#write c

[feral-ballad]

Maya C. Popa, from Wound is the Origin of Wonder: Poems: “Wound is the origin of wonder”

[Text ID: “I am stuck in an almost life, in an almost time.”]

[crippledpunks]

i wanna say fuck you to anyone who shame disabled, chronically ill & neurodivergent people, especially homebound folks, for "spending too much time on their phone/on the internet/etc." when it's the only (Somewhat) accessible way for them to experience the world. many people don't get to get out much even if they want to because of their disabilities. shaming someone for trying to connect with the world, make friends and engage with hobbies in ways that are accessible to them is beyond cruel and unnecessary

[perfectquote]

When someone loves you, the way they talk about you is different. You feel safe and comfortable.

Jess C. Scott

[therecoveryquotes]

You can't go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.

— C.S. Lewis

[perfeqt]

Sometimes, all you can do is lie in bed, and hope to fall asleep before you fall apart.

William C. Hannan

[dollyfetti]

katsuki thinks it's fucking crazy whenever you get cuteness aggression from him-- a large, brawny, 6'2 boulder who isn't "cute" in any sense!

he may not openly admit it, but he adores when you excitedly rush into the shared bedroom where he's reading on his kindle, glasses perched on his nose. your face radiates with lovey dovey affection as you enter his space. and he loves it even more when you set aside his kindle and climb into his lap, covering his face in sweet smoochies. you wrap your arms around his thick neck and squeeze his body close. you adorably squeal, "missed you so much baby..!", filling up the room (and his swelling heart). you pull back to glance at his face where you're met with an uncharacteristic expression of fluster from your boyfriend.

"...my cutieee!!" you giggle, snuggling into him once more.

and the blond can't even say anything beyond a bashful, "love ya, sweets" cuz he just can't fathom the amount of joy he feels when you express your love for him.

[spoopdeedoop]

married couple and their sort of third who is so clearly aroace and romance repulsed but it would be weird not to include her

[thehopefulquotes]

When someone loves you, the way they talk about you is different. You feel safe and comfortable.

Jess C. Scott

[feral-ballad]

Maya C. Popa, from Wound is the Origin of Wonder: Poems: “All inner life runs at some delay”

[Text ID: “The wound is where the light enters us.”]

[tubborucho]

They did it. They got their soft epilogue. The world is kind at last.

[zephyrchama]

Seeing Satan interact with strays around the RAD campus gives you an idea. You decide to try it out when he's alone in the household library later.

As usual, he invites you to sit with him. When no one else is around, it's fine if you sit in his lap. It's your special privilege.

You take a peek at what he's reading. It looks boring, though his eyes are glued to the page. His blue irises shift in the light as they go back and forth across the page. It's a pretty sight.

When you raise a hand to his cheek, Satan leans his face into your palm. A natural gesture. He doesn't even look up. It signals the perfect time to put your plan into action. You begin to move your fingertips, gently scratching around the bottom of his ear in small circles. Just barely grazing his skin with your nails.

He stiffens with a look of pure confusion. Concentration broken, his gaze is finally directed at you.

Now that he's not distracted by the novel, your other hand makes its way to the crown of his head for more scritches. You go back and forth, mimicking the satisfying way Satan always does it to the strays around town. His soft blonde hair parts easily as you lightly scratch at his scalp.

"What do you think you're doing?" A blush spreads across his entire face, from cheek to ear. Perhaps your experiment went too far.

"I thought you'd like this," you admit. It seems to have the opposite effect, though. Instead of relaxing, Satan was straining his entire body. His grip on the chair's arm dug into its upholstery. You drop your hands and opt to lean against him instead.

He places his book aside. "I do. Why did you stop?"

"Really?" With newfound confidence, you graze two fingernails against the bottom of his chin, working in small zig zags. "So you like this?"

His breathing turns erratic. Satan grabs your wrist in an oddly strong hold and orders, "wait. Not here."

In a rush, he clutches you against his chest and stands up. There's so much force behind his movement, the armchair skids back several paces. It'll be faster if Satan carries you, and you can keep scratching his chin while he walks.

"Come with me, we'll try this out again in my room."

[eowynstwin]

clawing at the door

ghoap x reader. jealousy. bisexual soap. bisexual ghost. emotionally constipated ghost. manipulative soap. ghost likes em thick. lightly explicit. MDNI. ao3

When Ghost first sees you and Soap together, his jealousy is hard to parse. He doesn't quite understand what he's feeling.

On the one hand, Occam's Razor. Simple explanations usually prove the truest. Soap is his boy, has been since Las Almas, and you are an interloper in their hard-won dynamic. Ghost does not absorb others into his life lightly, even less so then he allows them to strongarm themselves beneath the mask. He doesn't particularly like people, isn't really fond of their tendency toward abject mortality.

Soap's strong arms are a rare exception. And Ghost has nearly died too many times not to admire a nice round ass when he sees one—the kind that glistens and quivers beneath the weak spray of a communal shower. Some part of him has always kind of supposed the sergeant had been showing off specifically for him, too, when he dropped trousers and moaned like a whore when the hot water started flowing.

The boy certainly dogs his steps like that's the case.

Then, you: showing up on base one day, Soap's hand spread wide and possessive on the small of your back. Jewel-bright eyes following your every move. Blush high and feverish on his boy's cheekbones every time you throw half a smile his way.

So it's envy. So it's a crush, unrequited.

Simple problem, simple solution. Getting over by getting under and all that. There are apps for every heartache, and plenty of hard-bodied gym rats out there tripping over themselves to bottom for a brute like him, who can actually throw them around.

Not two minutes after making his profile (military, six-five, top), likely candidates start filing themselves into his inbox. Some part of his ego is gratified, at least. The influx of taint pics certainly confirms for him that his vanity, in fact, is justified, even if the last thing he wants to see is some random stranger's asshole.

He messages a jacked brunette with brown eyes and dimples, who led instead with a comparatively tame "hey big guy," and lets him pick the bar where they'll meet up.

And it's...fine.

The guy is fine. Equally as attractive in person as on camera, with curly hair and short stubble. He's there before Ghost, and directs an easygoing smile at him when he drops onto a stool at the bar beside him.

He doesn't even question the mask, though his eyes linger on it, half-lidded, the kind of way that suggests he's figuring something out about himself that he hadn't considered before. Not the first time it's happened for Ghost.

The problem with fine is that Ghost can't work up even much of a chub talking to him. The guy has a nasally voice and a friendly attitude that makes Ghost's teeth go numb from the sweetness. When they sequester in the dingy pub bathroom, the guy goes to his knees like an angel, and Ghost's cock actually softens more, thoroughly bored already with the notion of this random guy’s mouth on it.

The problem is, Soap would bust Ghost's balls for this.

Sure, Ghost could get him on his knees. Soap is a good boy, he'll take an order if he's given one. But he's also a fucking brat, and the moment Ghost pulled his cock out Soap would immediately start complaining about it.

Too big, too ugly, not hard enough, and when was the last time Ghost washed that fucking thing? How romantic, LT, making him suck Ghost off in a pub bathroom, hasn't he ever heard of good old-fashioned wooing?

He'd complain, Ghost knows, because he'd want, more than anything, for Ghost to just cut through the bullshit and shove straight down his throat. He'd run his mouth because the only thing he wants Ghost to do is shut him the fuck up, for once, and make him actually work for the praise they both know he's so desperate for.

And Ghost would give it. If Soap earned it. The fight isn't about winning.

This guy isn't putting up a fight. He tries nicely, licks all over the limp-hanging head and pale glans, but Ghost ends up making some excuse—Dad has cancer, Mom died, the usual—and leaving him there still on his knees.

He deletes the apps. He can invest in a fleshlight, and find some porn star another with enough of a resemblance to be functional.

Less of a hassle for everyone involved.

Problem solved.

And then he encounters you again.

You're walking out of the supermarket one night, with two huge bags over your shoulders, digging through your purse out in front of you. He has to stop you with one hand on your shoulder to keep you from running into him.

The evening is warm; your shirt is a thin camisole with little elastic straps. His palm meets your bare skin, and finds it soft and dewy with a little sweat.

You look up, startled, blinking as if caught in a bright light.

"Oh," you say, "Ghost, hello!"

"Bird," he grunts, wondering why he's surprised that you recognize him.

He pulls his hand away, and still feels the imprint of your body heat in its grooves.

"Sorry, I should have been looking," you say, smiling. It's a friendly expression, open and innocent—a daisy's petals spread on a clear day. "Johnny's making beef wellington tonight when he's off duty, so I went and got everything."

Ghost frowns. What kind of boyfriend lets his girl do so much heavy lifting?

He helps you carry the bags to your car. He's jealous, not an asshole. You thank him with a breezy laugh when he closes the hatchback—

"I'm sure Johnny wouldn't mind if you stopped by for dinner," you say, folding your arms across your ribcage. It presses your tits together as you cup your elbows in your hands, pronouncing the line of your cleavage with an uncomfortable eloquence.

"Busy," Ghost says immediately, staring very hard into your eyes. "Thanks."

You shrug, unperturbed. "Anytime. Good night!"

He stands in the carpark for a full five minutes after you drive away. He thinks he can feel his own heartbeat throbbing through the palm he touched you with.

Well, then.

Bereft of any opportunity to get to know you—as if it would even be appropriate—Ghost stalks social media until he finds you through Soap's Instagram. Your account is private, so he sends a follow request, expectations very low that you'd allow someone with a blank sky for a profile picture and only one post on their feed to follow you, "sghostriley" notwithstanding.

But—you do. And suddenly he has a decade of material to peruse, beginning with your last year of secondary school and leading all the way up to present, the most recent photo one of you and Soap at the top of some mountain, grinning at the camera in your hiking gear.

You don't post very many pictures of yourself, he finds. Instead you document interesting food you eat or make, crafts you're working on, nice scenery you caption with variations of "saw this on my walk today :)". It's all very domestic, sweet in a way without being saccharine.

Soft, really. Totally separated from the hard edges of the world he and Soap routinely throw themselves along.

And yet, honest in a way that makes your version of the world feel more like the real one, and his and Soap’s the nightmare.

Ghost hasn't been with a girl—let alone been interested in one—in years. It isn't that the attraction had ever died, exactly. Rather, it simply became so complex, so twisted in on itself and trapped beneath years of grown-over scar tissue, that he'd made an unconscious decision never to confront it. He ignored Price’s stories about his wife’s antics at home, Gaz’s perennial heartbreak after strings of failed dates—

Soap’s lurid bragging about the women he’s taken home from various pubs.

(Were you one of those pub girls?)

So, here it is now, confronting him instead. Reminding him, in a pretty camisole, just how very much it exists.

In the carpark, there’d been a bead of sweat slipping down your neck as you’d waved him goodbye. He finds himself wondering how long it would’ve taken to slide all the way down to the slope of your breast, if he didn’t catch it with his tongue first.

He continues through your Instagram. The majority of your selfies show up, he guesses, after the beginning of your relationship with Soap.

Earlier pictures of you make your discomfort obvious. You don't like the way you look, and it shows in the tension on your face when confronted with a camera lens. But later on, you gain confidence. Your expressions are softer as you show off a new haircut or glasses.

And when the first picture of you with Soap shows up, it's like seeing someone glowing from the inside.

Your head is tucked into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. The smile on your face is soft, small and lovely in how little you're clearly thinking about it.

You're happy.

It floors him. A happy girl, settled into the embrace of a man who’s made her feel that way.

Piece of work, he is. Could ogle another man's ass without shame, but present him with that man’s girl and suddenly it upends his entire sense of self.

Some old cunt psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing him.

Ghost skips the apps and, following in Soap’s footsteps, heads back to the pubs.

It’s worse.

Not that he doesn’t have options sidling up to him, that is. It seems like all he has to do is sit at the bar and wait, and women circle their way into his orbit, not really talking to him but letting him know, simply by hovering, that they’d love for him to talk to them. Batting their lashes, laughing near him seemingly at nothing.

Up to him to make the first move then. It seems to him like the rules haven't changed over his long absence from the dating pool.

Therein lay the snag—Ghost doesn't know how to talk to women. Not that way, the way one says without saying it that he'd like to take her home and bend her over the back of his couch. Say that to a man at the right bar and that was his evening sorted, but Ghost has a feeling that won't play as well among people with cat-shaped brass knuckles on their keychains.

He's not much of a talker, period. Soap yaps enough to fill in his side of the conversation whenever they're in the field. And you...well, he doesn't know about you. Ghost has the uncomfortable feeling that he'd try for you, and fail miserably.

The bartender slides a drink in front of him, distracting him from his agonizing. When Ghost gives him a questioning look, he nods in the direction of a table behind him.

One of the barflies has made the first move.

She winks at him when he raises the glass at her. She’s pretty—her dark makeup makes her eyes look angular and mysterious, and her red dress is tight, thin, and low-cut. Her exposed chest shimmers, as if she dusted some sort of powder across her collarbones before making her way here.

Sparkly and colorful, like a lure on a line. Ready to hook something and pull it in.

(Your camisole had been threadbare and lined with cheap, fraying lace. A favorite of yours, probably, something you wore when you wanted to be comfortable, and didn’t care who thought what about it.)

Ghost notices other men are eyeing the woman, and a couple of them send nasty glares his way. That is, they do before promptly averting their gazes once they see what he looks like.

He can have this, then, if he wants it. He just has to reach out and take it.

He feels your warmth in the palm of his hand again. The breeze of your laugh brushes his cheek with a soft touch.

He sends the woman one of her own drink, drops forty quid on the bar, and leaves without looking back.

Another dinner invite comes his way, this time courtesy of Soap himself.

“She told me she met you at the store,” Soap says, one afternoon when they’re in the changing room. “Really nice of you to help her out, LT.”

“You weren’t there to do it,” Ghost grumbles. Soap has been prancing around shirtless for fifteen minutes, faffing about while Ghost waits for him to leave so he can adjust his erection.

“I didn’t tell her to get everything!” the sergeant protests. “She just went and did it herself.” Then Soap’s eyes go all dreamy and stupid. “She’s grand, isn’t she.”

Ghost grumbles again, something noncommittal.

“Anyway, dinner’s at seven, and I’ll send you the address,” says Soap, pulling a thin t-shirt over his head. Ghosts watches him yank the hem down over his pecs, covering the toned plane of his abs.

Soap winks at him. “See you there, Ghost.”

Ghost grunts.

Soap does, in fact, see him there.

He goes out of resignation. Or maybe with some notion that seeing Soap and you together again will finally vanquish whatever sits on his chest so heavily whenever he thinks of the two of you.

Soap’s the one to answer the door. “There he is, the braw wee bastard!”

“Soap.”

From the looks of it, it’s your flat. It’s nicely decorated without being too over-designed, something warm and comfortable and welcoming. When Ghost steps inside, he’s hit immediately with the smell of seared pancetta and garlic.

The sergeant leads him through the flat. Ghost has a bottle of wine under one arm, having remembered at the last minute he should probably bring something along. You’re in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.

“Hi, Ghost!” you chirp when you look over your shoulder. “Ooh, good, that’s drinks settled. Hope you like bolognese. It’s all I know how to make.”

“S’fine,” Ghost says, which he would say even if bolognese made him violently ill.

“Ach, you can make more than that,” Soap says, retrieving three long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet. “Pour a nice glass of water.”

You snatch the dish towel hanging from the oven handle and give it a snap in the general direction of Soap’s ass. He laughs and dances out of the way.

“There’s a bottle opener in the island drawer, Ghost,” you say cheerfully. You're pretty tonight, in a loose t-shirt and soft-looking joggers. Casual, like you don't have a guest over at all.

Like it's just a night in with your boyfriend.

Ghost pops the cork as Soap sets the glasses down. After he pours, the sergeant delivers a glass to his girlfriend, and there’s a brief moment of quiet as everyone sips and the sauce on the stove bubbles.

It’s all so nice and normal as to make Ghost’s hackles raise just in anticipation, although he knows there’s no reason for it. Truthfully, he almost hadn’t come. The thought of you and Soap, and Soap and you, in the same room, together, a unit, had made his stomach clench up so tight that he though he might not be able to get any food down.

But some part of him needed to come, and see this. Test out Pavlov’s theory, to see if enough negative reinforcement could break him of this borderline manic fixation. If he could associate Soap and you with romantic nausea, and nothing more, maybe he could finally stop jerking off every night to no satisfaction.

Because he had, in fact, found a porn star who looked like Soap. More tattoos, and a buzz cut rather than a mohawk, but Ghost couldn’t be picky.

The real shock had been to find that this proxy often partnered with a girl who looked enough like you to be uncanny. Too skinny, definitely, but in the one video Ghost had watched of them together, he could have sworn, as the lookalike reamed her from behind—

That it was you looking at him over your shoulder.

Looking at Soap. Or, looking at Ghost, behind him.

At that moment in the playback Ghost had come so hard, cock blazing red and raw in his hand, that the notion had liquified a little. So he couldn’t be sure what the thought had originally meant.

He hadn’t been brave enough to watch another.

“This isn’t bad,” Soap says after tasting the wine. “Nothin’ on a good whisky, mind.”

“Don’t neg your lieutenant, Johnny,” you say. “This is good, Ghost, thank you.”

Hearing Johnny fall from your lips so casually threads something uncomfortable between Ghost’s intestines. Uncomfortable, because he likes it.

Had Soap told you to call him that? Or had you decided on it all on your own? Did Soap think of Ghost whenever you said his name? Did he think of you whenever Ghost did?

“Simon’s fine,” he replies.

It escapes him before he even thinks about it. The same way he’d taken his mask off in Las Almas and looked directly at Soap, wondering in some hidden part of himself if the sergeant was impressed.

“That’s a nice name,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. You take another sip, closing your eyes to savor it, and then, tilting your head like a little bird in thought, you pour a stream of it from the glass into your pasta sauce.

“Suits him, aye?” Soap says, side-eyeing Ghost with amusement. “Right posh name he’s got for a big scary bugger. Hidden depths, him.”

“Yeah, unlike you,” you snark, stirring.

Soap slaps a big hand over his heart. “Ach, lass, you wound me always.”

“Someone has to keep you humble,” you say, grinning. There’s a charming twinkle in your eyes.

“You gonna let ‘er get away with that, sergeant?”

He surprises himself by saying it. But something in the way you and Soap bicker—absent of the usual sugary drivel, as if the two of you have skipped over the honeymoon phase and stuck the landing right into stable commitment—invites him in.

It's magnetic, almost. It seizes the spinning needle in his brain, draws it to a standstill. Evens out the landscape, so he knows where he can go.

“You’re absolutely right, LT,” says Soap, who smacks his lips, sets his wineglass aside, and bum-rushes you.

You shriek as he captures you in both arms, lifting you off the floor and whirling you around—both the spoon in one hand and the glass in the other fling drops of red and white absolutely everywhere. And then you’re giggling as Soap wedges his face between your neck and shoulder and shakes his head like a dog, probably biting down.

Soap growls; a big smile takes over your face, eyes squeezed shut as you laugh breathlessly. The sergeant’s broad, brown forearms have yours pinned up against your chest, pressing your breasts together.

“Not fair, Ghost!” you exclaim as Soap’s growling noises turn into obnoxiously loud kisses. “No pulling rank in my house!”

“Two against one, hen, you’re outnumbered,” Soap counters. “What should we do with this one, eh, LT?”

“See if I ever cook for you two again, is what!” you protest, still grinning with delight. You kick your legs to no effect.

Soap, also grinning, slots his face back into your neck. You giggle again, complaining that it tickles.

Some incomplete circuit finally connects.

Order given. Girlfriend “punished.”

Soap making you laugh because Ghost told him to.

Not one. Not the other. Both.

“Think we can let ‘er off the hook this time,” he says, feeling dazed.

The pictures on your Instagram, with you and Soap together. The both of you, smiling together, wrapped around each other, standing at the top of a mountain and grinning what the two of you get to share.

Soap's hand spread on your back.

“Aye, sir,” Soap says, setting you down. You’re still laughing a little as you go to check the sauce, and Soap finds a towel to clean up the mess he made. Ghost reels in the meanwhile.

There’s an imprint of Soap’s teeth on your neck.

They wouldn’t be there if Ghost hadn’t sicced Soap on you.

He’s still reeling as you begin plating dinner, and Soap sets out the silverware. When everyone sits down to eat, the sergeant tops up everyone’s drinks.

“I hope you like it,” you say to Ghost, setting his plate in front of him. There's a shyness to you, a verity to your concern for his opinion.

“Oh, he will,” Soap says, grinning.

He trails the tips of his fingers along the back of your arm as he directs that jewel-blue gaze at Ghost. It's sharper than Ghost has ever noticed before—

“The LT has good taste. Don’t you, Ghost?”

And with his other hand, he raises his glass to the knowing smirk on his lips.

a/n: I can't use arse, I know it would be more accurate but I just can't I'm sorry

[therealmylesmorales]

Don’t Take It Personal

Summary: you’re a little worried about how much time Vi is spending with her new friend

Part 2

Warnings: vi’s kind of a dumbass, ngl. Angst probably. R plays a sport for the plot (just vibe guys) loser!vi au

WC: 1.6k

Vi made a new friend.

That was a rare feat for her, seeing how out of the few people she considers a friend included you, her girlfriend, and Jinx, her sister.

She came home beaming after her usual workout at the gym. There was a new face she didn’t recognize and to Vi’s surprise, the friendly chat turned into a new friendship.

Her name was Caitlyn Kiramman. You knew her name, seeing the title “Kiramman” around a few buildings. Caitlyn was studying abroad for a few months, hence why Vi didn’t meet her until now. And yet, the new friendship was blossoming quickly. You didn’t mind, just happy that she managed to make more friends without you being present.

That was until Vi started hanging out with her more than you.

Srry, babe cant make it. At the gym wth Cait 💪🏻

11:23am

You frowned a bit at the recent text Vi sent you. You were at the library waiting for her for your weekly study date but when she was almost half an hour late you finally texted her. Only for your girlfriend to take a raincheck. Again.

Seeing how Vi wasn’t showing up, you still decided to stay for at least another hour; work still needed to be done with or without her. When you did decide to leave, you had to pass by the gym in order to go home. You figured Vi was still inside so you didn’t bother to linger until you heard a familiar voice.

”I’ll see you around, cupcake!”

Cupcake?

You turned to see Vi and Caitlyn leaving the large building. Vi immediately saw you and rushed over to you. Caitlyn gave you a polite wave before going her own way.

She was calling her ‘cupcake.’ You felt a little irritated at the—at your— nickname Vi called Caitlyn. Granted, ‘cupcake’ wasn’t one that was used very often, only when Vi was teasing or being purposely irritating to you. But still. It was your name.

Pushing the negative feelings aside you greeted Vi with a kiss. She smiled into it then pulled you into a tight hug, her arms almost crushing you.

”You stick, Vi,” you muttered into her neck.

A soft laugh escaped her. “You enjoy it. What are you doing here?”

”Going home. Then I saw you and…cupcake.”

”Don’t be like that,” Vi groaned, trying to play it off. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Never said you did.” You tried to change the subject, not wanting to make it a big deal. “Are you going to my game Friday or are you going to be too busy with Caitlyn. It’s the last one of the season, Vi.”

“Hey, have I ever missed a game before?” She asked rhetorically. ”But if it makes you feel better, I promise that I’ll be there.”

”Good.”

Vi then wrapped her arm around you, putting you in an almost headlock, and started walking in the direction of the same apartment. “Let’s go. I’m exhausted.”

While what Vi said did ease some of you worrying, it didn’t stay for long. For the rest of the week, Vi was still with Caitlyn. Even though you attended most of the same classes, and stayed in the same home, you only saw her in passing or for only an hour at night. And every word that came out of her mouth was about the other girl.

“I really think you’ll like Cait, she reminds me of you.”

“Caitlyn squatted 210 today! She’s catching up to me.”

”I’m sorry, baby. Cait and I made plans to see that movie. You can still come!” You hate to admit it but that comment made you pissed off more than anything.

Caitlyn, Caitlyn, Caitlyn. You haven’t even properly met the girl yet it seemed like you knew everything about her.

When Friday finally came, you just hoped Vi would pay more attention to you rather than her friend. Unfortunately, you were proven wrong.

Hey, pretty, the game is starting soon. Are you still coming?

6:37pm

Yoooo Viiii??

7:01pm

Violet, dude, where are you??

7:15pm

Your leg tapped nervously against the ground, scanning the crowd for the familiar pink haired girl, but you came up dry. In the crowd you could see Jayce, Viktor and Mel who all gave you encouraging smiles. Even Jinx showed up, sitting next to Ekko. She gave you a small shrug at your questioning glance before turning back to your phone, possibly texting her sister.

The coach got your attention, urging you to join your teammates on the court. And with a heavy, disappointed sigh, you got up from the bench. You couldn’t focus on Vi anymore, but you still hoped that she would show up sometime during the game. She did promise after all.

But throughout the game, that familiar full head of pink hair was nowhere to be seen. There was an empty spot next to Jinx that was never filled. Trying to ignore the wide open space was almost impossible, but the game was won without Vi cheering for you. Sure, the ball did slip from your hands more times than you’d like to admit, but your team won.

Your friends that did decide to show up wanted to take you out for the rest of the night, a congratulatory dinner, but you weren’t feeling it. And while Jinx doesn’t like saying the word no, she surprisingly let you go home after you refused. You really just wanted to see if or when Vi would be home.

It was nearing nine at night and Vi still hadn’t called you and your recent text went unanswered. The TV was playing a show, mostly used as background noise as your thoughts took over you.

Almost thirty minutes later, you could hear some noise coming from the hallway.

The door to the apartment opened and you could hear Vi humming a song to herself when she locked up for the night. From your spot on the couch, you saw nothing wrong with her so you were glad to know she was safe. But now she had to dig herself out of the hole she dug.

Vi actually seemed surprised to see you but the smile she gave you was instant. “Oh, hey, babe. Why are you still up?”

”Waiting for you,” you shot back, moving to get closer to her. “It’s been hours Vi, we all have been calling and texting you—“

Vi showed you her phone, a black screen staring back at you. “It died a while ago. What’s with the third degree?”

”Do you remember what day it is?”

”Um…the tenth?”

”Um, maybe it’s the day of my game that you’d promise to come to,” you mocked. Yeah, you were being petty but you thought she deserved it.

Vi muttered a small curse to herself and she looked genuinely apologetic. “Y/N, I’m so sorry. I swear, I was going to come but then my phone died, and-and I was with Caitlyn and—“

A heavy sigh escaped you at the name. “Caitlyn, right yeah. That makes sense.”

A look came on Vi’s face, one you knew too well when she was about to become argumentative. “What are you talking about?”

”You’ve been spending a lot of time with her, Vi,” you pointed out. “I’ve noticed it— we all have. You’re always with her.”

”We’re friends!”

”You’re friends with Jayce but when’s the last time you’ve hung out with him since meeting Caitlyn? Is she too rich for chargers so you couldn’t check your phone for five minutes?”

Vi scoffed at you. “What, you want me to stop hanging out with Caitlyn just because you’re jealous?”

”I have nothing to be jealous of, Violet!” You yelled. “Cait’s a friend, I get that. But you have been blowing me off time and time again for her. And the one time I actually needed you, you were with her instead. How the hell do you expect me to feel?”

A short pause came from Violet. And what she said next, set your skin aflame.

”I just think you’re overreacting. It’s a fucking game, I’ll just watch the next one.”

“Okay, you know what,” you paused, running your hands over your face; it didn’t do much to calm your heated nerves. “I’m not doing this with you, right now, Vi.”

Vi’s tense posture immediately changed at the tone of your voice; it was shaky, as if you were holding back tears. You almost never cried, at least in front of her, so the new sight was worrisome. She heard you breath in harshly before continuing.

“I’m way too upset at you right now to even finish this conversation,” you said quietly to her. “I’m tired…and honestly just want some space from you.”

Vi swore her heart stopped at those words. Space? “You…Y/N, you can’t be serious.” Space was the main thing Vi hated. It meant you leaving her.

”I am, actually.” Your back was turned from her at that point so you couldn’t see her face fall in disbelief at the sight of you getting ready to leave the apartment.

She knew you made up your mind and were done hearing her but Vi still had to try. “Babe, don’t go. You’re right, is that what you want to hear? I’m sorry, alright?”

”Glad you came to your senses,” you muttered, albeit bitterly.

Vi was desperate at this point. “You don’t have to leave! I can sleep out here!”

”When I said ‘space’, Vi, I meant completely,” you said. Your voice was starting to get tense, a tell that you were getting annoyed. “My parents live a few minutes away, remember? I'll be fine.”

”Y/N please, just—“

“Vi! I’ll…talk to you eventually,” was the last thing you said before the door closed behind you.

[maskedbutmessy]

you hallucinated your best friend’s corpse in the river you both used to go wyd

@waddei ‘s dtiys is really fun! i suck at drawing water but i hope it looks similar enuf :p

comms open :)

[gooptroupe]

As long as I need.

a continuation of this sketch

[lesbworth]

i feel like the tumblr perverts need to be aware of the forcefem novel written in 1901 by a trans woman patient of magnus hirschfeld, wherein:

a lesbian hypnotises her girly stepson into believing he is a woman

then she hypnotises his father her husband into shooting himself when he tries to stop her

then she proceeds to live as a man and convince her stepson that he is HER WIFE

AND THEN WHEN THE COUPLE WANT KIDS (AS SHE HYPNOTISED HIM TO) SHE HAS HIS CHILD AND CONVINCES HIM THAT HE GAVE BIRTH TO IT

AND DECIDES TO RAISE THE BABY AS A GIRL EVEN THOUGH IT WAS BORN MALE

AND THEN FINALLY ON HER DEATHBED CONFESSES EVERYTHING TO HER WIFE

WHO REFUSES TO BELIEVE ANY OF IT

the author's pen name is luz fraumann (yes she actually named herself "woman-man") and i wish i could tell her she's literally insane for this bestie and also how hard she would do numbers on tumblr dot com

(link to hirschfeld's profile of fraumann and extract from her novel, in german)