percy-loves-bluewaffles

[halfblood-princes-crown]

maruke is better than you anyways

@moonlightdancer26 look at this buffoonery

[cupidlovesastro]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 #𝟏𝟕(𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐢 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬)⋆˚✿˖°

disclaimer: please don’t take this personally, this is just my opinion of placements i find hard to deal with not only astrology wise, but also based on real life observations and experiences i’ve had or witnessed

🍨other post you may enjoy🥠

astrology observations #16 (child of the sun)

astrology observations #15 (hippie edition)

astrology observations #14 (real life experiences)

7h chiron- they seem to that the worse and most toxic relationship i’ve ever seen. and honestly from what i’ve seen, they are usually the victim of the relationship. they do grow a lot as a person from this but the damage is a lot

gemini placements paired with pisces placements- this mainly applies to sun, moon, and mercury, but they can be incredibly manipulative, to the point they believe their own lies. they also have a tendency to lie for no particular reason

1h/7h/5h pluto- they end up attracting people who are insanely obsessive or crazy over them. like to the point it’s unhealthy. people are also oddly possessive of them too, and they can easily be objectified by others

mars opposite or square venus- there’s an imbalance of feminine and masculine energy. although with square there can be a compromising or “agree to disagree energy”, with opposite, this is constant push and pull between the energies which can cause inner turmoil

moon opposite venus- in men this makes someone who’s misogynistic. there’s a lack of understanding for feminine energy and a lot of, blaming women for things. also a lot of toxic masculinity, and not wanting to be vulnerable. in women this can show being uncomfortable with your femininity and not being able to express it

any planet being aspected 5 or more times- this is especially important for moon, mars, and sun in my opinion. this can cause so many different conflicting energies for that planet or planets. there can be a lack of understanding for that planet as well and having a hard time relating to that planet since it’s aspected so much

taurus moon- i actually enjoy taurus energy, but taurus moon can definitely be difficult. they tend to dwell in their emotions for long periods of time and have a hard time getting over things. they can also tend to isolate their self

10h/4h uranus- inconsistent parental figures. possibly ones that came in and out your life without any warning or particular reason. they were unpredictable and you could never tell what their next move was. although they may have been very smart and taught you a lot, they weren’t very physically present, and if they were, they weren’t emotionally present

[bouquetface]

TAROT: Gossip on you

As always, I will be detailed. This won’t be for everyone who comes across it.

one.

General read. Not every reading you come across is for you. So please take as entertainment.

I think these people may be family members. They seem very concerned with your direction in life. When will you get married? When will you have kids? And a lot of questions about career. You might be unemployed because it seems someone here is expressing you don’t do enough. However, you probably work very hard. Even if you are unemployed, you likely are applying for jobs. And making good use of your free time. Especially physically, you may work out or walk/run a lot.

They still see this as useless. It seems your values are different from theirs. They may see you working out & going for walks and roll their eyes.

Logically, it makes no sense why this upsets them so much. They seem very bothered by you having your own hobbies/interests. They feel it’s all a waste of time.

I’m assuming your family may be traditional. And they let their expectations for you be known very loudly. You probably grew up constantly being told to fix yourself. Go fix your hair, go change your outfit, etc. You may not even care much for their opinions. Their opinions roll off your shoulder. But they are so loud and consistent in their comments. It’s very frustrating and has probably affected you more than you’re aware. You are likely in a place in life where you can’t even dwell on that. It seems you have a lot of work that needs to be done. Even if that work is looking for work. It’s difficult and exhausting. Wishing you the best of luck, pile 1.

two.

General read. Not every reading you come across is for you. So please take as entertainment.

Someone is talking shit about you. It’s exactly who you would expect. For some it’s an ex lover, for other’s it’s an ex friend. They’ve convinced themselves they did nothing wrong to you. Your reaction was “crazy”. You “changed” for the worse. And they secretly hope you get your karma.

It’s like they have selective memory. They can only remember your reaction to their actions. They can’t remember/acknowledge their actions that got you to react that way. Whoever they’re talking with, is eating up everything they’re saying. You barely know this other person, if at all. It could be their close friend that never was close with you. This friend is loving the drama. They’re going to take this information and spread it to their friends. For them it’s entertainment, they don’t even care about your ex as much as you did.

I almost feel sorry for your ex friend or lover. They have no clue about the person they’re confiding in. It seems karma will get them through this friend. This friend just loves drama and gossip. Give it a few months and they’ll be trashing your ex just like they’re doing you now.

But right now, unfortunately, the two are bonding over tearing you down. I’m hearing this friend say shit like “I hope she gets hit by a car” “I would’ve punched her in the face”. It’s sooo funny to them. Literally witches cackling. They may have given you a rude nickname. In their group chat, they may only refer to you as this name. And someone has definitely called you a “cunt”. Just nasty shit. Sorry pile 2.

On the bright side, I believe for most of you this person is out your life. This seems to be why they’re so hurt. They don’t have the same access to you. Talking about you and checking your socials is the only way they can connect with you now. And ironically, they’re calling you a “stalker”. They’re convinced you’re checking their tiktok and ig religiously.

You might have ghosted them. To you it might be obvious how they fucked up, but they’re in denial. They see themselves as a victim of you.

three.

General read. Not every reading you come across is for you. So please take as entertainment.

Some of the gossip about you isn’t bad at all. You look like you’re doing well in life. You could drive a nice vehicle or people feel you’re just blessed to have a vehicle at all. You have likely done something recently that has people thinking you’re doing well financially. A few comments have been made about this. Doesn’t seem negative though. Just people stating “she’s doing good/ she’s good”.

Now, for someone very specific. The gossip seems to be you’re lying about doing badly when you’re actually fine. It could be work place gossip. Maybe you took some days off but someone here doubts you’re actually that sick. Someone seems fed up in your workplace. It may not even have to do with only you. Lots of stress and irritation from this person. Physically, they may be kinda tall and blonde.

[alleiwentcrazy]

Eddie hates it when people don’t answer his calls. He hates it with passion.

It reminds him of too many things. It reminds him of manhunts and abandoned sheds, and no one on the other side of the line. It reminds him of cold, clammy hands, of hunger, of fear. Breaking bones and eldritch horrors he’d thought existed solely in cheap movies, not in real life, until he was brutally made aware of the fact that when people say everything’s possible, everything is possible.

Every time someone doesn’t answer the phone when he calls, panic starts to boil inside his veins and his brain immediately makes at least a dozen painful scenarios for him to dwell on. He knows that technically, they just don’t know that it’s him. But it doesn’t make him worry any less, so everyone’s learned to respect the rule. They just have to pick up. No matter what. Or he’ll freak out, drop everything he’s doing and come unexpectedly to check if everything’s alright.

There hasn’t been a single situation when things were actually bad—people go get groceries, take solid, deep naps, or they’re simply too lazy to pick up sometimes—but he always does that. Always.

Especially if it’s Steve who doesn’t answer. What if he fell? Or someone mugged him? Or he got into a fight? This brain can’t take any more damage. What if he’s in the hospital now, waiting to be anesthetized before surgery, and no one’s called Eddie yet, because to society they’re just some dudes living together?

There are too many options. Eddie doesn’t like taking chances anymore, so he slaps the “I’ll be back in a few” sign on the door, closes the shop and speeds through the town like he has nothing to lose. (And it’s quite stupid, because he has too many things to lose now—but he’s allowed to freak out once in a while.)

When he gets there and sees Steve pacing and gesturing animatedly in front of the window of their tiny but awfully cluttered kitchen, he finds out exactly what it means to have the whole world on your shoulders. Or, rather, to be finally freed from the pressure it creates.

It’s okay. It’s just a stupid phone call. It wasn’t even important, anyway.

Despite that, he takes his helmet off. Won’t hurt to remind Steve of the rule. And maybe kiss his pretty face a little while he’s here.

He doesn’t even have to enter their apartment to know that Steve’s not alone. First off – if Steve’s pacing and rambling, an anxious trait he’s picked up from Robin, wasn’t a hint enough – it’s loud. Their paper walls can barely hold back a normal conversation, let alone something resemblant of a heated discussion. Honestly, Eddie has no idea how their neighbors can stand them sometimes, with his metal, their late-night conversations and non-conversations alike, with the kids visiting so often. Although Steve is optimistic (they have some lovely neighbors, like sweet Gran Fran, but don’t ever let Eddie express his opinions about that old hag from across the hallway, Miss Hermans), he’s still waiting for that complaint to be filed.

Second, he smells coffee. Steve never makes coffee for just himself.

Eddie opens the door gingerly, remembering how easy it is to completely unhinge them by accident, and is about to scream something about getting home, when none other than Dustin Henderson cuts him off with a shriek.

“—because it’s actually pathetic, that’s why! Get a grip, man, just do it!”

“Oh, it’s so easy for you to say, because you’ve never actually tried—”

“And maybe I never will! If you won’t do it, how can I learn how to do it myself? You know that you guys are the closest thing to father figures!”

“Hey, don’t make it about yourself for once, maybe? Some humility?”

Dustin’s quiet for a second, but Eddie knows he’s not about to admit full defeat. “Yes, sorry,” he chokes out, finally. “But you’ve tried so many times, you should know that it doesn’t get any easier on another try. Just do it, it doesn’t matter how.”

“It does, though! To me, it—it does. It matters,” Steve mumbles back, and Eddie can picture his face in perfect detail. It’s Steve’s small voice, which means he’s worried about something, even though his worry doesn’t make any sense in everyone else’s eyes. He’s unsure: his brows are pinched, lips pursed, stare skittering around the room, never focusing on anything. Dustin knows this face too, because his tone gets softer.

“Okay, then walk me through it.”

“What?”

“Walk me through it. You’ll know what you want, how you want it, when and where, and it’ll be easier when you try it next time.”

“Dustin, I really don’t—I’m not sure it can get easier, ever.”

“Because you’re scared.”

Steve sighs deeply before he responds. “Yes. Because I’m scared.”

“It’s been eight years, Steve. What are you scared of?” Dustin’s voice is gentle, curious. He’s not judging, he genuinely wants to know the reasons, and so does Eddie. He leans against the wall, trying to sneak a peek of the kitchen unsuccessfully, and listens. A while passes before Steve speaks again.

“I think—There are so many things I’m afraid of. But the main one… It’s still rejection. Not being enough. Because it’s not like it’s anything formal, right? It’s only a promise, and if it ends up turned down…”

Chair legs scrape the floor and Eddie can hear two soft slaps – hands on shoulders, probably.

“Steve Harrington. Calm down. You know it’s not going to happen—no, don’t argue. I know it, and this alone should be enough. You are an amazing person. You’re great with people, you’re bright, you’re sweet, caring, you have so many talents. I love you, Steve,” the pause that follows is filled with something so heavy there’s a shift in the air. It has a different smell now. A little salty, a little warm. “And he loves you. More than you can imagine, probably. So just pop the question, Steve. And don’t back out with some stupid excuse like this morning.”

“Pop the question,” Steve says, his voice firm, only a little timid. “Yes, I think—I think I can do that.”

Eddie bounces off the wall and takes quiet, slow steps backwards. He can’t hear anything else, even though the conversation continues. He bites his tongue hard enough to make it bleed a little. A coppery taste floods his mouth as he closes the door.

Oh, it’s just so, so stupid. He would have said yes. Each and every time, he would have said yes.

*

Later that day, when they’re lying in bed together, with the sheets rumpled, their bodies warm and mushy from the nap, with Eddie’s lips on Steve’s and Steve’s hands in Eddie’s hair, Eddie remembers the overheard conversation.

Well, no. That’s a lie. Because he hasn’t stopped thinking about it ever since.

Every single second of what, at first, seemed to be yet another annoying Monday, has been filled with reverie and anticipation. Dustin’s right – Eddie loves Steve. He loves him enough to risk hell for him, enough to argue with anyone who’s in any way mean to him. Enough to take his hand and say “You don’t have to be afraid when I’m with you”, even though Eddie’s the biggest coward in the whole wide world.

Eddie loves him. Loves his goofy smiles and scrunched happy faces, loves his moles and the uneven mustache he grows out sometimes when he’s bored. Eddie loves how gentle Steve is, how thoughtful and kind-hearted he is. How he helps Gran Fran replant her flowers each month with more enthusiasm than Eddie’s ever shown to anyone. How he talks to children, how much respect he has for those undermined by everyone else.

Eddie loves how he’s learned to stand up for himself. He’s proud of Steve, of how much he’s grown, of how he knows how to express what he needs and what he wants now. Eddie’s loved him for ages, maybe even longer than he’s aware of, but every single significant and insignificant change in Steve’s behavior and point of view makes him fall a little bit harder, every time. In any shape, in any form, there’s one constant in Eddie’s life: his love for Steve.

He likes to think that they do that to each other, both of them. That they help each other through inevitable changes, painful regressions and euphoric victories alike. He likes to think that together, they make one, healthy, living being – and apart they’re good, because they’ve grown to be good people thanks to the connections they’ve made overall. He likes this idea of just being good, together and apart. And he loves Steve for giving him the opportunity to be just that.

Eddie wants it to last. Desperately, intensely, madly. He wants it to last and he needs it to keep happening – he knows that, and he knows he has the capacity to do that. To be there, to stay. His hands touch Steve’s thigh, not in the slightest covered by those silly Hawkins Tigers shorts he’s kept, then they touch Steve’s soft, scarred belly, then they touch his chest, where his heart is beating steadily and peacefully, and he keeps kissing him and Steve keeps clingling back to him, and Eddie’s so sure.

He wants this. He wants to experience growing old together, he wants them to get all wrinkly and bald together, he wants the fights over who gets the most comfortable chair in their grandkids’ living room. He wants them to experience the highs and the lows of the family that they already have, and the one they’re going to build someday.

Eddie wants this. He wants Steve. The whole deal; the promised forever. And he doesn’t want to wait another second.

“Steve,” Eddie says, cutting the kiss short so suddenly Steve actually pulls him closer, chasing after the warmth of his lips. “I’m saying yes.”

“Mm. Okay,” he mumbles back, too kiss- and sleep-hazy to catch Eddie’s intention right away. He tries to bump their noses together—which is adorable, really, but Eddie can’t let him hijack and self-sabotage this proposal too.

“No, Steve,” he squeezes Steve’s side until he looks at him properly. “I love you. I’m saying yes.”

In awe, Eddie watches as Steve’s face goes through confusion, true bewilderment, a bit of fear and fleeting exhilaration, to finally settle on disbelief.

“How did you—”

Eddie laughs a little at that. “I called and you didn’t pick up.” Steve makes a little oh sound, already looking like a kicked puppy. “But it’s okay, doesn’t matter, not the point,” Eddie jumps in, anticipating an unnecessary apology. “The point is, I love you, and I’m saying yes.”

Steve stares at him for a long second, his eyes wide and earnest. His fingers slide from Eddie’s hair to finally settle on both of his cheeks, cradling them lovingly. Eddie kinda wants to cry.

“You’ll marry me?” Steve asks, incredulous, his voice only a bit louder than a whisper. The way he accentuates the word “marry” gives yet another layer of meaning to such a simple question. You’ll love me? Forever?

“I’ll marry you,” he replies without hesitation. “You’ll marry me?” You’ll love me? With my flaws?

“I’ll marry you,” Steve says back. Then he grins with his eyes glistening in the bedside light, and squishes Eddie’s cheeks so hard it squeezes the unshed tear right from his eye. “We’ll get married!”

Steve giggles happily, and Eddie laughs with him. There’s so much joy inside him—them, the whole room seems to get bigger. “We will,” he adds through a smile, already peppering his fiancé’s face with kisses.

“Oh gosh, I have to call Robin,” Steve manages through his giggles and Eddie loves him so much. “And Dustin!”

So, so much.

[maysileeewrites]

a helping hand - John Murphy x reader

Summary: „Why are you helping me? I’m the bad guy, in case you forgot.“ Set during 1 x 10 (I am become Death), based on this teaser.

warnings: mentions of blood + injuries, angst, Murphy being Murphy (yes, he does have a soft side in this, but that doesn’t mean that he’s not still a dick); please lmk if I forgot something! 

AN: I’m not quite sure whether anyone will still care for Murphy x reader in 2023, but I love my trash son so much, I just had to write something about him. Please let me know if you liked it! 

You dip the bloodied cloth into the bucket filled with water, watching as the water slowly turns red. Your hands are bloody as well and there’s dried blood crested under your fingernails, but with all the sick teens around you needing medical attendance, you don’t have time to try to thoroughly wash your hands, so you just dip them into the water, grabbing a bar of soap, watching as the water turns an even deeper red. 

Blood. 

There’s just so much of it. 

You sigh, standing up again. There’s no time for dwelling on your thoughts, not when the whole first floor of the Dropship is full of sick, coughing teenagers that need your help. 

You go to Fox and Connor next, checking up on them. But apart from trying to clean them up - they’ve started coughing up blood as well - and getting them to drink some water, there isn’t much you can do to actually help them. You have no medicine, no painkillers - apart from Monty’s moonshine and considering that a painkiller really is a stretch in your opinion -, nothing. Only a few spare blankets you and Clarke gave out earlier, in order to help keep everyone warm. 

A sudden wave of anger and irritation at your helplessness when faced with this unknown, dangerous virus overcomes you and you clench your fists in frustration. You allow yourself a moment to try and bury that emotion deep inside - because being this emotionally overwhelmed, you won’t be any help to the others -, closing your eyes and breathing deeply. 

When you open your eyes again, they land on Murphy - who’s looking right back at you with his good eye, the other one is still swollen shut. 

You gulp, trying to swallow down the nervousness that is suddenly clawing its way up your throat. Murphy’s the one who brought the disease into the Camp. 

After being tortured by the grounders for days, you try to remind yourself. After being unceremoniously tossed out of Camp for a murder he didn’t commit. And while he’s definitely a rude asshole that can be a bit unpredictable at times - though you think more often than not he’s just lashing out when provoked, attacked, or in case of the whole Charlotte incident, wrongfully accused - you don’t think that he’s as bad as everyone makes him out to be. 

But maybe that’s just you being naive, always wanting to see the good in people. He did try to go after Charlotte, after all. Though, you think, that probably had more to do with him seeking justice - a twisted, self-righteous kind of justice, but still justice - than vengeance. 

You sigh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Whatever the deal with Murphy is - and whatever the reason for you to suddenly spend so much of your thoughts on him is - right now, it doesn’t matter. 

Right now the only thing that matters is that he’s sick and hurt and he needs someone to help him clean up his wounds and that’s exactly what you’re here for. 

So, you take a deep breath and square your shoulders, before walking over to him and dropping down in front of him. His blue-green eyes - the good one at least- meet yours for just a split second, but then he’s looking away again. You dip the cloth into the bucket of water - after helping Fox and Connor you’d gone out to get some fresh water - and reach out for him, but just when you’re about to touch him, he twists away from you. 

„What’re you doing?“, he says, his voice low, distrust and irritation evident in his expression. 

„Helping you“, you answer, gesturing to the wet cloth in your hands. „Someone needs to clean up your wounds, Murphy.“ 

He scoffs. „Yeah, right.“ 

You frown. „Look Murphy, just let me help you, please.“ 

He doesn’t say anything to that, doesn’t acknowledge your words with anything other than a raise of his eyebrows, but you decide to just take his lack of a verbal response as a good sign - or at least as a sign that he hopefully won’t refuse your help any further. 

You wet the cloth cloth again, before carefully reaching your hand out to him again. This time, he doesn’t twist away from you, so you gingerly touch his bloodied and scarred cheek with your fingertips, before carefully applying pressure with the cloth. 

All the while, Murphy looks at you, an undecipherable emotion in his blue-green eyes. The intensity of his gaze is distracting, and you swallow, trying to concentrate on cleaning up his wounds, trying to ignore the burning heat of his gaze. Though it’s impossible to really ignore it, with you two being so close that you can feel his warm breath ghosting over your skin, causing you to shiver. 

Something shifts in Murphy’s expression then - if you weren’t paying so much attention, you might’ve missed it, but as it is, you can see the bitter smirk that crosses his lips for an instant, before he bites down hard on his lips. 

Your eyes meet then. You swallow - you feel caught in his stare, unable to look at anything but him. 

„Why are you helping me?“, he asks you, his voice low and raspy and laced with something that almost sounds like desperation. „I’m the bad guy, in case you forgot.“ 

„Because you need help“, you say, underlining your words by lightly trailing your fingertips over the deep cut on his left cheek. „And because I want to understand you.“ It’s true - you do want to understand him. You want to know how he came to be who he is today, why on earth he set fire to a room on the Ark. 

And fuck. This - this is dangerous. 

That bitter smirk crosses his face again. „Oh, so you want to know why I’m such a jerk, why I told the Camp’s location to the grounders, is that it?“ 

„You were tortured“, you say softly, but Murphy only scoffs. 

„Yeah, I’m afraid that doesn’t count as an excuse“, he says, voice full of bitterness. 

„Wha-“, you start to say, but then you remember that you saw Bellamy talking to Murphy earlier. And yes, that would certainly explain Murphy’s comments about his being tortured not being an excuse for giving up your location. 

You sigh frustratedly. Of course you know that Bellamy only wants to protect everyone at Camp, but you also know him well enough to imagine him making some kind of petty remark how he wouldn’t have caved under torture, wouldn’t have given up the Camp’s location. 

Which - fuck that. Anyone would eventually cave under torture, even someone as strong-willed and fierce as Bellamy. 

Murphy’s hiss of pain when you accidentally linger too long on one of his cuts with your fingertips draws you out of your thoughts. „Sorry“ you say, biting your lip. 

Murphy just shrugs and suddenly you’re hit with the desperate urge to help him, even though you’re not quite sure if there even is anything you can do that could make his situation better - apart from cleaning up his wounds, which you already are doing. 

„I’m sorry for what happened to you“, you say then, looking at him. „That’s not - I can only imagine what you went through and I really am sorry that that happened to you.“ 

Murphy looks at you, confusion and irritation evident in his expression. 

„And I know that won’t change anything-“

„No it won’t“, Murphy interrupts you, but this time, there’s no venom in his voice - just pain and resignation. „But it’s nothing I haven’t experienced before.“ 

Now it’s your turn to be confused. As you continue cleaning up his wounds, you mull over his words in your mind, trying to understand what he’s implying with his words. Does he mean that he was tortured on the Ark? But that can’t be right, can it? Yes, the Ark’s council is strict and unforgiving, but you haven’t heard about them torturing somebody. 

„Can you even see anything like that?“, Murphy says, interrupting your thought process, and suddenly he’s reaching out with one hand, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

You swallow, trying desperately not to show how much that one little touch affected you. But your heart is thundering so loudly in your chest that you’re convinced that he’s able to hear it. 

Especially once you can no longer pretend to re-inspect the cuts on his face yet again - you really need to take a look at the wounds on his chest. 

You clear your throat, trying to sound more confident than you feel. „I - uh - I need to take a look at the wounds on your chest, judging by all that blood I’ll probably need to do some stitches … uhm could you - uh - maybe take off your shirt?“ 

Kill me, you think, wanting to die from embarrassment. Of course, the first time you’ll see a boy without his shirt on - apart from some of the boys that walk around Camp shirtless in the morning and you don’t think that they actually count - has to be in this weird situation. 

As if reading your thoughts, Murphy just smirks, before taking off his shirt. But just when’s almost free of his shirt, he hisses, his face screwing up in pain. 

„Let me“, you say, helping him. 

For a moment, you just stare at each other breathlessly. 

Then, so quietly that you’re not quite sure whether you’ve imagined it, he says: „Thank you.“ 

You nod, clearing your throat. Not knowing what else to say, you start inspecting his chest, lightly trailing your fingertips over the various scratches and other wounds - trying not to be distracted by his muscles you can feel under your fingertips and his burning gaze. 

Murphy hisses again when your fingers brush over a particularly deep wound. „Sorry“, you murmur, leaning in even closer to get a better look at his wound. „This wound needs some stitches, I’m, uh, going to get a needle and some thread.“ 

You get up and walk over to where all the medical supplies are stored, thankful for this short moment away from Murphy, his intense stare and your confusing thoughts about him. 

„Here“, you say, after sitting down in front of Murphy again and hand him the bottle of moonshine you’ve grabbed as well, „you might want to drink this before I get started on those stitches.“

Murphy just nods, taking the bottle of moonshine from you and taking a long, big sip. „Do your worst“, he says, prompting you to roll your eyes. 

„Thanks for the vote of confidence“, you murmur, though you can understand why he’d be apprehensive about this. If it were you being in his situation, you’d rather be stitched up by a trained doctor as well, but since you teens are all on your own and Clarke, the only one of you with actual medical training is currently getting some well-deserved sleep, you’re his only option. Unlike Clarke, you haven’t received any actual medical training but you do know how to give stitches - in theory at least - so you hopefully won’t screw this up. 

Here goes nothing, you think, getting started on the stitches. 

Murphy bites down hard on his lips, though a slight hiss still escapes him. 

You cringe, shooting him an apologetic smile before concentrating on his wound again. „Sorry.“ 

Murphy doesn’t say anything in response, just nods. 

You’re both quiet as you continue with the stitches. Then, when you’re almost done, Murphy suddenly says: „I got real sick when I was thirteen … only made it because my dad stole some medicine for me ... course, he got floated for it …“ 

You swallow, meeting his gaze. You don’t know why he’s suddenly telling you this - you just know that the story he’s about to tell you most likely won’t have a happy ending. 

Murphy looks away from you then, laughing bitterly. „My mother … she was never the same after his death … She started drinking. Blamed me for his death. Told me everyday that I’m a worthless good-for-nothing that’s responsible for his father’s death. She died three years after him … and I just-“

He stops talking then, shaking his head. 

„Murphy, I-“, you start to say, though you stop as well, not quite knowing what it is that you actually want to say. Murphy suddenly opening up to you is so confusing and his story so heartbreaking, you’re not quite sure what the appropriate words for this situation are, let alone if there even are any. 

„Anyway“, Murphy now says, voice tinged with bitterness, „I just - I had all this pai- anger in me and I didn’t know how to handle it, how to let it out. So I set fire to those rooms, got arrested.“ 

„Murphy …“, you say, your voice hollow, your heart breaking for the broken, angry boy in front of. 

He laughs dryly, though the sound has a wheezing quality to it that instantly worries you. „You wanted to know, didn’t you? Wanted to understand why I became such a jerk. Well, there you have it.“

„I do“, you say, putting away the needle and thread and looking at Murphy, meeting his gaze. „I do understand you, Murphy. I still think you’re an opportunistic jerk, but I understand, I really do. I - I know that it’s not worth much, but I am sorry that this happened to you, it’s awful.“ 

Murphy just shrugs, not saying anything. 

But he’s still looking at you and now that you know what to look for, now that you finally understand him better, you see the pain in his expression.

Not just due to the torture. There’s so much more, pain that’s probably been building in him for years and that he turned into sharp, pointed hate and anger, because he didn’t know how to deal with all of his pain. 

You want to help him, though you don’t really know how and why. Yes, he is a rude jerk and at Camp he was also somewhat of a bully, but you think that that’s most likely due to him not knowing how to communicate in something that’s not just anger and aggression. But you also believe that there’s more to him - that he’s not just this lonely, broken, rude jerk that that’s probably just a facade he’s hiding behind. 

„I understand, Murphy“, you say again, still looking at the storm of emotions in his green-blue eyes. Something shifts in Murphy’s expression then - he’s listening to you and something in his gaze tells you that he believes your words, believes you. „I truly do. But there’s more to life than just pain, anger and aggression.“ 

With that, you reach out a hand, softly grasping one of his hands with yours. You’re not quite sure why you’re doing it, you just know that you want to be there for Murphy, that you want to help him - and that you want him to understand that you truly mean your words. 

Murphy’s arm jerks, as if he wants to rip his hand out of your grasp, but then he grasps your hand, squeezing it lightly. He reaches up with his other hand, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

Just like before, your breath hitches. But this - this is different than before. This time, there’s no venom in Murphy’s gaze, no quiet challenge, no pent-up anger. Just curiosity and something softer that you can’t quite describe. 

„I still don’t really get why you’re helping me“, Murphy says, leaning even closer to you. You’re so close that you could count the lashes on his good eye. You feel his breath ghosting over your skin and you shiver in anticipation. 

„But I’m glad that I let you.“ With that, he leans in even closer, searching your eyes and whatever he sees in them, must convince him. He presses his lips to yours and you’re so overwhelmed that you don’t know how to react. But just when you feel Murphy starting to pull away, you kiss him back, bringing your free hand up to his neck. 

You feel him smirk into the kiss and if you weren’t currently kissing him, you’d definitely roll your eyes at him. As it is, you continue kissing him, though you give his hand a squeeze that’s probably a bit too harsh. 

Murphy just smirks again, deepening the kiss and tangling his hand in your hair. You can feel your heart start to beat faster and there’s a curious sensation in your stomach that feels like those butterflies that you’ve read about in books. 

You lose yourself in the kiss, in the feeling of Murphy.

Kissing Murphy feels good, though his lips are chapped and dry and he hisses in pain when you overeagerly lean a little too much against him. But still - kissing Murphy feels good. 

And even though you’re still confused and you know that one conversation won’t suddenly make him sunshine personified - you like his dry sarcasm way too much for that - you also know that you want more. You want to get to know Murphy, really get to know him, you want to be there for him. And if there are more occasions to kiss him along the way of getting to know him and helping him, then you certainly won’t complain about that. 

Murphy gives you one last, bruising kiss, before breaking the kiss, breathlessly leaning his forehead against yours. 

„I - Murphy - what …“, you stammer, still too wound up from the kiss. 

Murphy smirks. „That was thank you.“ 

You can’t help but roll your eyes. „I see“, you say dryly. 

„For stitching me up … and for not giving up on me“, Murphy adds, his voice serious again. 

You smile softly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of his eye. „I’ll be sure to stick around then.“ 

Murphy grins, though there’s a vulnerability to it now that wasn’t there before. „Doesn’t sound too bad …“ 

„Yeah, it doesn’t“, you agree, before leaning up to kiss him again. 

You feel him smiling into the kiss, causing you to smile as well. 

Yes, the road ahead is not going to be easy - this is John Murphy, resident sarcastic, rude asshole, after all - but you’re not afraid to walk it with Murphy. 

[pochipop]

＃HOMICIPHER !! ♡ — DWELLING, ROTTING, SURVIVING (MR CRAWLING X READER).

#. synopsis! — speaking isn't the only way to understand, and he's oh so gentle .

#. characters! — mr crawling .

#. warnings! — canon-typical dark content + setting .

#. word count! — 1.7k .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @hhoneypop (moodboards) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — hi, i posted, please stop bullying me in my inbox :(( - all jokes aside, thank you guys for all the nice messages and compliments! & happy pride to my lgbt followers! funnily enough, don't think i've ever "come out" on this blog, but if it's not obvious, i'm bisexual lol so there's that!

You found yourself pressed against a cold, damp wall in what you could only assume was a room close to the belly of this labyrinth-like building. Breaths came in shallow, frightened gasps as the lights overhead flickered ominously, like they were trying to warn you of impending danger. . . Danger that you felt sting your chest like needles poking through your skin. The oppressive silence surrounding you was broken only by your intakes of air and the soft, almost imperceptible sound of something —or someone— (or maybe a mixture of the two, in this God-forsaken place) nearby.

Squinting into the gloom, a familiar shape emerged from the dark hallway, slipping into the room with you and pausing in the doorway. You felt relief take hold of you.

Mr Crawling. . .

That, of course, likely wasn’t his real name, but you didn’t speak in the language of clicks, noises, and chirp-like sounds that he did, and he didn’t speak with your tongue either. It was for that reason in particular that you’d bludgeoned his head with a crowbar not long ago, to which he sulked in a corner, bleeding and whining, and you were left to feel terrible for hurting the first entity that had tried to go out of his way to show you true empathy in a way you understood.

Apologizing didn’t even begin to feel like enough. Probably because you were at least ninety percent sure he didn’t understand what you were saying anyway. Helping him with the wound perhaps made it slightly better. . . But also not really, because even now as he skims across the ground to where you are, there’s a sense of guilt that weighs heavy on your heart.

Pale, grey-skinned and moving like any non-human mammal of sorts, his face is mostly obscured by the long, stringy black hair that falls in vine-like, clumped strands all the way to the floor from his hunched position. There’s an unsettling, animalistic grace to the way he approaches, but you don’t flinch this time when he puts the flat of his cold palm against the crown of your head, as if trying to soothe your breathing. All of that initial fear has been replaced by a strange comfort of sorts, and you look up at him, thankful for his presence now more than ever.

He tilts his head, as if listening for something, and you watch him warily with the same crowbar clutched in your fist. A part of you felt bad carrying it around like that with his blood still smeared on it, but here, you knew it was foolish to venture around without a weapon of some sort. Not protecting yourself for the sake of his feelings was, unfortunately, not an option as far as you were concerned, but thankfully he didn’t seem to have any opinion on the matter.

“Mr Crawling,” you whisper softly, reaching out to take his hand into your own.

He seemed to really respond to physical touch, and if language was always going to get in the way, you figured it was best to bridge the gap in another manner. This was the next best thing you could think of.

His head raises, and you suppose he’s trying to meet your gaze, though you can’t see his eyes through the mess of his hair.

“I need to understand you,” you say.

Ironically, that’s a bit of a hopeless endeavor in this sort of environment. It’s not like you have all the time in the world to pick up a new, completely unrelated language to yours while fighting for your life. Still. . . Gesturing had been helpful previously, especially for directions. The hooded figure you ran into first was quick to point around, that severed hand that had guided you for a bit was just as poignant in that area, and the silver-haired entity with a blindfold over his eyes had also tried to communicate with you in that sense as well. So why couldn’t you do it vice-versa?

“Me,” you point to yourself, “you,” you point to him.

He stared blankly for a moment, then seemed to come to an understanding. His had retracted from your head to point at himself, then to you, a clicking noise coming from the back of his throat. You smile. It was a small victory amongst a series of devastating losses, but you were keen on taking it and running with it as far as you could stretch it.

“Okay,” you breathe, talking more to yourself than to him. “Let’s try this then. . .”

Feeling a surge of determination, you touch your stomach and then mime eating.

“Hungry. Eat.”

At this point, you were still too anxious to have an appetite, but you knew you’d need food eventually. You were hoping he’d be able to help you with that somehow. Up until this point, you hadn’t seen any evidence of there being food around here, —no containers, boxes, or wrappings, but he seemed to understand your gestures and mimicked you; sitting back on his knees to rub his stomach through his filthy t-shirt, then nibbling on an imaginary item.

He looks back to you, as if seeking approval. You smile, hoping he understands that to be a sign of good will, then nod your head to drive home the association. Beneath his swath of hair, he smiles too, and you catch a glimpse of his eyes through the curtain of black strands; dark and thoughtful.

“Good,” you murmur, feeling slightly relieved. 

If nothing else, this was progress. You spend a while longer trying to communicate basic needs and warnings: things like yes, no, stop, come, drinking, sleeping, and a thank you in the way of patting his head. You’re not sure he understood the depth of it by any means, but he did seem to enjoy it. . . Like a puppy. The thought made you smile genuinely and absentmindedly, if only for a moment. The clicks and chirps he makes are mostly lost on you, but the noises are comforting nonetheless. This rudimentary bridge of understanding soothes you just a little, and you find yourself feeling very thankful that he’s here in the first place.

He has your face cupped in his hands now, as if he’s inspecting you. . . Or perhaps admiring? That is, until you feel his body tense and all his little sounds abruptly come to a halt. A small growl reverberates from the back of his throat and his wide smile droops into a frown. Suddenly, he’s roughly dragging you along, tugging urgently on your arms, to which you comply and follow along with him, scooting across the floor until you reach a shadowed alcove. You hadn’t even noticed it before, but he seems to know his way around this place like the back of his cold, grey hand.

He covers your mouth for a moment, then shakes his head. You cover your mouth, take your hand away, then shake your head no, just to ensure to him that you’ve understood. He pats your head then crouches in front of you, using his own body as a makeshift shield for yours. His long, spindly arms cage you against the wall. Fear rises inside you once again, though not because of him and his actions. Rather, the faint, rhythmic thuds of footsteps have begun reverberating through the hall just outside, and you recognize the harrowing pattern they click in.

Mr Scarletella.

You encountered him once before and felt every hair on your body stand on end. The way he moved through the halls with a menacing flow that sounded almost eerily melodic, and the strange, unsettling red glow that seemed to exude off him that nearly drew you in like a moth to a flame. The steps echoed off the walls of the building and your heart began to hammer against your ribs. Mr Crawling moved closer as he came into view through the doorway that lacked any actual door to close, his long, black hair tickling your nose ever so softly. Dressed in scarlet and carrying his ever-present umbrella, you decide quite readily that you’ve seen enough, closing your eyes and focusing on the cool feel of Mr Crawling’s skin, on his musky scent (like mildew and a bit of rot, which isn’t necessarily pleasant, but it’s not like he can really help it down here.)

Though you’re no longer watching, the entity dripping in scarlet moves with an unsettling, almost predatory grace, glancing about the corridors as if he’s searching for something. Or someone.

Once again, Mr Crawling presses closer to you. Now, you’re able to feel the way his body trembles with fear, and you realize that he’s just as terrified as you are, though you can’t tell if that fear is for himself, for you, or for both of you at once. And it’s not like you can ask. Still, you open your eyes just long enough to look up at him, Mr Scarletella in your peripheral as you force a smile and touch the crown of Mr Crawling’s head, offering what little comfort you can. He still quivers, but seems to appreciate the gesture, though he doesn’t risk a happy chirp.

The danger passes as the man in scarlet disappears down the hallway, then turns the corner. You let out a silent sigh of relief and Mr Crawling relaxes after several moments of continued tension, finally going limp and releasing you from against the wall. He slumps onto his knees, which seems to be his most comfortable position, and he looks at you clearly through the darkness. In that moment, it feels like you’ve understood one another perfectly. 

“Thank you,” you whisper sincerely, though you know he can’t really understand you.

You’re just hoping the gratitude comes across somehow, but at the risk that it won’t, you touch your chest over top of where your heart’s still beating like a drum, then touch his chest in the same place. It dawns on you that you don’t feel a heartbeat at all, and you almost pull your hand away. . . But something stops you. Something that says even if you’re right and he’s something less (or more) than human, —it doesn’t matter as much as the kindness he’s shown you. So your hand lingers until you softly pull away.

He grabs your cheeks again and holds them delicately.

[seresinhangmanjake]

The One I Want: Part 2

Jake "Hangman" Seresin x plus size!reader

Summary: You’re new in town and some guy named Jake is about to be your roommate. Being skeptical of new people keeps you lonely and uninterested in any entanglements, but Jake is desperate to change that.

Warnings: Judgment related to weight. Cursing. Fluff. Angst. Eventual smut (alluded to/or other). Self-esteem issues.

Words: 2010

---

He shakes his head, like clearing the fog from his brain, and steps forward. “I’m Jake,” he says, reaching his hand out toward you. 

It’s done in such a casually confident manner that it dares you to take a step back, out of his reach and far from his influence. You take his hand anyway. 

His palm against yours creates a slight buzzing sensation at your fingertips making you pull your hand away and tighten it into a fist before tucking it behind your back. “That makes more sense than the pretty brunette.”

“Oh, don’t flatter her. She’s not that great,” he says. There’s a light chuckle as he slips his hands into his front pockets. On any other man, you’d acknowledge the hint of nerves accompanying the action, but with this man in particular you brush it off. There is no way this man has ever been nervous a day in his life. “I’m surprised you’re up. Are you okay with your room?”

You glance down at the suitcase not far from where you stand. “I didn’t look for it. Seemed like snooping.”

“Oh, shit. That’s my fault.” Hand flying out of his pocket, he runs it down his face again. He blows out a breath that feels like some form of self-scolding for letting himself neglect you, then bends down to wrap his fingers around the handle of your suitcase. “You can come with me.”

The apartment, while nice, isn’t overly large. The door to what you learn is your room can be seen from your first few steps through the front entryway, but still, you’re glad you didn’t peek on your own. You could’ve found yourself face-to-face with his private space and unable to avoid developing opinions of him based on the first-glance contents of his room. 

With a turn and a push, Jake opens your door and stands back against one side of the frame so you can enter. Side-stepping past him, though, is a bit of a squeeze and you can’t help the way your breasts brush across his chest. You don’t miss his flinch and the sharp intake of air through his nose.

“Sorry,” you mutter. 

Whether or not he heard you goes unknown as he sets your suitcase down once you’re inside the room and begins his mini tour. “Um, bed,” comes out a little gritty. He points to the largest piece of furniture in the room like you’re a two-year-old learning the names of basic household items. With a cough to clear his throat, he continues. “That door over there is the closet,” he points some more. “And that one’s the bathroom. It’s small, but I hope it’ll be alright for you.”

There’s a pang in your stomach from his last two words. For you. An unnecessary addition with so much power. Power you refuse to let yourself dwell on. 

“It’ll be fine, thanks.”

“Right, well I’ll, uh–” Those eyes do their scanning of you again. Lips, breasts, hips. Blink and you would’ve missed it. “I’ll let you get some sleep,” he says. "It's nice to meet you."

You would say the same, but he’s gone before you get the chance. Shutting the door behind him, you toss your suitcase onto the bed and begin to unpack. 

—

The funny thing about these towns—while each one is different from another in appearance and people, they always reveal themselves to share a core component. Your willingness to stay put, and for how long, lies with this component. It is a matter of how intense this component—this judgment—is, and whether or not it infects enough around you to transform everything into a reminder of why you do not belong. While many things have the potential to prove you right or wrong as far as the degree to which you might be judged, what remains a constant disappointment is your attempts to obtain a job. 

It doesn’t matter where you look. You get the same once-over, the same raised brow, the same unspoken questions lingering in the air. Are you lost? Did you stumble through the wrong door?

In one day you’ve been turned down by three jobs with ‘help wanted’ signs stuck on the inside of their building’s front window. What’s worse is that, in following typical company policy, they don’t shoo you away at the door. They take your resume, they sit you down, ask you a host of questions, and eventually declare you’re not right for the position. 

A restaurant manager did not see you fit for a waitress. Neither did a cafe owner find you capable as a barista. The most painful, however, was also the riskiest. The head of the sales floor at the lingerie boutique who seemed to think women of a certain size aren’t in need of lacy fabrics that accentuate their best bits and pieces because surely they don’t have sex.

That was the one that did you in for the day and now has you moseying back to the apartment. 

You walk through the door and shed yourself of jacket, purse, and shoes, likely looking as exhausted as your new roommate did when you first laid eyes on him the night before. You knew you recognized something in the weariness of his eyes. While unexpected, last night Jake Seresin was tired because someone—or many someones—had worn him out. 

“Hi.”

You jolt upright, head instinctually turning toward the voice. You’re not used to sharing your space, and obviously so since Jake immediately raises his hands in silent apology for startling you.

“Hi,” you reply, the word riding on the sigh that passes through your lips. 

With as much as you can muster for him, you offer a smile before aiming for your bedroom. But you don’t get far. 

“What have you been up to all day?” he asks, halting you. 

He’s not going to let you go, you realize, not without giving him something in return. Though, seeing as he’s your new roommate who took you in on short notice and charges you pennies to stay, you figure you can oblige. 

He’s sitting at the island in the kitchen, now with a beer in one hand and his phone in the other. His thumb taps away at the screen, but when you near him he quickly sets it down to offer you his full attention. It’s then that you notice his missing shirt. Your mind must have filled in that blank. You’d assumed some sort of tank top was hidden by the angle at which he sat when you entered the apartment; that the fabric’s color was not so different from the tone of his skin. Looking at him in his bareness now, you can’t ignore how ridiculous that thought was.

You also can’t ignore him; sitting there without shame, practically taunting you to run your eyes over every ridge and valley of his sculpted form. And it is sculpted. Artwork. 

But you don’t allow yourself the luxury. Instead, you answer, “Looking for a job.”

Jake sits a little straighter. “I can probably help with that,” he says. “I’ve got a friend who owns a bar down the street, and–”

“No!” you snap. The hope that it wasn’t as harsh as it sounded is snuffed out by the slight widening of his eyes. “Thank you,” is softer, “but no bars.”

He watches you a moment longer before he nods and repeats, “No bars. Got it.” Another moment of silence fills the room until he breaks it. “I’ll ask around.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.” You wave away the thought and shake your head, aiming to get off the topic. Solidifying that is your immediate shift onto him. He seems like a guy who probably enjoys talking about himself, anyway. “So, you don’t fly on the weekend?”

“Not unless I have to.”

“Have people stopped traveling on Saturdays?”

Blond brows pinch as he twists the beer bottle in absent-minded circles with his fingertips. “What?”

Crossing your arms, you step further into the kitchen until your stomach is resting against the edge of the island. “Your friend said you’re a pilot. I just figured you’d be working a lot.”

Jake’s face doesn’t change; still the epitome of confusion, and you don’t know how to fill the painfully long beats while he examines you. Why you let him examine you must be a slip of the conscious mind, but you keep still. Then his face settles. He takes a sip of his beer, sets it down, and, instead of simply looking at you, stares hard into your eyes. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Wh–” you pause, readjusting your stance. “What makes you think that?”

“Anyone who says ‘pilot’ in this town—or frankly, even close by—assumes Navy, not airline,” he says. If he’s insulted, it doesn’t show. “I’m far from some Delta guy.”

Internally you curse. That err in knowledge peels back a layer of your paint, inviting curiosity and questions. And by the gleam in Jake’s eye, you’re sure you’re going to get plenty. “You’re in the Navy.”

“I am,” he confirms with a single nod. “And most people here have ties to it in some way. But not you, it seems.”

You fidget in the gap between his statements. 

“So, where exactly did you come from,” he continues, a wry smile stretching his lips, “And how did you end up here of all places?”

When you meet his stare, you don’t care for the sparkle peeking through. “I drove.”

His head throws back in laughter. “That’s all I get?”

“That’s all you need,” you stress. It’s his own fault for not asking those questions following your email answering his ad. He had an opportunity. He didn’t take it. That’s not your problem. And the longer you stand here, clearly providing him with entertainment, you're once again struck with the desperation to get his attention off of you. 

Without much to grasp, you go for the obvious. You allow your eyes to trail downwards and morph your features into a forced grimace. “Don’t you wear clothes?”

“Oh.” Looking down at himself, a gulp bulges his throat. “My bad. It’s been a while since I’ve had to wear a shirt around the place.” Is that disappointment in his tone? Maybe. Who in the world wouldn’t be insulted at the request to put on more clothes instead of removing an additional article? You certainly have been, so who is to say Jake Seresin—who undoubtedly has never faced such a request—wouldn’t feel the same?

To your surprise, he hops up immediately and rounds the island for his room; a move you would appreciate much more if it didn’t reveal the gray sweatpants settled low on his hips. There’s a defined V and a line of hair that disappears below the waistband. You hate that V. You hate that dusting of hair, blonder against his tan skin. Men with Vs and an irritatingly perfect amount of hair there are trouble. Each and every one of them. 

“I’ll go get that shirt. Don’t go anywhere.”

For whatever reason—one you’re unwilling to dissect—you do as he asks. But then a light flashes in your peripheral vision. The screen of his phone in response to a new message. 

You don’t want to look, not really, but you can’t help yourself. Years of people whispering behind your back, sneaking glances, chuckling, has planted the evergrowing seed of paranoia. Inching closer to the phone, you tap the rectangular block on his screen that reads Nat. Though the phone is locked, the notification expands to reveal the full message. 

See, Paranoid is an interesting label. It accuses you of misunderstanding, of being too suspicious, too anxious, or even crazy; and you won’t deny you’ve probably been wrong before, assuming people are talking about you who haven’t spared you a thought. But sometimes, that label is unfair. Sometimes—often, in fact—you are right. 

And when you read ‘Not what you expected, is she?’ followed by a tiny smirking face, you know this is one of those times.

---

A/N: I hope you liked it! If there are typos blame that on my anxiety. I've got a life-defining procedure tomorrow so wish me luck

tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @ssa-sadboi @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @sailor-aviator @penguin876 @rogersbarnesxx @nani-kenobi @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @elite4cekalyma @buckysteveloki-me @shelbycillian @kissmethric3 @fox-bee926 @hangmandruigandmav @waltermis @fandom-life-12 @a-serene-place-to-be @bruher @cehenyne @tngrace @mamaskillerqueen @emma8895eb @benedictsvestcollection @blackwidownat2814 @himbos-on-ice @entertainmentgal8 @hookslove1592 @whoeverineedtobe @alwaysclassyeagle @chaytea06 @cherrycolas-things @turtle-in-a-tornado

[prettieinpink]

Detachment

Detachment is the feeling that you have of not being personally involved in something or of having no emotional interest in it. I don’t really like this definition of detachment, but its the one which explains it the best. Though this post is basically about how to not let your emotions affect every aspect of your life. And it can improve life/mindset by soo muchh. Heres some little tips for detaching !!

Don’t involve yourself, start observing. You do not have to get involved with everything on the internet, whether it's a debate, discussion, latest trends, political opinions or arguments on social media. Learn how to observe situations, and know when to turn your phone off if something is affecting your emotions negatively. 

Actually start thinking before you speak. It’s a common phrase yet no one truly does it. But, thinking before you say anything risky, whether it's a joke or your professing your love to someone, really think about it. Long term or short term thinking, its up to you. Thinking before you speak will literally help you stop acting impulsively on your emotions and avoid any future conflicts. 

Start embracing change. I know it is hard, but change is unpredictable so we need to start to accept it. It allows yourself to be more open minded to different opportunities which is so important for personal growth + how i did it was by observing my environment much more thoroughly and how i’ll fit in it( i usually journal about this ) and speaking with people/reading about people who’ve been in the same situations i’m in. 

Not just being aware, but understanding that not everyone is going to be kind to you and not everything in life is going to be good or fair. A lot of people are aware of this, but when it actually occurs, they’re upset. Is it reasonable to be upset? Yes. Is it reasonable to be entitled to that everyone should treat you good and everything in life is going to be easy? No. In fact if this is the case, you’re doing something wrong. Being your true authentic self is going to bring haters and challengers, do not let them live in your mind. 

Btw, negative emotions are totally normal and i support them. Be sad, angry, furious, insecure, whatever. Though, learn how to process these emotions in your mind, and grow from them, instead of dwelling and letting it affect other aspects of your life.

[asbestos-boy-68]

we need to talk about how yall are treating mephone after ii15.

some of you clearly don’t understand his character and it’s driving me INSANE.

“i hate mephone after ii15!! he’s a heartless monster!!! he doesn’t care about anyone!!!”

so. did we watch the same show orrrr..?

because one of the BIGGEST, most IMPORTANT parts of mephone’s character is that he SUPPRESSES EVERYTHING and AVOIDS HIS PROBLEMS AT ALL COSTS.

it’s almost like there was a whole episode dedicated to mephone’s repressed trauma! it’s almost like the second half of iii literally spelt this out for us! did yall just not watch the show orrrrr?

“but what about him just not caring when mepad quit the show!??!!?!” reread what i just wrote real quick.

mephone AVOIDS HIS PROBLEMS.

if anything, the fact that he didn’t even dwell on mepad quitting for a SECOND just tells us that this hurt him DEEPLY. he couldn’t even stand to process it for even a second without losing it, he had to move right on to be able to avoid the problem. that’s what he does. he avoids and deflects and suppresses.

not to mention that it’s canon that mephone DOES care about the contestants and others on the show, he just has a hard time expressing it.

this screenshot is taken directly from fan’s blog, in a post where he interviews mephone. mephone cares about everyone. he’s mean to everyone because he cares about them and it’s easier for him to express that by being an asshole than to be honest and vulnerable.

mephone doesn’t want to appear weak or vulnerable.

he wants to appear as some well put together, mentally sound, confident, host. he’s not. anyone who’s actually looked at his character will see this SO obviously, the way he acts most of the time is a FRONT.

yeah, sure, mephone has done some shitty things, but a LOT of people in ii have and i don’t see yall saying you hate them as much as i see people hating on mephone. im sick of it tbh

you guys just don’t understand mephone’s character and i think you need to reevaluate your opinion on him. mephone is a very emotional person. he just suppresses those emotions and avoids them at all costs and replaces them with assholery.

thanks for reading

[oozedninjas]

i will BEG YOU ON MY KNEES FOR LITERALLY ANYTHING YOU COULD POSSIBLY THINK OF FOR 2007 RAPH he just makes me so HAHWKAHAKEVBS

This time I came up with something simpler and softer, I hope it's okay :)

Summary: Raph is mustering the courage to confess his feelings, but nothing goes as he plans after your birthday party.

MDNI / Raph is 26, and so is reader/fluff/ post 2007! movie

----

"Get a room, you two." 

Donatello rolled his eyes, turning back to the computer. Raphael glared at him, on the brink of delivering a witty retort, yet he stopped upon sensing your hand on his shoulder. You shrugged it off before shooting him a wink.

"No, no, he's got a point. Let's move to your room," you delivered with a knowing look.

Raph grinned, letting out a mischievous chuckle. He thoroughly enjoyed it when you teamed up to playfully taunt his brothers.

"Yeah? I don't know, maybe we won't be able to keep it down if we go," he quipped, infusing a flirtatious tone to his words.

Donatello growled low at the cringe-inducing sensation creeping up his neck. This happened quite frequently. You and Raph would giggle while snuggling on the couch. Some times you were in his lap, some others he laid his head on your legs while you massaged his head or played with the red bandana.

You shared many things together: meals, phone calls, your apartment (especially when he and Leo fought—hell, he even allowed you to use his bike!), and when you weren't teasing each other, you were playfully flirting. Although, at times, it seemed too genuine to be lighthearted. At least in Donatello’s opinion. 

He did his best to ignore both of you and once you left, he and the others started blitzing Raph with numerous questions. Why do you always act like that? Raph, do you like them? Are you secretly dating or something? Raph, have you asked them out yet? 

“Relax, we’re just messing around,” he deflected. 

"You must be careful with your words, Raphael," Splinter said. "Sometimes we dismiss what we think could tear our hearts apart, but that doesn't mean it'll go away, and if you let it linger there for too long, one day you may come to regret it.”

That struck a chord in him.

"I'm old enough to discern my feelings, thank you," Raphael snapped.

Now, one would have thought that after such a sharp response, Raph would not have dwelled on the matter any further. Yet, much to his annoyance, those queries circled in his head all week—a week during which he continued hanging out with you as usual. The only difference was that now he couldn't shake this tingle from his chest.

Perhaps it's always been there, he thought. Maybe he just hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge it.

Do you like them?

You smiled at him at that very moment, and he knew. The realization hit him like a goddamn train at maximum speed. He had feelings for you. Real feelings. Romantic feelings.

Fuck.

Never in a million years would you feel the same about him; he knew it. And even if you did, he was a mutant living in the sewers. What could he possibly offer you? You know, besides always protecting you and taking care of you. Would you be okay just with that? Would it— would he be enough for you?

****

“I think they like you back,” Casey asserted, shooting a smile at Raph. “Just ask them out.”

They found themselves on the rooftop of Casey's shared apartment with April. It was their habitual pullout, a place to unwind for a couple of hours after their patrol shift, when the night was too bright to head home.

Casey swung his bat absentmindedly through the air, while Raph sat with his legs hanging from the building, watching the hasty lights of various cars speeding below.

“I don’t know. What if they don’t? I don’t wanna risk what we have.”

"Raph, trust me, they like you back. Besides, you both look like a married couple already! Like, that fight over the cookies the other day? Come on,” Casey chuckled at the memory.

Raphael scratched the back of his head, trying to tone down the heat creeping up his neck. Yeah, maybe you did look like a married couple.

****

After pondering it for a few weeks, Raphael made up his mind to speak from his heart. He gathered the courage to talk to you and confess his feelings. Not tonight, though. Tonight was your birthday, and you both agreed to hang out after your small party at the lair.

He made sure you had a pleasant evening and gifted you a pretty handmade bracelet. After the song and the cake that Mikey lovingly baked, you both headed to your apartment for a movie.

Now he found himself in your bed, right next to you, and God, you looked beautiful. Who could concentrate on the TV with such a sight beside it? Certainly not Raph. He stared for so long that it didn’t take much time for you to notice.

“Is something wrong, babe?” You asked.

Babe

You’ve never called him that before, not even during fake-flirting. His heart rate pitched inside his plastron. Warmth flushed his cheeks. Damn. He turned quickly, trying to swallow the butterflies in his stomach. 

“Nah, just watch the movie,” he mumbled. 

“I was, you were the one staring at me,” you noted. 

“No I wasn’t” 

“Hmm, I positively think you were.”

“Well, what if I was?” he retorted.

You grimaced at the sudden harsh, low-key annoyed tone. Something felt off, and judging by his behavior over the past week, you already knew what it was. Grinning, you asked:

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

Raphael turned back to you, his heart beating faster now, a tingling sensation in his hands. Your gaze was flirty, but not as playful this time.

“You know I do,” he said simply. 

Damn, this was much easier when he hadn’t realized he had a crush on you.

“I think you’re really good looking too.” 

“I know,” Raph smirked, trying his best to play it cool. 

You snorted, turning completely towards him. Stretching your hand out, you ran your fingertips over the bracelet.

“This was incredibly thoughtful, you know? I love it. But you know what would be an even greater birthday present?”

“What?” He prompted.

“If you said this was our first date.” 

All doubts, nervousness, and his plans of awkwardly confessing were thrown out the window with that single phrase. His smile this time was wide, his gaze radiant with satisfaction and confidence.

"It is," he placed his hand over yours, his hold impossibly tender. "At least to us. The whole crew is convinced we're already dating," he said casually, suddenly unable to stop smiling.

“Yeah, I know. The other day your father asked me some things…”

Raphael gasped, horrified. “What did he ask you?!”

You chortled at the expression he made. Man, this was about to become the best birthday night ever.

[bambimanifests]

Manifest an SP, now.

Manifesting an SP is fun and it is the reason why a lot of people find LOA or start to practice it. The thing with SPs is that many people claim they can’t manifest them, there is a lot of stigma and misinformation around the topic and as someone who has made many mistakes when manifesting her old SP and is currently manifesting an SP, I thought I’d share my tips and create this post — kind of Manifesting an SP 101. If you don’t believe in loa, please leave, this post is not for you, unless you are here to learn more and not be hateful. Keep in mind all those tips are given from my experience! If your opinion is different or another coach told you something else then you are free to follow whichever advice you wish to follow!

THE BASICS.

It is crucial that when manifesting anything we understand the law (of assumption). The law states that our mind (4d) creates the reality around us (3d). Whatever you persist on in your mind, as thoughts, as visuals, will become true and will reflect in the 3d. We manifest anything by acting as if / living in the end, basically we think as if, as if we were rich, as if we were confident, as if our sp asked us out. It is recommended to think as if 24/7, but to people who are new to the law it can be difficult, so I would try to think favourably as much as you can, work your way up from thinking favourably 50% of the time to 100% of the time. It is important to persist in our desire, whatever we put our attention on will show up in our reality.

EIYPO

EIYPO stand for Everyone Is You Pushed Out. It all comes back to the concept that the 4d creates the 3d. Whatever you assume to be true is true. If you think all the time that you’re annoying and ugly and everyone hates you, that’s your reality. If you think that xyz is a bitch, then they’re a bitch. Whatever assumptions you have about yourself will be reflected in the 3d by others and their view of you, whatever assumptions you have of others also will be reflected in the 3d by them.

CIRCUMSTANCES

Circumstances are different for everyone, the most important thing in this small section is that they do not matter. Loa is limitless, you are the creator and only you can limit yourself. Circumstances can vary from being in no contact with your SP to your SP telling you they hate you or them being in a relationship. It’s all the same, it all doesn’t matter. Your current 3d is the reflection of your current or past assumptions.

THIRD PARTIES

When it comes to SPs we can deal and often do with 3rd parties, that can be their partner, their ex, someone they are into or someone they aren’t dating yet, but are talking/going out with — again, it’s all the same. Our reality is the reflection of us, of our inner world, the third party is no different, they’re often a reflection of our insecurities, fears or doubts. The best way to get rid of them is to simply ignore them. That is how I manifested a third party away, by not acknowledging it, not dwelling on it, not spiralling about it. What you focus on you persist on, whether you want it or not, if you persist it will show up more in your reality.

SELF CONCEPT

Let’s start with what is self concept, it’s you basically, assumptions you have about yourself, who you are, how others see you, how fast you manifest and if you can. Self concept is basically a set of beliefs and assumptions you have surrounding yourself. Do you think you deserve your manifestation? Many will tell you self concept is a must to manifest an SP, I will tell you it depends. If you have a low self concept when it comes to love or yourself, then yes you need to work on it, if you have a low self concept when it comes to manifestation, then it’s optional, it depends if you want it to come in fast or not.

VERSIONS OF PEOPLE

Important thing that I missed on my first SP journey was what version of them am I manifesting? I was manifesting a fuckboy, a cheater. Basically all the bad stuff I heard about him, I took as facts. Before I assumed that he was that way I didn’t really see that side of him, because I haven’t manifested that version of him yet. So whatever your SP has shown you, whatever assumptions you have about them now, you can change them. Think about it really, how do you see them, do you think they’re above you? Do you think they could never like you? Do you think they’re an asshole? Change the bad assumptions you have about them. You get to select the version of them, you select the version you experience, so manifest them to be your ideal person. (i usually just affirm “they’re my ideal person”, your mind knows what it wants and if you’re not sure create a list in your notes app or on paper!)

Honestly nothing else comes to my mind atm about SPs, except for the basics: don’t check the 3d, persist and ignore the 3d (continue to think as if) even if it’s showing you the old story, your movement should show up in 2/3 weeks, if there isn’t any and you have been manifesting an SP for years you’re probably doing something wrong, I cannot tell you what, you need to look inward and be honest with yourself. Remember you are human, you will feel all sorts of ways when manifesting, don’t let your feelings cloud your judgement and discourage you — feelings do not manifest only dominant thoughts. Also I do not condone manifesting abusers etc. Fuck abusers, please seek help if you’re in a relationship with a person who may hurt you or has physically or emotionally. You are not responsible for your abuse or trauma. I love yall, have an amazing day!

[mxshifter]

hot take i guess but am i crazy for thinking that race changing is morally wrong.. because i keep getting things flooded in my feed about people on shiftblr defending it and i don’t understand why people feel the need to basically be rcta (race change to another) in their DR. if we can look at that and be like “hey this is not only weird and fetishize-y but also “aesthetic”-ifying a certain race which you aren’t apart of” what makes it different if you shift to do that exact same thing🧍? i don’t know if its just a me thing because my morals/beliefs transcend realities but i don’t understand shifting to a reality where your race is different just “because you want to” as if bipoc get to, in the same way, chose to be people of color and face inherent oppression everywhere we go. i just don’t understand how you can exist in a reality where bipoc are oppressed for existing, that oppression being an active factor in our everyday lives, and the way we view ourself, our culture/how its developed, etc., and completely IGNORING ALL OF THAT just because you want to be us!!!

in my opinion, i don’t think its just that but also EXTREME FOMO (fear of missing out) from people who are not bipoc/not from the culture they’re shifting as and having a weird perception of shifting as in “its not xyz reality so i can do what i want” knowing damn well they wouldn’t be sporting cornrows, indigenous regalia, etc. in their CR. its just a weird god-complex mindset that makes my radical mind very, very, VERY uncomfortable. like yes you’re limitless, i’m limitless, the multiverse is our oyster but I still have morals and beliefs that will carry over into my DRs! i wont keep wasting my breath explaining why rcta, not understanding the oppression bipoc face is bad, and dwelling on this because this should be common knowledge so i’ll end with this:

if you support or do race/ethnicity changing, don’t follow me! i’ve had this same boundary since i started my shifting journey and that has not stopped me from shifting many times (p.s: its not close-minded to have a boundary about something that make you uncomfortable). i’m honestly open to hearing opinions and just understanding other people’s perspectives more but specifically opinions from BIPOC. anyways happy shifting!

[beetheyapper]

MUSIC I THINK THE POETS WOULD ENJOY

this is not time period accurate but i do not care. i at least tried to keep it pre-2000s. also i’m 100% projecting my music taste onto them. deal with it? spotify playlists, each of which has around 30 songs, are linked below each description ! i spent forever on this 😭

Charlie Dalton

i’m not sure that i could pinpoint very many artists he’d particularly like, but this is a classic rock boy right here. he’d be into ac/dc, motley crue, led zeppelin, etc. perhaps a bit of duran duran (this is where i’m projecting the most.) songs about s3x and women, and songs that make him feel like the rebel he is. (this playlist has been gale hansen approved on twitter btw)

Neil Perry

oh i just know this kid would be into some funk and pop, especially 80s and perhaps even new wave (i’m again projecting). now THIS is a duran duran fan (specifically their early stuff), which is unsurprising since the lead singer has a drama degree. he’d also probably like fleetwood mac, and would be well-versed in the band’s drama. duran duran, wham!, fleetwood mac, abba, maybe even some hall & oates. songs with complex lyrics and also songs that make him wanna dance. lots of upbeat stuff because though he has things that bother him, he’d rather do anything but dwell on them.

Todd Anderson

honestly, considering they’re roommates, i feel like neil would’ve had a bit of an impact on todd’s music taste, so there’s some band influence there—but regardless, i think todd would be into more mellow and emotional songs. jeff buckley comes to mind, along with the eagles, the beatles and maybe a splash of the smiths also pls pretend now and then didn’t come out last year. he would also be letting it linger i fear

Knox Overstreet

knox would be similar to Charlie, as they probably bond over shared music taste just as much as everything else. very heavy on the classic rock, but a lean more towards songs about needing someone and love songs as he pines for Chris. Tom Petty, Robert Palmer, The Cars, and a bunch of songs introduced to him by Charlie. He sticks more to genre/theme than to a specific artist methinks

Richard Cameron

contrary to what some may think, i think Cameron would absolutely groove to some rock n roll. HOWEVER. he is a 60s-70s rock n roll elitist. he thinks Billy Idol’s cover of Mony Mony is a disgrace. he wholeheartedly believes the Beatles are the best band to have ever graced the planet. The Beatles, The Beach Boys. The Rolling Stones, etc. Maybe even some Simon & Garfunkel. Him and Charlie argue a lot about which decades were the best years of rock music

Gerard Pitts

free my boy. he just wants to dance he ain’t do nothing wrong. his music taste has definitely been influenced by some of the other poets, in the sense that if he hears a song with a funky beat that makes him want to dance, it’s added to his mixtape IMMEDIATELY. for this reason, i’m thinking lots of funk and groove. play that funky music white boy! Bee Gees, ABBA, Talking Heads, Pet Shop Boys, etc. as long as he can dance to it he could care less who it’s by

Steven Meeks

another old rock, but more on the calm side with some hints of folk and fun. Donovan, The Beatles (paul is his fav for sure), The Beach Boys, and he definitely loves every white person anthem, including Sweet Caroline. he likes to groove with Pitts but also like soothing music to study to !!! i had to consult my friend on this one i fear i was drawing a blank

AND THAT is my opinion on each of the poets’ music taste. did i squeeze Duran Duran into almost all of them? perhaps. they’re my fav band let me live… feel free to listen to the playlists (please listen to them. pls i don’t want to have made them in vain.) and maybe even become spotify moots with me :D

[indecisivekitty]

These Threads of Crimson

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader

wc: 1,552

genre: Soulmate AU/One-shot

warnings: maybe the slightest of angst if you squint??

“That red string you see wrapped around your ring finger leads you to your soulmate.”

That’s what you get told when you’re a kid.

Grownups were always constantly excited about telling you about how this soulmate-string thing worked and how they then went on to find theirs. Yet there were also lots of people who didn’t care about the concept of it and ignored it entirely, going on to be with whomever and live their lives however they please without knowing their soulmate at all. Though there were still many who enjoyed the idea of having a soulmate and went on to follow where their string led to the best of their abilities.

Additionally, the string was only visible to you and your soulmate and wasn’t tangible at all. Yet on occasion, there were instances where the string tugged at you—not as forceful as someone pulling you, but nonetheless, you could still feel something when it happened.

Growing up, you also learned that those momentary tugs happened when your soulmate was very distressed or perhaps burdened with a heavy weight. The worse the stressor, the stronger the pull of the string. People have come to say that the string tries to pull you to your soulmate when they feel this way so you can be there to comfort them—hence why it tugs at you during their worst moments.

Hearing that while getting older always made you frown. You felt lots of tugs when you were little—maybe 5 or 8? So you often wondered how old your soulmate was and hoped that he wasn’t that young to have had something tragic happen to him. Assuming it was a man.

You also constantly heard the discussions from kids your age about whether finding and being with your soulmate was worth it. There are many arguments for "It is worth it! It’s your soulmate!” Or, “Can’t I choose who I want to be with? Why do I have to follow some string?”

You quickly decided there was no wrong or right answer. The string only binds you to your soulmate but doesn’t force you to have any obligation or romantic feelings towards them. Soulmates don’t necessarily have to be romantic, right? But you guess that having a romantic soulmate would still be nice regardless. You sincerely hoped that was your case, having your soulmate be the person you end up with.

You looked at the sign of the pub you were outside of. Blowing out a breath, you prayed that whoever was inside felt the same way you do. That they don’t see soulmates as some sort of burden, and no matter what the outcome of this night was, they’d give you some sort of chance to be in their life.

You did come all this way to find them, after all.

Simon wasn’t sure of his opinion when it came to the string tied around his finger. He didn’t care to dwell on it much. Why would he, when he had other important things to place his attention on?

In a perfect world where he lived a perfect life, he would try to find his soulmate. That was something he was sure of, but in this lifetime? He assumed it was too dangerous if he had someone outside of work, plus he wasn’t exactly sure he deserved to have one.

That being said, he finds himself frowning at the string, wondering why it feels tighter all of a sudden. It didn’t feel like those occasional tugs that it would do; the string felt like it was shorter, even more so as the seconds went by. Simon narrowed his eyes at the string as he suddenly felt uncomfortable.

“Do you ever forget you’re wearing your balaclava while you go to drink?”

Simon looked from his finger to turn his attention to Gaz, raising his brow at the question (not that anyone could really tell anyway). “Once maybe.”

After replying to Gaz, Soap came up to the two men sitting at the bar to clap their shoulders, smiling ear to ear as he drunkenly spoke. “Oi, LT! ‘Member tha’ one time ye drove—got ye drivin’ lessons fer next week!"

Ignoring Gaz’s laughter, Ghost sighed. “And you really think I’d go to that?”

Soap shrugged. “Werk on yer drivin’ fer the future. Come in handy if ye ever have a bairn.”

Ghost shook his head as Gaz got up to put an arm around Soap’s shoulders. “You’re pissed out your mind, so let’s have you sit down, yeah?”

“Pssh… Nawt tha’ plastered,” Soap mumbled, stumbling seconds afterwards. “…Nevermin’.”

Watching the sergeants go, Simon turned his attention to surveying the pub. The string wrapped around his finger was starting to agitate him, his leg bouncing up and down as his eyes darted all over the room. He couldn’t figure out why.

But it quickly became clear as his gaze landed on your figure.

Narrowing his eyes, he figured he had to deal with this problem before it became something bigger—before it became anything at all. Finishing off his drink, he stood up and began his way towards you, trying his best to mind the people around him.

You blinked, a bit dazed, at the huge man heading in your direction. He’s your soulmate? When you walked into the pub, you let the string guide you in his direction and immediately knew who he was without looking at the string for confirmation.

The way he was approaching you felt like you were being stalked by a predator. He moved with ease despite the many people around, but you suppose it isn’t that hard when you’re as confident in your steps as him. It was odd to see your soulmate in person. You weren’t sure if he was what you expected. Then again, what did you expect?

Finally standing in front of you, the man wearing the balaclava tilted his head slightly at you.

Glancing anxiously to the ground and then back to him, you weren’t exactly sure what you were supposed to say now. “Hi, I’m-“

“Follow me,” he said, cutting you off.

Confused, you opened your mouth to ask, “Sorry, what?”

“Follow me.” The man pocketed his hands in his jacket, glancing towards the entrance of the pub, and gave one last look at you before he headed towards the door and left.

Feeling lost, you looked at the rest of the pub before turning back to the exit where he went through. Sighing, you quickly started to follow his empty path. You figured you already made it this far to find him, right?

 

 

 

You find him not too far from the entrance, leaning against the brick wall of the building beside the pub. You watched as he eyed his surroundings, constantly scanning everyone and everything. Noticing you approaching, he stood up straight and took off his balaclava, shoving it in the pocket of his jacket.

He clenched his jaw while you took in his face. His features were rugged and angular; you thought he looked very masculine. He had the prettiest brown eyes and hair of the same color. You glossed over the scars adorning his face; you didn’t want to seem rude and stare at them (though you did find yourself feeling intrigued at the thought of studying them more closely).

You thought he was beautiful.

“Why are you here?” he asked gruffly.

You felt disbelief at his question, and you felt the tiniest bit of shame for trying so hard to find him. “Why am I here? No name, no introduction." He stared at you with crossed arms. You didn’t know why you were even trying to continue this conversation (or lack thereof) with him. “I’m… I followed the string because I wanted to find you.”

“And that was a mistake.”

You tensed, your gaze tightening. “A mistake?” You wrapped your arms around yourself to find some semblance of comfort, your hands clutching the material of your sweater. Exhaling rigidly, “We only just met, and it’s already a mistake?”

He looked like he was trying to figure out what to say next and what words he could say to ease the slight tension. His hands flexed absentmindedly; he wasn’t sure how to put into words his opinion of soulmates, and he didn’t feel confident enough in himself to bring up what happened when he was younger.

“I meant that with my work and how I’ve grown up, I’m not entirely certain it was worth it for you to find me,” he said finally. “So for your sake, maybe you should leave.”

“I’m not,” you sighed, cutting yourself off. “Look, I’m not asking for anything but to be in your life in whatever way. Acquaintances, friends, someone you only ever see at the pub—I’ve found you, and I’m not going to just leave.”

He observed your face, releasing a slight huff. “Stubborn.”

“So is this a yes to us being acquaintances?”

Eyeing the group of drunken people exiting the club, he gave a small nod. “S’pose.” He looked awkward, like he didn’t know how to proceed after you both reached some sort of agreement.

You were the littlest bit amused at seeing him look so out of place. "You never told me your name."

He looked back at you, feeling unexpectedly clumsy at this moment.

"Simon."

[sycamorelibrary754]

The Afterglow

Summary: You finally visit Natasha’s grave a year after she passed away. You don’t know what you expected to find or feel when you get there, but you want to feel something. Maybe Yelena does too.

Pairings: Natasha x reader, Yelena x reader (Platonic)

Genre: Angst, Comfort

Word Count: 918 words

Warnings: Grief, mentions of death.

A/N: I can't believe today is finally here. I wasn't planning on writing anything today, but I was listening to Afterglow by Ed Sheeran, and this came out. Lyrics from Afterglow are italicized. Credit to the writers of WandaVision for the final line. I miss Natasha Romanoff.

October used to be your favorite month—a million colors of hazel, golden, and red. Natasha would do anything to make the fall season memorable for you. Lighting your favorite apple cinnamon-scented candle, attempting homemade hot chocolate for you, even indulging you in wearing matching fall sweaters when she was not a fluffy sweater person. You were both love drunk.

It had been a year since Natasha’s death—three hundred and sixty-five days without her strength, her protection, her vulnerability, her love. The inability to visit her grave made it all feel even more symbolic. Her physical form was lost to the dark depths of Vormir; it was an incapacitating fact you couldn't bring yourself to dwell on. I knew the remaining team had made the journey to Ohio, and it was no secret that Yelena had quietly bought a small house there just to be close to her sister again.

You decided to go, unsure what to expect or how you would feel when you arrived. At that moment, you just craved some emotion. You set off without informing anyone of your plans, not wanting to be swayed by others' opinions. She was your love, and you were hers.

The flight was mercifully short, but it seemed to stretch on endlessly. Lost in thought, memories surfaced with a bittersweet ache. Absentmindedly, you found yourself on an isolated dirt road, the car coming to a stop. The crisp sound of fallen leaves underfoot accompanied your stroll along the road, embraced by the gentle trees. Admitting to yourself, it was a picturesque setting - unassuming yet undeniably beautiful. It was undoubtedly the kind of place Natasha would have cherished.

As I made my way up the path, a small collection of headstones appeared, each adorned with the warm rays of sunlight. It didn't take long to spot her headstone, positioned right in the center of the area, just like she always was. The sight was quite moving - her headstone was the only one lovingly blanketed in a colorful array of flowers, cuddly teddy bears, and handwritten notes. Etched on the headstone were the words "Natasha Romanoff. Daughter. Sister. Avenger."

As you kneel in front of her headstone, the rough texture of the cold stone sends shivers through your fingertips. The only sounds that reach your ears are the distant chirping of the birds and the gentle fluttering of the wind through the trees. In this moment, it feels like the world has vanished, leaving you alone in your love. Your world has disappeared, and the painful truth is that it will never return. You were lost in a moment of solitary grief; a sudden whistle slices through the heavy silence. You close your eyes and draw a deep breath, refusing to move from your spot on the ground.

"I gave up hoping that she would whistle back a few months back," a Russian voice announced, catching your attention.

You rise to your feet, not bothering to turn around. You already knew who it was. Keeping your gaze fixed ahead, Yelena walks up and stands beside you in front of the headstone. "More people visit this place than you'd expect, considering how isolated it is," Yelena murmurs. "I try to come here a few times a week to tidy up, be close to her, and feel her presence wherever she is now."

You remain silent, simply nodding in response. 

I was hoping you would show up today," Yelena confessed. "I considered calling you, but I didn't want to feel like I was imposing.

"Honestly, I was worried that you might be mad at me for taking so long to get here," you confessed. 

"I could never do that. Who am I to dictate how you should deal with losing the love of your life?" she said as you gazed up at the swaying treetops.

"It's strange. Natasha and I used to live life in vibrant color, but now it feels like I'm just existing in black and white," your voice trailing off.

"In our childhood, we would spend evenings chasing after fireflies in the backyard. I remember Melina explained that their glow was created through the fascinating chemical process of bioluminescence," reminisced Yelena.

"Always the inquisitive scientist," you sighed.

"After a lifetime of searching, I finally realized the glow I've been pursuing was always hers," the young widow confessed.

As you gaze at Yelena, you notice the subtle shimmer in her eyes, reflecting the unshed tears. Reaching out for her hand, you feel the delicate coolness of her rings as your fingers gently intertwine with hers.

I would give anything to have had more time with her," she whispered, her voice filled with longing and sorrow. "I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make her proud.

"Yelena, Nat was always so proud of you. And she always will be," you said, your voice trembling with emotion.

Now Yelena is the one who nods silently.

Y/n, she loved you," Yelena finally says after silent reflection. "You broke down the walls that she had built around her heart. Her entire life, she believed that love was only for children. It wasn't until you came into her life that she started to believe that maybe, just maybe, love was meant for her too. You showed her that love knows no boundaries and that it's possible for her to be loved in a way she never thought was possible.

"I loved her too... I always will," tears began to trickle down your cheeks, silently expressing your grief.

Yelena's grip on your hand tightens. "She burned so brightly. We have to hold on to the afterglow. Forever."

The weight of it all became too much. You both leaned into each other, wrapping your arms around one another as tears fell. No words were needed; the embrace conveyed a multitude of emotions – sorrow and affection. It was as if all the pent-up sentiments from the past year were finally released, allowing you to feel something once again truly.

What is grief, if not love persevering? 

[markrosewater]

About the Phyrexian invasion thing, first, thanks for reading and responding to my novel of an ask. I appreciate that you go out of your way to address this kind of feedback.

Second, I recognize that it’s not clear how best to handle things like this when you don’t know how the audience will react, and I respect that you all did what you thought was best with the given information. I sent that ask more to explain how I and (I believe) others feel about how it was handled after the fact, not to try and convince you that it was wrong.

I also appreciate the narrative implications of Realmbreaker’s breeching the multiverse, creating the omenpaths, desparking most planeswalkers, and how that has shaped the upcoming arc. Actually I’m really interested in this arc because you’ve been able to do things that were never possible before. I also appreciate that there’s online story content for the vorthoses.

In other words, nothing you said is wrong, obviously. I was trying to articulate that there seems to be some kind of disconnect between the expectation that the audience had about how a Phyrexian invasion would play out and what your plans were. There seems to be some missing thing that really sells the idea of “yeah, the invasion was every bit as bad as you thought it would be, and then some.” Maybe it’s because stories like this generally have a “the bad guys won” moment before the good guys win (like Infinity War and Endgame), and March of the Machine seemed to have breezed through both.

Also, looking through the comments I see there are plenty of people who don’t want to dwell on the Phyrexians any longer than we have to.

Looking back, I do think we wanted to structure Phyrexia: All Will Be One and March of the Machine differently. I would have started the war in Phyrexia and had the bad guys are dominating moment be the stinger at the end of that set’s story. (Note: this is all my opinion.)