#but it’s about what you do with that capacity and the need for a healthy basis on which to grow

[sunshinediaz]

here’s what eddie has accomplished in s7 so far:

- met a woman he enjoys spending time and being physically intimate with who he trusts enough to leave with his son

- made a friend who came back from serving overseas and decided to join the fire department, just like him

- has a whole group of firefighter friends he plays basketball with that are separate from the 118

- invited his girlfriend to move in with him and, when he realized that wasn’t what he really wanted because he tends to listen to his gut before his head catches up, asked her to move out so they can continue to get to know one another

- partook in an unauthorized operation to save two of his very dear friends after pirates destroyed their cruise ship, and then received a medal commending his bravery

- learned it’s okay to ask for help, like when he went to buck about christopher’s attempt at dating or to bobby for some clarification on his relationship with catholicism

- has acknowledged and is attempting to work through the repression and trauma catholicism left him with

- understands he has a support system to lean on—especially buck, who he opens up to with little prompting on buck’s part

- realized he is never going to stop loving shannon even though she’s been gone for 5 years and he needs to learn how to navigate that forever grief in a way that is healthy for him and christopher because chasing her ghost is not sustainable

- openly talks about his panic attacks in front of friends and strangers, and helps calm victims down by telling them tricks he used himself

season 7 is only 10 episodes and 911 is an ensemble cast. eddie’s arcs aren’t lacking or unimaginative or a letdown. it’s a pretty decent representation of a man who became a dad as a teenager and is doing his best to unlearn a lot of what he was taught and move forward with his life without living only for his son while also missing somebody he thought he would have forever, in whatever capacity you believe. remembering eddie was initially going to be with tommy before that story fell through is just a cherry on top.

#this man is so nuanced and contradictory and raw and terrified #just because you don’t particularly enjoy his arcs this season doesn’t mean they aren’t good #and if your enjoyment of the show depends on his arcs unfolding the way YOU think they should #you are never going to be satisfied #this is why it is so very important to keep fanon and canon separate #eddie diaz #911 #amanda talks

[age-of-moonknight]

“8-Ball,” Vengeance of the Moon Knight (Vol. 2/2024), #5.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Alessandro Cappuccio; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

#Marvel #Marvel comics #Marvel 616 #Vengeance of the Moon Knight #Vengeance of the Moon Knight vol. 2 #Vengeance of the Moon Knight 2024 #Moon Knight comics #latest release #Moon Knight #The Shroud #Maximillian Coleridge #Tigra #Greer Grant #Hunter’s Moon #Yehya Badr #Did Mr. Cappuccio have fun with this issue (I hope he had fun this looks like it should have been fun to draw) #thank you Mr. Cappuccio #Also a Marlene mention (gosh I miss her) and an Age of Khonshu reference within a couple pages is wild to me #and just…there’s something here #about yes Max and Marc were incredibly similar with equally great capacities for hurting those closest to them and helping people #but it’s about what you do with that capacity and the need for a healthy basis on which to grow #as opposed to just trying to ignore the past and jump into someone else’s mold #because while there might be similarities not only must each person do the work for themselves but it’s also going to look different??? #It’s not only that Max can’t take on the Moon Knight mantle in this way because it’s a way of dodging responsibility for his past #but also because he’s his own unique quantity who if he deals with things can provide unique insights and talents that only he can #he has an endlessly distinctive perspective that only he has and it would be a shame to lose that because he’s trying to be someone else #and I guess that’s just a theme I love so much about modern Moon Knight comics: #brain chemistry may make it so that others disparage someone as «crazy» but they do not dictate the totality of who one is #or what one does and can in fact provide a perspective that no one can replace

[starcolle-archive]

tabula rasa; keep moving forward

I’ve made some friends on tinder so far; some want to play board games and some want to get in my pants. But I’m talking to this kid [21; obviously not a literal kid, but it feels like there’s over a decade between us] about his depression in how the public unconsciousness is poisoned. (Speaking of which, I need to get back to writing the smut I was drafting while drinking. The guy’s getting pegged while he talks about parasocial relationships being deliberate creations of class based society; used to alleviate the rising temper of the inevitable clashing mentalities prevalent among the public unconsciousness. Obviously I’m not gonna do it justice in any way in a tumblr post, so I’ll keep it top myself for now.)

And as all the thoughts raise through my head, agreeing with him on how neoliberialism’s schadenfreude is morally decrepit, I’m reminded about our discussion(s) about tabula rasa and what it means to be one’s authentic self. Yeah, sure, ALL the kinky shit we talked about was fun, but it was always the intellectual discussions that I’ve missed most. Sure I may have been the moody sarcastic asshole at time, but I was always sincere with my interest in discussions & our intertwined betterment; no matter the topic.

So I guess that’s another reason why I’m reminding myself to keep moving forward like I used to tell you. I’m finally replying to my new therapist. it shouldn’t have taken me this long, but I’m so exhausted that I’m just now getting around to it.

Why am I even writing this? You don’t read it, and it’s already inside my head. I guess it is good to get it out, even if it makes me feel psychotic (I should probably get my psychiatrist to up my anti-psychotic, shouldn’t I? ...I jest; moistly, er, I mean mostly.)

[This is where I’d insert the sound of an hour long groan that you can’t tell if it’s the byproduct of a bad pun or from something else I might say; I’m hyper-aware except for when I need it most after all.]

#the amount of thesis I could write with a bottle of cheap ass screw top rose; a little bit of adderall; and maybe a little weed... man I #really wish I had the mental capacity to go back to college; part of my interest in a state job is the free state school classes; gotta go #to FSU like I(we) said I(we) would; right? well hey if you ever need a couch to surf (or bed but I doubt you'd want that offer) in Tally #it'll always be available so long as I'm stuck in this hell hole of a transphobic state ...fuck me up the ass (or have your bf do it) I do #not know how much longer I can stand the thought of being here; my agoraphobia has been terrible and #my ''husband'' has only marginally gotten better at being verbally abusive; she has a lot of points but she attacks me so harshly that all #I can really do is dissociate ...jk I've gotten a LOT better at picking my battles and knowing how/when to respond; if you thought I was #good at listening back then; well Im #noticeably better #(I was gonna use some arbitrary metric value but I'd rather let my actions speak for theself; and its not liek you have any interest in my #actions or my thoughts ...you've yelled at me enough times about all that already ...honestly I would've rather you apologized for all that #instead of ''everything'' that happened in our relationship; guess what: I've never kept score rather a catalog of things I'd want to talk #over if the time ever presented itself; fuck it I need to go get some sleep; trying to decide what kind of nightcap I'm in the mood for now #that I've gotten better at kicking bad habits; I've been slowly working sicne my heavy relapse(s) in summer of '20; anyways allonsy! KMF!!! #I need to get caught up with DW now that they've apparently brought David Tennant back) #personal #keep moving forward #I need to stop this absurd obsession when I know it serves no healthy purpose

[listentoace]

Everything and everybody wants you to get fatter

Everything you buy at the grocery store is filled with sugar, even in products you don't expect. There are more and more delivery services that can bring you any meal you crave right to your doorstep. Junk food is cheaper than healthy options. There is more and more content to stream online, keeping your mind occupied and your body sedentary. You can work from home, moving less and less. Anywhere you go, there will be a fast food place. Body positivity makes it easier to just be fat. Fat characters in cartoons and movies have become normal and beloved. Gyms keep getting more and more expensive. Whenever you gain a few pounds, people will cheer online and want you to get fatter. You're probably getting off on the thought of getting fatter already. You've turned ruining yourself into a fetish. You don't even want to try and fight it, do you? Stuffing yourself and feeding your addiction is just more pleasurable. Everyday new snacks are being invented to keep you eating. New shows are created to keep your mind empty. More people are sucked into feederism, fetishizing obesity. It'll only get worse, but that'll just make it so much more pleasurable. You might feel fat now, but it'll be nothing compared to what you'll look like in a few years. You'll never be this skinny again. You'll never be able to return to normal. The perception of "fat" keeps shifting. While a hundred years ago, a person with a BMI of 30 would have been considered fat, now they're chubby at best. One third of the population is obese already and those numbers - just like those on your bathroom scale - will only be going up. You can't escape, there is no need to. Fat feels good. Obesity feels good. No more worrying about exercise. No more paying attention to what you eat. So much soft and jiggly mass you carry around with you. Sitting and laying down become so much more comfortable than standing and walking. Your stomach will expand, increasing your capacity for food. You know you love it. You need it. It's natural. It's good. Give in. It's easier. Don't fight. Be consumed. Rest your mind. Rest your body. Stuff yourself. Dumb yourself down. Turn into a blob. Eat. Gain. Grow. It's what's best for you.

#feedee encouragement #weight gain encouragement #smut #gaining kink #gaining weight on purpose

[ovaryacted]

Really random but dad bod DI Leon🤤🤤🤤 (I really love DI Leon if you couldn’t tell) like I love Leon w abs, and his hourglass shape but just him cuddling w you and being so warm and soft😢 (or when y’all are making love and his tummy just has us fitting together like puzzle pieces and it’s LIKE OMGMGM😭😭😭😭😭)

-🐏

cw: descriptions of body changes, internalized fatphobia, smutty thoughts/acts.

OHHHHHH DAD BOD LEON IS MY VICE PLEASE OH MY FUCKING GOD. LIKE RAHHHH, I NEED IT BAD. Ram anon, I'm on to you.

The changes happen after a year into his forced retirement, he doesn't realize it until he becomes more aware of the way your arms feel wrapping around his soft torso. Once adorned with hard muscle, his body now was covered in a layer of skin that expanded over time. He still had the same physique and the same capacity for strength, but there was an added softness he’d acquired recently that sent his head in for a spin.

Retirement has been good for Leon, he no longer has to deal with the hecticness of mission briefings and assignments. He gets to actually rest, his usual overactive nervous system now rendered down and becoming more manageable. The first couple of weeks he spent falling asleep in bed or on the couch, like his body was playing catchup on the energy that's been robbed from him over the years. You didn’t bother him about it, didn’t even judge him whenever you’d find him limp on the bed and snoring in the middle of the day.

You'd use that time to run errands or do chores around your shared home, often preparing meals for him whenever he'd wake up groggily to go look for you. Eating homemade meals that were made with love certainly started to add up, the consistent intake of food was new and apparently something that his body liked and needed. The constant nausea he often experienced when he was under so much stress went away, slowly learned how to enjoy eating again like he did years before he was forced to become an agent.

He never focused on his appearance most days, but as Leon stopped to observe himself in the mirror one morning, his eyes were fixated on his body. He's certainly changed after a while, stomach a little fuller and cheeks more plump than before, hell even his arms and thighs looked bigger. His initial reaction to the change would have been disgust, to put himself back on a routine to regain the muscle he's lost and to critique every imperfection that would eventually be another nuisance.

But as he looked at himself a little longer, a smile crept up on his face, not minding what he saw for probably the first time in his life. All he saw was your love for him, how the signs of you taking care of him after all this time were starting to reflect in how he looked. He was healthy, he was alive, and that was a win in his book.

You certainly didn't mind the changes either and took every opportunity to remind Leon of just how much you adored him. Cuddling him whenever you could was something that became a ritual between the two of you, sneaking under his arm and digging your face into his chest any chance you got. He was soft, warm, and just a tad bit squishy. He was human, he was himself, not some war machine meant to work like a dog day and night.

One of your favorite things about his new appearance was the intimate moments you both shared and how he felt around you both internally and externally. You loved getting on your knees and worshipping him, sucking over his cock lavishly and running your hands over his thick thighs, biting at them when Leon found himself lost in pleasure.

Or when you were riding him and the sound of his thighs slapping against yours was louder than before, his lower tummy rubbing into you, meshing together so well one would think you were part of the same whole. It made you feral, like a primal instinct to claim him and show him that all you wanted was to make him feel accepted in this new body. Leon didn't complain, he loved how your attraction to him seemed to skyrocket.

Maybe being a bit more soft wasn't so bad after all.

#ovaryacted asks #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy imagines #leon kennedy headcanons #leon kennedy #leon scott kennedy #leon s kennedy #resident evil #resident evil drabble #resident evil smut #₊˚⊹ ♡ ─ ram anon 🐏

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 9)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 8, Part 10

summary: You both come to a realisation.

warnings: smut! f! masturbation, grinding, humping, fingering, (implied) recreational drug use, alcohol, dubcon (-ish! reader is drunk but the interaction is consensual, tagging just in case xx), teeny tiny bit of mutual pining. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: yuhh

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all that light lost in gaps

You're gone, in the morning.

…he should've expected it. Miguel stumbles out of sleep, groggy and disoriented. He finds himself reaching out for something in the half-light. 

He finds himself reaching for you. And when you're not there, leaving a person sized gap at the crook of his arm, his stomach churns. He pretends it's not disappointment, or the sharp crack of yearning ; settling at his chest like a crowbar, and prying open his ribs. It's worry, he decides resolutely, a perfectly normal, healthy amount of worry. As your roommate; and nothing else, he keeps reminding himself; he's just worried about where you've rushed off to, especially after yesterday. 

Senior year. He was assigned a bullshit paper in a Civics class – one he'd usually half-ass for an easy A. He'd wax poetic about morality – amorphous, vague platitudes about duty and societal expectations. By the end of the year, he had it down to a science: a couple thousand words remixed and plucked from lesser known philosophers, videos online, and overdue library books. Either he was getting too good at it, or his teacher was too stupid to notice; but regardless, he coasted through the class right up until graduation. His last paper, and he remembers it distinctly, was on the book of the same name; aptly titled What We Owe Each Other. A plodding, pluralistic read; of which he had only scanned through, anyways. Extra credit, anything to graduate early, and he'd had more than enough on his plate at the time. 

 And so, he wasn't expecting the B+ underlined and circled in red ink on the front page. It felt like his teacher had handed it back to him face down, slammed onto the desk like the thunderous crack of a whip. And he didn't need that A, strictly speaking. Yet, he had found himself staying over after class, crinkling that piece of paper in hand as he'd asked why. 

She sighs. Miss Hunter's glasses slip down her nose, as they are prone to do. 

"You're an outstanding student. I hear you're graduating early, and you're off somewhere prestigious in the fall. This is… definitely not a bad grade, and it's nothing, I promise you."

It doesn't work like that, for him. His teacher doesn't get it, but it will eat him up inside-out if he's not able to understand. 

"Was it my referencing?" He fumbles with the strap of his bag. 

"No. Not at all–" 

"I did the extra reading…the article you mentioned in class, and–" 

He's cut off by the scrape of a desk chair. Miss Hunter gets up to close the door, before settling on her desk. 

Arms crossed, she seems tired. Worried, maybe, but it doesn't register with Miguel. The thought doesn't even cross his mind, that there are others with the capacity to worry about him. 

"Technically, it's well written. As usual, Miguel." She gives him a weak smile. "It just… lacked heart."

His brows jump up. "...heart?" 

"There's not really a narrative voice, here."

He taps at the paper on the desk, frustrated. "You didn't ask for a narrative voice, though. You didn't ask for… for heart. I read the book, I did the extra reading, and I wrote a report. That was the brief."

"Not quite." She says it gently, but it still sounds like nails on a chalkboard to him. "The brief was vague, intentionally so. 'What Do We Owe Each Other? Discuss.' I gave examples, sure: excerpts from the book we touched on in class, articles, academic papers, etcetera. They were… suggestions."

"...suggestions." He's incredulous. 

She nods. "You followed it to the letter, Miguel. You gave me a summary, with a few key links. Fully referenced, yes. Well-written, yes. But this feels like a sum of parts. It doesn't tell me anything about you; your perspective, your angle. Your voice."

He's biting back choice words. It sounds like bullshit to him, for lack of a better word. Flowery, hoity-toity BS; served up to him on a steaming platter. That's it? 

Maybe it shows on his face, because she's asking, as delicately as possible, 

"Is everything okay?" 

Instinctually, he seizes up. 

"Yeah. Yes. I'm good."

"I know you don't take this class as seriously because it's not an AP, or an elective, or maybe not as challenging as you need it to be. And that's okay, Miguel. I'm happy for you to use my class as a break from all the other stuff." She swallows thickly. "You're not from our usual feeder schools. The Academy is particularly rigorous. But considering your… situation, we can make exceptions. If there's anything I can do–" 

"There isn't a 'situation'."

"Right. Of course, I'm sorry. But if you need a couple days off of school because of…" She pasues, saying the next part softly. "Because of the baby… I mean, you're already acing my class–"

"No." He says it firmly, eyes trained onto the wood grain peeking out from underneath piles of documents. He wants to ask how she knows, and how he's always the last to find out that rumours have spread, and–

"Miguel." Her voice cuts through dense fog. She repeats her previous statement. “If there's anything I can do–”

“If you want to help, you can give me that A.” It's bone dry, said with the kind of sarcasm he's grown accustomed to. He wears it over his shoulders, sometimes; draped to keep out biting cold, or unfamiliar warmth from a stranger - it all feels the same, now.

She gives him a rueful smile. “Need more than that, m'afraid.”

Heart. Voice. What We Owe Each Other – and he doesn't know why that phrase sticks in his throat. It's been drilled into him since childhood; family and community, helping each other out of the starting blocks; and beaten out of him during adolescence. The creaking and cracking of bones after each step, where out in the world it's a different matter entirely. 

His mama has bad taste in men, and he finds himself picking up the pieces. Gabi is more sensitive than he'll ever admit, trying not to cry amongst broken plates and chicken-wire hidden in a bouquet of peonies: prickly words that cut and hack, and it's Miguel that wipes the tears from his brother's cheek. That devastatingly gentle sigh when he had told his mama what he had done - how he had fallen for a soft bed and even softer lips at the ripe age of 16 and a half - and Miguel carries that weight. What We Owe Each Other – and he's only ever fed entitled egos. Not his family, of course, but he's been burned. He's had more than his fair share of it. 

He doesn't owe the world shit, he thinks. 

He doesn't owe you shit. 

It doesn't help that he's been stuck in place, grasping at cushion covers and a raggedy blanket. Trying not to drown in the heady scent of you, he's been dragging thick fingers over the fabric as if in a trance. You don't owe him anything, either. Nary an apology, an explanation; so much as a sorry spilling from pretty lips in that way where they quiver like a gentle flame. 

He's touched them, felt them drag across his skin like the finest silk, and dropped to his knees in search of something you've never given him. It doesn't matter if you don't; kiss him , that is; the swirling, desperate sort that leaves him heaving and creaking and begging for more. He thinks he'd still scuff up the denim at his knees if you asked, regardless - he'd do anything , if it was for you. 

It's not realistic to expect anything from you. You don't need to tell him where you've gone or why you've left so early. You don't need to, and yet he finds himself reaching for his phone. 

Miguel sends a well placed message; deft fingers tapping away at the screen. Before he changes his mind, it's sent; and he's chewing his lip whilst waiting for a steady three dots. Lyla is slower than usual, but she comes through. She doesn't ask questions - because she knows him better than he knows himself - and gives him a thumbs up. 

They'll call each other later, that much he's sure of, but for now he reads between the lines. Short bursts of text, like firecrackers flashing across a night sky, and only through nonsensical emojis and odd slang can they understand each other. 

This part, he can do. And he'll do whatever he needs to, not what he owes.

~~~

You make it to Pam's just after it opens. 

At 7 o'clock sharp, you've made the journey; in an empty subway car, spilling out onto the streets like treacle left in the neck of a bottle. It's not quite a squeeze, passing by only a handful of people, with nothing but a jacket thrown over last night's clothes. In a daze, you realise too late: it's Miguel's. A dusty, worn thing; brown leather crackling at the sleeves and heavy on your shoulders. It feels like a hug, and it feels like him : warm and stiff. It smells like him too, and you bury your nose in the collar on the subway, sleeves kissing your palm like his hand is in yours. 

It's a feeling that takes you all the way to the doors: past the slats bolted shut and down a familiar alley. You push past them, sneakers on slick tiles, and give a weak smile to the woman that perks up from behind the counter, kicking away the mop and bucket. 

"Hiya, welcome to Pam's! How can I–" 

"Oh, God , no." You wave her off. "Take your time. I need a minute, if that's okay."

Settling on the barstool, you watch as the young woman smiles, picking up a rag and wiping at the counter. You sit in it, for a while. 

Dregs drip in through the front. The bell at the top of the door chimes, tinny and cheerful in the relative gloom of a quiet morning. 

It's cold , outside. Autumn, biting at your fingers and nose. Eventually you opt for a coffee, piping hot to stave off that chill. Bitter, the aftertaste lingers at the back of your throat. You find yourself picking at the chipped mug, chasing away that taste with fluffy pancakes. The combination doesn't feel quite the same – not after many a morning with your roommate. 

You settle into the seat. You wrap that old jacket around you. You sip at tart coffee and pick at your nails. A quiet morning, one to yourself, one to keep hidden at the crook of your chest. Some semblance of peace , wrapped up in the spindles of a dandelion. That is to say; delicate and fleeting, whipped away by the breeze. 

You've decided not to think too hard about it. That kind of thinking ends dangerously, you've realised: with long, hot nights spent tossing and turning. It ends with a head full of cotton, and a pounding at your chest. With blood, with tears, with a stranger in your bed. And so, you go for the cleaner option. The safer one, all things considered, that's less likely to end in a broken heart. 

You float around for a while. Walking without a real destination, trying to ground yourself. Eventually, you end up home,  opening the door to an empty apartment. There's no traces left of a night spent in Miguel's arms. Good, you think, slipping your shoes off at the door. It doesn't feel good , but if you say it enough times you just might believe it. 

The cleaner option; the one with less gristle and bone; is a familiar one. You settle into a shower; steamy and soapy, taking your time to clean out the blood from under your fingernails. The grime, the dirt ; you watch it swirl into the drain, hands running across soft flesh. You try to do it like Jamie did, once upon a time. It doesn't feel right, and has you leaning onto the cool tile. The shower head sputters, a shaky pressure on your back but you lean into it and close your eyes. You rub a hand at the crook of your chest, and then down, down, down, circling your breast and then following the curve of hips to the apex of your legs. Tipping your head, letting the hot water stream through your hair and then your back; and you touch, feel , and you can almost taste him ; sweet and saccharine Miguel, at your lips. 

With two fingers flat against your clit, you rub little circles at the nub, dipping into your hole for much needed wetness. Your other hand travels up soft skin, pads of your fingers grazing collarbone, and then they curl around your neck. With a little pressure, your thumb grazes your jaw. Like he does, except your hands aren't as deliciously rough or as large. You slip a finger in, and then two, water pounding your back and eyes screwed. You push past that initial tightness, searching for a little give. When it comes, cunt clenching around your fingers, just shy of that sweet spot as you press your clit with the heel of your palm; you're imagining it's your roommate. He'd wrap those thick forearms around you, press his cock to the crest of your back and touch you like you deserve. 

You do it like Miguel would, reverent , touching you as if you were clay at a potter's wheel. In the hands of God herself, you cum; falling, falling, falling; tumbling down white water rapids and spit back up into the rushing water. You're panting, now, out of breath.

When you sink onto your bed, you realise it's not quite enough. Still in a fluffy robe, steam curls from your skin like clouds – ones that smell of cheap body wash and shampoo. Before you know it, you're reaching for your phone, sending two quick messages to a certain somebody. 

[Sent: 15:32]

hey mig

[Sent: 15:32]

where did u go? 

You don't expect a quick reply - he's never been much of a texter. But those three dots pop up in no time at all, much to your surprise. 

[Received: 15:33]

Out. 

[Received: 15:33]

Running errands. 

It's succinct and to the point – of which you expect nothing else from Miguel. Your thumbs fly to the screen to reply but another message tugs the rug out from under your shaky legs. 

[Received: 15:35]

Is everything okay? 

[Sent: 15:35]

yeah

[Sent: 15:36]

all good

When that provides no response, you're left chewing on your lip, anxious. He's seen the message, he's read the message; but for some reason, several minutes go by and there's no response. 

You're ready to give up and chalk it to your roommate's hot-and-cold nature, when your phone rings. 

Immediately, you pick up. 

" Don't believe you." His voice rings out, tinny, nestled amongst the covers. 

"Hey, Mig." You settle down on the bed, putting him on speaker and placing it by your ears. 

" Did you hear what I said?" His tone is deep and intense, making you shiver. It's not quite the same, of course, but you're reminded of nights spent with his lips tucked close the shell of your ear. 

You swallow. "Yeah. I… I did."

" You sure? Because you suck at lying."

"Don't be an asshole." 

" Think I get a free pass when you disappear for the whole day."

You roll your eyes. “You didn't call–”

“ Would you have answered?”

Ouch. He sounds frustrated, the quiet chatter of his background bathed in heavy silence. Silence thick with tension, and you almost choke on it.

He breaks it with a heavy sigh. “ You okay? ”

“No. Not really.”

“ Okay. ” He lets it sit for a while, before saying, “ I'll be home, soon. There's leftovers in the fridge, and you should eat, sweetheart. You want anything from the store? ”

His voice is so, so soft. It crackles like kindling on a fire: warmth that blooms and spreads to your chest. Like slipping off frozen gloves to thaw off in front of a heater, and he just makes you feel impossibly warm. 

“Not really, thanks.” You mumble it, and hear a satisfied grunt from the other end. Before you change your mind, you say, “Sorry. M'sorry.”

Miguel gives a light chuckle and you think you can hear him smile, the kind you always chase after a stupid argument: one that tugs at the corners of his pretty lips.

“ You've got nothin' to be sorry about .”

He gives you a moment to feel the weight of his words, and ends the call. That heat at your chest blooms. 

If Miguel O'Hara is the Sun, then maybe you don't mind being pulled into his orbit; bathing in steady light and warmth.

~~~

He comes home with flowers. A beautiful bouquet; delicate and balanced, featherlight wildflowers and brush, interspersed with sprays of blue and purple and pink. It's wonderfully dense, reminding you of the tangles of colour a child might decorate a picture with in wobbly crayon. Simply put, it's nothing short of a vision, and you notice how delicately he places it on the dining table.

With the rest of the grocery bags, Miguel clatters in, and you can't help but be curious. You're poking through the bags, sitting on the counter as he puts them away – after offering to help, of course, but he bats you away easily. Your bare legs bristle in the chill brought on by the window cracked open, and he just breezes past. 

The cabinet opens with a thud , and your roommate busies himself with putting away food. Carefully, you watch the way the muscles of his back flexes this way and that - cut and lean under that thin sweater. He’s otherwise occupied, and so you take the opportunity to stare, playing with a loose string at the hem of silky shorts. And so, it makes you jump when your phone buzzes beside you. Innocuously, you glance at the notification, and your eyes go wide.

“Who’s that?” Miguel asks, voice light. With that freaky sixth sense of his, he doesn’t need to turn around to know, it seems. 

“Lyla.” You murmur, reading the rest of the message.

“ ...And? ”

“Uh. Well…” Blinking, you can’t quite believe what she’s asking. “ Girl’s Night . I-I mean… she’s asking me to come with her for a Girl’s Night.”

“Really?” His tone is surprising, and you can hear how he beams by its lilting nature. Maybe he’s laughing at you, maybe he’s not, but you snap back regardless.

“ ... don’t act so surprised.”

“ You sound surprised.” He laughs.

“It’s different when I do it.” You say simply. “I just… I didn’t expect it. I didn’t even know we were close enough to–”

“Bullshit. You text her all the time.”

“A couple of times, Mig.” You correct him, trying to pin down a suitable response to give Lyla. You draw a blank. “I don’t want her to feel like she has to, or anything.”

He turns around, sleeves still rolled up. The look he gives makes you wither: one that could say about a million things. You think it means cut the crap , but he could just be constipated: you haven't quite mastered the art of reading Miguel O’Hara.

“Do you want to go?” He gets closer, hand flat on the counter next to your thigh. 

You nod, and his hand creeps up and up. 

Giving you a little smile, he shrugs. “Then go.”

It makes you shy. Bashful , even; and you’re wriggling as he squeezes the flesh. A hand on his forearm, and he’s close; so much so that all you can feel is the press of skin, and feel gentle breath fluttering past your cheek. You’re stuck underneath the gaze of his pretty lashes, and entranced at the way he licks his even prettier lips. A sudden thought seizes you - so heavy it makes your chest tight and leaden. 

Oh. You want to kiss him.

In a moment, it’s gone. A broad palm nudges your thigh aside, and you’re shifting so he can reach the drawers just by your legs. You oblige, falling back into familiar routine. 

Life moves on. Like Miguel said it would, and you find yourself entwined with the idea of time passing. Lying awake each night, picking out sand from underneath your fingernails, after clawing your way out of the hourglass. Steady, slow dregs; and it's tipped over each morning, restarting the clock. 

The flowers disappear from the dining table. Miguel retreats into the folds and dark corners of your apartment; you see him less and less. Passing ships in the night, you seem to miss each other by a fraction of a second. All of a sudden he's busy , and all of a sudden you're swamped with work. You only see each other at night, looking out for the bits and pieces left as proof of life: sometimes he'll leave a hot flask out for you in the mornings, and you'll greet him with a cheesy soap in the evenings. If he's not leaving later and later after work, that is. 

He looks tired, you note. Exhausted; prone to little yawns as you turn to him every now and then whilst watching on the couch. It's sweet, the way his frown has made way to a dopey smile, but it's frayed at the edges, tinged with something you can't quite place. You let him sleep that night, bringing pillows to lay his head on, and wrapping him up in that old blanket. 

Girl's night creeps up on you. It shakes you by the shoulders when you collapse on the sofa after a long day – and you're rushing to get ready. There's no Miguel to make sly remarks or prod you into action, this time. You wonder what he'd say about what you're wearing; a leftover dress buried in boxes from your ex's apartment. 

Short, tight, snug; it has you feeling glamorous – but you hope it doesn't look as fanciful as it feels. Too much; yet again, you're worried about being too much. Even though you're running a little late, you take the time to carefully apply makeup; something shiny on your lids, a dab of blush, and gloss slathered onto your lips. When you sling on little heels, and snatch a petite bag from the hooks near the door, there's barely enough time to catch that last glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Down and out you go, into a dusky night.

~~~

“I had to go through her manager– and wait, can you believe this girl has a fucking manager, now?” Lyla bats at MJ's shoulder, and the redhead laughs good-naturedly. 

“It's not– she's exaggerating! My manager's just my mom, I swear.” 

“It's a good thing, no?” You smile, taking a healthy swig of a brightly coloured cocktail. 

“It means she is booked, and–” Lyla hiccups, raising an unsteady glass that threatens to tip. MJ straightens her elbow instinctually, before raising her own. “ – very busy .”

It's your turn to laugh, glass held high in the air. With a clink , there's a clash of crystal that's all but drowned out by the chatter in the upscale bar.

Somewhere fancy, courtesy of Lyla. One of those places that serves tiny portions in big, empty plates, a fusion of cultural food with white, upper class owners. No-doubt the result of summering somewhere in the ever-broad global South , Lyla had said slyly, under the lip of a menu. 

There's powdered sugar on the rim of your flute. It dissolves on your tongue. You down the rest. Sickly sweet, and you wipe what drips onto your lips. 

It has you checking your phone. Miguel hasn't called, not that you were expecting anything. Whilst Lyla and MJ talk, you scroll mindlessly through his chat; a smattering of one word answers. Missed calls. Unanswered messages.

" –what about you, babe?" 

Your eyes snap back up to meet Lyla's, expectant. 

"Uhhh…"

"Nevermind." Sharp eyes travel to your phone, and there's a flash of recognition. "Miggy said you're in school. He said you're gonna graduate early, this year."

"He said that?" You're confused. "I mean… I'm trying but it's not looking like that, right now."

She wags a finger, shaking her head like she's trying to remember something. "No, no, he seemed adamant. Said you're working hard, doing well."

"Doing better ." You correct her, shyly. 

" Bullshit. " She says it the way Miguel does, and it makes you laugh. You see it now; he's the product of the people he loves. A kind of Frankenstein's monster, he's stitched together those bits and pieces; he's made himself beautiful. You wonder what piece of you he carries. If he even holds you that close to his chest. 

"I bet you're doing amazing. " MJ finishes. Her smile is warm, and copper-coloured; it feels hazy and ambered in your little corner. "Better than me, anyways. I would rather die than go back to college."

"Back?" You ask. 

"Oh, of course! You don't know." She giggles, leaning in like she's about to say something scandalous - the drink is clearly doing its job. Her next words are an exaggerated stage whisper. "I dropped out."

" Seriously? " You play along, with faux shock. 

"...damn right she did." Lyla gives a drunken wave to a nearby waiter, asking for another glass of wine. Something expensive, she whispers, giving a deceptive smile. 

"It just wasn't for me, I guess. I went because everyone around me was going, even Pete. Uhh, English Lit, or something. And it didn't… I–I mean it just wasn't–" 

"It didn't click."

" Right!" She snaps her fingers. "It was too much. I didn't know what I was doing, I was 18, for God's sake. Think I stuck at it for a bit too long, honestly."

"...and the world didn't explode." You breathe. 

MJ answers with a knowing nod. She chugs the rest of a crisp Mojito, raising the empty glass once more. 

"To doing better ."

You're quick to follow. "To doing better."

Lyla frowns, looking for a glass that's tucked into the corner. The room must be spinning already, with the way she pats around for it. You nudge it towards her with an elbow, and she's raucous; crumpling into a fit of giggles. 

One drink turns to two, two turns to three, and then four ; until you're ready to spill out onto the busy strip. When the waiter places a slip of paper into the centre, one with so many zeroes it makes your eyes bulge, you don't even have to pretend to reach for your wallet. Gleefully, Lyla picks up the bill, sliding a shiny Amex card onto the dish. 

She's generous, you note, as she buys a bottle of wine to go when MJ picks up her bag. She's perceptive, too. You see it when MJ wrings her hands, still tipsy and stuttering in her heels as you pile onto the street. She's making apologies already - I've got an early start and need to see my May - but Lyla intercepts. There's the gentle clink of a bottle thrust into her hands, something expensive, and she kisses the apples of her cheeks before sending her off in a taxi. 

Her own cheeks are ruddy, rosy with drink and she splits into a wide smile. The back of her hand comes up to your neck. Warm , she whispers, before linking arms with you like a schoolgirl off to do something they shouldn't. 

Eventually, with shaky legs, you end up in a nightclub. She knows someone who knows someone, apparently, and you're ushered into a packed place just off 76th. Lights and pounding music, a flurry of limbs; you let the crowd take you in. If this is what it means to be a part of a whole; some writhing, heaving beast, to be more than your hand in someone else's and theirs in yours; then you could live here forever, you think. Forever, for the night, for the next ten minutes; you blink , and time passes. 

You're having fun, you think. Letting the blood rush to your head, hips swaying to the music and you don't push away the quiet snap of a phone camera, nor it's red recording light. Dancing, singing, many seem to be pulled into orbit around you. This is how it works , pushed into an ebb and flow of people held together by broken lyrics and a thumping bassline. You let it wash over you, all-consuming, dragging yourself into murky depths. 

You're in a booth, now, anchored by a dainty hand around your wrist. Pupils blown, she cups your face to inspect you, to figure out where you've gone. Someone's bought you a drink, there's a stranger's arm around your shoulders, but Lyla pushes them both away. Too much? It's a question, of which you shake your head firmly - lolling and with a distinct lack of fine motor skills - no. Not enough. 

You blink. Bitter liquor hits your throat, and you chase the taste of somebody else's lips. A stranger, and even under the influence you know it doesn't feel right. Bile rises, and you're gone, clamping onto your stomach and trying not to hurl. 

You blink. You're on the sidewalk, with a heavy head on someone's shoulder. The strap of your heels dig into your ankles and you fumble with it, trying to stop the road from spinning. Lyla holds you up, not much more up to task than you are. 

A car pulls up, and at first you don't recognise it; entranced by shiny rims coming to a stop. You look up, still buried in Lyla's thick jacket; and you see it. You see him. 

Miguel's wearing glasses. That's the first thing you notice, stumbling to your feet. Immediately, your face cracks into a dopey smile, leaning onto the lip of the open window. He gives you a once over, swallowing thickly, brows drawn. 

Quiet chatter flys straight over your head. Lyla arguing, Miguel wagging a finger at her; but all you can see is him. It's like you've got blinkers on, tunnel vision making you focus on the curve of cheekbone, and the way his eyes scrunch up around black rims and glass. 

You clamber into the backseat.

“Get in, Ly.”

The other woman seems resolute. “ M'not –”

“Did you take something?”

“Fuck you.” Flashing a middle finger, she wraps up her coat like a robe, walking away down the road. 

He's adamant, driving up next to her. You keep your head on the glass where it's cool.

“Let me take you home. Please. ”

Frowning, she stops. When he leans over to open the passenger's side, she slips off her boots, and sidles in.

Their voices feel like a blur. You can barely register, only picking up half of the words hissed under their breath.

“... I called you, you can't give me a lecture…”

“...not fair, Lyla…. can't keep babysitting…”

“... fucking hypocrite… not the only one… I'm going through some shit…”

“...too far…. always taking it too…”

He drops her off outside of the apartment. From the backseat, you're sobering up; able to catch his heavy sigh as he watches her through the window. It's only when he sees her walk in does he turn to you, passing bottled water kept in the console.

“You want to come out to the front?”

You like the way he says it, for some reason. Any anger or frustration he had towards Lyla dissipates. He doesn't bring that into a quiet conversation with you.

He's too solemn, too serious, and so you clamber into the front over the console; limbs and legs everywhere, as obnoxiously as you can. A slight elbow to his chest, a hand clutching his shirt; you want to make him laugh. As you settle onto the seat, you see it: huffing dramatically, he gives you a small smile.

Miguel reverses back out onto the road.

You blink, and you're home. Legs still shaky, he helps you up the stairs, settling you onto the sofa. Car keys clink onto the dish by the door, and he slips off his coat – that brown one, your favourite, you think.

Fumbling with the strap of your heels, it must be too painful for him to watch as Miguel settles by your feet. His big, strong hands are surprisingly deft when he undoes the dainty buckle.

“Are you mad at me?” Meekishly, you watch and he shakes his head, not making eye-contact. Maybe it's the alcohol, but you're staring; looking for that light in his eyes amongst the dark room. 

Now, he looks up. “What?”

“M'just looking.” You say, chewing the inside of your cheek as one shoe slips off. “ I'm not allowed to look?”

The other one comes off, and he hisses when he spots a little cut where the strap dug into your ankle. He can't help it, rolling it gently in his hands, trying to ease the pain with a massage.

“You wear glasses.” You say it softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. Giggling now, you cradle his face and he sits up. “I didn't know that.”

“ That's not – I've always worn glasses. You're just not paying attention.” He shrugs lazily, but he's smiling.

“Not true , Mig. I would've noticed.”

“You're drunk–”

“When it's you, I always pay attention.” Absent-mindedly, your hand curls into his hair. He keens . “Like… your hair's getting longer.”

Gently, he shakes out of your grip, getting up. “I know, I know. I need a haircut.”

“I like it.” Starry-eyed, you look up at him. “You're so pretty, Mig.”

It makes him heave. Still tipsy, your legs spread ever so slightly, hand taking his and pulling him closer. Placing his hand on your thigh, you let it trace up, up, up, catching at the hem of your short dress.

He practically caves in, collapsing next to you on the couch. 

“You should–” His eyes are glassy as you ease yourself onto his lap. “ F-Fuck . You should go to bed, sweetheart.”

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you roll your hips, watching as he groans wantonly. 

“But I'm not tired.” His hand ends up on your waist, applying just the right amount of pressure. Underneath, you can feel him stir, increasingly hard under loose sweats. “And you haven't touched me in weeks. ”

You're exaggerating, but it goes to his head anyway. He buries his head into the crook of your shoulder, whispering into the bare skin.

“I know, I know…”

“Just the tip, Miguel.” You're grinding your clit onto him, pussy barely covered by a thin thong. Whispered into the shell of his ear, you're a siren, honeyed words dangerously close to breaking him down. “Just the tip, and I promise , I'll let it go. Please , baby.”

Your dress rides up, and his hands come down to palm at your ass.

“ Please…” You're pleading, lips on his neck as he squeezes, forcing you down to hump directly over his cock.

“Oh, shit.” His hips jump once, twice; and then he stills, hands at your hips and ass to stop you.

Desperate, you whine, trying to fight against it. He doesn't let up, hand cradling your chin so you can look him in the eye.

“ Bed .” He says, shakily. “Not like this.”

He slips you off, noticeably adjusting his pants. Legs spread wide, head tipped back as he sighs; he looks delicious , and you're fighting off the urge to let him take you right there and then. 

You stumble through the little hallway, pushing past some doors. Something clatters into your thigh, and you hear a dull thud as another thing falls to the floor. Frustrated, you strip down to your underwear, something light and lacy and it leaves very little to the imagination. 

There's a bed, and you collapse on it; swimming in the silky sheets. It smells like him - musky and oaky and gentle - and you think you must be dreaming already. And then, you sit up, realising too late - this isn't your room. 

Miguel wasn't too far off, hearing the thumping and clattering; hesitant as he opens the door. You're wrapped up like a present, spilling out of lingerie on his bed. He swallows, turning away to dig into his wardrobe, intending to pull out a baggy shirt for you.

“ Miguel .” You croak, but he ignores the want in your voice, so heavy it goes straight to his cock. “Miguel, please. ”

All his shirts blend together. He can't concentrate.

“Do you think I don't want it? Because I do, fuck, I need it. So bad, baby, please.” Your body heaves with a half sob. 

Heart splintering, he turns. Finally, you meet his eye. You spread your legs.

“ Here. Right here .” You tap your clothed cunt with shaky fingers, pulling your thong to the side. His eyes drink it up, the way you glisten when your cunt eats up the fabric. You know he's watching, and you take advantage of it, circling your clit with the pads of two fingers. “Like this . When I touch myself, I think of you… d-did you know that?”

Swallowing roughly, he can't take his eyes off of you.

“What… What else?” He croaks.

“I think of your tongue, a-at my pussy. And your fingers… God. ” You slip a finger in, and he watches as your cunt clenches around it; gushing and sloppy. “Your l-lips. Meant it, before. When I said you were pretty. Want to sit on that pretty face and watch you melt– oh-h- fuck- ”

He wants to lick it up, all that slick that sluices from your hole. His mouth waters, just thinking about it. 

“Put another one in, for me.” He says it low, sinking to his knees to watch you fuck yourself. 

Nodding, you oblige. 

“Does it feel good?”

“ Yes. ” You don't hesitate. 

“Can you fit another one? Want to see how good she looks when she comes, sweetheart.”

Three fingers in, now, and he slides your thong a little further aside; reaching up to press his thumb to your clit. Light streams in from blinds cracked open and highlights your thighs perfectly. Nevertheless, he adjusts his glasses to make sure he doesn't miss anything.

The twitch of your leg, the way your hand cramps up, the way your lips curl into a delicious O - he sees it all, commits it to memory.

“ Faster , please.”

“ Doesn't –” You're frustrated, clearly chasing something that refuses to surface. “Not the same. Can't fucking reach. ”

He titters, nipping at your thighs and soothing the bites with the flat of his tongue.

“Poor baby. Will you let me help?”

Fervently, you nod, slipping out your fingers as he takes off his glasses. They're discarded, too foggy to be useful right now.

“Did I tell you to take them out?” He sighs and gestures for your hand. Wrapping his lips around them he sucks them clean, humming lightly. He pats your clit with a wet slap, content. “Put two fingers in, sweetheart.”

Doing as he says, your head feels full - cotton wool and bubble wrap, only able to focus on the pleasure building behind your clit. And when he slots two fingers in next to yours , it rips out a gravelly moan. 

“ Here? ” He says dragging himself deeper, curling his fingers up. “Or is it… here? ”

You groan, limp against his hand as you feel impossibly full. It reminds you of the stretch of his cock; creaming around the base of his two fingers and yours. That wonderful curl as he pumps himself in and out, cupping your hand in the process to make sure you match his pace. He can feel your walls spasm around him, impossibly soft and velveteen. 

“Can't say no to you,” His eyes are low, grunting as he palms himself roughly. “Even though… fuck … even though I should.”

It's wet, the slap slap slap of skin against skin echoing in his room. Miguel sits up, pressing his lips to your neck, and you take the opportunity to slip your other hand into his sweats. You start pumping, in time with his ministrations, eyes blown as you swipe your thumb over his weeping slit.

You know he likes it rough, and you jerk him into your palm; fast and hard and you watch as he matches your pace. Even now, you're competing, trying to catch the him up; to see who can make the other cum first. 

You push back on his fingers, hips slotting against his, whispering nonsense into his neck. You're too fucked out to care; confessions you never thought would see the light of day. All the little things you like about him, things he says, things he does; and you don't even register the ochred flush smattered along the ridge of cheekbone.

He spills into your hand, and you're quick to follow; cumming around him as his fingers stutter in and out. It feels good , dangerously so, and has you pressing shaky kisses around his mouth, and nipping at his bottom lip.

He stills, but you're greedy, aching for more. You want him in you; seating his thick cock deep inside, painting your walls with hot cum, and pushing it back in with deft fingers. Every part of you is on fire, barely satiated by your heated foray.

You tip back onto the bed, and he joins you; caging you in with thick forearms, looking at you like you've stolen all the stars in the sky. That feeling , again, slams into your chest like a bullet. Messy hair, ruddy cheeks, hand gently tracing your jaw; he looks gone, and oh so soft. You want to kiss him ; and it's a thought that sticks, embedding itself somewhere you can't reach to dig it out.

“ Miguel .” You whisper, enough alcohol at the edges of your mind to stop thinking and spill your guts to him, unfiltered. “Are you sleeping with someone else?”

His eyes flit over your face before answering and he shakes his head. 

“No. No. Just you. Only you.” 

“ Don't believe you .” But you want to. So, so desperately. “Promise me?”

“I promise, sweetheart.” He swallows. “Are you?”

“No. Don't think I could if I tried.” It comes out watery, stuck at the back of your throat.

He just looks, for a moment, cradling the back of your head. 

“I want to kiss you.” It spills out from your lips.

“I know.” 

“Then why won't you kiss me?”

“Not a good idea.” He strains, kissing your forehead, and then each cheek. Hesitating, he places a gentle peck to your chin. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He says it simply, too easily; and it makes you want to sob. When Miguel slips away, and you hear the sound of a light turned on in the bathroom, you can't move. Catatonic; you blink, and he's cleaned you up, and slipped a shirt over your shoulders. Laying back in his bed, you watch as he lingers by the doorway, shrouded in shadow. 

Goodnight. Y ou think you say it out loud, but it echoes in your head. 

He says back, but not really. Instead, he leaves that goodnight hanging by the doorway like an old coat, and you wrap it over your shoulders. 

It keeps you a little warmer through the night.

_

_

_

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #rigor mortis 😼 #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #kat_writes😼 #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #angst #heavy angst #mutual pining

[maroonsweetpea]

This may make some of my newer followers disgusted by me but I feel like this perspective should be addressed. I have had problems with hypersexuality since genuinely as long as I can remember. Like, I'm talking about six and seven years old. Before I even understood what was wrong with me. I'm not going to get into details because the truth is that the details that I have are blurry at best and any attempt I have ever made to uncover more has only led to panic attacks and alcohol relapses. At around 13 I discovered porn online. Not like I didn't know it existed, but, I had never interacted with that kind of content previously. I had a serious porn problem until I discovered radical feminism, honestly. It opened my eyes to what should have been in front of me. Things I knew deep down but wanted to forget because it's okay if I'm imagining it happening to horrible me, right?

And, I'm not talking about the most baseline forgivable. I mean hard kinks. I mean that I was self-destructive to the point that I begged my boyfriend to go farther than he seemed to want to at times. And I honestly wanted to die and for him to be the one to kill me. When I was being choked I feel like I was going to reach the gates of Heaven. That peace was nearing because death is the ultimate freedom. I was so masochistic. I was such an alcoholic, dealing with anorexia....what I have never been clinically diagnosed with but I could only describe as violent OCD. I thought I could control what terrified me by playing pretend. Needless to say it did not work and it did not help in any capacity. But, if you asked me back then I would have told you it did. And I would have mostly believed that.

I channeled all of these problems into sex. It was all I could think of. I masturbated CONSTANTLY. It's like I was on fire all the time. The online communities I lingered on and even some female friends irl to this day told me that it was completely fine and healthy to cope with these problems, especially the childhood....whatever with things like CNC. That it was just my old man that didn't do it correctly. I think about a lot of this almost daily and guilt isn't a good enough word to describe it. If there is a word beyond that or shame I don't know it, but, I feel it. At this point in my life my sexuality.....is almost a dead weight. A big part of me thinks I will never be cured, that my need for pain and my need for sex will trickle back the same and I'll explode.

I say all of this not for pity points, but because I think that fucked up women deserve to have a place here and for things like this to be discussed more openly. People can't be born pure and many people learn by terrible mistakes. Or maybe I'm the odd man out. Either way.

#ive made a few posts abt this and delted bc 1 no one interacted lmfaoo and #2 it was just way too personal #radblr #radical feminist safe #radical feminists do interact

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

Katsuki: It's been a long fuckin' day at work, I'm absolutely drained!

Izuku: Do you wanna talk about it?

Katsuki: *Scoffs* What are you some kind of reporter now?

Izuku: No I'm your boyfriend and I want to help you process work stress in a healthy and productive way.

Katsuki: Fuck that I don't need you to be my therapist!

Katsuki:

Katsuki: *softer*...Actually could you rub my shoulders like you did last week? I'm super sore and it really helped and I want to feel close to you but I don't have the mental capacity for a long discussion right now.

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha #mha #boku no academia #boku no hero #incorrect my hero academia quotes #incorrect bnha quotes #incorrect mha #incorrect quotes #incorrect bnha #midoriya izuku #anime #izuku x katsuki #bnha izuku #izuku midoriya #midoriya x bakugo #bnha manga #mha midoriya #bnha bkdk #bkdk #mha bkdk #bkdkbk #bakudeku #katsuki bakugou #deku #ktdk

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Here's a fun (modern au) one: full hc for the M6's airport/airplane flight experience >:3

The Arcana HCs: M6 at the airport

~ loosely referencing this old ask arcana post from the nix hydra era - @themushroomgoesyeet hope you like this friend! I had so much fun writing it!! ^.^ ~

Julian

Does Julian love the concept of flying through the air as a mode of transportation, travel, and adventure in general? Sure!

Does that mean he does well with it? Not at all

Major flight anxiety and will cope with it to varying degrees of healthy depending on who he's with and what his options are

If you're the sort of person to pack soothing gummies and noise cancelling headphones with pre-downloaded guided meditation tracks and some sleep meds, he'll be all over them

If you're the sort of person who doesn't mind a drink or two before a flight just to soothe the nerves - well - he won't say no to that, either. Just make sure he's sober by the time you land, so he doesn't take a ride on the luggage carousel out of relief

Can and will grip your hand during take off and landing and then apologize when it briefly cuts off your blood circulation

Always offers to put up at least three people's luggage for them in the overhead bins and drops at least one on his head

Asra

They are one of those very weird people who think airplanes, airports, and any public area of transportation are relaxing

He's in tie-dye loungewear, a neck pillow, crocs, fuzzy socks, hair pushed out of his face with a sleeping mask-turned-headband, a rolling duffle bag dragged by one hand and a snack in the other

They are v i b i n g

Misses flights way less than you would expect him to, mostly because he's so familiar with all the major airports at this point that he has boarding just in time down to a fine science

And when they do miss a flight, it turns into an extended chillout session because they know all the best hangout spots there

His capacity to fall asleep anywhere, anytime works in his favor on cramped flights beautifully

They've started a new tradition with you of looking through all the available in-flight entertainment and picking what promises to be the cringiest movie, just to make you laugh with their commentary

Nadia

Her usual reason for flying is business, which is exactly how she approaches the entire traveling process

Her luggage is all one elegant, efficient set (she has bought you a matching one) with personalized tags for ease of spotting

Always purchases business class tickets, refuses to take any chances on missing her special traveling experience and arrives at the airport three hours early as a result

There are multiple reasons for this - first, less stress at security, second, she has one of those fancy passes that gets her into just about any exclusive club lounge in the world

Enjoys the hour or two pampering you in the lounge with nothing else to do more than she does any other part of the travel

Won't hesitate to critique/send back her meal on the airplane if she doesn't like it, tends to load up on sleeping meds for longer flights since the fluctuating air pressure triggers her migraines

Brings an extra skincare routine for you to do during the last hour

Muriel

Look at him. Do you see him? Look at him. Now look at the size of an airplane interior. Look at him again. Now look at the amount of available legroom. Look at him again. HE IS 6'10.

Muriel would prefer almost any form of transportation to flying. It's busy, security makes him move too fast, all the signs and bustle of the airport are hell on his anxiety, and that's before boarding

Always tries to get an aisle seat because that lets him expand into the walkway if he needs to, and so he's less likely to glance out the window and see just how far away the ground is

The ground belongs right here. Under his feet. Not a terrifying drop down through the clouds!!

The airplane experience is sensory hell for him in general, the deafening sound of the engines, the constant vibration, the recycled air, the ways his ears pop, the stiff seats, the armrests -

Really the only way he'll get through this is if he knows there's no other options and if you're next to him as his emotional support

Portia

An airport champion

And it's really not from that much experience. She's traveled enough to know she likes it, but it's still so exciting every time she gets the chance to fly somewhere! Especially with you!!

Has done all of her research ahead of time and is packed for everything. Her massive mom bag has pockets for snacks, documents, meds, chargers, electronics, drinks, travel cushions ...

Does get restless before a flight and will drag you all up and down the terminal to take a look at every single shop and restaurant

The type to start chatting with whoever's in line with her, whether in security lines, bathroom lines, coffee lines, or boarding lines

Will befriend whoever is sitting next to/across from her and spend half the flight getting to know them and trading stories

Will offer to hold any nearby crying baby if said baby's caregiver could clearly use five minutes to use the restroom or eat

Takes so many pictures out the airplane window

Lucio

Traveling is one of those things that he tries (and fails) to hide his excitement around. In his mind, this is something that he as a worldly, well-traveled person should be nonchalant about

He is not nonchalant. He is thrilled to be doing something fairly exciting and to spend a whole day with excuses to be in close quarters with you - and to book a first-class ticket

The only issue is that (if it's left unchecked) his FOMO will prompt him to try to squeeze every single thing to do out of the terminal before he boards the plane, which can end in missing his flight

Massage chairs! You two should definitely get a massage

A massive perfume section! You two should sample five each

Gets extremely impatient during the boarding process and will start grumbling and fidgeting in place when the person in front of him is taking forever to put up their luggage

Laughs loudly enough at the comedy he picks to watch for the whole airplane to hear him

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana game #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

[aqours]

"Aqua has an Oedipus complex-" first of all beyond the fact the only way you could possibly think this is you never read or watched OnK at all and just read a synopsis and didn't bother to verify if it was accurate or not- this is actually the weakest way you could possibly interpret the nature of the feelings Goro/Aqua had regarding Ai. like, even ignoring the fact that Aqua has such an extreme lack of an Oedipus complex to the point he actively refused to breastfeed from Ai because it would have been creepy and inappropriate to him, everything about Aqua's feelings regarding Ai if anything read as parental quite frankly

Gorou Amamiya became Ai's fan because of Sarina. Because Sarina was somebody important to Gorou that he comforted in her last days, he became a huge fan of Ai in order to carry on Sarina's wishes and to keep supporting her and became a genuine diehard idol fan in the process. Then, he met Ai while pregnant: and had a heart-to-heart conversation with her. And came to the conclusion that Ai was somebody he wanted to support in any capacity. He could have been like Ryousuke and actually become possessive of her and feel like she betrayed him: he did not. He was a medical professional that put aside his own feelings as "a fan" to support her both as a doctor and as a fan in his own way by wishing for her sincere happiness as opposed to an image sold to fans.

He wanted to see her grow up happy and healthy. If Ryousuke had not killed him and there was no murder plot at all? The plot of this story probably would have been about him moving to Tokyo after talking to Ai's manager saying that someone needs to be their family doctor while keeping their secret and him taking the roll. The series would have been about Gorou as the Hoshino family doctor and how he supports them as a member of the sidelines who gives support in his own way.

Aqua never really refers to Ai as his mother much outside of situations when it'd be weirder if he didn't. It's very explicit he does not have a romantic or sexual attraction to Ai in this new life: he already didn't, but now it's like, Negatively So Actually. No longer able to support her as a doctor he even took an acting gig JUST to help further and bolster Ai's career. It's beaten into your face with the subtlety of a dozen hammers to your face his only desire is to watch Ai grow up safe and happily and succesful.

Aqua's/Gorou's relationship with Ai was someone who wanted to see her grow up to be happy. And after some waste of life incel murdered her? To want to make sure that was avenged. Because he was someone older than Ai who valued her and wanted her happiness above everything else in the world, and views the person who is responsible for that as someone who's life is forfeit. Because Ai was a good person who didn't deserve her fate and as someone who only ever wanted to support her, wants to make sure that her memory can rest in peace completely.

If anything, the feelings Aqua/Gorou had towards Ai are parental in nature. So much about his motivations read like a father who wants to avenge his daughter's murder, to kill the man that denied her the happiness the child deserved.

"OnK is soooooooo gross the mc has an Oedipus complex and is a p*do-" not only is this a reading you can only get from a five second sypnosis read and being determined to hate OnK for brownie points, it's not even the right fucked up dead dove way that you could describe their relationship.

EDIT: I feel the need to address this, as it's talked in reblogs and some notes! I never expected this to get notes, and I mostly wrote this in one go. Please understand I wrote this post from the perspective of purely writing Aqua's feelings for Ai purely from a familial perspective. The reality is that Aqua's feelings are complicated and can be read in many different ways: from familial, to that of a lover, to someone who puts Ai on a pedestal as the ultimate Idol and the ideal of what a "true" fan would be: someone who loves their Idol for who she is as opposed to a toxic image. I don't fully 100% agree with this post anymore, but if I had to chose only one familial way for Aqua to view Ai I would probably still default to "vengeful father who wants to avenge his daughter's death." BUT Aqua's feelings are ultra complicated and are on an entire spectrum ranging from "wholesome" to "outright disturbing," so please don't take my words as like a single sure-fire way to interpret him! ty all <3

#oshi no ko #onk #my star #ai hoshino #hoshino ai #aquamarine hoshino #hoshino aquamarine #aqua hoshino #starposts #gorou amemiya

[akindplace]

I had a hard time growing up. I’ve met people who were bad for me - but were not evil. They were dysfunctional people who did terrible things that marked me in more ways than I’d like to admit. I know this pain has changed me and I’m not even sure it’s for the better. And that made me feel so hopeless about myself for years. But there is one thing that kept me going when I felt like giving up, and that was love.

Being loved changed me as a person, even more so than my trauma. Whenever I see old pictures of me, I feel love for her. Looking at a beautiful sunset knowing most people will see it and think about its magnificence, I feel love for being alive. Loving others and being loved changed me, surely, for the better. And maybe that’s good enough as a life’s purpose. It allows me to have hope.

Love makes me think that everyone can be helped when they are encouraged and validated and seen for who they are. People are capable of doing terrible things with their hatred but also capable of making positive changes when they act with compassion. Love has changed me in so many ways, and it was for the best, though it doesn’t erase the past, it gives me hope for a better future.

And if you don’t have a relationship with anyone in your family, remember that people find families in their friends. And they will love you. And you left a bad romantic relationship and are afraid of never being loved in this way again, don’t give up. Talk to your friends, their love is just as important. Someone else might come around later, and you will feel that romantic love again.

I’m not saying that someone’s love will immediately heal every hurt you ever felt, and that you should look for someone only to fix you, because that’s not a healthy way to be loved. I’m saying that love encourages you to grow, to look inward and see what needs to heal, to look at yourself with a little more kindness, to let go of the past to the best of our abilities. We change when we are loved, often because our loved ones make us feel stable, more confident, and they know how to keep encouraging us when we worry about our own capacities. They nurture the change in us.

While writing this post, the poem “Invitation” by Mary Oliver came to mind: “believe us, they say, / it is a serious thing / just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in the broken world. / I beg of you, / do not walk by / without pausing / to attend to this / rather ridiculous performance. / It could mean something. / It could mean everything. / It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote: / You must change your life.”

#relationships #on love #on being human #on hope #self-worth #original writing

[iiotic]

༻༉Alastor headcanons

TW - an opinion

It's confirmed that Alastor is noted to be narcissistic, not seeing many people quite up to his level. However, that does not make him reckless.

Despite being extremely powerful, Alastor is aware that there are other demons and entities that rival him in terms of power, such as other overlords.

Because of his narcissistic side he'd for example walk into a room and make sure that everyone know that he is here.

- not so good morning everyone! - he said loudly however didn't scream, walking in the lobby of the happy hotel. He wished everyone could pay attention to him. All of the eyes were on him. It worked.

- What the fuck do you wan-

Of course he wouldn't always do something like that. Surely sometimes he would just come in without saying anything. Just being there. Listening

Alastor interacts on better terms with woman in general, and is much lighter in his view of them. It's again comfirmed that he was and is a "mommas boy".

He is somehow a sadist as well. Many people say that the motto of a sadist is "Dominate or you will be dominated." which suits Alastor perfectly.

He'd have a very low sense of empathy towards the group and the people with whom he is in relationships.

„The desire for domination is the most terrible of all diseases of the human spirit”

Alastor would find a person as his "scapegoat". He'd manipulate the person into thinking that he did do much for them and that he is all that they need. That there is no one better than him.

- You're leaving me? After everything that i've done for you.

And then he'd kill them when he would get bored of them.

Now for his little victim. They'd have to be naive and have low reaction capacity.

A healthy person has certain amount of aggressiveness (such as that shown by men playing football), but it is legally chanelled. A sadist, on the other hand does not direct his aggression through the proper channel, he always unloads it on someone who is below him. Someone who has little ability to respond or react

Alastor is not scared of dogs however due to his death, he is not a big fan of them.

As a cannibal he enjoys eating raw meat and is a fan of pineapples on pizza (It's confirmed. ARGUE WITH ME.)

Alastor greatly values manners in others and is personally offended by disrespect and rudeness. He becomes fond of people he sees as especially funny or entertaining. Alastor also values humor, enjoying when people can give him a good view of their misery.

Alastor likes black coffee, but does not like tea.

He can play several instruments; Piano, violin, trumpet and saxophone.

Alastor simultaneously does and does not care about neatness. He doesn't mind being covered in blood and viscera, and will calmly clean up after himself. But he is bothered by other things, such as people being messy eaters around him and such.

I think that he would speak some French, although not fluently.

He isn't much of a fan of sweet things either, preferring bitter tastes, like meat and whiskey.

(A/N) - I added a bit of canon facts about him in this headcanons. The "Canon" stuff is in his Wikipedia!! Hope this wasn't too bad 🙏

#alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor headcanons #Spotify #alastor x reader

[atravesty]

Relationship Advice from the Universe

If you're currently experiencing conflicts within your romantic relationship, there may be some guidance meant for you below (please heart/share/follow if this resonated with you):

Pick a Crystal - 1. Brown Goldstone, 2. Dragon's Blood, 3. Aquarmarine

Pile 1 - Brown Goldstone

Ambition, Inspiration/Creativity, Power, Confidence

Tarot: Hermit, Tower, 3 of Pentacles, 10 of Pentacles Reverse

"Stop caring about what they think. This is your life to love and live!"

You may have recently had a falling-out with your love interest, resulting in a need to undergo drastic changes for the best of both yourself and the relationship (or vice versa, please take what resonates). One, or both of you, may have chosen separation after realizing the foundation of the relationship was unstable. You are being called to re-examine and challenge your current foundations; this includes your belief systems, engrained habits, perceptions of self and the world, and everything else that once defined your identity. You may be feeling overwhelmed, and are being called to retreat from external influences for a period of self-reflection to develop a new perspective that will allow for a new, healthier foundation to be built between the both of you. You are being encouraged to seek your inner wisdom through meditation, or other means of contemplation. Think creatively and develop the confidence to make the meaningful changes in your life, however painful, as that will ultimately benefit you in the long run. If there are people in your life that you can trust to collaborate with, such as your love interest, you are being supported in doing so to facilitate collective growth and expansion. You are being warned not to focus excessively on material items, wealth, and status, as this was likely an unhealthy pattern that was detrimental to the relationship that you need to release. Does this fixation stem from insecurities regarding your self worth or scarcity mindset?

Pile 2 - Dragon's Blood

Courage, Adaptability, Healing/Regeneration, Balancing

Tarot: King of Pentacles, Queen of Pentacles Reversed, King of Cups Reversed, Lovers

"You could use some self care time. Like now. Schedule it in."

You may identify as someone who feel secure and comfortable within their lifestyle, full of material and emotional abundance, and able to extend that wealth to your love interest to provide for them as well. You've likely had to undergo a lot of personal growth to achieve your level of success and prosperity, and understand how arduous this journey can be. Despite your generous nature, you may be dealing with a partner/love interest that is currently distant and withdrawn, both from you and their own emotions, resulting in a stagnant relationship (I'm getting that this is likely the early stages of a new connection). You are being called to stop overextending your energy and resources to them, as this is enabling them to remain stagnant in their own growth and causing an imbalance within yourself as well. Personal growth doesn't happen overnight and this can't happen if they still have access to you in the same capacity. Your love interest may be dealing with many burdens that are causing them to withdraw from this connection, and though you likely want to help, this is an opportunity for the two of you to practice self care separately. Healthy boundaries are required for the longevity of this relationship. You must have a healthy balance of giving & receiving, as they are ultimately the one responsible for allowing themselves to be emotionally forthcoming and invested in this relationship.

Pile 3 - Aquamarine

Hope, emotional clarity, spiritual growth/enlightenment, communication

Tarot: 5 of Swords Reversed, 9 of Swords, 10 of Swords Reversed, High Priestess

"Live your life with both feet in. Commit fully to being here."

You may have recently experienced a conflict with your love interest in which they deceived you in some way. They may not have been honest with you about how they feel about you, causing either separation or preventing a relationship from forming to begin with. You are likely not in communication with your love interest at this time, or your communication with them is limited. They have come to the realization that their dishonesty resulted in a lose-lose situation, and wishes to apologize and reconcile with you, however, their intense feelings of regret and despair about their previous actions is preventing them from reaching out to you. You are being called to allow them to surrender to hitting rock-bottom, as this is the only way they can truly begin their recovery and return with a stable offer. Take this is as an opportunity for both of you to heal. They may be going through some sort of spiritual awakening, or at least beginning to become more connected with their intuition, which is guiding them to develop a new perspective to make the proper steps towards you. You and your love interest may both be experiencing dreams, synchronicities, or other gut feelings related to one another, which could indicate a deeper level soul connection between you two. You are being encouraged to relinquish any need to control the trajectory of this relationship and remain hopeful, even if you are not currently in communication with your love interest, and trust that the Universe will align you both in divine timing.

#pick a pile #pick a card #pick a reading #tarot reading #affirmations #self concept #self development #free tarot reading #pac #pac reading #tarotblr #tarotcommunity #spiritual growth #spiritual journey #message from spirit #pick a crystal #channeled reading #spirituality #channeled message #love #love tarot reading #love tarot #love interest

[cherienymphe]

When The Party’s Over XX (Rafe Cameron x Reader)

Warnings: NON-CON touching, DUB-CON, ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP, DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, forced pregnancy, toxic relationship, violence, jealousy, stalking, underage drinking, drug use, manipulation, corruption, public sex, innocent reader, Heyward!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies​ | divider by @silkholland​​

➥ series masterlist

summary: Manipulated into a secret relationship with Rafe Cameron, you’re finding it much easier said than done to do the right thing and walk away…especially when he refuses to let you.

~

“…and there’s the heartbeat.”

You stared at the screen, your own heart beating in time with that of the baby’s in your stomach. You swallowed, gaze roaming over the monitor and feeling…weird. You knew you were pregnant, had known for weeks, but being confronted with the evidence in such a glaring way made your head spin more than expected. The sound of its heart was so loud in the otherwise quiet room, and Rose softly gasped.

You had not wanted Rafe in the room.

At all.

It had sparked a disagreement that was only settled when Rose stepped in.

“Rafe, if she doesn’t want you there then she doesn’t want you there,” the older woman had said. “She’s carrying your child. Let’s pick our battles, okay? She doesn’t need any stress.”

Rafe’s entire visage had clouded over, and you had ignored the feel of his cold gaze all the way to the doctor. You blinked at the monitor, surprised by how your eyes watered, and you struggled to swallow.

“Oh, honey,” Rose said, grabbing you a tissue.

“Sorry,” you tearfully apologized, wiping your eyes.

You didn’t even know why you were crying. Surely that whole hormone thing couldn’t start this early. All of it was just so overwhelming. You’d thought about motherhood a lot growing up, always knowing you’d want to be one someday, but you’d never imagined like this. You never imagined this early, and with Rafe of all people.

This was a moment that should’ve been happy, and it was in a way, but it felt wrong to think. Let alone even say. Rafe had raped you, had cornered you into going through with this, and as awful as the circumstances were, you couldn’t deny how almost excited you were to have a baby. The excitement, however, was more than dampened by everything revolving around the situation.

“Do you want to know the sex?”

You looked up at the doctor in wonder, eyes wide as you thought it over. It was no secret that your families were dying to know. Rose and your mom wanted a little girl so badly. Your dad seemed impartial, just wanting the baby to be healthy, while Ward on the other hand… You hadn’t missed the way Rafe’s jaw had clenched at his dad’s verbal desire for a boy.

The why was no secret.

He wanted a boy that had the capacity to turn out better than Rafe.

Truthfully, you didn’t know what you wanted, and you hadn’t spoken to Rafe about it either. You didn’t talk to him much at all if you could help it, and even from what you knew about him, it was still hard to try and surmise what he hoped for. You didn’t need to look at Rose to know she was disappointed when you shook your head.

“I don’t think I want to know yet.”

“That’s okay!” the doctor assured you, and you wondered if your uncertainty was written all over your face. “Plenty of people want to be surprised, or they simply aren’t ready yet.”

You returned her comforting smile, letting out a breath of relief. The rest of the appointment was spent making sure you were healthy and that the baby was developing as it should too. Rose was an odd comfort, a soft touch on your back as you both walked out of the room. Rafe’s face was hopeful when you finally neared him, and you said nothing as Rose spoke.

“Y/N doesn’t want to know the sex yet.”

You could feel his gaze on you, and you pointedly ignored him.

“Why the hell not?”

“Rafe,” his stepmom scolded.

You brushed past him on your way out, but he was quick to walk in time with you.

“Why don’t you want to know the sex?”

“…because I just don’t.”

He pulled you to a stop once you were outside, and you narrowed your eyes at the way he stared you down.

“First you tell me you don’t want me in there with you, and now you’re taking this from me too…”

“Rafe-.”

“The baby is mine too.”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest and looking away. Rafe moved closer, and you felt the cool air of his breath as he exhaled through his nose.

“I know that just eats you up inside, but I have just as much right in these decisions, so you really need to get over that,” he spat.

You could hear Rose scolding him again, and your eyes landed on his face again just as a sneer fell onto his lips.

“So, if you don’t want to know the sex, fine, but you’re going to wait here while I find out.”

He was taking off before you could stop him, and you roughly exhaled as your eyes met Rose’s. It bothered you that Rafe spoke about this baby like it was a mutual decision between you two. If you had it your way, Rafe wouldn’t be involved in the pregnancy at all. His determination to make you both one big happy family was unnerving more than anything else.

…because Rafe had an infuriating habit of getting what he wanted.

“Oh my God,” Bunny breathed as she held the sonogram Rafe gave her, lips parted in shock.

Cam sat next to her, both of them staring at it with wide eyes. Part of you felt bad for hiding this from them for so long, but you’d needed time to process it all yourself. Plus, there was the added weight of hiding the true nature of your relationship—or lack thereof—with Rafe from them.

It felt like forever since you’d seen them, and Ward and Rose took no issue with inviting them over.

“I feel like the biggest idiot in the world,” Cam said, shaking her head. “You were fucking Rafe this whole time, and I didn’t even know.”

You threw her a sheepish smile when her gaze met yours.

“Not even Kelce knew, so…”

“Yeah, but they’re guys. We’re girls,” Bunny cried. “We tell each other everything.”

The blonde pouted at you as Cam took the sonogram for herself, marveling at it.

“I didn’t want anyone to know,” you quietly confessed. “Pope, you know.”

Bunny nodded in understanding, Cam humming.

“…but you guys aren’t together anymore,” the redhead sadly mused. “…and you’re still going to have it?”

You sighed, nibbling on a snack that Rose had made you as your thoughts ran. You knew what they were thinking because it was the same thoughts you’d had before your abortion. You’d had no intention of being with Rafe, and he’d shown you that he wasn’t a promising father. Not to mention, you hadn’t wanted him to use the baby against you. It hadn’t made sense to keep it.

It didn’t make sense to keep this one either, but you were cornered.

Still…ignoring Rafe, you wanted this baby, and that was what you’d told them.

“What about school?” Cam wondered.

“One more year off isn’t the end of the world,” you assured them. “Online classes are a thing, and…I don’t know. Once the baby reaches a certain age, I could go in person…even if only for the experience.”

You’d talked about it in passing with both your parents and Ward. You hadn’t missed the way Rafe’s gaze had lingered during the conversation. His gaze lingered a lot lately, and you knew it was in part because you wanted nothing to do with him.

He watched you a lot when you walked, eyes focused on your steps and movements. He stared when you ate too, taking in what you ingested and how much. You weren’t stupid. You knew why, of course, but a part of you didn’t want to accept that Rafe was just looking out for the mother of his child. You didn’t want to acknowledge that beyond all of his awfulness and troubled mind, there was a part of him that existed that did care about you and this baby in his own way.

You didn’t like the area of grey.

Like now for example.

“You can’t forget these,” he told you as you ate, sliding the prenatal vitamin across the table.

Your shoulders sagged for several reasons, mostly because you hated that you kept forgetting while Rafe didn’t. He never forgot everything you were supposed to take and how much you were supposed to be eating and how much rest you were supposed to be getting. It ate you up inside, and you weren’t too proud to deny it.

Bitterness settled in the pit of your stomach.

You knew that you were just overwhelmed, and due to the circumstances, Rafe had much more control over the situation than you did. Even still, you couldn’t help how it made you feel like Rafe, of all people, was going to be a better parent than you. You knew that wasn’t true, of course. You could start smocking crack, right now, and you’d still be a better parent than him.

Rafe just had much more invested in this baby than you did.

Maybe you’d just subconsciously internalized that. You did want this baby, but if you lost it, you’d be sad…but not forever. You’d grieve, of course, but you couldn’t deny that a part of you would take it as a sign, a blessing in a weird way almost. You would be sad…but you would be free, and Rafe of all people understood that more than anyone.

So, he was overly invested in making sure everything went right with this pregnancy.

He couldn’t risk losing the baby because he couldn’t risk losing you.

“I guess I’m going to have to write it on your forehead every night…”

Your eyes met his, and the corner of his lips curved upwards into a cold smirk.

“…or shove it down your throat.”

You looked away, picking at your food.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were trying to intentionally ruin this pregnancy.”

You glared at him at that. You both knew that wasn’t true, and you felt insulted that Rafe would even think that of you.

“You twisted my arm into this whole situation, and now you complain when I’m not perfect at it,” you told him. “I’ll do better.”

You took the vitamin, swallowing it down with some water under Rafe’s watchful eye.

“I know you can be stubborn…but you really plan on doing this for the next eighteen years?”

You swallowed down a sigh, sparing him a brief glance.

“Doing what, Rafe?”

“You know what.”

You hated that smirk dancing on his lips, chin resting in his hand as he stared at you like…like some child. It was the smugness that really made your skin crawl. The unshaking certainty that you’d come around and Rafe would really just get everything he wanted.

“Plenty of people coparent without being together all over the world, Rafe. I don’t see why we can’t…”

“This isn’t all over the world, beautiful. It’s Kildare.”

You rolled your eyes at his tone.

“…and Rose already hates it enough that we aren’t married. I’ll never hear the end of it when you actually start showing,” he grumbled.

“Well, maybe you should’ve thought of that before you forced a baby in me.”

His face fell at your words, and you held his gaze. Sarah was in the living room, not one to leave the two of you completely alone, but you didn’t care if she heard or not. She already knew, anyway.

“You didn’t give me much choice…now, did you?”

You scoffed at him, looking away with a shake of your head.

“You tried to drown me, Rafe,” you reminded him, watching the way his jaw ticked. “What did you expect me to do?”

“I said I was sorry-.”

“That’s not something that can be fixed with an apology. It can never be fixed.”

“I-.”

“You hit me, you raped me, and you think any of that is supposed to make me want to be with you? You had to get me pregnant just to keep me tied to you, Rafe. What does that say?”

You were grabbing your plate and standing before he could respond, but you weren’t surprised to hear his chair scraping too as he followed you into the kitchen. His hands came down on either side of you at the sink, and you shrunk in on yourself at the feel of his chest grazing your back. He leaned in, and you shuddered when his nose grazed the top of your ear. He sighed, and you felt the action against your back.

“I want you to understand something…okay…?”

His voice was hushed, and you did your best to lean away from him to no avail.

“Baby or no baby, you were never getting away from me,” Rafe purred, and you flinched when his hand trailed up your frame, coming to rest on your stomach. “This was just the easy way, and you think you’d appreciate that.”

You pushed your body against his, trying to get from in between him and the sink, but Rafe’s hand was quick to circle your wrist. When you looked at him, his blue eyes were hard, no hint of humor found on his face. He leaned in, and you worriedly leaned back.

“This is me being nice…because you’re pregnant, and you don’t need the stress…”

His other hand came up to touch your cheek, and your lips trembled as he ran his gaze over you, slowly taking you in.

“…but do not let that get to your head.”

You stared at each other for what felt like a long time, and you jerked when Sarah’s voice reached your ears.

“Rafe! What the hell are you doing?”

The disgust in her voice was clear, and you swallowed when her brother threw her a crooked smile, reluctantly letting you go.

“We’re just talking,” he evenly told her, looking at you again. “Baby stuff.”

He tapped your chin before brushing by you, and you wiped your face, having not even realized that your eyes had started to water.

You let out a breath, staring at the pastel green crib with parted lips. It was so big and pretty and unexpected. When Sarah had taken you out, you hadn’t thought anything of it. Returning to the Cameron’s to Cam and Bunny in your room was a surprise, and the pretty crib was an even bigger surprise. You didn’t miss the gender-neutral color, and you blinked at them.

“Rafe told Kelce and Kelce told me,” Cam said with a shrug. “It’s perfect for…whatever you hope you’re having.”

You couldn’t lie and say your curiosity wasn’t piqued. After all, you hadn’t forgotten the look on Rafe’s face when he’d finally joined you and Rose in the car that day. It was strange, seeing him so happy, and that happiness sparked by something so innocent and genuine.

“Do you like it?” Bunny wondered with a hopeful smile.

You dazedly nodded.

“Yeah,” you breathed, slowly approaching it, placing your hand on the wood. “It’s so pretty.”

With every passing day, this pregnancy became more and more real. In less than a year, a little baby would be sleeping in this thing, and you blew out a breath. You and Rafe would be parents, and you briefly closed your eyes.

“Are you scared?” Bunny suddenly asked.

When you looked at her, she looked like she was for you. All three of you were so young, after all, and you were having a baby. You were starting a portion of your life that wouldn’t even be thought about for another decade for them, if at all.

“Yeah.”

It was an honest answer, but just not for the reason you led her to believe. You weren’t scared of this baby or being a mother, but instead of Rafe. You were scared of the power he held, and would hold, over you. You were scared of eighteen plus years of having to deal with him and his antics and his unwavering determination to keep you under his thumb.

You were afraid of Ward and his money and how difficult your family’s life could be should you ever decide to stand up to Rafe for the whole island to see. You were afraid of Rose’s excitement to have a baby in the house, what she might do or turn a blind eye to all for the sake of looking like a perfect family.

You didn’t say any of that though.

“What if I suck?” you wondered, recalling your thoughts from the other night. “I mean, Rafe of all people, has to remind me to take my prenatal vitamins. What if he’s better at this than me?”

“I can barely imagine Rafe as a dad, and he’s literally going to be one,” Cam scoffed. “You’ll be a great mom, don’t worry.”

“Plus, you’ll have so much help! We’re here, and Rose and Sarah, and Kiara’s going to help too, right? She’s dating your brother,” Bunny reminded you.

It was true that you would have help. You were sure you’d need it, and it did relieve you some, and you looked at the crib again. It looked so nice in the room, oddly in place, and you were thinking about waking up in the middle of the night to check on the baby or watching them sleep. You were still staring at it when Rafe finally returned.

You knew because you heard him knock something over downstairs.

It was late, very late, and truthfully, you hadn’t been all that concerned about where he was. Your curiosity, however, was piqued when you heard Ward’s voice. It became clearer when you stepped out of your room, nearing the stairs.

“Y/N is upstairs, carrying your baby and getting the rest she needs, and you’re out drinking?”

It wasn’t surprising to hear, not even disappointing. You’d come to expect everything of Rafe, and you peeked around the corner, gaze landing on the two of them at the bottom of the stairs. Your ex did look drunk, hair mussed like he’d been running his hands through it, and your eyes fell to the large bag in his hand.

“When you came to me to take responsibility for your part in all this, to tell me about the situation, I had hope, Rafe. I still do, but this? I don’t like this,” the older man scolded.

“You can relax, alright? I was just at Topper’s. We just had some beers-.”

“…and then you drove here.”

Rafe didn’t say anything to that, and when you glanced up again, you found his drunken gaze on you. Feeling embarrassed at having been caught, you backed away and made your way back to your room. You could feel your stomach turning, mouth salty, and you grimaced, rushing to the bathroom. Truthfully, you weren’t sure why they called it morning sickness when you found that it sometimes lasted all day.

When you finished rinsing your mouth out, you were stumped by the sight of Rafe in your room.

You opened your mouth to say something when you paused, taking in the way he stood over the crib. You studied the way he seemed to study it, blue eyes drinking in the color and size, and you watched him reach up with his free hand to brush his fingers along the smooth surface. He didn’t acknowledge you right away, just drinking it in, and his throat bobbed.

“Cam and Bunny bought it,” you finally said.

Again, he said nothing, and you sighed.

“Rafe, I need to sleep. You can look at it tomorrow-.”

“No.”

You frowned at him, frown deepening when he moved to sit down on your bed. You folded your arms over your chest, opening your mouth when he drew your attention back to the bag he’d been holding. You watched him dump everything out onto the bed, and it was hard to describe the feeling in your chest as your eyes ran over everything.

It was all baby stuff.

Blankets, onesies, diapers. You sharply inhaled, so conflicted at the sight of Rafe simultaneously trying and fucking up. You let out a bitter chuckle, thinking to yourself to leave it to Rafe to get drunk and drive home with a bag full of things the baby would need. You dropped the blanket, unsure of what to say. You felt like you should thank him, but you weren’t going to thank Rafe for doing what dads should.

Providing for this baby he was forcing you to have was the least he could do.

“Ward said you’re drunk…”

Rafe heaved a sigh, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling, but he didn’t deny it. He shook his head, running his hand through his dirty blond strands, and standing.

“Topper and Kelce can’t believe I’m doing this, you know,” he slurred, and you eyed him. “They think I’m crazy…but they don’t get it.”

“Look, all of this stuff is great, Rafe, but I think you should-.”

“I fucking love you.”

Your stomach churned at that, and you couldn’t hold his gaze when it met yours. You didn’t believe that for a second, and it scared you that Rafe genuinely did.

“I do,” he drunkenly continued. “…and you might hate me, now, but you won’t forever. You can’t.”

“Rafe,” you sighed.

“…because that baby will know. Our child will see it, and they’ll hate you.”

Your heart skipped a beat as Rafe stared you down, and you swallowed.

“Our son will hate you.”

You froze, eyes widening at Rafe as he revealed what you didn’t want to know yet. He watched your face as you processed the knowledge that you were having a boy…another Rafe, and by the look on Rafe’s face, you could see that was where his mind had headed too. You stumbled back, and Rafe let out a soft chuckle.

“We’re having a boy…and I’m going to treat him better than my dad ever treated me,” he practically sneered, your eyes meeting his again. “He’ll never have to beg for my attention, my love, my approval.”

You turned away, staring at the crib and the pastel green color, mind racing.

“He’s going to fucking love me…and you will too because he does.”

You shook your head, and Rafe continued.

“You will too because he’s mine,” Rafe whispered, moving closer, now. “You’re going to see me in his face and his laugh and his God damn smile.”

“Shut up, Rafe.”

Your voice cracked, and you hadn’t realized until now that you’d been hoping for a girl. You tried to tell yourself that it didn’t matter to you, but in this moment, as Rafe taunted you with everything you wanted to pretend wasn’t true, you realized it mattered a lot. Seeing Rafe in your son was going to elicit one of two reactions.

You were either going to hate the sight of him and everything he reminded you of, something you couldn’t imagine…

…or he was going to make the next eighteen years very trying in ways you didn’t even want to think about.

“I told you I didn’t want to know,” you choked out. “Do you ever respect anything I say?”

You pushed past him, moving to clean everything off of your bed when you felt Rafe at your back. You reached back, pushing at him, but Rafe wouldn’t budge. He wrapped his arms around you, and you felt his face in the crook of your neck.

“Rafe-.”

“We’re having a boy,” he drunkenly murmured, lips brushing your neck. “You’re giving me a son.”

When you turned around, you pressed your hands to his chest, but Rafe dropped to his knees before you could stop him. You gasped when his arms tightened around you, his face pressed to your stomach, and your hands were suspended in the air, unsure of what to do.

“Rafe, get up,” you harshly whispered.

You tensed when he pressed his lips to you, lifting your shirt, skin meeting skin.

“Rafe, stop-.”

You cut yourself off with a gasp when his teeth nipped at you. He kissed his way up your body, lips meeting yours before you could stop him. You pushed against him, noises of protests leaving you as he moved his mouth over yours. Rafe’s hands pressed into you, digging into your skin and preventing you from moving.

Your heart started going crazy in your chest, and you worriedly looked towards the door.

“Rafe, stop,” you hissed against his lips, shoving his shoulders.

He ignored you, shoving you down onto the bed, and in your panic, your hand clasped onto some random baby toy he’d bought. You swung it at his face before you realized it, eyes widening as he pulled away with a loud hiss. The corner of the box it was in had cut his face, and you watched him reach up to touch it. Your lips parted when he looked at the blood on his hand, and you fearfully moved back, tearful eyes focused on him.

When his blue eyes met yours, his entire face hardened, expression taut. He came at you again, and you swung your arm, his hand catching your wrist just as the door opened. You both flew apart with impressive speed, your tearful gaze landing on Ward as he looked between you two. You didn’t miss the way his gaze narrowed the more it lingered on Rafe.

“Y/N needs rest, Rafe. You know that.”

The blond swallowed, running his hands through his hair with a nod.

“Yeah, yeah, I just… I was just showing her the stuff I bought.”

You could tell that Ward didn’t believe him, and when it became clear that Ward wasn’t leaving until he did, Rafe reluctantly moved away from you. You looked down when he glanced over his shoulder at you, only looking up again to watch the way Ward roughly grabbed his shoulder, guiding him out as he shut the door behind them.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, throat tight as you looked over everything Rafe had bought. You were fighting to calm your heart, realizing how close Rafe had been to having his way with you. You were shaking, and you furiously blinked back tears, hand coming to rest on your stomach. A mini Rafe was growing inside of you, and to make sure he didn’t turn out like his father, you worried that you’d might have to lose yourself in the process.

#dark!rafe cameron x reader #dark!rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #obx fanfiction #obx #obx fic #Outer Banks #outer banks fanfiction #rafe cameron fic

[twyftwyt]

part 2 to this little imagine that I posted earlier today (since you guys seemed to like it very much)

Pairings: Noah Sebastian x Reader

Warnings: smut 18+ (a little at the end), angst

Authors note: so this started as a little imagine I wrote in my drafts a few days ago and I got so many positive comments to expand it, so you know, i gotta give it you, it’s only fair; let me know if you’d like me to continue this story as I have quite a few ideas for it

…you have more pieces of me than the desert has sand

and i have less pieces of you than I can hold in my hand…

By the time we reached my house my tears had dried and I’d calmed myself down as much as I could. Noah stayed silent the whole drive home and it crushed me a little that he didn’t fight back on what I said earlier. Silence was agreement, in my eyes. And he seemed to be on the same page with what I said.

He parked the car in front of my house and turned off the engine. The low hum coming from the speakers fell silent and the air felt even thicker now. Neither one of us knew what to say or do next and I didn’t want to leave like that. But I wasn’t going to be the first to speak either. I was too scared to look at him, as well. I knew that the moment I looked at him, I’d cave and try to hug him. Or say something to make this whole situation better. But the truth was that it was better left this way. We needed time. I needed time.

“Can I walk you to the front door?”

I wanted to say “yes”, believe me, I did. But it was not gonna be like the usual times, where he’d walk me to the door, kiss and hug me, sometimes even try to come in, and I’d let him. I knew this time was gonna be tough and heavy. And so I decided to politely decline.

“I can walk myself to my house, Noah. It’s fine.”

I knew that came out a bit harsher than I wanted it to be, but I didn’t have the capacity to be nicer. I was hurting and I had all the right reasons for my emotional state right now. My eyes were red and puffy, my lips - swollen, my heart felt heavy in my chest.

“Don’t be this way, please. It is shit enough as it is. Just let me walk you.”

“Why? You can wait in the car until I close the door”

“Get out of my car then.”

I didn’t expect that kind of an answer and so I finally looked up at him. Same blank expression, right hand firm on the steering wheel. Did he really just tell me to get out of his car?!

“You know, I wanted to be nice to you. End this night on a more positive note. But since I see you’ve managed to bring your attitude with your goodnight’s, have it your way. Asshole.”

My tears were bubbling up again and I didn’t wait long enough for him to see them streaming down my face. I took my keys in my hand and got off the passenger seat, slamming the door. By the time I reached the patio my vision was blurry and my hands were shaking. I managed to put the key in the hole and didn’t look twice before slamming the door to my house as well. He could go to hell for all I care about.

I can’t properly remember how I managed to take a shower and tidy up my room before I got into bed, all I knew was almost six months of building something with someone just went to shit. And I should’ve known from the start. I should’ve seen the signs, I should’ve taken my friends’ advices when they told me numerous times to not deal with a man like him. I should’ve listened. I should’ve left when he said he doesn’t know what a healthy relationship feels and looks like. I should’ve left when he stayed silent for all of our arguments. I should’ve left when he said he wasn’t ready. But of course, I’ve always been known to go against my instincts. Like I did the first time I met him.

I got invited to a friend of a friend’s party at the Hollywood Hills, a place I wasn’t very fond of and up until the last moment, I decided not to attend. And if you ask me now, why I changed my mind all of a sudden, I won’t be able to come up with and adequate answer. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain everything that happened that night.

It was a nice pool house, looking over the hills, all white and minimalistic and the music was booming all around. There were people everywhere and liquor, lots and lots of liquor. I wasn’t used to going to parties. At least not anymore. I preferred having my peace of mind at home, with a movie or working on something. And so when I arrived at said party, I wished I could teleport anywhere but here. That’s up until I met him. Noah.

Noah, Noah, Noah.

The first time I laid my eyes on him he was leaning against a wall, holding a bottle of beer in one hand and a phone in the other. I found it amusing that he was wearing sunglasses inside but I kinda understood why. I’d wear a pair too if it made me look less approachable. He was looking at the screen of his phone, scrolling away his life. He was wearing all black. Black “The Witch” shirt that immediately caught my attention. Black sweats and what looked like skull slides with white socks. In all honesty, he looked ridiculous for a party. I must have stared at him for too long, cause he picked his head up from his phone and looked my way. I quickly moved my glance from him and focused on a girl trying to get into the pool, but soon enough I felt the air move around me and the smell of a strong perfume enveloped me.

“That’s a cute pajama.”

I tuned to face the man who called my boho pants “pajama”, ready to call him out, but quickly froze when I was met with the piercing eyes of the man I had just spent 10 minutes staring at.

“And that’s a bold first thing to say to anyone.”

“Not as bold as your fashion statement.”

Cheeky.

“Says the man wearing skull slides and sunglasses indoors.”

He laughed at me and raised his beer up to my face.

“Cheers to that.”

We locked eyes and I felt my knees getting weak.

I checked my phone one last time before I put it on DND and placed on my nightstand. I don’t know why I was expecting a text from him, some sort of explanation, reassurance that everything’s gonna be fine and this was just a stupid spat. I don’t know why I wanted to believe this is not over. I don’t know how I managed to trust him so fast and to get hurt just as fast. I grabbed my phone one last time to check for messages again and my heart sunk once the screen lit up.

“I’ve been sitting in front of your house for almost 2 hours now, trying to figure out what the hell just happened between us. All I know is, I don’t wanna go home tonight. Not like this. I need you.”

The speed at which I went for the stairs almost got me killed. The moment I opened my front door and saw him leaning on the hood of his car made my knees go weak the same way it did when I first saw him. Our eyes locked and I could swear that by the time he reached my patio, he was basically running. His body slammed so hard into mine that it made me trip over my legs and almost knocked me over. His hands were around my waist, his wet lips all over my face and I could feel his dick pressed against my belly.

“Noah..”

Was all I managed to moan in his mouth, while digging my fingers in his hair.

“Let me..” he looked me up and down hungrily and gripped my ass “..inside.”

I was done for.

#noah sebastian #bad omens #bad omens cult #fic

[max1461]

I think something that many people of the high-modern bent (leftists, rationalists, etc.) tend to forget when they talk about society is this: many people (I would conjecture, most people) are not hedonists, either in philosophy or practice. There exist many things which people value inherently, above and beyond the capacity of those things to produce pleasure.

One ready-to-mind example is morality: people will often sacrifice their happiness significantly to do what they believe is right. If they happen to have a hedonist ethics, then we might say that they're still trying to maximize net pleasure overall, but if they don't have a hedonist ethics this is certainly not the case. They might, for instance, have a virtue ethics or a deontological ethics, and make great sacrifices to their own happiness in order to behave in a way they believe is just.

The above example is, I think, a special case of a broader class of example, whereby people make sacrifices to their own happiness in order to embody their ideal self. If your ideal self is very skilled at something, you may forgo a great deal of pleasure in pursuit of that skill. Think if Olympic athletes, who I frankly doubt tend to recoup the total lost pleasure of all the strict dieting and regimented lifestyle and so on via the pleasure they get from training and competing. Think of anyone who makes great personal sacrifices for achievement. Or think of the tortured artist, the virtual archetype of a person who cares more about the quality of their work than their own wellbeing. But cases need not be so extreme: I can think of many people who I would consider normal, healthy, happy individuals, who just happen to be a little competitive, and who I suspect are not pleasure-maximizing by spending so much time practicing at their skill of choice. Am I meant to tell them they are wrong for doing this?

There is a tendency in contemporary society to pathologize this way of interacting with the world, even among people who don't conceptualize themselves as hedonists, but I reject the idea that it is something to be avoided. I myself value my own pleasure, of course, and other people's pleasure too. But I also value things above and beyond the degree to which they give me pleasure: I value knowledge, I value success at my endeavors, I value aesthetics, I value the wellbeing of my friends and loved ones. All of these things I would gladly sacrifice some amount of net pleasure to advance. It is furthermore the case that I have been happiest in life, experienced the most pleasurable existence, when I have felt that I was successfully advancing these goals. It is possibly the case that I could experience more net pleasure by abandoning these goals and totally changing who I am (through, perhaps we can imagine, some sort of brainwashing), but I would of course be vehemently opposed to this. And so it is notable that maximizing satisfaction of my non-hedonic goals is also the state which achieves the local maximum of pleasure. Anything greater would involve greater changes to my psyche—wireheading, in short. I think this too is true of many people.

Anyway, I'm not a utilitarian (for mostly nitpicky philosophical reasons), but to a first approximation I am a preference utilitarian. To me, acting justly towards someone means working to make it that their preferences are satisfied in addition to your own, in some sort of appropriate balance where the two conflict. This is not, to a first approximation, hedonic utilitarianism, which differs obviously in how it handles wireheading but which I think also disagrees in more nearterm ways, like (perhaps) "whether we should pathologize highly competitive people" and so on.

Anyway, if you are a local high-modernist dreamer (affectionate) (self-recognizing), and you find me on your post grumbling about something, I think there's about an 80% chance that something amounts to "not preference utilitarian enough!". Or whatever.

#society #navel gazing