#glad I’m not trippin and this is something someone else has noticed

[his-tamine]

this is random and doesn’t apply to you specifically, you just seem chill and one of the most active peoples. Is there a reason comments aren’t used often and most people just reblog? Is that just a thing cause that’s what people do with no real reasoning, or is rebloging easier or better somehow? I’m just new here and I have the brain of an algorithm that’s like “but it seems more efficient to do this not that. So why are people doing that?”. Typing this out I realize there probably isn’t a reason, but ima still ask.

Well first of all, thankyouu,, I’m always glad when people perceive me or my blog as being nice or chill,, I always worry that I’m annoying people because I’m someone who couldn’t stfu if his life depended on it lol

And no, because that’s a really good question! 🤔

I’m still relatively new to snzblr— & tumblr in general— having just started this blog in March of this year, and tbh, I have absolutely no idea either.

I’ve just been copying how I’ve seen everyone else communicating for the most part, so I honestly could not tell ya’. There doesn’t appear to be any strict pattern, as I’ve seen people do both or either just because, but I usually comment under someone’s post if I want to talk directly to that person, and reblog if I wanna add on to the post.

For example, if I saw a personal post— someone going thru something difficult in their real life or someone having achieved something big in their real life, etc. and they decided to share/vent here— I’d comment, wanting to keep their post specific to their page & not take any attention away from their voice, but still offer support.

Or hey, if I saw a really hot snz prompt and don’t have anything specific to add but want to express how much I love it, I’d probably usually comment, saying something like “omg THIS!!! 👀👀” yk?

But if I saw a really hot snz prompt and wanted to add something, I'd reblog saying like “This is sooo [character]-coded” or “THIS, but add [whatever you wanted to add/ think pairs well with whatever scenario it is]” if that makes any sense.

Tbh, I really usually just sit back and observe how people communicate, and then try my best to match it to a degree that wouldn’t be off putting if I can help it 😭

most of the time, it’s really just a shot in the dark and the only “rules” for these things there are, are the kind I’ve made up in my head based on my own observations. (i.e. “normal conversation with someone you’re not super close with, limit yourself to 1-2 emojis if any” or something silly like that.)

Sorry ab this answer being so damn long I def got carried away, but hey, if there is a genuine answer to this, I do hope you— AND me tbh— find it someday, because it’s something I’ve noticed too, you’re definitely not nuts lol,, But in conclusion, as far as I’m aware, there isn’t just a simple answer

[carry-the-sky]

Hi could you do 14. touch on a bruise for brio please?

ahhh thanks for sending this one in!! have some post-s3 angst, hahaha. :)

(also on ao3)

.

The next time she sees him, he’s bleeding.

Okay, maybe not actively, but the jagged line of stitches etched above his ear looks like it’s seconds away from ripping open. Beth takes in the nasty bruise blooming along his jawline, the cut splitting his bottom lip.

“Um,” she says.

Rio smirks. “What’s up?”

“I—” she sputters, because he’s just standing there with that stupid, smug expression, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to drop by the showroom after hours looking like—that. “You—what happened?”

“Not your division, darlin’.”

He says it lightly enough, but Beth reads the undercurrent of warning in his voice like a neon sign. He wants her to drop it.

Well. She’s not feeling very incentivized to give him what he wants at the moment.

“It is when you bring that”—she pointedly eyes the stitches—“into my showroom. Those look awful, by the way. Did he do them?” She juts her chin toward Mick, who’s lurking in the doorway.

The two men share a look, and Mick folds his arms across his chest. “Maybe I did,” he grumbles. “YouTube’s got tutorials for everythin’.”

Beth glances between them both. She’s about to open her mouth—to say what, she has absolutely no idea—when Mick snorts, shaking his head at the same time that Rio’s mouth twists into a grin.

“Nah,” Rio says, still smiling as he casts a glance back at Mick. “Nah, he didn’t. Your concern’s duly noted, though.”

Mick makes another sound in his throat that he quickly covers by turning it into a cough. Beth’s face flames, but she draws herself up and meets Rio’s gaze head-on. Let him try to get a rise out of her—she knows better than to take that bait.

“Fine. What can I do for you, boss?” she says, spitting out that last word like it’s acid.

Rio’s eyes fall to the floor, but Beth can still see the ghost of a grin lingering at the corners of his mouth, like he knows he got under her skin. Like he’s won. For one furious second, she imagines how hard she’d have to hit him to split his lip, leave a bruise. She imagines hurting him and liking it.

But she doesn’t really have to, does she? Beth still remembers the weight of his gun in her hand, how the recoil from pumping the trigger once, twice, three times made her hand ache for days afterwards. She remembers him choking on his own blood, the sound of it filling up the loft—

No. No, she hadn’t liked any part of that. It’s a catch twenty-two; she hates him, she wants him dead, gone and out of her life, his name crossed out in permanent ink, but then—sometimes she doesn’t. It’s the not-knowing that keeps her circling the drain, pushing that damn boulder up the hill only to watch it come crashing down again and again.

She thinks she might hate that even more than she hates him.

Beth blinks, coming back to the office. Mick’s staring her down like a hawk, but Rio’s gaze is more appraising, head tilted to the side in a gesture that’s so familiar, so him, it makes her stomach flip.

“Just here for my cut,” he says, as nonchalant as if they’re discussing the weather. She hears the unspoken words as clearly as the night he said them—you, me, we. It’s just business.

Beth holds his gaze a second longer, then tugs a black duffel out from under her desk. She hands it off, dropping the straps like they burned her to avoid brushing her hand against his when he takes it from her. If he notices, he doesn’t show it.

“What, no mama bag this time?” he says, then presses his lips together like he’s trying not to grin.

Beth glares at Mick, who just shrugs. She snaps her eyes back to Rio, barely managing to unclench her teeth before asking, “Anything else?”

“Yeah, Mick’s gonna check the books.”

Of course he is. Beth isn’t exactly shocked, but it still feels like a slap on the wrist, another reminder that there’s a hierarchy and she’s the furthest thing from sitting on top. Even this, the operation she pieced together herself, the system she built on equal parts desperation and determination—even this isn’t hers.

You wanna be the king, you gotta kill the king.

Yeah, she tried that. Technically she’s still trying, but she shoves that thought down deep and ignores the twinge in her chest.

Rio’s already turning to go, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. “Next week, yeah?”

Maybe it’s the way he says it, like he’s glad he can pawn her off on someone else because he has better things to do with his time, or maybe the stress and exhaustion from these past few months are finally cracking her foundation—the reason doesn’t really matter. Beth can’t—won’t—let him have the last word.

“You should really get those stitches looked at,” she says.

He pauses, then looks back at her. In the low light, his eyes almost look black.

“I’ve had worse,” he says, and the words hang between them for a moment, heavy as a loaded gun.

Beth swallows. “Still. They could get infected.”

Something slides across Rio’s face, sharp and predatory. It’s the look he gets when he sees an opportunity, and Beth feels her stomach drop.

“Yeah?” he says, turning around so that he’s facing her again. He drops the duffel, and Beth can’t help flinching at the thud it makes when it hits the floor. “Sounds like you’re volunteerin’.”

“No, that’s not—”

But he’s moving, sliding into the chair on the opposite side of her desk. Beth’s eyes dart to Mick, but he just arches an eyebrow, not even bothering to look up from the list of sales projections he’s been checking.

Rio leans back in his seat. “A’ight, doc, fix me up.”

Beth stays where she is. The irritation that’s been bubbling just beneath the surface ever since he walked through the door is reaching its boiling point, but there’s something else humming under her skin, crackling like a live wire. He can leave whenever he wants—he was halfway out the door a second ago—but instead he chose to stay.

They’re circling the same drain, each of them waiting to see who will get sucked under first.

“I’ll—get the first aid kit,” Beth says, stepping around the desk only to be stopped in her tracks by Mick, who clears his throat audibly and pulls his jacket back to reveal the Glock tucked against his side.

Beth resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Really? You think I’m stupid enough to try something with both of you here?”

Rio doesn’t answer, just fixes her with an amused look.

“Fine,” Beth snaps, taking a step back. She nods at Mick, tips her head in the direction of the door. “It’s in the bathroom across the hall.”

Mick gives her a two-fingered salute and ducks out of the room, and then it’s just her and Rio.

He’s still—watching her. He looks relaxed enough, legs spread a bit and his hands clasped loosely in front of him, and if Beth didn’t know better, she’d say the expression on his face is almost neutral. But she does know better. His eyes are what give him away, flashing with the same electricity that’s thrumming behind her sternum. He’s waiting for her to make a move. She knows, because she’s doing the same thing.

God, she hates how much she likes this.

She barely registers Mick coming back—it’s only when he tosses the first aid kit onto the desk that she jumps, startled back to herself.

“Thanks,” she says, injecting as much sarcasm as she can into the word.

Mick’s mouth twitches, but he goes straight back to the books, sinking into a chair in the far corner of the office. Beth rolls her own chair around the side of the desk, lowers herself slowly into a seated position beside Rio. This close, she can see each individual color in the whorl-patterned bruise that stretches up toward the hollow of his cheek. She lets her eyes drag across it, then up his temple. The stitches look—well, not great. It’s clear they were done hastily, probably to prevent as much blood loss as possible, but the wound is seeping.

“Damn, that bad, huh?” Rio asks, reading it on her face.

Beth stares down at the kit in front of her. Her first aid knowledge extends about as far as patching up a skinned knees and Benadryl for minor allergic reactions—removing possibly-infected stitches from her crime boss’ head isn’t even in the same zip code.

“I don’t—I don’t know what you want me to do,” she says, abruptly exhausted.

Rio adopts an expression of mock concern that does nothing to ease Beth’s urge to slap him. “Oh, no?” he says. “What part’s trippin’ you up?”

Beth shuts her eyes for a second, briefly wonders why the hell she didn’t let him waltz out of here when she had the chance—except she knows why, and so does he, and when she looks again—

He’s practically beaming, that smug tilt at the corners of his mouth dialed up about a thousand percent, and it’s like a puzzle piece slotting into place. This is just another game—he’s messing with her, playing with his food before eating it.

The low buzz of electricity inside her ignites.

He’s not the only one who’s hungry.

“No, you’re right,” she says, popping open the first aid kit and digging around until she finds the antiseptic wipes. “I should at least clean those stitches up. Maybe even remove them, start fresh.”

She glances up, and that’s the only reason that she sees him falter, a blink-and-miss-it record-scratch behind his eyes before he recovers, slides the mask back on. Satisfaction floods through her. She can play his game.

“Whatever’s good, ma,” he says with a shrug. “You’re the boss, yeah?” He echoes her earlier emphasis on the word, grinning when he sees the barb land. “Shit, that’s my bad—poor choice o’ words.”

Beth rips open a wipe. “This might sting,” she says, pressing against his line of stitches, hard. She’s rewarded with him hissing a breath through his teeth, the hand at his knee balling into a fist.

“Easy, mama,” he grits out.

Beth flashes him her sweetest smile. “I’m sorry, is that too rough? I thought you liked that.”

Mick makes a noise like he’s choking, and Rio looks over, eyes bright with amusement. “Ay, cállate la boca.”

“Didn’t say nothin’,” Mick mumbles, still staring intently at the books.

Beth presses her tongue behind her teeth, swallowing a pinch of annoyance as she switches tactics. “Aren’t crime lords supposed to have, I don’t know, some sort of medical professional on retainer? For situations like this?”

“Nah,” Rio says with a shake of his head. “Why, you gunnin’ for a promotion? ‘Cause I gotta say, your bedside manner could use some work.”

And something inside her roars, because this is how she’s going to get him. She dabs gently at the wound beneath his stitches, swiping a thumb over the sutures. Rio winces, jerks back—

She sees it, the moment he drops the mask.

Beth leans forward. She brings the antiseptic up to his face again, stops just short of pressing it to his skin, as if to ask, okay?

She sees it, the moment he drops the mask.

Beth starts at his temple, softly scrubbing at the caked-on blood that’s streaked down from the cut above his ear. Her hand moves lower, fingers gliding over his cheekbones, and she’s not sure if she imagines his breath hitching when she reaches the bruise at his jaw. She drags her thumb across it, then back again. His skin is warm, under the pads of her fingers.

“How am I doing now?” she breathes, barely above a whisper, and she knows she doesn’t imagine him dipping a glance down to her mouth. Their faces are inches apart, close enough for her to count the shades of brown in his eyes. Her fingers trace lower, toward the curve of his lips—

His hand comes up to grasp her wrist, tug it away from his face. “Don’t,” he growls, low like thunder. A warning. “Don’t do that, Elizabeth.”

He’s looking at her again, but she almost doesn’t recognize the emotion swimming in his eyes. He’s—terrified. Of her. For a fleeting second she lets the thrill of it run through her, buoyant on the feeling of power, the feeling that she’s won—

(—she did it, she shot him, she’s free—)

The moment pops like a soap bubble, and she’s empty, hollow, everything good inside of her scooped away until this is what’s left. This is who she is. And maybe this game they’re playing was never meant to have a winner.

The realization leaves her numb.

She’s vaguely aware of Mick slipping the books back onto her desk, and when her eyes flick back up to Rio, his mask is firmly back in place. Steel, untouchable.

“I’m all better now, thanks,” he says, and then he’s pulling away, pushing up from the desk, slipping out the door. She watches his silhouette until it dissolves into shadow.

She’s alone.

[mixeddoctor]

A Weekend of Limbo

This weekend was odd. I felt like panicked all Friday once I found out homeboy was in town. But then there was something in me that felt like emboldened almost like “this dude would have to be 374782394 different types of stupid to show up to my door” and he may be persistent, selfish, and manipulative but he is NOT unintelligent. So there was a calm that kind of came over me but I still felt kind of anxious. Part of this was because this whole thing has put my friendship with his roommate in question in my mind.  His roommate and I obviously developed our friendship through him but over the 2 years that we were friends, me and the roommate developed our own friendship. We would have our own conversations and discussions completely separate from homie. I cut off everyone associated with him except the roommate because in all honesty, I saw the roommate all the time and I did not want to sacrifice that friendship. Granted, he was homie’s best friend and roommate always primarily you know so  I never expected us to have conversations everyday or anything. I knew that he would have to support homeboy although he did wrong. I mean I was so close and comfortable with the rooommate that I told him that homeboy raped me. His response was genuine and amazing. A big reason I even told him is because I did not want homie to be like “she’s just trippin” or something like that. I wanted him to know that I walked away from a 2 year friendship for a solid reason. Anyway, I think I communicated with him once after that initial disclosure in December when I heard a song that reminded me of him and we never brought up homeboy in any capacity. So when I saw his story on SnapChat, I’m not gunna lie, I felt a little betrayed. 

To be able to explain the betrayal I felt I have to describe some things. So first off, the roommate never posts anything on his story and usually it is with someone else’s pushing that he does it. So I see the story that is the picture of him at the restaurant with the chick and homie but what I noticed is that it was a picture from the camera roll and the caption that is clearly Snap derived is not on the story but on the post. Which means that picture was screenshotted or sent to him for him to post it. And then of course the king of Snap stories is homie so I then wonder, wait, did you tell homie that I am still your friend on Snap and then did you post that at his behest so that I would know a) they are there all smiles and happy b) they went along with the plans to introduce the roommate to the restaurant we had all agreed to go to together c) that it’s like a big fuck you from homie. And then I’m sitting here thinking, if you knew those were his intentions or that I would see it, why would you post it if we are friends too, especially knowing why I can’t and won’t be there. Then I started thinking, maybe that was his way of satisfying a request but also shooting me a warning that everyone was in town. But then if that was the case, why didn’t you just shoot me a direct message. And then after I see that post, he continues to add to his story. I really wanted to see it just out of curiosity and a little bit of anger but I didn’t. He didn’t post after the wee hours of the morning on Saturday but then he had a post go up today on Sunday which is the day that they should be leaving. I saw the preview of the snap and it’s a snap of someone else taking a picture of him eating somewhere which I’m almost certain is Ben’s Chili Bowl which is again one  of those restaurants. I didn’t look because you can obviously see when your story is viewed and I didn’t want to give the satisfaction. But again, why didn’t you just send me a heads up? Or is this his way of showing me that he backs homeboy. He listened to his side of the story and backs him and it’s all just a big fuck you to me. I know the situation was convoluted between me and homeboy because of the way I handled the rape afterwards but that does NOT negate the fact that he raped me. And to take his side makes me feel like I’m being called a liar. And of course the worst part about all this is that it is pure speculation. It is nothing solid. It is not a definite explanation. And I can’t reach out for an explanation or anything, especially now because I don’t know if a) he would have been like come  talk to me and then I would have been ambushed b) he just goes boom I can’t believe you because I believe homie. I don’t know. The worst thing is to not be believed. 

I was thinking of being a little passive aggressive tomorrow after my exam and my biostats class and sending him a message asking him how he enjoyed his time out in the city but again, is it worth it at this point? Do I need to spend energy on this? Is this going to help me or hurt me? 

Well yeah that was on my mind all weekend and granted I felt better. Like I didn’t feel in a hole, but I also felt trapped. I wasn’t going to leave my place just in case homeboy did get cray and showed up at my door but that made me feel angry. It wasn’t super productive but it was better than usual. I think what killed the weekend is that I was finally getting to the point of being old productive and somewhat happy me and boom. I feel like this is like a never ending boxing match. Every time I think I’ve gotten off the ropes and am ready to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee, somehow I end up back on the ropes just trying not to be pummeled into oblivion. 

I should have never gone out to eat after my interview day for my med school. Granted, I probably would not have been in the military on a 4 year scholarship but I would not be dealing with this either. I would never have met the man to completely flip my life upside down in the worst way.  I would be thriving. Not trying to doggy paddle to the safety of the wall of the pool. I thought I would have progressed so much farther by this time. I have a little over a month until the conference where we will be there together. I’m almost mad and emboldened enough to dare him to say whatever he wants to say to me. Because I just want to be done with this. I don’t want to give him power or energy. I’m mad as hell. I might just be upset enough to tell my friends to fuck the plan of a buddy system everywhere because I dare him I dare him to say something to my face. What you gon say? Whatchu gon say to my face? I’m sorry doesn’t restore a damn thing. Telling me how you’ve suffered doesn’t fix me (it might make me feel better-but then again it could make me feel guilty which I don’t want). Telling me that you miss me does nothing. I’m mad enough to say I wanna see him cry. Cry. Snot cry. Ugly cry. And if he wanna be salty as fuck cuz he thinks that he didn’t do something or that by some weird fantasy miracle for him that I wanted it... fuck you. I’m mad enough that if he touches me I might swing. But let’s be real... that’s how I feel now. I could feel apathetic later which would be better anyway. 

I guess at the end of the day, I don’t know how I am supposed to feel anymore. I am just glad I’m not in a hole, but I don’t like this emotional limbo either.