#he asked as if I have the guts to say no to people

[munsonsmixtapes]

Better Late Than Never

Pairing: Eddie x fem!reader

Summary: a bathroom counter make out with your husband, Eddie

word count: 1,509

cw: none!

The bathroom counter was cluttered with various makeup products and brushes that you had been using to get ready for the night. You were always so caught up in perfecting your looks that you barely even noticed when you had made such a mess until it was time to clean up. Maybe it was unfair to the person who you shared the bathroom with, but he hardly minded.

Eddie, your husband, was sitting on the counter next to your sink, watching you like he always insisted on doing any time you got ready. He claimed to find the whole process fascinating, loving the techniques you used to apply everything. He was always there to give you feedback and hype you up no matter how crazy or weird of a look you were doing. He was your number one fan no matter what.

You grabbed your eyeliner pencil that had been sitting on the counter next to Eddie and gave him a smile as you did so. The smile was returned, love clear in his eyes. He reached for your hand and brought it up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to it before letting you have it back.

You applied the eyeliner to your upper and lower lash lines then pulled down your bottom lid to line your waterline. Eddie always found that part particularly fascinating; how it always seemed to make the whole thing come together. Especially when it all smudged after a full day of wearing it.

Maybe he liked it so much because he wished he could wear it. He wanted to, and had even wanted to ask you to help him apply it, but he could never get the guts. He had recited his vows to you in front of a whole church full of people, but couldn’t ask for a little liner? Why did it scare him so much?

You turned to him and he hadn’t realized that he had been so close until he noticed that your noses were almost touching. You could see him eyeing the pencil in your hand and knew exactly what he was wanting. You weren’t sure why he wouldn’t just come out and say it. You wouldn't have judged him. In fact, you thought that men wearing eyeliner was hot.

“Do you want some, honey?” You asked, and he just nodded.

“Please?” He asked and you moved to stand in between his legs. He grabbed hold of your waist and you took the eyeliner and slowly lifted it up to his left eye, giving him a chance to back out if he wanted to.

“Close your eyes,” You instructed and he obeyed, closing his eyes. You slowly and gently lined the top lid, rubbing it with your finger to give it the smoky look. You thought that would look the best with his eye shape and color. You then lined the bottom lid, doing the exact same thing before moving to the other eye, trying your best to make them look somewhat even.

“Waterline too?” You asked and he just furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn't up to date on the makeup terminology so he honestly had no idea what you were talking about. “Here,” you pointed to the spot on yourself and he nodded enthusiastically.

You lowered his bottom eyelid and moved as quickly as possible since it was his first time and you knew it could feel uncomfortable. You then lined his other eye then pulled back to examine your work, nodding to yourself in approval. You grabbed your mirror from your makeup bag and handed it to Eddie so he could see for himself before moving out of the way so he could get a better look.

He let out a gasp at his reflection, moving the mirror every which way to see it at different angles, his mouth agape. He couldn’t believe how good he looked, how hot. He knew that you were good at doing makeup, but you had truly outdone yourself. You made him look like the rockstars he had always looked up to, the ones he aspired to be just like. Now that he had a little taste, he was going to have to ask you to do it for him everyday.

“Darling,” he gasped again. “I look hot.” He set the mirror aside so he could see you again and beckoned you forward with his pointer finger. You stepped between his legs once again and he rested his hands on your waist, pulling you closer before wrapping his arms around you.

“I agree,” you nodded. “But I always think you’re hot.”

“Babe, do you have a crush on me?” He teased and you just rolled your eyes.

“Eddie,” you chuckled. “We’re literally married.”

“Just answer the question, y/n.” He pulled you closer to him, his lips right by your ear.

“Yes, Eds, I have a crush on you.” Sometimes he was so ridiculous, but you couldn’t help but love him. He made it so easy.

“Don’t say that too loud, my wife might hear you,” he whispered, making goosebumps rise on your arms. “Now give me some sugar.”

You pressed your lips to his in a quick peck and tried to move away, but his arms only wrapped around you tighter. You let out a laugh at how childish he was acting. He didn’t play when it came to your kisses. If he had it his way, he would have kissed you forever.

“Eddie,” you laughed. “We have to finish getting ready.”

“One kiss and I’ll let you go.” You knew there was no getting out of it, but you didn’t mind. Not at all.

“Needy,” you replied, leaning into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands rubbed along your back as his face inched towards yours.

“Very.” His lips slotted between yours in a gentle kiss which was typical to expect when he had asked. Those kinds of kisses were always filled with so much love, as if he was trying to show you exactly how he felt with his lips.

His arms tightened around you as he licked into your mouth. You let out a laugh as you pulled away, Eddie trying to chase your lips as you did so.

“Eddie,” you chuckled. “We’re going to be late.” You both were supposed to be at Robin’s in twenty minutes for her birthday party and now you were definitely going to be late. She shouldn’t have been surprised, though. This was very like you and Eddie since you had become a couple all those years ago.

You had become the kind of couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. But only behind closed doors. When in public, the most you would do was hold hands. Over time, your entire friend group had become aware of your inability to be able to keep your hands to yourselves and made fun of you for it. It had become a joke between all of them and you had let them laugh because it had been true, after all.

“So?” He pressed another kiss to your lips. “Everyone already assumes we’re going to be late anyway. Why not take advantage?” Another kiss, this one lingering.

“Eddie, we can’t fuck right now,” you rolled your eyes.

“No one said anything about fucking, darling. I just want some kisses. Can you do that for your hubby?”

“If you never refer to yourself as my hubby ever again.”

“Consider it a deal, sugar.” He pulled you in for another kiss, taking no time to swipe his tongue along your bottom lip. You opened your mouth, letting him inside. His tongue roamed around, roughly scraping against yours. His legs wrapped around your waist, causing the two of you to be chest to chest.

Eddie leaned into you, his hands moving down your back only to go up your shirt and underneath your bra. He lifted your shirt over your head, setting it next to him before removing his own. His lips pressed to your neck then moved down to your shoulder, moving the strap of your bra to give him more access.

“So pretty,” he mumbled against your shoulder. “So so pretty.”

“You’re the pretty one,” you replied and his lips moved back up to yours.

“Let’s agree that we’re both pretty, okay?” You supposed you could agree to that. Although, you liked having the little argument about who was prettier. He was always going to win that competition.

“Sounds good,” you replied, moving your hands to his hair, pressing your lips to his once more. Your fingers pressed into his scalp as you licked into his mouth and he let out a moan as you grabbed a fistful of his hair.

“So good, baby,” he whined, his legs wrapping tighter around your waist. You backed away and he removed his legs from you. He then leapt off the counter and you took him by the hand to lead him to your shared bedroom. You were so going to be late to the party.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut

[looneyleyle]

the self-destructive habits of a hopeless romantic ~ j. hughes

synopsis: monetizing one's self-sabotaging habits, surprisingly, has its downfalls. one of them being leaving that one attractive hockey player that is an absolute gentleman who loves you with his whole entire heart.

warnings: self-sabotage, self-deprecation, angsty (but with happy ending)

word count: 3425 words

note: once again unedited but i wanted to get this one out there

???'s pov

time and time again, the world has seen the self destructive habits of humans. well, that makes it seem serious. the world has seen the countless missed opportunities due to a fear of another's reaction. the world has seen the blunders due to saving face. the world has seen the heartbreaks due to miscommunication. time and time again, the world has seen how people sabotage their own lives for the dumbest reasons.

esther graham was no different.

in fact, she capitalized on her ability to put herself into the worst emotional distress possible. every heartbreak produced a great work of literature that would nearly sell out in bookstores all over the northeast. she wasn't a new york times best seller by any means, but she was a small town writer from mont vernon, new hampshire. she made a name for herself during her time at hamilton college in their creative writing program. in her junior year of college, she published her first book, woes of a teenage failure, a novel following what could have been for a young college drop out named sophia. the book was a hit amongst her peers and professors, and by word of mouth, ended up selling 200 copies. the book, as ms. graham remarked, was her own "what-if" story, as she almost dropped out of college the beginning of her sophomore year.

and how do i know so much about ms. graham?

well, because i am ms. esther graham.

and i'm here to tell you all about the biggest blunder of my life.

after my first book, i hit major writing block. i would stare at my computer screen for hours just to delete the only three words that i could come up with. i would sit in coffee shops, pen in hand, ready for inspiration to strike, and yet, nothing. i was nearing the end of my college career, riding on the coattails of my first and only book's success, and couldn't figure out how to continue. my professors taught me plenty of ways to try and combat writer's block, but nothing worked.

until i met ryan. a devilishly handsome man all the way from the cheese state of wisconsin, who was meeting up with some college friends for the annual boston beanpot. we had our meet cute at a nearby pizza joint, in which i sat down and started chatting with him, thinking he was a publisher that i was supposed to meet with. after realizing my blunder when he had absolutely no idea what an anthology was, he asked if i wanted to join him and his friends at the beanpot, as one of their friends had cancelled, leaving them with an extra ticket.

ryan and i dated for four months. we would take turns traveling between my college in new york and his in wisconsin until eventually it became too much, or should i say, too little for him, and he broke it off. in my rage and complete depression from the breakup, i wrote my next hit, until the sun sets, a 142-page anthology of gut-wrenching poems, which was eventually integrated into hamilton college's curriculum for their young adult modern literature class. i was quite proud of that.

after that, i found myself yet again staring at blanks screens and empty notepads.

that is, until chloe. a beautiful new york native whom i had actually met while dating ryan. she was a hostess at a restaurant ryan and i would always go to. she was pursuing her masters in psychology, which gave me fascinating insights and tactics to use in my books. we were never officially together, but we had something for almost three months before she was whisked off by some californian named ella. i never saw her again, which prompted my next book, the ninth floor, a murder mystery following a closeted lesbian couple in 1940's hollywood (it was one of the girlfriends the whole time).

at this point, when i hit a creative block for the third time, i realized that i needed my heart or brain to be in absolute shambles in order to produce my best work. i needed to be at some sort of life crisis, and the easiest way to do so was to love another and let that love be ripped out of your life.

so, i began dating for the sake of my career. it was like i sought out the most manipulative, scummy people in the world who were able to get away with it just because they were attractive. over the course of a year, my first year out of college, i dated a total of three men and one woman, and poured my emotions out into a collection of short stories titled lavender.

and that was when i met jack.

i was in new jersey for a book signing at this little bookstore which, as it turns out, was right by the prudential center. as i left the bookstore, i was nearly run over by an overly excited man-child with a giant bag slung upon his shoulder.

"luke, watch out, you nearly killed that woman!" a voice yelled from where the man came from.

"i'm so sorry about that miss, my brother can get a bit overexcited sometimes." looking at the person talking to me, i found a young, very attractive brunet with the most adorable smile. i straightened myself up instinctively, wanting to appear presentable.

"no worries. if you don't mind me asking, what got him so riled up that he almost trampled me?" the man let out a laugh at my statement.

"of course, we owe you at least that much for your near-death experience. he just got nominated for the calder trophy." he explained, as if those words meant anything to me. seeing my blank stare, he clarified. "a rookie of the year award. we play for the new jersey devils." the boy in question came up and joined us, grinning ear to ear.

"ahhh, i see. i'm not a big hockey watcher, which i know is absolute blasphemy for someone who grew up in new hampshire." his jaw nearly dropped.

"you're from up here and don't like hockey? we have to change that." he exclaimed. in my peripheral vision, i could see his brother trying to hide his laughter at his brother's forwardness.

"ill have to come and watch a game sometime." i mused.

"we have a game coming up next week against the blue jackets. i could maybe snatch you a seat in exchange for your number." he proposed. his brother snorted at that, having to turn around to hide his obvious laughter. the man paid his brother no mind, just looking at me with a big smile on his face.

"trying to bribe me mister?"

"is it working?" i put my hand out and he immediately put his phone in my hand, adding my information into his contacts.

"esther? that's nice, you look like a esther." i quirked an eyebrow at him, but continued on anyways.

"and you? what should i call you?"

"call me yours. or jack, either works." the brother was doubled over on the floor at this point, jack finally acknowledging him by kicking him slightly, making him fall over.

"anyways, ms. esther, we have to get going, but ill see you next week at our game." he put out his hand for me to shake.

"you've got yourself a deal jack."

and just like that, jack and i started talking. his eagerness was cute, he texted me no more than ten minutes after meeting me. we talked every day, mainly on calls, asking each other questions and such to get to know each other.

and sure enough, the next week, i found myself back in new jersey watching the brothers play. i assumed jack was going to be some sort of benchwarmer or something, but that didn't seem to be the case. despite my lack of hockey knowledge, i could tell the boy was good, and he had quite a fan base if the amount of women wearing his jersey meant anything. and i felt severely out of place, simply wearing a grey sweater and jeans, unlike everyone else in the stands, decked out in red.

after that, i found myself going to a couple more hockey games, for no particular reason. jack would try to explain the game over video calls and our occasional coffee meet ups, but i couldn't for the life of me wrap my head around it. why do they all get off the ice every five seconds? and what the hell is offsides?? jack always laughed at my confusion, telling me that i'd get it one day.

we spent a couple months thriving off of video chats and once-in-a-blue-moon hangouts, until i got a job as an editor for a local paper. i was good at editing, always having good grammar and an eye for design, but it wasn't my dream. despite it not being my dream, i needed a stable income, and fast. my mind was devoid of ideas, and it didn't seem like that would change any time soon.

plus, it helped that this stable income happened to be in new york city, putting me a lot closer to a certain someone. and, with me being closer, that certain someone would pop on by a lot more than before. and eventually, chinese takeout dinners turned into staying the night, which turned into coming up for the weekend, which turned into the line of friendship being crossed into something more.

and then, i made the dumbest mistake of my life.

i let him go.

now, i know what you must be thinking. he must have done something wrong, he must have cheated or neglected me or done something so completely unforgivable that i would just throw away the most amazing thing in my life. and i wish i was here to tell you that was the truth.

but it wasn't.

jack was nothing but a gentleman, and i was just a broken girl doing the only thing i knew how to do: leave. i like to tell myself that it was for my career, that i needed to write another book, that i wasn't fulfilled in my job and that i was putting myself first by doing this, but i was perfectly content with my life. i was an editor for a major publishing company, i started writing little happy poems about my mundane life with jack, and wanted nothing more. i had no reason to run away. i just woke up in his bed one day and realized that i wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, and i couldn't accept that. i had gotten so used to leaving people that i assumed that they would leave me if i hadn't done so first, and i couldn't lose the one real thing i ever had.

so naturally, my self-destructive, self-sabotaging self let him go, the exact opposite of what i wanted.

and when i got back to my apartment after writing jack a confusing and half-assed letter, i cried. i cried and cried and cried, and i always wrote about characters crying until they couldn't anymore, but that day, i couldn't find the end to my tears. for hours tears would either slowly leak or violently pour from my eyes, and they never did end, not even when i passed out on my couch from exhaustion.

and after a week, i was expecting to pick myself up and start writing my next best seller, coping with my writing. but i sat there, and my florescent computer screen simply sat there, staring back at me. and when i left my apartment for a change of scenery, the blank pages of my notebook mocked me. i flipped through past works, all of them being little poems about jack, and the waterworks continued, right in the middle of a starbucks.

after a week and four days, i couldn't take it. i had to make things right, i had to at least see him. it always worked in the books, right? someone makes a huge mistake, they break up, they see each other again and realize they're both miserable without each other and then get back together and live happily ever after.

when i knocked on the door to jack's apartment, i was met with an unimpressed looking luke. at the sight of him, the waterworks started up again.

"you're an idiot, you know that?" i nodded furiously at this, sobs wrecking through my body. i couldn't see through the tears in my eyes, but i could tell the luke hadn't moved a muscle.

"he deserved better and you know that." i felt my soul being crushed. "i mean, a letter? seriously esther? and a half-assed one at that. i know damn well you don't have a degree in creative writing for that bullshit."

i opened my mouth to explain, but nothing came up. what would i say, that i was a broken person? cop out. that i did it to everyone? not much better. that i got scared? fucking coward.

"if you think that you deserve to see my brother, then i'll let you in." he told me, moving out of the way, door open wide. i just stood there, staring at him through teary eyes. my brain cheered, finally able to go in, but my feet wouldn't move.

my heart still clenched and ached, and with every thought of moving forward, into that apartment, it hurt more. jack didn't deserve this. after all the nights of him reading my poems about him and praising my work, after all the sweet things he'd say when i was down, after all the little acts of kindness he showed me, after all the love he poured into us, he didn't deserve to be broken by me. hurt people hurt people, the scholars had that right. he didn't deserve to be broken.

and so, i got ready to leave, again.

"i'm sorry." was all i said, turning around with heavy legs and a heavy heart. i heard luke let out a sigh as i walked away, closing the door behind him.

a couple of days went by and i found myself back at their apartment. i knew they wouldn't be there, they had an away game in anaheim the night before, and i knew from my time with jack that they would always spend the night in the city before coming back, especially after a win, a 5-0 win no less.

i stood there in front of their door, a small box in my hands, contemplating. jack didn't deserve this, but a selfish part of me needed this. i placed the box gingerly outside of their door and left the building. if the box was taken by some nosy neighbor, or thrown in the trash by some janitor, then it would be fate. it would be a sign to move on. but, there was a chance that jack and luke would come back to their apartment, and would pick up the box, and jack would recognize my handwriting. and, instead of throwing the box in the trash like any normal self-respecting person receiving a box from their shitty ex, he would take it to his room, and open it up to see my notebook, with a bookmark starting at the pages when i first started seeing him. and he would read the poems and maybe, just maybe, he'd see the note written on the bookmark to meet me at the park near his apartment, and maybe, just maybe, he'd be willing to hear me out.

i went to that park every single day for exactly one month and six days, always arriving by 1 pm, never late. and i would stay there until 4 pm, waiting.

on the 37th day, i was sitting there, editing, funnily enough, a sports column about the recent devils and islanders game. i watched it, absolutely terrible game it was, the islanders beating the devils for the first time in the season. our sports journalist, while passionate and very knowledgeable about seemingly every sport out there, had a knack for writing long, run-on sentences that reflected his rambling nature. as i sat there on the same park bench i had been sitting on for the previous 36 days, a figure stopped in front of me. i finished up the sentence i was working on before looking up.

and while i hate cliches, the wind was absolutely knocked out of my lungs.

"h-hey jack." i started, immediately putting away my work, giving him my full attention.

"hey esther." a shiver ran down my spine from him just saying my name. it had been so long, and while it lost its loving tone, i welcomed it with open arms. jack moved, taking the spot next to me, looking out at the trees in front of us. when it became apparent he wasn't going to say anything, i started the conversation.

"i see you read the notebook."

"i finished it three weeks ago." he replied, voice lacking its usual emotion. tears welled up in my eyes. three weeks.

"oh."

"i came here immediately after finishing it." i felt my eyes bulge out of their sockets at that. he continued, "i went to that bench over there and watched as you fidgeted in your spot, looking frantically at everyone who passed by. i watched the next day as you sat in the pouring rain with no umbrella. i sat over on that bench every day that i was here since reading your notebook."

a silence fell upon us, my mind reeling, trying to figure out what he was trying to say, from his emotionless face to the fact that he came.

"do you know how much it hurt? waking up to empty sheets and some half-assed note with the lamest excuses on earth?" i hadn't really paid mind to the tears rolling down my cheeks until he brought that up, sending me back to that morning, quickly scribbling out some gibberish before leaving the best part of my life behind.

"i was going to wait another month, y'know. to see if you were still gonna come here every day."

"so why didn't you?" i asked, sniffling intensely, trying to calm down my sobs.

"luke said i was absolutely miserable without you. coach told me i wasn't focused. my teammates pointed out that i barely left my apartment. the icing on the cake was when my mom started asking if you would be coming over to the lakehouse this summer. i realized, as pathetic as it seems, that i can't live without you."

my attempts at stopping my crying were thrown out the window at that. i could probably fill the hudson river with the amount of tears i had shed over the past two months.

"how can i make it up to you. please, please let me make it up to you." i begged, fully facing him, my hands angrily playing with the sleeves of my shirt because if i didn't, i would be reaching out to the man in front of me.

"never pull that shit again." he bargained, looking me dead in the eyes for the first time in months. and in that moment, i saw just how bad he was doing. sunken eyes with heavy bags, his skin dull, hair slightly unkempt under his hat.

"never again." i promised, putting out my pinky to him, something he would always do when he promised me to not get hurt in games. he let out a hoarse laugh, looking away from me, and when he looked back, i saw the tears brewing in his eyes. he took my pinky in his and held it there, between us.

"now, i'm not gonna just take you right back after all that. that was really shitty and i need some time to get over that. but, as i've found out, i can't really function without you. so maybe you could start with coming to my games again, and i could take you out for coffee next week."

"sounds perfect."

i accepted my life as an editor for the local newspaper, accepted that i probably wouldn't write another page-turning sell-out book, accepted that i was completely content with whatever happened to me, so long as jack was there with me.

and with that, my self-destructive, soul-crushing, heart-breaking tendencies reached their end.

#jack hughes #jack hughes x oc #new jersey devils #fanfic

[breadandblankets]

no one asked for my advice but I'm giving it anyway: when you write or make headcanons for a character that is from a different racial or ethnic group to you, you should never ever go with your gut, that way lies racism (or assorted associated prejudice)

if you ever think "idk this just seems right" I would advise you to ask yourself Why you think it just fits

I'll give some examples and they're gonna be batcantric cause that's what I have seen recently:

I saw someone say that they didn't know much about duke but assumed his handwriting to be unreadable chicken scratch

you have to think about what handwriting says about a person and what assumptions someone is making about a person based on their handwriting, what values does society place on handwriting?

or I saw someone headcanons Tim as Jewish, I have seen people say that he was made Jewish in a couple comics that I haven't read but the point stands

what does that headcanon say about what Kind of people are assumed to be Jewish? Why didn't op decide that Jason or Cass or Duke was Jewish instead?

point is you are not immune to fandom racism and neither am I, by pointing this out we can work together to ah u know the meme

#bread talk #this is mostly for white people #and its probably gonna piss someone off #idk tell me if im off the mark #fandom racism

[campingwiththecharmings]

Honey Trap

AN: Fifth fic for @moonknight-events’ MK Bingo! This is probably a little silly (and likely not very well-written) but it was fun to come up with and write so irdc lol 😌 Hope someone other than me enjoys this!

You stumble across Marc while he's camping in a remote part of the woods and he's (understandably) suspicious of you.

(Un-beta’d)

Rated: M+ (this is smut so, you've been warned) Prompt: Hiking Words: 2,427 Pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader Warnings: references to death, attempted murder, knives, frottage, please let me know if i missed anything. AO3

——————

Marc doesn’t trust you. 

Your story about wandering off trail and getting lost was plausible, sure, and you looked harmless enough, but he'd been around long enough to know that looks can be deceiving. 

Still, what was he to do? If you really were telling him the truth, you needed help. He couldn’t just let you wander around alone in the dark. What if something happened? What if you got injured, or worse, killed? No, better to assume the risk, to give you the benefit of the doubt. Plus, it certainly made it easier to keep an eye on you. You’d been so grateful, thanking him profusely and promising not to be a bother. He’d waved this off of course, trying to ignore the way his stomach flipped when you smiled at him. 

It’s late now, the moon full and high in the dark night sky. You’re sitting on the other side of the fire (his fire), your jacket zipped to your chin, arms wrapped around your legs as you try to get as close to the flames as you can without burning yourself. He tries not to keep looking at you, at the way the firelight makes you glow, but every time he looks away, his eyes inevitably drift back. There’s something about you, he’s not sure what but, it makes him feel…uneasy. Everything about you seems normal but he just can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something. His stomach rumbles at this thought and he briefly considers that he might just be hungry. With a sigh, Marc digs into his bag, searching for the rations he’d packed. His eyes meet yours over the fire as he pulls a packet of jerky out and shakes it.  

“Want some?” he asks, holding it out to you. 

You hesitate, eyes dipping to study the nondescript packet in his hand. He swallows thickly as you unconsciously lick your lips. 

“Thanks,” you say finally, smiling as you take the food from him. 

He nods, pulling out another and tearing it open. Marc’s eyes scan the surrounding darkness as the two of you eat, the slight crinkling of the ration packaging replacing the silence. 

“So,” you begin, studying the strip of jerky between your fingers. “You come here often?” 

His lips quirk slightly at the joke but he just shrugs. “Not really, no.” 

You hum, carefully chewing a bite of jerky. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

He meets your gaze, unease settling in his gut. “How do you mean?” 

It’s your turn to shrug now, pulling another strip from your packet “You just seem very…prepared is all.” 

He sniffs in amusement, relaxing slightly. “Yeah well, people do tend to be at least slightly prepared when they plan on camping in the woods.” 

You scoff, swallowing your mouthful of food. “I wasn’t planning on camping though.” 

“Maybe not,” he agrees, taking a sip from his water bottle. “But you clearly had no idea what you were getting yourself into by coming all the way out here. Seriously, who hikes without a map?” 

You snort, shaking your head at yourself. “Valid point. Obviously, I’m an incompetent buffoon.” 

Marc bites back a smile, pulling another piece of jerky from the packet. “Well at least you’re aware of it.” 

“I’m so aware of it,” you laugh, putting your head in your hands.  

He hums, his eyes drifting to you again across the fire, watching as you (presumably) mentally berate yourself for getting into this situation. What would’ve happened had you not run into him? If you had run into someone else? With no supplies, would you even have survived the night? A wave of sympathy washes over him, and he frowns at himself for going soft on you so quickly. 

“What brought you out here, anyway? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

You look up from your hands, eyes tired but bright as you smile somewhat fondly. “My brother.” 

Marc raises an eyebrow. “Your brother?” 

You nod, reaching for your pack. You unzip it and pull out an understated urn. His stomach sinks. 

“Oh,” he croaks, his throat going suddenly dry. “I’m…sorry for your loss.” 

“Thanks,” you whisper, turning your attention to the urn in your hands. “He would’ve liked you, I think. Calling me out for being unprepared and all that. He was always looking out for me.” 

Marc grunts, uncomfortable now at the turn the conversation has taken given what had happened to his own brother. “Sounds like he was a, uh, good guy.” 

You nod, meeting his eyes over the fire again, the soft smile on your lips making his heart skip. “He was.” 

The two of you talk a little more, the topics now lighter and less serious. When you start yawning so often you can barely keep the conversation going though, he decides it’s time for bed. He insists that you take his sleeping bag, knowing your thin jacket isn’t enough to keep you warm until the sunrise. Once you agree to take it, he settles down beside the fire, pulling the hood of his jacket up over his head. Your soft snores meet his ears in no time and he smiles to himself, glad that he was able to help someone without using violence just this once. 

He stares into the fire, watching as the flames dance, as they devour the kindling he’d thrown in earlier, as they burn through the sticks and branches he’d collected. His eyes droop, head bobbing gently as he tries to stay awake, knowing he has to keep an eye on things (on you). He thinks he trusts you, or he wants to at least, but he just can’t seem to shake that feeling. Could he really trust himself though? After everything he’s done, after everything he’s seen? Perhaps it’s you who should be afraid of him. 

His thoughts spiral, taking him in directions both logical and illogical. He lets himself get lost in it, in the scenarios, in the possibilities, each one more unlikely than the next. At some point, he must doze off, though, because the next thing he knows is the weight of a body on top of him with a knife to his throat. 

It’s you. Of course it’s you. 

Damn it, he should’ve known, should’ve listened to that niggling feeling inside him that told him not to trust you. 

It’s dark save for the moonlight—you must’ve doused the fire before making your move on him.  

“I’m sorry about this,” you say, grimacing down at him somewhat apologetically. “You seem nice, and I actually kind of enjoyed talking to you but, unfortunately, I have a job to do.” 

Marc swallows thickly, the action pushing the blade a fraction deeper into his skin. “To kill me, you mean?” 

Your face loses some of its softness as you shake your head at him. “That depends on how cooperative you are.” 

He grunts, saying nothing as he tries to assess just how bad things are for him.  

“See,” you continue, leaning in a little closer, the delicious scent of you invading his nostrils. “I need information.” 

He waits for you to continue, eyes scanning your face for any tells, any flickers he can use to his advantage. When he doesn’t respond, you sigh in disappointment, frowning theatrically.  

“Please, Marc, I don’t wanna have to slice up your pretty face. Just tell me what I need to know and I’ll be on my way.” 

He clenches his teeth at your condescending tone. “What do you wanna know?”  

You smile softly at him and he curses himself for the way his heart skips a little; what the fuck was wrong with him? 

“Tell me about Operation Windstorm.” 

He needs to figure out how to get out of this. He can’t just push you off of him, can’t use his legs to flip you over, not with that knife so close to his carotid artery. One wrong move and he’s dead. 

So he stalls. 

Marc snorts, raising an eyebrow at you. “That’s it? Of all the jobs I’ve pulled, that’s the one you wanna know about?” 

You continue to smile down at him, as if you know exactly what he’s doing. “I couldn’t care less, to be perfectly honest but, my client wants to know so, until I get paid, I guess I do too.” 

He grunts, resigned to the fact that he has no choice but to give you exactly what you want in the hopes that you don’t slit his throat afterward. So he tells you every detail of that job, answering every question you have, and just when he’s beginning to think this just might not end well for him, he feels the pressure of your blade ease ever so slightly. 

He wastes no time, taking control and flipping you over, knocking the knife from your hand and causing it to skitter off into the darkness. Marc traps you beneath him, your arms pinned above your head, his knees bracketing your thighs. You’re not giving up without a fight though and wriggling beneath him, trying somehow to use the position to your advantage. You try to lift your leg, brushing your thigh against his groin; the clench of his jaw makes you smirk. 

“Stop it,” he orders, embarrassed by how easy it was for you to rattle him. 

“C’mon, we both know you don’t want that,” you tease, looking down at the slight bulge in his jeans. “Has it been a while, honey?” 

He growls, your breathy chuckles sending shivers up his spine as you continue to move beneath him. “Shut up.” 

“Or what?” you whisper, somehow managing to extricate one of your legs and curl it over his hip.  

“Or this,” he says through gritted teeth, grinding his erection against your core in an effort to turn the tables, to work you up the way you’re working him up. 

It works, your eyes fluttering, lips parting in a sweet little whimper as he grinds into you slowly, over and over again. He groans when you meet his thrusts (as well as you can anyway given your position), the heat blossoming in his gut. He leans in close, his hands still pinning your arms to the ground as he gets lost in you, in the feel of you, in the way you look beneath him. 

“Oh fuck,” you breathe, panting as every press of his hips sends delightful waves of pleasure through your body. 

Marc hums in agreement, his lip between his teeth as he hovers over you. You want to kiss him, to taste him, to devour him. So you do, pushing yourself up to capture his lips, your tongue claiming his mouth and pulling another groan from him. You arch into him as well as you can, pulling his body even closer with your freed leg as you continue to move together. The friction is delicious, like heaven, and a part of you never wants it to end. You wish you could flip him over again, ride him fast and hard, his strong fingers digging into your hips as you pull him apart and put him back together over and over and— 

Your release slams into you at the thought, a choked moan slipping from between your lips as he keeps moving, prolonging your bliss. Marc watches you as you come, the look in his eyes is greedy as your body shakes, your face contorting into something ethereal, almost otherworldly. When you come back to yourself, you meet his eyes again, your chest heaving slightly as you try to catch your breath. He looks like he wants to eat you alive, the wildness and lust in his eyes visible even in the darkness. You shiver with pleasure, chewing your lip as you let your gaze drag slowly down his body. You wish you could see more of him, his windbreaker doing nothing to compliment his undoubtedly amazing body. 

“Who sent you?” He pants, as if he hadn’t just given you the best orgasm you’ve had in years. 

Your eyes flick back to his at the question, a lazy smile curling the edges of your mouth as you begin to move against him again, silently begging him to come for you. He swallows thickly, his body tensing with every brush of your hips, his fingers clenching and unclenching around your forearms. His eyelashes flutter as he watches you, his mouth slack with pleasure. Then he groans, giving into you, into this, his body curling even more over yours as he buries his face in your neck. He ruts against you, his movements somewhat uncoordinated as he chases his release.  

His body twitches above yours as he comes, his moans muffled slightly by your neck. Just as you’re mourning the fact that you didn’t get to see his face, you notice his hold on you has slackened a bit— enough to turn the tables, you hope. Still dazed from his orgasm, it takes him a moment to realize what you’re doing as you begin to wiggle beneath him, and by the time he does, it’s too late.  

Marc grunts as you push him onto his back and straddle him, your hands pinning his muscular arms to the ground. After everything, you should probably kill him—he’s the type to hold a grudge, the type that’ll try to hunt you down—but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. If nothing else, it’d be a waste of a pretty face. Instead, you kiss him, relishing the taste and feel of him one last time before pulling away to smile down at him. 

“Thanks for the tumble, honey,” you whisper, climbing off of him with a chuckle. 

By the time he comes back to himself, you’re gone and the sun is just beginning to peak over the horizon. Marc groans in frustration, running his hands over his face as he tries to figure out what the hell just happened. He should be pissed, he thinks, for so easily falling into your trap but, somehow, he isn’t. He sniffs a laugh, shaking his head at himself as he moves to get up.  

Later, when he’s packing up his gear (including the sleeping bag he’d let you borrow), he comes across a folded, non-descript piece of paper that he knows must be from you. He unfolds it, his fingers fumbling slightly in his haste. For a moment, he just stares, his eyes tracing the lines and curves of your parting words, words that make his lips quirk in a smile.

See you around.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

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[deepouterspacecandy]

Spared

I intended to write a short drabble about Abby being immune to Cordyceps, but alas, it morphed into approximately 5k words right before my very eyes. How does this happen? Anyway. I appreciate your presence, taking the time to read these fragments of my mind. Thank you for being here. I hope you enjoy. This is a darker, more angsty, gore-filled journey and, as always, it’s intended for 18+ audiences only. Violence and sexual themes.

A man on a mission, Dr Jerry Anderson devoted himself to eradicating the plague that wreaked havoc on the world.

Developing a vaccine against Cordyceps consumed his life.

In their quest for answers, people would come from all corners of the globe, hoping to be included in his trial. Despite undergoing countless procedures and surgeries in a desperate pursuit of a cure, most patients tragically succumbed to the treatments themselves or to their initial infections. As the years passed and resources became scarce, his experiments progressively lost their footing.

Mere weeks before his untimely demise, Dr. Anderson conducted his last trial on a patient. The experiment unfolded in a way he never anticipated.

After receiving the injection, the patient, without previous exposure to the virus, experienced a perplexing mutation, developing far more than immunity to the perils of infection.

She possessed the ability to communicate with it and maneuver through it, like a ghost.

----------------------------------------

“You wanted to see me.”

Isaac extends his arm, signaling for you to have a seat at his desk. He swirls a decanter filled with a rich, dark liquid before pouring it between two sturdy glasses.

With a jarring crack against the maple surface, Isaac sets one glass before you.

“I don’t drink,” you say.

As you bring the potion to your nose, the pungent smell of the liquor assaults your senses, and you search for a compliment to give out of courtesy. Hoping to dissuade him from making further gestures of rapport, you decide against it.

“Is this an issue I need to be aware of?” he asks. “I have no patience for drunks.”

Leaning back in his chair, he peers at you intently over his glass.

“No, sir.”

Given the stories you’ve heard about his inebriated escapades, it’s quite ironic to hear such a statement from him.

You feel the uncomfortable burn of his glare, a demand for you to elaborate. Clearing your throat, you offer him a hesitant explanation.

“I prefer to keep my head straight. It’s important in my line of work,” you say.

Unimpressed by your reasoning, he leans forward and flicks your glass, producing a sharp sound that resonates through your chest.

“Do you smell smoke?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “But I’d really rather not—”

Silencing you with a raised hand, he swiftly cuts you off.

“Good. I don’t recall setting a fire. Have a drink,” he orders. “We have matters of discretion to discuss.”

As usual, his matters of discretion connect you to his hidden mercenary, a soldier you have treated multiple times throughout the years unbeknownst to your comrades. She’s Isaac’s most lethal weapon, a secret you wish you didn’t have to protect. What he is doing with her feels cruel, using her impenetrable body for brutal warfare and then leaving her isolated with her injuries, all while she waits for the next assignment.

It takes weeks for the roiling feeling in your gut to subside after meeting with her.

“When do you plan on ending this?” you ask.

Maybe the booze is taking effect, emboldening you beyond your usual self. It’s impossible to bite your tongue, the torment of watching this unfold gnawing at you.

“Excuse me?” he drawls.

“Sir, she’s alone out there. It’s not right,” you say, reluctantly downing the last remnants of the glass before pushing it across the desk. “There are factors you need to consider. Mental decline, her physical limitations. If you’d consider bringing her in, she’d make a promising squad leader.”

Trying to reason with him about her basic human needs will be futile, so as with every other matter, it’s more effective to approach the situation from a tactical standpoint. His perception of human beings as living entities is questionable as is.

“Do not underestimate her faculties,” Isaac says. “She’s built differently. This is the purpose she serves to keep her people safe, and she does it willingly.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but sir, if you’d just give me a minute.”

“Do I need to find someone else to handle this case?” he asks.

It’s a loaded question, a double barrel to your temple. The act of assigning someone else to handle her case doesn’t entitle you to be included in the mission rotation again.

Only you hold the key to the secret of her existence, and it will die with you.

“When do I ship out?” you ask.

“Tonight,” he mutters.

He turns his back to you, and you can hear the faint sound of liquid pouring into his glass. When he dismisses you by consuming it alone, you see yourself out.

----------------------------------------

The journey to the prison is a tumultuous one.

The absence of infected is a relief, but the spray-painted rattle snakes garnishing the buildings and the maze of explosives on the roadways dangle ominously in your face. With Bear, your devoted canine companion, you make it as far as the gas station before a spike strip shreds the front tires of your Humvee. The sunken road, slicked by rain and oil, causes the vehicle to lose traction completely, sliding sideways into the long-abandoned propane tank sitting at the edge of the freeway.

Warmth spills through your eyebrows, prompting you to reach up and touch your forehead to locate the source. Your fingers, stained bright red, begin to tremble as you observe Bear—his ears flattened with every dark hair along his spine raised in alarm.  

It’s a matter of seconds before a pair of violent hands tear you from the vehicle and toss you into the dirt, jarring rock granules forcing your eyes shut. You blink them away until all you see is a mangled police visor staring down at you, its surface speckled with dried blood, a menacing baton swinging an inch from your nose. Though the mask muffles the voice behind it, there’s a barbed, frigid edge to his tone.

Bear lunges out of the cab, seizing the enemy by his throat and forcing him to the ground. It grants you enough time to scramble to your feet, only to be met with the disturbing view of an infected hoard stumbling toward you from the hillside, chains dragging behind some of them.

Your vision becomes increasingly blurry as nausea ferments in your stomach, twisting you inside out. You pilfer the rifle off your attacker, as a group of his mates emerge from the shadows. You lean against the Humvee, examining the firearm before chambering the only bullet attached to the limp body at your boots.

“Fuck ‘em up,” you command.

Bear is a missile, darting through the rubble, his target set everywhere at once. Next to Isaac’s best kept secret, your dog is a diabolical killing machine.

“Shoot that fucking dog!”

Your eyes narrow in on the enemy poised to strike Bear, and you steady your aim. The roar of your scream lingers in your ears as you fire the only round you’ve got. An aggressive swarm of infected are moving toward the chaos in a cluster of rot and tangled limbs and you’re frozen. A horrific slaughter, surpassing any level of violence you’ve encountered, breaks out in a flash.

The infected shred your attackers apart, ribbons of flesh and shattered bone coating the pavement. The moment you call out for Bear, the sudden noise turns a dozen vacant, pustule eyes on you.  

With no weapons at your disposal, you frantically scramble onto the roof of the Humvee, scanning the surroundings for an escape route. A sea of infected pool together like a rancid colony of ants.

Some say that the pain from a Clicker attack is unlike anything else. Perhaps it’s their blind, frenzied hunger that makes them so vicious.

You’re on the brink of discovering it firsthand when the decaying corpse, with its outstretched arms and gnarled fingers, halts mid-motion.

The infected stop in their tracks one by one, haunted marionettes with abruptly yanked strings. Save for the sound of your own blood pumping in your ears, the silence becomes deafening. Their bodies writhe in an eerie synchronicity as you try not to breathe.  

In rare form, you squeeze your eyes shut to escape the fear. The sudden weight of a hand on your shoulder causes you to swing violently in its direction, your fist caught by a solid, calloused palm. Your piercing scream permeates the silence before you instinctively clamp your hands over your mouth.

Despite your shock, the lifeless figures remain unaffected, and you squint to make sense of it.

“I don’t understand,” you say.

Through tangled locks of greasy hair, celestial blue eyes stare expectantly. Her intense gaze rakes over you, a familiar pearl-white streak marring only one iris. It’s been a while, but her angular face is a sight you remember well.

“They can’t hurt me?” you ask.

“They can,” she explains, reaching up to examine the gash on your forehead. “But they won’t.”

“Bear,” you blurt.

Using her thumb and forefinger, she turns your chin until you spot your dog at the edge of the hoard. You can feel his confusion as his tail wags anxiously, ready for your next command. The simple act of turning your head sends a tsunami of vertigo crashing over you.

Out of nowhere, your mind becomes a jumbled mess, making it a challenge to string coherent thoughts together. She senses your trepidation, and her hands immediately find your hips, offering stability as you falter.

“I’m dizzy. I need to get down,” you stammer.

Her grip tightens and you try to focus on the sharp sting of her fingertips digging into your skin. The world tilts, the infected shuffling and groaning as they slowly snap out of their trance.

 “Breathe,” she says. “Stay with me.”

Darkness cloaks your vision before you can summon the energy to respond.

----------------------------------------

As you blink awake, the biting cold hits you first. The source of the unwelcome breeze draws your attention, as the chilly gusts sneak into the room through a slit in the concrete. It’s meant to be a window, but it falls miserably short of the mark.

You’ve spent countless nights inside this prison, mending the wounds of Isaac’s soldier in the dim, flickering light. It’s the first time you’ve landed yourself in her bed.

The blanket, enveloping you like a cocoon, is unpleasantly musty, and you peel it away. Rising from the rigid steel slab, the room spins, deterring you from getting on your feet. Your body feels heavy and sore, a relentless ache pulsating behind your eyes. You give it another shot and stumble to your feet, using the walls as a crutch until you regain your balance.

Bear sleeps peacefully at the foot of the bed, his gentle snores filling the room. It’s intriguing how he finds more peace in the prison than in his own home, but he certainly deserves some rest.

The clank of iron plates echoes down the corridor, and you follow the sound. Your bare feet recoil against the chilly ground, and you’re left pondering when exactly you misplaced your boots. The hiss of heavy breathing and the occasional strenuous grunt accompanies your journey from one cell to the next, guiding you down the hallway toward the sound.

You peek around the corner and wild blonde hair appears in your line of sight.

Chances are, she already senses your presence, but you give a gentle warning that you’re approaching just in case.

“How long have I been out?” you ask.

Performing dips on a rusted bench, she maintains her focus, her back turned to you. Muscles flex and bulge with each repetition and you notice she’s adopted fresh scars across her ravaged back since your previous visit. Without a word, she powers through her reps and smoothly transitions into her next set.

It took several visits before she would give you anything more than a frosty response. Despite the feeling of regression, it’s possible she just needs time to adjust.

“I noticed you grabbed my bag,” you say, idly fidgeting with your hands as you linger in the doorway. “Thank you for that—for all of it, really. I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you.”

Her body stiffens into a plank, losing momentum in her push-ups. Beads of sweat roll down her face and drip to the ground, her solid body trembling. She takes a deep breath before releasing it in a huff, continuing her routine without pause.

“Have you eaten? I packed some spices I think you’ll like.”

With a frustrated growl, she shakes her head, trying to dispel the irritation. Your instincts tell you to leave her alone to finish her workout, but for some odd reason, you find yourself unable to hold back the torrent of words.

“I thought it’d be cool to start a garden here. Herbs are nice to cook with, you know? Some for healing, too. There’s a decent spot in the yard for it.”

“What’s next—rose bushes?” she mutters.

“Roses can be great for tinctures,” you explain. “It’s a learning curve, but you get great sunlight for them.”

She props herself up on her elbows mid-push-up and lets out a choppy breath. When she raises her eyes to meet yours, anger fills them to the brim, and the hostility is scalding.  

“I want Isaac to stop sending you.”

The pain of the unexpected dagger is far more intense than you could have ever imagined. You often wish that Isaac hadn’t implicated you in his secret, but you’ve grown to care for this wounded soul.

“You might as well take me out back, then,” you chuckle humourlessly. “Because that’s a death sentence.”

“Give me five minutes,” she sneers. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Look, I didn’t ask for this,” you say, a kernel of truth wrapped up in a rather emotional reaction to her painful barb. “I’m his soldier, too.”

Springing up from the ground, she snatches her shirt off a nearby chair and pushes past you. Before she slips the tattered garment over her head, you catch a glimpse of a deep, jagged laceration at the base of her neck.

While you make a mental note of it, you ultimately decide against bringing it up.

Rather than hounding her when she clearly wants to be alone, you decide to hunt for that old claw bathtub, desperate for a soak and maybe a good cry.

----------------------------------------

This tomb scatters beauty, but you easily find its seeds.

The copper tub catches the flickering candlelight, and the gleam is otherworldly against the lonely shadows. The moment you step into the hot water, you can feel your skin buzzing with gentle licks of heat and your tired muscles begin to surrender to the relaxation it brings.

You can recall the day she dragged this old bathtub into the prison, the legs of it squeaking across the concrete floor as if the claws belonged to a corporeal animal. Showers alone proved ineffective in hastening her healing process and cleansing her wounds and, surprisingly, despite her initial uncertainty, she took your advice.

The candles differ from the ones you previously left behind, so you assume she still makes use of the hollow luxury when the mood strikes.

Submerging your head, you study the muffled sounds brought about by the density of the water. Everything is disparate beneath the surface, the low-pitched hoots of an owl muted and distant.

“I made food.”

“Jesus Christ!” you choke, body thrashing and creating a chaotic spray of water in every direction.

Your actions soak the woman standing beside the tub and, when she averts her gaze, droplets of water slip from her dirt-slicked lashes.  

“Knocking helps!” you say, bracing your arms on the copper ridges.

“Count the doors in here—I’ll wait!”

Her sarcastic wit catches you off guard, and you feel your cheeks sting as confused gaiety tugs at them.

“What’s that face for?” she snaps.

It’s difficult to discern whether she’s asking a genuine question or if she’s in a defensive stance, so you wager it’s a blend of both.

“You’re funny,” you say. “When you’re not being a jerk.”

This time, when her eyes meet yours, the fury dissipates. There’s something soft and temperate where you’ve only ever witnessed the bane of unforgiving steel.

The pads of her fingers are a deep pink hue, and it dawns on you that the porcelain bowl must be extremely hot. You gesture to the side table disguised as a wooden stump and she sets the dish down.

“Can I have a look at that?” you ask, reaching for her hands.

The tub and clever positioning shroud your naked body, but the rest is all about her and her sudden ardent manners. With her face turned away, she offers you her palms first.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” she says.

While inspecting the burn and its surrounding wounds, you notice her shoulders dropping.

“You can sit, if you want,” you say.

Upon surveying the area, you’re aware that the number of chairs matches the number of doors, prompting an apologetic chuckle. A tiny smile teases her mouth as she crouches at your side instead.

“You need to run this under cold water, okay? And I should dress these cuts, so they don’t get infected.”

“What about you?” she asks. “I tried to clean it out, but it’s ugly.”

She moves to touch the gash on your forehead, and her quick movements startle you. When you flinch, her hand lingers in the air until she decides to rework her pace, taking a more languid approach.

“It’s been forever since someone called me ugly,” you jest.

“Missed opportunity,” she mumbles, biting her bottom lip to keep her grin at bay.

“You haven’t polished off that honey I brought yet, right?”

Her expression resembles a guilt-ridden thief caught in the act, and you struggle to suppress a burst of laughter.

“I should’ve known better. Maybe you need a hive instead of a garden,” you say.

She snorts at your suggestion before grabbing the cloth hanging on the tub and dunking it into the water. Instinctively, her weathered hands shape the fabric to dab gently at your injury. The surface is bruise-tender and the pain throbs outward in torturous sparks. She cups your jaw with her other hand to keep you from squirming.

“What if I’m allergic to bee stings? Because that’s a death sentence,” she mimics.

“I’ll try not to throw you in then,” you say. “No promises.”

A wide, earnest grin spreads across her tough features, and you forget how to breathe for a spell. She’s filthy and in desperate need of a hairbrush, but she’s still prettier than anyone you’ve met.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

Isaac never refers to her as anything other than his mercenary, and every time you had considered asking her in the past, your better judgement advised against it. Her preference for anonymity is clear, but you have so many unanswered questions.

In a smooth motion, she glides the cool cloth across the bridge of your nose.

“Do you really want to know?” she asks.

Seeking a moment of connection, you grasp her wrist, pausing her ministrations. Her gaze meets yours with a sense of urgency and she doesn’t break eye contact.

Water trickles from your hands, twirling along her wrist and cascading down her forearm. She fights to keep her eyes open, a raspy hum building at the back of her throat until goosebumps skate across your skin.

“I really want to know,” you say.

Her nod is slow and deliberate, contemplating the price she will have to pay for her decision.

“Once you see me,” she warns, and it’s uncertain whether she’s cautioning you or herself. “There’s no going back.”

“I can live with that,” you whisper.

Just when it looks like she’s ready to share, her body tenses up and you can almost touch the impenetrable barrier rising between you.

“Your stew is getting cold,” she says. “I’ll grab you a towel.”

----------------------------------------

Away from the stadium lights, midnight is a mesmerizing weave of glistening diamonds spilled across an indigo sky. The sight of the Milky Way reminds you of her. That blemish etched along her iris—a celestial river carving through blue canvas.

You curl up on a bedroll in the tall grass and listen to the melodious ensemble of crickets and frogs, yearning for extra time in the countryside. There’s a sense of security here, with no sign of danger for miles. The tall and formidable walls back home do little to drown out the blood-curdling cries of the infected. Their presence is always looming, close enough to unsettle you, but never close enough to harm. It’s enough to disrupt your sleep, their ruined faces bleeding into your nightmares.

The once spirited and untamed landscape of home now only grows the carefully cultivated visions that Isaac orchestrates, depriving both his plants and his people of freedom.

Prior to Isaac recruiting you for his mission, you contemplated abandoning your ties to the WLF. You didn’t want to spend another moment on this planet living in a perpetual state of war, never knowing when you’d catch a stray arrow.

The peaceful ambiance of birdsong in the early morning tempers the harsh world for you. It’s a reminder that amidst famine and devastation, there must be more.

“You’re not sleeping inside tonight?”

Bear’s collar jingles, bringing you a sense of comfort as the dog keenly explores the prison yard before heading back indoors to nap. Your pup instantly feels at ease with the mysterious woman from the middle of nowhere, and you have no trouble comprehending why.

“I am,” you say. “I just wanted to see the stars first.”

“You don’t see much of that where you’re from?” she asks.

When you pat the ground, she sits cross-legged next to you like an old friend.

“Not really. It’s too bright in the city,” you explain. “I’m going to need to stitch that up—don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

While shooting you a disapproving look, she absentmindedly traces the cut near her collarbone before leaning back on her rugged arms. She tilts her head to study the cloudless sky, and it draws your attention to the neat braid resting at the nape of her neck.

A fresh and woody scent emanates from her, with a subtle hint of pine carried to you by the wind.

“I’ve always wondered why there are no infected here,” you say. “You keep them away when I’m around, don’t you?”

You know it’s her, the one responsible for it all, but you’re still in the dark about her methods. The extent of its impact on her remains elusive to you, but you’ve witnessed her increasing exhaustion. Her strength and abilities set her apart, but they also have the power to decimate her reserves.

“They’re closer than you think,” she says.

“If I get up right now and walk out those gates, am I in danger?” you ask.

“Yes,” she says, a look of agony flashing across her features. “But not for the reasons you think. I can’t—it’s people I can’t control.”

“I wasn’t imagining things, then?”

Her teeth grind in apprehension, as she plucks blades of grass from the ground to build a small mound above the laces of her leather boots. You let the gears turn, patiently waiting for her to come to her own conclusions. The struggle lies in wanting her to confide in you, wanting to divide the burdens that shackle her.    

“I’m here,” you say. “Whenever you’re ready to talk.”

“What if I can’t?”

“I’ll still listen,” you say.

When she turns her head to face you, fragile threads of trust blur her stern demeanour, a courageous step taken in silence. She lumbers from the ground until she finds her feet.

“Where are you going?” you chuckle lightly. “You need rest.”

Brushing the dirt off her pants, she makes her way to the perimeter fence, beckoning you to follow.

Left untended, the field beyond it is a forgotten acreage of towering weeds, sun-stretched wildflowers wilting beneath the somber moon. The ringing chorus of quick, guttural frog croaks fades as a Runner emerges clumsily from the treeline.

Your heart skips as her rough fingers intertwine with your own, a bolt of sweet lightning cleaving through your chest. You can feel the strength in her grip as she guides your joined hands to the chain-link. She squeezes, pressing the tips of your fingers around the galvanized wire.

You’re left bewildered, staring at her, before she gestures towards the field with a subtle tilt of her chin. The writhing, infected body creeps nearer and your heart pounds. With every graceless step the creature makes, nervous vibrations fuse between your ribs. It stumbles, festering limbs lunging forward, and it takes every ounce of self control to keep from screaming.

The warm body at your side inches closer to ease your erratic breathing. Her composure is remarkable, as if she has performed this action countless times, a mastery of the dead—a striking juxtaposition to your tight, hard swallow resonating through the lonesome field.

Behind the disease-ridden shell, the faint traces of a woman’s features start to emerge as the battered body reaches the other side of the fence. The infected woman is so close to you that you can see the intricate network of veins in her eyes, and the red, inflamed rims of her eyelids where her eyelashes once were. Every muscle in your body freezes, not daring to twitch or even let out a breath.

The septic woman pushes her forehead to the fence, head tilting at an unnatural angle, seeming to study every detail of your face. The putrid odour hits your nostrils with such force that it’s impossible not to recoil. As terror grips you, it spreads like wildfire.

“How?” you rasp, your voice so faint, it’s barely a whisper. “Why isn’t she attacking me—doesn’t she want to?”

“It’s all she wants.”

Your attention falls to the soldier whom Isaac has bound you to restore, and you notice she is rapidly losing strength, her skin growing paler as the life force ebbs away.

“Okay, that’s enough. Make it stop,” you order, panic rising as her nose trickles a thin stream of red. “You know what? Fuck it!”

Without hesitation, you reach for the knife holstered on her thigh, sliding the sharp blade through the fence, until the spindly body collapses to meld with the soil.

----------------------------------------

Your hands move with care as you suture the wound above her collarbone, the heat of her breath fanning your face. Positioned behind her is a mural she painted, featuring a serene beach and a shipwrecked boat nestled against the coastline. Decorated with kelp and dappled with rust, the sailboat’s intricate detailing is striking.

“I’ve never been to the beach,” you say.

Her blue eyes, wide with curiosity, lock onto yours, and a huff of quiet laughter escapes her parted lips.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

“I’ve never been, either,” she admits.

You take a step back to observe her, noticing the lines etched on her face that tell stories of resilience. There is a captivating depth that makes you long to delve further.

“Well, you had me fooled,” you say, reaching for the scissors on the surgical tray. “You’re a talented painter—I’m sorry I hadn’t noticed sooner.”

With a dismissive shrug, she makes it seem like transforming a gloomy prison into a magnificent cathedral of art is a piece of cake. Her artwork is so impressive that you would never guess she has spent little time at the beach.

“Nah, it wasn’t here last time,” she says, adjusting her stance and widening the space between her thighs to provide you with more room to work. “I thought I’d try something new. We’ll see if it sticks.”

You lean in closer, gently tending to the cuts and scrapes that have gathered along her shoulders and neck. Her skin, adorned with freckles, is a beautiful mosaic of its own. Some strands of her braid have unraveled, perhaps because of a lack of practice, but the untidiness complements her.

“I’ve always wanted to learn to braid hair,” you say, pondering for a moment if, for her, it’s a self-taught skill or something guided by someone more experienced. Her mother maybe. “It suits you.”

Her nose wrinkles skeptically as she lifts her hand from her lap, her fingers carefully tucking your hair behind your ear.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” she asks.

Given the antics outside, it’s a valid question. You can’t think of a scenario that sent chills down your spine quite like that one. But with her by your side, you felt an unspoken sense of protection. She nudges you with her knee, her eyes narrowing in anticipation of a response.

“I think I am,” you confess, pulling the steel cart to the other side of her brawny frame to better access the supplies you need.

“And yet, you stay,” she asserts. “I guess you don’t have much of a choice.”

“I always have a choice.”

While you meticulously inspect her newest scars, cleansing the wounds that besiege them, she takes hold of your hand, motioning for you to stop.

“Abigail,” she says, worrying her bottom lip. “My name—if you still want it.”

In an instant, your inquisitiveness peaks, keen to uncover both her origin and the path that led her to this place. All in good time, you suppose.

“Abigail,” you say, appreciating how smoothly it rolls off your tongue. “That’s a really pretty name.”

You watch in awe as a blush creeps up her cheeks, giving her a rosy glow.

“Thanks,” she murmurs. “It doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore.”

“Maybe we can change that,” you whisper.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby

[a-not-so-clean-blog]

Nu carnival x ftm period

Mentions of blood, general pain, dysphoria, and drugs

♦️Garu, Aster, Morvay

Yakumo

Boy is comforting by nature and he will do anything in his power to make you feel better. Warm soup, mint tea, any kind of comfort food; he'll make it all for you. If he needs to he will even fight the awkwardness and ask his grandma for advice on how to make “someone” on their period feel better. He knows better than to out you to anybody, even to the people he trusts most. He just wants you to feel better.

Edmond

He's going to need some help. He heard that people like chocolate when this happens so he gets you expensive chocolate confections from your favorite bakery. If he's not too busy he might make some with you. Quality time is important to him and he wants you to know he's here to support you even if he's too awkward to express it with words. He will make time to try and comfort you as much as he can but it will be in all non verbal ways.

Olivine

He will pray for your recovery. He sympathizes with you, he understands how much his essence imbalance hurts him so it makes sense that your hormone imbalance hurts you. It hurts him seeing you so uncomfortable and him not being able to help. He really doesn't want to leave you alone and it hurts him when he can't be by you to help. Even if it's simply grabbing something for you he wants to take as much of your burden as he can.

Quincy

Quincy is big and I think he's very warm too, especially his right hand because of the gem. He cuddles up to you and uses himself as a hot water bottle. Resting his hand on your stomach and letting you use him as a pillow. If you have any kind of mood shifts he takes it in stride. It kind of reminds him of dealing with a cat; wanting pets one moment and biting his hand the next. It doesn't bother him much though and it's nice having a grounding personality like his around while you wait out the pain. He probably offers some natural pain killers if it gets bad.

Kuya

He has a herb that he gives you to help. You don't know what the plant is but it helps. All the pain and discomfort are gone but it makes you feel weird in the head. You've tried finding the plant but no book or even Quincy knows what it is. Kuya just tells you not to worry about it and enjoy not being in pain. You should probably be more weary of him but the herb works so well that you can't really say no.

Blade

He freaks out when you tell him you're bleeding. He thinks you're injured and immediately goes into protection mode. You have to explain it happens to some guys monthly. That's satisfactory for his curiosity for now. It's best to just tell him what helps you manage pain. If you don't he will take the initiative to look up what will help…and he will want you to try the weirdest home remedies. So unless you want him asking you to put a frozen potato wedge cover in sesame oil in your underwear, I suggest being open with him very early. It's so hard to say no to his puppy eyes when he's just trying to help.

Garu

This gets a little weird so continue with caution. He smells it right before you start bleeding and it scares him the first time. It hurts your heart to have him look at you so worried for a week. You know he's just concerned but honestly it doesn't help the dysphoria at all.

Karu

He is confused. Normally if something is causing you pain he just breaks it. Like when you stubbed your toe on the table, no more table no more problem. However he can't just rip your guts out, that would just make more of a problem. He tends to keep his distance unless you give him a specific task, once the task is over he's going back to keeping his distance though.

Dante

He is no help. Honestly he has no idea what to do. Normally the guys he's around only bleed when they are stabbed, but at least he knows how to dress a stab wound. This however, is out of his league. When this time starts he will assign a personal assistant to you to help. They have full permission to get you literally anything you need. Dante doesn't want to know about periods and assumes you don't want anyone to know about yours either, so your assistant is also sworn to secrecy.

Rei

No help in the beginning. I don't think he's been around many AFAB people so you are going to be his first reference point. After this happens a few times though he actually figures out the best ways to help you. He will learn what makes you feel better in terms of painkillers vs muscle relaxers, he learns if any foods make you feel worse and avoids them. Yeah he treats it like an experiment but as long as it helps in the long run he doesn't think it matters. Also he memorized all the early signs and is fully prepared for when it actually starts. I'm not sure how skilled he is with a scalpel (or if you can trust him with a scalpel) but he may offer to remove the problem if you want.

Eiden

I think he's the only one on this list who truly understands how much this week triggers your dysphoria. He will do anything he can help physically, but he is also extra protective of your masculinity during this time. He will literally fight anyone who misgenders you, and makes sure to give you lots of compliments. “Y’know most guys can't handle pain as well as you do. I've even seen knights cry at the sight of a paper cut haha!” He's very proud of you and will make sure you know just how manly you are.

Aster

Also kinda nasty so read at your own risk…. “Free meal”. He uh, gets pretty excited when it happens. He tells you stuff like “you look so handsome today~” and other masc compliments but it's all a ploy to get in your pants. Honestly he's more pushy than Morvay is when you're bleeding. It's just that the constant smell of your blood is impossible for him to ignore. He helps with pain management but is really only invested in the clean up.

Morvay

He heard an orgasm helps with cramps… this is the only thing he will do to help, but being a service bottom he does it so well. He will bring you food in bed, let you eat, make you cum till you can't see straight and pass you, rinse and repeat for a week. He gets so pouty if you leave because “doctor Morvay” just wants to make you feel better.

#i think these headcanons cursed me because ya boy is having stomach pain now #a degenerate writes #Nu carnival Yakumo #nu carnival Edmond #nu carnival olivine #nu carnival Quincy #nu carnival Kuya #nu carnival Garu #nu carnival Dante #nu carnival Rei #nu carnival Aster #nu carnival Morvay #nu carnival Eiden #nu carnival x reader #nu carnival #x ftm #ftm reader #tw periods #♦️

[dnickels]

There is a galaxy of interlaced tragedies happening in season 9 but for me the biggest one is that Thursday thinks Morse's drinking is one of his foibles like his grammatical prescriptivism or refusal to watch TV. Even if he accepts that Morse has a problem and its something deeper than a personal failing, like his numerous phobias (blood, heights), I don't know that Thursday has the personal capacity really get what that means-- he might intellectually know it, or have heard something along those lines, but I think in his gut he's disappointed and even a little disgusted at Morse for not being able to tough it out.

What makes their relationship so beautiful and compelling is that Thursday liked and chose Morse from the beginning despite the fact that he is (in terms of a 60s detective unit) a genuine freak, but Thursday is usually just as pleased as he is baffled by all the opera and ancient greek and poems. But this one thing he just doesn't get and can't accept, this young man he's poured so much time and effort into his just throwing it away on booze. Here's Thursday thinking "was I wrong in seeing that potential? Was it a waste of time to bring him up by hand?" Even when Morse is back there's a lingering frost there, a distance caused by that betrayal of trust-- Morse let him down, and he's pulling away when Morse needs his support now more than ever.

He may not say anything but that scene where he accepts a drink in front of Morse is a perfect example of how he just doesn't get it. It's not a pub, Morse can't get up and walk around or ask for a squash to nurse or anything that might relieve the moment, he just has to sit there and wallow. And Thursday seemingly has no idea what it takes to just sit there and watch. "We heard it flow, we heard it ripple. Do you understand that word, ripple? It is a sound you hear with your tongue! You put your tongue out of your mouth to taste it better!" Then there's the relapse and Thursday decides to just walk away. Some people can't be helped. It kills me.

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

if dorian didn't show up, do you think louis would have shot minnie?

I do. I know some people think either he wouldn't have or he would've missed so that's why the writers had him shoot Dorian instead, but mmmmmm no, I don't personally think so. I like to think that if he had taken the shot, his shaky hands would've caused him to shoot her fatally.

Mostly because I'm already so normal about the fact that of the Ericson crew, Marlon and Louis are the only ones with a body count. Well, that we know of, but shown to us in the game, at least. Plus, we know it's Louis' first kill.

Like yeah, Clementine and AJ become part of the crew and they have bigger body counts, and if we're counting indirect kills caused by actions, then Tenn has a count... and I guess everyone has blood on their hands for blowing up the boat... but I'm talking about killed directly with a weapon like....... I lied, I'm not normal about that at all, Louis and Marlon are the ones who have killed someone in Louis' route. I'm also not normal about the fact that Louis kills Dorian and then even as he's clearly in shock, he tries to go with Clementine to get AJ, and then later on when they talk about it, he says it feels like bile but not quite and he's glad he has it in him to do it.... listen, listen, listen... I'm obsessed with that.

Anyway, so if Louis shot Minerva, I think he would've accidentally killed her and can you imagine? He's already enough of a mess after killing the woman who pinned him down and tried to cut his finger off [or succeeded] but he knew Minerva, they were friends before the twins were taken. Even Violet couldn't kill her even though that would've been the smarter thing to do, and we know thanks to meta knowledge that killing her would've saved lives, but Violet couldn't, and I don't think Louis would intentionally either.

Speaking of Violet, if Louis killed Minerva, I hate to think about what that would've done to Vi. I think she might've actually left at that point, like what was planned before it got changed to her being burned. I don't think she would've attacked Louis over it, though, like yeah she attacked Clementine in the cell but Louis? I don't know, but I don't think so just because it's Louis and he'd be a mess about it anyway.

Though if he did kill her, it would be a neat parallel to draw... y'know, because Louis forgave AJ for killing Marlon even though he was pissed and heartbroken, and Violet was annoyed with him the entire time... but could she ever forgive Louis for killing Minerva? Y'know? We already have a similar parallel with AJ shooting Tenn, but still.

If Clementine killed Minerva in that moment, though, then I could see Violet attacking her since in her eyes, Clem proved her right.

So yeah, I get why they added the Dorian kill to his route. It adds another compelling element to Louis as a character, but we also need Minerva alive for episode 4; Louis can't kill her, he can't miss, and he's not going to stay with her because we need Violet to stay on the boat and him to be on shore for all routes.

#asks #twdg louis #twdg minerva #twdg clementine #twdg violet #twdg marlon #twdg tenn #honestly whenever i see someone say louis is the boring option i'm just like '.......that's your opinion but also how can you say that??' #then again i'm sure other people look at me saying violentine just isn't for me and they say the same thing so y'know... i can't talk haha #also time is such a weird thing because i look at the entire cell scene in louis' route and like... i'm not even mad about violet anymore #like yeah i still don't believe she was brainwashed like i'm sorry y'all only believe that because kent said something about it #not because there's all this evidence toward it in game like vi being pissed at clementine makes sense she doesn't need to be brainwashed #for it to work like her being vulnerable and easily manipulated into submission makes perfect sense especially with minerva there #it's like everyone was pissed that she attacked clementine and people needed a way to excuse it so it's not violet's fault when like... #that's literally what makes it interesting like calm down it's okay if violet is pissed and scared and behaves accordingly #also my controversial opinion of the day that i'll hide here in the tags so maybe people won't find it sksksk but #I personally find the concept of vinerva and the doomed tragedy of it more compelling than anything violentine did #like i'll defend violentine and i do believe it's an important and good ship it's just not my personal favorite #anyway but then the whole thing with lilly and minerva is so good and louis screaming FUCK YOU at minerva?? amazing love it so good #i love when the soft character who never chooses violence is so pissed off that all that anger they have boils to the surface and it's raw #like... he's SO mad he's SO furious he's SOOO UPSET like he wasn't even like this when marlon died or anything like he hit his limit #and then shooting dorian through the mouth while an accident is just well done i love it and i love his reaction of mortification #and apologizing and YET he still tries to go with clementine he's trembling and can barely string together a sentence but he wants to go #he wants to help her he wants to save aj THAT is the gut reaction he has after everything that just went down #'louis isn't loyal or good for clem because of the vote' babe tell me you don't understand any nuance of louis' character without telling m #it's fine IT'S FINE you don't have to agree and i just have to remind myself that it's fine not everyone likes louis we're okay #this drives me crazy in the best way like y'know what? i love the cells scene in louis' route all of it even the stuff i used to rant about #even the stuff that used to piss me off now i'm just like 'no wait past cj was dumb she wasn't looking at it this way aaaaaaaa' sksksks #that was my tag ted talk about the cell scene thank you

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Uh… sorry about your boyfriend. He was bitten by a spider… yeah, we had to amputate his leg… But we also taught him how to swim and fight to the death; he’s a pro at it!

#Okay I’ll say the name of this movie; it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be (block if it disturbs you): #tusk (2014) #Forewarning you: It’s fucked up… but not as bad as TETSUO in my opinion. This one is at least lighthearted… #aside from the main actor’s gut-wrenching screams (good god) #body horror tw #At some point a movie becomes so disturbing that it reverses polarity and you can’t take it seriously #The directors knew this and used it to make a horror comedy film… that you can actually take seriously #It worked beautifully #You have this jerk who jokes about others’ trauma (including losing a leg and cultural genocide for instance) #And by the end of the film; he himself has lost both legs and has become the victim to cruel human experimentation #And when his jokester friends come to his aid; none of the people they ask for help take it seriously #And the whole thing started because this guy wanted to exploit the victim of a freak accident for views #for his horribly insensitively-named podcast #And he didn’t get help in time because he cheated on his girlfriend which caused her to cheat on him #which then caused her not to pick up the phone when he called for help until the next morning because she was with his costar #And help was delayed also because of the name of his podcast being an atrocity no one wanted a part of #ough… yes… haha… YES. #Play stupid games; win stupid prizes — The Movie #Wonderful #Glorious #whoever played the villain really made the movie… he was perfect #and I loved how they introduced the characters and their intentions by doing asides (is that the correct term?) #Clean work #AND by finding the movie (and the post-credits meta podcast banter) funny; you yourself are laughing at someone’s trauma #so the universe might pay YOU back

[widevibratobitch]

moments like this when im really glad im a sad little cynic who always considers the worst possible outcome and never lets herself truly get comfortable and trust the good things in her life to stay there and builds her life around trying to soften the blows of the eventual disappointments just waiting around the corner lol never leaving my edgy teenager era peace and love

#i mean if the alternative is whatever the fuck is going on with my best friend rn then hooooo boy #cancelling therapy immediately i never want to change i wanna keep my trust issues forever and ever if its gonna save me from THIS #is he a dick? kinda. yeah. and a coward because if dude was sure he didnt want it since AUGUST and didnt have the guts to end it till now #actually he didnt end it. she was the one who finally snapped. but we seriously fought twice before because she just woudlnt listen #when i said that girl this isnt gonna work and you trust him too much and you're attachment styles are incompatible as hell #your* #but nvm. the least you could do when a 7 years younger girl who's clearly obsessed with you is breaking up with you #cause she just cant take it anymore. and you can see she's still in love with you because you've been lying to her for half a year. #imo the least you could do at that point is just. dont tell her that jfc. just say you're sorry it didnt work out etc etc #dont fucking tell her you stopped being in love with her in fucking august #and just 'didnt know how to end it' and lied when she asked if everything's alright #like my god. yes ig this would never have happened if she hadn't trusted him so completely and expected love to fix her whole life #but jesus dude. she's not even 23 she has a right to be naive. you're almost 30. you DONT get to be a man child anymore #christ. okay. #anyway i wish i could help her but telling her to 'trust less' and 'never truly rely on other people' sounds horrible and cringe and edgy af #but i genuinely dont have any other advice #like babygirl im sorry but your bestie is a piece of human garbage and she's doing the best she can but her best is Not Much alas

[coquelicoq]

natsume book of friends season 4 opening sequence has got me incredibly fucked up. the lyrics. kid natsume's tiny little legs and teenage natsume watching him run. the lyrics. nyanko-sensei burrowing into his arms. did i mention the lyrics? ending frame on the fujiwara family. including natsume. because he's part of their family. as the lyrics ask him to "please [not] keep suffering alone"? somebody fucking hold me.

#i'm actually almost done with season 4 because i have no self-control. and every time i watch the opening i'm like #no this has only gotten more potent since the last time i watched it. we are reaching danger levels #natsume yuujinchou #natsume's book of friends #my posts #season 4 is the season of tanuma just completely destroying me on every level. why is every single character like this?? #every time he learns something about natsume he's like oh so this is what it's like for natsume? #and then it happens again and he's like wait natsume ALSO has THIS OTHER THING to contend with?? #and again: AND A THIRD THING?? WHY MUST THE WORLD'S BEST BOY NATSUME TAKASHI SUFFER??? #he just wants to help natsume deal with stuff and i am on the fucking floor #his thought process is just #this is hard for natsume. i wish i could help him. maybe here's a way i could help him? he doesn't want me to though because it would #put me in danger. but i don't want him to be in danger either. and i'm telling him that to his face. i don't think it's really #gotten through to him but that's okay i will just keep telling him. now i'm realizing that the thing i did to help him maybe just made #things harder for him. this is hard for natsume. i wish i could help him. maybe sometimes the best way to help him is to just #respect his wishes and yet remind him that he can lean on people and that people love him as much as he loves them #the part where tanuma realized why natsume doesn't tell the fujiwaras about youkai gutted me #this kid is so emotionally astute and such a sweetheart #i just watched the episode where natsume loses his picture of his parents and his old house is getting sold and i cried. SO many tears. #tanuma putting his foot down for once like no actually you need to admit that something is bothering you this time #we can find this picture. ask us to help you do this thing that we can actually do for you. you don't need to be sad for no reason #mmm can't be coherent about it just rest assured it was extremely harmful to me and also exactly what i needed #anyway the season 4 opening song as the thing you say to your younger self who lives inside your current self because #you can't actually go back in time and be the person your younger self needed to have in their life. so all you can do is love that child #in absentia but so so so fiercely and with your whole entire heart #all you can do is give your current self all the love you have for the child you were #jesus CHRIST

[oatbugs]

found a bunch of old voice memos and this is the first time i've listened to my own voice and thought yeah it makes so much sense that people have loved this person . woah

#personal #i was singing a song under another song (saw my wings with the bodies in the gutter). there is someone else and i cant #recognise their voice . i think maybe i was drunk and maybe so were they . i have no idea who they are but their voice is so pretty. #i ask them if theyre ok and they ask if im sure im okay with this. and then they say see you soon and theres the sound of the door. #theres the voice of someone else after this too. they say listening to chase atlantic feels like sex . i have no idea who this person is. #this file is full of strings rising and falling. reverb of a massive space. some symphony inside interrupted by another symphony. #i remember laying on the floor of the orchestra hall to listen and to hide. i remember laying my hand on the floor and thinking i could #recognise this piece just by the way the ground vibrates. #i've been thinking a lot about mereology. sorry for not talking about nihilism the past week - everyone around me has been falling apart. #this month i have watched others be stricken by grief. the other side of the equation. one day i will create a poem about the way holes are #one whole part. the way disconnects are connected to the fabric of absence. (i saw your guts without the skin attached) #i could hear how in love i was when i asked the unknown voice if they would like some water. i blew out the candles and one stayed lit. #you don't need to tell me. forever and ever. strictly fall for academics and people with a passion. asked my mathematician about manifolds #and he asked me about his hair. i will wake up tomorrow if only it is to spend half an hour making tea. the concept of going to my country #is an oncoming train with a minute's delay. i told them i want to be their friend and they told me theyd like to meet up soon #and test how deep they can bite like good friends do. do you feel ashamed of my degree? do you feel ashamed of #your dry lips? skull fast-tracked to the floor. i have a jar of hand-picked dried damask roses for tea. ill tell you about k-theory until #you shut me up.

[faebriel]

i think you should talk about your scientist blorbo more

mate im just so unhinged about him

#HE REALLY JUST. WALTZES IN. COMMITS ATROCITIES. AND LEAVES #and then it turns out hes actually committing atrocities to uncommit atrocities but not in the like. misunderstood way #everyone else thinks this agenda is stupid as fuck and tbh theyre probably right #has the second highest body count in the cast probably #his best friend hates his guts and also was literally PAID OFF to be his best friend #<- HE DID SO MUCH FOR SYDNEY and it all blew up in his fucking face (but also it should have bc he was being unhinged yk) #AND AND HE SPENDS THE WHOLE TIME WHEN THE KIDS ARE LIKE D: WE HAVE THESE STUPID POWERS WE'RE MONSTERS #and hes like >:[ youre not monsters youre practically superhuman #and at first you think hes just an unfeeling prick who cares more about the results of his work and accomplishments than peoples lives #(because its true he does) #B UT THEN #YOU START TO REALISE (AND THEN ITS CONFIRMED IN THE LAST FEW SECONDS OF THE SEASON HEHE) #/HE WAS AN EXPERIMENT TOO/ #NNO SHIT HE SAYS THAT TO THEM HE'S IN THE SAME BOAT BUT WORSE #and if he even STARTED with agds because of sydney well this is where i cry. this is where #thanks william <3 your dms will regret this invitation to ramble #asks

[tinyorangepotato]

mm tumblr post time

#tiny talking #so im at camp and very suepr tired and also bene drinking a little so im not spell reading this #but so ive been talkign tonthisndude for a bit and we started daring #dtaing #to see what happens since wevee been freinds for legit years and i was still iffy about my aroace because udk maybe #and ive vene thinkigna biut breakignyp for minths but we justbahvent rlaked and i hate to not be a people pleaser so ive bene putting it of #and trying to just construct the whole message an dppanbit all but that doesnt work ykniw #and i finally tonight got a coupel drinks and sent a message (becaus ei knew i woudl ramble and apolpgoze and eveyronr #either if i was sober or notbso inhave more of an excuse now but just for the rambling yknoe) #and god he was so fucking jcie and underatsnding about me sating am aroace and apologolize #and god damn man i started tearing up and theres no right what yi sat things over text without iverthinkign it #and i defiantly qasnt gonna call because one im with other peopel and have a broken ankle #so i cant just go walk off and call then come abck wirhotu strugglign #and becuae i can never outload speak of things that is inporatn or argmuentative or abything #and i dont think i coudl do it wirhout tesring up a bit beciase god dman #but god damn i did it and um glad i did butnalso god he was the bwst and i wish it worked propperly #but i just didnt fele it so yknow whays best is to not lead it on mroe and all thag gut fyck man #this gonesly wanst even an actualnpsot i just wanted to say this soemqhere because ita bene on y midn a bunch #and no one even really knew i was seeing him because one nobone asked and too i wasnt gonantell them #because whyshoydl they know. who cares who im dsting because we werent ecen labled yntil a little whilr ago #and even after like i was still jsy hangung with my friend who i ahppene to be kinda dating so who cares #anywyas ive eben rmabling since the beginingn #um actually gona. do one more tint talks tongiht since its been soenthing elsneive beenbthiningnof #and just want off my mind and its not mwant tk guolt trip or anything but its just soenthing i saw and tho7ghtnof

[ohmygraves]

after one of your leave, you came back to work with a ring around your finger.

you didn't mention it to anyone, and people simply noticed it when talking to you or handing you things. they congratulated you, talking about the ring. you nervously brushed it off, trying to explain it.

ghost didn't know about it either, and when he overheard someone talking about it, he dropped his mug of tea on the floor, the pieces scattering around the place.

this was such a shock to someone who had planned to propose to you.

well, propose might be a bit too far, considering you two are not even dating. he wanted to say it, but things were a little too hectic and he didn't have the guts to ask you out and moreover you're not sure if you'd like him... even if you two have been friends in the taskforce for years.

then again, in his mind, you two are practically an old married couple.

he was clearly upset by this, ignoring you and trying to push you away. he was undoubtedly hurt. did you elope with someone? why didn't you tell him? invite him to the party? did your "friendship" with him mean nothing at all?

ghost was snappy, in a terrible mood overall. he snaps at johnny, yells at gaz, and even glares at price. he was constantly on edge and it's starting to piss you off. so you confront him.

"what the hell's up with you?"

he didn't feel like humoring you, sitting down all irritated over his meal instead.

"you've been avoiding me all week, snapping at people... did i do something wrong?"

so he went off at you.

"wanna know what's wrong? you. coming back to base with a bloody ring. let me guess, you eloped with someone? is that it?" he hissed, "and here i thought i'd propose, that's out of the fuckin' window now."

you sat there, taking his words in. "... it's a fidget ring?"

you showed your hand to him, using your fingers to spin the little parts of your ring. he didn't realize how you've been fidgeting with it, or how you explained to people over and over that you're not married or engaged.

all of the sudden ghost felt like his blood ran cold, not only because he just acted so stupid jealous over a trinket, he basically admitted that he wanted to marry you.

"... wait, you wanted to propose to me?"

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty headcanon #cod headcanon #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #cod ghost x reader #cod #ghost x reader #cod ghost #ghost cod #ghost

[medicinemane]

All I'm saying is any rule, any law, any social convention, anything where there's some kind of reprisal for transgressing against it... just make damn sure you're careful with it lest it be used against you

Every freedom you give up in the name of making a better world, really double check it's worth it and narrowly defined

I mean some freedoms are worth giving up, for instance I don't have the freedom to kill people who annoy me, and I shouldn't have that freedom. I lose very little while gaining a great deal both personally and for society as a whole, and there are a lot of places like this where it's 100% worth it to ban something outright

Similarly, there absolutely are reasons to socially shun people, like you don't have to put up with every last thing just to be nice. Influencers who do stuff like harass people to drum up attention or record and post every second of their kid's lives, I don't think we should be engaging with people like that unless it's to keep an eye on them, I think they do a ton of harm

All I'm saying though, is shit like the Patriot Act drummed up support because it was going to protect people, keep people safe... and look what actually happened, look how it's used. It's state surveillance against the people it claimed to protect and that's about it

I'm not gonna tell you which things are wrong to shit on people for, or which policies you should oppose. I don't want you to just mimic what I believe, even if I thought anyone was gonna

I just want you to look at stuff, and think about it, and really decide if that thing you want gone is harmful in a concrete enough way that if you do something to try to remove it, it will only remove that instead of spilling over in to stuff you didn't want it to

I just want you to check in your head if anything you're cracking down on either legally or through social pressure might lead you to losing something you care about down the road if bad actors skew how to interpret things

I'm not saying that's how it's gonna go, I'm just saying think first

#you know what I'll always respect? #when cloudflare basically just removed their ddos protections from... think it was stormfront or a similarly hateful website #and here's the part I respect #the owner came out and basically said 'yeah; I woke up and was basically like fuck those assholes; I'm done with this' #'because we basically had people asking us to just step aside; so i knew they'd get hit with a ddos if we cancelled our contract' #'and I don't regret it at all; because they're awful people and I hate them' #'but I also have to say it's pretty worrisome that I could singlehandedly make a decision like that' #it went something like that anyway; and I respect the fact that he realized the gravity of his actions #like I mean I agree with him; agree with what he did; fuck those assholes #but he had awareness about the whole thing; he realized that there was danger that the unpopular voice wouldn't always be unpopular #because it was saying something hateful and vile like in these cases #sometimes the unpopular voice might be saying something true; and just; and important; that people just didn't like or want to hear #and that... it's very hard to work out how to tell the difference in terms of a systematic framework #and that also like... well; our gut will tell us which things are good and bad; which things should be protected and which shouldn't #except... that's fucking stupid; we all get it wrong; and most of us are ruled by what makes us uncomfortable more than morality #like be blunt; that's a pretty damn true statement if you think about it #and even if it's not; there have been absolutely abhorrent ideas in the past that were held as sacrosanct pillars of society #like was it wrong to say 'slavery is horrible and should be banned' just because some people found that an unpopular opinion? #obviously not; like blatantly those people were wrong #but you have to acknowledge; you really really have to acknowledge that you're capable of being one of those people #that you're capable of believing wrong; bad; hurtful things even though you're trying to be a good person #that you could be on the pro slavery side of things in a modern situation where we just haven't moved far enough along #for it to become more or less universally recognized that yeah... you're just being a backwards asshole about things #we can all be tricked; we can all fall for vile lines of thinking if they appeal to us in the right ways; me included #the important thing is to constantly try your best to reevaluate why you believe what you believe and provide evidence #I don't know... just don't be passive and assume you're right #check that what you're saying and doing isn't causing undue harm #it's tough... we all think we're freethinking smarties who've come to the right conclusion #so if I tell you to make sure you're right; you're gonna say 'yeah of course I am'; and you know? so am I #but just like... try to be a little introspective; and try to interrogate what you believe and why