#they get to survive the whole shit because they deserve it

[firapolemos05]

A continent sunders beneath him into fire and ash. The air fills with smoke and heat he just barely manages to evade.

The vast expanse of ocean is Cerrit’s only view for weeks. The skies darken, the waves crash, and the world descends into a cataclysm. Little rest, little food, little water.

None of it matters. Only the three faces in his memory matter now. Only the three faces that await him. Only that promise that keeps him aloft through exhaustion and burning muscles. Only the three voices that call to him through the Sending Stone clutched in his hand. They keep him going. They keep him fighting.

----------

A brother and sister sit watching the sky. A mother stands guard, ensuring that her children are cared for during their vigil. Ensuring they eat and rest despite their stubbornness. Ensuring they remain in the city, hidden from outside dangers.

She has relayed their location. He will find them. This city cloaked by the Rifenmist will not hide itself from him.

It’s weeks since the sky became choked with ash, weeks since Maya and Kir last looked into their father’s eyes. He did well to mask the truth, his fear, with determination and a tight grasp on a sliver of hope. But his kids had his eyes too.

---------

A shape appears above the horizon.

Small, alone, wavering on the little strength he had left.

He sees them. He’s made it.

He’s made it.

Three sets of wings fly up to catch him. The former Senior Sightwarden of Avaliir collapses into the arms of his wife and kids. Safe at last.

“Wingspan reporting in,” are his first words before blissful sleep takes him.

[dhampir-dyke]

vent, suicide ment in tags. I'm safe rn I'm just in a bad mental place rn because of a conversation with my parents.

[inkskinned]

okay if you're really cool about things, i can be honest with you. before you read further, decide if you're a girl's girl. if you're cool and actually cool or like not cool.

men don't talk in my book because i was fuckken tired of the way they're the center of every fucking story. i was tired of how every story takes a moment to let them talk. men can shut up for literally one fucking book.

unfortunately not everyone is cool. professionally what i usually say is i didn't want to add violence to the world. the only men in my book are abusers, so they don't get to talk. they don't get to take up space. they ruined my life, they don't get to have their words echo anymore.

because like, yeah! you find practically any story about a person surviving trauma and... there's a man at the center. men are often rescuing us from these things. a "good man" is always standing around, being a good man, proving to the victim that good men are the real men. that her experience was unique rather than universal.

the redacted text has not been taken well by all of my early readers. there is this weird, crouching growl that keeps occurring with men-of-a-certain-age. why don't we hear his side of the story?

when i sat down to write everything that happened to me, i couldn't look at the frank brutality of my abuser's words on a page and think to myself: i actually let him speak like that. i had to redact his words from the manuscript. i then left it redacted. no victim is going to read this book and hear the person who hurt them. it is a book for the victims to speak. abusers shut up challenge, forever. for eternity.

my father once told me, chuckling, i should just have a page of redaction where i let the man just finally talk. it is funny to joke about how we should make a whole page in my book about a man that hurt me. this was not the only time someone commented - it feels like you're hiding things. how do i know you're actually a victim if he doesn't get to speak?

there are books where women aren't even present. i even genuinely like some of those books. like, who doesn't like the hobbit?

i keep running into people defending this imaginary man. the default narrative is so true to some people that they will defend any man, just by virtue of the assumption - "if he's acting like that, you had to push him." certain people need definitive proof that you didn't accidentally make your partner into an abuser. they need to decide if you deserved it, because they want to be able to judge you.

which makes sense, i guess, from a hind brain perspective. if you can figure out "why" someone was cruel, you can protect yourself against it. if you defend the bully, the bully might side with you. i don't really know their explanation for feeling this about a character in a book. trust me, i wrote the guy. he is not going to protect you.

i guess i just - there was a time in my life where i desperately wanted anyone to defend me. where i could have really used someone saying holy shit are you okay instead of what did you say to make him act like that to you.

instead, over dinner, a friend-of-a-friend i just met is pouring herself wine. i heard you wrote a book, she says. she gives me the kind of chilly smile i associate with knives. i heard it's unfair to men.

[malkaviian]

Oh and btw Zachary hates Raven's ass. He thinks her general knowledge about the occult is a threat to the masquerade

[valeriasdream]

You Are in Control

A long post ahead, so I put a cut to save space for you all. I hope this helps. A bit nervous posting this and I get a little ramble-y, so apologies in advance for that.

We try to control our external world by focusing on our results, but by doing so we give up our actual control.

Have you ever heard the philosophy that you can't change others, you can only change yourself? The same applies here. You cannot change the outer world without changing your own inner world and mindset.

The only thing you will ever have 100% control over is yourself and your internal world. No one has control over your belief system, as much as people will tell you that what you believe is not wrong, it's still yours.

On Traumatic Events

That being said, I want to talk about traumatic events in relation to manifestations and reality shifting, since I've seen a lot of people posting or talking about it recently.

I think people misunderstand that when we say our assumptions make up our reality it means we are therefore responsible or the cause of bad things that happen to us, including traumatic events or abuse.

This is simply not true.

I think it's incredibly cruel to tell people that their abuse or their trauma is their fault. It's not.

Imagine you are going through life with a blindfold over your eyes, but you are unaware that you have a blindfold on. You think you can see, you are not aware that you are blind. So you continue your life, falling over, getting hurt, running into things because you just simply do not have the awareness to even realize that you are blind. How can you be responsible for getting hurt, how can it be your fault that you were hurt if you couldn't even see the path in front of you?

Then one day, you experience something that causes you to become aware of the blindfold. It could be another person telling you about it, it could be just through random circumstances that you felt your face and realized, "holy shit, I'm blind!" Whatever the circumstance is, it does not matter.

So you take off the blindfold, and you suddenly notice that you have total control of your path, and now you can avoid all pain or dangerous outcomes.

This is sort of how I view trauma or negative experiences... And I am aware that my blindfold analogy sounds a bit "culty" because of the whole, "open your eyes take off the blindfold" shit but it's the best analogy I've got, so I'm sorry for that. I am NOT trying to sound like some bullshit person who blindly believes in the law without acknowledging traumas. Traumas are real and they happen to people.

Sometimes we are blinded, and unaware. And when we are blind and unaware, we don't have control. And it's not our fault for being unaware, because think of how you were before you knew about the law or about shifting. You were just living your life, you were letting life lead you. You were in survival mode. How can you blame someone for just being in survival?

That does not mean that you are the cause for any bad things that happened to you because at the time, you were unaware of the control and power you had. And that's perfectly valid and okay, whatever may have happened to you it was not your fault.

It is now up to you whether or not you want to stay in that state, and because you are now aware of the control you have over yourself it is so much more freeing. The blindfold has been removed, you are no longer stumbling through life simply trying to survive. You are free to create however you desire.

As a side note, I want to express that it is absolutely possible to heal from traumas. It is hard, it is very very scary, I know because I've been there myself. But it is possible... And the moment you do, the moment you free yourself of whatever happened to you, you will understand that it was never your fault. If anyone is reading this who has been through something painful, difficult, or traumatic... You didn't deserve that. You will lead whatever life you desire, whether it's manifesting a better life here for yourself, or shifting to a whole new reality in your DR. It's not about deserving or not, everyone deserves their own version of their reality regardless of the person you are. There is no good or bad, there is only a state of being.

I just wanted to end on this note because I think people can sometimes blame themselves far too easily, and sometimes we need reassurance and to understand that we're not responsible for what happened to us, but we are responsible for handling our own healing.

No one can heal you but you. Just like no one can change your reality but you.

You are in control. Do not ever let anyone take that away from you.

This post from 2022 in the Neville Goddard subreddit has a take that I find very helpful in also understanding that you are not the cause of your traumas.

If you've read this far, thank you for your time. Whether we agree or not, I hope everyone remains respectful.

🩷 Valeria

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Wild Nights || CL16 {1}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x songstress!reader Summary: After getting dumped before your wedding you decide to take your best friend on your honeymoon instead and end up having a whirlwind romance. Warnings: 18+only, NSFW, smut, oral, angst WC: 2.3k F1 Masterlist || One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Epilogue

The memories of last night ran through your mind like a montage that was powered by a strobe light, disconnected images and snapshots that blinded you and left your head aching. You blinked against the bright sunlight flooding the bedroom you didn’t recognise and tried to suppress the groan of pain that came with the hangover you rightfully deserved.

You had drunk far too much but you deserved to let go and have fun. Getting dumped right before you were meant to be married definitely gave you a free pass to go wild so you kept the booking for your honeymoon in Monaco and took your best friend instead.

“Shit,” you cursed under your breath as you spotted your iPhone on the bedside table and found the battery dead. 

A soft snore had you freeze and you slowly turned to the sound with a racing heart as another memory resurfaced. The back of a head full of lush, thick dark hair rested on the pillow beside you and your eyes trailed down his spine to the curve of his ass that was obscured by the sheet hanging over his hip. 

Angry red lines marked the otherwise smooth skin of his back and you remembered the pleasure of that moment. It had been the first time in a long time that you hadn’t needed to fake the orgasm that rippled through you. You had forgotten the feeling until you had collapsed light headed among the fluffiest pillows you had ever laid your head upon and fallen into the deepest sleep in weeks.

You slipped quietly from the bed and tiptoed across the carpet, collecting your bra and panties along the way until you found your dress in the living room. You bit your lip as you skirted around a broken vase, remembering how - shit, what was his name? - how he had picked you up with surprising ease and sat you on the side table between the desperate kiss you were locked in. The shattering of the glass hadn’t even fazed him when your ass had knocked it off. 

You looked around the apartment as you crept to the front door, hoping to find some indication of a name, but the high end place must have been an AirBnB because there was nothing personal anywhere. The only notable item at all was a beautiful Steinway Grand Piano that you were envious of, wishing you had a few minutes to run your fingers across the ivory keys. 

The thought of playing the piano drew the whispers of a memory that you couldn’t quite clutch.

Arthur? The name rang a bell but you shook your head as you unbolted the door and grabbed your clutch that was waiting beside it. There had been an Arthur at the bar but you didn’t think it was him in the bed. There were a lot of guys there last night, a lot of names to remember, hopefully Bea could fill in the blanks when you found her. 

Your cheeks burned as you walked through the heart of Monaco, trying to figure out where your hotel was in the maze that was the city. You stuck out like a sore thumb among the men and women out enjoying a sunny Saturday morning and you swore some of them even pointed your way as you passed by. 

This took the walk of shame to a whole new level. 

Finally you reached the hotel and as a bonus you found the keycard had survived the night and was tucked inside your clutch along with your lipstick. Your luck seemed to be turning around as you took the elevator to the honeymoon suite and pointedly ignored the tv screen set to welcome Mr and Mrs Wallace.

The shower was running so you went straight into the bathroom, not even knocking since there was no need for privacy among best friends. “Bea, I just had the best sex of my life and I don’t even know his name.”

The water shut off and the steamed shower door swung open to reveal someone who was definitely not your friend. “Oh my god,” you gasped as you spun away. “Who are you?”

Bea stepped sleepily into the bathroom rubbing her eyes with a groan, “Shhh, my head is killing me babe.”

“Bea,” you whispered as you grabbed her shoulders and kept your eyes above them since she wore absolutely nothing. “There’s a naked man behind me.”

Her eyes darted over to the man who had at least wrapped a towel around his hips. “Oh, yeah, isn’t Monaco great?” 

“Are you going to introduce me to your friend again?” the man asked with a charming smile.

“Again?” you asked with a frown.

“We met briefly last night.”

“At the bar,” Bea explained, though it didn’t really help considering there were a lot of bars. “Y/N, this is…Pe…ter?”

You were a terrible friend for feeling relieved that she wasn’t sure of his name either and you exclaimed, “Thank god, I’m not the only one. What the hell happened last night? I half expected to find a tiger in the bathroom.”

“And instead you found a lion,” the stranger winked. “It’s Pierre by the way.”

“Stallion more like it.” Bea dragged her eyes over his body before holding her hands up in front of your face, her palms about 9 inches apart and nodding. “Seriously.”

Your jaw dropped and your eyes drifted down her body before you could stop them. “Where did you put that thing?” 

“Where didn’t I,” she fired back with a husky laugh before dragging you from the bathroom and jumping back into the only bed in the suite. “Tell me everything.”

“I only remember little bits, well, and one not so little, definitely not that big though,” you pointed out as you nodded your head to the man collecting his clothes from around the room. “Please fill in the blanks.”

“Oh that’s easy,” Bea laughed as she snuggled back into the blankets, tugging them all the way up to her chin. “We met Pierre and his friends at Casablanca.”

“Casablanca?” you couldn’t remember the name.

“Yeah, they had an open mic night.” You screwed your eyes shut knowing what was surely to come as Bea continued. “I signed us up and we fucking killed it, babe.”

You fell back into the pillow that held a masculine scent it hadn’t the night before and groaned at the new information. 

“You were really good,” Pierre complimented as he pulled his shirt on and pulled his phone from the pocket of his dress pants, turning to Bea. “Can I get your number?”

“Why?” she asked with a laugh. “We’re only here for a few more days, you don’t have to try to let me down gently. I won’t cry into my pillow because you didn’t call.”

He seemed a little shocked at the rejection and you thought maybe he actually had wanted to keep in touch but he recovered with a smile and pulled his shoes on. “In that case, I’ll let you ladies enjoy your afternoon. Bea, it was a pleasure.”

“That it was,” she said with a whimsical smile that told you it was an understatement. Her eyes trailed after him and she didn’t snap out of it until the front door clicked shut. “I think I love it here.”

“You just love hot guys,” you corrected.

“And this city is drowning in them, and they are probably all stinking rich too.” 

Bea reached for her phone on the nightstand and you remembered that yours was dead so you plugged it to charge in before scooting closer to her. You figured you could watch a few mindless Tik Tok clips with her  before dealing with the day ahead.

A few clips turned to dozens and you were in fits of laughter at a compilation of fails when Bea swiped up and you heard a familiar voice. Bea screamed and shoved the phone on your face, her finger pointing to the likes. “Holy shit!”

You grabbed her phone as the short video started again and saw the camera was mostly focused on the man who was playing the piano beside you. “It’s him,” you gasped as you showed Bea. “That’s who I went home with last night.”

“Woah, nice! He’s a stunner. I always told you, piano players and gamers are the best in bed. Something about those fingers…”

“Shhh, you horn dog. I need a minute of quiet.” You rubbed your temples as you were flooded with freshly recovered memories.

—

You side eyed Bea when you heard your name called out and the MC shielded his eyes from the stage lights as he searched the crowd.

“She’s right here!” Bea shouted and pushed you forward, the heels unsteady under your feet after all the shots you had taken. 

“I hate you.”

“You love me, now let’s go.”

Bea took her place at the upright piano while you grabbed an acoustic guitar that had seen better days from the stand and adjusted the height of the microphone stand. You were acutely aware of the crowd as you checked it was in tune and turned to Bea to see if she had a song chosen. 

She leaned towards the mic set up on a boom above the keys and gave you a wink that instantly made you suspicious. “I wouldn’t be your best friend if we didn’t dedicate this song to that piece of shit ex.” 

You grinned at the idea of slating him and heard a few cheers from the crowd that told you you weren’t alone in having a shitty ex or maybe they were fans of Olivia Rodrigo. “I guess that means we’re playing Traitor.”

Your fingers strummed the opening notes and the self consciousness faded away as you fell into the meaning of the song, letting all the hurt and anger fill your words. 

The bar emptied as the crowd shifted away from alcohol and filled the dance floor, their bodies swaying to the rhythm. Suddenly their voices joined yours as the chorus came to an end. “Guess you didn’t cheat, but you’re still a traitor.”

Your eyes lingered on a group of guys that seemed centered around one who stared back at you, his eyes swimming with emotions you knew intimately. His eyes held yours as he raised his bottle in the air, saluting with the camaraderie that came with the shared pain and you couldn’t help smiling back through the heartache.

The song had ended but when you made your way off the stage the MC had blocked it and asked the crowd if they wanted to hear another. The screams had reverberated the stage floor and Bea had already said yes, going so far as to ask the crowd for a song request. 

“The angstier the better,” she said. Quite a few shouts for Adele came up and she pointed at a young woman. “I love Someone Like You, but unfortunately I don’t know how to play it.”

“Arthur does!” One of the guys in the group said as he pushed his friend forward. 

“No I don’t, Charles plays all the sad songs,” Arthur said as he elbowed the man next to him, the man who you hadn’t been able to look away from since he raised his drink to you. 

—

“Charles,” you murmured as you remembered moaning the name, your fingers laced in his hair when he went down on you. 

“What was that?”

“His name is Charles,” you repeated as you pointed to the handsome man playing the piano, his eyes remaining focused on you the entire time. 

“Oh yeah, it’s all through the comments. He’s some racer or something, I dunno, never heard of him.” She shrugged and swiped off to the next video. “So are we going to lounge around here all day or hit the bars?”

Your stomach protested the thought of more alcohol and you shook your head. “Is there a third option?”

“How about the beach?”

“I can manage that, I’m just going to shower while my phone charges.”

“Good, you reek of hot sex and I’m lowkey upset you haven’t given me any juicy details.”

“The audacity,” you gasped as you thumped her with your pillow. “This whole apartment reeks of sex and my pillow smells like a french Chad. See, sniff it.”

“I’ll take that,” she said with a smirk before burying her face on the pillow and inhaling dramatically. “You have lived vicariously through my sexual adventures, sexventures if  you will, now it is my turn. So, spill the tea.”

You groaned as you covered your face but she wasn’t going to let you off that easily and she pulled them away. “He was amazing, and I’m not saying that because I was drunk because I remember everything after we got to his apartment.”

“I already gathered that much, I need details.”

“Okay, well, he ate pussy like a champ, honestly, I didn’t even have to ask - he just wanted to, and I actually came.”

Bea snorted and buried her face in the pillow to scream before looking up. “Babe, that’s what real men do, he who must not be named was just a lazy asshole who never took care of you like he should’ve.”

“Jesus, I didn’t realise this was what I was missing out on all those years.” You shook your head ruefully and sighed. 

“Forget him, you’re moving onto better things, fitter guys, and plenty more orgasms where that came from.” She leaned forward and pushed you almost off the bed. “Go on, my little whore, go shower so we can get out of here. You’ve made us girls proud.”

“You’re so fucking weird,” you said with a shake of your head as you made your way to the bathroom. 

“Normal is overrated!”

Click here for part two.

Tagging: @alwaysclassyeagle

[ronearoundblindly]

Your Dog, His Tricks

a Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader tale set a little over a year after losing their virginity together and based on this ask.

Summary: Injured on a mission and MIA for days, you return to a very high-strung boyfriend who can't express what he's feeling until it boils to the surface.

Warnings: arguments and smut. MINORS DNI. WC 5.4k

You don’t know when it started, this sort of competition with your boyfriend, but at some point you and Steve became a packaged deal. Unfortunately, that package was labeled: Steve Rogers and his girl. You feel nameless sometimes, and you know you are better than that; maybe you aren’t super like he is, but you are (and were since before dating) a whole-ass Avenger in your own right. You are a stellar agent. You can bring home the top prize. You can finish this shit-show of a mission all on your own.

No help.

None.

You noticed a problem after months and months of fighting with Steve—no, that sounds wrong—beside Steve. 

Okay, maybe it’s not wrong-wrong to say fighting with him because you two do have the occasional argument. Just one argument, really. One argument over and over again about you fighting beside him, why it’s fine, why he should let it go. You are as safe fighting beside him now as you were before the two of you became this set, this lop-sided partnership. He still wants to protect you from shit you are trained to protect yourself from, shit you survived just fine without him, shit like the last three days.

He’s stubborn, and so are you.

You’ve had trouble getting him to back off. The Team is a team, and Steve does great, delegating all sorts of jobs when you are one among many. As soon as it’s you and him alone? He’s…overly helpful, over-protective, and generally over-the-top fussy. He is adoring and caring and competent. Apparently, those things make him feel capable of doing everything for you. It’s sweet until it’s not. Every time you start a project—laundry, cooking, organizing shelves, or leading an actual mission—Steve waltzes in and has to finish it for you.

Because he loves you. Because he’s trying to help. Because he can.

It makes you feel as if you can’t, or, at least, as if he thinks you can’t.

“Well, buddy, you can’t have this one,” you mutter outside of HQ’s gate, gripping your side and flicking open the phone you stole a few states back.

You’ve been gone for just shy of seventy-three hours.

At first, you truly had no way to contact the Team. You were on your own a thousand miles from home, fried comms and a spent weapon. You missed the rendezvous at the safehouse because it took twenty or so hours to find a vet office with the supplies to patch yourself up, and by the time you could have reached out, that ear worm wouldn’t leave you alone.

He’ll swoop in.

He’ll save you.

You’re his girl, so you need him. You can’t handle this without him. No one will believe you did once he gets anywhere near you.

Call it adrenaline. Call it blood loss. Call it shock. You can’t give up this glory, so you told yourself you needed radio silence to keep the recovered intel secure until back on Avengers campus. You told yourself the risk of interception was too high to chance a phone call.

Now, fifty feet from the infirmary, you need to get past one more obstacle.

You know Steve would jump from a third-story window to get to you, know he would scoop you right up into his arms and carry you over the threshold, know that would mean Steve wins.

No. Not this time. This is yours. You deserve the credit. You are crossing that finish line solo.

You jab the last of the epi-pens into your good leg, letting yet more adrenaline heave through what little of your blood volume is left and call the HQ secure line from the burner.

“Friday,” you start, standing at the bus stop, a blindspot from the Avengers’ surveillance cameras because the city already monitors it, “authorization Gamma-Lima-Four-Whisky. Do not declare connection. I repeat, do not declare this connection.”

The AI welcomes you back onto the grid politely.

“Thank you.” A bubble of pain bursts in your throat. “Give them a different location for this call, ok? Tell them it’s from the nearest functional payphone.”

Friday does as you say because why wouldn’t she? It’s not as if Steve is going to pause to question where the ping is—

—and he’s already out, on the bike, pushing that engine to its acceleration limit and narrowly escaping a shoulder check from the slowly opening gates.

You sneak right past, knowing he won’t look in his rearview, not with his eye on a prize ten blocks away, and you collapse just inside the garage ramp.

You wake prone in the Regeneration Cradle after surgery to a kind, smiling nurse monitoring your progress.

It’s difficult to focus. After a few blinks, you can see her features clearly, then beyond her are just eyes.

His eyes.

Piercing blue doesn’t begin to describe the intensity of Steve’s gaze, and his silence is deafening.

Each quarter-minute he inventories the room, and he exhales. That is the sum total of what he can manage to do right now. He’s attempting to keep it together until you two are alone obviously. Steve fails at very few things in life; this is one of them. You can see the outline of his teeth through his tight cheek.

“Doc wanted me to tell you you did a great job,” the nurse states softly. “If you hadn’t packed those wounds so tight, you’d have died for sure.”

Your mouth is too dry to respond, so you flash a wry smile. No one gets the Cradle without…extensive injuries. You’ve never had the ‘pleasure,’ not even for your through-and-through last year.

Steve huffs in frustration, keeping his huge body out of the nurse’s way even when you can feel him try to astral project himself forward to hand you ice chips. Instead, you swallow cotton.

“Captain Rogers,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimes from above, “your motorcycle has been cited for running five red lights with a further two dozen traffic violations. Shall I claim Official Avengers’ business?”

You croak ‘no.’ He says ‘yes.’

There’s a pause. “I will ask again later.”

Who says AIs can’t throw some serious shade?

Silence descends again as the spindling print needle moves on to a different wound. You’re lucid but wobbly trying to think, a combination of the waning anesthesia and pain meds.

If frowns could kill, your boyfriend’s would devastate the entire med bay.

This is what you hoped beyond hope to avoid, but it’s also why your endgame involved going solo.

“You’re making my point for me,” you sigh, your chest hurting more after surgery than it has in the past twenty-four hours. Clearly, your nerves are back online.

“And what point was that?“ he asks sarcastically, waiting in your own stubborn silence. “You gave me a heart attack.”

“Really?” You’re playfully shocked.

“No, not really! God.” He rushes closer. “What the hell were you thinking? If you had time to send me on a wild goose chase, you could damn well have called to tell me you were alive!”

The cradle’s lights shut off, job complete.

“Language, Steve.” 

He looks incredulous, engrossingly livid, anxious outrage contained by his one frayed thread of control left. 

“We found the intel,” he grits through a clenched jaw. “After power-washing your blood off it, everything was on the drive.”

You can’t sit up on your elbows yet, so you bite back, “good. It all worked out fine then.”

Wafting off him in thick clouds, Steve’s anger is near-flammable in the small room.

The nurse offers to step out for a second.

You say ‘yes.’ Steve barks ‘no.’

This isn’t the nurse’s first rodeo. “Alright, surgery went well. All debris and fragments removed. Your tissue is all intact now, too, but remember, this treatment doesn’t train new muscle fiber or nerve-endings.” She ignores Steve and pushes past to the other end of the table. “Rest up. Tomorrow, you can report to PT. They’ll work with you until you’re field-approved again.”

“She is not—“

“Both of you are ordered to rest,” the nurse snaps, nodding in Steve’s direction “—and make yourself useful by changing her drip when it runs out. If you can’t manage that, Captain, I will find a separate apartment or keep her here overnight.”

“No,” Steve breathes, visibly deflating. Like a scolded puppy, your boyfriend tucks his chin down, rings of grey settling beneath his dark sea eyes. It’s plain as day he hasn’t slept either.

The nurse calls for a wheelchair, and Steve dutifully helps you scoot off the table when it arrives. While he positions the IV to move in tandem, you attempt to push yourself by the huge rubber wheels and fail. Doc was not kidding about muscle weakness.

Steve says nothing.

You’re rolled back to your shared room by the grumpiest Captain America. 

He helps you dress in baggy, comfy clothes and silently reattaches the line of your drip. Not one touch is in a sexual, sensual, or even intimate way even though you are naked at some point.

You can’t remember what you expected; you’ve been so focused on completing the mission for so long. Did you want a desperate homecoming? Did you want him to grovel or worship at your feet? You think, at some point, you knew he’d push back, but you thought…maybe…he’d want you more.

Steve seems to turn his interest on and off so easily, which is great professionally but hard to read personally…or maybe you’re just struggling under the distracting hum of medication. It’s a white noise you can’t ignore, lulling you unconscious, so you can’t analyze the situation anymore. Maybe, you think, you try…but the thoughts don’t come.

He situates you on his side of the bed—to accommodate the cord and stand—and tucks himself quietly into the smallest corner of mattress that his bulk can fit on.

He falls asleep holding your hand. It’s the only place you two are connected. After nearly eighty-five hours apart, that’s still worth it. Maybe.

At some point, his hand goes limp and falls away.

Finally clear of mind, you keep watching Steve the next day. He doesn’t necessarily seem angry, and he doesn’t necessarily seem relieved either. He’s so robotic in his interactions. He won’t talk to you just at you. 

You understand why he was so standoffish last night, but you thought Steve would surely want you after that. You thought he’d start touching you again. 

You two waited so long for your first time, but after that, sex was relatively easy. Steve is an affectionate man when he’s allowed, when he’s in love, and you know he loves you.

Like the nurse said: all your tissue is fully healed. The only restrictions you have are in regards to field work, and the phantom jolts of pain—when you reach into a cabinet or take down a clothes hanger—aren’t real. 

Steve’s always an arm’s length away, just in case, meaning he is there to help you.

Always an arm’s length away.

No closer. No farther.

That afternoon you attempt to start talking about your mission, but that’s when he moves.

Steve practically sprints out the door with a half-baked excuse, so you go to physical therapy alone. You can go alone. That’s not the problem.

If you thought talking to Steve was difficult, you weren’t ready for how hard touching Steve would be.

You try to initiate even a cuddle that second night, and he jumps up claiming to have forgotten something somewhere else that he promised someone. Your boyfriend can’t lie worth beans. You don’t know why he tries.

You’re asleep before he returns.

The next night is exactly the opposite. You spend longer at the gym, slowly and painstakingly repeating every single exercise you know in order to streamline these new muscles. It’s an unholy pain in the ass, but you do it because you can—and will—get back in the field.

Even though the workout was mild, you’re awash with that runner’s high when you return to find Steve passed out already. He looks so peaceful, brow relaxed and lips gently parted. He also looks, well, good enough to eat, but you’ll start slow.

There was one time early on, before you two went all the way, that you woke him up by grinding on him in your sleep. You think now, perhaps, you can recreate that, catch him off-guard and dissipate some of this tension between you. This would be a good release. You don’t normally go this long. Obviously, Steve wouldn’t have masturbated while you were MIA and possibly dead, and every other second since has been accounted for.

He practically can’t have sex anywhere else except naked in a bed. He’s even told you, point blank, that he feels no need to touch himself since he has you. You are what he wants. That’s what he said.

Except he doesn’t wake up to your advances. He just rolls over like you’re disturbing him and softly snores.

For the first time, you wonder if you’ve really broken the two of you. How long will he be mad at you for doing your job? 

Steve rolls back over in his sleep, holding you close like nothing’s happened. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, but it’s enough and so, so wonderful to imagine all is well.

About a week into your ‘recovery’ (which is sorta bullshit since you can do everything the same by now just with an occasional, faint twinge, no more than the strain of every workout, ever), Steve takes Sam Wilson up on his offer of 1-on-1 basketball for a while. The Team—minus you—has a raid planned in the morning, and there’s always nervous energy to burn off in anticipation.

Your boyfriend has been a nightmare grump, but no one wants to take on the hassle of convincing Steve that he’s being too Steve to Steve properly. He still won’t talk to you about anything other than the weather, food, or daily schedules.

You’re even considering taking a break from field work because this all has become too much. If Steve is gonna shut down after every dangerous mission—which is, in fact, all of them—then maybe it’s not worth the risk. You’re good, you’re great, but you aren’t super.

“Taste of his own medicine, I say,” Bucky mutters, sitting beside you on the bleachers between courts.

“Huh?” You were distracted, watching Steve and Sam squeak across the floor.

Steve sinks a perfect layup and doesn’t gloat. Do-gooder.

“He used to get so mad when I’d find him in an alley all beaten up,” Buck continues. “Thought I was being too protective. I trusted him, but he was puny and he did get sick all the time. He could take a punch, sure, but every mark took weeks to heal. Half the time, they were still yellow when some idiot landed fresh ones.”

Steve claps beneath the net, encouraging Sam, focused on not outshining anyone.

He’s been the same with everyone else but you, and the whole Team can see it. You shouldn’t be surprised someone is finally talking about it; you simply wonder how Buck drew the short straw.

“Didn’t wanna be babied,” Bucky snorts, fondly glowering at his century-long bestie, “while low and behold, he pulls that stunt with everybody, every day.” 

“Yup,” you pop, looking at the matte metal beneath your feet, knowing there’s a line between the ‘caring’ version and the ‘coddling’ version. Steve nose-dived right over that line this time.

“What he appreciated, though, was consistency.” Bucky swivels his hair around into a bun and ties it. “Punk is dedicated, and even if it was just him--the hund’ed pound soaking-wet guy whose only real talent at that point was getting back on his feet--he knew he’d fight anyway.

“Bit hypocritical to be mad at his girl for doing the same, don’t ya think?” Bucky muses, clucking his tongue.

The brunette watches you bristle slightly at the moniker. His girl. Not only is it what got you into this mess, it feels untrue based on that big, broad, cold shoulder you’ve received from the man racing back and forth in front of you.

Smiling, Bucky nudges you with his elbow. “I’m excited for you to get back on your feet,” he adds.

You’re stuck thinking about that long after Bucky jumps into the game.

It’s no surprise then that when the doctor gives you the all-clear the very next morning, you’re over the moon and ready to strike. You don’t hesitate for a second when the alarm sounds less than an hour later.

The Team needs reinforcements. Your Team needs you.

You hustle into the back of a quinjet with a dozen agents. While the others file out to where the main conflict is raging, you sneak around the perimeter to suss out the mission goal, a treasure trove of enemy tech hidden somewhere in what was thought to be an abandoned village.

Not so abandoned if it’s lighting up like the pyrotechnics show on an action film set...

The explosions rattle the ground, yet you know the Team have breached the main chamber. Those enemy forces still fighting are distracting from a retreat. The other agents can catch them just fine. Your mission is intel recovery.

To keep your approach stealthy, you don’t announce your movements over comms, and Nat doesn’t scan back down the dark hallway you wedge into as she carries out an asset. If you weren’t so far back, you never would have seen him.

An enemy agent slinks out from behind a floor-to-ceiling tapestry right in front of you. His silhouette is short and thin; he’s built for stealth, too.

Your heart thumps loud in your ears as you follow, and that bastard gets close—so close—to Steve’s turned back that the pistol’s muzzle nearly touches.

Not this time. Not a chance. None.

You land a roundhouse kick to the exposed neck above his kevlar, and that sucker goes down like a sack of potatoes.

Steve turns around at the ready, stunned silent in the middle of his instructions to Bucky who is not visible from the other side heaped boxes. The papers still smoke where evidence was burned.

You salute at big, blue eyes. 

“On your six, Cap.” 

Steve looks at you, looks down at the man, and looks back up at you…pissed. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

What the fuck indeed…

All you did was help your team. All you did was stop Captain America from getting his head blown off. In no small fashion, all you did was save your boyfriend’s life.

“Uh, you’re welcome.”

His grip on your arm is painful as he leads you all the way back to the jet himself, shoving you into the jump seat between other returned agents and shouting for you to 'stay right there.'

Bucky announces over comms that the rest is clean up. All but the specialized document interpretation and perimeter teams are moving out. 

Steve huffs, contemplates staying on a battlefield instead of going back with you, but decides to sit across the ship in silence again, fuming, making fists over and over in his fingerless leather gloves, bitterly sniffing as loud as possible the entire flight home. He refuses to answer a single person until the jet touches down at HQ. 

“Everyone off,” he bellows, “everyone except you.” 

You can’t stop it. Your hands fly up in exaggerated annoyance automatically.

“What do you want, Steve? I got the go-ahead this morning. I’m allowed to be here.”

“Stop doing that.” He rounds on you.

“Doing what? My job?!”

Chest puffed out, feathers ruffled, cheeks hot and red, Steve peels off his cowl. “Being insubordinate.”

“You’re not my superior officer,” you hiss, “we are equals, and if you think for one second I did anything wrong out there, go ahead and report me. From where I’m standing, I did the work, got cleared for duty, helped out the team, and stopped you from being shot.”

You poke a finger to his chest for each achievement listed.

“Fine," Steve shouts, crossing his arms, "but quit acting like a selfish coward.”

Them be fightin’ words. “A what?”

“You heard me,” he all but whispers.

It’s laughable, truly laughable how bad Steve is at hiding some of those wheels from turning in his head. This isn’t about today. This is the thing he buried the past week.

You roll your eyes. “If you’re gonna throw a hissy fit every time I get a scratch—“

“THREE BULLETS IS NOT A SCRATCH.” He tries—he visibly, painfully tries—to keep his cool one last time. “You weren’t ready,” he concludes, judge, jury, and executioner all poured into one star-spangled package.

“Say’s who?” You’re stepping closer, getting in his face because this is bullshit and unfair. “Last time I checked you’re not a doctor, and you should be thanking me for saving your ass—“

“It’s not your job to save me.”

“We have the same job, Steve! We are both perfectly capable of—“

“I know that,” he barks, hot breath mingling with yours.

“Do you? Because you don’t seem to think I can handle myself.” You push weakly at his chest, taunting, like it's a game. “Maybe you need to walk it off, buddy.”

His face cracks, an avalanche unmoored from a stable mountain.

Oh shit. You’ve done it now.

“Walk it off?! WALK IT OFF?!”

Steve charges like a bull seeing red, crowding you against the far wall, his own derisive finger pointed at your heart.

“You were injured. You didn’t make contact. You went dark for days, and you could have died. Alone. In the middle of nowhere. Who knows how long it would have taken us to find you. No—“ he cups your chin in a tight pinch “—you want to talk about the job? It’s protocol to check in. It’s common courtesy to let me know you’re alive, and it’s goddamn rude to ignore your own safety.”

A dark, hazy sheen layers over his sharp gaze. “Don’t make me keep you home.”

There’s a deep line of frustration carved between his brows. His nostrils flair as he waits, daring you to refute him.

“Well—” you purse your lips in defiance “—isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black.”

Steve lets go of you, smacked away by your cutting tone.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, whatever, Rogers,” you dismiss. “We both know you don’t have the authority to bench me.”

“Like hell I don’t,” he growls, grabbing your wrists and throwing your arms above your head, He weaves your hands through the cargo net behind you. The loops are tight and complicated in seconds, he’s so fast.

You can’t wriggle away.

“Let’s see how you like it.”

Steve roughly throws the zipper of your uniform down, letting the jacket hang open to show nothing but your sports bra.

“Feeling paralyzed—“ he dexterously undoes your belt “—exposed—“ your pants and underwear are yanked down to your ankles “—and afraid.” His last word thickens the air on the jet. 

How can this man launch you into unbridled lust in the space of two syllables?

Who. Fucking. Cares. How.

Steve’s fingertips teasingly glide over the swell of your breasts, brush down your belly, and tick their way in a casual walk between your legs. He retracts his touch the instant you let out a longing sigh, unable to restrain how needy you are. His fingers wander to perfectly clean and unmarked flesh…on your thigh, along one side, and a few inches below that. He’s tracing the bullet wounds he watched heal so quickly.

“Maybe I should leave you wondering how it’ll all play out?” he says absently, lost in thought, his thumb shifting to notch into the dip of your hip. “Maybe I should leave you wondering if we’ll ever—”

“Yes,” you whimper, no real idea what you’re saying. That’s not what answer you meant.

“How would you like three whole days of this feeling, huh? You think you’d fare any better than I did? Think you’d make it even five minutes?”

“Uh-uh.” Again, with no clue what you’re truly responding to, you buck your hips forward onto his long fingers.

The cords around your wrists get tighter while you struggle to set a pace. Behind you, the metal rings of the netting hit the hull with a soft clinking noise. 

“Not so fast.” Steve pulls his hand away just far enough to remove all friction. “Because three days, sweetheart, it was torture. Felt like an eternity right on the edge.”

“Please,” you beg.

One deliberate swipe of his fingers through your slick is enough to make you mewl.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Steve. Please, I need you.”

“Need me? You have an odd way of showing it, doll. You have to promise me—“ he thrusts his fingers in “—promise me you’ll never leave me.”

“I’ll never leave you,” you cry, convinced that it’s true for the sole reason: you never want to experience anything other than this Steve for as long as you live.

“You are so brave, and so…capable, and I know you can do anything, but you…can’t survive anything.” He takes excruciating pleasure in slow thrusts and teasing circles. “Promise me you won’t be so reckless. Promise, say it.”

“I promise.” Your weight sags into his ministrations, called to focus on nothing but where his hand disappears between you. “I promise I won’t be reckless.”

“That’s my girl.”

Your head falls limp against your tied arms. It sounds so good from his lips. Why did you ever doubt?

“I promise I’ll come back to you,” you manage out like a prayer.

“Yeah? That’s it. Is that what you want?”

“I promise. I promise, Steve.” You time your movements sloppily with his measured tempo. “Please, I need more.”

“I know. I know.” He’s strung out, too, listening to your pathetic whimpers after less than five minutes, exactly like he predicted.

You’re so over-wrought with desperation you can’t coordinate with his manhandling your legs apart—your knees, really, since your ankles are still caught in your pants. Instead of taking off your boots, Steve simply unzips himself and dives right into your wet, warm, and welcoming pussy.

Knowing he has a thing against anything naughty in his suits makes it sexier. You want his intensity—you’ve always been curious—and finally you have it: unhinged, untethered, super Steve Rogers. Your body makes room out of sheer joy.

“I know,” Steve coos, his face pressed to your chest as he adjusts. “Fuck, I know, honey.”

“Move, Steve.”

“No,” he says with a gentle kiss to your sternum. “You wanna come? Go ahead. You can do it all on your own. You can do anything you want, can’t ya?”

You groan in frustration.

You wanted this, an annoying voice in the muddled depths of your mind calls. You’re independent.

With a sob of both excitement and fury, your thighs weld onto that sturdy, I-beam beast. You brace your bent arms over your angled and hovering body, leveraging the cargo straps to hoist you up and down.

Your muscles burn, strained more than they were on your lone journey back to HQ.

Steve grunts and moans, the ghost of his wide spread palms beneath your back as a safety net.

“That’s it. That’s it, good girl.” 

Amidst your own noises, you can barely hear him. You’re not building to a climax, you’re falling into one at terminal velocity, flailing. Struggling to hang on and let go all at once, you do come, but it’s more of a plateau than a full release.

Steve’s unhappy and takes your ass in a bruising grip, finally pumping his thick length in and out, dragging the head of his cock across that perfect spot over and over.

“You can do better than that,” he snarls, hair wrecked and falling in his face.

Wave, undertow, and wave again, pleasures simply blend into the next. He gets handsy, keyed up and out of control, muttering “don’t you ever fucking leave me.”

You’d scold him for cursing if the air weren’t being punched from your lungs.

“Come on, sweetheart. Three for three.”

You’re almost disappointed he only wants you to come three times in payment for his days of torture. Even as a tear escapes the corner of your eye and your throat breaks in a hoarse “please,” you know you would give him more. You'd give him anything.

When you finally reach that shattering end, Steve is almost incoherently feral, one hand clamped at the back of your neck, the other anchored to the small of your back, slamming your ass to his leather-covered thighs like you are his mission.

“I promise,” you try to repeat, but you aren’t sure they sound like words.

Whether in response to you or as an errant thought, Steve’s own broken voice rattles at your sweaty neck. “You can take it,” he whispers gruffly. “You can take it.”

You’re floating by the time he comes, his hips stilling slowly. The buzz of your body now outdoes anything anesthesia or pain meds concocted.

Steve peppers your skin with lazy, light kisses until you remind him of your bound wrists, but then he’s overly apologetic and scrambling to free them.

He keeps himself inside you and maneuvers to sit with you on his lap.

You stay there for a while, your numb and sore arms folded between your chests. Steve only stops petting your shoulders to cradle your face, soft blue eyes roaming, adoring. He whispers concern that you’re okay, how are your legs, are you warm enough, you feeling good?

Yes, you think, you’ve taken care of your girl.

“I love seeing you like this,” he mumbles long after the pins and needles have abandoned their assault on your tired legs.

You tuck some silky hair behind his ear. “Like what? Fucked out?”

He’s floating too because he doesn’t chastise.

“Happy, healthy—“ he lets out a deep sigh “—home.”

“Speaking of home,” you say, inching ever so slightly higher to let him slide out of you, “wanna cuddle in bed all night and not get up until someone tries to break in the door?”

That knocks some of the glow off him. He drags a hand down his face. “Oh god, the poor people who have to clean this thing…”

“Let’s be honest,” you snort. “This isn’t the worst thing that’s been on you, but if it’s that big of a deal, we could go hose you down before handing our equipment in.”

He smiles, shaking his head in dismissal.

With his help, you climb off his lap and slowly shimmy up your bottoms, realizing he did truly make a mess of you both.

Steve looks down at his own lap, horrified. “Do I need to burn this?”

“That sounds like a challenge to make you filthier,” you consider, but maybe you should change into your civies before exiting the jet…

“Ya know,” Steve muses, passing over to the small locker of clothing overhead and grabbing a t-shirt and sweats, “I almost got shot in the head today, and you had three bullets fished outta you a week ago. I’m thinking we’ve earned a vacation.”

Workaholic Steve? Actively applying for time off? You’ll be damned.

“My my my, Captain Rogers…the real dirty talk begins.”

He huffs out a laugh and blushes.

“Well, I know we didn’t do anything more special than dinner for our anniversary, so…” He pulls you to his chest again, smelling of slightly musty laundry and pungent sex. “Let’s go on a fucking vacation.”

Your neck cranes to his height to see a soft smile. Oof, he’s good.

 “I missed you,” he adds like a prayer, “and you’re the badass who saved me.”

He giggles at your scrunched nose and watches you bask in that glory.

“Like I said, you’re welcome—“ you hug Steve, letting his warmth radiate through you, moving in time with his rising and falling chest “—and I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He kisses the crown of your head.

When you open the bombay doors, there’s a thermos left at the base of the ramp, a folded paper tucked beneath it. 

We should talk about how to better soundproof the jets. Brought you some refreshments. It’s hazelnut. ~Bucky

Tags: @supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jamneuromain @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @brandycranby

A/N: I sincerely give up on editing this anymore, so I hope it turned out okay 🙇🏻‍♀️

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[liulith]

Sir Pentious & Alastor: an underrated dynamic

"Show yourself, Alastor! Come and face--! Oh, there you are. FACE MY WRATH!"

Sir Pentious has been in Hell for much longer than Alastor. That means he was there when the Radio Demon appeared, and he's been trying to overthrow Alastor for decades! We know what Alastor is capable of, and what he could do if he truly wanted Sir Pentious to stop. He obviously doesn't register Sir Pentious as a threat, but that doesn't mean he's not annoying (like when he interrupts his song in the pilot and destroys a wall in ep2). Yet in all those decades, Alastor always let him go with the equivalent of a slap on the wrist, considering what he's done to other sinners in his broadcasts.

And why is that? Why, he must find Sir Pentious very entertaining, of course! Even though he calls Sir Pentious forgettable (to rile him up), there's no way a narcissist like him doesn't LOVE being the main focus of Pentious' "evil plans", as pathetic as they are. Not only does he give him the attention he deserves (like Vox), he's a true "architect of evil" who constantly reinvents himself to try and get the upper hand on Alastor. To Alastor, Pentious is like a sillier, weaker, more immature version of Vox with close to ZERO survival instincts but twice the creativity. Even Vox, who made a whole diss track about Al, wouldn't dare speak to him the way Sir Pentious does if they were face to face.

"SILENCE! Now cower! For when I've ssslain you, the almighty Vees will finally acknowledge me as their equal."

He does have some "oh shit" moments when he sees he crossed a line/is about to get Team Rocket-ed, but he still gets back up and attacks him again with all the unearned confidence of a man who has no idea how easy Alastor goes on him.

Just like Alastor, Pentious is attached to the aesthetics and technology of the time period he knew when he was alive, and still manages to innovate with those limitations. I think Alastor could respect that.

"You whores have no class! In war, the side remembered is the side with the most style!"

It's also funny that to Pentious, Alastor is the young, modern one. Some phrases Alastor uses are "young people slang" to him!

Pentious asking Alastor questions on his "modern" radio technology...

Alastor is one sarcastic bastard, and Sir Pent is one of the most naive characters in the show. He takes a lot of things way too literally (#autism?). That's just PERFECT for comedic misunderstandings between these two!

Before s1 was released there were quite a lot of ace!Pentious headcanons. I think we could still make a case for closeted ace-adjacent!Pentious in canon! Possibility even aroace!Pentious, if we interpret his crush on Cherri as compulsive heteronormativity (he loves her creative genius and is fascinated by her explosive contraptions; surely that means she's the one, right?)

Ace4Ace Alastor & Pentious would be a fun duo in my opinion. They could bond over their shared experience

On the topic of bonding... ("I have feelings for you" (Narrator voice: the feeling was friendship, but he had ever experienced it before)

Seriously, imagine Sir Pentious spending more and more time around Alastor because of the hotel, taking his sarcastic and mocking remarks literally and thinking they're becoming closer... And then being like. WAIT. Do I have feelings for him?? and trying to seduce him like he does with Cherri Bomb. The absolute shenanigans... Rizzlord Pentious strikes again.

Accidental fake dating scenario that only exists in Vox's head, where Vox, being the stalker that he is, spies in the two of them bonding and reaches all the wrong conclusions

Once Sir Pentious dies for the second time and ascends to Heaven, he could meet Alastor's mom 👀

EDIT: OH and How could I forget the Egg Boiz?? Egg Boiz babysitter!Alastor is canon and he definitely babysat them multiple times in the few months Sir Pentious spent at the hotel. Joint custody :3

AND let's not forget the important information that Frank the Egg Boy reported to Sir Pentious lol. The one Charlie made a deal with Alastor for. I can imagine Alastor considering killing the Egg Boiz/ Sir Pentious after learning Frank didn't keep quiet (Imagine Sir Pentious trying to engage in a conversation w/ Alastor and telling him what Frank told him as a joke akfkkd), spending a whole afternoon trailing after them and making plans, only to realise that the Egg Boiz say insane shit all the time and Sir Pentious was in fact NOT playing 4D chess by telling him he knew (and probably already forgot all about it)

[missycolorful]

I think I'll just say this: I don't agree when people call any of the islanders "bad parents" just because their parenting is flawed.

Like, parents and their parenting is flawed. Inherently. One parent cannot meet all the demands of their child; it is literally impossible. As humans are imperfect, there will always be something missing or lacking in one's parenting. Hell, sometimes even two parents can't meet all their child's needs, depending on their personalities. If that's the case, then I guess all parents are bad parents. But that's not the case, so I don't get why people are so adamant when they see that a parent isn't handling things 100% perfectly and go "wow this person's parenting sucks."

And this is even more so when you take into account... pretty much everything going on in Quesadilla island. These people never really planned to be parents, yet here they are! And this island is out to kill these kids, so it's also a dangerous game of survival now, too! There are horrors around pretty much every corner. Plus, outside or inside forces are making the islanders suffer very often. The islanders are never okay. How they take care of their children is going to be different just by the very basis of their environment. The standards of parenting are different here. Their relationships with people, including their children, were never going to be 100% healthy or positive or okay. It's just not possible.

so, no, I don't think that just cause, say, q!Tubbo or q!Phil aren't great in regards to their emotional intelligence and often isolate themselves, or when any other parents in general don't handle what their children are going through perfectly, that they're bad parents. That kinda statement feels like it diminishes pretty much all the hard work and effort and love they put into taking care of their kids and even kids that aren't their own. Tubbo gives his everything for Sunny, and was/is an active babysitter for a lot of other eggs. Phil works so hard to love and teach survival to and take care of his two eggs equally. (Like, being 'basically' a single parent, of one or WORSE, two, is already hard enough in the real world - imagine being one on this fucking hellscape they're on).

Like, I don't think there's anything wrong with pointing out the parents' flaws. Their flaws make them human, and it'd be foolish to disregard their humanity. And it's interesting to analyze their flaws and what they say about the character, and how they impact their family. There's nuance there, and it should be discussed.

But I think when you're just going "oh, they're bad at parenting in general" because they fumble the bag in other departments lacks nuance. Sure, if you're just saying "they're bad when it comes to certain aspects of parenting," that's a different story, because that's understanding their flaws while recognizing that those flaws don't define all of their parenting. But to just say they're bad at it in general isn't productive analysis of their characters in any way. I haven't watched q!Phil take care of his egg for a whole year (followed by a second egg more consistently shortly after) only for people to shit on his parenting just because his lack emotional intelligence is more noticeable as of recent due to all the trauma and bullshit he's endured. And I haven't seen q!Tubbo put his whole heart into taking care of Sunny as well as multiple other eggs, being Chayanne and Tallulah's reliable godfather, just for people to put down his efforts because he's not always great at more emotionally in depth conversations. They're good parents in a lot of ways, and those strengths shouldn't be discredited just because they aren't good at other things. Their characters deserve way better than that.

tldr these parents are all good in many regards and are just trying their damn best in the worst of circumstances, can we cut them just a bit of slack, please?

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! Thank you all for the amazing work here, this has been such a great spot to come back to as I’ve gotten into this fandom recently :)

I’m wondering if you could please recommend any fics that explore the idea that they’ve kissed before the one we see?

Thanks so much in advance <3

Hi! We have a #first kiss tag, here are some alternative first kiss fics to add, a few of which are specifically related to series two...

That's not what I asked by black_earth (G)

Aziraphale had to will himself to relax the grip on his glass. Crowley found his words and shot them out: “If I were to kiss you right now, would you let me?” _______________________________ It's 1958 and Crowley finds his courage.

Awakening by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

After Crowley rescues Aziraphale (and his books) from the church, Aziraphale experiences a brand new feeling. Later, after the magic show, Crowley has a similar realization.

What Does It Matter by Multifandom_queer (T)

An alternative to how the "naked man" scene could have ended. Funny misunderstandings reveal many feelings. Teen rating for talks of sex but no actual sex

In Other Words (Baby, Kiss Me) by asparkofgoodness (M)

“You’ll stab your eye if you keep on like that.” “I’ll be- oops!” He rubbed at a stray mark with his ring finger, then continued. “I am very out of practice, I’m afraid. Ouch!” “Just,” Crowley huffed as he plucked the pencil from his hand, “let me. C’mere.” Aziraphale did as he was told, turning away from the mirror and watching with widening eyes as Crowley stepped in close. Oh, my. The mirrors’ bulbs bathed half of his angled features in soft light. Always, Crowley was always gorgeous, but something about this suit — the wide plane of the shoulders, perhaps, or the way the vertical stripes led one’s eyes down the length of his body — and the cut of the hat across his brow… Aziraphale could hardly manage a coherent thought. The buzz of the audience reminded him: show. Soon. Right. ----- Crowley pops into the dressing room before Aziraphale's magic show to wish him luck.

Like Real People Do by bobbirose (T)

While scheming of ways to get the lesbians across the way to fall in love via perfect kiss, Crowley and Aziraphale decide maybe their lack of experience in that area is probably to their detriment, actually.

Heaven isn't built to house a love like you and I by ItsScottiesStark (T)

They did it. They stopped Armageddon. They survived. This was it, the first time they were actually free to finally figure out what their side entailed. Aziraphale is a being of love. Always has been. And now, all the love he has for Crowley is free to flow from the edge of his fingertips to the demon's, in a gesture that could only mean one thing; I'm with you. I'm here. As much as his hands itch to reach out for the love of his existence, his words seem to fail him, time and time again. He knows Crowley deserves more than gentle hand holding and forehead kisses in the dark. He aches to scream his love from the top of his lungs, for the whole world to hear. And the demon knows it. And he waits. Because he'll wait forever for Aziraphale. Because he knows they are meant to be one. We take a peak into Aziraphale and Crowley's "peaceful, fragile existence" they slowly carve out for themselves after Armage-not. We get to see Aziraphale slowly but surely reach out for the demon time and time again, bringing them closer than ever. Until Jim happens. And it all goes to shit.

- Mod D

[steakout-05]

it's so funny seeing the negative fan reactions to Jax being even more of an asshole than he was in episode 1. like first of all, how can you not enjoy his dickhead antics and growing frustrations at the things that aren't allowing him to be a dickhead 100% of the time. i think it's really entertaining to watch him be a complete jackass to everything and everyone! and second of all, i feel like this is an effect of twitter fandom kiddies always praising a character who's a perfect angel or a "bad boy but he's bad in a good way..." character and deeming characters "immoral" as soon as they do something bad. as soon as that character they attached themselves to isn't what they thought they were, they get super mad about it, even though Jax hasn't really changed at all since episode 1. it's like seeing Jax have more opportunities to be an utterly selfish and destructive asshole put them off from the character entirely because "ohh he's mean now". it's so weird. like god forbid a character has flaws or does objectively horrible things that makes them more entertaining /sarc.

it's kinda like the whole discourse surrounding Pomni "abandoning" Ragatha in the pilot. a lot of people were deeming Pomni to be a terrible character because she did something that could be perceived as "morally incorrect" when 1. she was scared and confused out of her mind and practically in survival mode the entire time she was there, 2. she literally just met Ragatha a while ago and wasn't in the right place to properly prioritise anything but her own survival, and 3. characters are allowed to do """immoral""" things because it's interesting, it makes them more complex and it drives the plot. oh yeah, and they're not real!!! they can't hurt anyone!!! it's so confusing how people will see a character with flaws and then get so enraged about how immoral they are, while completely missing the point as to why a character has flaws in the first place.

i just find it funny how people saw Jax in the first episode, visualised a bad boy version of him in their heads and then got super mad when he was even meaner deliberately in the second one and isn't exactly what they wanted him to be. like you guys just pulled a full 180 and went from loving him to despising him in and instant. characters will have something deserving of a character arc and twitter fandom kiddies will become livid about it.

by the way, i thought Jax being even more of an asshole shined a brighter light on his troubled nature. like,,, to me it seems Jax's asshole-ish attitude is kind of a mask for deeper insecurities, especially when you see his face soften during Kaufmo's funeral, before quickly replacing it with anger and walking away. i think he's grappling with some heavy shit and trying to hide it behind a troublemaker attitude and constantly causing chaos and destruction to distract himself. i think that's why he got so angry and frustrated during the second episode, because he couldn't always have his way. he's definitely hiding something. whether it has something to do with Kaufmo, his situation or both, i wanna see what happens and what's going on with him.

personally, i want Jax to get worse, because it would be a very interesting look at how he deals with the circus compared to everyone else. i want him to get so aggressive and asshole-ish that he does something he deeply regrets (in reference to what a tweet from Gooseworx teases). to me, the biggest allure of TADC is the way the characters react to what's going on around them. each character has such a different way of coping with everything and i think Jax's way of coping, desiring chaos and death and destruction, would be an interesting look into who he is as a character. i want his harmful coping skills to drive him to a breaking point because hell yeah, character development!!! i want to see what makes the asshole into something closer to not really being as much of an asshole as he started out as.

[gatitties]

The end?

─Yandere!bonten x assassin!reader

─Summary: You're sick of all the chasing and you want to put an end to this whole game of cat and dog

─Warnings: toxic behavior, blood, obsession, stalking, suicide attempt, violence, yandere stuff

@epitios here you go!, and for everyone who was waiting for a third part too😌

Part One / Part Two

You collapsed on the floor of your apartment, your breathing quickening and gasping, the sound of your heart pounding in your ears so loud you thought your eardrum was going to explode at that very moment. You covered your mouth as you moved slowly to the closet, the front door opening.

"Dammit, you said this was the exact location, you useless Sanzu."

"Shut up, at least I've gotten enough clues to find something solid."

Rindou rolled his eyes inspecting your apartment, you swallowed dryly, trying to calm your panic attack, you slowly pushed a lever inside the small space, a small door opened next to you, you crouched down to enter through the narrow secret passage, closing behind you just as the closet doors opened.

"Nothing around here…"

"Look at this, at least we know someone has fled from here."

Rin smiled when he saw the almost cold food in the kitchen, a maniacal smile on the drug addict's face when he saw that he had hit the nail on the head, he supposed that you had escaped from them in time, but how much longer would you hold out? They were already too close. They both warned the others to search the surroundings but they couldn't find you, Mikey was starting to get impatient with this search.

You narrowly missed their radar since the guy with the stupid braid, as you knew Mochizuki, almost caught you sneaking through the alleys of the city. It was stressful, you were on the brink of collapse right now, you had spent five months playing hide-and-seek with this stupid mafia, you had practically given up the dirty jobs underground just to survive the Bonten executives. They pushed you over the edge because you never seemed to have more than a couple of days to have to find a new place or personality to adopt to throw them off, you had frequent nightmares, anxiety attacks, your life was turned upside down right now and you wanted to end all this shit.

You were young, definitely many years of life ahead, but you already felt rotten inside, you had experienced many things, pleasant and unpleasant, all this 'game' with Bonten only made what little sanity you had kept go overboard, your work wasn't a pleasant thing to do and now they've got your mind blown.

"Well, this will be the final point, I don't care about anything anymore, they won't need to look for me anymore, damn stalker psychopaths."

You looked at your figure in the mirror one last time with dead eyes, your favorite clothes on, all you had on you was a gun with a bullet in it, you left a note for the guy you rented the apartment from earlier that day, apologizing for give him so much trouble, you sent your parents one last message even though they didn't deserve a look from you, you felt that the fairest thing was for them to know that at least you wouldn't see them again even if they wanted to.

A shaky sigh escaped your lips as you looked at the imposing building, it's not like it was the first time you've infiltrated, the truth is that if you could go back in time you would choose not to have come that day and threaten those men to leave you alone, you only made things worse, but today you would put an end to it.

As you infiltrated like last time, everyone was gathered, confused by the message they had found while tracking you down, Kokonoi left the crumpled note on the round table after reading it.

"It doesn't make sense, run away and now ask to see each other? isn't that weird?"

Takeomi nodded, no one would be stupid enough to want to meet their potential kidnappers and stalkers on their own turf, but anyway, they were all prepared and armed depending on what happened.

"And if it is only a decoy?"

Ran straightened up in his seat, fiddling with his braids, Kakucho got up to look through the vents, where you came in the other time.

"Whatever it is we can only wait, it's not like she can go very far, we have contacts everywhere."

Mikey remained silent the entire time, the others talked creating theories of your next move, he just stared blankly, fleeting memories of you in his mind, you were just a whim, but he wanted you to bow down to him, no one had ever had the courage to threaten him so openly and escape for so long, you would be like a trophy to him, what happened next, he didn't care much.

His eyes moved slightly towards the restored window that you broke, remembering how your body rushed into the void falling into the darkness of the night, he narrowed his eyes when he thought he saw something strange move near the window, like a reflection of someone who didn't was in the room.

"The window…"

His murmur almost goes unnoticed if it weren't for the fact that everyone fell silent at the right moment, they almost broke their necks to look at the window, at that very moment they all covered themselves because the glass exploded, falling all over the place, again, you positioned yourself on top of the table with a dominant stance, even though your mind was thinking that in this situation you were anything but the one dominating the stupid game you've been playing for months.

"Catch her!"

"Don't touch me!"

You kicked Kakucho, moving to avoid Mochizuki's arms, holding everyone at bay until Mikey rose from his seat, ordering everyone to stay put, your chest heaving from the short but intense fight, feeling uncomfortable under the gaze of all those men.

"I think you came here to make a deal, right? We hear you."

The boss smiled when he saw that you lowered your guard, he knew that whatever you said he was not going to accept, right now, on his 'land', you had no say, you were under their control at this moment, he thought that you had abandoned, that you you were going to surrender before them like everyone else, they had succeeded, they had hunted you.

"Yes… I came to say some last words to the people who have finished ruining my life, it's something very important! so listen carefully, I won't repeat it again…" you waited a few seconds to give tension, everyone held their breath waiting for your words, almost anticipating a victory because they caught you in their clutches and that you would have given yourself up "Fuck you! If anyone is going to ruin my life it will be me! I hope we don't meet in hell, whores!"

You quickly moved your hand to reach for your pistol, clamped it to your jaw and fired, blood splattering on the faces of Mikey, Kokonoi and Sanzu, your body falling into the arms of the Haitani brothers, who carefully grabbed you.

"Fuck… that was close."

Rindou muttered seeing how you had only fainted, his brother had managed to reach you before you tried to take your life in front of everyone, he moved your body enough so that the bullet that threatened to dethrone part of your face and skull, only grazed your right cheek and ear, you would surely lose some hearing and you would have a new scar much more visible from now on.

They all looked at each other in silence, Takeomi had taken it upon himself to call a doctor to treat your injuries, they had already done it, there was no way for you to get out of their control easily, you had no way out, you were brave enough to face them a second time and attempting suicide in front of them, Sanzu was delighted by your performance, he couldn't wait to have you with him and all the things he could do, the others having a similar feeling, unlike you, waking up and finding yourself in that situation was not what did you imagine, being trapped with a group of psychopaths, you needed to get out of there no matter what, maybe your attempt to end everything was unsuccessful, but you can always have second chances, you don't care about the cost, you wouldn't give them the pleasure of seeing you bow down to them.

[fromchaostocosmos]

Lets talk about trauma

I know that on the many years I've been on this site that the Jewish users of tumblr have discussed, explained, broken down, and shown over and over the multiple ways we are all effected by our generational and communal trauma.

The way that Jews from all over world and varying backgrounds yet all shared the same fears, learned the same survival mechanisms, played the same "games" that were not games, but rather ways to teach children how to survive, just the same everything.

Ask any Jew if nightmares about pogroms and/or the Holocaust and being taken or dying in it and they will tell you yes.

The amount of trauma Jews carry within us is, withing our DNA, within our bodies, within our brains in is immense. We carry several thousands years worth of trauma.

We carry it all. The hypervigilance, that stress cycle, the paranoia, the various of hormones that keep us in semi permanent state of stress, the tension, and more. If you have ever done any research into what trauma does the body, the brain, to a person then you can understand.

Currently Jews who stressed and traumatized people doing our best are being severally stressed and traumatized on a whole new level.

I fear for what this will do to us in the long term. I will not be surprised if Jewish people come out this all with PTSD. I know that I've already had a nightmare where I was at some nebulous Jewish place and a bunch people who came and shot and killed us including me and did so claiming to so in name of freeing Palestine.

Which is sad that I nightmare like that because I shouldn't have to experience that. And Palestinians deserve better than to have antisemites hijacking their cause and needs so that these antisemites can pretend that they are not antisemities.

It is honestly very sad to watch how much of the pro-Palestine movement/people do not actually listen to Palestinians themselves. How much they do not care about what Palestinians want, think, or need. How much this movement supports Hamas despite Gazans direct statements and feelings that say don't support Hamas. How much these groups still will push "charities" that send funding to Hamas or not credible instead of ones that give help to Palestinians.

The self-immolation of the air force man really cemented for how much this movement has been over taken and how little they care for what Palestinians think, say, or want. Because these people have been praising, lionizing, and glorifying this man death is direct defiance of what Palestinians have said.

The way this man death has been treated and talked about makes me extremally worried, and I know other Jews are too, that we may see suicide bombers attacking Jewish centers of life and community. Which in case it isn't clear then I want to make clear this not something I blame Palestinians or Muslims for.

No, this is something we are seeing from people living in the west who culturally Christian.

The way these people talk about martyrdom is terrifying. The way that they talk about Jews is I want to say horrifying and I want to terrifying because it is and it is all not anything new or suprising.

It is horrific, it is disturbing, and there are moments of shock, but not surprise.

I don't know if it is because I've just become numb or because it is the shit gets regurgitated over and over or maybe some combination of both.

Here is a picture of pomegranate for making to the end of this rather depressing post. Pomegranates are wonderful and make things better.

[myths-tournaments]

Awful Characters Round 2 Part 1 (5/8)

Propaganda under the cut!

SHEN JIU

YES he abused a child and killed an entire manor of people, but it was probably only one child and allegedly the people sucked. Surely this is not behavior deserving of being turned into a human stick or having your body possessed by a weeb. I love him because sometimes mean people are fun and also who can resist a good redemption tale (he deserves one).

BENNY GECKO

The first thing that happens in new vegas is that benny fucking shoots your character in the face, steals your shit and leaves you in an open grave. Benny is by all accounts a bastard. He kills you, steals from you, he killed his last boss, he is the single most duplicitous man around. His gang are all about honesty- except him. He's a lying, cheating bastard. The guys who helped him catch you? He skipped on paying them and left them to get shot to death. His new boss, mr.house? He stole his robot, broke it open, got someone to reprogram it and decided to use it to TAKE OVER THE WHOLE OF VEGAS. Benny literally kills people, lies to people, steals their shit and takes charge. That's all benny does. He gets fucking CRUCIFIED if you don't help him out just because so many people fucking hate him. And yet. And yet. Benny is the single most compelling character in the whole game to me. He's just a little guy! He's just there! You can get shot in the head and come back and he goes "what in the goddamn" and then if you try and flirt with him he's like "uhhh sure? Okay?" And leaves you a polite note in the morning. He's fancy. He wears a stupid suit. He has a tiny gun with shitty bullets. He's catholic. He talks like an old timey news presenter. Literally nobody else in the entire game does that. He's got an intelligence of 3. He's my funtime boy. My silly little man. He's so funny. The antagonist in this game is a guy dressed like a tablecloth who looks at all times like a confused dog who doesn't understand what a tv is. And like. He's compelling. He robs from you, shoots you, but…. he never seems to actually wish you harm. He kills and robs and lies but like. He apologises for doing it to you. When he sees you again he doesn't attack you, he's just… confused. He tries to defuse the situation. You can convince him to talk to you, alone, with no guards and it's not that hard. If you spare his life, he doesn't go after you, like. Even if you sleep with him he doesn't take advantage of that and kill you, even if you try to. He… he just leaves. He gives you an apology. If he gets kidnapped by Caesar He just… apologizes again. He tells you his whole plan to take over the city, too. He thinks he'll die, and he wants something of him to survive. He's happy that you made it. And if you let him free, he just… leaves. He knows he's beat, he doesn't want to cause any more trouble. He walks out and leaves. The NCR will kill you if you cross them. The legion will crucify you. House? He'll blow you the fuck up. But benny, the guy who lies and cheats and schemes, he's honest. He's polite. He's… harmless. You can kill him with a single shot if you want. And he can't kill you. He doesn't kill you the first time, and he'll never really hurt you again. Benny just wanted to win. When he knows he's beat he just leaves. No lingering, no harm, he's off, off into the desert heat, and never seen again. Isn't that just insane? like have you ever known an antagonist so polite? He just leaves!! He offers you a drink!! His plan is genuinely probably the best one for the people of new vegas!!! He's. Benny is Benny.

Anyway if you want to see some REAL propaganda go to the blog @letmebegaytodd and look in the #benny tag. You'll Understand < https://www.tumblr.com/letmebegaytodd/717051175751614464/in-another-life-i-wouldve-really-liked-just> <- look at this shit man

[yjhariani]

Reader's nickname is written to be Spectre.

Your hand reached for the next knife. However, instead of only metal, your hand also touched gloved fingers.

With a wince of your eyes, you turned towards the knife and saw a hand with a skeleton-print glove also touching the knife you were holding. There were two hands on the same knife.

Still narrowing your eyes, you looked up and saw Ghost who had just looked up from the knife to meet your gaze. Seconds passed with the two of you only looking at each other sharply.

You started sliding the knife towards you, but Ghost also did the same. There was a brief tug of war between the two of you regarding this one knife.

“This knife is mine,” you said.

“No, it’s mine,” Ghost replied.

“It’s not,” you insisted.

“I touched it first,” Ghost brought up.

“No, I did,” you replied.

“Then, we’re in disagreement,” Ghost stated.

“Looks like we are,” you agreed.

Again, the two of you exchanged sharp glances. Then, the two of you started tugging at the knife again.

“You don’t deserve this knife, you muck,” you slid the knife towards you.

“‘You muck’? That’s your best?” Ghost asked, sliding the knife towards him. “You’re the one who doesn’t deserve this knife for that sole reason.”

“Oh, really?” you scoffed, sliding the knife towards you again. “At least I throw these knives the right way.”

“Who cares how you throw these knives? What matters is it meets the bastards and kills them,” Ghost said, almost whining, almost not sliding the knife towards him. “Besides, I don’t miss once. You missed a couple of them by a few centimetres.”

“Oh, you think you’ll survive if I stab you three centimetres away from the middle of your fucking heart?!” you challenged, eyes widened, moving the knife back to your side.

“Bold of you to think you’ll be able to hit me,” Ghost said.

By now, the two of you were tugging at the knife so hard that it was stuck in the middle without the two of you making any progress on moving it towards either of you.

“Just because I’m new here, Ghost—if that is your real name—”

“It is not my real name, it’s a fucking nickname and you know it, Spectre—which I know is not your real name,” Ghost cut you off.

“Fuck you for saying that, but what I’m about to say is that just because I’m new here, doesn’t mean I can’t do shit. You just don’t know it yet,” you piled.

“You can’t even get this knife from me,” Ghost said.

“You’re the one who can’t get this knife from me,” you said.

With that, you pushed the knife towards him. Ghost’s hold on the knife loosened and you managed to snatch it from him. You immediately threw it towards the target, hitting it right in the bull’s eye of Ghost’s target.

“Hand-to-hand is next, Ghost, and I will beat the shit out of you,” you said before walking away.

Ghost remained on his spot, watching you leave with narrowed eyes.

Meanwhile, a few feet away from the two of you, your new captain—John Price—had been watching this interaction the whole time. At the moment, he was not sure if the two of you would end up trying to kill each other or trying to sleep together. He was sure, however, that figuring that out would be a fun bet to have with the others.

[pathetichimbos]

Ok actually I've been in love with your toughts about Thomas, YOU'RE AN AMAZING WRITER!!!

Btw, I can't stop thinking about how this man deserved a childhood friend that would eventually become his lover, someone that decided to treat him like an human being once and discovered he's just really sweet boy and not a monster.

Do you think that would change anything about how Thomas behaves in the future?

Oh, this is something I have thought about, I could write a whole fic on the AU, but let's not bite off more than we can chew and put that idea to the side for a future project. Please bear in mind that this post may seem lesser than my others and more rushed, that was quite literally because I had to continuously stop myself from writing endless drabbles on this idea.

But, I digress. Let's dive into the factual and realistic results of giving Thomas a childhood friend.

So, as we know, Thomas has had a lot of health issues from birth, and the Hewitt family did their best to get him the medical help he needed, taking him to doctors up until he was about thirteen or fourteen.

We also know that Thomas has been bullied for most of his life, and was isolated from his peers and community at a young age.

And we know that Thomas is some flavor of neuordivergent, so if we add all of these things together, we get a school record full of absences, low grades, and detentions from fights he didn't start, because we all know that in small southern towns, teachers really don't give a shit who starts the fight, they care about who's family has the better reputation.

So, he's in an out of school from the get go, has a bad reputation with all his teachers (and going into every new grade because teachers talk), and struggles with learning in the traditional way.

This starts tons of rumors about him.

They float all around the school, everyone knows who Thomas is, and no one in particular likes him.

But! Let's back up here, and take it back to, oh, I don't know, first, second grade? Around that time frame.

Thomas is still a little dude, being harassed and bullied by his peers and generally not having a fun time.

But, this time around, we'll drop another little dude in there. (that's you!)

And this little dude (non-gender term) doesn't particularly care about Thomas' deformities and disabilities. Who would?

So, you start hanging out with him. And Thomas, (who we all know thrives on positive attention), is confused, but not unwelcoming.

I don't think he'd be really clingy right of the bat, but give it a school year (maybe two if he's out of school a lot that particular year), and he's going to be a lot more comfortable with you, and that's what's going to lead to that clinginess.

Especially if you're nonchalant about grabbing his hand or touching him in general, because, remember, most people are afraid to even come near him, so the fact that you don't care and are willing to just casually touch him, is a huge thing in his eyes, and as he gets older, he's going to want more.

So, we'll skip ahead a bit until y'all are 10-12ish, and at this point, you're Thomas' best friend. Everyone knows you two hang out, the Hewitts love you, and it leads to a bit more isolation on your end, because no one wants to be friends with the freak, let alone the freaks weird best friend. (and yes, you're weird, I know you are because you're listening to me rant about leatherface /affectionate <3)

But, this also opens Thomas up to people a bit more, as the few people that do talk to you, eventually talk to him, maybe not go as far as to be his friends, but enough to be friendly.

Of course, some people are fake, and they'll ditch the both of you the moment the 'popular' kids find out they talk to you.

And other people don't, it's middle school, life in general sucks. Y'all are just trying to survive your way to highschool.

Now, if we assume you help tutor Thomas and you help keep him out of trouble (i.e. a large tree limb tends to deter bullies), we can assume his grades will go up, which will probably get his teachers off his back. All of these things are good. Thomas has a real friend, and not everyone treats him like a monster. His grades are better. His family is proud of him.

But Thomas still has mental health issues. And just like he hid them from his family, he hides them from you as well. His peers and community may have shunned and isolated him, but he also shuns and isolates himself from his family and friends, so I believe that despite being clingy and wanting to be around you a lot, if he hits a depressive episode, he's going to isolate from everyone.

That's what leads to his self mutlilation.

He slices the skin off his cheeks in an attempt to "fix" his deformities, believing that if he just gets rid of them, his disease will go away.

...But it doesn't. And he doesn't get to see you for a long time, a worried and frightened Luda Mae keeping her baby locked away and protected from the world while he heals.

That's when Thomas stops speaking. The healing wounds and eventual scars make it harder for him to speak, making anything more than a mutter or whisper painful for him.

This is when he finally drops out of school. It's a small southern town in the early 1950s, so there's no fight to stop him, after all, he's expected to help his family run the farm.

When he finally sees you again, he's worried you'll have changed your mind about him, and even though you haven't done anything wrong, it takes time for him to trust you again, his own self doubt ruining his confidence in your friendship.

But, after that, you're pretty much inseparable again. Everyone in town knows that if they see one of you, the other isn't far behind. Thomas still struggles a lot on his own during this time, and I don't believe he'd be capable of loving himself enough at this point to love you, or at least, I don't think he'd believe you actually like him, and for the sake of this post, we'll keep it that way.

Thomas spends a lot of time at his house at this point, so you spend a lot of time after school there with him. His house is practically your house. Luda Mae, Charlie, and Monty all know that once school lets out you're headed over, and they set an extra plate at dinner for you. (They don't know how Thomas could be so possibly blind to your affection towards him, but other than Charlie's stray comments encouraging Thomas to 'give it a shot', they mind their business)

Once Thomas gets a job at the slaughterhouse, and you get your own job in town, you'll often walk to the slaughterhouse after work to meet Thomas just finishing his shift, and the two of you will walk together until you have to separate to go to your own house.

It breaks people's minds seeing how soft Thomas is with you, their own preconceived ideas about the man leaving them baffled when he's gentle and caring to his friend.

It's about his early to mid twenties, when people start looking at you as more than just his friend, and as someone to actually chase and date, that Thomas finally snaps.

You don't know what comes over your best friend, but he becomes extremely affection and protective of you, no one can approach you in a flirtatious way without Thomas following close behind, simply standing behind you as a warning for them to move on.

But he doesn't actually try to date you. He's still torn by his own poor self esteem. It drives you insane.

You'll have to confront him, and give him an ultimatum. You can't keep playing this game, where he refuses to let you out of his sight but runs away every time you try to make a move.

He caves, obviously, not willing to lose you in any capacity, but your relationship is slow and careful, working at his pace as he learns to accept himself and your love for him, which takes a very long time.

He's not comfortable with any PDA, just barely letting you hold his hand when you meet him after work.

"But we've always held hands." You point out, and he looks away with a shrug.

It's different now.

But, let's step away from the drabble territory. I've already had to rewrite this post like five times now.

Over the years, Thomas becomes more and more comfortable with your relationship, and you have to teach him practically everything. He genuinely doesn't know anything going into this. And I mean anything.

As the town starts to die, and your family decides to leave, the Hewitts welcome you with open arms, but Luda Mae moves you into the guest room. After all, you're not married.

That doesn't stop you from sneaking into his room at night though.

But, despite the implication I just made, I don't think Thomas would be ready for actual sex until marriage. He's still a traditional man, just the way his mother raised him.

But, again, not my main point. Stick with me, I'm wrapping it up now.

All in all, I don't think Thomas would be that much different. A little more self confidence and self esteem, sure, but he'll still be Thomas. When the factory shuts down, he'll still snap, and he'll still kill the supervisor. He'll still start preparing human meat like he's asked. But other than feeling a bit more comfortable in his own skin and mind, he wouldn't be much different. He's still our same old Tommy.

Ok, that's all for now. Thanks for sending in the ask love <3