#and boundaries and barbed wire and

[thatstheproblemwithnapkinman]

you are allowed an opinion about media and you are allowed to be excited about it online and shouldn't be criticised for it

[robertsbarbie]

well how can i.guard.my.heart. with your head on my chest? how can i.move.on.when. i'm still in your bed?

[soon-palestine]

"I’m personally a Holocaust survivor as an infant, I barely survived.

My grandparents were killed in Aushwitz and most of my extended family were killed.

I became a Zionist; this dream of the Jewish people resurrected in their historical homeland and the barbed wire of Aushwitz being replaced by the boundaries of a Jewish state with a powerful army…and then I found out that it wasn’t exactly like that, that in order to make this Jewish dream a reality we had to visit a nightmare on the local population.

There’s no way you could have ever created a Jewish state without oppressing and expelling the local population. Jewish Israeli historians have shown without a doubt that the expulsion of Palestinians was persistent, pervasive, cruel, murderous and with deliberate intent - that’s what’s called the 'Nakba' in Arabic; the 'disaster' or the 'catastrophe'.

There’s a law that you cannot deny the Holocaust, but in Israel you’re not allowed to mention the Nakba, even though it’s at the very basis of the foundation of Israel.

I visited the Occupied Territories (West Bank) during the first intifada. I cried every day for two weeks at what I saw; the brutality of the occupation, the petty harassment, the murderousness of it, the cutting down of Palestinian olive groves, the denial of water rights, the humiliations...and this went on, and now it’s much worse than it was then. It’s the longest ethnic cleansing operation in the 20th and 21st century.

I could land in Tel Aviv tomorrow and demand citizenship but my Palestinian friend in Vancouver, who was born in Jerusalem, can’t even visit! So then you have these miserable people packed into this, horrible…people call it an 'outdoor prison', which is what it is. You don’t have to support Hamas policies to stand up for Palestinian rights, that’s a complete falsity.

You think the worse thing you can say about Hamas, multiply it by a thousand times, and it still will not meet the Israeli repression and killing and dispossession of Palestinians.

And 'anybody who criticises Israel is an anti-Semite' is simply an egregious attempt to intimidate good non-Jews who are willing to stand up for what is true."

[mephisto-reporting]

You Don't Have to... For Me

About: You step out of your comfort zone to share special moments with him. He sees right through your act. How will he respond? Pairing: Female Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are NOT in a relationship but there is implied mutual interest. Trigger warnings: Fears, insecurities, mild panic, mild food aversion, sensory discomfort

Author’s Note: Hey! Some of the discomforts and fears in these stories might not apply to you personally — I chose them based on what each LI seems to enjoy and what the reader might quietly endure just to spend time with them. This concept was inspired by a conversation with my dear friend and chaos enabler, Ivy ( @xaviersknight )

If you enjoy my writing and want to support me, you can buy me a Ko-fi! ☕

SYLUS

There’s a boxing ring in his penthouse.

Of course, there is.

It shouldn’t surprise you—nothing about Sylus ever plays by anyone else’s rules. He doesn’t live, he orchestrates. Even the things that should feel raw and violent, like boxing, feel too elegant when he’s involved.  Of course, he had a private ring, glinting under moody downlights like something out of a crime drama. Polished floors. Blood-red ropes. A small stack of gloves in varying sizes, already laid out for you. The floors smell faintly of clean sweat and expensive disinfectant.

You're underdressed for this, somehow. Even though he told you to wear something comfortable, even though you showed up in sleek workout leggings and a cropped tee, even though you tied your hair back the way you always do when you mean business—none of it feels right under his gaze.

“Welcome to my little playground…” Sylus speaks from across the ring.

He’s already inside it, lounging lazily against the ropes like a king waiting to be amused. Black tank top, gloves hanging loose from his fingertips, a thin sheen of sweat already glinting across his collarbone. He looks carved from obsidian and marble, every inch of him dangerous and divine.

You swallow. Smile.

“It’s not so little,” you reply.

“Oh? Planning to flatter me into going easy on you, kitten?”

There it is—kitten. The word slides off his tongue. You offer a half-laugh, stepping forward like it’s all a game. But inside, your stomach twists. Tight. Unrelenting.

You don’t like boxing.

It’s too much. Too close. Too exposed. Every movement is a risk. Every breath, a beat away from being cornered. It’s not just the physicality of it—it’s what it forces out of you. Anger. Instinct. Too close. Too loud. Too... visceral. You liked knowing where your limbs were. You liked boundaries and clear lines and space to breathe.

But Sylus was unpredictable. Impossible to read. A storm of velvet and barbed wire. And once, just once, you’d heard him say: “Boring things don’t interest me.”

He hadn’t said it to you. But it stuck. And it doesn’t take much for the mind to twist things.

Boring people don’t interest him, either.

And the thought had stuck in your ribs ever since — echoing in your bones every time he teased you, called you “kitten” or “sweetie” like it was second nature. You didn’t want to be boring to him. You didn’t want him to lose interest. So you said yes.

Of course you said yes.

He tossed a pair of gloves toward you — you caught them, barely.

“You’ll need help with the wraps,” he said, walking over before you could protest.

He took your hands gently, like you were a glass weapon. Thumb brushing your palm. The silk of his touch was deceptive — soft, delicate — but you could feel the power beneath it. Coiled control. Calculated intimacy. Like he knew exactly what strings he was tugging.

“You nervous?” he murmured without looking up.

“No,” you lied. “Why would I be? This is just practice... right?”

You step into the ring.

He doesn’t rush you. Just watches.

You’ve seen him like this before—when he’s stalking someone through a deal, or when he’s circling the truth in a conversation. It’s not hunger. It’s focus. He’s studying you, already inside your head.

“I thought we’d start with light sparring,” he says. “No pressure. Just a dance.”

You force your lips into a smile, ignoring the cold sweat trickling down your spine. “Just don’t break my nose.”

“I’d never mar you, sweetie...” His eyes crinkle, playful. “Unless you ask me nicely.” He was joking, of course. Sylus never hurt you despite his reputation.

He moves first. Not striking. Just circling.

Testing.

You follow. Clumsy. Too stiff.

“Relax,” he says, not unkindly. “This isn’t a war. Not yet.”

You take a breath.

Try again.

The first time he taps your shoulder with a jab, you flinch. He sees it. Of course he does. You don’t have to look to know he’s watching your reactions more than your form.

“Something wrong, sweetie?”

“No.” You lie so fast it burns your throat.

He jabs again—light, teasing. You respond with a wild swing. Miss entirely. He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Getting bold, aren’t we?”

Your chest tightens. You can’t read him. You don’t know if he’s impressed or amused or—

Disappointed.

That’s the word that hurts most.

You move too hard next time. Overcorrect. You nearly trip over your own foot as your glove grazes his chest and he catches you—arms snapping around your waist, steadying you like it’s nothing.

Your face is close to his. Too close. His breath is warm against your cheek. He smells like clean sweat and spiced cologne. He doesn’t let go right away.

You look up, startled.

He’s staring at you again. But something’s different.

Less amusement. More... calculation.

And then, softness.

“Why are you hesitating?” he asks. Quiet. Not a whisper, but close.

You blink. “I’m not.”

His brow arches.

You try again. “I just... I’m not good at this.”

“I noticed.”

You flinch.

But his voice is gentle now. Not mocking. Not amused. Just... honest.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t explain the heat rising in your chest. The way your gloves suddenly felt too heavy. The sweat gathering at your lower back. The eyes on you — his eyes — making it impossible to breathe.

It wasn’t the fight. It was the nearness. The intimacy of it. The way his presence filled the ring like smoke, clinging to your skin and thoughts alike.

You stepped back, then again. The ropes pressed against your spine.

His gaze followed you — not taunting. Not cruel. Just watchful.

“You don’t like this....” he said quietly.

You stiffened. “It’s fine.”

“No, sweetie.” He took a step forward. “You’re not fine.”

You looked down, fingers curling into the gloves. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Silence stretched.

“I heard you say once,” you added, voice quieter now, “that boring things don’t interest you. I just… I didn’t want to be that.”

There’s a pause. A shift.

Then, a laugh.

“Is that what this is about?”

You don’t answer.

His hand rises, gloved, brushing lightly beneath your chin until you meet his gaze.

“Oh, sweetie...” he sighs, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever heard from him. “You think I invited you here to impress me?”

You nod. Barely.

He exhales, the sound tinged with remorse.

“I invited you here because I like watching you try,” he says, lips curving into a gentle smile. “You could throw cotton balls at me, and I’d still find it riveting.”

You blink fast.

He leans in, voice barely audible. “If I wanted perfect form, I’d spar with one of my... business associates. If I wanted dull, I’d drink alone. But you... you make things interesting just by showing up.”

You feel the tears prick your lashes before you can stop them.

His hand—still gloved—cups your cheek gently. The rough texture of the leather is at odds with the tenderness in his touch.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, sweetie,” he murmurs. “Just be here. That’s enough.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

“Besides,” he adds, voice lighter now, “your form is atrocious. But your pout is lethal.”

You laugh—shaky, but real. He grins, triumphant.

“There she is..." he whispers.

You don’t spar again that night. Instead, you both sit in the ring, backs against the ropes, gloves off, drinks in hand brought up by someone who clearly knows better than to ask questions. Sylus lounges beside you, knee brushing yours, casual in a way that still buzzes under your skin.

He talks, and he listens, and he teases, and he lets you unravel yourself in pieces—not all at once, but enough to make you feel seen. Safe.

And when you leave, hours later, he walks you to the door and leans against the frame, arms crossed, lips curved.

“Next time,” he says, “we’ll do something that scares me.”

You raise a brow. “Does anything scare you?”

“Just one thing,” he replies, eyes holding yours.

You want to ask what.

“But that’s a discussion for another time.” He taps your forehead, leading you to his car. his hand, extended, waited for yours without force, without pressure.

Just... waiting.

And when you placed yours in his, he didn’t let go.

CALEB

You could hear his grin through the message.

Got us two VIP passes to the Amusement Park’s Firelight Festival tonight. :p Rides, food, fireworks… and a parade with glowing dragons, just like the old stories you love. ;)

And then, like it wasn’t a big deal, like it wasn’t making your stomach twist in a dozen knots .

 Come ready to fly,.

You smiled when you read it.

You really did. He remembered that you liked parades and fireworks. You’d told him when you hung out with him once.

And then immediately set your phone down and groaned into your pillow.

Rides. He said rides.

He didn’t know. You never told him. It was embarrassing. Heights just... did something to you. The tilt of the world. The way it all dropped away beneath you like gravity forgot how to love you. That sick feeling in your stomach, the one that clung like static even hours after you were back on solid ground.

You liked fireworks. Parades. Candy stalls and fuzzy prizes you’d never win.

But coasters? Loops? Platforms you could see through?

Nope.

And yet, here you were — standing at the entrance of the park’s glowing gates. breath caught somewhere between your throat and your heart, watching him wave at you from across the crowd.

Caleb was all light. All warmth. That stupidly charming smile that could’ve powered the whole island. He was in his casual clothes – Sleeveless white shirt, baggy jeans and shades and his dark hair was a little tousled like he’d run here.

“Hey!” he beamed, trotting toward you. “Look at you. You showed up. Thought I’d have to fly over and drag you in myself.”

You laughed — or tried to. “Would’ve been easier if you had.”

“Oh? You saying you wanted me to sweep you off your feet?” He winked, already walking backward toward the gates, tugging you by the wrist. “Next time just say the word and I will come pick you up from your doorstep.”

He had the same boyish grin as always. Same lopsided energy. But beneath the laughter, there was something tight about him. Focused. Like he was trying to be carefree — like he was carrying something heavier than he let on.

You squeezed his hand. He looked at you, surprised. Then softened.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you lied. “You?”

“Always,” he said, but didn’t let go. “And even more so now that you are here.”

The park was a living constellation. Lights danced in every direction — strung along towers, wrapped around trees, woven into the very air like stardust. People bustled by with caramel popcorn and glowing necklaces. Children squealed. Music floated from every corner.

And high above it all, looming like metal beasts with neon eyes, were the rides.

You avoided looking at them.

Caleb was thrilled. He practically vibrated next to you, pointing out different ones, telling stories, dropping trivia. “That one,” he said, eyes sparkling as he pointed at a monstrous looped coaster. “It was inspired by the early zero-G training modules for astronauts. Goes up to 3Gs on the final drop. Wanna try it?”

You smiled too fast. Too wide. “Sure.”

With VIP passes, the wait time was almost non-existent.

You stared up at the metal track. It twisted into the clouds, lights flashing like a heartbeat. Every scream that echoed down from the peak made your stomach twist tighter. You tried to breathe.

Caleb was rambling about pilot protocols and how G-force affected vision, and you were nodding, smiling, trying to look normal.

But the closer you got, the worse it felt.

Your hands shook when you buckled in.

Caleb noticed. “You cold?”

You shook your head too fast. “I’m fine.”

The harness clicked into place. The floor dropped out from beneath your feet.

And then — the ascent.

The world shrank beneath you. Each click of the coaster’s gears echoed like a countdown.

You felt him look at you.

“…Hey?”

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t.

Your hands were white-knuckled fists. Your eyes were squeezed shut. Breathing shallow. Chest tight.

“…Hey.”

His voice was gentler now.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You did.

He was watching you. Really watching you — not with teasing, not with that easy charm. With concern. With care.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked softly, the lightest tremble in his voice.

“I didn’t want to ruin this evening…” you whispered, ashamed.

The ride lurched — nearly at the peak now. A second more and it would drop.

The wind screamed as the peak crested.

He reached over — twisted in his seat, even with the restraints — and grabbed your hand with his left. “Close your eyes. I’ve got you.”

It was warm. Heavy.

But steady.

“Hold on to me,” he said, voice low. “Don’t look down. Don’t think about anything else. Just me.”

And then — the fall.

You screamed.

Not just out of fear but because it was everything all at once. The terror. The relief. The way Caleb held your hand the entire time, grounding you when the sky fell away.

When the ride slowed, your breathing did too.

You didn’t let go.

He didn’t ask you to.

Later, you sat on the grass, away from the lights, a bag of half-eaten cotton candy between you. The fireworks were a long way from happening and there was time to kill.

Caleb leaned back on one hand, the other tucked around your shoulder.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“For what?”

“We’ve been here for a while now because I did something stupid. I ruined the evening for you... You were so excited.”

“I didn’t bring you up here to make you uncomfortable.” he said finally. Soft. Almost guilty.

You winced. “You didn’t. I just…”

“You hate heights.”

He gave a sheepish little smile, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You think I dragged you out here for the rollercoasters?”

You glanced at him.

“I did it for the fireworks. For the stupid nebula cotton candy. For the look on your face when the parade started. For you. Not the rides.”

You looked down. “I just didn’t want to seem—”

“I don’t need you to be fearless,” he said. “I just need you to be you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You swallowed hard.

He tugged you in closer. “I’m serious. If you’re scared, if you’re upset, if you hate rollercoasters — I want to know. I want to know you. Not some version of you that’s trying to be what you think I want.”

You looked up at him, eyes stinging a little.

“I do like the parade though,” you whispered.

He smiled , soft and golden, all heart. “Good. Because I booked the best spot for it.”

You tilted your head. “How?”

“I’m a Colonel in the Farspace Fleet,” he said with a wink. “Perks of the uniform.”

You laughed. The sound felt free now.

He watched you with a look you couldn’t name. Something warm. Something more.

Then he said, softly, “Thanks for trusting me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Thanks for holding my hand.”

He skipped the thrill rides without hesitation, instead loading your arms with candy and glowsticks and ridiculous souvenirs. You sat together on a private bench as the parade passed by, a blur of shimmering lights and music. When the fireworks finally exploded overhead in bursts of gold and violet, he leaned just a bit closer.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said, his voice low and almost reverent beneath the sky’s celebration. “Even if the rides were a bust.”

“I’d go anywhere with you, Caleb,” you said.

And this time, it wasn’t a lie.

ZAYNE

You stand in front of the mirror, tilting your head as you assess your outfit for the third time. Casual. Put-together—but not trying too hard. The denim jacket is a little snug across your shoulders, the black tee just low-cut enough to count as flirty if Zayne noticed such things. He always seems so calm, so unfazed. And yet, every time he looks at you, your stomach flips like a coin midair.

You check your phone. Zayne.

I’ll pick you up in ten. Wear something comfortable.

Comfortable? That’s rich, considering what he’s roped you into.

Pool.

You had smiled like it was nothing when he’d brought it up over coffee earlier this week, his fingers casually tapping the rim of his mug, eyes steady on yours. “There’s this place I used to go to when I first joined Akso. It’s quiet. Good for unwinding. Would you want to join me? I can teach if you’d like.”

And you, ever the glutton for punishment, had said yes.

You’ve never played pool in your life. Something about the geometry, the angles, the calculated strength of the strike… none of it sounded appealing to you. Your hand-eye coordination is barely enough for catching projectiles thrown at you. But it’s Zayne. Calm, composed, frustratingly attractive Zayne. And he invited you. That has to mean something.

The pool hall is tucked between a laundromat and a late-night ramen bar. A few patrons linger at other tables, but Zayne seems to know the owner, and within minutes, he’s leading you to a far table in the corner, away from the noise.

He’s already in his element, chalking his cue. “We’ll start with the basics,” he says, offering you a stick. “Grip. Posture. Precision. Pool’s all about intention.”

You take the cue stick and try to mirror him. You can already feel the weight of the evening pressing at the back of your neck like an invisible hand.

The first round is a disaster.

Your fingers curled around the smooth wood, already clammy. You lined up awkwardly, bent forward, and—

Crack.

The cue ball wobbled. It barely tapped the triangle of colored balls, scattering them half-heartedly.

"Solid attempt," Zayne said, not unkindly, but with a teasing tilt to his voice. “You aimed with your heart, not your eyes.”

You told yourself to relax. He didn’t expect you to be great. He wasn’t like that.

Was he?

Zayne moved with confidence, sinking two shots in a row. His posture was perfect, movements fluid. When he lined up his next shot, he looked back at you briefly, one brow raised as if to say, You watching? You nodded, smiled. Pretended to be fascinated by the game instead of calculating how many more turns you’d have to humiliate yourself.

Your second shot went worse than the first. Your hand slipped on the bridge, the ball skidded, and you felt your cheeks heat. Zayne came up behind you then, gently placing his hand on your arm to guide your posture.

“Here,” he murmured, breath warm near your ear. “Relax your grip.”

Your fingers froze.

He was so close. His hand so steady. Yours... not.

You nodded. Said nothing. Tried again. Failed again.

The next few rounds were even worse. You miss the cue ball entirely once. Twice. Then you scratch it. You try to laugh, but it comes out thin. Zayne doesn’t scold you, he’s not cruel, but he’s precise, his words clipped with surgical clarity.

You nod. Try again. Fail. Again.

“Your wrist’s too loose.”

“You’re leaning too far. Keep your core stable.”

“Don’t look at the cue, look through the shot.”

With each miss, your shoulders tighten. Your knuckles go white around the stick. You feel the blood drain from your face as a couple nearby chuckles softly. You know it’s not about you, but your skin crawls with embarrassment anyway. You didn’t like people watching you mess up.

Zayne watches, silent for a few beats. Then he speaks, voice lower this time. “You’re holding your breath.”

You hadn’t realized you were.

He places his cue stick down gently and walks toward you, his steps soundless on the hardwood floor. He stops just within reach, but doesn’t touch you.

“You’re not enjoying this.” he says softly.

You froze mid-bend.

“I—” you began, but he raised a hand.

“Don’t lie.”

You straightened slowly, cue stick still in hand. “I didn’t want to disappoint you,” you admitted, voice barely above the background hum of the jukebox. “You’re so good at this. I just wanted to spend time with you.”

The silence between you was soft, not sharp.

“I invited you here because I like spending time with you,” he said. “Not because I needed a pool partner.”

You blinked at him, uncertain.

He continued, voice lower now. “I can be... singularly focused. Too much, sometimes. But I don’t want you pretending to be okay with something just because I picked it.”

Your grip on the cue loosened. “I didn’t want to ruin the evening.”

He tilted his head. “It would ruin it more if you spent it uncomfortable.”

You want to deny it. Laugh it off. But your throat is tight, and your heart feels like it’s pressed against a wall.

“I just—” You force a shrug. “I wanted to spend time with you. That’s all.”

Zayne studies your face. “So you dragged yourself into something you hate just to do that?”

“I don’t hate it,” you mutter. “I just... don’t belong here. Pool isn’t exactly my thing.”

His expression shifts, not amusement, not disappointment. Just something softer. Quieter. The kind of look someone gives when they see through you instead of at you.

“I noticed,” he murmurs. “Your shoulders were locked. You didn’t blink once in thirty seconds.”

You try to smile. “So much for subtlety.”

Zayne chuckles. It’s a quiet sound, rare, but warm. “I’m a doctor,” he says. “Reading body language is half the job.”

There’s a pause. Then he leans forward—not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can smell the faint trace of cologne on his shirt. He lowers his voice. “Next time you want to spend time with me... just say it. You don’t have to contort yourself into something you're not. It wouldn’t feel right if you were uncomfortable the whole time.”

You blink, stunned into silence.

“I don’t want your time if it costs you your ease,” he adds. “That’s not the kind of presence I want to be in your life.”

Your chest aches, not with shame, but something closer to relief. The kind that comes when someone lifts the weight off your shoulders before you even realize how heavy it’s been.

He straightens up and gently takes the cue stick from your hands.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s ditch this and go to that ramen place next door. You can make fun of my spice tolerance there. Does that sound good to you?”

You grin, heart hammering, the tension finally cracking like ice. “Only if you let me steal your gyoza.”

“Negotiable,” he says, brushing past you with the ghost of a smile. “Come. The night is far from over. You don’t have to change who you are around me,” he said, tone calm but sincere. “I’d rather have the truth.”

Your heart thudded, unsteady but warm.

You nodded. “Next time... you’ll be the one out of your element.”

He smirked. “I look forward to it.”

And he meant it.

XAVIER

The elevator hums quietly as you check your reflection for the fifth time.

Comfortable. Cute. Relaxed. That was the goal.

You’d chosen your favorite knit sweater — the one just baggy enough to hang off one shoulder — and paired it with soft leggings, fuzzy socks, and a warm-toned scrunchie pulling your hair back in a loose twist. A look that said, “I didn’t try that hard,” while clearly being planned down to the scent of the vanilla lip balm on your mouth.

Because this wasn’t just dinner.

It was dinner at Xavier’s apartment.

You cradle the two grocery bags in your arms a little tighter, filled with neatly packed slices of marbled beef, a few delicate cuts of lamb, some fresh shitake, enoki, and bok choy, plus the greens. There’s also a small six-pack of fruit-flavored soda you thought he might like — and two mochi ice cream desserts in your bag's chill pouch.

You’d been excited all day.

Xavier’s apartment was what you expected: neat, quiet, lightly decorated in soft colors and odd trinkets he didn’t think twice about but made your eyes linger.

In the center of the living space, a low table had been arranged with two cushions on either side and a full hot pot setup. The induction stove was small but new, clean and white, already buzzing  gently beneath a divided metal pot. Steam curled lazily into the air.

He padded barefoot across the room, sleeves rolled, hair loose and a little ruffled from sleep, and took the bags from your arms wordlessly. When you tried to insist you could help, he simply said, “Sit. You’re the guest.”

And so you sat.

And then he poured the broth packets in. The setup was clean and minimalist, just like him — a pale wood table, small ceramic sauce dishes, dipping bowl sets, and a yin-yang shaped hot pot cooker with two separate sides of broth.

Except this time… both sides were red.

Not a gentle tomato-based red.

Not one side miso, not mushroom.

The liquid turned dark crimson almost instantly.

You blinked.

“Hot Mala. It’s… strong,” he said. He stirred with a lazy rhythm, the aroma already clawing at the back of your throat.

You swallowed hard. Bright crimson oil glistened on the surface, flecked with floating peppercorns and crushed chili. You felt your soul begin to sweat.

“...Both sides?” you asked, feigning a casual glance.

“Spicy’s better,” Xavier said, crouching at the table. “I only bought the twin-pot style because the seller said it was popular.”

Your tongue already tingled at the idea of the red broth. You weren’t just bad with spice — you were barely functioning around a mildly spicy samosa. Anything more, and your eyes would water and your face would burn like a reactor core meltdown.

But you looked at him — quiet, warm, fond in that unreadable way of his as he placed dipping bowls beside the stove.

And you smiled.  You did what you always did with people who mattered more to you than your own comfort.

Because the thought that you might ruin this calm, carefully arranged evening over something like spice tolerance made your chest tighten.

“It looks perfect,” you said.

He sat across from you, cross-legged and relaxed in dark joggers and a white hoodie, a bold choice for hot pot, especially with the red broth.

He leaned over the table with all the grace of a sleepy cat, selecting slices of meat and guiding them into the red broth with long chopsticks.

“You brought good cuts,” he noted, nodding. “I trust your judgment.”

And then, a pause — his eyes narrowed a little at the pile of greens beside him.

“Except… this.”

You laughed softly. “It’s not that bad.”

He gave the vegetables a look that could only be described as betrayal. “It smells like sadness.”

You tried not to laugh. But your heart twisted. Not because of his words.

Because while he bantered the smell of chili oil and peppercorn was already beginning to sting your throat. You reached for your dipping bowl, adding soy sauce, onions, minced garling, lime and sesame paste with trembling fingers, trying to busy yourself.

And when he dropped your favorite mushroom into the red broth, you didn’t protest.

You only smiled.

The first bite singed.

You chewed slowly, nodding like it was fine, like your tongue wasn’t slowly blistering from the inside out. You chased it with soda. Swallowed a second piece — lamb this time — and made a soft sound that you hoped passed for enjoyment but probably sounded more like someone dying of quiet regret.

You blinked the tears back.

He watched you.

You looked down at your bowl.

“Too spicy,” he said, softly.

Your fingers tightened on the chopsticks. “No. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

You flinched, barely. He was still neutral in tone — not accusatory. Just… certain. Like a man who already knew the sky was blue and didn’t need convincing.

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” you said quietly. “You were excited.”

“I’m always excited to see you,” he said, without a hint of irony. “But I’m not excited to watch you suffer.”

That stilled you.

“I thought you didn’t notice.”

“I notice everything about you.” His chopsticks stilled above the pot. “I just don’t always know what I’m supposed to do with it.”

You laughed despite yourself, hand gripping your drink as you coughed lightly. “Okay. I admit it. I’m bad with spice. But I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Why?”

You hesitated. “Because I… uh… You invited me. I didn’t want to be difficult.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You’d rather be in pain than tell me the truth?”

You winced. “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It is,” he said gently. Then added, “But I’ve done worse.”

Then he shifted.

With a flick of his wrist, he transferred the vegetables — yes, even the sad greens — and a generous portion of meat into a plate. He grabbed the serving ladle and began to scoop the broth from one section of the pot into a bowls.

“I have a mild instant soup base in the kitchen, it's delicious too.” he said, standing up. “Give me five minutes.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.”

You blinked again, but this time not from spice.

“Why?”

“Because you’re here,” he said simply, walking to the kitchen. “And I like that you’re here.”

Your throat tightened.

The new broth was clear, soft, comforting. The moment he brought it out, you wanted to cry.

Not just from the relief of no longer melting from the inside out.

But because someone had noticed.

Listened.

And changed something just for you.

“You didn’t have to,” you said softly as you ate. “Really.”

“I know.”

And then, as if to demonstrate further solidarity, he reached into the spicy broth, pulled out a bok choy… and stared at it like it was his mortal enemy. Then, with slow determination, he bit into it.

His whole face remained unchanged.

But you saw the twitch.

“…Was it worth it?” you asked.

“No,” he said, deadpan. “But now we’re even.”

Later, when you left, he walked you to the door barefoot, holding the empty mochi container like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Next time,” he said, after a pause, “you pick the broth.”

“Next time?”

He blinked. “If you want.”

You looked up at him.

He stood in the doorway — hoodie sleeves half-pushed, hair still tousled, the faint scent of chili oil clinging to him like a memory. His expression was unreadable again. But the warmth behind it? That wasn’t hard to see at all.

“I’d like that,” you said.

And you were already planning it.

RAFAYEL

You shouldn’t have said yes.

That thought rings in your head as the last rays of evening sunlight melt into amber, stretching across the mirror-glass surface of the lake. Everything is quiet — too quiet — save for the light chirp of insects and the steady ripple of water as Rafayel swims deeper, his silhouette cutting sleek lines through the reflection of the sky.

He’s graceful.

Unfairly so.

Water clings to his skin like it belongs there, catching on his lashes, beading along his shoulders, tracing the lines of muscle down his back and arms as he moves. And you, standing at the shallow edge in your swimsuit, arms folded like a makeshift barrier, feel like a tangled bundle of nerves held together by one wrong decision.

Not the lack of footing. Not the invisible things beneath the surface. Not the way your limbs felt disconnected and sluggish, or how you could never quite get the rhythm of your strokes right without swallowing water or tipping awkwardly sideways like an overfilled tote bag.

You could swim. Technically.

You just… didn’t like it.

It was clumsy. You were clumsy. You’d passed the mandatory swimming exam at school, survived a few hotel pools on holidays ut lakes? Open water? With things brushing against your legs, invisible weeds tangling near your feet, the ground disappearing beneath you with nothing to hold?

It made your skin crawl.

But the way Rafayel’s eyes lit up when he talked about it… You didn’t want to ruin that.

So you came.

You still remember yesterday evening when Rafayel had flashed that impish grin and tossed you with “Wear something cute. I’m kidnapping you for a swimming adventure. No complaints,” — you’d said yes.

Because he was Raf.

And part of you always said yes to him. Hoping, stupidly, that it  might be something worth remembering.

Maybe he’d laugh. Maybe he’d tease. Maybe he’d say something flippant and walk away…

Or maybe — just maybe — he’d notice you like you notice him.

“You’re not gonna melt, cutie,” he calls from a few meters out, resting easily on the surface of the water. He floats with infuriating elegance, his arms outstretched and his purple hair haloed around his head. “Or are you actually made of sugar?”

You snort softly, hugging yourself tighter. “I just… don’t want to ruin the peace. It’s nice just watching.”

“You mean it’s nice watching me.” He grins. “Go ahead. Get your fill. I don’t blame you…”

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

And that was Rafayel in a sentence — smug, sharp-tongued, beautiful enough to get away with it. But underneath the teasing, you knew his invitation wasn’t just about swimming.

He wanted to share something.

And you wanted to be part of that world , his world , even if it made your stomach twist.

So you step in.

Slowly. The water’s cool against your skin, not cold, but shocking in contrast to the warm evening air. You move step by careful step, feeling the soft sand shift beneath your toes, the occasional ripple brushing your calf like phantom fingers.

It’s fine.

You can do this.

You make it chest-deep before you hear his voice again.

“Come closer.”

He’s farther now, maybe eight or nine meters out, treading water with that casual, effortless grace.

You hesitate.

He notices.

There’s a pause — one of those strange suspended silences that exist only between people who know each other too well and not well enough at the same time.

Then you smile. Not because you feel okay, but because you want him to feel okay.

And you swim.

Clumsily. Arms too wide, breath too shallow. You keep your chin above water, trying not to panic, trying not to think about the darkness beneath your feet or the silt that clouds around your knees when you kick.

But then — something brushes you.

A slip of lake weed? A fish? A strand of hair?

It doesn’t matter.

Terror shoots up your spine like ice.

You gasp sharply, flail, and instinct kicks in — wild, desperate kicks, arms slapping water, trying to go anywhere but where you are. You can’t feel the bottom anymore. You can’t find a rhythm. Panic closes your throat like a fist—

And then he’s there.

Strong hands caught you.

You didn’t even realize he’d come until his arms wrapped around your waist, one hand steady at your back, the other curling under your thigh to anchor you as you trembled.

“Hey. Hey,” Rafayel’s voice was lower now. All the teasing had dropped out. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

You tried to speak, but your throat burned. Your hands clutched at his shoulders instead, nails digging in. He didn’t flinch.

His face is close. Closer than it’s ever been. Water drips from his lashes, and for once, there’s no smirk, no teasing spark. Just something… protective. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Breathe. You’re fine.”

And somehow, you do.

He holds you for a moment longer. You feel the strength in him, the calm. The quiet assurance that, at least in this moment, nothing would dare happen to you.

And then you’re moving.

Back toward the shore.

He doesn’t drag. He glides, guiding you like something precious — like you’re worth holding onto.

“I didn’t know,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, “You should’ve told me you didn’t want to swim.”

“I didn’t… I thought I could handle it,” you croaked out, cheeks burning with shame. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“Idiot, guppy” he muttered, but there was no venom in it. “You think I brought you here to watch you suffer?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The humiliation was sharp and bitter in your chest, mixing with the leftover panic.

He walked the last few steps, carrying you until the water kissed only your calves. When he set you down, your legs wobbled.

“You could’ve drowned,” he said quietly. “And then what would I do? Swim around this stupid lake yelling at your ghost?” He knew he wouldn’t have let that happen. So did you. But he was making a fair point.

That startled a laugh out of you, hoarse and awkward, but it made him smile.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t want to say no to you.”

He looked at you, for a long moment. Eyes clearer than usual. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he said. “If you want to spend time with me, just say so. You don’t have to drown for it, cutie.”

You blinked. Then frowned. “So what, you’re not gonna make fun of me?”

“Oh no,” he smirked, the old glint back in his eye. “I am absolutely making fun of you. But—” He reached for your towel, flicking it playfully over your head, “…only after I make sure you're not cold, scared, or crying.”

He plopped down beside you on the ground, towel around his shoulders, hair dripping. The lake shimmered behind him, but he didn’t spare it another glance.

He looked only at you. “You’re an idiot,” he says, voice bright with performative scorn. “A pretty, sweet, stubborn idiot.”

You blink.

He reaches out and dries your wet hair with surprisingly gentle fingers using the towel.  Then, with a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, he says, “Next time, you sit on the shore, look pretty, and cheer for me. Deal?”

You open your mouth to protest.

“And,” he adds, lifting a finger, “You’ll bring snacks. Preferably something cold. I’ll get out, pretend to suffer from exertion, and you’ll feed me with loving devotion while telling me how brave I am.”

You laugh. This time, genuinely.

“…Deal.”

He bumped your shoulder with his, light and easy. “That’s my good little guppy.”

And somehow, as the light faded and the stars blinked into view above the treetops — you didn’t feel so out of your depth anymore.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

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[palmettoshenanigans]

Listen, you know why Andrew loves Neil? Why Neil Abram Josten was the one Andrew would allow into his inner space, to allow growing roots where Andrew keeps the remaining fragments of his heart?

Because hardly anyone respects Andrew's boundaries. Renee does. Bee does. Wymack does. Andrew respects his own boundaries to the point of enforcing them at knife point.

But Neil? Neil Abram Josten?

He views Andrew's boundaries as sacred.

Renee, Bee, and Wymack would view crossing Andrew's boundaries as disrespectful at best and a violation at worst. They earned his trust that way.

But NEIL???

Neil views crossing Andrew's boundaries as a fucking sin. As blasphemous. A devoted disciple would sooner spit in their God's face than Neil ever conceiving of crossing Andrew's boundaries.

Some people would look at you erecting brick walls covered in barbed wire and would start looking for a good crack to aim a sledgehammer. Some people would watch you lock a door and try knocking, just once, to see if you'll open it for them. And some people would watch you draw a line in the sand and never dream of stepping over it.

Neil parked his ass on the other side of Andrew's barbed wired multi-layered brick wall surrounding his concrete bunker and stayed there, running his mouth. And when Andrew revealed the hidden door, Neil smiled, stayed put, and kept talking.

Andrew didn't fall for Neil because Neil wouldn't come in.

He fell because Neil waited for Andrew to come out, waited for Andrew to extend his hand, and waited for Andrew to lead him inside by his own volition.

And that's why Neil was the one who earned Andrew's "Stay".

[lazy-ahh]

CLOSE ENOUGH TO HURT (CLOSE ENOUGH TO HOLD)

pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader

jason todd doesn't ask for hugs. he asks you to punch him instead. it's your job to read between the bruises.

taglist @kasarian , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure

you’ve known jason todd since he was a scrawny kid in a robin suit, all sharp edges and sharper wit—a storm crammed into a too-small body, grinning at you from across the rooftops like he’d already decided you were worth sticking around for. you’ve known him through the laughter that came easy back then, the anger that never really left, the grief that hollowed you both out when the world decided he was gone. you’ve known him through the impossible return, the way he came back wrong and right all at once, a ghost with his same stubborn jaw and new scars he won’t talk about. you’ve known him for years, and still, he finds ways to catch you off guard.

like right now, for instance.

"c’mon, hit me."

your breath stutters. the words shouldn’t startle you—jason’s always been like this, all reckless taunts and testing boundaries—but there’s something different in his voice tonight, something raw under the challenge. you blink, before raising an unimpressed eyebrow, fingers twitching after you set the book you were reading aside. "what?"

jason leans back against your couch like he’s trying to melt into it, arms spread wide over the backrest, legs sprawled like he owns the place (and okay, fine, he kinda does—his favorite mug’s in your cupboard, his boots are by your door, and you’ve lost count of how many times he’s crashed here after a bad night). his smirk is all sharp edges, all i dare you, but his eyes—god, his eyes give him away. they’re too bright, too focused, like he’s starving for something and this is the only way he knows how to ask. "you heard me. punch me. right here." he taps his cheek, just below the scar, the one that cuts through his eyebrow and down to his jaw. you’ve traced it with your fingers before, when he let you, when the night was quiet enough for honesty.

your stomach twists, that familiar ache between frustration and affection that only jason can pull from you. you want to shake him until his teeth rattle, until whatever self-destructive impulse he’s clinging to finally cracks. you want to pull him close and tuck his head under your chin the way you used to when he was smaller, when the world hurt him less but he still pretended it didn’t hurt at all. instead, you cross your arms tight over your chest, nails biting crescent moons into your sleeves to anchor yourself. the fabric is soft under your fingertips, worn from too many washes—just like the way jason’s edges have softened over time, even if he’d never admit it. "you’re such an idiot," you say, but your voice betrays you, warm and crumbling at the edges like old brickwork.

"jason," you deadpan, shifting your weight onto one hip, "i’m not punching you in the face for no reason." the words taste like a lie even as you say them—because you would, if he asked right. if he ever just asked for what he needed instead of wrapping it in violence like a gift in barbed wire.

he tilts his head, the picture of innocence if not for the way his fingers drum restless against the couch cushions. the light catches the faded scar along his knuckles, the one he got years ago when he threw a punch for you instead of at you. "who said there’s no reason?" he counters, voice too light. "i’ve been annoying you all night. you’ve gotta be pissed by now."

"you’re always annoying," you shoot back, but your throat feels tight. you know this game—know how he turns himself into a lightning rod, how he’d rather you direct your anger at him than let it fade into silence. you step closer, close enough to see the way his pulse jumps in his neck. "why do you suddenly want me to hit you?"

he shrugs, a lazy roll of his shoulders that doesn’t match the tension in his jaw. his gaze skitters away, fixing on the window behind you like the night sky might have answers. but you catch it—the flicker in his eyes, something hungry and aching, something that makes your chest hurt. it’s the same look he gets when he lingers too long in doorways, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay. "just wanna see if you’ve got a good swing," he says, but the smirk doesn’t reach his eyes.

you narrow your eyes, studying the way the dim light catches on his stupidly long lashes, the way his grin stretches just a little too wide to be convincing. "you're so full of shit." your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, the words crumbling at the edges like they always do around him.

jason's grin turns sharp, all white teeth and barely-hidden desperation. "prove it." there's a challenge in his voice, but his fingers are tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh—morse code for 'i don't know how to ask for what I really want'.

you sigh, rubbing your temples where a headache is forming. this is how it always goes with him—pushing until you push back, prodding at bruises he won't admit are there, testing how far he can go before you walk away. you know this dance by now, know the way his breath catches when you call his bluff, know the exact shade of pink that creeps up his neck when he's flustered. you know him, all his jagged edges and soft spots, and that's why you can't help but play along.

so you stand up, stepping into his space like you belong there (you do). his pupils blow wide as you raise your fist, his body tensing like he's bracing for impact—not just from your punch, but from whatever comes after. the air between you crackles with something unspoken, electric and terrifying and beautiful.

at the last second, you flick his forehead instead.

"ow—what the hell?" he scowls, rubbing at the spot with exaggerated indignation, but you don't miss the way his shoulders drop just slightly in relief. "that's not a punch."

"you didn't specify," you say smugly, biting back a grin when his nose scrunches up in that way you've secretly adored since you were kids.

he growls, all fake annoyance, and suddenly his hand is around your wrist, pulling you forward with just enough force to make you stumble. your free hand flies to his chest to steady yourself, palm flat over the rapid thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat. it's racing, and you know it's not just from the scuffle.

"cheater," he mutters, but his voice is rough around the edges, his grip on your wrist alternating between too tight and barely there, like he can't decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

"drama queen," you shoot back, but it comes out breathless. you don't pull away. you never do.

for a second, the world narrows to this: the warmth of his skin under your hand, the hitch in his breathing when your thumb brushes absentmindedly against his collarbone, the way his eyes keep darting to your lips like he's mapping out all the ways this could go wrong. his fingers flex around your wrist, tight then loose then tight again—a silent battle between want and fear, between the part of him that craves contact and the part that's still convinced he doesn't deserve it.

then, so quiet you almost miss it, he says, "...missed this." and oh, the way his voice cracks on the last syllable nearly undoes you—all vulnerable and raw and so painfully jason.

your expression softens without permission, your thumb tracing a gentle arc over his sternum. "me too," you murmur, and you mean it more than he'll ever know. you mean the easy banter, the way he fits against you like a missing puzzle piece, the quiet moments when he forgets to be angry at the world. you mean all of him, even the parts he's still learning to love himself.

his breath stutters when you lean in, just slightly, just enough to make his pulse jump under your fingertips. you can see the war in his eyes—the way he wants to close the distance but can't quite bring himself to, the way he's always been better at taking punches than kindness. so you make the decision for him, resting your forehead against his with a quiet sigh, feeling him melt into the contact like a man starved.

"idiot," you whisper, fondness dripping from every syllable like honey—sweet and slow and sticking to everything it touches. the word hangs between you, softer than the moonlight bleeding through your curtains, warmer than the june air clinging to your skin.

he doesn't argue. for once, jason todd has nothing to say, and that might be the most surprising thing of all. you can practically hear the gears turning in his head, see the way his throat works as he swallows down all the sharp comebacks and defensive quips. his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinks, too fast, like he's trying to clear something from his eyes.

then he exhales—a rough, shaky thing that trembles through his entire frame—and suddenly you're being tugged forward. his arms come around you with all the grace of a collapsing building, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt while the other presses almost too hard between your shoulder blades. it's awkward, all stiff limbs and too much force, his nose bumping against your cheek before he buries it in the crook of your neck. he holds you like he's afraid you'll disappear, like he's twelve years old again and still learning how to ask for comfort without throwing a punch first.

but it's jason. your jason, with his too-big hands and his too-soft hoodie and the familiar scent of gunpowder and cheap shampoo clinging to his skin. so you don't tease him (much), just wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze until you feel some of the tension leak out of his shoulders. his heartbeat thunders against your chest, rapid but steady, a reminder that he's here, he's alive, he's yours in all the ways that matter.

"you could've just asked for a hug, you know," you murmur into the space between his throat and jaw. your lips brush against his pulse point when you speak, and you don't miss the way his breath hitches in response.

"shut up," he mumbles into your shoulder, but there's no heat behind it. his fingers flex against your back, tentative at first, then more sure as he starts tracing idle patterns over your spine. it's such an un-jason-like gesture—soft and unpracticed and so painfully earnest—that something in your chest cracks open like an egg, all yolk-bright warmth spilling through your ribs.

you laugh, quiet and breathless, and feel the exact moment he gives in—the way his body relaxes against yours, the huff of air that ghosts across your neck, the barely-there vibration in his chest when he joins you. it's not the loud, head-tipped-back laughter from when you were kids, but something quieter, more private. just for you. his shoulders shake with it, and you hold him tighter, memorizing the way his joy feels pressed against you after so long only knowing his anger and pain.

and if his lips brush against your skin when he pulls away—just once, just barely—well. neither of you mention it. some things don't need words.

..........aaaAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH JASOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN-

[nerdy-novelist017]

Trouble (Eric Draven x Rebel!Reader)

Bill Skarsgard, covered in blood and acting feral as he violently kills people to avenge the woman he loves?? Yeah, that really did a number on me….but I couldn’t help but fall in love with Eric’s quiet character in the first act so pls enjoy my ramblings! 💕

Eric Draven Masterlist

Word Count- 1.5k+

Summary- Eric's carefully guarded solitude is disrupted by a bold newcomer who seems to be trouble incarnate.

“I wanna get in trouble.”

A voice, sudden and electric, broke Eric from his reverie as a figure’s shadow fell across the intricate lines and shadows of his drawing. He glanced up hesitantly, shielding his eyes from the harsh sunlight behind you. His eyes were met with the sight of you – a tempestuous spirit with wild, untamed hair that cascaded around your face like a mane, defying the order and discipline of this facility. There was a glint in your eyes, mischievous and daring, that seemed to challenge the very atmosphere around you. You loomed above him, a figure of restless energy, waiting for a response that he was unprepared to give. 

“What?” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper, a stark contrast to the boldness of your intrusion. 

You grinned cheekily, and with an audacity that left him momentarily stunned, you stepped up onto the picnic bench he was perched at, planting yourself so that you were sitting on the table as if it was your own personal stage. Your feet, clad in worn, oversized sneakers rested casually on the seat in a silent declaration of your disregard for rules. “Don’t you?”

Eric blinked at you, his brows furrowed as he hastily pulled his papers closer, as if to shield them from your encroaching presence. “No.”

“No?” you parroted, a suggestive playfulness tone to your voice. “But this place is so boring.” 

He glanced around the yard, taking in the stark reality of the rehab facility, his eyes lingering on the chain link fence with its towering barbed wire glinting menacingly in the afternoon sun. “It’s supposed to be,” he said with cold detachment. “And you’re not supposed to be fraternizing with me.”

You followed his gaze, casting a sly look to the guards who stood at the back door, and a smirk danced on your lips. “Uh oh, I wonder what the consequences for that will be.”

Eric wanted to roll his eyes at your attitude. This was how all the newbies were when they came in: brash, defiant and convinced they could outwit the system. They came in with fire in their eyes only for it to be extinguished within days by the crushing reality of their situation. Nobody stayed trouble for long. He watched as their bravado withered, soon to be replaced by resignation. And the ones like you – those who pushed the boundaries with reckless abandon – often found themselves confined to solitary confinement, their spirits slowly eroded by the wright of their own demons. 

“You think I could seduce one of these guards to sneak us in some contraband?” you asked, raising your brow in a conspiratorial way as you nodded toward a pair of male guards standing near the backdoor, idly chatting and sharing a cigarette. 

Eric’s gaze traveled over you, from the oversized, ugly pink sweatshirt that swamped your frame to the untamed hair that framed your face like a wild halo. You spoke of “us” as if any semblance of companionship existed between you too. There wasn’t. It was just him and his solitary existence. He had no need for friends, no desire for connections – especially not from someone like you. 

“No,” he said finally as he returned to his sketch, hoping his blatant disinterest would be enough to drive you away. “You need to get off the table.”

He could feel your eyes on him, your gaze almost too intense. When you tilted your head, studying him in amused disbelief, he knew what was coming. Another newbie thinking they could crack him open like some sort of nut, put together the broken pieces like a puzzle. He kept his attention on the drawing, hoping you’d take the hint and leave him alone. 

“C’mon, you don’t look like someone who’s this much of a stick in the mud.” Your voice was playful, teasing but Eric could sense the challenge beneath it. His silence seemed to fuel you, as if his resistance was exactly what you were hoping for. “What’s your name anyway?”

He hesitated, hating how you were forcing him to interact with you like some needy puppy. “Eric,” he muttered, keeping his gaze locked on the drawing.

“Eric,” you tasted his name on your lips quietly. It grated on him, the way you spoke as if you already knew him, already had him all figured out. “You’re an artist, huh? I bet you’re all dark and broody, right? The strong, silent type?”

His jaw tightened, his pencil pressing a little too hard against the paper. He didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him, but he could feel your words digging right under his skin. Dark and brooding? Strong and silent? You didn’t know anything about him, didnt understand the darkness that lingered in the corners of his mind, the weight of the silence he carried, yet here you were, already trying to pin him down with labels. And typically, Eric didn’t care what anyone else here labeled him with, but your unnervingly amicable voice was something he wasn’t used to. It was almost laughable, except it wasn’t. It was annoying. 

Your words struck a nerve. He remained quiet, instead choosing to focus on the shading in the corner of his page, tried to drown out the sound of your voice, but he knew his silence was betraying him. The tension in his jaw, the way his grip on the pencil tightened – it all gave him away, and he could almost feel you noticing it, filing it away for later. God, why couldn’t you just leave him alone? 

Then you leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a whisper for only his ears to hear. “You know, I think you want to get into trouble. You’re just too scared to admit it.”

His eyes snapped up to meet yours before he could stop himself, his heart racing at the sudden intensity in your eyes. And there was something in your gaze that unsettled him. Annoyance flared up first, hot and defensive. But beneath that, he felt a flicker of . . . curiosity. And he hated that too – hated that you were getting under his skin. What the hell did you even know about him? What gave you the right to pry into his life, his thoughts.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he retorted, his voice sharper than he intended, the words escaping in a rush of defensiveness. 

You shrugged, unbothered by his tone, a playful smile tugging on your lips. “Maybe not yet, but I’m good at figuring people out. And I think you’re bored out of your mind here, just like me. You’re dying for something – anything – to happen.”

Eric shook his head, forcing himself to look back down at his sketch. “You’re wrong.” 

Even to his own ears, the denial sounded weak, and that only served to deepen his irritation. 

You let out a dramatic sigh, stretching your arms overhead, and Eric resisted the urge to glance up. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. I’m always up for a little fun.”

“Fun,” he echoed, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered to respond, but something about your persistence was unraveling him bit by bit. “That's what got us in here in the first place. 

You paused, and for a second, Eric thought maybe he had finally shut you up. He looked up and caught a flicker of something else in your expression, something serious that made his chest tighten with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. But just like that, it was gone, replaced by that infuriating grin. 

“Maybe,” you said, your voice softer, thoughtful in a way that made him uneasy. “But maybe that’s what will get us out of here too.”

Eric watched as you slid off the table, landing lightly on the ground. For a moment, he thought you might actually leave him alone, and the relief that washed over him was sweet. But then you turned back, hands stuffed into the pocket of that oversized sweatshirt, your grin still in place – though it didn’t seem to reach your eyes quite the same as before. 

“See you around, Eric,” you said before sauntering off, as if you didn’t just turn his whole world upside down in a matter of a few minutes. 

He stared after you, watching as you kicked at the feet of another unsuspecting patient who grumbled at you as you passed. His mind raced, his drawing forgotten, the lines and shadows now blurring together in an indistinct mess. He hated how you so easily managed to disrupt his carefully-constructed isolation, how you made him think about things he thought he’d buried a long time ago. He wanted to believe you were just another reckless newbie, just another faceless patient in a sea of addicts who would burn out soon enough. But something in the pit of his gut told him you were different – something he couldn’t shake. 

In the silence that followed your departure, Eric was left to grapple with the realization that the trouble you brought was not just a disruption, but a catalyst for change, a challenge to his solitude. And now as he returned to his meaningless drawing, he wondered briefly if perhaps your indelible, chaotic presence was exactly what he needed to rewrite his own story in the hell hole. 

And that scared him more than he’d like to admit.

Tagging some of you who seemed interested!

@apolloanddaphnis @one-of-thewalkingdead @m00npjm @maimai-0603 @redwitchbitch1 @at-midnight @fandom-fanatix @spoiled-bat13 @alinahdee @mrsalwayswrite

[thesiltverses]

given that prayer marks seem to be routinely engraved on acolytes/sacrifices themselves, what is the status of (non-votive) tattoos in tsv? could they be used by victims/surviviors of illegal worship to cover prayer marks (like some do for scars)? or to neutralize them? or conversely, would they not interfere with a prayer mark at all, and then could they be used by illegal god worshippers to hide them? or are they looked down upon or regarded with suspicion/wariness? do they even exist???

I think yes to almost all the above - I imagine that former worshippers might cover up unwanted prayer-marks by transforming them into a new design, but not as a mechanical cure-all - they might then sometimes find that the new design is somehow being incorporated into the manifestations of the god as it haunts them.

(i.e. Change that barbed-wire tattoo into a nice harmless rose because you want to be rid of the military-boundary deity you used to follow? Surprise, your family are all twisted up in a maze of horrible wire with red roses sprouting from their mouths!)

Suspicion of any iconography whatsoever would definitely be a society-wide issue, and contribute towards the prevalence of straightforward propaganda that we see in the show.

[knightjpg]

landslide | chapter 1

Ghost grits his teeth and fights it down; wrestles the images back into the coffin and puts his full weight on it. Back into the dirt. If he can repress it hard enough he won't have to feel it. He won't have to think about it other than just another nightmare. Just another bad night.

tags: ghost/reader, finding each other again after years have gone by, reader has a toxic boyfriend

chapter 1 | next

Ghost rarely sleeps well. 

Magnesium, painkillers, valerian, melatonin, passionflower—they make him sleepy and slow, but don't do much for actual rest. White noise gives him headaches; weighted blankets sleep paralysis.  

He's come to accept the ever-present dull throb behind his temple, the constant foggy weariness that only fades on his third strong cup of Earl Grey.  

It's not like he's unfamiliar with pain. Part of the job. 

But that doesn't make it hurt less. Most days Ghost feels as though his mind is a landscape fenced off with barbed live wire; do not touch. Do not go here. 

Do not trespass. 

In daylight he compartmentalises; he puts the fear and the stress and the adrenaline away in their coffins and buries them deep. It lets him keep his head level, keep his patience, keep his anger and spite to fuel his body. Keep moving.  

But in dreams the boundaries grow muddled. Memories, both false and real, mix with the present; a torrent of rain batters on his shoulders. Back into the ground. He tries to walk and finds he can't, feet stuck in the sludge. 

When he wakes he tastes the silt stuck behind his teeth. 

Years have gone by, and the scar is no longer a raw wound. It has grown new skin, thick and gnarled, though Ghost can't think about it too hard. He can't look at it— 

(the pain) 

—or it'll be real. 

“How'd that last run of sleep meds go for you?” 

Ghost shrugs. “Bad. Quit 'em after three weeks.” 

The man before him hums and scribbles something down on his notepad. “What was bad about it?” 

“Look, Jo-boy! There's uncle Simon!” 

Simon ruffles the snow out of his hair and stomps his boots on the mat again for good measure. He has to reach around the Christmas decorations to hang up his jacket; the shiny foil crinkles under his fingers. 

“Alright, Tommy?” 

Simon steps into the living room. The floorboards creak under his weight. Joseph laughs up at him and garbles, waving tiny little hands in the air. 

Beth pokes her head out from the kitchen. It smells warm. The oven hums; there's the scent of good meat, of new candles just lit. Home. 

“Simon! Oh, I'll be right there—we're almost done. Can you set the table, honey?” 

“Sure.” Tommy stands, picking up Joseph and giving him a twirl as he does. Joseph shrieks in delight. Simon smiles; he and Tommy clap each other's backs in greeting. 

While Tommy wrangles Joseph into his highchair Simon sets off for the plates. There's four of— 

Four— 

Four plates? 

Simon pauses, counts in his head. Yes, that's right. Four plates. 

The front door opens and closes again. A flash of winter wind chases through the gap. Another set of footsteps, a high voice that's not Beth's— 

Simon turns around— 

and wakes drenched in sweat. He's panting, desperate for air; a violent shiver rolls over his spine and suddenly he scrambles upward, dry heaving off the side of the bed. Nothing comes out. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, but the afterburn of three charred corpses clings to the back of his eyelids. One no bigger than Simon's arm, cradled in the arms of— 

Acrid smoke in his nose, eyes stinging with tears. 

Three—there was—there were four— 

Another dry heave. 

No. Ghost grits his teeth and fights it down; wrestles the images back into the coffin and puts his full weight on it. Back into the dirt. If he can repress it hard enough he won't have to feel it. He won't have to think about it other than just another nightmare. Just another bad night— 

“Is that the first time you've had recurring nightmares?” 

“No.” 

Ghost is looking down at his hands. He picks at a hangnail. He hates this.  

“But you did say it was different this time around, wasn't it?” 

Another shrug. 

The man in front of him taps his pen on his clipboard in thought. 

“If you're not against it I'd recommend you keep at it a little longer. That might give us a better idea of how you're reacting to it. Maybe we need to up your dose...” 

“Wine, Simon?” 

...have yourself a merry little Christmas, the radio sings. Let your heart be light... 

A glass is poured. Cutlery clinks against plates. The candle flames dance, shimmering under the sparkle of everyone dressed in their best. Joseph makes a mess on his face of spaghetti and marinara sauce; people laugh. A photo camera clicks and flashes. 

“A toast!” 

Four glasses raised to the light. The wine filters through Simon's glass like deep red petals, a ruby halo ring smattered against the surface of old wood. 

“What a shame your boyfriend couldn't make it,” Beth says. “What was his name again?” 

An answer, blurred. Simon looks down; the person on his right has slender hands. No ring. 

“More for us,” Tommy says with a wink. He looks so happy. He looks so in love. Simon feels more than anything— 

This was worth it. Everything he had to do to have this was worth it— 

“Simon?” 

Tommy's not looking at Beth anymore. He's looking at Simon, brows furrowed. His lip curls the way it does when he's worried. Why? Things are good. Things are... 

“Are you alright? Simon—” 

Simon's hand clutches at his side. A hook pierces through his flesh, glinting in the candlelight. There's wine— 

blood— 

spilling everywhere. 

“Where are you going?” Roba's voice rasps in his ear.  

“Did you think you could leave?” 

The scar on Ghost's side burns when he wakes; he grabs blindly at the nightstand for his painkillers. Swallows them dry, grimacing against the bitterness. Feeling his stomach clench and protest, sweat rising to his temples. Wine, Simon? 

He never drinks wine. Hates the stuff; prefers bourbon, whiskey. Beer on occasion. 

Ghost presses the palms of his hands against his eyes. It's not real. A dream. It's just a bloody dream. His mind is making shit up and those fucking sleeping pills have been making it worse— 

A photo camera clicks and flashes. 

Ghost breathes out through his nose, going through breathing exercises with gritted teeth and clenched hands. Relax. Fucking relax— 

“Do you want to hold him, Simon?” 

Simon wordlessly holds his hands out. Joseph blinks at him, brown bighuge eyes and a wet nose. His rosy little cheeks glow under the lights of the Christmas tree. 

Simon keeps holding him like that, hands firmly tucked under his little arms. Beth laughs a little when he doesn't move. 

“On your lap, Si, like that.” Beth gently guides Simon to cradle Joseph in his arms, tucked against his chest. Joseph reaches up and swats Simon's chin. 

“No, no, no hitting, honey,” Beth says, catching Joseph's sticky little hands. “Be nice to uncle Simon, yeah? I'll pop on the kettle.” 

Simon can't answer. Jesus, he's so small. Soft. Something catches in his throat when Joseph gurgles and yawns, sagging into Simon's hold on him. 

“She's a good person,” Tommy said when he first told Simon Beth's name. “The best kind of person.” 

Cigarette smoke curled up into the night sky. Cold out. 

“If I ever...” 

Tommy hesitated. 

“If I ever... fuck up again. You set me straight, yeah? I wanna—I'm gonna do it right. For—for myself, but also—to be someone that she...” 

“’Course,” Simon told him. 

“Thanks.” Tommy's lip curled. “You know. You're a pretty good person too.” 

Simon blinks back into the present when someone asks him, “He's so little, isn't he?” 

“Yeah,” Ghost says in his sleep, and wakes himself up. 

----------

You drain the last of your complimentary water because your hands are starting to itch for having something to do. You pointedly look away to the wall when you tip the glass; if you catch the waiter's eye by mistake again you're going to burn a hole in the ground from shame. 

You set the glass down. Tap against it. Notice, and stop. Fold your hands in your lap. Bounce your leg. Eye your phone—you've checked it every other minute since you got here and know there's no point; it's set to buzz. There's no way you'd miss a text. 

... 

You tap in your passcode and slide open the screen. It's still open on your texts: delivered, unread. 

17:34 Just got here! Are you on your way? 

17:48 Can you let me know when you leave? xx 

(1 outgoing call, missed) 

18:15 Is everything okay? I'm worried. Please text me back? 

(2 outgoing calls, missed) 

18:25 I'm really worried babe, can you please let me know you're okay? 

Another ten minutes have passed. You give the restaurant's entrance one final desperate glance, then get up and leave. You pay for the drink you felt obligated to get on your way out with a stiff smile. 

Just when you've reached the station—and have resigned yourself to an uneasy end of your night—your phone buzzes in your purse. 

You stop straight in your tracks; someone bumps into you from behind and grumbles at you as you make your apologies and squeeze yourself off to the sides of the grimy London Underground. 

“Dave?” you ask upon picking up, voice tense with stress. 

“Hey babe. Saw you called. What's up?” 

For a moment you're at a loss at what to say. The gift bag dangling in your free hand weighs a million pounds. You swallow. 

“We had a date tonight and you weren't—you weren't there. You weren't responding to my texts, and you didn't pick up, and I thought—” 

“Slow down,” Dave says. “What d’you mean we had a date? I don't remember making plans.” 

You close your eyes, begging whatever is up there looking over you for strength. “We did. Make plans. Why—where are you?” 

There's muffled laughter on the other end of the line; faint shouts, fragments of music with a fast beat. “Just out for a few drinks,” Dave says. His voice drifts; he moves away from the speaker and says something to someone else. You can't make out the words, but you can hear his tone. Nonchalant. Unassuming.  

Completely, totally relaxed. 

You stay silent. 

After a too-long pause Dave speaks up again. “Cool, guess we'll see each other next weekend?” 

“I want you to apologise.” 

Dave sighs. “C'mon, don't be so uptight. I forget a date one time and you get so fussy. I'm fine, don't be worried, just go home and sleep, yeah?” 

“This is the third time, actually—” you start to say with a tight throat. 

“Gotta go, babe. Bye!” 

The line goes dead. 

You stand there for what feels like a long time, looking down at your phone. Strangers shouldering past you in a blur.  After a few minutes a venmo notification pops up; Dave sent you twenty quid. For the dinner x. 

You cry a few silent tears on your way home on the tube. The reflection in the dark windows mocks you; a sad, pathetic little girl wearing grown-up clothes. 

What are you getting so wrong?

Is it unreasonable to expect your boyfriend to remember your anniversary? To show up when you buy tickets for a film he said he wanted to see? To be excited when you tell him about a promotion at work? 

Dave's never shouted at you. Never hit you, never called you cunt or slut or stupid little whore. It could be worse. That's just what men are like, your girlfriends say. Dave pays for your dates? He got you something for your birthday? He popped to the pharmacy when you were sick? 

You're so lucky! 

Lucky.  

You sniffle, wipe your nose on the back of your hand. You miss Beth. 

When you get home you don't bother turning on the lights. You flop onto your mattress still wearing your pretty dress—new, the snipped tags still on your desk—and close your eyes. 

Kettlebell hops up the bed moments later, and despite everything you smile a little when his whiskers tickle your cheek. “Hey, buddy,” you whisper. 

He chirps back. Another dip in the mattress signals Mim has come to give you a welcome-home sniff as well. 

You roll on your side, stroking your cats’ fur. You wish you could be petty and vindicative. Not show up next time Dave arranges an outing. Ignore him when he reaches out. Tell it to him straight—that he can be a real jerk sometimes. 

But just like all the other times you know you'll crumble when he comes over with flowers. “Movie night for two?” he'll ask with a smile. Cheesy pizza and inside jokes, falling asleep together on the couch. 

Comforting. Familiar. 

“I never asked, but these people aren't family, right?” 

You look over your shoulder from the kitchen. The microwave hums in front of you, corn popping arrhythmically against the bag. Dave is leaning over the arm of your sofa, looking at the few photos you have in your apartment while he waits. 

“Not by blood, no.” 

“You've never told me about them,” Dave says, craning his neck back. “Who are they?” 

You abandon microwave duty and move closer, perching on the sofa next to Dave. “That's Beth—next to her is her husband Tommy.” You point to a laughing, chubby baby smearing spaghetti sauce over his face. “That's their son, Joseph.” 

“Huh.” Dave cocks his head. “When was this?” 

“Long time ago. Seven—no, eight years?” The microwave beeps, and you get up to get the popcorn. “They died in a horrific accident a few months after this photo was taken. Gas leak. The explosion took out the whole apartment complex they were living in at the time; Tommy's brother, too. He was there when it happened.” 

It's long enough ago that the loss is no longer paralysing. You miss your best friend—you miss the family she'd built that welcomed you so warmly. You miss little Joseph, and you miss Tommy, too—from the moment you first met him you could tell he'd fallen head over heels for Beth. 

Who wouldn't? Young and beautiful and vibrant, filled with so much hope and dreams for the future. A dull sadness washes over you sometimes while doing the most mundane tasks. Laundry. Loading the dishes. Filling a bowl with popcorn. 

“Jesus,” Dave says. “That's awful.” 

“Yeah. I miss her every day. Miss all of them.” You put the popcorn down and look at the smiling faces in the photograph. The telly hums quietly in front of you. 

You startle when Dave suddenly claps his hands. “Alright, let's turn that frown upside down. Deadpool to the rescue.” He grabs the remote and presses play, music blasting from the speakers on cue. 

You settle in beside Dave silently. You've never cared much for action movies; prefer romance. Fantasy. Something you don't have to flinch away from—where explosions are the outlier and not background noise. 

The photo frames reflect the colours on the telly, jumping from bright white to red to white again. Illuminated in its glow, cut off at the neck at the right edge of the frame, a man holds up a glass of bourbon forever frozen in time. 

[dizzydaisychains]

Ｓａｆｅ　ａｎｄ　

Ｓｏｕｎｄ　ス穏ソ

summary: sylus wonders if humanity will ever give him a chance; especially when he’s born to be feared.

or alternatively: some quick flash fiction of dragon sylus

word count: 1.2k

𓆰♕𓆪

Deep in a forest on the outskirts of a provincial town, a young boy who has just turned twelve years of age squirms inside a barbed-wire net as a herd of angry villagers jeer at him, their pitchforks poking his pale skin from down below as the net sways violently from the trees. 

To catch something alive in a trap like this, it’s a cruel ritual of not only pain, but also humiliation. How on earth could humanity come up with such a tortuous contraption? Not even a snake toys with their prey that long before eating it.

Even worse, how could they use it on a little boy? He’s only a child, after all. Except, as Sylus feels the blade slice into the scales of his right wing, he knows he is not a child. He’s not even human. He’s a monster. A damned creature, cursed to be feared and hunted for eternity, because that’s the life of the dragon. Born from fire in the depths of Hell, their greed knows no boundaries, their razor-sharp claws will dig into your flesh, draining your soul from your body before swallowing you whole.

But it’s not true. Sylus has tried many times to show the humans that he’s different. That he can look like them, talk like them. That he enjoys reading the manuscripts the scribes write, that he adores the soft fabrics they wrap themselves in when it snows. 

Abandoned by his pack when he was born due to his human-like appearance, Sylus has wandered the earth for years in solitude, fending for himself, learning the way of the dragon in isolation. In fear of himself, he had tried to cut his horns from his head, had tried to hide his wings under a cloak he made from moss and weeds; but his attempts of hiding his hideous appearance were futile in the end. No matter how many villages and towns he visited, they eventually found out what he truly was; what he truly is. What he always will be. 

“Kill the beast! Kill the beast!” 

Tears of anguish fill Sylus’s eyes as he grits his teeth, trying to push down the roar that’s building in his throat. He refuses to let any of them hear his pain, refuses to give them even a hint of satisfaction. 

“Slay the dragon! Slay the dragon!” 

They continue to chant in unified dissonance before the sound of a dozen arrows firing fills the air. The sharp little tips embed themselves into every inch of his body that they can find.

He hisses as he feels the warmth of his blood dripping from his wounds. Why can’t fate grant him death? Life isn’t worth living if only to suffer at the hands of mortals.

A pair of rough hands yank his tail as another pair sets it on fire. Helpless, Sylus can only howl as the pain becomes too much for him to bear. His roars echo throughout the forest, spreading over the valley as other animals in the distance respond, sending him their blessings; stay strong.

As his vision blurs with unshed tears, all he can do is watch as they rip apart the flowers he had spent months growing around his nest, hours and hours of his tender care, gone within seconds as their nails tear the delicate petals into shreds. 

The villagers continue to torment him until day bleeds into night, until eventually they grow bored of his lack of reaction. They’re not ready to kill him just yet. No, they need him alive so he can lead them to his treasure. It’s a known fact that all dragons keep a stash of riches that could satiate even the greediest of souls. 

And so, they leave him there, covered in blood, hanging limply in the net.

They call him a monster. 

But as the stars look down at the creature in captivity, they seem to whisper that humanity is the worst monster of them all. 

𓆰♕𓆪

Centuries pass, but time cannot heal some wounds. 

As Sylus stares at his rippling reflection in the moonlit river, he can’t stop the feeling of disgust twisting in his chest like a blade as a red-eyed demon with pointed horns stares back at him. Once a dragon, always a dragon. No matter how many times he tries to cut his horns or sever the wings from his back, he will always look like this. Too human-like to be accepted by his own, too beastly to be accepted by humans, he is caught in liminal hell, doomed to live in eternal solitude until the world caves in. 

Or so he had once thought. 

“Sylus! There you are!”

You appear in his reflection as you crouch down and throw your arms around him, pulling his back into your chest, the warmth of your skin sending shivers down his wings as they relax in response to your touch. 

“I have a surprise for you,” you coo. Before he can say anything, you place a flower crown on his head. 

“Ta-da! They match your lovely horns,” you giggle, clapping your hands in excitement as Sylus reaches up to touch the petals with his sharp claws.

Turning to face you, Sylus inhales sharply, surprise spreading across his face as you boldly reach out and cup his cheeks with your hands. He has never met someone who has dared to touch a dragon before, but in the moonlight, your hands on him are as clear as crystal, nothing but affection radiating from you as you stare at him as if he were Atlas holding up the night sky for his lover. 

“How can you even bear to look at me?” Sylus asks, the pain of his past memories swirling in his heart, making the world feel grey. “I’m a monster. There’s no life for you if you stay by my side.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” Your tone is stern as your grip on his face tightens, eyes suddenly turning fierce. “How many times do I have to say it? You’re not a monster. You would never hurt me.”

Sylus stares into your eyes, searching for any hint of a lie, any crack in your demeanour that might reveal your deceit, except, it isn’t there. The Aether Core in his eye can feel nothing but your desire to be loved. It makes him feel sick. The fate that befalls a dragon’s lover is a cursed fate. A fate that can only result in death. 

“Do you even know what dragons feed on? Souls. And yours is irresistible. It’s only a matter of time before my instincts tear it out from your mortal body.”

You shake your head. “I don’t care. My soul is already yours. You saved my life. So let me save yours.”

Soft lips brush against his own as you lean in and kiss him. It’s delicate; like a glimmer of light that creeps in through a fissure in a cave. 

If there’s one thing that Sylus has learned in all his years of solitude, it’s this: hope is a terrible, terrible thing. It’s a lixury that a dragon can’t afford, and a weakness that can cause even the mightiest empire to crumble. 

Hope is a terrible, terrible thing.

But even after all his afflictions; Sylus can’t help but succumb to the feeling if it means he can keep you by his side until Doomsday calls. 

[leashybebes]

do I have interest in buck/sal/timmy? What a question. Okay #7 + whisper. (Also sorry about work)

thank you! and hey, at least wednesday is my day off. work has no power over me for the next 18 hours at least 🎉

Contrary to popular opinion, Sal knows when he's being an asshole. And he knows he's being an asshole to the kid right now. It's not Buck's fault that Sal and Tommy have got themselves tied up in knots about him, but he can't seem to stop. Sal's never been great at boundaries, doesn't know how to find a balance between non-existent and mile fuckin' high concrete walls topped with barbed wire. It's one of the things he and Tommy have in common.

He knows Chim and Hen have spotted it, is pretty sure he's passed then whispering about it a couple times, and it's probably only a matter of time before Nash pulls him aside for one of his damn pep talks. Sal can't wait for that shit. The kid has sure as hell fuckin' spotted it, if the goddamn puppy eyes he shoots Sal's way when he thinks he isn't looking are anything to go by.

[ppleasexanny]

⌞an oneshot of chris getting jealous because of one boy.⌝

chris and angel’s relationship was a tangled mess of mixed signals and uneven boundaries, they weren’t officially dating, but they weren’t just friends either. chris enjoyed a level of freedom that angel was denied. while chris was allowed to hook up with other girls without repercussions, angel couldn’t even entertain casual conversations with other boys from her class without facing chris’s possessiveness. if she did, he made it a point to remind everyone that she is “taken”, even though he never committed to her in the same way/ this double standard created a dynamic where angel was unsure of her place in the boy’s life, while he indulged in the best of both worlds. 

𝜗𝜚

mac miller’s "jump" hums softly in the background, the faint beat filling the quiet room. angel is lying on chris’s bed, her dark hair fanned out against the white pillow. his hand is tracing lazy circles over the tattoo on her arm, the barbed wire one. it’s not sweet, though. nothing about chris is sweet. it’s more like a reminder—his touch, the way his hand grips hers tighter when she moves to adjust. like he owns her. 

angel doesn’t say anything because she’s used to this. used to how her world bends around him. it’s always like this—his rules, his terms. 

his lips trail down her jaw, his free hand slipping under the strap of her tank top. her chest rises and falls, her breath shaky as she gets lost in the feeling. it’s confusing. it always is. she knows she shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t want him, but she does. 

“ya still let that kid do this to ya?” he mutters, his voice thick with that unmistakable boston drawl. the words come out half-teasing, half-something else. something sharper. 

angel glances at him, trying not to smile. “you gonna complain about my tattoos again?” 

“nah,” he says, but his smirk is wicked, like he’s thinking about a million things he’ll never say out loud. “just sayin’, though. this one? it’s a little on the nose, don’t ya think?” 

his lips brush the edge of her jaw, and her breath catches. it’s always like this with chris—soft enough to keep her hooked, but not enough to ever feel safe. 

her phone buzzes against the bed. she ignores it, but of course, chris doesn’t. 

“who’s textin’ ya?” he asks, his voice tightening. his hand stills on her arm, gripping it just firm enough to make a point. 

“no one,” angel lies, her chest tightening. “it’s nothing.” 

but he’s already grabbing her phone. “lemme see.” 

“chris—” she protests, but his eyes are locked on the screen, his smirk growing into something almost cruel. 

“who the hell’s this kid?” he scoffs, holding up the phone so she can see. it’s just a text from some guy in her class, asking for help with homework. 

“he’s nobody,” angel says quickly, reaching for her phone, but he yanks it out of reach. 

“‘nobody,’ huh?” chris drawls, raising a brow. “then why’s he hittin’ ya up? what does he want, huh? some extra credit?” 

“it’s not like that,” she says, but she knows it’s pointless. 

he chuckles darkly, shaking his head. “nah, nah. don’t worry, babe. i’ll take care’a this for ya.” 

before she can stop him, he angles the phone and snaps a picture—a low, gritty shot of his hand gripping her left tit, the tattoos, the messy bed, everything screaming off-limits. 

“there,” he says, sending the pic to the guy without hesitation. “that oughta shut him up.” 

“chris, what the hell?” angel hisses, snatching her phone back. 

he shrugs, leaning back against the pillows like he’s got all the time in the world. “what? i’m just helpin’ ya out. ain’t no guy gonna be textin’ my girl. ’cept, y’know, you ain’t my girl.” 

his smirk deepens, like he’s proud of the way he’s got her all tied up in knots. angel stares at him, her pulse racing. she wants to be mad, to tell him off, but then he pulls her down again, his lips crashing against hers, and all those thoughts just dissolve. 

because no matter how messed up he is—no matter how messed up they are—she’s still his. whether she likes it or not. 

a/n... i've watched 'saw 2', "saw 3', 'saw 6' and 'saw: the final chapter" and now i'm watching the first 'saw' movie... what the fuck.

ᯓ TAGS: @strnilolover

(big thanks to gabby cuz she gave me this idea i love u girl x)

© PPLEASEXANNY

[alwaysbewoke]

I’m personally a Holocaust survivor as an infant, I barely survived. My grandparents were killed in Aushwitz and most of my extended family were killed. I became a Zionist; this dream of the Jewish people resurrected in their historical homeland and the barbed wire of Aushwitz being replaced by the boundaries of a Jewish state with a powerful army…and then I found out that it wasn’t exactly like that, that in order to make this Jewish dream a reality we had to visit a nightmare on the local population. There’s no way you could have ever created a Jewish state without oppressing and expelling the local population. Jewish Israeli historians have shown without a doubt that the expulsion of Palestinians was persistent, pervasive, cruel, murderous and with deliberate intent - that’s what’s called the 'Nakba' in Arabic; the 'disaster' or the 'catastrophe'. There’s a law that you cannot deny the Holocaust, but in Israel you’re not allowed to mention the Nakba, even though it’s at the very basis of the foundation of Israel. I visited the Occupied Territories (West Bank) during the first intifada. I cried every day for two weeks at what I saw; the brutality of the occupation, the petty harassment, the murderousness of it, the cutting down of Palestinian olive groves, the denial of water rights, the humiliations...and this went on, and now it’s much worse than it was then. It’s the longest ethnic cleansing operation in the 20th and 21st century. I could land in Tel Aviv tomorrow and demand citizenship but my Palestinian friend in Vancouver, who was born in Jerusalem, can’t even visit! So then you have these miserable people packed into this, horrible…people call it an 'outdoor prison', which is what it is. You don’t have to support Hamas policies to stand up for Palestinian rights, that’s a complete falsity. You think the worse thing you can say about Hamas, multiply it by a thousand times, and it still will not meet the Israeli repression and killing and dispossession of Palestinians. And 'anybody who criticises Israel is an anti-Semite' is simply an egregious attempt to intimidate good non-Jews who are willing to stand up for what is true.

[marigold-hills]

Hi Marigold, 😁, I know atm you are busy with other projects, so I am not expecting this any time soon. When you get a moment, I would love you to consider the following prompts for Wolfstar: 3, 14, 25, 27 from the prompt list. So much angst in those lines 🫢👀

hey! I’m sorry this took so long! Hope it was worth the wait.

3, 14, 25, 27 

“I know it hurts.”

“I made a mistake.”

“I’m scared.”

“Please stay with me.”

🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟

Remus is alone in the Shack. He sits on the small, ruined bed and looks at the scratches of claws gauged into the wood.

He made them - the wolf made them - the last time he transformed alone.

It’s been so many months since then. So many moon rises and moon sets with company that he’s forgotten what this was like. The waiting.

The Shack’s windows are bordered up. He can’t see the sky and can’t tell the time. Can’t tell how long is left except for the steady breaking of marrow deep inside his bones (the wolf getting ready, laying in wait, always close, always separated by nothing but the barrier of Remus’ own flesh).

He doesn’t have his wand. He never brings it. Moony could break it, he said when asked. It belongs to me, not to it, he didn’t add. I want nothing of mine contaminated by it. 

He doesn’t bring his nice sweaters or his nice shoes. He wears an old beaten up shirt and jeans torn at the knees he’a long grown too tall for.

Today, he wears a shirt he stole from 

the bed of someone who should be here. It’s black and has the face of Jim Morrison printed on the front. The person who should be here slept in it the previous night. It smells like him, still.

Remus is too tired to pretend that isn’t why he took it.

He’s not angry. Not anymore, and maybe he wasn’t in the first place. It’s not the person’s fault that someone could be dumb enough to go where he knows a werewolf would be.

But he knows the wolf near lost its mind at the smell. He’s too worried to let anyone close again.

The person is a contrarian. Remus knows this. Should have known.

The footsteps on the rickety stairs try to be soft.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Sirius says before he says anything else.

“It’s soft,” Remus doesn’t lie but doesn’t tell the truth.

“You don’t even like The Doors.” Sirius stands in the sliver of light forcing itself through the cracks in the boards. He’s solid, real.

“I like some of their songs just fine.”

“You like been down so long because it resonates with your self-deprecation, not because you enjoy it.”

Remus doesn’t have an answer to that. He lets himself fall backwards on the bed.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. “I told you not to come.”

“And I told you I would anyway.” Sirius sits on the bed, next to the bend of Remus’ knees. “You might have convinced James with your talk of boundaries or whatever, but we both know that’s bullshit.”

Sirius, Remus knows, only swears if it’s about his mother or to make a point. To make it stick.

“I made a mistake,” Sirius adds, “a really fucking big one.”

“It’s not about that.”

“No?” He doesn’t look convinced. “Last month I sent someone to the Shack and this month we’re not allowed to spend the moon with you. I’m not stupid, Remus.”

A hand placed on Remus’ knee. Sturdy. Solid. Real.

“I know you’re not angry with me. I know you’re not angry with James. Peter, bless him, had nothing to do with it.”

“Peter turns into a rat. Moony would have him for a snack,” Remus scoffs. 

“There it is.” The hand squeezes, like a victory, fingers strong on the achy tendons. “You’re scared.”

Remus is too tired. He turns on his side, away from the voice that sounds too self-satisfied and the hand that feels too soothing. 

The dichotomy of Sirius - comfort wrapped in barbed wire.

“You think Moony has gone onto some kind of blood lust.”

“You don't know shit,” Remus lies. Remus is so tired of lying.

“You think that he smelled that dumb wanker, and now he’ll turn on us.” Sirius doesn’t let him deflect. A hand on Remus’ elbow, pulling him back. “You think Moony will turn on his own pack.”

They’re eye to eye now, Sirius above him.

“Prongs had to…”

“I know what James did. You had that hoof-shaped bruise on your arse for weeks.”

Remus tries to turn away. A hand on his neck. Solid, sturdy, real. Not pushing. Holding.

“Prongs has had to get rough with you plenty of times before. Do you know what Moony does? Mewls like a cat. Apologises. Licks his face.”

A hand in his hair. Holding.

“He’s just like you, when you let yourself be real. He’s you, Moony. Would you ever hurt me?”

Eyes, solid, silver, stern.

“Never.”

Sirius releases the grip but doesn’t move away.

The moon pulls at Remus’ navel. At the place where his brain connects to the stem of his spine.

“I’m scared,” Remus says. Thinks of the waiting. “Please stay with me.”

“You just have to ask,” Sirius says, leans forward, breath against Remus’ brow. They’ve never been this close before. “Anything you ask.”

Remus’ mind dissolves into pieces of itself and pieces of the other. He hears shouting or maybe howling or maybe he hears nothing at all. Only a whisper, I know it hurts, I’ve got you, I have you. I’m right here. 

[yanderemommabean]

I was re reading your bull hybrid fics of andy, and I really like them, and I was wondering how he would react to another farmer flirting with the reader?

I hope you're taking care of yourself and have a splendid day.

The bull just huffs, blowing air through his nose as he paces back and forth in his pen as he watches that no good Agust flirt with you and take your sunhat, holding it above your head and offering it back only if you give him a kiss. 

Andy doesn’t like August. He doesn’t like how he flirts, how he keeps his hands on you a bit too long, how he makes you laugh and acts like He can take you away from Andy himself, like the bull wouldn’t send him through three barns with just one angry kick. 

Thankfully you tell August that you aren’t going to kiss him, but then it’s followed by you flirting back, and his hairs stand on end when you say “We have to be classy, take me to the fair first”. 

No. No way in hell, as you’ve said before. What? It’s a cute saying! He likes it! What he doesn’t like is you forgetting that he’s claimed you as his, no matter how much you brush it off and act like it's some cute platonic joke. 

He kicks his hooves before easily galloping to jump over the barbed wire fence, sweeping you up as you yelp and push August out of the way. He gives warning chuffs, saying nothing as he backs away with you as you squirm and tell August “Don't worry! It’s fine! I swear! J-just give us a minute! He gets protective is all hun” 

Protective? Well, he’s a bit more than that, really, jealousy definitely has a part in his actions too. He holds you tightly in one arm as he ignores your scolding about hopping the fence yet again. Usually your scolding was cute and made him amused, with how he knew your cheeks would heat up and how you’d go on small rants that he just found adorable to the core. 

He takes you to the apple trees and just squeezes you tighter in a hug, chest rumbling in growls and dare he say- whimpers. Your worried hand comes up to try and pet his face, worried but also having a feeling this was more than about scaring away the farm help. You’ve noticed he tries to scare away August more than anyone else, even if he just waves hello some mornings. “Andy…Deep breaths. We’ve talked about how getting worked up isn’t good for you, remember?”

The hybrid just chuffs in acknowledgement, but still couldn’t help with how his instincts told him to stay on guard and keep that filthy excuse for a suitor away. “What’s this about? August was just being playful, he wasn’t bullying me none” “You agreed to meet him though. You agreed to be taken to a fair. That means you see him as a potential mate and I can't have him take you away”. His hands come to gently pet your hair, more to comfort himself than anything but you found it nice as you let the creature explain himself. You found it sweet he was so worried, but you needed to try and put some sort of boundaries down. Big sweet eyes or not, Andy can’t keep doing this. 

“Andy…You’re very sweet. You know me and you are close, and that I care about you very much but-” “But you found a human mate. As much as I’d like to understand that, I know that he won’t be good to you. Wont court you right, won’t make you smile and laugh or give you a companion when that sadness in the pit of your stomach grows too big”. “Andy-” You begin to protest, but you’re lifted up again and you're easily cradled in his large arms as he shakes his head, not letting you continue. “I care for you deeply too. I love you deeper than you seem to know. So, because I love you, I might have to do something that hurts you if you keep seeing that man”.  Your blood runs cold hearing that, and you begin to squirm again but it's no use with something so much bigger and bulkier than you. “Hurt me how?! You aren’t laying a hand on me!”

“Why would I lay my hands on you? It’s that ugly cowboy wanna be I’m going to maul, as much as you like him, I won’t allow that toxic and venomous snake around you. Whether you continue to like me or not, I’ll do what it takes to keep you close to me and taken care of, especially if that means I have to kill”.  ((I hope you enjoyed bean! Feel free to comment even if its just emoji spams lol -Mommabean))

[ahoyimlosingmymind]

we can argue day and night whether or not Alden and Della were emotionally abusive, if the Vacker kid's lives really were perfect, if Fitz was just born with the coping mechanisms he has, or if they were created etc...

But here's the thing. When you take into consideration WHAT is valued in the lost cities, what is expected of imperfect people, all of the boundaries and barbed wire around what makes someone 'good'- nobody, and I mean NOBODY is coming out of that world emotionally unscathed.

Lord Cassius is not the only elf in the lost cities who cares about the status of himself and his children, and keeping up appearances. We know he has a warped view of his desire for Keefe to succeed being a form of love. We know how he has pathologized his self-absorbed need to keep his ego intact. He's a piece of shit. But part of the reason is that he values what his world has taught him to value. Prestige, sophistication, power etc...

There's a reason Mr. Forkle had to keep his twin a secret his whole life. A reason the Song Twins were rejected. Why Stina was raised to bite before assessing the danger. Because they were born 'imperfect' to their 'perfect' world's standards. They were born with the short stick. The scorn built in. There's a reason the school, Exullium, exists. For rejects, for people who don't meet the standard. Bad matches, being talentless etc... because their world rejects people who are 'chips' in the facade.

which means, that regardless of what you value, your world will punish you for anything that doesn't meet their quota. Sure, there's elves who choose their values over expectations (Dex's parents) but there's still a lifelong social punishment that comes with it.

Which means the threat of this punishment hangs over every elf's head. Which means that there are undoubtedly elves who adhere to values they don't agree with, solely out of fear of the consequences of choosing what they actually care about. This is their world. This is their lot in life.

And good luck trying to kill out this way of thinking and running the world, when elves live forever, and the people in power are the oldest elves in the world.

Now- imagine you're the Vacker's. You are the spitting image of what perfection is thought to be. You are renowned, watched- YOU ARE THE STANDARD. But even the Vacker's know they aren't perfect. Which means that regardless of how they feel about any of it, if they want to avoid scorn- they have to meet impossible requirements.

And to some parents, loving their kids means 'saving them' from that scorn. Which means heaping the expectations of the world onto their kids tenfold.

standards that are inherently abusive.

I don't think the Vacker's could come out the other side anything but emotionally abused. because the standards of their world. Because the standards they are held to, are so unrealistic, and the punishment for not meeting them is so heavy, the only way to meet them is to die a million deaths and not let anyone see that you are a corpse. You either become exactly what the world wants, or you fall, and everyone watches when you hit the pavement, and then they remark how ugly you look, and how you failed to even be appealing in death.

But guess what- that is your fate. Because it is impossible. And this type of pressure doesn't make diamonds, it creates kids like Fitz Vacker, who's fall from grace was inevitable. Because the standards were always impossible. No soul could meet them.

You can't come out of a world like that without some measure of emotional damage. It's a cycle.

Some elves choose to fight the power, but that resistance is futile when the power is literally ancient, with a relative scale for justice, and an 'objective' scale for judgement.

it just so happens that the Vacker's response was to melt their gold exactly into the shapes asked of them, regardless of how wrong it felt, and how much it hurt.