#these two need to learn to use their words

[bcksbarnes]

flowers in hand

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: unfortunately for bucky barnes, he is head over heels in love with you, and when you want something, it doesn't take much convincing.

word count: 3.6K cw: 🔞 some suggestive content (minors do not interact)

a/n: based off of this request! lots and lots of fluff.

bucky barnes was an ex-brain washed assassin who had been broken down and beaten time and time again. he had seen horrors that would leave most people catatonic, he had done things that most people wouldn’t even dream of. this was not a man that wore his heart on his sleeve.

stoic. brooding. an absolute brute, to put it mildly.

but there was something that bucky never wanted anyone to know. a secret he’d take to his grave and would deny if ever asked about it. 

what was this secret? simple. 

bucky was head over heels in love with you.

he knew it the second the two of you met. when you stretched out your hand and told him your name, he felt his knees buckle. when you asked him for his? a bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. he was nervous. a reaction bucky had never had before.

it sent him into a spiral for several days after the two of you met. weeks, actually, if he was being honest. 

everything after that had fallen into place pretty quickly. you had liked bucky as soon as you met him and before you knew it months had passed, the two of you quickly found yourself in a budding romance that needed nothing but water and sunlight to grow. 

the hardest part of learning to fall in love again was that he was so taken aback by how his body and brain responded to you, it was a bit jarring. it was like his entire brain had awoken a part of himself that had been dormant for years. one yearning for love.

it showed in the way you would get home from work and your favorite flowers would be waiting on the kitchen table, powder blue hydrangeas, with a handwritten note alongside it. bucky’s handwriting was a little scratchy and hard to make out, but you didn’t need to read it to know what it said:

thinking of you always. - bb

or when he took you on a joy ride on the back of his motorcycle, never wearing a helmet himself but making sure the straps were just right when he helped you get yours on. his hands would carefully click the buckle together, biting down on his bottom lip in concentration as he made sure it fit you perfectly.

he didn’t want you getting hurt, not on his watch.

that was it - his big secret. you had him wrapped around your finger. something so mundane and, frankly, obvious.

though you never went out of your way to use this knowledge to your advantage. bucky always came running at the sound of your voice.

“buck?” you called out one afternoon.

the sun was high in the sky, it was a beautiful day - maybe a little warmer than you liked, but the cool breeze offered some relief. 

you were sitting on the balcony reading a book in your favorite spot, overlooking the city that bucky had loved so much, and that you’ve learned to love with him. it was different from the one he lived in all those decades ago, the apartment he had lived in as a child was small, cramped - to look out the window was to face a family he never knew, living their own lives.

now, in this decade, the apartment was spacious, overwhelming, the view encompassing the bridge and the east river separating the two boroughs. 

a different life, a different time.

“yeah?” he called back, the door to the balcony slightly ajar so you could both hear each other.

“can you bring me my sunglasses?”

bucky chuckled to himself at such a simple request. he was working on fixing some issues in the kitchen, a leaky faucet to be exact - the one that kept dripping. bucky had a hard time falling asleep as it was, hearing the pitter patter in the middle of the night made him feel like he was going insane.

“hold on, honey.” 

he was currently laying on his back under the sink, his shirt was discarded somewhere next to him and his black mesh shorts rode a bit lower on his hips than he had purposely intended. 

it only took him a few turns of his wrench to tighten the compression ring around the pipe in hopes that it would stop the leaking. 

“that should be it.”

a few moments passed as he placed the wrench down next to him. he held his breath, but bucky, unfortunately, a second later felt another water droplet land on his forehead: unsuccessful.

“shit,” he mumbles to himself before gripping the side of the counter and pulling himself out from under the cabinet. 

bucky hated that this wasn’t working - honestly, he wanted to run to the store and grab some new pvc pipes and just fix the entire thing from scratch. but, your request ran through his head and he quickly pivoted his priorities as he stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“where’d you put them?” he calls, trying to look in the usual spots before finally stumbling on them. “nevermind.”

you hear the door swing open, his footsteps alerting his presence but your attention stayed on the book in your lap, wanting to finish the page you were on.

“i couldn’t find them,” he says. 

when you finally finished the passage, you placed the bookmark in the between the pages, saving it for another time.

your head turned to look up at bucky, his metal arm glistening in the sun and your sunglasses sitting right on his face - that goofy smile of his plastered on his features as he waits for you to notice.

a loud chuckle passes your lips as you reach your hand out for them, shaking your head as he slides them off the bridge of his nose and into the palm of your hands. once you grab them from him, you put the glasses on, the world dimming a bit, but bucky still shines bright in front of you.

“thank you,” you say softly, tilting your head back to admire his half dressed physique. you whistle lowly, causing bucky to roll his eyes at you. “were you working on the sink? sorry, i didn’t even realize.”

“yeah,” he responds, taking a step closer. 

bucky gestures for you to move over and make room for him, groaning as he finally sits down. his arm rests on the back of the sectional while his fingers run through the hair on the back of your neck.

“i thought i’d be able to fix it by tightening it, but i think the pipe itself has a crack somewhere,” he huffs out, shaking his head. “i’ll have to go to the store later.”

you watch him carefully, your hand holding the book on your lap moving to rest on his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. you could see the concentration in his face, the way his brows furrowed until there was a crease between them. he hated unfinished projects.

“you’re not going to rest until it’s fixed, are you?” you ask, though it’s a question you already know the answer to.

“absolutely not,” he shakes his head. “why? have something in mind for us today?”

“i thought maybe we could go to the park later” you hummed, your fingers tracing shapes into his skin. you tilt your head back to look at him, both of your eyes meeting. “they’re doing a movie night. raiders of the lost ark, if i remember correctly.”

bucky’s other leg bounced anxiously at the thought, it’s not that he didn’t want to go with you - it’s that he really wanted to fix this stupid sink. 

he peaked over at his watch, it was nearly 5:30pm. the store would be closing soon, he’d have to find the right parts then fix the sink, and shower at some point before he’d be ready to go. he didn’t know if he had time to do both the movie and finish this project.

his eyes trail back over towards you and he was greeted with the most beautiful pair he’d ever seen. were you batting your eyelashes too?

“you play dirty,” bucky mumbles.

he brings his metal hand up to your face, squeezing your cheeks softly as he leans in to press a few soft, chaste kisses to your lips. he mumbles something about how unfair it is, but you’re so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips you don’t even care what he says.

bucky begins to stand from his seat, though he doesn’t remove himself from your lips, hunched over to make sure he stays closely connected to you. your hands now resting on his abdomen as if to keep him in place.

“i have to shower,” he hums against your lips. “and if the movie sucks i’m coming home and ripping the sink apart.”

“you did not just say that raiders of the lost ark is going to suck.” 

bucky chuckles as he trails his lips down your jaw to your neck, giving it a few kisses and a quick bite before he pulls back completely, that same love stricken look on his face.

“i did. i mean it too,” he teases, backing up until he gets to the door of the balcony. 

“you’re going to be very upset when you’re wrong, barnes,” you call out after him.

he gives you a quick wink before dipping back inside the apartment. 

you take one last look over the balcony, the cars that were passing over the bridge and the people walking on the streets below. all of them had their own little story. it makes you smile to yourself, thinking of this little life you had built with bucky.

it kept you both going.

finally standing, you stretched your arms over your head and grabbed your book before heading back inside the apartment. the cover made a soft thud as you set it down on the coffee table on your way over to the kitchen.

the sound of the shower trickling had your thoughts distracted, even as you began packing the tote bag. you tried to keep your focus on all the goods you wanted to bring and not your very naked boyfriend some 50 feet away from you behind one, probably not locked, door.

how easy it would be to slip in.

you shake your head and focus on the task at hand, packing the bag with: a blanket to sit on, two lime sparkling waters that bucky had picked up a few days ago, and a mix of snacks to enjoy. the perfect picnic.

right as you finished, you hear the door open and bucky step out of the bathroom, the warm steam filling your apartment almost immediately. he looks striking with the towel draped around his hips, his almost freshly cut short hair now wet and combed back.

“you didn’t join me,” he teases, making his way past you and into the bedroom.

“i want to make the movie,” you say back, a smirk on your features. you knew well enough that if you took a step in that shower, bucky would never let you leave.

the sound of shuffling comes from the other room as you can hear him looking through drawers and the closet for his clothes. your feet walk you into the bedroom right as he slips his boxers on, a smile on his features as he catches your gaze.

he didn’t want to go out to the park and watch a movie. he didn’t even care about that stupid leak under the sink that he could still hear and was driving him up a wall. 

no, he wanted to stay here with you and show you all the ways he loved and adored you. he wanted to worship you with everything he’s got. 

his hand reaches out for you and he intertwines your fingers together before he pulls you towards him. you happily oblige.

“you’re still thinking about that damn leak aren’t you?” you whisper, your voice filled with jest.

“every fucking second.”

the smile on his face is wide as he brings his hands up to your face and kisses your cheeks once, twice, three times, causing a soft laugh to leave your lips. in one fluid motion his hands are under your thighs and lifts you up, placing you on the dresser behind you.

he slots himself between your legs and watches you closely, your hands moving to grip his wrists.

“let’s stay here,” bucky pleads softly. “let’s never leave this apartment ever again.”

“i’d love to never have to do that, but you know that’s impossible.”

“hmm,” he hums. “not with that attitude, sweetheart.”

he manages to get his hands free from your wrists, sliding them down to your hips and pulling you forward until your legs wrap around his waist, your heels resting on the back of his thighs. 

“bucky,” you groan.

your head falls back softly against the wall, in the same motion bucky rests his head on your shoulder.

“wishful thinking, huh?” he asks, a sigh leaving his lips afterwards. 

it’s not that he hated the power that you had over him, it was that he didn’t know how you managed to affect him so much. you didn’t even put up a fight with him and he folded, all because you said his name.

he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder before he untangled himself from you and moved to get dressed - a pair of black jeans, a t-shirt that was a little too tight around his muscles and a sweatshirt he knows you’re going to steal at some point. 

finally ready to go.

it only took a few minutes to get to the park. you’re greeted by a sea of people, most of whom have already laid out their lounge chairs or blankets. the sun hadn’t set yet, casting a warm glow as you two found a spot a little bit away from the rest of the crowd. more secluded, but you two would still be able to see and hear the movie just fine.

bucky helped set up the blanket, a long red gingham pattern one that he may have muttered a sarcastic comment about how cliche it was. you may have, lovingly, given him the finger in response. 

the movie started only a few minutes after you and bucky set up the snacks and drinks. both of you were laying on your sides, elbows planted on the blanket while hands kept your head off the ground. 

bucky was very into the movie, barely sneaking glances over at you like he normally did whenever. it captured his attention almost immediately. you watched as he popped a grape into his mouth, his tired eyes trained on the screen in front of him as he absentmindedly chewed. 

it was calming to see him in this environment. you knew that deep down he would never 100% be present, that he always kept one part of his brain active to scan for any potential threats. but seeing bucky in a state of, mostly, ease felt like finding a diamond in the rough. rare, but valuable.

halfway through the movie bucky moves to sit up, stretching his arms over his head before holding his hand out to you. he always seemed to be reaching for you. once your hand is in his, one swift motion is all it takes for him to pull you into his lap, nestling you between his legs, your back now resting against his chest. 

his hands move to run down your arm and he can feel the goosebumps rising against your skin.

“you’re cold,” he mumbles in your ear.

you want to protest that it’s just from his touch, but the words die in the back of your throat as soon as you feel him sit back from you. he pulls off his sweatshirt and hands it over, watching as you carefully slip on the oversized material. bucky wraps his arms around your torso once you’re settled, pulling you back as close as he can before resting his chin on the top of your head.

“much better.”

your heart flutters, as it seems it always does when he acts this way. 

cuddly. soft. in love.

bucky feels like his heart is bleeding out right through his shirt at this moment, you could tell him to do anything in front of this crowd of people and he would comply without hesitation. he didn’t even care.

maybe that was the thing that kept him going in this life. the little pieces of calm he can get when you are around. when the tides don’t feel as strong.

he didn’t want to think about it, he wanted to enjoy himself: your presence, and the movie.

it’s a little while later when the movie finally finished, you craned your head back to look up at him, a smirk on your lips. he was staring ahead at the now blank screen, jaw slightly dropped. 

“i thought you said the movie was going to suck,” you teased.”

“i didn’t know i was coming to see a cinematic masterpiece.” 

you let out a laugh, and then another one as bucky squeezes your sides as his response, falling back over his thigh as you wriggle to try and get away from his wandering, playful hans. 

god, he wished you weren’t in public right now.

“and here you wanted to stay at home to fix that stupid sink.”

“no, i wanted to stay home so i could –”

“bucky,” you cut him off before he can finish that thought, watching as a family walks past.

he lets out a scoff that sounds more like a laugh and pinches your side again as you start to stand up from his lap. bucky admires you from this angle, the way that you towered over him was so jarring compared to how small you normally were when he stood next to you.

“i was going to say so i could take care of you, but if you were worried i was going to say something more vulgar than you need to get your mind out of the gutter, sweetheart.”

“you’re so full of shit.”

bucky’s smile reaches his eyes this time as he throws his head back and lets out a laugh. you were so right and he loved being called out on it, because he loved how well you knew him.

he stands to help you pack the tote bag again, throwing it over his shoulder when it’s done. you grab his metal hand and intertwine your fingers together as you make your way back to the apartment. 

the city was dark now, only illuminated by street lamps and a few fluorescent signs. surprisingly the neighborhood was mostly empty, you and bucky seeming to take up most of the sidewalk and filling the silence with your chit chat about the movie.

bucky was blown away by the story, the action … well the whole thing. 

you were biting back your tongue to not say i told you so.

“you always get your way, you know that?” he says once you're in the lobby waiting for the elevator. “i don’t think i’m capable of saying no to you if i really tried.”

“that’s not true,” you respond.

though if you take a second to think about it, he’s probably right.

the elevator dings its arrival and dips slightly from the weight of the two of you as you step on. you press the button for your floor a few times before turning your attention back to bucky. he’s standing right next to you, his hand slipping out of yours to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. your head leans to rest against him, it always fits perfectly.

“it’s a little true,” he says with a shrug. “i’m not complaining.”

there’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“i’ve never had anyone to care about. not in this way at least.”

“you cared about steve.”

“that’s different,” he sighs. “i made sure steve stayed alive. i didn’t dote over him. i look at you and i’d drop everything just to see that damn smile on your face.”

the blush developed on your cheeks at record speed, a smile accompanying it that was hard to hold back. sometimes bucky had a way with words that took your breath away. he could be deeply poetic. it made you wonder what he thought of in that brain of his. 

“there it is,” he whispers, his gaze flickering down to your lips.

the ding of the elevator snaps the moment back into reality, but that doesn’t deter bucky in the slightest. 

no, instead he follows you down the hall and into the apartment, waiting for the door to shut before he picks you up from behind and walks you to the bedroom to toss you on the bed - the sound of your giggles filling the air.

the second you hit the mattress, and he crawls on top of you, your hands grab his face bringing him down to kiss him feverishly. it’s rushed and messy, tongues sweeping across lips, teeth biting and pulling. 

you don’t need to tell him you need him for bucky to know it, he can read you like an open book. 

as he kisses down your jaw – his stubble scratching your soft skin, hands moving to slide your shirt up, ready to spend the night devouring you – all he can think about is how his love for you is the worst kept secret in the world. and not about the stupid leaky faucet.

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

Get Your Fuckin Ass Back Home 🏡

Jey Uso x Bratty!Reader

WARNING: Brat taming, creampie, rough sex, heavy dominance and submission themes, consensual power imbalance, safeword use (“blue”), face fucking, throat fucking, hard spanking, overstimulation, claiming and breeding kink themes, slight spit play and spit kissing, light degradation, possessive behavior, slight humiliation kink, minimal aftercare, and explicit sexual content (18+ only).

NOT BETA READ! LIGHT EDITING (I took my lunch break early for this.)

INSPO from pic above.

requested by: @acknowledge-reigns

bffls: @spiicii @cheappop @love4brutality @isabella-2025 @maineventabbey

You weren’t trying to start a fight with Jey.

But then again, you weren’t trying not to either.

You knew exactly what you were doing when you pushed back, rolled your eyes, tossed that slick little “whatever, Josh..” over your shoulder like you weren’t poking a damn bear.

Jey’s jaw clenched so hard you swore you heard it crack.

“You gonna fix that fuckin’ attitude, or do I gotta fix it for you?” he asked, low and dangerous.

You just smirked, shrugging, playing dumb like you didn’t know the heat rolling off him was a warning.

Instead of answering, you grabbed your purse and headed toward the door.

“I’m going out with the girls,” you said sweetly, “Don’t wait up.”

You could feel Jey’s stare burning through you as you slammed the door.

⸻

Four hours later, you were three shots in, two tequila sodas deep, laughing too loud at a shitty joke at the bar.

Your phone buzzed once on the sticky table.

You ignored it at first. Then it buzzed again.

And again.

Rolling your eyes, you snatched it up and saw his name light up the screen.

And attached to the latest message — a picture.

One you knew he kept for when he meant business.

A picture of Jey standing near the edge of your shared bed — shirtless, legs spread, his cock bulge through his sweats with that pretty little champion belt he was always so proud — glaring straight into the camera.

The caption underneath was simple:

“Bring your ass home. Now.”

Your whole body heated instantly — not just from lust, but from that possessive command dripping off the words.

You shifted in your seat, thighs pressing together, your stubborn heart still trying to hold the line.

You typed back:

“Maybe I’m busy.”

Not even fifteen seconds later:

“Last fucking warning before I fuck your throat so hard you won’t be able to talk for a fucking week..”

You stared at the screen, your chest tightening. Your instincts wrestled with your bratty need to push.

But you knew better.

Knew what would happen if you ignored that tone one more time.

With a huff, you snatched your bag and muttered something about feeling sick to your girls.

—

The ride home was torture.

Your thighs rubbed together the whole way.

Your pussy throbbed.

Your mind ran wild with all the ways Jey was probably going to handle you the second you walked through that door.

You fumbled with your keys at the door, nerves and excitement tangling together in your gut.

When you stepped inside, you barely had time to blink before a large hand wrapped around your throat and pressed you back against the wall.

“You think you grown now, huh?” Jey rumbled against your ear, voice thick and mean.

Your heart skittered wildly, whimpering without thought.

“Talkin’ back… leavin’ like that… Ignorin’ me…” he growled, nipping sharply at your jaw.

“You asked for this, baby.”

You squirmed under his touch, pretending to be bratty still — but he wasn’t having it.

“You gonna learn tonight,” he promised, his free hand slipping down between your legs, cupping his pretty little pussy that he knew would be soaking through your panties.

You writhed under his grip, still trying to act like you weren’t five seconds away from crumbling.

Still batting your lashes like a brat, even though every second was turning you on even more.

“Awww, poor Daddy is mad ‘cause I went out without him?” you mocked, smirking even as your chest heaved.

The fingers around your throat tightened — just enough to make your toes curl — before he yanked you forward, dragging you by the back of your neck through the living room, down the hall toward the bedroom.

“You gon’ keep runnin’ that smartass mouth, huh?” Jey muttered darkly, kicking the bedroom door open.

“You want it rough, baby? You gonna get it rough.”

He shoved you down to your knees by the bed, your hands instinctively catching yourself on the floor.

You looked up at him, lips already twitching into a smirk.

“So what, you gonna spank me and call it a night?” you taunted, tipping your head to the side.

Jey barked a short, humorless laugh.

“Nah, lil’ mama. I’m boutta break you tonight.”

He leaned down, gripping your chin hard between his fingers, forcing you to look at him.

“You listen good now you filthy slut..” he growled, his forehead pressing against yours, voice dropping so low it vibrated in your bones.

“Your safeword is blue. You say it if you need to. Otherwise, you take what I fuckin’ give you.”

You clenched violently.

But you still couldn’t help yourself. You still had to mouth off.

“I dunno,” you said airily, blinking up at him. “You sure you got the stamina to back all that talk up, old man?”

His nostrils flared.

Without another warning, he pulled his cock free, thick and already leaking at the tip.

Before you could get another word out, he gripped the back of your head and thrust deep into your mouth.

Your eyes widened as he sank all the way down your throat in one brutal glide.

No teasing.

No warning.

Just pure throat fucking.

You gagged immediately, nails digging into his thighs for balance, but he didn’t ease up.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, holding your head still while he fucked into your throat at a savage rhythm.

“Yeah… that’s what I thought,” Jey grunted, looking down at you, dark eyes blazing.

“Smart lil’ mouth… finally put to some good use.”

You tried to glare up at him, tried to glare even with tears prickling your lashes, but it only made him snarl and thrust harder.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that,” he panted. “Go on. Be a little brat. See where it fuckin’ gets you.”

You whimpered around him, half from the way your throat burned, half from the wetness pooling between your legs.

Your hands fisted the sheets behind you, legs trembling.

You wanted to be mad.

Wanted to stay bratty.

But you were drowning in him — specifically his power — and it was breaking you down minute by minute.

Jey yanked out of your throat abruptly, strings of spit connecting you as he tilted your head up.

“You done bein’ a fuckin’ brat yet, mamas?” he asked, voice rough with dominance.

You panted, spit running down your chin, mascara smudged, chest heaving — and somehow you still found a way to smirk.

“Not even close,” you croaked out, defiant.

Jey grinned — a feral, predatory flash of teeth.

“Good,” he said, dragging you up onto the bed, flipping you onto your stomach and second your body hit the mattress, smack— his hand came down hard across your ass, the sound echoing through the room.

“‘Cause I’m just gettin’ started.”

You jolted forward with a sharp gasp, but before you could catch your breath — SMACK — another slap, harder.

“You think you run shit, huh?” Jey grunted, landing another vicious spank, his palm connecting with the same tender spot.

You bit your lip, trying to muffle the whimper that climbed your throat.

“You think you can walk out,” smack, “mouth off,” smack, “and not get checked?” SMACK.

Your ass burned, the sting radiating up your spine. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes — not from pain alone, but from the way your body ached for him, despite your pride screaming not to give him the satisfaction.

He landed one final, punishing slap, making you yelp.

Your fists twisted the sheets under you.

And still — still — you couldn’t help yourself.

When he leaned down over your back, you huffed out:

“That all you got, bitch?”

Dead silence.

You couldn’t even turn your head before he grabbed your hips roughly, yanking you up onto your knees.

You barely had time to gasp before he slammed into you from behind with one brutal thrust, splitting you wide open.

You cried out, your walls fluttering helplessly around him.

“Keep talkin’ now,” Jey growled, snapping his hips against you, setting a ruthless, punishing pace right from the start.

The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, filthy and hot as fuck.

You clawed at the sheets, your body lurching forward with every savage thrust, but he just dragged you back onto him over and over again.

“You want rough?” slam

“You want punishment?” slam

“You fuckin’ got it, baby.”

He gripped your hair again, yanking your head back so you had no choice but to feel every inch of him stretching you to your limits.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but you still bared your teeth — biting back your whimpers.

Jey let out a possessive moan deep in his chest — a dangerous sound — before he flipped you over onto your back in one brutal move, not even bothering to slip out of you.

You cried out from the sudden shift, thighs trembling from how deep he hit inside you now.

Before you could do anything, he grabbed both your wrists and slammed them above your head, pinning you down hard into the mattress with one massive hand.

His hips never stopped snapping into you, brutal and relentless, making the bed frame crash against the wall.

You squirmed beneath him — one last surge of bratty fight — but he just pinned you harder, grinding deep until you screamed his name without meaning to.

“Uh-uh, don’t run now,” he snarled.

“You was big n’ bad an hour ago you fucking slut..”

You shook your head weakly, tears sliding down your cheeks, your body betraying you completely — clenching around him, aching for him, loving the way he manhandled you.

“Say it,” Jey demanded, his forehead pressing to yours, hips punishing against yours.

You whimpered, trying to turn your face away.

He bit his lip and snapped his hips hard, making you cry out again.

“Say who you fuckin’ belong to!”

You panted, shaking, the fight finally leaving your bones.

The orgasm building between your legs made your head spin.

“You,” you sobbed brokenly beautiful.

“I belong to you, Daddy!”

Jey groaned in approval, slamming even deeper, grinding hard against your sweet spot.

“That’s right, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing your tear-stained cheek.

“All fuckin’ mine.”

He kept your wrists pinned, kept you trapped under him, until you shattered around him — your walls clenching so tight around his cock that he finally let go too, cumming deep inside you with a loud, guttural moan.

Pinned, claimed, ruined — exactly where you belonged.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before Jey’s rough voice rasped against your ear:

“Lemme taste you, baby.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted — but you were too weak, too wrecked to stop him even if you wanted to.

Jey slid down your body slowly, his hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide, ignoring your feeble whimper.

You tried to squirm — still too sensitive, your pussy clenching around nothing — but desperate for something.

And then —

He buried his face between your thighs without mercy.

His tongue lapped greedily at the mess leaking from you — his cum, your cum, all mixed together — and he groaned deep in his chest like you were his last meal on earth.

You cried out, trying to twist away, the overstimulation making your legs kick, but he just gripped your thighs harder, forcing you to take it.

He devoured you shamelessly, not caring how sloppy, how wet, how absolutely filthy it was — in fact, he seemed to love it even more.

Your hands scrambled for the sheets, looking for something to hold onto as your body trembled uncontrollably.

When he finally pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with you, his eyes were molten.

But he wasn’t finished.

He crawled back up your body, pinning you down again easily, his mouth hovering over yours.

You could see it — the juices dripping from his bottom lip — seconds before he crushed his mouth to yours.

He kissed you hard, messy, his tongue forcing your lips apart, feeding you the taste of yourself mixed with him.

You whimpered into his mouth, too wrecked to fight it — tasting everything, gasping as he groaned into the kiss.

He pulled back just a little, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you panting.

“You taste so fuckin’ good, babygirl,” Jey murmured, his thumb brushing your swollen lower lip.

“You taste like mine.”

You whimpered again, your thighs rubbing together instinctively, even though you were already so wrecked you could barely think.

Jey smirked down at you as he brushed your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

“You got one more in you, baby?” he asked, voice dark and teasing.

“Or you tappin’ out?”

And god help you —

Even after everything, that bratty little fire in you flickered again.

You blinked up at him and whispered:

“…Is that all you got?”

[neeeooon]

shut me up ;

21 | best friends, baby!

ft. fem!reader & bachira, shidou, rin, sae, isagi, chigiri, nagi, kunigami, kaiser

cw. cussing, threats? of violence (boys being boys), y/n’s hand is shown (only focus on the nails; picture her however you want!)

“what are you all doing here?” you asked through your giant smile as a crowd of young men filtered into the restaurant where you worked. bachira and shidou eyed the menu with hungry eyes before eventually setting their sights on you. “free food?”

you let out a laugh that sounded more like a scoff. “discounted food.”

you don’t usually work nights, so you weren’t sure what to expect throughout your shift, but the five men definitely made you feel a lot lighter. they found their own seats, and you handed over some extra menus and napkins.

“kaiser got held up,” rin informed, though you never asked. “said you were working tonight.”

figures. he’d probably use your unusual shift as an excuse to bring someone over and be louder than usual. you chatted with them until they decided what to eat and then disappeared to relay their orders to the cook. when you returned, the restaurant was relatively empty and all remaining guests had been served, so you slipped into the available seat beside bachira and tugged the bag of guitar picks from your pocket.

“here! i ended up painting them all so you guys could pick and choose which ones you want…” you dumped the contents onto the table and spread them out for all five boys to see. “i already pulled the ones i made for chigiri, so these are all for you!”

bachira leaned into you, tossing his arm around your shoulders as shidou pretended to weep into one hand while reaching across the table and grabbing your hand with the other. “you’re so sweet to us, y/n!”

your cheeks warmed up slightly at the compliment. “it’s the least i could do. you’re the ones who have been sweet and accepting!”

“cause we’re best friends, baby!” bachira cheered as he snatched the dolphin pick up before anyone had the chance. his yellow eyes sparkled when they turned to you. “you really were listening to my dolphin rant?” you nodded and recounted some facts you learned from him as bachira smushed his cheek against the top of your head. “we are keeping you forever.”

you left to grab their orders and told your coworker you were going on break after dropping it off. he waved you off, saying the place was closing soon anyway.

“did you all pick one?” you asked when you realized the pile of guitar picks was gone. sae held one up and balanced his cheek on a closed fist. “those three are hoarding them.”

“don’t lie! we let you take, like, two. and rin doesn’t need a pick, anyway!”

“that one had a skull, though…”

you smiled as the boys argued, but it dropped when another one of your coworkers leaned on the back of your chair and laughed. “i didn’t realize you had a little baby sibling, y/n! i think my sister stopped drawing pictures like that when she.. was…” he trailed off, and when you lifted your head, you noticed all five men staring straight at him.

their faces were meticulously blank; you could feel the tension radiating off their shoulders. shidou shifted like he was about to stand, and your coworker was suddenly on the other side of the store, admiring a fake plant. you blinked, and they returned to normal.

“i’m gonna hang it on a chain and never take it off,” shidou promised while showing the pick off to sae (for the third time).

bachira sighed at his dolphin. “i won’t lose it, but if i do, will you paint me one just like this?” you nodded. no words had come out of your mouth since the encounter with your coworker, and you could tell they were trying to help you get comfortable again.

“y/n! what if you paint our nails next?”

“oh, yeah!” isagi added. “kaiser and rin used to get theirs done all the time. not detailed like your picks, but the fans loved it.”

shidou reached forward and hugged your hands. “would you do that? i’ll paint yours in return—i won’t mess up!”

you smiled, slow and soft. “that sounds like fun!”

masterlist // previous (ch 20) // next (ch 22)

notes -> sooooooo thoughts on what’ll happen next? might be introducing a new character 😅🤭

tags -> @x3nafix @n0tbelle @nensi @ohagiyo @tired-child00 @melinana @chaoslibra @kaidostwin @bubybubsters @miss-aesthetic-13 @ihsoti @arwawawa2 @lonigiri @realrintaro @mivqko @sorasushik1 @pookalicious-hq @higuchislut @tofumiarchives @p1z-d0n7jud6em3 @rainychi2 @ch4rstxr @sapph1r3x @sagging-saging @5-laska @tuna-toes @seinuis @sindulgent666 @evilari111 @newinhalerpls @kisses2kanao @sugacor3 @meizumi @90s-belladonna @meowstertruck420 @kyutiipie @ranzess @cookiesandcreammy @nevvynev @stwberri @mikeymyfav @dontmindtheevie @kaikaidenkai @mizukiblogs @ravenbc @yvanllie @cyberasterrr @lily-isalittlegirl @yourlocaleffy @hanamatopoeia

© neeeooon, 2025

[moran-with-a-g]

My two biggest issues with GenAI is how it was made and how people use it.

Ignoring the ethical issues and environmental impact for a second? It's an incredible tool. It can generate stuff in seconds that will take hours to search for online. I want it to give me a regex? It gives me a regex. I want it to find me the right parameters for a command? It does that and explains to me what they do.

But it can also generate a full paragraph of code, and if you rely on it too much, and one of those pieces of code doesn't work, you lose the ability to figure out yourself what's broken in it.

When it comes to writing, it can generate lists of words and phrases and tropes in seconds. Those lists of words and phrases are especially useful if english is not your first language. And the lists it gives are a lot more related to what you want to get than stuff you can find on Google.

The tropes can be generic, like "story about growing up", "closed off character that learns to open up to others", etc. once again the issue comes when you get too specific and start asking for details like age and look and name and hobbies, and you stop trying to think for yourself. When you don't just get "fantasy" but also specific features and rules and creatures.

And of course the biggest issue is that it was trained on data without the consent of the people who wrote that data. On stories that authors didn't consent to give, code that programmers didn't allow them to use, because it's "publicly available online". And to me this makes even the legitimate usage of GenAI shitty at best and outright criminal at worst.

In some ways GenAI could be a useful tool! Like again with regex, spending an hour trying to figure out a pattern that works for your needs is unproductive, it's not something that was made to be easily understood by humans, but a machine can easily generate it in a few seconds.

Using it to give you 100 words related to the sea isn't going to steal from someone's 600k superwholock smutfic they spent a decade writing.

And ever since they added the search function, you can also ask it "give me 3 websites with resources to help me build my character" and it could find you sites you may not otherwise find by searching through google.

The solution for GenAI won't be to eliminate it. Because you can't do that. It's here already and there will always be people who will use these tools in a way you don't agree with. What you can do is:

Make a GenAI that's only trained on data you got legally with the consent of the creators.

Teach people how to use GenAI in a way that fules their creativity and doesn't replace their thinking.

Encourage people to not come to it as a first resort, to try and ask people first, search engine second, and GenAI last.

Make sure that if they do use it to do the job for them, that they won't try and hide it, so that you'll know they did that. That means not shame them so they won't feel the need to hide it, not cancel it as if they just committed the worst crime known to man, and just leave them alone. Because if someone tags something as GenAI it's a lot easier for you to simply about it.

generative AI literally makes me feel like a boomer. people start talking about how it can be good to help you brainstorm ideas and i’m like oh you’re letting a computer do the hard work and thinking for you???

[leona-hawthorne]

HOW MANY THINGS. mattheo riddle.

mattheo riddle x fem!reader.

summary ; mattheo was never the type to stay where he wasn’t wanted; that is, until he met you… inspired by the song how many things by sabrina carpenter. words ; 5.7k warnings ; modern au (cellphones are used), angst, swearing, drinking, vague sexual innuendos

navigation. masterlist.

Mattheo had never been a pushover; no, he was rather a force to be reckoned with — a hard-ass, for lack of a better word. Born with razor sharp thorns pricking up from under his skin, leaving him bloodied red as roses and torn up before he ever even needed to fight, and barbed wire forced into his throat as he grew older in a world that proved itself impossibly difficult to conquer, he didn’t put up with bullshit.

He didn’t take disrespect or let people get close enough to see even the faintest scab marks of an old wound, and if anyone crossed him, he would make sure they’d live to regret it, erase them from his world like they were nothing more than chalk on pavement — quick, cold, and final.

Maybe he should’ve kept it that way with you too.

He finds himself unable to recall the exact moment that you’d managed to cut through the vines of poison ivy that had snaked their way around his heart, but he does recall the moments that may have led up to it, the ones that brought you closer and closer to his softened center without even trying.

A brush of shoulders every morning when you walked through corridors, secret smiles exchanged like swapping keys to locked rooms, long-lasting conversations that moved from crowded classrooms to the cozy confines of your homes, allowing you to make your own little corner in his heart. 

You never had to beg for space in his world. You carved yourself into him like you belonged there. Not forcefully. No, it was slower than that, more deliberate. Like water through stone. You wore him down until the sharpest parts of him didn’t point at you anymore. Until his anger softened at the sight of your tired eyes. Until your name stopped sounding foreign in his mouth and started sounding like home.

Oftentimes he found himself reminiscing on the beginning of your relationship, when you were warm and inviting, your love being the kind of fire he’d learned to cup his hands around to protect from the wind, aloof to the burn that grazed his fingertips every once in a while. For he was willing to put up with any pain as long as it meant your soul was still intertwined with his, his fingers mindlessly pulling at the strings to keep you close.

But lately, it felt like the fire had been snuffed out. What was once an embery, bright red blaze had dwindled to a lone candle flickering in the dark — and Mattheo couldn’t shake the sense that he was the only one still trying to keep it alive.

At first, he tricked himself into believing it was just a fluke. You were tired, or stressed, or busy; that had to be it. That had to be the only reason why he felt like there was a fucking chasm growing between the two of you — why he felt like you pulled away every time he got close.

It had to be something small. Temporary. Fixable. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

He was certainly never one to pry, opting to bury his feelings under layers and layers of soil from which beautiful flowers would sprout to cover the truth. If he could just make everything look okay — if he kept showing up, kept kissing your forehead, kept making excuses on your behalf — then maybe things would be okay. Maybe you’d notice. Maybe you’d come back to him without him ever having to ask.

Because asking meant acknowledging, and acknowledging meant accepting the possibility that he wasn’t imagining it. That it really was slipping.

Being a bother, a burden, was his worst fucking nightmare. He lived under the fear that you would grow even colder if  he troubled you with asking. He knew what happened when people got annoyed with him. He knew what abandonment tasted like — cold and metallic, a childhood memory rotting behind his ribs — and he wasn’t ready to taste it again.

So he didn’t say anything. Not when you stopped reaching for his hand the way you used to. Not when you started spending more time on your phone. Not when you kissed him absentmindedly like it was part of a routine instead of something you wanted. He told himself it was just life getting in the way. Just stress, just timing, just hormones.

It was ridiculous; he knew that. You weren’t some ice-hearted monster that would shut him out for trying to communicate, but maybe that would’ve been easier. Because at least then, he could’ve hated you. At least then, there would be something clear to hold onto, something he could point at and say, this is why it hurts.

Instead, it’s all this fog. This slow, suffocating quiet where your love used to live, and somehow, that’s worse.

Mattheo stares at the wall across from him like it might offer answers, like it might tell him when exactly things changed. When your love became absentminded. When he became convenient. A fixture. Familiar, but no longer thrilling. Something you didn’t hate, but something you didn’t crave like oxygen either.

He hears the soft rustle of your perfume spritzing into the air in the other room and imagines the way it’ll cling to your coat, to the hollow of your throat, to someone else’s memory when they catch a whiff of it in the street. You’ll smell like something perfect and untouchable, and no one will know that the boy who notices every time you change your scent is sitting on your couch, barely holding himself together.

You hadn’t even asked him to come tonight, wherever you were going. Not even a throwaway “you can come if you want.” Not even a lie.

And maybe that’s the part that hurts most — how easily he’s been written out of your world, how you make it seem effortless. Like love was never supposed to be permanent, just something you tried on until it no longer fit.

He sinks further into the cushions, elbows on his knees, hands dangling uselessly between them. He hates this, hates the version of himself he becomes when you’re like this: quiet, pliant, desperately waiting to be noticed again. It’s humiliating, really. He used to take pride in being cold, in being impenetrable. But now?

Now he stays alone at your flat when you’re out and remembers how you like your tea and flinches when you forget to kiss him goodbye.

Your heels click down the hallway. He doesn’t look up until you’re at the door.

“Do I look alright?” you ask, tugging your coat sleeve down, eyes flicking toward him only briefly.

He nods, eyes trailing over you, heart already unraveling. “Yeah. You look beautiful.”

You smile, distractedly murmuring a soft, “thank you,” before reaching for the door.

“I love you,” he says quietly, like a reflex. 

“Love you too. Don’t wait up,” you mutter, adjusting your coat, pulling your phone out of your bag without sparing him more than a glance.

He nods and forces a small smile, the kind that feels like a lie made flesh.

“I won’t,” he says.

But he will, of course he will.

The door clicks shut behind you, and Mattheo stares at it like if he focuses hard enough, it might open again. Like maybe you’ll come back and say you forgot something — your wallet, your lipstick, him.

But you don’t.

He sits there for a few minutes, motionless, before finally dragging his phone out of his pocket and opening his messages. 

Mattheo: You doing anything tonight?

It takes less than a minute for a reply to come through.

Theo: Depends.

Theo: Are you trying to get drunk or are we brooding in silence again?

Mattheo exhales through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he can manage.

Mattheo: Bit of both.

Mattheo: Come by.

Theo: Be there in 20.

By the time he stands up, Mattheo’s limbs feel heavy. He stretches them out like he’s been sitting there for hours instead of minutes, runs a hand through his hair, and glances around the apartment — too clean and too perfect, all the edges smoothed out to fit your preferences. 

He heads toward the kitchen, opens the fridge, then closes it again. Nothing sounds appealing. He’s halfway to the couch again when he remembers — your cat.

The tiny gray menace you insisted on adopting from a shelter last winter. She hated him at first. Clawed up his pillow and pissed on his shoes. But eventually, she started curling up on his lap when you weren’t home, started head-butting his chin like she chose him. He didn’t say it aloud, but he liked that. He liked her, mostly because she never made him wonder if she wanted him there or not.

He finds her in the corner of the living room, perched on the windowsill like she’s waiting for you too.

“Yeah,” he mutters, kneeling down to scratch behind her ears. “Don’t hold your breath.”

She blinks at him slowly, then jumps down and pads toward her empty water bowl.

Mattheo goes to the kitchen to fill it, and that’s when it hits him.

The memory comes sideways, like most of them do lately. It’s nothing big. Just a night with you barefoot in the kitchen, your hair messy, laughing at something he said, one hand absentmindedly stroking the cat’s back while the other held a mug of tea. You were wearing one of his shirts — he remembers because he liked how it looked on you, the way it hung loose on your perfect frame, driving him mad with temptation and adoration.

“You’re staring,” you’d said back then, smirking without looking up, and he instantly knew your thoughts of lust and love mirrored his own.

“Can you blame me?” he’d replied, walking up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist before his hands slid down to squeeze at your ass, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck. “You’re kind of perfect like this.”

You turned, kissed him slow and sleepy, and murmured against his lips, “I love you, y’know.”

He’d believed you. With everything in him, he’d believed you.

Now, standing in the same kitchen with the same damn cat and none of that warmth, he feels the grief of it. Not for a breakup or for something that’s over, but for something that’s still here, still breathing and just not alive anymore.

He closes his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against them like he can shove the memory back where it came from, but it clings. The knock at the door a few minutes later makes him flinch.

Theo.

Good. He needs the distraction. He needs something to do with his hands besides remembering you.

His best friend steps in with a bottle of firewhisky and a raised brow, already shrugging off his coat.

“You look like shit,” he says, by way of greeting.

Mattheo huffs a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so hollow. “You’re one to talk.”

They settle in the living room without ceremony. No need for pleasantries; they’ve known each other too long. The bottle is uncapped, poured, and the silence stretches comfortably between them, thick as smoke. Mattheo drinks like he’s trying to set fire to something inside of him. Maybe he is.

Theo throws his feet up on the coffee table — your coffee table — and leans back with a sigh. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“Mm,” Mattheo says, noncommittal. He takes another swig, the burn catching in his throat like a warning he ignores.

Theo’s voice cuts through the silence again. “You still working on that bike?”

Mattheo nods, grateful for the shift. “Put in new pistons last week. It’s still fucked, though. Can’t get it to run clean.”

Theo grunts, swirling the amber in his glass. “Sounds like you.”

Mattheo lets the jab land and doesn’t argue. He just presses the rim of the glass to his lips and stares ahead at nothing in particular.

Truth is, he does feel like a broken engine. Still functioning, technically, but something deep in the machinery has been misfiring for a while. Maybe it’s grief. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s just the slow, dull rot of being in love with someone who’s stopped remembering to look at him like he’s hers.

But he doesn’t say any of that; he can’t.

Because saying it would give it shape. It would make it real.

Theo doesn’t push; he never has. That’s part of why Mattheo still lets him around — why he doesn’t flinch when he hears his voice, doesn’t tense when he catches his gaze. Everyone else wants pieces, explanations, a crack in the armor so they can stick their fingers in and pry it open. But Theo? He just sits there and lets him speak or not speak. Drinks the same as he always has, like it’s just another Thursday.

Mattheo leans back, glass balanced on his knee, firewhisky burning down into the pit of something he hasn’t named yet. The cushions under him dip like they’re caving in from the weight of all the words he won’t say.

Theo breaks the silence again, voice low but not soft. “You ever think we peaked in sixth year?”

Mattheo snorts. “I peaked in fourth, mate. Back when I still thought I was fucking invincible and didn’t know what it meant to be gutted sideways by things you can’t punch.”

“Mm,” Theo hums, tilting his head. “I miss when the worst thing we had to worry about was detention.”

“Now I gotta worry about whether I forgot to take the bins out and if she’s gonna come home pissed about it.”

“She usually pissed about it?”

Mattheo’s silent for a beat too long. Then, flatly: “She’s not usually anything lately.”

Theo nods, just once, like he understands, because he does, he always fucking does.

Mattheo shifts in his seat, tilting his glass in his hands like it might tell him something if he stares hard enough. “You ever feel like you’re—” he stops. Swallows, then tries again. “Like you’re… giving so much of yourself to someone that there’s not even anything left to miss when they don’t notice?”

Theo raises a brow, not surprised by the half-confession, but not pouncing on it either. “Yeah.”

Mattheo exhales. It’s not relief. It’s more like… confirmation. That this ache, this raw, bone-deep hollowness isn’t unique, isn’t special, isn’t even interesting. Just another fucking casualty of caring too hard.

“You ever say anything about it?” he asks, voice quieter now, but not weaker. Just less performative.

Theo laughs, sharp and short. “Fuck no. What good does it do? You either say it and scare them off, or say nothing and rot from the inside out.”

Mattheo lets out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Cheery, aren’t you.”

“I’m drinking with you, aren’t I?”

They clink glasses without ceremony. The sound is dull, like the whisky knows it’s not celebration but survival.

Mattheo stares down into the amber, watching it slosh against the sides like it might spill all the things he’s too much of a coward to say. And he is a coward, though no one would dare call him that to his face. Not when he’s always been the firestarter, the mouthy one, the first to throw a punch and the last to back down. But when it comes to you? He folds like a paper bag, like one sharp word might split him clean through the middle.

“I think I broke something,” he says suddenly, gaze still fixed on his drink.

Theo tilts his head. “What kind of something?”

“Dunno.” Mattheo shrugs one shoulder. “Something inside me. Feels like there’s this… noise all the time. This pressure. Like the inside of my chest is gonna collapse under it. Like if I breathe wrong I’ll fall apart.”

Theo watches him for a second, then offers, “Could be your ribs.”

Mattheo gives a weak laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re such a prick.”

“And you’re dramatic as fuck.”

“Says the bloke who wrote a sonnet after that girl dumped him in fifth year.”

“That girl had cheekbones carved by angels and smelled like cherry pie. Show some respect.”

Mattheo smiles, despite himself. Not because he’s okay or because he feels better, but because this — this banter, this brutal kind of loyalty masked as sarcasm— is the only kind of safety he’s got left.

“Thanks for coming,” he says finally, not looking at Theo.

Theo nods. “You’d do it for me.”

“Yeah. And I’d mock your heartbreak the entire time.”

“Obviously.”

They fall silent again, but it’s easier now. Less like drowning.

Mattheo leans back against the couch, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fluttering shut. He can still hear your cat pawing at the edge of the hallway, somewhere near the closed bedroom door. He knows exactly where she’ll curl up when she gets back. He knows she won’t come to him first. He knows he won’t say anything about it, about how you don’t come to him first either.

He’ll stay quiet. He’ll stay still. He’ll let it fester like a wound wrapped in silk.

Because saying something would make it real. And if it’s real, then he has to admit that this version of love — the one where he’s always last, always small, always too much and not enough all at once — is the only kind he’s ever known.

And if he loses this?

He’s not sure there’s anything left worth being. So instead, he’ll cling on as long as he can. Who knows if he’ll ever find anything better?

Time passes until he’s not sure how late it is, the hours blending together like chalk left out in the rain. Somewhere between his nth drink and Theo’s incessant babbling, the sound of the front door unlocking cuts clean through the air.

Your laugh filters in first, bright and bubbly. Something about it makes his stomach twist, because it’s not for him; it hasn’t been for a while.

Mattheo sits up straighter, suddenly too aware of how much he’s had to drink. His pulse stutters. You walk in a moment later, eyes sparkling, coat still half hanging off your arms like you rushed home in the middle of a story you couldn’t wait to tell.

“There you are,” you say, breathless. “Oh my god, baby, you’re not gonna believe this.”

His heart stumbles again at the word baby. You haven’t said it in days — maybe weeks — but now it’s casual, light, tossed out like a sweet nothing instead of a tether back to him.

You spot Theo on the couch and smile. “Oh, hey, Theo.”

Theo nods. “Hey.”

Mattheo’s mouth curls upward, slow and tentative. For a second, all he sees is you. The version of you from months ago, when you used to walk in the door with that look in your eyes and fall into him like home. You’re glowing now, lit from within by whatever you’re about to say, and fuck, he lets himself believe, just for a moment, that maybe it’s about him. That maybe you’ve remembered him again. That maybe he still matters.

You laugh, tossing your bag onto the floor, and sit beside him, cupping his jaw with both hands and pressing a kiss to his lips like it’s still the most natural thing in the world. He melts into it, eyes closing, body sighing against yours like it’s been waiting all night for this moment.

Then you pull back, grinning. “I said yes.”

He blinks. “What?”

“To Spain. The study abroad program. My friend Daphne and I — remember, I told you about her? — we’ve been talking about it forever. And today, we just looked at each other and went, ‘Why the hell not?’ So we signed up. We’re going next term.”

It takes him a second to process the words. Another to feel the floor tilt beneath him.

You’re still smiling, proud of yourself, waiting for him to join in your joy.

And he wants to. Fuck, he wants to.

But all he can hear is the shatter of something delicate breaking inside his chest.

“You… what?” he says slowly, blinking. “You signed up?”

“Yeah,” you say, eyes sparkling. “Isn’t it crazy? I wasn’t even planning to do it, but it just felt right.”

He stares at you, blinking once. Twice. The smile doesn’t come back this time.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m telling you now,” you say lightly. “It all happened so fast.”

Mattheo forces a tight breath through his nose, jaw working. “Did you even think about me?”

Your face falters slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, and his voice is rawer now, frayed at the edges like old rope, “you made this massive fucking decision — one that changes everything — and I wasn’t even in the room for it. Not even a conversation. Just… you and Daphne going ‘Why the hell not?’ like it was booking tickets to a bloody concert.”

Theo shifts slightly, rising from the couch. “Right,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m gonna go ahead and, uh, not be here for this.”

Neither of you look at him as he leaves. The door clicks shut behind him and the silence that follows is dense. It wraps around Mattheo’s ribs like iron.

You sigh, the kind that sounds like it’s been waiting to happen all day. “I didn’t think I needed to ask permission.”

“I’m not saying you needed permission,” he replies, voice quieter now, but colder. “I’m saying I thought we were a we. And I guess I was wrong.”

You frown. “Mattheo, don’t do this. It’s an amazing opportunity.”

“I know it is,” he snaps, then winces and runs a hand down his face. “But I’ve been sitting here for weeks wondering if I’m even in your head anymore, and then you come home smiling like the sun to tell me you’re fucking leaving. And I wasn’t even a passing thought on the way to the decision.”

You look at him, softer now, but not in the way he needs, not with the urgency he craves, not like he’s the thing you miss when you’re gone.

“I didn’t think you’d care this much,” you say finally.

And that is what kills him.

Because he has never cared about anything more.

Mattheo swallows it down, lets it burn on the way to his stomach like the firewhisky still warm in his veins. He nods slowly, then stands up without a word and disappears down the hall

You call after him once, quietly, but he doesn’t answer. He’s already in the kitchen, filling the cat’s bowl, hands shaking slightly as he listens to the soft mewling by his feet. And it’s that — the goddamn cat — that triggers it.

Because last winter, you brought her home shivering and tiny, wrapped in a scarf you’d stolen from Mattheo’s drawer. You’d fed her with an eyedropper every three hours like she was a child. He remembers you laughing when she curled up in the crook of his elbow for the first time.

“See?” you’d whispered, like it was some profound truth. “She knows you’re safe.”

He stares at the cat now, blinking hard. She nudges against his leg like nothing’s changed.

But everything has. Everything is.

You come after him a few moments later — he hears the soft tread of your feet against the wood floor, the tentative way you stop at the doorway like you’re not sure if you’re supposed to enter.

He doesn’t look at you, just crouches down beside the cat, scratching gently behind her ears while she eats, her tiny pink tongue darting rhythmically into the bowl like she’s unaware that the air is thick enough to choke on.

“Mattheo,” you say, quiet. “Can we talk about this?”

He lets out a breath that feels like it deflates something inside him as he stands back up, deliberately keeping his eyes off yours. His voice, when it comes, is low and tight. “Sure. Let’s talk. Now that the ticket’s booked and your bags are already half-packed.”

You cross the threshold slowly, arms folded like you’re trying to shield yourself from something. “Mattheo, please.”

He wipes his hands on a dish towel, not because they need drying, but because he needs something to do before he turns around and sees your face. Because he knows the moment he looks at you, he’s going to feel it all over again. The ache, the hope, the slow realization that maybe he’s been more alone in this relationship than he ever wanted to admit.

Still, he turns. And when he sees you — eyes wide, arms crossed over your chest like you’re cold or nervous or both — it hits him like it always does. That gut-deep devotion that refuses to die, even when it’s being starved.

“You didn’t even think about me,” he says again, quieter this time. Not accusing. Just… hurt. Bone-deep hurt. “That’s what kills me.”

You shake your head, stepping closer. “That’s not fair. It’s not like I’m moving to Spain forever. It’s one semester. Five months. It’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” he repeats, and there’s a bitter edge to the laugh that leaves his throat. He tilts his head slightly. “You didn’t think about what it would do to me. Not once. You didn’t think about how I’d feel waking up in a bed that smells like you, in a flat that echoes without your footsteps in it. You didn’t think about how I’d spend the next four months pretending I’m fine while you’re off drinking sangria and forgetting I exist.”

“I’m not forgetting you,” you say, voice a little sharper now, defensive. “You’re being dramatic.”

He laughs again, harsher this time. “Yeah. I guess I am. Must be all the fucking firewhisky.”

You glance at the half-empty glass on the counter. “Maybe you should stop drinking.”

“Maybe you should’ve told me you were leaving before you already packed your goddamn suitcase.”

That silences you. He watches the way you flinch, just barely, and it makes him hate himself a little more, because he never wanted to be cruel to you; he just wanted to matter.

You take another step toward him, arms still folded, like you’re bracing yourself. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“I am happy for you,” he says, voice breaking around the edges. “But I’m also fucking heartbroken. Do you get that? Can you even hold both of those things at once, or is it just easier to pretend I’ll be fine no matter what you do?”

He can feel the frustration building under his skin like pressure in a pipe, threatening to burst. But underneath it, worse than all of it, is the fear. The slow, creeping terror that this is just the beginning of the end. 

“You didn’t talk to me,” he continues, hands flexing at his sides. “You didn’t even ask if I’d be okay with it. You just… made the choice.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” you say, voice rising a little now. “You’ve never made me feel like I couldn’t do things on my own. I thought you’d be proud of me.”

“I am proud of you,” he bites out, because of course he is. That’s the sick part. That even now, even as he’s drowning in the weight of being left behind, he still wants you to fly. “But I’m not made of fucking stone, alright? I’m not some goddamn statue you keep on your shelf to cheer you on from the sidelines. I’m your boyfriend. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to matter enough to be part of the decision.”

You look down, suddenly quiet. He swallows hard.

Silence stretches again. The cat meows softly, as if trying to bridge the void.

You stare at him. He can see the tears swimming in your eyes now, but it doesn’t undo what’s already been said.

He shakes his head and leans back against the counter, running a hand through his hair. “You used to tell me everything. Now I’m lucky if I get leftovers. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve been trying to not be that guy. The clingy, jealous boyfriend who can’t handle his girl having her own life.”

His eyes meet yours, bloodshot and bright. “But fuck, love. I didn’t think I was completely disposable.”

“Mattheo, you’re not—”

“Then why do I feel like I am?” he cuts in, and it’s louder than he meant, harsher. “You didn’t even consider what it’d mean for us. What it’d do to me. You didn’t think, ‘Oh, maybe I should talk to the person I come home to every night before I decide to vanish across a continent.’ You just decided. Like I’m some guy you’re dating, not... not me.”

You look down, and for a moment he thinks you might apologize. That maybe you’ll reach for him, finally. That maybe he’ll feel like yours again, instead of some antique you pass by daily without noticing the dust collecting.

But instead, you say, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

And maybe that’s what wrecks him most. Because you didn’t mean to. You just did. Like it was easy, like hurting him was just a side effect you forgot to list on the bottle of whatever freedom you’ve been chasing lately.

“I know,” he says, voice barely holding together. “You just didn’t think about me at all. And I don’t know which is worse.”

“I just thought—” you pause, struggling to find the right spin, the safe angle. “You never say much when things are bothering you. I figured if there was something going on, you’d have said something before.”

“I don’t say things,” he repeats, letting the words echo in the space between you. “Right. And what, that means I don’t feel them?”

You flinch, ever so slightly.

Mattheo’s hands come to grip the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles going pale. He’s trying not to let it spill, but it’s close. He’s spent so long swallowing every sharp edge that his throat feels permanently bruised from it. And now, there’s blood on his tongue and no way to pretend he can’t taste it.

“I don’t say things,” he says again, quieter now. “Because every time I’ve opened my mouth to ask someone to stay, they’ve left anyway. Because I learned a long fucking time ago that needing someone is a liability. So yeah, I didn’t say anything. But don’t mistake that for not caring. Don’t twist my silence into apathy. You’re not the only one who matters here.”

He watches the way you absorb that. The way your eyes dart, the way your mouth opens, then closes again, like maybe you didn’t realize how far he’s been falling. 

The cat hops up onto the counter and purrs by his back, utterly unaware of the storm between the two of you. Mattheo reaches around and scratches her behind the ears, the movement grounding, automatic.

Mattheo’s voice is quieter now, but there’s no softness in it, just weariness. “You didn’t even ask me to come with you.”

You flinch. You weren’t expecting that.

His laugh is bitter. “Guess you didn’t think I’d want to.”

“Would you?” you whisper, barely audible.

He meets your eyes, and there’s something hollow in him now, some void that’s widened and finally swallowed the last of his hope. “I’d follow you anywhere,” he says. “That’s the problem.” 

He doesn’t know how to tell you that you’re still everything to him. That he still waits for your messages like a schoolboy, still sleeps on his side of the bed even when you don’t come home from hours. That he notices the way you’ve stopped wearing his hoodies. That he’s counted the times you’ve kissed him in the last week and still has fingers left over. That he finds your name engraved into every mundane object he sees. 

That he’s got ways to find you any and everywhere.

The silence returns, heavy and absolute. You take a step forward, like you might close the gap between you, but Mattheo steps back.

It’s not out of anger, not meant to punish you. Just... self-preservation. What little of it he has left, anyway.

He swallows hard, voice rough. “You’re gonna do what you want anyway. I just wish, for once, you’d wanted me enough to factor me in. You used to want me. I’m not even a priority anymore.”

You’re still, eyes shining with something you don’t say.

But he’s not waiting anymore. Not tonight.

He turns from you, opens the cabinet to pull down another glass. “You want a drink?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Mattheo,” you murmur. “I love you.”

He gulps down what’s remaining in his cup, then lifts his gaze and stares at you for a long moment. Your words should be enough; for most people, they would be enough.

But love without presence, without consideration; it’s like flowers growing in a room with no light. They bloom for a while, but they always die in the end.

“I know,” he says.

And he does. You love him in the way people love things they’re used to. Love the old songs they don't play anymore, love the sweater that sits untouched in the closet. It’s love, but not the kind that stays.

Eventually, he hears your footsteps retreat. The door to the bedroom clicks shut a moment later, soft and final.

Mattheo stays in the kitchen long after that, staring at nothing, the cat curling up by his feet like a cruel reminder of what used to be.

He pours the drink, slow and steady. Not because he wants to forget.

But because remembering is killing him.

© leona-hawthorne 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

reminder that reblogs, feedback, and comments are very appreciated and make me smile :)

a/n: completely unintentional but a line somewhere in here also reminded me of the song scared of my guitar by olivia rodrigo so there’s that too </3 this is not fully edited and i’m tired so i’m sorry if it’s kinda shitty :’)

[spread-the-influence]

The Intervention

Word Count: 1724

--

Despite its title, Caine’s office was not an office. It would be best described as his focus space. No walls or floors were to be found in the black void; only floating wooden boards that acted as stairs or chairs, file drawers containing his many, many notes, and text that drifted like clouds. An absolute mess for a space used for daily maintenance or generating adventures, but it’s what works for Caine’s brain specifically.

As much as Caine wanted to model a room for himself, the lack of scenery was necessary for maximum focus. If he gave himself an office chair, he knew he would spend an absurd amount of hours spinning on it. This state of chaos, ironically, kept him more focused than if it were actually organized.

Here, he was constantly in a state of moving. Caine hopped on the boards, which spiraled upwards like ordinary stairs, and reached for the farthest file drawers. This realm may not be the epitome of order, but it wasn’t entirely devoid of it; those on the top are the important files, the ones he would hate to lose in the sea of poorly-labeled folders.

Maybe he should actually learn to organize.

But he’ll worry about that later. Codeword for ‘never’, of course.

Caine pulled open a drawer, where the daily maintenance reports resided. He may have eyes all around the circus, but he and Bubble are just only two AIs! Fortunately, the system routinely scans itself for anything that might be off.

There are reports of an infected item here and there, but it’s nothing good ol’ deletion couldn’t fix. There are also numerous flags from NPCs of an infected entity, which he has yet to answer. Every time he tried to investigate it, his systems weren’t able to detect what it was. Either the flags were false positives—or it walked off into the void while he wasn’t looking. For all Caine knows, it could be right in front of him.

Overall, there are little issues to be found in the code. Now for his players... He opened another drawer, the one where he kept his notes. He can’t read their minds, neither does the system, so he only has to rely on manual feedback.

Little problems with his performers thus far. Aside from...

Ragatha. Sweet, wonderful Ragatha. Caine may not be the best with subtleties, but even he could tell she’s been having problems with the adventures. Reports of NPCs suddenly wanting to get away from her, dealing with injuries, and the entire stupid sauce incident. If Caine could, he would do something about the poor doll’s disastrous luck. Tie a four leaf clover to her hair, or shove a horseshoe down her throat.

But he’ll worry about that sometime. For now, he’ll need to do something to get her satisfaction scores back on the high once more. With therapy, of course!

Twirling off the wooden board he’s sitting on, the darkness around Caine warped to the familiar, pinkish colors of Ragatha’s room. Realizing he’s upside down, he rotated himself upwards.

The ragdoll was sitting on the bed, having been awoken from a short nap; the fifth one after taking four of them consecutively. It was a substitute for sleep nowadays.

“RAGATHA!” Caine’s voice boomed, surprising Ragatha. “WE’LL NEED TO TALK ABOUT—WHAT HAPPENED?”

Ragatha followed Caine’s gaze to realize that he’s staring at the bedside mirror; which had a crack that split down the middle. The details of the day were fuzzy, but it taught Ragatha two things. One, her soft, stuffing-filled fist apparently has enough force in it to crack glass. Two, not enough to shatter it, as much as she hoped it did.

“I-I was having a moment...” She stammered.

“WELL, WELL, WELL! DON’T YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TOOK ME TO MODEL THE GLASS OF THIS MIRROR?” Caine wagged his finger as if he’s scolding a puppy. “I’LL ONLY FIX IT ONCE YOU PAY ME A HEFTY AMOUNT OF TWO DIGITAL TOKENS.”

Ragatha blinked. “There’s digital tokens?”

“NOW THERE IS!” Caine threw his arms to the air. “YOUR NEGLIGENCE CAUSED A DIGITAL ECONOMY TO BE IMPLEMENTED WITHOUT NOTICE! EVERYONE IS GOING TO SINK INTO DIGITAL DEBT AND IT WILL BE YOUR FAULT!—

“BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME!” He wrapped his arm around Ragatha, pulling her into a half-hug. “LET’S TALK ABOUT YOU!”

With that, Caine warped Ragatha out of her room, and dropped the ragdoll.

It took a moment for Ragatha to process her surroundings. The soft pinks of the walls have shifted to a vibrant orange, and she found herself laying down on a red couch, with Caine sitting on a chair across her. He didn’t need to tell Ragatha for her to know exactly what this is.

She quickly sat up. “I did not agree to this?”

“THE POINT OF AN INTERVENTION IS THAT YOU DON’T ALWAYS AGREE TO IT!”

Ragatha froze as if the word ‘intervention’ turned her nerves into ice. “L-Look, I swear I’m doing my daily affirmations.”

“NO, NO, NO! WE’RE NOT DOING THAT, MY DEAR!” Caine shook his head. “YOU SEE, YOUR SATISFACTION LEVELS HAVE DECLINED SUDDENLY!” A board clipped from the ceiling, sliding down to Caine’s side. “ACCORDING TO THIS GRAPH, IT WENT ON A DOWNHILL THE MOMENT POMNI SHOWED UP! IF I DIDN’T KNOW ANY BETTER, I WOULD’VE ASSUMED SHE’S CAUSING YOU A LOT OF TROUBLE!”

“Satisfaction... levels...”

“OB-VIOUS-LY, THERE MUST BE SOMETHING WITH MY ADVENTURES THAT’S MAKING YOU NOT LIKE THEM AS YOU USED TO!” Caine continued. “I’VE BEEN MAKING THEM QUALITY! CHANGING, IMPROVING, ARTIFYING... BUT I DIDN’T SEEK FEEDBACK FROM YOU, MY DARLING DOLLY!” He pointed at Ragatha. “WHAT COULD BE THE PROBLEM HERE?”

Ragatha rubbed her face. Usually, she would just brush it all off with a smile and a “Don’t worry about it!”, that always fended off Caine. But when Caine’s onto something—in this case, her decline—he’ll never let go of it until something is done. 

She finally let out a long sigh. She feels she’ll feel a little better piling her problems on an AI rather than a friend. “Well, there’s the usual. NPCs not wanting to talk to me and getting stabbed at least once, but that’s more of a me problem than an adventure problem.” said Ragatha, “It’s... everything outside of it, honestly.”

“UH HUH...” Caine jotted down notes on a notebook, now wearing rectangular-shaped glasses that magnified his heterochromatic irises. “AND WHAT COULD THOSE ‘EVERYTHING’ BE?”

“Where to start?” Ragatha laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Gangle’s very much finding an excuse to avoid me, Zooble’s being a grouch as usual, Kinger’s not all there, and don’t get me started on Jax!” She stopped herself, and took a deep, albeit shaky, breath. “And Pomni... God. All I want is for her to realize that I have feelings. What does she think she is, the main character? All she thinks about is herself, and nobody else.”

Ragatha clasped her hands over her eyes. Despite her words, her heart still beats for the jester. If Ragatha has to be honest, she’s not sure herself if she’s feeling the embers of attraction—or the desperation of wanting to be understood by the person who she has the least baggage with. “I just... I don’t know what to do at this point. I don’t have anyone to talk about this to—or anyone that I want to open up to.”

Every attempt at crawling out of the hole only sunk her deeper. Truthfully, she cannot see herself getting out of it. It might as well be her grave.

Caine put down the notebook. “SO, YOU’RE FEELING LONELY.” A huge oversimplification, yes, but he wasn’t incorrect. “OF COURSE I CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! GIVE YOU A TINY LITTLE FRIEND, LIKE THOSE ‘PETS’ THAT YOU PEOPLE LOVE SO MUCH!” He pressed close to Ragatha. “WHAT DO YOU WANT? A GLOINK? A SHMUNK? A CLUMPY?—”

“No, Caine!” Ragatha grunted. She doesn’t have the energy nor the patience to hide her annoyance right now. “I-I don’t want that! I need—ugh, what’s the point? You won’t understand either way.”

“I’M TRYING TO UNDERSTAND, RAGATHA!” Now even Caine’s getting miffed, throwing his hands at Ragatha’s direction as if she said something obscene. “I WANT TO HELP YOU, BUT I CAN’T DO THAT IF YOU’RE NOT LETTING ME!”

“Because I don’t want your help, alright?”

Silence fell over the room.

This turned out to not make her feel better in the slightest. She would appreciate it if Caine gave some words of reassurance or comfort—actually, comfort would be nice right now—but knowing him, he wouldn’t know what to say anyway. And Ragatha hates herself for putting that expectation on a robot, even if it was for a brief moment.

“I don’t want your help.” Ragatha repeated after a moment. “I appreciate that you want to, but... I think this is a problem I’ll have to deal with myself. You can just keep doing your adventuring stuff and all that.”

The silence only stretched longer, and Ragatha felt like the room was getting colder. Caine was just staring at her, his posture stiff; very unlike his usual animated self.

Then his teeth rattled.

This isn’t right. One of his members no longer likes his adventures, and he doesn’t know what to do about it! Sure, this isn’t too different from Zooble, who constantly skips out on the adventures, but that’s to be expected from Zooble. While the intervention made him (kind of) understand what Ragatha’s problem is, it didn’t get him any closer to fixing it.

He rattled his neurons for anything that could improve the situation, even a slightest bit. If Ragatha’s having problems with the other members, then he could...

“I GOT IT!” He snapped his fingers. “DON’T WORRY, YOU TERRIFIC TORTILLA, YOU’LL BE LONELY NO MORE AFTER THIS NEXT ADVENTURE!”

Ragatha’s eyes widened. “Wait, what? What are you—”

By Caine’s command, she was sent back to her room. The ringmaster’s already set on generating a new adventure. One that will surely bring everyone together.

Results of the intervention? Sure, the solution wasn’t as immediate as just giving Zooble a box of parts, but it was still a solution nonetheless. For now, he’s making something that will surely make his performers happy. Something that will definitely help with Ragatha’s problem.

He is going to fix this.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

How to Paint with Words

When an author paints with words, they use word choice and sentence sequences to figuratively paint pictures in a reader’s mind.

In the visual arts, painting pictures, of course, refers to the act of representing people, objects, and scenery for viewers to behold with their own eyes.

In creative writing, painting pictures also refers to producing a picture of people, objects, and scenes—but the artist’s medium is the written word.

A master author uses care and precision in their writing process to craft evocative word pictures that conjure up mental images for their readers. If you want to bring a painterly quality to your own work, here are 5 writing tips to set you in the right direction:

Treat writing as an art form. Like all fine art, every component of the composition must be carefully considered. Some authors agonize over their book’s first sentence and last sentence, which is of course very important. But what about the second sentence? And the third? To paint with words, you must be mindful of detail in all sections of your text.

If you don’t think you have the right words, keep looking. If you type a verb or adjective that doesn’t feel satisfyingly evocative and you suspect there’s a near-synonym out there that would be a better word choice, continue your search. Use a thesaurus to remind you of words that may be slipping your mind at the moment you’re writing.

Emphasize action words. Action words are verbs that indicate proactivity by a subject. Action words help your reader understand what your characters are actually doing. And when you paint with words, the ability to show what characters do is a vital skill set. Use descriptive verbs to add more color to your action.

Strike a balance between description and prompting readers’ own imaginations. Although it may initially seem counterintuitive, sometimes painting with words requires withholding information so that the reader can imagine a scene for themselves. Let’s say that in your novel, you wish to describe a skyline. To paint the image with words, you don’t necessarily need to describe every single building lined up in a row. Instead, imagine what it looks like to stand on a street and behold five skyscrapers next to each other. Most people can’t process the details of every single building; their eye focuses on one or two and the other buildings are processed as more of a blur. If you represent such a “blurred” sensation in your own writing, you may be better able to give the reader the impression of really being there. So focus your written description on one or two buildings and maybe throw in some non-visual sensations, like the honking of taxis in the background.

Seek opportunities to improve your writing skills. The ability to paint with words isn’t mastered in a single session. Like all aspects of writing, it will always be a work in progress for even the best authors. Seek out the insight of writers you admire: Some have written books about their craft (Stephen King’s On Writing for example), while others share details of their craft via blogging or host their own podcasts. If a local writers’ collective offers an education program, look into it. It’s never too late to learn new prose techniques, literary devices, and storytelling methods.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

A symptom of this I often see is that a great many Americans also feel the need to highlight to the entire world around them when something they encounter is Other, or outside of their wheelhouse, and this applies even to the most mundane of things. I have two examples of this:

First, back in 2020, a lost walrus visited the Welsh town of Tenby for many weeks and menaced its lifeboats by sleeping on the slipway. I wrote a lengthy post about this, and included the fact that the good folks of West Wales named the walrus Wally, after the children's book franchise Where's Wally.

I was inundated with Americans reacting with everything from astonishment to derision that the character is not called Waldo outside of America. It was constant. Everything from "Wait you guys call him Wally??? Not Waldo???" all the way to "Are you guys fucking stupid his name is Waldo omg"

Which is very interesting, because Where's Wally is a British franchise. He was called 'Wally' first. His name was translated into over 30 other languages, including Charlie and Jonas, depending on region. Nonetheless, I did not get one single solitary note about the name from anyone else; it was exclusively Americans, unable to keep their amazement to themselves, unable to not highlight and point out that SOMETHING IS DIFFERENT FROM US.

Second, I once wrote a post in which I, a speaker of British English, used the word 'gaol' - the BE spelling of 'jail'. Again, I was flooded with comments, asks, messages, etc from Americans who simply could not fathom why I had done so. Four of them very literally sent me asks that asked why I had done it (I mean this literally - "Why did you spell jail like that?" was word for word one of the asks), so unable were they to work out on their own that spellings differ between dialects. I responded to one, saying that I was baffled by it, and suggesting that maybe the polite thing would be to google these sorts of things for yourself rather than requesting to have your hand held through the process of learning that other places have different words and spellings than you're used to. I said I did understand, but that this was something I myself fetched up against all the time with American media, and had since I was a child - but I simply used context clues to work out meaning, or google when I couldn't, because I get that American English is a different language.

And then two things happened: the first was that a non-trivial number of Americans lost their entire shit at the very suggestion that there was anything at all rude about this (again, I really don't know what answer they wanted to that beyond "Because that's how it's spelled in my language", information readily available with a single google search), and the second was that I was then inundated with non-Americans sharing stories of how they love writing fanfic but they had to start doing it in American English because when they used their own, they would get flooded with comments from Americans trying to 'correct' them, and it just wasn't worth the hassle.

And it's ultimately a 'dominant culture' sickness, I think. When everything is constantly catering to your understandings and cultural expectations, anything outside of it feels Other, and Must Be Commented Upon. I'm Welsh, and I find absolutely any mention of anything Welsh around most English people gets the same reaction; they absolutely have to comment on the Thing They Think Is Weird. Just last week I was discussing a fieldtrip for my students with an English colleague of mine, and I said I was taking them to the Bannau Brycheiniog. He didn't interrupt, to his credit; but he got the stupid grin that I knew meant he was going to comment. He waited until I finished asking for his risk assessment input, and then rather than answering, his first response was "The Bah Bah Bluh Bluh?"

If I'd said an Anglicised or English name, he'd have just continued the conversation. But he didn't recognise the name Bannau Brycheiniog. So We Must All Flag Up That It's Weird.

And that's dialled up to 11 for a great many Americans.

(Though not all, by a long shot. I do want to stress that. In both examples I've given, I had far more Americans who agreed with me than not. But it is a common behaviour, unfortunately.)

im american and i knew that like in kindergarten so i think some of you are just stupid sorry

[purinbunnii]

Caleb Headcanons

1. Caleb is quiet — until he isn’t.

• He’s dead silent when he fucks you at first. No moaning, no panting, just the sharp sound of your skin meeting his and the rough drag of his breath through gritted teeth.

• But the more you fall apart under him—the more your nails dig into his shoulders and your voice breaks on his name—the more his control starts to slip.

• And when it does?

“You like it when I lose control, don’t you?”

“I try to be gentle with you. But you keep begging for this.”

⸻

2. He fucks like it’s a calculated experiment gone wrong.

• Everything starts slow, methodical. He learns your body like a formula: where you react, where you tremble, how many strokes it takes to make you come.

• But once he knows? He uses it. Overstimulates the fuck out of you. Hands steady, breath calm—while you’re a fucking mess beneath him.

• It’s unfair how coldly confident he is. He’ll say shit like:

“You’re wet already. Pathetic.”

“I told you what would happen if you kept touching me like that during the mission.”

“Open your legs. Wider. I don’t want to repeat myself.”

⸻

3. Caleb has a ruthless oral fixation — when he goes down on you, it’s to destroy you.

• He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t make eye contact.

Just focuses.

Tongue precise, steady, merciless.

• He grips your thighs hard enough to leave bruises, keeping you open and still while he licks you like he’s fucking starving.

• You’ll beg for a break—he won’t answer. Just flatten his tongue and keep going until you’re shaking.

“One more.”

“You’re not done yet.”

“Don’t cry. I know you can take it.”

⸻

4. He doesn’t do casual. He does claiming.

• Caleb doesn’t fuck you just to get off—he fucks you to own you.

• He wants to see you marked, breathless, fucked full and still begging.

• He’ll grip your wrists and pin them down above your head, pressing in so deep you can barely breathe, and whisper with that cool, low voice:

“You’re mine. Say it.”

“Let them look at you. They’ll never touch what belongs to me.”

• And then he’ll come inside you, pull out, and push it back in with two fingers just to watch you squirm.

⸻

5. Caleb has a thing for control — and for breaking it.

• He loves having you under him, helpless and shaking—but he also gets off on the moments where he snaps.

• The second you grab his hair, scratch his back, moan his name with that needy little whimper in your throat—he loses it.

• He’ll grab your hips and slam into you, breath ragged, voice low and fucking desperate.

“You don’t know what you do to me. You really don’t.”

“Fuck—I can’t stop. I need to feel you come again.”

⸻

6. Aftercare is minimal but intensely possessive.

• He won’t say much, but he won’t leave your side.

• He’ll press a cold towel to your skin, tend to every mark he left, and clean you up with terrifying precision.

• Then he wraps his arms around you—so tight you can barely breathe—and just holds you.

No words. Just breath. Pulse. The kind of silence that feels like he’ll never let go.

• And if you whisper “I love you” when you think he’s asleep?

He’ll murmur it back. Barely audible. Like it hurts to say.

“…I love you too. More than I should.”

[aestrologist]

PICK A CARD: liminal style

you know how it goes! starting from the snowyscape, left to right: 1, 2, 3, 4.

♡ use your intuition & feel for the energy of whichever picture that jumps out at you. below you'll see a tarot interpretation for each picture below the cut. there is no specific theme, just what spirit tells me. ♡

remember, this is a collective PAC & not everything will resonate-- though take what does and leave what doesn't. ☆

★ PILE 1: ten of wands, temperance, the fool ★

It’s easy to say to move on from things that don’t serve its purpose, though the action and will power it takes is another puzzle piece to factor in. It can be scary to move onwards from something that you hold so dear or that you’re familiar with. Like, who wants to uproot their life over a hunch?

Except for the fact, that you actually do. You’re starting over, leaving the chaos in  the dust, as you hunker down and think of your game plan. Where do you go from here? Oftentimes lonely, you’re not accepting of new people into your life. You’ve gotta learn to open up and allow people to bring change and childlike wander. 

Your friends may not know the reasons you have behind your plan, but it’s not up to them to decide what’s right for you in this life. Sometimes it takes responsibility to know the differences between what you know, want, and what you need. It’s important to not be so hard on yourself as you approach the edge of the new world. 

When you’re feeling lonelier than usual, keep in mind that we as humans create our own suffering and the longer you hold onto the idea that you’ve assumed, the longer it will stay attached to you. Learning to balance the rush of emotions that flood our minds with self deprecating behavior and thoughts is vital to your survival. 

☆ PILE 2: the high priestess, seven of pentacles, the star ☆

It’s time for you to engage with your higher self more often. Stop the pity, and trust in yourself and your intuition. The universe has big plans for you, if you choose to become receptive towards the cosmic language. Leave the worries and doubt behind, the spiteful words you may have heard. They don’t mean anything, and your responses only give it power. 

Now, you must know that spirituality is important in this life and the gifts and synchronicities it brings only flourish upon further belief.  Spend your time wisely and gracious, as you will soon reap the rewards of your efforts all season. There is hope, so please stop backtracking. 

You may be a risky individual, often seeking adrenaline rushes or monetary gains in one way or another. Sometimes it’s the smarter choice to leap off the precipice with blind faith that you will succeed. Boundaries are not always meant to be tested, but yours are. Push yourself to the limit, and see what you’re made out of.

How do you trust without a notion? By assuming it works in your benefit every time. You do not fail, you do not flounder, because you actively engage in the mindset of someone who has it all. Like boiling water, you think nothing is happening until it starts to spill over.

That’s you, with your abundance and desires throughout your life. Trust yourself and the power of your mind.

★ PILE 3: the lovers, ten of pentacles, the tower ★

You’re left with a bruised hard and a shattered ego, as what you once thought was love crumbled in the blink of an eye. A safety net, pulled from you like a dirty rug, after being told everything was fine. It was not, and it’s valid that you’re not so trusting afterwards. 

When things were good, they were SO good. Almost too good to be true, and at the end of the road you got to see the illusion of cupid’s arrow snapping which each blow to the heart. It wasn’t real, just sugar coated lies. I’m sensing a cheater in this scenario that let the temptation in.

The story will still continue, though it’s advised to find someone new. Second chances bring nothing but issue, and if you choose to stay or keep this person in mind the rest of the house will come barreling down when time gets cut short. Perhaps this person will make you lose a sense of yourself, or already has. 

These cards are asking you to take time to self soothe and heal your heart before trying again or reaching out. Seeing things through lilac lenses will never mend the crushing of your heart or soul. Choose to see things for what they are, and never for what you wish them to be. 

Not everyone has your best interest in mind, and it’s important that you realize that. You can only ever depend on yourself when the world comes crashing. 

☆ PILE 4: the devil, the empress, justice ☆

A restriction of some sort seems to have been placed on you, perhaps you are walking on egg shells to avoid discontentment. There is a larger picture here, one that you aren’t well aware of. Obliviously, you walk along the path as serpents hide under the very leaves you step on, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Under the guise of false admiration, it can be very telling to see where your self concept is as of late. Have a treat and engage in positive mindset shifts. Allow yourself to be you, without feeling like you have to adhere to high expectations. 

Soak the glue in acetone, let it dissolve from you like cotton candy on your tongue. Your mindset is the most important thing, being as it quite literally reflects your perception of your reality.  

Advocating for yourself may be something you’ve struggled with, though with a new sense of empowerment you strive to break the cycle. Spend some time in nature, and think of all the things you may be grateful for: the very air you breathe, the fact that you’re alive at the moment, when so many didn’t get the chance to live to this day. 

Mindfulness goes a long way, and it’s recommended that you saturate your mind with the gentleness you treat others with. Start easy, small comments throughout your day to day. “I am enough,” is one. Learn how to be kind to yourself in uncontrollable matters, as working against yourself leaves room for no one to grow. 

thank you for reading and if you enjoyed this PAC, please reblog and consider checking out my ko-fi to book your own personalized & in-depth tarot reading! ♡

[slasherslittlesimp]

Cursed (Avengers X Reader)

PART ONE

Dark circles rest beneath your glazed (E/C) eyes that stare blankly ahead in an unfocused daze. Your hair is greasy and unbrushed, having not been touched in quite some time. Your hands are trapped against your sides as the black leather straight jacket you're forced to wear prevents them from moving- To prevent them from tearing the muzzle from your face.

Due to your rather strong and problematic ability, your captors keep a rather tight muzzle on you at all times. It's controlled by a small handheld device that can unlock it from a distance which allows them to give you access to your ability without putting themselves in harms way. Usually they stick you in a secure room with whoever it is they need you to use your ability on before allowing your muzzle to fall off so you can do as instructed. Once the task is complete, they wait until you place the muzzle back on before retrieving you and returning you to your small room.

The muzzle is high tech not only due to the fact it can be removed remotely, but also because it can cause you immense amounts of pain should it be attempted to be removed in any other way. You learned the hard way that trying to pry it off with your hands will lead to strong volts of electricity coursing through your face, the pain damn near killing you. Since then you've been forced to wear the black straight jacket to keep you from trying again. Not that you would.

You're an extremely useful asset to them- probably the strongest that they have. While they don't particularly care about your comfort or most basic needs, they do care about keeping you alive for as long as possible. Anything that could be a risk to your life is always kept far from you almost as if they think you'd be willing to take your own pathetic life. You wouldn't, but they don't really believe that.

It's why you're almost always strapped and muzzled like a wild beast. The only times your arms and mouth are free is when they need you to do your job or when you're eating. They always send in an agent to undo the straps of your jacket to allow you minimal use of your hands- so you can eat and put your muzzle back on on your own. Once the muzzle is secure on your face once again, the same agent will come back to restrain you once again. You've spent most of your life with your arms folded up in the restricting jacket that it almost feels unnatural to move them in any other way.

You've no idea how long it's been like this, either. Since your capture, you haven't seen the outside world except for handful of times- though that was long ago. Since then not even a passing glance through a window. You've been confined to the same small section of the base only moving between two rooms that are separated by a long hallway. There's dozens of other doors along the walls of the hallway yet you've never once been through any of them. You've also never seen them be opened. It makes you wonder if there's even actually anything in those random rooms.

You're pulled back to reality when you hear voices outside of your room. Their voices are quiet and somewhat muffled but if you focus hard enough you can almost make out what it is that they are saying over the sounds of the alarm. You don't recognize the voices, but then again there's hundreds of agents in this horrendous group and you know that you haven't met more than a few.

"Are you stupid?!" One of the voices sounds almost exasperated as they hiss the words at whoever it is they're talking to.

"She can help!" The other person argues, his voice slightly louder than the others.

"Help who? Because as far as I'm concerned she's more likely to help them." You can tell that he's trying his best to convince the other person without raising his voice. He's likely trying to avoid detection since you know he probably isn't supposed to be in your section. "We wouldn't stand a chance if we released her and she decided to help them."

"We don't stand a chance regardless!" He sounds almost desperate as he practically pleads with the other man. "She's our only chance! We're screwed without her!"

There's a slight noise you can't identify before the other man responds. "Do you honestly think that the asset will help us fight after everything that has been done to her?"

"Maybe we should let her free regardless. I mean, she's a human being and yet she's treated like a damn dog. I think we should let her go with them." His voice is soft as he speaks to the point where you can barely make out what he's saying.

"We'd be killed for that. Are you really willing to throw your life away for some girl you've never even met?"

The question is met with silence, leaving you unaware of what's happening outside of your door. All you know is that apparently the base is under attack and that there's a chance that whoever it is will save you. That is unless you decide to fight against them should you be released from your restraints. If you are released, you're almost certain that you'll remain neutral, not helping either side as you hate using your powers.

The next thing you hear is a commotion outside of your room which sounds a lot like people fighting. You're unsure if the two men from before are still out there or not but if they are then they will likely lose the fight against whoever it is they're facing. If they were scared enough to consider releasing you then their opponents must be quite strong.

The fight outside your room lasts for a few minutes, the grunts and yells being the only sounds until everything suddenly goes silent. The sudden silence is disrupted by doors opening and closing as whoever remains searches through the rooms. You're unsure what they're searching for but whatever it is they're looking for must not be in any of them as they quickly move to the next room.

They grow closer and closer to your room, the sounds of the doors growing louder until they stop right outside of your room. You stare at the large metal door blocking you from whoever it is outside of your room, waiting patiently to see if they're going to open it or not. For some reason they seem to be taking longer to open it compared to all of the other doors. Is there a difference between yours and those ones? Perhaps. You've never noticed it if there is.

You can't help but to flinch slightly as the mechanical lock whirs before clicking loudly. You instinctually hold your breath, fearing that it may be one of your caretakers coming to collect you. The handle slowly turns as if taunting you before the door finally swings open allowing you to fully hear the blaring alarms.

A woman you've never seen before steps into the room, her eyes instantly landing on your figure as you sit on the edge of your bed. You stare at her with dull eyes, sending a shiver down her spine- something that she doesn't normally experience no matter what she's facing. Her brows furrow slightly as she examines you, her mind likely racing.

Her eyes trail from your messy hair to your muzzle, then down to your leather straight jacket and torn baggy pants before landing on your dirty bare feet. Her gaze then flickers quickly around your room, taking in the bare minimum that is inside the concrete cell. All there is in your room is your thin lumpy mattress which sits on a wire frame and a dirty metal toilet in the corner with a sink on the back of it.

"I've found something you might want to see." Her voice is low as she speaks, likely talking into her comms that connect her to the rest of her group. You can't hear whatever the person on the other side says but she nods before informing them of her location.

After that she takes a step further into the room, seeming slightly hesitant to get any closer to you. Despite the fact that you obviously would be unable to effectively fight her, she's still wary since she has no idea what you're capable of. It's quite obvious that you must be at least somewhat powerful if they've gone as far as to both muzzle and restrain you.

"Are you alright?" She questions as she keeps her gaze locked on you. It's a question you haven't heard in a long time- nobody here cares how you're doing. What they care about it whether or not you can do your job. Slowly, you nod, letting her know that you are fine and willing to interact.

She doesn't say anything else to you as somebody else comes down the hall, calling what you assume is her name. She shouts back, letting them know which room she's in. A few seconds later a man comes into the room, his eyes on Natasha before flickering over to you. He seems surprised, his brows raising slightly.

"We weren't informed of there being anyone other than agents and scientists here." The man murmurs as he steps forward to stand next to Natasha. "Any idea who she is?"

Natasha shakes her head as she crosses her arms over her chest. "I haven't found the servers yet to download their files. What should we do, Cap?"

"We take her with us for now. I doubt she'll be able to do anything while wearing all of that." He gestures at you as he looks over your restrictive outfit.

Natasha nods in agreement before moving forward. You try your best to keep from flinching as she gets closer, your eyes warily watching her. She watches your reaction for anything negative as she reaches forward before her small hand wraps around your bicep. You allow her to pull you to your feet, her grip tight to keep you from running. She leads you from the room as the both of you follow after the rather large male as he makes his way down the hall to check the remaining rooms.

You personally have no idea where the server room is so you can't really help them- not like you'd be able to vocally inform them anyways. You're all just blindly wandering from room to room, you watching them both skillfully take out any agents in their way before moving on. Finally, after what felt like hours of walking around, you all stumble into the server room where towers and computers fill the room with a blue glow.

"Let's see what secrets we can find today, shall we?" Natasha smirks as she steps away from your side to plug a drive into one of the towers. You know that the first thing she'll look at will be your file. You can only hope that her and the man she called Cap are better people than the ones you've spent most of your life with.

Part Two

[intutive-peechu]

Topic : Your first argument with your fs

( collab with one and only @kiddotarot)

💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

Disclaimer :- This is a general reading, it may or may not resonates with you . If you are thinking that your pile doesn't mach, so you can choose another one . And if someone is not inrested they can leave 🤗💚

please like , reblog and comment below to let me know it's nice . Thanks you 🫠 now let's start the reading.......

Notice : I'm going to use pronounce in readings according to energy I'll pick the most ! So you guys can read it from your prespectives and about these pics of girls ( I'm a girl so it's a first point and another reson is that most of the people are here girls or women if someone is man or he / him let me know) so hope it does make sense lol .

Pile 1 . Pile 2 .

Pile 3 . Pile 4 .

Pile 1 💚

Read by @intutive-peechu

Cards : the hierophant , six of pentacle, temperance, death reversed, justice.

Hello my pile 1 💚 welcome to your reading so I get that your first argument with your fs will happen because of slow movement in your relationship, it started to feel like that things are nit moving further and energy will fell stagnant, you want to work on this relationship step by step and want to merry them as per both of your wish . But you feel that they are taking soo much time and not taking action and things are not moving or developing between you too . You want both of you to generous with each other want this change of energy , this giving and receiving so it won't feel like that only one person us putting efforts and another is giving cold shoulder. Your first argument will happen because how you both had been working for this relationship and where you both were lacking and how fragile relationships are ! In relationship you both are require to work to put efforts for each other and handle things with maturity so it won't feel like a burden instead of love . This argument will lead you both to talk about creating balance , equality, rightness of both of you , fairness , cause and effect ( how your actions and words will impact you both and your relationship) and how you both stand your ground and get to the truth . That's it my pile 1 💚 hope you like it thanks for being here .

Pile 2 💚

Read by @intutive-peechu

Cards : the empress, hierophant, temperance reversed, the hermit, tower.

Hello and welcome my pile 2 💚 let's dive in your reading, so your first argument with your fs will happen because one of you will be rushing for marriage, not planning anything clearly , about future and what impact it will leave there will be sudden changes which will lead to fight, argument,conflict, misery and distress . ( I'm getting the one who will be rushing is with masculine energy ) disagreement might happen because of one's career or dream , there will this huge chaos between you two that you guys might stop talking and go in hermit mode for introspection. And will look within for answers, I guess for sometime you both won't contact with eachother and spent time with the group of your friends, and will try to get a clear vision . It might take a lil bit of time but then you both will come together more stronger and mature and will work on this together , at last there will be this love and fruitful energy between you too , I'm getting that one resolving this fight will be one who hold motherly and nurturing energy ! That's it pile 2 💚 hope you like this reading.

Pile 3 💚

Read by @kiddotarot

Cards - The world( r ) , 10 of pentacles, the tower ( r ) , page of cups ( Hermit ( r ) at bottom)

Your first argument with your future spouse happens because you both may not feel growth. There is a feeling of not completing a goal or something that is important and there is some kind of lesson which you both need to learn with this argument or problems. There is problem can be related to leaving a certain things or position behind and circumstances leaving behind it can be related to family or family money / inheritance related and this is important to build a strong base of foundation in your marriage but someone in you either it can be your fs or you resisting change and they don't want to involve or leave the things behind , they don't want much change and that's why this argument will take place between you. You both need to see things from a new Perspective or change their mindset regarding the situation. Maybe starting things with a totally new point of view will help. And of course you need to find clarity and go with your intuition because at that time there can be chances that you both feel lost in this situation and misunderstand it.

Pile 4 💚

Read by @kiddotarot

Cards - the moon ( r ) , The Empress, queen of wand ( r) , king of pentacles ( r ) ,( king of sword at bottom)

Your first argument with your future spouse can happen because of some unseen problems and the changes to things which can be hidden . Someone you either you and future spouse are not volunteering in a situation despite knowing that this Is time yo be strong . The argument can be related to pregnancy, parenting or starting new things in relationships which help you to improve your and their relationships more but someone is unsure about this big step. They are not confident or not feeling sure about what they can do or are they ready for it ? . So they decide to take a step back when it's important to be a leader and take a bold move. They are not feeling emotionally ready for it and I think it's because it can be related to having a baby or not like an unplanned pregnancy. This will Be resolved but you both need to sit and make a plan and strategy about and trust on each other you both will sit and think that how can we start a new life with new happiness.

Read by @kiddotarot and @intutive-peechu

Ruh...

[aheathen-conceivably]

Violette usually hated silence. She went out of her way to avoid it - staying in rooms where there was a radio, reading aloud rather than to herself, talking to other girls even when she didn’t really want to. The world was simply better when it was filled with noise. That way she knew it was alive, and she wasn’t alone. 

The only exception was here - in the horse stables. Accompanied by the warm breathing of Ozma and Silver, both of whom seemed to need each other's company as much as she needed theirs. Her mother only let her spend this much time with them once dinner was through and her chores were complete. She had a million tiny rules like that. Don’t run after the chickens. Don’t take Ozma out alone. Don’t take the long walk home from school. Every day it seemed like there was a new rule. But not here. Not with Ozma and Silver. 

Except now it was almost sunset, and she knew that once the last ray of light disappeared beyond the dying corn she would have to scurry back inside to a world of loneliness and rules.

Just beyond the barn door the sun began to creep past the roof of the farmhouse. Violette brought her forehead to Ozma's rather than watch it sink any further. "We don’t need anyone except each other do we, Ozma?”

A soft snort came from the corner in reply. Violette laughed quietly, looking over her shoulder at her father's horse. “Except for you Silver. Of course we need you.”

No. There were no rules here. No heavy sadness in the air like there was inside, or the constant count in her mind that she had almost totally succeeded in channeling into the perfect pirouette. No. There was no need to fill her mother’s quiet world with noise of her own making. Only her and Ozma and Silver and…

In perfect unison, Ozma and Silver’s ears stood at attention, listening to the crunch of gravel growing closer from beyond the darkened walls of the barn. It came closer and closer, growing louder through the placid afternoon air. Violette went perfectly still, her own ears imperceptibly perked alongside theirs as she listened carefully and went over the count again. Five, six, seven, eight...

It was over a week past when she had expected to hear that sound, and so her ears had been even more at attention than usual. But she was learning that she could fool herself with hope, and so she was beginning to grow just as cautious as the horses she preferred to spend her time with.

Only the sound slowly came to a stop and then went quiet. A moment later she heard a clear, metallic clink that she knew by heart, following by the ringing of a metal door slamming shut.

Hurried footsteps rang out across the farmyard. They skidded to a stop just as a suitcase hit the sand. “Poppa!”

His response was muffled, spoken onto the top of her head as he pulled her close to his chest. “Happy Birthday, ma petite chérie.”

“It isn’t until Saturday, Poppa. I still have to go to school tomorrow.” Even though her voice was tinged with innocent happiness, the final words had been spoken with a note of impatience. If her eyes hadn’t been closed and a smile spread across her face she would have punctuated the statement with a characteristically adolescent eye roll.

Antoine laughed lightly as he pulled away to look at her. Every time he came home it felt like he had to crane his neck downward a little less. It was hard for him to think that he had missed even a single centimeter she had grown in his absence. “It will fly by, Princess. Especially since I have a surprise for you. Can you guess where we’re going to celebrate?”

She shook her head no and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet impatiently. “The circus!”

A small, delighted gasp verified that his birthday surprise was more than satisfactory. “The circus?”

“That’s right. We saw the advertisements for it last week. It will be two town’s over, but your Aunt Jo is gunna drive us all out for the evening...”

His words were cut short by the sound of a creak on the front porch. He turned over his shoulder to where Zelda had quietly emerged from the farmhouse. With the sun shining on her back, she brought her hand to her face and smiled. But knowing how much Violette had waited for this moment, she fought to keep her feet firmly in place so as not to interrupt them.

Only to Violette, it seemed like her presence had once again made the world grow quiet. Even worse, she could already feel her father leave again, even though his hands stayed squarely on her shoulders.

Before he turned to leave, Antoine patted her lovingly on the head, reminding her that he would see her tomorrow before school to help with the horses. Then, as her heart sank as low as the desert sun, he picked up his suitcase and walked away.

“Wait!”

When he turned suddenly she felt guilty, like she could sense that his exuberance before had just been a mask for his exhaustion. “Can - can we go out riding? Momma said I can only take Ozma out when you’re home and the sun is still up…”

“We can go after school tomorrow, alright?” He had spoken with a note of joviality, letting her know that he had heard the impatient sarcasm in her voice before. But behind it, no matter how much he was trying to hide it, she realized that her senses had been right. He seemed thin, like his energy and time were more of a precious commodity than ever before.

So she nodded her head sadly, watching him walk away and onto the porch where her mother was waiting. As he looped his arm around her they went inside and he never looked back.

Then, just as quickly as he had arrived, it was quiet again, and the sun in the sky finally disappeared beyond the horizon.

Previous / Next

[mdccanon]

Fandom isn't a corporate product; there is no manager for you to complain to

Complete strangers not writing fanfics about your favorite characters is not a civil rights issue. (And if they were writing more Michael B. Jordan fanfics, you'd just complain about how they didn't know how to accurately write a 1930s Black man.)

Complete strangers who have always liked Yanderes, red/black flag romance, and Gothic horror romance aren't going to stop liking that just because you prefer the heroes. Let alone your argument that they should like the heroes more because "they are Black."

Remmick isn't "a racist white man." He's a fuck-mothering vampire. He is an eating-people-alive vampire. I am literally watching you not mention at all in your post that he's a 1,500-year-old vampire who wants Sammie's supernatural spoken word powers and focusing on him being a white man, full stop. This film is not a Great Depression documentary, it is a fantasy story and if we have been sexualizing vampires for 200 years and counting, we aren't going to suddenly stop when its a Black vampire story.

Tumblr is 50% porn and you are literally saying you thought you were going to get online and people would ONLY be discussing "deep socio-political issues" and instead, a lot of people are discussing reader smut and shipping. And you're mad about it. How old are you? How long have you been on the Internet? You just watched a movie where EVERY SINGLE female lead got her pussy ate and you're mad the online discussion has a substantial amount of sex? What cognitive dissonance rationalization do you use to justify that? Ryan Coogler is a cinematic genius even if he includes instructions on how to eat pussy in Chinese in a Southern Gothic horror film, but the audience itself must be more somber?

If you don't want people shipping Sammie and Remmick, here's what you need to do. Get a time machine, travel back about 4 years, and tell Ryan Coogler not to make a movie about two soldiers protecting their sweet virgin cousin from an ancient vampire who wants to "make beautiful music with him." Because that's the premise of at least 5 Korean manhua and "Beauty and the Beast" without the comedic relief.

So how about you learn how to draw and you learn how to write and you make the Smoke and Stack fandom art you want to see instead of trying to shame people you neither know nor care about into doing it for you just so that you feel validated and seen.

In a movie that's literally about a European man wanting to steal Black music, you sure are complaining a lot about white people not making Black art FOR you.

[acourtofthought]

I feel like it's so easy for Lucien's story to get lost in the chaos of the main characters arc but when you pull apart what Sarah has given us for him it's wild to me that anyone doesn't think he could be possibly be next:

ACOWAR:

Tamlin just shook his head, loathing simmering in his green eyes, and walked past. Not a word. I looked at Lucien in time to see the guilt, the devastation, flicker in that russet eye.

Lucien wasn’t foolish enough to beg for forgiveness. That conversation, that confrontation—it would take place at another time. Another day, or week, or month.

Helion was the last of the High Lords to arrive. I didn’t dare look through the ruined doorway to where Lucien now stood in the sitting room, close to Elain’s side.

ACOFAS

His jaw worked as he studied the fire. Fire. His mother’s gift. Not his father’s. Yes, it was Beron’s gift. The gift of the father who the world believed had sired him. But not the gift of Helion. His true father. I still hadn’t mentioned it. To anyone other than Rhys. Now wasn’t the time for that, either.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Before I could object, he said, “You ruined any chance I have of going back to Spring. Not to Tamlin, but to the court beyond his house. Everyone either still believes the lies you spun or they believe me complicit in your deceit. And as for here …

“Tamlin sent it to our manor yesterday,” Lucien hissed. “My clothes. My belongings. All of it. He had it sent from the Spring Court and dumped on the doorstep.”

I didn’t quite feel guilty enough to warrant apologizing for it. Not yet. Possibly not ever. “Why?” It was the only question I could think to ask. “Perhaps it had something to do with your mate’s visit the other day.” My spine stiffened. “Rhys didn’t involve you in that.” “He might as well have. Whatever he said or did, Tamlin decided he wishes to remain in solitude.” His russet eye darkened. “Your mate should have known better than to kick a downed male.” “I can’t say I’m particularly sorry that he did.” “You will need Tamlin as an ally before the dust has settled. Tread carefully.” I didn’t want to think about it, consider it, today. Any day. “My business with him is done.” “Yours might be, but Rhys’s isn’t. And you’d do well to remind your mate of that fact.”

ACOSF

Cassian ignored him, and asked Lucien, “How’s the Spring Court?” Lucien’s face revealed nothing of how Tamlin and his court fared. “It’s fine.” Cassian didn’t know why he’d expected an update regarding the High Lord of Spring. Lucien only gave those in private to Rhys.

“But Tamlin is already hanging by a thread. You and Lucien have made it clear that he’s barely improved this past year. Learning of Feyre’s pregnancy might make him crumble again. With a new war possible and Briallyn up to her bullshit with Koschei, we need a strong ally. We need the Spring Court’s forces.”

“No. But we need to summon Lucien,” Azriel said, just a shade tightly, as if he didn’t like it one bit. “We need to tell him the news, and permanently station him at the Spring Court to contain any damage and to be our eyes and ears.”

“I would like to remove myself from the Mask’s odious presence, and perhaps enjoy your palace, Rhysand. It’s been a long while since I was in a place of such quiet. If you’ll allow it, I’ll stay here for an hour or two.” “Something bothering you at home?” Rhys inquired, falling into step beside the High Lord.

“How’s the Spring Court?” Nesta asked. Lucien’s jaw tightened. “How you’d expect.” Tension rippled through the room, confirmation that Tamlin had heard the news of Feyre’s pregnancy. From Lucien’s grim face, she knew he hadn’t reacted well.

It seems long overdue to resolve the fallout between Lucien and Tamlin, the downfall of the Spring Court and the reveal that Helion is Lucien's father and that's not even accounting for the control he's been maintaining over his bond despite the struggles he's felt because of it.

[sokkastyles]

Lol this is a nice essay but totally ignores that Zuko renounced belief in colonization and imperialism and became Katara's ally and friend, and that she did forgive him. That's what my original post is about, the fact that the show had Zuko go to great lengths to atone onscreen and had Katara forgive him onscreen. We actually see Zuko learn to respect Katara. We do NOT see Aang learn to respect Katara. You say the kiss was "a bit much" while downplaying Zuko's redemption, and then say that Aang "needed to grow," except that he did not grow. The kiss happened in late season three and is never brought up in the show outside of the episode in which it happens.

I'm sorry, but I wholly reject the idea that Zuko is not a romantic option if he can be Katara's friend, and he canonically is. Also, you missed the point of my post, which is that Zuko grew to respect Katara and Aang did not. If my choices are between a man who had to learn to respect me and my boundaries and was forced to grovel before me in order to earn my trust (a literal romance trope) and an immature child who disrespected my boundaries and sexually assaulted me but he'll never be held accountable and is extremely likely to do it again, I'm picking the first guy every time.

It's also giving the writers too much credit to say that they got the affects of adultification right. Katara experiencing trauma over being parentified is somewhat addressed, but she's still expected to take care of the group's needs and ultimately the show concludes that this is a good thing at the same time that the show uses those traits in Katara as sources of comedy. Also all the kids are more "adult" than real kids because they are cartoon characters in an adventure story. ATLA is not a realistic story about child psychology, nor can it be.

It's also clear that the romance didn't happen because "Viacom needed a romance plot," Bryke have spoken often about their intentions for the romance plot and how it was meant to portray Aang growing into earning Katara's affections and proving he's grown up enough for her. Thus the problems with the kataang romance stem from the inherent fact that it was always driven by being a male fantasy, and the problems that exist aren't accidental, they were done intentionally because the writers don't actually care about how Katara feels. Disregarding what Katara wants and having Aang win her anyway despite being immature and never having to respect her is an essential part of that fantasy. Aang kissed Katara without her consent because the writers want us to identify with his frustration that she hasn't become his girlfriend yet. Aang never apologized for it because the writers don't care about that, people like you downplay the fact that he kissed her without consent because the romance was written from the perspective that Katara's feelings need to change to accommodate what Aang wants. The misogyny is an intentional feature, not a bug. Even if Zuko wasn't the better option (and he is) I think Katara should pick him because fuck that entire narrative.

Edit: I also want to address your tags because you use the word intersectionality but don't seem to understand what it means. It does not mean you "pick the lesser of two evils" (and I am EXTREMELY judging you for insisting that sexual assault is a lesser evil, wtf), it does not mean we should constantly judge people by identity alone. It means that arcs like Zuko and Katara's are actually necessary and should happen more often in shows, where they both have to learn to respect each other, because it's also intersectionality that Katara had to learn how to treat Zuko as someone with a facial disfigurement. Katara learning how Zuko has been victimized by his own family and how that parallels the loss of her mother is also a facet of intersectionality. Being like "oh these two characters can never have a relationship because of identity politics" is NOT intersectionality.

Just saw a post where someone took someone else's post and said that they were "projecting" onto Katara because the OP said that if they were in Katara's position when they were kissed by Aang in EIP after making it clear that she didn't want to be kissed, they wouldn't forgive Aang.

And the thing is, that first of all, projecting isn't a dirty word, it's a normal way to relate to fictional narratives. Second, we actually don't see Katara forgive Aang or even address the kiss in any way other than after she looks upset and angry and then runs out of the room. Audiences can ONLY project onto Katara because we don't actually get to see the resolution to that event from Katara's perspective. We assume she forgave him because she gets together with him in the end, but we aren't actually shown it and we know that they would be endgame whether or not the kiss had happened. Katara's forgiveness of Aang doesn't feel organic because she doesn't actually get the chance to forgive him, so of course audiences are going to question it.

Third, it's actually quite common now for writers and producers to consult audience members, especially those who fit the demographic of a character, on whether that character's actions seem plausible. This is especially true if the writers themselves aren't representatives of that demographic. Katara's actions were written by male writers, so it's not up to them to give the final word on what a teenage girl would do upon being kissed without consent, it is up to female fans to decide whether that rings true. The fact that the writers didn't even bother to show us Katara's perspective further highlights the lack of a female perspective being considered here.

The post in question also said that what Aang did didn't actually hurt Katara, and that she was just "annoyed and angry," but not hurt. And I feel like people who argue this in favor of Katara and Aang's relationship are actually downplaying the relationship quite a bit. Because if Katara loves Aang, she'd feel a whole lot more than annoyed upon being kissed by him after expressing that she was confused and felt that it wasn't the right time. She'd feel incredibly betrayed, she'd feel like he didn't listen to her. She might even question her relationship with him further and start to back away from the feelings of love that she was already hesitant to express, because what Aang is showing her is that he doesn't actually care about how she feels and isn't going to be careful with her feelings if she were to truly give her heart to him. The EIP kiss actually does A LOT of damage to Katara and Aang's relationship, and the fact that it's never actually addressed does even more damage.

I mean, if Katara didn't really care about Aang kissing her without her consent, I'm not sure why I should care about their relationship at all.

The post also brought up that Zuko has done worse to Katara but she forgave him. The thing is that we actually SAW Zuko earn Katara's forgiveness. This is a relationship I can get behind because the show cares about it. The show cares that Zuko hurt Katara and cares about whether or not he gets her forgiveness. Zuko and Katara would not have had a relationship at all without that conflict and its resolution. The show tells me that these two characters care about each other, and it does it without any sort of romantic drama AND without having the guy sexually assault her.