have missed, and he wasn’t sure how to handle that. No one had ever made him feel… not inferior, but challenged in such a unique way.

The conversations between you were often odd. Both of you were too intelligent for typical small talk, so you found yourselves discussing obscure facts or debating over scientific theories in the most random of moments.

Spencer would mention something about a 14th-century mathematician, and you would immediately counter with a parallel discovery made in physics centuries later. Neither of you really knew how to navigate personal conversations, so you stuck to what you both understood—facts, theories, and knowledge.

One evening, after a particularly long day spent on another complex case, the bullpen was empty except for the two of you. The team had gone home, but you stayed behind, just like Spencer always did, combing through the evidence again, searching for a missing piece.

You were seated across from him, your brow furrowed in concentration, scribbling notes onto a pad of paper.

Every few minutes, Spencer found himself glancing at you. It wasn’t something he could control—his curiosity about the way your mind worked was something that pulled him in, a constant mystery to unravel.

You were focused, absorbed in your task, and Spencer couldn’t help but admire how quickly you picked up on things. Sometimes, you were faster than him, and that realization both thrilled and unnerved him.

“You’re staring again,” you said, your voice breaking the silence without even looking up.

Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise. He wasn’t used to being caught off guard, and you did it effortlessly. “I—I wasn’t staring. I was just… thinking.”

You finally looked up, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “What were you thinking about?”

He swallowed, his brain scrambling for an answer that didn’t sound ridiculous. “You’re really good at this,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “You are too.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure how to respond. Compliments weren’t his strong suit, and he wasn’t used to receiving them either. “I mean, you’re younger than me, but you’re just as—no, sometimes more—effective than I am. It’s… impressive.”

For the first time since he’d met you, you looked almost shy. “I’ve always looked up to you, you know,” You admitted quietly. “When I first started here, I thought you were kind of untouchable. Like, how could anyone keep up with a guy who knows literally everything?”

Spencer stared at you, speechless. The idea that you—someone he viewed as his intellectual equal, if not superior—had once looked up to him was almost unbelievable. It made him see you in a different light.

“Well,” he said, after a long pause, “I guess we keep each other on our toes.”

You smiled at that, leaning back in your chair. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. It was a strange dynamic—two people too intelligent for normal conversations, yet too awkward to fully acknowledge the unique bond that had formed between you.

But it worked. You pushed each other, kept each other sharp. Whenever Spencer stumbled over an obscure reference, you were there to catch it. When you went too far into the realm of abstract thinking, Spencer reeled you back in with hard logic.

You were a perfect balance—an unstoppable team, even if neither of you would say it outright. And in a world where people rarely understood either of you, you had found something important in each other, an unlikely equal.

[chuubian]

Kinktober week two:

Hot To Go!

Tags Boothill x fem saloon maid reader, his dick vibrates, drinking, semi-public

Summary A handsome cowboy walks into the saloon without any credits. Before you can kick him out and report him, he offers to pay another way.

The loud screeching of old hinges draws your attention out of your work and to the front door. A weird looking cowboy comes in. He's completely made of steel except for his pale face, it's like nothing you've ever seen before. His heavy boots bang against the decaying slabs of wood flooring, then he sits at the bar, staring silently— waiting for you to service him. Putting the glasses and rag down, you head over to him.

“Hello sir, what can I get you?”

“A double tequila, darlin’.”

You raise an eyebrow. That's it?

“Just tequila? nothing else?”

“I can handle it.”

You shrug, walking back to grab him a glass, pouring in two shots of the clear liquid and sliding it in front of him. He grins— sharp teeth taking you by surprise. Did he purposely sharpen his teeth? The man reaches for his glass, tossing it back and drinking the straight liquor easily. You cringe just watching him.

“You seriously drink like that in the middle of the day?”

“Oh it’s nothin’… ‘s like water to me.”

Nose scrunching in disgust, you recoil at the thought of it. It's like 2 pm who in the world would think to drink this. He chuckles at your expression, sitting up and leaning forward— cheek leaning onto his cold, metal fist.

“Shouldn't you be glad I'm here, darlin’? Good for business, isn't it?”

He looks around the empty room.

“I'm the only one here, that's money you wouldn't have made otherwise.”

So that's how he sees it huh…

“Then it's 30,000 credits.”

He pauses, eyes widening. The clanging of iron sounds through the room as he sits up straight.

“Ain't that a bit expensive, sweetheart?”

You cross your arms.

“That's the set price. If you're saying you can't pay, then I'm gonna have to get the sheriff over here.”

That seems to astound him. He immediately starts fussing, leaning over the bar to try and calm you down.

“Now, now dear… We don't gotta go that far! come on, I'm in town all the time, you know me right?”

“No i don't, I've never seen you here. I don't even know your name.”

Clunky metal fingers run through his black and white hair as he puts his hat down on the counter in front of him.

“Boothill. See? now you know me.”

“If you don't pay, I'm calling the sheriff over here. I'm not kidding.”

Sharp nails dig into the wooden counter— he leans back, thinking of ways to deescalate the situation.

“Why don't we find some other way to repay you huh? We don't need to get law enforcement involved in somethin’ so small right?”

You consider it. It's not like your boss would know anyways, it wasn't even that much alcohol.

“What do you have in mind?”

—————-

The wind gets knocked out of your lungs as Boothill drags his rough tongue over your clit. His sharp metallic claws dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, trying to keep your unruly hips still. A choked whine gets caught in your throat as he sucks harshly on the sensitive little nub— it's like barbed wire has been wrapped around your throat, constricting any sound that may escape.

“Aghh… f-fuck!”

The only response from him is a harsh bite to your inner thigh, before he dives back in. He's like a man starved, consuming you completely. A hot wet tongue makes its way down to your entrance, teasing and taunting, with the intention of pushing in.

Your fingers thread through his long, black and white patterned hair— pulling, out of necessity to keep your peace of mind. Boothill slips inside and an embarrassing squelch echoes through the empty saloon.

“Don't move.”

He warns, holding you up against the old bar. Practically all your weight is leaning on his kneeling form— your legs were trembling terribly, struggling to hold up properly. Gummy walls squeeze around his tongue, gushing out more slick. He lets out a low moan, enjoying the slightly bitter taste.

“Sooo good…”

His words slur together. One of his fingers finds its way up to your puffy, abused clit, drawing little circles. Sparks flash behind your eyes and guttural moans bubble past your lips.

“Nghh… B-boothill!”

This only seems to encourage him more. He drags his tongue back out of your entrance. Your pussy feels empty without him, clenching around nothing— already becoming used to the force against your walls. Tugging him closer, you grind your cunt down onto his lips, trying to get more. That's all you need, just a little more.

“Needy, huh?”

He chuckles, lips wrapping around your over sensitive clit, sucking and licking at it harshly. You double over, stomach and thighs tensing from need and overwhelming pleasure. His steel palms feel surprisingly warm against your skin, gently caressing instead of digging in like before.

“Mmmf..! O-oh god Boothill!”

Eyes watering, back arching, grasping and pulling at his long locks, you finally come undone. A loud ringing resounds through your head, leaving your brain fuzzy and confused. You don't even process what's going on until Boothill’s bulky hands are turning you around, pushing your chest down onto the old wooden bar.

“You ready?"

Icy metal presses against you from behind. His grip on your hips is painful— he's sure to leave marks and bruises painted across your skin. You open your mouth to respond, but before any words leave your lips, he pushes in.

You keen high in the back of your throat as his hips sink home. Squirming, you try to adjust to his cock. It proves to be an impossible feat- especially when you abruptly feel the vicious whirr or his dick against your walls.

"W-waaiit-"

You only manage to utter a single word of protest. As soon as it leaves your mouth, Boothill pulls his hips back and slams back in. Controlling himself is inconceivable at this point. He sets a brutal pace, grinding cock up into you, nails biting into your flesh.

All you could do was whimper and wail in garbled mumbles. He didn't stop even for one second. Your back arched, as your face was smushed against the counter— dragging against the old wood, scratching your skin.

"Fuck. sweetheart...."

He trails off, lost in the feeling of your cunt wrapped around his vibrating cock. Leaning forward, he nips at the shell of your ear. The sting only amplifies the feeling of immense bliss. Your legs shake with effort— it was like nothing you've ever felt before. Drunk off the sensation of him working himself in and out, your cunt clutching onto him- trying to suck him in.

It's all too much. Your eyesight is blurring and a lump forms in your throat. The knot in the pit of your tummy is straining and tensing. Boothill buries himself deeper, pelvis striking against the supple flesh of your ass. His cock is carving out a space for itself, pulsating against your walls.

"Hnngh.. B-boothil..."

His strong hand leaves your hips, settling itself on your shoulder, keeping you down.

"That's right sweetheart. Just like that."

All the blood rushes to your head as his dick thrust into your sweet spot. Your body is boiling— overwhelmed and about to burst. He doesn't stop, taking enjoyment in seeing you struggle. Slick is dripping down your pussy to the junction between you and the ruthless man. Your mushy walls make way for him, surrendering under pressure. All you can hear is a loud buzz, as your body focuses on the euphoria it feels under his expert touch.

Incoherent babbles erupt from your lungs. Your hips twitch, fucking themselves back on his cock mindlessly. He's getting desperate. Shocking cold steel presses against your back as the vibrations spread through your entire body. The knot forming in your belly bursts and fire flows inside your veins. The heat is sweltering and mind boggling.

Nails claw against the splintering wood, frantic for any way to hold onto your sanity. Your throat burns, lungs heaving and wheezing, desperate for air. Sweat drips down your forehead, glistening under the bright sunlight shining through the window.

The tremors in your thighs simmer down and Boothill pulls away, massaging your poor exhausted legs.

"How was that?"

You struggle to answer, but he wasn't really looking for an answer anyways. He helps you clean up— wiping the sweat and slick off your skin, dressing you tenderly. Making sure you look just as nice as when he first came in before anyone else walks in.

[venussaidso]

Ketu Kinship p2.

Looking into the astrological influence of the partners of a lot of Ketu-ruled nakshatra natives in the public eye validated my initial claims that Ketuvians often prefer one another.

For example, I found out that Naomi Watts & Billy Crudup and Claire Forlani & Dougray Scott are married Mula nakshatra pairs. Or that Ashwini Moon native Alexis Bledel's ex husband is possible Magha Moon Vincent Kartheiser, or Magha Sun Manny Jacinto with his spouse possible Ashwini Moon Dianne Doan. Or that Amanda Seyfried and her current spouse, Thomas Sadoski, has possible Magha Moon just like she does. And even Ashwini Moon Josh Hutcherson's current partner, Claudia Traisac, likely has her Moon in Magha. And, Peter Capadli & Elaine Collins and Serena Williams & Alexis Ohanian are Ashwini nakshatra pairs, along with Christian Bale and Sibi Blažić. Just to name a few, of course.

Just found out Anya Taylor-Joy and her current husband, Malcolm McRae, are both Ashwini natives. And Jack Quaid and Claudia Doumit, who are currently dating [2023/2024], are an Ashwini pairing as well.

But in my recent post, I brushed up on Ashwini and Mula being the Ketu-nakshatra pair I see the most.

And now I just remembered that Cynthia Evirio and Lena Waithe are an example of this.

Or Mathilda May and Philippe Kelly.

Mathilda May was also married to Magha ASC Gérard Darmon.

And the worst example yet, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.

Lauren Bacall was also once married to Magha Moon Jason Robards.

Also, David and Georgia Tennant.

AND Sarah Paulson And Holland Taylor.

Plus Kate Hudson and Chris Robinson.

AND, and, MacKenzie Scott and Jeff Bezos.

Disclaimer, I am simply an observer of patterns and I like studying nakshatras through the media, so this post exists to validate my other posts. I am not promoting anything such as compatibility etc.

Going back to fictional territories, here are some more Mula x Ashwini examples.

Francesca Bridgerton & Michaela Sterling from Bridgerton!

DMX & Jet Li in Cradle 2 the Grave.

Sigourney Weaver & Jennifer Love Hewitt in Heartbreakers.

Jennifer Love Hewitt & Jason Lee with Sigourney Weaver & Ray Liotta in Heartbreakers.

Geena Davis & Samuel L. Jackson in The Long Kiss Goodnight.

Raquel & Ares from Through My Window.

True & Jimmy from True Jackson, VP.

Daisy & Ben from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

Dr Morbius & Dr Martine from Morbius.

Oscar & Lucinda from Oscar and Lucinda.

Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund from Casablanca.

Barb Wire and Axel Hood from Barb Wire.

[timkontheunsure]

Narcissistic family structures

Guesses about Blitz and Barbie Wire's relationship

Blitz says they used to be soo close, but she's not in the flashback to the circus.

Not the around during Fizz and Blitz performance, or his traumatic flashbacks to the accident. (I'm not counting her not going to Mammon's concert as that was clearly ment to be a date, but both Blitz and Fizz bottled it. Blitz even bought Fizz's ticket).

There could be any number to reasons for that, but I'm going bet on the logical one of + a bit of a twist here.

The invisible child

We've seen Cash set up antagonistic positions for Fizz (a kid who worked for him) and Blitz (his own son).

As Fizz the golden child, with all the conditional love that can be withdrawn if they are less then perfect.

And Blitz as the scapegoat, who is blamed for any and everything that goes wrong.

Cash is a narcissistic, and the most common 3rd child role is the invisible child. Barbie looks she was talented enough to keep her head down around her dad.

Not getting the abuse of the scapegoat, but not getting the attention either. Being neglected by her dad. And childhood neglect can be a risk factor to addiction. Initially it can also be a cry for help, and some of the attention they are lacking too.

I think she's missing from these memories, because she was overlooked generally.

This could go a way to explaining why she as a teenager she's scratched out her Circus tattoo. And flipping off the camera in their act poster. (Blitz has no scars so they have to be younger than 19. We'd probably see his braces if we could see his teeth).

If pre fire her dad has no use or time for her, what use or time does she have for him.

But that's no longer completely true. Barb's back in contact with her dad. (That who Blitz phoned).

And Cash was the one to sign her out of rehab. (Blitz is most likely who checked her in when things got really bad).

Mental health clinics/rehab normally want family to be involved in discharge. So the person has a place to go, and won't be made homeless.

That why Blitz is confused how she could leave without him knowing.

They've also talked since the fire; because she knows the name he's been using the last 5 years.

Which means unlike Fizz; she does know the fire, that killed their mum, was an accident.

But Barbie fall back on toxic family pattern of blaming Blitz when things go wrong.

People who haven't been in these relationships assume the kids will band together against the abuse. But that doesn't happen. They can be close unless the abuser turns up, or till something goes wrong. Like Barbie dose.

Her dealer dies as part of a random accident with a firework, and she immediately screams at Blitz for it. Reverting to his previously name for extra spite.

Then laughs at him for trying to be a family. I mean yes Blitz really should be reading the room here, but she's still going all in as daddy's little girl here.

With how she touches their mum's necklace, and the joint birthday card, and got of other happy pictures; it clear both twins loved their Mumma.

But it seems likely without Fizz, or Blitz; Cash would probably occasionally turn up to captive audience Barbie in rehab. So they could mutually lick wounds, and scapegoat again.

To truly get over an addiction you need to take a hard look at yourself and your trauma; and not just the things that were outside your control.

Because while they can make you more susceptible, ultimately it was normally your choice to rely on that substance. Be that alcohol, cigarettes or opioids.

(There are cases of showbiz parents force their kids to take substances. But don't know if that Barbie or not).

And I'm not sure Barb's taken that look yet at herself yet. The nurse who's takes odd delight in first blocking access to Blitz visiting Barbie, and then telling him she left months ago saying something pretty interesting. (Perfectly fine to block who you want from hospital, but the nurse is being strangely gleeful).

She calls Blitz a deadbeat. Which doesn't really make sense. Blitz is Barbie's brother. He's not the parent to her. He isn't responsible for Barb's bills, or care. She's an adult who seems to want honest work, (good for her🙂).

But that would definitely be how Cash would see it. Narcissis see children as tools to be used for the good of the narcissist.

This tells us that Cash has been at rehab frequently enough to charm the nurse on side. Instead of her trying to get Barbie to take a fuller look at herself, and her actions.

Unfortunately invisible child are more likely to be roped back in by narcissistic parents; if they get shown some of that attention they've craved when small.

I'm hoping that the longer she's out the less contact Barbie's going to have with Cash. With more of a life she'll no longer be as useful to Cash's ego.

And she didn't appear to tell him about her job with the chemists... Though that come be wasn't paying attention? Blitz does ask if Cash even asked... I'll cross my fingers that she gets to work things out alone for a wee while.

Basically all this is to say I buy that they were close pre fire. I buy Barbie, Blitz and their mum having a good relationship.

But I can't see a world were Barbie would feel secure enough to risk sticking her neck out for Blitz.

She's too much ingrained in the dinamic that things going wrong are Blitz fault.

Yep could end up being wildly wrong, but her being missing from the flashbacks, and being the invisible child would just kinda work for me. 🙂

[hevvxx2]

Title: Loud Thoughts, Hot Coffee- Part 10: “𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃: 𝙴𝙲𝙷𝙾.”

Characters: Joaquin Torres x Reader

(Sam and Bucky mentioned)

Warnings: Flashbacks, Blood, Little bit of self harm, Torture.

Summary: Flashbacks! i wont say much so i wont spoil it!

FLASHBACK: YEARS AGO – UNDISCLOSED FACILITY

She was just a number then...

No name. No comfort. No daylight.

Just a white room, electrodes, and the constant whisper of voices that weren’t her own.

The project was called ECHO.

Funded by a private splinter group that believed the key to true control wasn't brute force — it was mind access. Espionage through telepathy. Assassins who didn’t need weapons — only thoughts.

They called her “Subject Echo.”

They tested her limits every damn day.

Not with kindness. Not with science. With cruelty dressed up in lab coats and false promises.

They’d throw her into a sealed, windowless rooms and lock the door behind her with a hiss that always made her stomach turn. She'd sit across from volatile minds — prisoners, soldiers, test subjects — their thoughts jagged and unpredictable, like barbed wire thrashing in her skull. Rage, grief, bloodlust, madness. All of it crashed into her at once. And she? she wasn’t allowed to flinch.

She was supposed to take it. Absorb the chaos, steady her breath, and report back. How far did she get into their minds? What did she see? Did she push too hard? Did she hold back?

And God help her if she slipped — if she read too deep without clearance, if she reacted, if she screamed. That’s when the real punishments came.

They called it “containment.”

What they meant was:

no light. No sound. No sense of time. Locked in a white box with padded walls, alone with the echo of every mind she'd touched — thoughts that didn’t belong to her, feelings she couldn’t unfeel. She begged for silence, but her own mind wouldn’t shut up. She'd claw at her temples just to find space. There wasn’t any.

Other times, it was worse. Wires jammed into her scalp until she bled. Chemicals that made her feel everything or nothing. She never knew which was coming. Some of them liked to watch — to see how long she could keep her heart rate down, how long before she broke.

They’d whisper behind the glass, “She’s adapting. She’s still too volatile. Increase the frequency. Try the emotional implants again.”

She wasn’t adapting. She was breaking — slowly, quietly, and then all at once.

The machines mapped every spike of psychic output like they were charting weather patterns. She was their storm. They just wanted to know when she'd flood the world or burn it down.

But the worst part?

They didn’t want to understand her. They didn’t even want to control her.

They wanted to erase me and build something obedient in her place. Something they could aim like a weapon without hesitation. A tool. An asset.

And for a while… she let them.

For a while, she thought maybe she was exactly what they said: dangerous. Defective. A thing better caged than free.

She learned early that listening was survival. But if she didn’t protect herself — if she didn’t create mental walls — she’d go insane.

And then… she escaped.

With blood on her hands. Screaming minds in her wake.

She ran, until Sam and Bucky found her.

They helped her disappear. Helped her heal.

But she’d always known one thing:

Project Echo wasn’t dead. It was waiting.

PRESENT DAY – MISSION BRIEFING, RURAL SAFEHOUSE

She’s standing near the window, arms crossed. Joaquin sits at the table, bouncing his leg, trying not to look like he wants to touch her.

Bucky’s talking through recon photos. Sam’s laying out maps.

She’s distracted. Something’s off.

A new contact has joined them. Agent Delmont, transferred in from Langley. Quiet. Clean-cut. Looks normal. Smiles too easily.

When he walks past her, she hears something.

A whisper.

A flicker.

She shouldn’t. But she does.

Her mind brushes his without warning.

And suddenly —

She sees it.

A lab. Metal. Screams. A photo of her, younger. Files titled “ECHO - RECLAMATION.”

A voice:

“Bring her back. Or bring her corpse. We can still use the brain.”

She gasps.

The room goes cold.

Joaquin notices first. “Hey—hey, are you alright?”

She stares at Delmont, now acting too casual.

Sam steps closer. “What did you hear?”

She whispers: “He’s Echo. He’s with them. They’re back.”

Bucky doesn’t hesitate — he grabs a knife from his boot.

Delmont looks up — and smiles.

“You really thought we’d stopped looking for you?”

Then everything explodes.

Windows shatter. Smoke grenades flood the room.

From outside — a squad in black gear with red visors moves in, silent and fast.

Joaquin grabs her. “Come on—!”

She’s disoriented. The screams in her head are back.

“Capture the girl—mind intact!” “Lethal force on the rest!”

Joaquin pulls her behind cover. Bucky’s already returning fire. Sam launches into the air with wings and smoke trailing him like a phoenix.

But she’s stuck.

Frozen.

Because they know.

They’ve always known.

And now — they’re here....

For her

A/N: OHOHOOO THINGS ARE GETTING GOODDD!

I was listening to this while i was writing this part on repeat and inspired this!

taglist: @mochminnie @je33123 @saintbusan

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[yanderes-galore]

Can I request a yandere concept for Pyramid Head (DBD)?

Sure, I haven't done much for him! He's a bit... complicated but here's what I have. Not really Yandere, mostly just dark, but again idk how to describe it.

Yandere! Pyramid Head (DBD) Concept

Pairing: Dubious

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Sadism, Torture, Obvious Violence, Imprisonment, Dark themes, Blood, Disturbing descriptions, Death mention, Touchy behavior, Dubious intentions.

Pyramid Head is a being of torment, judgment, and pain.

It's hard to think of him feeling anything else.

He's an executioner given a new purpose by The Entity.

That's about as much lore as we get.

He'd meant to be an unyielding force, one hellbent on passing painful judgment.

Your first few encounters, and probably the majority of the obsession, will result in pain.

However, in a realm where you're consistently sent to your death, that isn't really new.

Pyramid Head's intentions are impossible to read.

No one knows his motives.

Which means his intentions with his obsession are unknown too.

It's hard to tell since most matches end with you dead in some way.

The executioner is ruthless.

Be you wrapped in barbed wire, sent to a piercing cage to maul your flesh... or even sliced by that large blade before being placed on a hook...

Most of your encounters have you shivering... Your mind is always replaying those final moments of your flesh being torn from you....

Blood is a common sight when you encounter the executioner.

The crimson liquid clings to him with every kill.

What's worse for you? You're always saved for last.

Sometimes you are spared... most of the time you're merely put through your own special hell.

You can probably tell you are a favorite of some kind...

But it's hard to tell if that's a good or bad thing.

You're used to the pain and blood.

What you aren't used to... is Pyramid Head changing his pattern.

You always viewed Pyramid Head as some monotonous drone to The Entity.

Yet when he goes out of his way to prolong the chase, to toy with you, to occasionally give mercy...

You realize that this being has some sort of sentience.

What's even worse is it still doesn't explain its favoritism towards you.

There's times Pyramid Head abandons chase, or just "stares", or even ignores you.

There's other times he just won't leave you alone!

That's the scariest trait of Pyramid Head towards you.

His unpredictability.

Another thing you can't read is him targeting survivors around you first.

On a generator? He's picking off the guy next to you before you.

It could be jealousy... or something else entirely.

Regardless of his actions, you don't trust him.

He switches behavior too quickly... like he isn't sure how to act around you.

It's anything from slaughtering you to cornering you to pin you down.

He isn't sure what makes you react more.

Do you react more to pain...? Or pleasure...?

Another question... which one does he like more?

Pyramid Head is experimenting with you.

That's one of the reasons he acts so unstable.

He can't tell what way he likes to watch you squirm, just what is the difference if you squirm from affection or pain?

Sometimes he makes you squirm by exploring you with his touches, rough yet oddly affectionate.

He studies how you writhe before him...

But he also does the same thing with pain, not seeing any difference.

He only knows that he likes it.

Your best bet is to keep your distance, to evade him.

But no survivor is perfect... especially with a killer who seems to have studied your every move.

In fact, your attempt to evade him only makes him worse.

He seems to get irritated, hunting down other survivors to take his rage out on them.

By the time he finds you, saving you for last, he's covered in blood.

And you scream a lot more for evading him.

Pyramid Head is confusing due to what he is.

He's meant to be a being to punish people.

Yet he sees you, and isn't sure how to react.

He should harm you, punish you, torment you...

But he also wants to keep you away from other survivors, to lock you away, to keep you out of harm....

Pleasure and punishment blur a line with him.

Affection quickly becomes harm when he puts his hands on you.

It's all a personal hell for you.

Conflicting emotions leads to an indecisive yandere...

Which only seems to cause everyone more harm... just as The Entity likes it.