#Accurate Formulation

[cuteniarose]

What I imagine Suiren and Vaatu’s ‘friendship’ in @rokurookajima’s Metalbanders verse to be like, as told by memes I found in the depths of my pinterest memes board

(Feat. Some commentary because I am Having Thoughts)

I apologise for how grainy it is but you just know that these two are the definition of WLW-MLM hostility

She gets him body wash for his birthday one year. greasy stinky bastard man (/affectionate) (/you cannot convince me that I am wrong about the state of Vaatu’s personal hygiene. Have you ever met a teenage boy) (/I have not showered in a week I have full right to say this)

Headcanon that Suiren knew she was a lesbian since she was a wee lass so her gaydar is crazy good and she literally went “I know what you are” as soon as she first met Vaatu. Except he very much was not aware yet and she knew he’d never figure it out on his own. But if she tells him he’s gay outright he’d reject it. So she’s left being the Ryuk to his Light Yagami, hovering over his shoulder whispering “gay gay homosexual gay” and telling him to google yaoi

She means it with love... I’m pretty sure

“Dude you’re talking like my uncle cut it out”

She’s his only friend TOLERABLE ALLY fr

Okay so we’ve established that Vaatu is a freak but the only reason he and Suiren get along is because she’s very much a freak too she’s just got a pretty face to hide it behind. She literally cannot talk like a normal person it somehow always boils down to smth like this

Suiren likes Ghibli movies. Vaatu thinks himself too much of an edgelord to watch Ghibli movies. Unfortunately for him, Suiren doesn’t care about what he thinks. He’s going to watch Ponyo with her and he’s going to LIKE IT

(She catches him humming “Ponyo Ponyo Ponyo fishy in the sea” afterwards and never lets him live it down)

After a certain point he just starts talking like this all the damn time. She’s accepted her fate

BONUS ROUND: Suiren being a useless lesbian and Vaatu judging her severely

[mike-haters-dni]

ok but how come she's never Terry's daughter huh? How come she's never Jane Ives

[reggie-gremlin]

i've been trying to cut the movie some slack because i know it was supposed to be much longer and it also came out during the strike but it's becoming harder and harder.

not only is everything op said absolutely correct, but they also erased so many characters (including alex and henry themselves) in favour of the love story, and so many of these characters were women. sure, we have ellen and zahra, but what about june, nora and bea? what about henry's mum?

(and don't come saying that nora and bea were in the movie, because they might as well not have been. any role nora plays is completely in service to the love story, and bea might as well not exist).

and in removing so much of the book in favour of the love story, even that has lost its meaning, because alex and henry (very majorly alex) are no longer alex and henry. alex is no longer a little brother. alex is no longer a child of divorce. let me repeat that, alex is no longer a child of divorce.

not only is that critical to his character, but also to his mother's. she says it herself in the book that many are always going to look at her badly for being not only a powerful woman who isn't married but a powerful woman who is divorced.

I’ve seen someone else mention this, but I also wanted to talk about this

The erasure of queerness in the movie is something I definitely did not expect.

Sure, it’s a love story between two men, but grab Alex and Henry and make them a man and a woman, the movie doesn’t change much. Maybe monarchy instead of being homophobic and racist now it’s only racist, and they hate Alex not because he’s a man but because he’s brown. They kept it a secret because of monarchy’s racism, but love triumphs at the end. That’s why the movie didn’t hit as hard as the book. The movie is just some forbidden love movie, rwrb is a book where the main characters are in a forbidden relationship, but it’s not the whole point of the book.

Alex discovering his sexuality, Nora being bisexual, whatever Pez had going on, whatever June and Nora had going on, Alex learning about queer history, the historical lgbt love letters at the ends of their e-mails, all the references to queer history and literature, THE SHELTERS, monarchy’s homophobia (yes, it appears on the movie but it’s really glossed over. It doesn’t show just how homophobic they actually are in the book), Alex stating how he knows more about himself the more intimate (both in the sexual and non sexual sense) he is with Henry, Luna being gay and unapologetic about it and being exactly Alex’s queer role model, even before Alex knew he was queer himself, THE FUCKING SHELTERS

I’m so so mad about the shelters being missing.

Henry and Pez made shelters for lgbt youth, so they can never feel as alone as Henry once felt, so they can always have a safe space so they know there’s nothing wrong with them no matter what the adults in their life might say, no matter what the preacher or their classmates or the right wing politicians in their tv might say, where they can find hope, and friends, and a home if they never had one before, or at least, one where they could truly be themselves. The shelters are, I would say, crucial to Henry’s character development. He went from hiding, believing being gay was “the most unforgivable part of him”, not even trying to come out because he just succumbed to live an unhappy life in the closet, to someone who’s out, living with his boyfriend and running lgbt shelters with his best friend so young queer people can move past all the things he felt and believed time ago, so they know they are perfectly normal and loved and safe in there, as long as Henry and Pez are there they’re safe, they don’t have to hide anymore.

Henry became the queer elder he needed in his life when he was younger. The lgbt adult who could tell him than it would get better, no matter how bad it was at the moment, no matter if he couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, because it was there, he just had to hold on a bit more. Than there was absolutely nothing wrong with him.

Another thing than I seen changed than a normal person might not notice, but I did, because im obsessed, is the karaoke scene.

In the book, it takes place in something resembling a gay bar (maybe not exactly, but it’s full of queer people), and look at this

Three rounds of shots appear —one from a drunk bachelorette party, one from a herd of surly butch chicks at the bar, and one from a table of drag queens. They raise a toast, and Alex feels more welcomed than he ever has before, even at his family’s victory rallies.

Look again

and Alex feels more welcomed than he ever has before, even at his family’s victory rallies.

This book is about about finding community, finding yourself, finding love and letting yourself accept that love.

Do you think Alex in the movie has felt “more welcomed than he ever has before, even at his family’s victory rallies” at any point? Has he been with another queer person in the whole movie, except Henry, at all?? Because Nora’ sexuality was not mentioned at all no references nothing and with the whole Pez thing everyone could see Nora as just straight

Henry and Alex in the movie are kind of without community, alienated from it, they are, in my personal opinion, the king of gay people republicans would consider “good gay people” who “don’t shove it on everyone’s faces and just wanna be left alone” (in the rwrb universe where they exist and are real not actual republican people watching the movie). They don’t really take a role on the community, in the book, Alex and Henry being queer is an important part of themselves, again, Alex feeling like he knows himself better, Henry whole internalized homophobia, their shared interest for lgbt history and literature, Henry and Pez making the shelters, etc etc meanwhile in the movie Alex and Henry just happen to be gay and bisexual, but it’s no deeper than that.

And don’t get me start on creating Miguel, a queer character, and making him the one to leak the e-mails or smth instead of a republican candidate

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ You test out a new lipstick

(Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia)

Tw: smooches! Shield your eyes!

Oh, would you look at that, you bought a new lipstick. You just need to test whether it wears down quickly or leaves any mark. 

✧ Pierro is in a haste. You blurt out that you need a new lipstick once, and the next thing you know, he purchases several high-quality ones for you. Offering you swatches of colors, makeup removers, different shades, and lipstick textures, he observes with analytical admiration as you sit in front of a mirror and apply the lipstick carefully. 

One last step is missing – to try its imprint. The Jester is ready to reach for a napkin to let you try. But you only smiled. Before he can comprehend, your hand reaches to turn his head and gently guides him closer to your lips until you sweetly capture his. It’s not often that The Jester experiences a complete blank out, but when you deliberately trace your lips across his skin and start preparing his face with kisses, how else is he supposed to react? Hold in his hitched breaths? Not deepen the kisses to relish the ambrosia of your lips?

Suffice it to say, you are proud of the imprints on his pale skin. He seems even prouder, wearing them like a badge of honor, despite his stoic appearance.

✧ You asked Il Capitano to evaluate the new shade of lipstick you bought. Like any loving partner, the honorable Captain stated honestly that any hue suits you elegantly. Even if his knowledge of cosmetics is minimal, he felt delighted and proud of your looks.  

But that wasn’t the issue. Now you were standing in front of him, smiling menacingly.  

“What is it, my treasure?”  

You stepped closer.  

“Dear…?”  

You stepped even closer. Oh no, thought the Captain, he’s in danger. His pleas for reason and mercy went unheard. Instead, he faced a bigger battle—a battle that left his helmet not with scratches but with various imprints of your kisses. You stood triumphantly, happy with your lipstick and the numerous marks on his helmet and neck. 

Il Capitano lost the battle that day. 

✧ At last, Il Dottore mused to himself, the perfect hue of lipstick designed scientifically for you. You voiced your issue in finding a suitable shade of makeup for yourself, hence you asked none other than your beloved to find a logical solution. So he took matters into his own hands to find the best chemical solution and accurately create the best shade to match your skin. 

Naturally, it was a success. With his gloves stained in various colorful substances, he proudly handed you a slender tube with a delicate black cap from the table as if it were a casual concoction he could make on a whimsy. Hence, you thanked him and blithely applied it on the spot.

“Dottore, it turned out magnificently!” – you said as you looked into the reflection of your face. But when you turned to look at him, Dottore’s complexion went vaguely blank. “Hm, what is it? Isn't it good? You made it matte, too.” 

He silently stepped forward; even behind his black mask, you could sense his full attention zooming on the beauty of your lips. 

"Well, true... I formulated it to be stain-proof, so it won't smudge as you go about your day. However," - he hummed, his hand cupping your jawline warmly. "Every product requires assiduous testing. We could conduct a few tests of our own to ensure its performance. If I may," 

Of course, he would test it personally. Of course, he then captures your lips in a kiss, his hand on the back of your head, his touch an ardent mix of passion and desire. He explores your mouth, his tongue caressing yours with a fervor, wanting to test how long the lipstick will last under the pressure of his kisses. You should've expected this, as his other hand encloses around you to press you flush against him. 

"Ah... interesting. It's held up quite well. There's no transfer on your skin or mine, but I do think further testing is necessary."

“Enough, enough! That’s plenty of testing from you!” 

✧ Scaramouche dislikes shopping. It’s a hassle, truly. You requested him to accompany you on a leisurely stroll, oblivious of your trap to drag him to some quick shopping. Except this quick shopping turned into a full-blown shopping spree. The question is: was he here to accompany you or to pull you away from wasting all your Mora on fleeting indulgences?

“No, you don't need any more clothes. You have plenty of unworn ones.”

“No, we don't need any more plushies, your bed is already littered with them.”

“And no, you already had some snacks on the way here. Stop buying more!”

You couldn't escape his stern reminders, even if they were practical. However, there was still one shop you left as an ace up your sleeves. Before finishing today's trip, you encouraged The Balladeer to join you in cosmetics shopping. Your innocent smile spoke promises of letting him choose your new lipstick color if he so desired, and the allure of it caused him to halt. 

“... Me? Why must I choose? Can't you pick a simple color and call it a day, huh?” - Scaramouche feigned annoyance when, in reality, he quickly grabbed your arm and led you hastily to the boutique. “We'll quickly buy one, but don't get any ideas that we're staying here for any longer.”

Poor Harbinger; he didn't have to lie to himself so cruelly. The two of you stayed in the boutique for a long while, not because you were indecisive, but because Scaramouche suddenly took the matters with utter seriousness. Should he suggest a carnelian shade? It would match with his own red eyeshade. Or perhaps a darker one would suit your complexion? Especially if you decided to leave contrasting lipstick imprints all over his porcelain skin- 

Scaramouche shook his head. Your voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Um… Scara, sweetie? Could we decide already? We spent the whole day in this shop.”

“We'll buy all of them, then,” - he held up your face, his full focus on you as you timidly averted your gaze. “Here. Now let me help you apply it.” 

✧ Pantalone sat behind his desk, fingers intertwined thoughtfully. Silver glasses cast a shadow upon his already darkened gaze. His expression, unfortunately, was far from pleased. 

“L-lord Harbinger Regrator,” – the Fatui subordinate uttered. “It is with utmost sorrow that I must inform you that- that the cosmetologists you hired have not finished their work. They are still in the process of creating the products you requested.” 

The silence of the office was deafening. The Harbinger granted no mercy with his prolonged pause.

“... I commission the best cosmetologist in all of Teyvat, and they still dare to waste my Mora and time? Is this some frivolous matter for them?” - The Harbinger's hands sternly pressed against the table, his voice raised “My beloved requested a new lipstick! They deserve the best of the best, as soon as possible!” 

“Uh, honey… I am still here in the room.” - your voice interjected awkwardly. Indeed, it's true; you are sitting nearby, blinking in confusion. You waved at the Fatui subordinate to take it easy, signaling sympathetically that your partner was having another one of his ambitious episodes. 

“Honey, my love, this is no fleeting matter! I wanted you to get the highest, custom-made quality for cosmetics. You rarely ask for anything, but when you do, I can't just let you down!” 

“It's just lipstick…! I didn't even say what color or kind I wanted.”

“And that's precisely why you shall get all of them. You there,” - he signaled back to the subordinate swiftly. “Quick, send the letters to those cosmetic chemists to hurry up if they want to make themselves worth the Mora. Delays are not negotiable.”

With the Fatui worker scurrying away in a hurry, Pantalone sighed deeply before plopping down beside you on the sofa of his office. You patted his back, amused by his sudden precedence over something so mundane. 

“There, there, Pantalone. You know it's nothing urgent. It's just lipstick.”

“Not any lipstick. Your lipstick, darling! I need to see you don the most dazzling color on your lips.” He turned to gently trace his thumb across your jawline, his voice softening. “...The lips that should be showering me with kisses and leaving lipstick prints on my skin.”

You laughed heartily – “Oh, so that's what it's all about? You know, makeup or no makeup, I can still kiss y-”

You didn't register how The Harbinger's head bowed lowly in reverence. “I would pay you any amount of Mora for you to do so.” 

Pantalone truly knows how to blow up over the most bizarre things. Either way, as the weeks passed, the newly ordered cosmetics did arrive as instructed. How did people know? Because Pantalone didn’t shy away from flaunting the traces of your delicate lips on his neck and blouse. A testament to stolen kisses and intimate moments behind closed doors. His triumphant grin says it all. 

✧ Your ever-observant boyfriend, Tartaglia, noticed you mulling something over by the mirror. You seemed in deep focus, a new item in your hands as you inspected your visage. You tried on a new lipstick! 

Childe, being the endearing goofball that he is, complimented your new purchase with delight. You appreciated his knack for noticing even the smallest changes, even if you didn't directly tell him you tried on something new. All was well! 

Or was it? For beneath his easygoing smile, in the deepest recesses of his soul, Tartaglia was begging, crying, screaming. He wanted to hold your face in his palms and kiss you senseless. He wished to taste the sweetness of your lips until this adorable color of your lipstick was smeared on both of your faces. He wished to soak in the warmth of your pecks and kisses, dreaming for your touch to litter his face with imprints.  

Did he say all of that? Of course not. He kept beaming at you in adoration, his smile tender while his thoughts devouring. Yet, after days of wrestling with his unspoken desires, Childe devised a plan – a very, very subtle plan.

“Oh nooo,” - he lamented dramatically, leaning against the doorway with a hand draped theatrically over his forehead. “If only my beloved was here to bestow me some loving kisses, especially when they look so alluring in their new lipstick! If only!” 

You raised an eyebrow at Tartaglia’s shenanigans as if asking him: Really? What is this damsel in distress act? Nonetheless, luckily for the 11th, his oh-so-subtle hints hit the mark, because you happily cupped his cheeks and smooched them with fervor, feeling his warm skin under your lips as he chuckled.  

Needless to say, your lipstick didn’t stand a chance.

[genderqueerdykes]

to all trans women, transfems, non binary people, intersex people, genderqueer people and so on who are seeking estrogen HRT, please check out Transfeminine Science

this is an absolutely amazing resource for anyone seeking estrogen HRT for any reason. this website is absolutely chock full of empirical scientific data to help you learn more about how the hormones will affect your body, what dosages and formulations of estrogens can produce what results, anti-androgen medications, demasculinziation processes, and so much more. it comes straight from the source, so there is no awkward speculation: this is for the transfeminine community, by the transfeminine community:

this is so much more accurate than any guide i could ever hope to create for folks, so please feel free to read the numerous articles the site has to offer, this is a very informative collection of articles and resources that you do not have to go combing through google for.

[mickmeasley]

theory:

vivziepop kickstarted the indie animation revolution the same way freud is the father of modern psychology:

by having some good ideas but elaborating on them so badly alongside a whole bunch of terrible ideas that a whole bunch of people felt compelled to come on the scene just to keep the ball rolling and steer things in a better direction, partly to prove they could and because they had genuine passion, but also because letting freud/vivzie be the sole, defining player in the field would be very embarrasing for everyone

so much of what i feel is poorly executed/sorely lacking in hazbin hotel and helluva boss is done so much better in all the other indie cartoons that I almost feel like this is genuinely the case, that taking the cool ideas of hazbin/helluva and actually doing them well this time was in the back of everyones mind when formulating their series concepts

>The Amazing Digital Circus

does the "character-based-dramedy around finding connection and meaning in (whats basically) hell" better

>Lackadaisy

takes the "gangster furries in snappy suits + art deco aesthetic" ball and runs with it, but they actually can design good character designs and period accurate clothing

>Murder Drones

idk much about this one, havent watched it but from what i've heard they do the whole "emo angst meets cosmic horror" thing a lot better

>The Gaslight District

Worldbuilding and aesthetic reminds me a lot of Helluva Boss/Hazbin Hotel, but here its WAY more coherent and focused, with the pilot actually answering a lot of obvious questions about the worldbuilding similar to ones that, IIRC, Hazbin/Helluva stil hasn't answered to this day. Also, better action, better art direction, better edgy humor/characters, better music, better father/daughter dynamic, better fucking everything

[writer-logbook]

How to improve your writing style : a 5-steps guide.

Intro : I love the 5-steps format, don’t mind me. Again, this essay is based on my personal experience.

Read in different genres. Ok, I know you’ve probably heard this advice more than you can count but did you ask yourself why it is so important ? You probably wonder ‘‘How reading some historical fiction will help me writing my sci-fi novel ?’’ For that simple reason my friend : they meet different purposes. You don’t know how to describe a castle ? It’s okay, historical fiction got your back. Because it aims at something more realistic and accurate, it would tend to be more specific and detailed when it comes to describing clothes, furniture, places and so on. Why ? Because, most of the time, THEY ACTUALLY EXISTED. Take a closer look at how it is done and draw your inspiration from it (but please avoid plagiarism it’s bad - and illegal)

Take notes and CLASSIFY them. To make reading somehow useful, you have to actually make it concious, which means you have to write things down to remember them. When I come across a description I like, I tend to takes notes of the figures of speech that are used and class them, so when I have to write a similar scene, I have an idea of what have been already used, and weither or not it achieved its goal. I am NOT talking about COPY another author’s style !!!! It’s about finding inspiration and new approaches. I also tend to take notes of the new words I wish to incoporate into my writing. The thesaurus is my new bestie.

Rewrite the same scene from different POVs. First of all, it’s fun. And it’s a really good way to spot quirky formulations. For instance, if you describe a ship, the captain’s POV should be different from that of a simple observer. The first one would be naming each part princisely whereas the other would only be admiring the surface without knowing anything. If the caption is the same for both POVs, maybe you should consider write your passage again (or have a good reason, like a strong amateurism for the mere observer). It’s go hand in hand with coherence - but it would be an essay for another time (maybe).

Read your text aloud. I put major emphasis on that one because it’s as underated as reading books for various genres. You have no idea how much we DON’T speak the way we write. Even dialogues are crafted in our stories - so make sure to give them proper attention. (i even read my email aloud but-). I KNOW how cringey it might be as I am doing it MYSELF but the benefits are worth the 35-minutes shame I endure from my own mess. Before you can shine, you have to polish (shout out to the one who said that first if it’s not me).

Take a step back. I strongly advice you to let some time pass before reading your text again and profreading it. It will cast a new light upon your work and with fresh eyes you’d be more likely able to spot what needs to be erased or rephrased.

That’s all for me today. Since I would be entering my proofreading phase for my writing contest, the next essay would probably about proofreading (with examples from my own novel ?). Unless someone wants me to write on a specific subject first.

Gentle reminder that I’m still French and not a native so please forgive my dubious grammar and outrageous mispellings.

[plutosunshine]

What will help you go through Saturn lessons? Saturn in the houses

Saturn in the 1st house

Saturn in the first house requires a person to develop a deep understanding of their responsibilities and capacity for self-discipline. To master its lessons, it is essential to learn to accept yourself as you are, with all your flaws and strengths, while also working on your self-confidence and self-esteem. Saturn teaches patience, so you must be prepared that the results of your efforts will not come immediately but through consistent hard work and overcoming inner barriers. The limitations Saturn may impose should not be seen as punishment but rather as opportunities for growth and the strengthening of character. Building a clear structure in life, creating a daily routine, and taking a systematic approach to problem-solving will help manage its influence more easily. Self-discipline becomes the key to success: the more order and organization you have in your life, the easier it will be to overcome challenges. It is also important to learn not to shift responsibility for your life onto circumstances or other people but to see yourself as the rightful master of your destiny. Accepting limitations and working on yourself will gradually lead to inner strength, stability, and self-respect.

Saturn in the 2nd house

Saturn in the second house teaches responsibility, discipline, and patience regarding resources, self-sufficiency, and value. To navigate these lessons, it is important to develop inner stability and learn to recognize the true value of yourself and your life, regardless of external circumstances. Start by identifying your priorities in the financial and material realms and understanding which beliefs about money and resources limit you. Saturn requires a structured approach, so build a habit of budgeting, saving, and working toward long-term financial goals.

Equally important is the lesson of self-sufficiency—learn to rely on your own skills and efforts to feel secure about the future. On an emotional level, it is necessary to overcome feelings of lack or fear of loss, which Saturn may intensify, and gradually replace them with an awareness of your worth. Developing patience and resilience will help you realize that success in this area comes through gradual effort rather than instant results. Practice gratitude for what you already have and cultivate a realistic approach to managing resources, avoiding extremes—both greed and excessive extravagance.

Saturn in the 3rd house

Saturn in the third house teaches discipline in communication, thinking, and learning. It demands structuring your thoughts, learning to express yourself clearly and accurately, and formulating ideas. The key to mastering these lessons lies in patience, consistency, and responsibility while learning and interacting with others. It is important to overcome the fear of expressing your thoughts or a lack of confidence in your intellect. Developing a systematic approach to learning, such as setting specific goals and deadlines for mastering new information, is essential.

Additionally, it is important to work on your relationships with siblings, neighbors, and people in your immediate environment, showing more patience and a willingness to engage in dialogue. Saturn in this house does not tolerate superficiality and requires deep analysis of any situation. Gradually developing critical thinking will help overcome obstacles. If communication challenges arise, practicing writing, reading, or public speaking can be beneficial — this will strengthen confidence and allow you to structure your ideas more effectively.

Saturn in the 4th house

The lessons of Saturn in the fourth house are connected to deep inner work on one��s emotional world, family foundations, and emotional security. To overcome these challenges, it is necessary to consciously work on one’s roots and relationships with family, especially parents, as karmic ties or heavy family patterns often emerge here. Taking responsibility for your emotional maturity becomes a key step: instead of blaming your family or circumstances, it is important to see how they have shaped your personality and learn to build your life based on your own principles. Saturn demands discipline and patience, so creating a stable home environment, even if it requires time and effort, becomes the foundation of your inner balance.

The lessons often involve learning to cope with loneliness and emotional restraint, finding support within yourself rather than in external circumstances. Learning to set boundaries with others is helpful, as well as recognizing your right to personal space and emotional well-being. Practices such as self-reflection, working with a psychologist, or meditation can help you better understand your fears and limitations, freeing space for more mature and healthier emotional responses.

Saturn in the 5th house

The Saturn in the fifth house requires patience, awareness, and inner discipline. The fifth house is associated with creativity, self-expression, joy, children, romantic relationships, and games. When Saturn enters this house, it can impose limitations and challenges in these areas, prompting an individual to gain a deeper understanding of their true needs and talents. It is important to learn to take responsibility for one’s own happiness and creative fulfillment rather than shifting it onto circumstances or other people. Saturn demands consistent effort and a serious approach to any creative project; superficiality and carelessness will not bring satisfaction. Overcoming fears of self-expression, criticism, and failure plays a key role. It is essential to find what truly brings joy and to develop it despite difficulties.

The romantic relationships may serve as a lesson in trust and maturity: Saturn teaches one to see love not as a source of pleasure but as a commitment and opportunity for growth. Regarding children, this placement often pushes for a serious and responsible attitude toward their upbringing or toward developing one’s own “inner maturity.” It is important to learn to find joy in simple things and to allow oneself to express happiness, even when it requires effort. Accepting discipline as a foundation for growth and realizing that satisfaction comes with time and hard work helps you successfully navigate Saturn’s lessons.

Saturn in the 6th house

To pass Saturn’s lessons in the sixth house, it is necessary to focus on discipline, responsibility, and service in daily life. The sixth house symbolizes work, health, routine, and self-discipline, so developing beneficial habits and patience in daily duties are key themes. Saturn demands structure and diligence, so learning to plan tasks, organize work time, and not avoid difficulties is important. Overcoming laziness, chaos, and procrastination will help harmonize Saturn’s influence. Special attention should be paid to health: regular medical check-ups, physical activity, and a balanced diet become essential tools for maintaining body and spirit balance.

Saturn’s lesson here is to recognize the value of work, humility, and service to others. Work done with responsibility and without the desire for immediate rewards brings inner growth and strengthens character. It is important to understand that success comes through painstaking effort, not quick results. Accepting routine duties as a means of self-development and improving one’s life will help to pass Saturn’s lessons with wisdom and resilience.

Saturn in the 7th house

Saturn in the seventh house teaches responsibility in relationships, maturity, and balance between personal freedom and commitments to others. To navigate these lessons, it is essential to build honest, stable, and mutually respectful partnerships. This primarily requires patience and a willingness to work on yourself and your relationships, especially when facing challenges or disappointments. Saturn may manifest as delays in forming a serious union, but this time can be used for self-discovery and developing communication skills. Understanding your expectations and limitations will help avoid illusions and disappointments.

It is also important to realize that responsibility in relationships is not only about obligations but also about respecting boundaries—both your own and your partner’s. Practices like meditation and working with a psychologist or mentor can be helpful in overcoming fears and insecurities related to intimacy. Respect for yourself and others, a realistic approach to relationships, and a readiness to learn from mistakes are the keys to successfully mastering the lessons of Saturn in the seventh house.

Saturn in the 8th house

Saturn in the eighth house indicates profound transformations, challenges, and lessons related to themes of intimacy, shared resources, debts, inheritance, and emotional depth. To successfully navigate Saturn’s lessons in this position, learning to accept change as an inevitable part of life is crucial. Develop patience, discipline, and responsibility in managing shared finances, as well as in relationships that involve trust and emotional vulnerability. Work on fears of losing control and embrace the necessity of letting go of what no longer serves your growth. Practicing meditation, mindfulness, and other activities that promote emotional healing can be helpful. Strive to find a balance between the material and the spiritual, recognizing that true strength comes from inner peace and the ability to overcome fears. Cultivate resilience, trust in life, and accountability for your actions.

Saturn in the 9th house

The lessons of Saturn in the ninth house are associated with embracing discipline and responsibility in matters of faith, philosophy, education, and life beliefs. This placement emphasizes the need for a serious approach to broadening one’s worldview, studying profound knowledge, and developing personal wisdom. It teaches patience and demonstrates that true understanding comes through hard work, personal experience, and overcoming internal limitations.

It is essential to overcome the fear of making mistakes in the search for truth and to learn to trust your inner teacher. Saturn’s lessons in this house demand a striving for deep understanding rather than superficial perception and an awareness that genuine knowledge requires time and effort. Taking responsibility for your beliefs and being willing to learn, even when it seems challenging, will pave the way to wisdom. Saturn also highlights the importance of structure, which may manifest in the need to plan studies or travels.

Saturn in the 10th house

Saturn in the tenth house indicates the need to learn lessons of responsibility, perseverance, and discipline, especially in professional matters and issues related to social status. The key to successfully overcoming Saturn’s challenges in this position lies in accepting the necessity of long-term effort and building a structured approach to life without expecting immediate results. Developing patience and understanding that true achievements come through consistent effort and a willingness to take on greater responsibilities is important.

The fear of failure can be a strong companion, so working on self-confidence and avoiding excessive self-criticism is crucial. Focus on quality over quantity in your tasks and projects. Strive to find a balance between career ambitions and personal life, ensuring that your professional sphere doesn’t completely drain your energy.

Saturn calls for awareness of your true goals. This is a time to reassess your aspirations: does your work align with your inner purpose? Be prepared for the possibility of changing direction or letting go of outdated goals that are no longer relevant. Embracing responsibility for your choices, developing self-discipline, and maintaining a long-term perspective will help you achieve sustainable success and fully realize your potential.

Saturn in the 11th house

Saturn in the eleventh house teaches us responsibility within social circles, the development of friendships, and the fulfillment of long-term dreams. This lesson requires patience and a conscious choice of surroundings, as friends can become important teachers. To navigate Saturn’s lessons, it is crucial to learn how to structure your goals and demonstrate discipline in achieving them. Challenges in trusting others or feelings of isolation may arise, but they serve as a catalyst for developing inner strength.

It is beneficial to cultivate teamwork skills without fear of taking on leadership roles or responsibility for group projects. Moreover, it is important to realize that true freedom comes through conscious limitations and the proper allocation of energy. Regular self-development, awareness of your role in society, and a willingness to reassess your beliefs about friendship and collective work will help you navigate this period harmoniously.

Saturn in the 12th house

Saturn in the twelfth house indicates the need to work through deep subconscious fears, hidden limitations, and karmic debts. To pass the lessons of Saturn in this position, it is important to embrace solitude as a means of inner growth rather than isolation. Practicing meditation, mindfulness, and spiritual self-discovery will become powerful tools for personal development. Patience, humility, and the willingness to let go of the past, including resentments and inner regrets, are essential. Saturn demands discipline and structure, so even in spiritual practices, it is crucial to maintain consistency. Reading, self-analysis, and helping others through charity or volunteer work can help harmonize the influence of this planet. Taking responsibility for subconscious reactions and working through deep emotions such as guilt or shame will aid in removing internal blocks. The lessons of Saturn in the twelfth house may be challenging, but they bring strength, wisdom, and the ability to live more consciously, freeing oneself from illusions.

[darkmatilda]

𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: the death of your father brings you back to your hometown, straight into the grip of a long conversation with an old friend, during which you both rediscover who you truly were and how differently you remember certain events.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x female!reader, childhood friends, flashbacks to times when they were 12-14, an alcoholic father, the father's death, brain tumor, death of both parents and grief, lots of inner rage, reader has actually a whole backstory so you need to immerse yourself, father is referred as "y/s", an open ending

𝐚/𝐧: my keyboard was burning as i wrote this

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 9k

Spencer had always found a certain comfort in nights spent aboard the jet.

In the dim light, with its warm, amber glow spilling softly into the shadows, there was a kind of serenity. A quiet that didn’t invite troubling thoughts to creep in but was instead punctuated by the gentle reminders of his team’s presence. The low hum of JJ and Elle’s tired but easy conversation, occasionally broken by soft laughter or the sound of cards hitting the table. The faint whisper of music leaking from Derek’s headphones as he drifted in and out of sleep. The rhythmic rustle of papers as Hotch worked methodically through them.

Usually, in this specific moment, Spencer felt relaxed. The case was behind them, and they were heading home. But that day, an unshakable knot lingered in his stomach.

He tore his gaze away from the chessboard. For a while now, he had simply been staring at it, his mind abandoning any effort to determine the next pawn move. He tried to snap himself back into focus, to analyze the game so far, find the weak spots, formulate a strategy... but he just couldn’t.

Leaning over the table, Gideon shifted back a little, propping himself on his elbow as he studied Spencer carefully.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Spencer, after a prolonged moment of silence, shrugged.

“I’m still thinking about your last move. Of course, for obvious reasons, I’m not going to tell you what conclusions I’ve drawn, opponent...”

“No, Reid, I’m asking what’s wrong,” Gideon repeated, nodding slightly in his direction. His voice softened a bit, as if trying to give Spencer space to open up. His eyes held their characteristic mix of curiosity and concern. “With you, kid. You’re acting strange.”

“According to some, I always act strange,” Spencer tried to shrug dismissively, forcing a small joke. He exhaled heavily afterward. 

“But not like this. You’re not hesitating on your move because you don’t know what it should be. You’re hesitating because you’re distracted. You can’t focus, not even on chess,” Gideon stated with certainty. Spencer wanted to shrug again, but he knew repeating the gesture and his disoriented behavior wouldn’t ease the older man’s worry. Instead, he kept staring at the chessboard, avoiding direct eye contact.

“I’m going to ask you one question,” Gideon said, his tone steady yet gentle, “but I don’t want you to feel like you have to answer it. I just want to see your reaction—the rest I’ll figure out myself.”

Spencer couldn’t hold back a genuine chuckle, brief but sincere.

“Are you profiling me, Gideon?”

“That skill isn’t limited to catching serial killers,” Gideon replied evenly. “So, here’s the question—does the way you’re feeling have anything to do with the death of Lieutenant Y/S?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. A resigned sigh escaped instead. He abandoned any attempt to deny it, to change the subject, or even to lie—it was too precise a hit. A blow too accurate to defend against.

“How do you know?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.

“You usually read through entire newspapers as if they were single-page pamphlets in a doctor’s waiting room. Today, you stared at it for a good fifteen minutes. Then you slipped one of the pages into your jacket pocket. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, so I couldn’t make out which one exactly. But considering Y/S was from your hometown…you knew him. That much is clear.”

The curse of being surrounded by profilers: they noticed everything.

But eventually, Spencer gave a small nod, conceding the point. Deep down, he supposed he did want to talk about it—with someone he trusted, someone who knew him well enough to piece together his worries from something as small as lingering too long over a newspaper.

“He was my neighbor,” he began cautiously, unsure where to even start unraveling the story. Slowly, he reached up to remove his glasses, pressing the bridge of his nose in thought. “His whole family, actually. His wife and…and their daughter.”

Gideon raised his eyebrows, as if everything suddenly made sense. And, knowing him, it probably did.

“An old friend, then,” he said, his voice carrying a faint note of melancholy. “How’s she handling her father’s death?”

Spencer shook his head.

“We…we’re not in touch anymore.” The words felt strange on his tongue, as if he hadn’t said them out loud in years. And perhaps he hadn’t. No one had asked about her in a long time. The words didn’t fill him with sadness exactly—maybe too much time had passed for that—but there was still that odd sensation in his chest. A warm ache, tinged with something like regret. He pushed through it and met Gideon’s gaze. “But I’ve been thinking about her. Ever since I found out.”

“Understandable. Especially since you were so close,” Gideon replied.

There was a hint in his words, a suggestion that settled into Spencer's mind. He truly knew everything.

“I’ve been wondering if I should reach out to her,” Spencer suddenly blurted out. The idea had come to him earlier, spontaneously, and hadn’t let go since. “Maybe not meet up, but…maybe just call. Garcia could probably find her number…What do you think?”

“Maybe it’s because I’m from a different generation,” Gideon started slowly, taking on a more serious, almost fatherly tone. “But to me, things like offering condolences shouldn’t be done over the phone. Especially when that person means so much to you.”

“She doesn’t—” Spencer began, but the words died in a sigh. He couldn’t say she meant nothing to him. Still, he sensed that Gideon had formed an image of their relationship that wasn’t quite accurate, and he felt the need to clarify things. “Listen, I had feelings for her, that’s true. I’m not…not ashamed to admit it.” Why, then, did his cheeks begin to warm? “But what I feel now has nothing to do with that. Above all, she was my friend. And her father…I spent a lot of time at their place. Actually, it was because of him that I even started thinking about going this route. You know, the FBI. I just feel…I feel like I should do it. Reach out to her, I mean. Say I’m sorry, listen to how she’s doing. For both of them.”

When he finished speaking, he felt a slight out of breath, like he’d just run a mile. Well, okay, maybe it was more like he’d climbed the stairs faster than usual. He stared at Gideon, waiting for the next words. But Gideon’s face remained unreadable, his posture still.

Spencer blinked, a bit desperate.

“What? You got me to say all that, and you’re not even going to give me any feedback?” he asked. 

Gideon watched him for a moment, then a small smile appeared on his lips.

“Spencer, you’ve already figured it out for yourself. There’s nothing I can add.”

He frowned in confusion. He started to think about it and didn’t even notice when they returned to their chess game. Surprisingly, he managed to move a pawn at last; his mind actually felt clearer. His opponent leaned slightly over the table again, unmoved, pushing the queen despite it being a risky move, one that could change everything.

“Did you tell her how you feel about her?” he suddenly asked, as Spencer remained lost in thought.

Spencer winced slightly, not understanding the question. Before the other man could repeat it, Spencer suddenly understood, and a short sigh escaped his lips. Oh.

He mumbled an unclear confirmation. He had to swallow to clear his throat.

“I did,” he admitted. A deeper breath, as if to wash it off. So much time had passed, he should have done it long ago. He looked more confidently at Gideon, his expression showing some finality, something unquestionable. “But she didn’t feel the same. And that’s…completely okay. Can we get back to the game?”

Gideon agreed, of course. But before doing so, he once again scanned his face. He didn’t smile, didn’t say anything, but despite that, it was clear.

Clear that he truly cared about him.

*

You couldn’t remember the last time something as simple as sending an email felt like such a challenge. You also couldn't remember the last time you'd written so many versions of a single message, all with the same goal in mind—agreeing to meet up. With someone you hadn't seen in years.

You alternated between typing and holding down the caps lock key, deleting everything. In recent days, you’d been replying to a mountain of messages, not even trying to hide the falseness of it all or force a smile of gratitude when someone insisted on hugging you, offering their deepest condolences. You surrendered to it all like some kind of medical procedure, while feeling the weight of eyes on your face, searching for traces of tears and the despair behind them. Searching for proof that it mattered to you. That you were conforming to their image of no one else but your father. The Lieutenant, repeatedly decorated for his service, who passed away shortly after retiring due to unspecified health reasons (such a nice euphemism for the pulmonary embolism caused by years of alcoholism). A daughter, humbly lowering her head at his funeral, eyes filled with tears, accepting all words of comfort with graceful charm. It perfectly fit the romanticized image of the person your father was.

That bitterness toward the entire situation grew stronger within you with each passing day. At the funeral, you’d been too disoriented to notice it. You felt like an empty field where any thought or conclusion simply withered in its infancy, never able to fully blossom. Too disconnected from reality, too preoccupied with logistics to cry.

But putting aside this self-analysis of your grief (you never bought into the whole five stages theory—though you didn’t deny it might work for some people. You just thought it was too complex a process to be summarized into bullet points), you agreed to meet with Spencer. His message pulled you, however briefly, out of that apathetic void, leaving you genuinely surprised. Only later did it occur to you that this was normal—old friends often reach out after years apart. They comment on vacation photos with flame emojis or laugh-reacts. They send generic birthday wishes. They ask how you're doing when your father dies. Normal stuff.

There had been no falling out between you. Sometimes people are simply separated by distance, by different stages of life, of career, and contact becomes more sporadic until, eventually, it fades. The moment it happens is easy to miss, and you’d missed it entirely. The last time you’d spoken face-to-face was right before you left for a college far from your hometown. Six years ago. By then, Spencer had already accumulated a staggering number of academic accolades, advancing at a pace that matched his brilliance. During your first year apart, you exchanged a few messages—it seemed like the right thing to do. But you’d never been good at maintaining long-distance friendships, and soon enough, his presence was relegated to that most worn-out folder in the archive of your life, simply labeled as childhood.

You had no real reason to turn down the meeting. You were curious about the kind of person Spencer had become. Still, you couldn’t deny, even to yourself, that your primary motivation was to escape spending any more time in that desolate house. A house that bore visible signs of use yet stood conspicuously empty of owners.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that it didn’t much like you. The house, that is. As though it harbored a grudge against you for deciding to leave, and now, upon your return, it had no intention of welcoming you back.

Any excuse to get away from it was a good one.

Your area didn’t offer many options for meeting places, so you suggested the first one that came to mind—a bar. As you walked inside, your eyes scanned only for a familiar face, paying no attention to the mahogany nooks and crannies of the place you knew all too well.

You exchanged a touchless greeting—two polite smiles, nothing more.

And then, the silence settled in, thick with awkwardness.

"I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral," he said finally. The words tumbled out, and he winced the moment they did, likely realizing that opening the conversation this way was steering it down a less-than-pleasant path. He sighed but pressed on, determined to explain. "I only found out about it, well, through the paper. By the time I knew, it was already too late to even think about it. Plus, work…"

"You’ve changed," you cut him off mid-explanation with a simple observation that seemed to spill out of your mouth unbidden. "Maybe that’s where we should start. It’s good to see you, Spence."

The use of his old nickname seemed to throw him off balance.

"Sorry," you added quickly, breaking into a small laugh. "I forgot how much you hate small talk."

"No, it’s fine," he assured quickly. At the sound of your laugh, he shifted in his seat, almost distracted. Even though you weren’t exactly an expert at reading people, it was clear that something about that moment had triggered a wave of warmth in him, the sharp and tender grip of nostalgia. You could almost see the memories flickering across his mind—the two of you racing your bikes to the library, abandoning them haphazardly near the entrance, and bursting through the doors with a triumphant shout of first! Or maybe one of the countless other small moments, fragments of your shared past that sometimes surfaced in your own mind like snippets of a forgotten commercial.

He shook his head, pulling himself out of the haze, a faint smile curving his lips. "I mean, I’ve come to realize small talk isn’t always the enemy. Sometimes it’s just…part of connecting with people. It doesn’t have to feel like this desperate attempt to keep a conversation from flatlining."

You ordered a beer—not because you wanted to drink it, but to have something to fidget with. Still, at his words, you raised it to your lips in an overly dramatic gesture.

"Wow. Words like that coming from Spencer Reid. Who would’ve thought?”

He spread his arms as if wanting to join in on your question. The initial awkwardness between you both seemed to be fading, and it felt like you were both becoming more relaxed.

"You said it yourself, I’ve changed," he reminded you, then raised an eyebrow. "Well, I just don’t know if you meant for the better or for the worse."

You adjusted your posture, like some professional judge preparing to deliver their verdict. The chance to scrutinize him had presented itself, and you were ready to take it.

You'd known each other since you and your family had moved to the house on the outskirts. You weren't exactly a little kid by then, but in hindsight, you weren’t sure you even had memories before that event. If you did, they were insignificant. Anyway, you had always been fascinated by how friendships were formed when you were kids. As an adult, it’s incredibly difficult and usually based on shared interests. You meet at work, a manga club, or a Pilates class. You have to have something to talk about. It’s best when your sense of humor aligns, or at least doesn’t offend each other. Shared views are nice, though some people claim to enjoy a bit of difference for expanding their horizons. But it’s always just a bit.

Well, that’s how it was with you two. You were the little, mischievous adventurer, and he was the know-it-all shadow behind your back. Somehow, he always agreed to your silly ideas, the ones that later got you both into trouble. But despite the differences, every summer morning one of you would show up at the other’s door. It’s hard to compare him to his childhood version when the last time you saw each other, you were both eighteen. But even compared to that, the man sitting in front of you was different. Still young, but with more mature features. His hair was neatly styled, instead of the shapeless mess of long strands. He wore a side parting now. His dressing style, once a bit granddad-ish, was still polished, but it now had the feel of someone who might, at any moment, be heading to the garden to transplant a fern.

That much hadn't changed, you thought, noting his navy cardigan and the collar of his shirt peeking out with a tie. You glanced at his shoes—no Converse or any kind of sneakers, but proper dress shoes.

Then, the last thing—his eyes. The most striking feature of his face, drawing attention like two slightly melted pieces of chocolate. They were penetrating, yet once upon a time, they allowed you to peer into his inner world and his feelings. At least, that’s how it was back then. Now, there was more calculation and seriousness in them. Only after a moment did you realize that the coolness in his gaze was likely a result of the years spent working around the horrors of violent crimes.

You cleared your throat, realizing that your staring had gone on longer than necessary.

"I don't think I can really judge," you finally said, trying to stay diplomatic. "But I'm glad you didn’t give in to the contact lens trend. You've always looked good in glasses."

Spencer gave you a doubtful look.

"When I started wearing them as a kid, you laughed and said it sealed my nerdy reputation," he pointed out.

"I don't remember that," you replied innocently.

"I do. And I think that's enough evidence," he snorted. "I have to admit, though, I did give contacts a try for a while. Just out of curiosity, to see if they were more comfortable and how I'd look in them."

You pointed a finger at him.

"Poser."

He rolled his eyes, amused. This word in combination with someone like him was so absurd that he wouldn’t have been offended even if you’d said it with the utmost seriousness.

"Classic me," he sighed. His gaze had been drifting toward you for a while now, darting away whenever you caught him. Eventually, though, it settled fully on you. "You've changed a lot too. Which, I guess, is obvious considering how much time has passed. Still, it surprises me more than it should. You’ve finished school by now, right?"

"Right. Though I feel like I should be asking you which degree you’re on now."

That sent the two of you down the path of catching up—old-fashioned life updates that somehow didn’t feel tedious or like either of you wanted to change the subject. It turns out, when you’re interested in someone enough, even hearing about their Thursday trips to the farmer’s market for fresh eggplants to make some fancy casserole can feel fascinating.

With genuine curiosity, you caught up on everything that had happened over the years, growing more relaxed as the evening stretched on. Question, answer, sarcastic jab, playful comment. Anecdote, opinion. Gratitude that you’d chosen to come out for this meeting instead of barricading yourself at home, surrounded by the thoughts you still hadn’t confronted and the walls steeped in the lingering presence of your father. A desire to capture your shared laughter, to trap it in time. A tightening in your stomach—though maybe that was just you.

Nostalgia was a dangerous pursuit. It stretched like a rubber band, reaching deeper and deeper into the past, plucking out the good parts. But at some point, it always had the potential to snap back, hitting you square in the face.

“You know,” Spencer started suddenly, his tone quieter, more thoughtful. “I really hate that it took something like this for us to meet again. And that it’s been so long.”

You shrugged, letting out a soft sigh.

“Well, it’s not like you made much of an effort to stay in touch.”

The words landed like a pebble dropped into still water, rippling outward. Both of you stiffened in your seats, and you both noticed it. A part of you regretted saying it, but another part—heart pounding in an inner applause—did not.

Even though you hadn’t delivered it with sharpness or cutting sarcasm, you could see from the way his expression tightened that the atmosphere around you had shifted.

“You didn’t, either,” he pointed out. His tone was calm, almost detached, but above all, honest.

You shifted in your seat, trying to shake off the weight of your own hypocrisy. For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other in silence.

Spencer opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost a whisper, carrying an undertone of apology.

“I just want you to know…it’s not like I stopped thinking about you. It wasn’t the news about your dad that reminded me you exist.”

"Spencer, please… don’t lie," you blurted out almost involuntarily. You squeezed your eyes shut tightly for a moment, your temples tensing. Of course, you couldn’t just enjoy a pleasant evening—you had to let your inner frustration spill out. You wouldn’t be yourself otherwise. Biting the inside of your cheek, you pressed on despite that or the expression on his face.

"I mean, I know that’s exactly how it was, because it was the same for me. You crossed my mind a few times, sure, but let’s not kid ourselves. If we had really meant that much to each other, we’d have met up long, long before now."

He shook his head as he listened to your words, simultaneously rejecting them and admitting their truth, as his tense jaw suggested.

"I went to see your parents," he confessed suddenly, hesitating as he wet his bottom lip with his tongue, a faint, somber smile touching his face. "It was actually the only time I came back here, after my mom… after I placed her in a sanitarium. I was hoping to run into you, but your dad said you hardly ever came home."

"Was he sober when you talked to him?"

"It was lunchtime."

You couldn’t hold back and let out a short laugh.

"Oh, boy, you missed a lot."

His eyes softened yet stiffened at the same time in a paradoxical way. You saw how he straightened slightly in his seat, as the saliva that had long been gathering in your mouth threatened to spill. You weren’t sure what you hoped to achieve by bringing up your father. Maybe you were trying to make some twisted, clumsy argument, or perhaps, after everything that had revolved around him in the past few days, your mind instantly turned to his figure every time you were too exhausted to pull up anything else. It was easy. Silence, awkwardness, pain. The memory of your father, the immediate understanding directed toward you. Almost pity, but dressed up in a more pleasant package.

"Do you have any idea what was going on with him in the last few years?" you asked, empty.

 "He had a problem? You know, with drinking?"

You tried not to snort in contempt at the question.

"He’s always had a problem," you stated, your hands tightening slightly on your chest under the table. You'd never spoken to anyone about this aloud. Any grievances you had with him were always kept in your head, knowing you wouldn’t find understanding from people who hadn’t lived with your father every day. Who knew him as a cop with an iron fist, but with a big heart for suffering, innocent people. "Well, I don’t know if you remember. Beer as an inseparable part of the day. Or maybe more of the evening. But he had a stressful job, right? It’s normal to have a drink or two in front of the TV, isn’t it?"

Spencer’s lips pressed together tightly.

“He saw a lot of crap every day, so of course, he’d take it out by yelling at his wife,” you continued, not stopping the bitterness building up inside you. It had been there for so long, but never formed into one angry thought. It surfaced every time someone spoke of him in glowing terms, patting you on the shoulder and pitying your loss with a tear in their eye. “Or at his daughter. He had to control everything, right? After all, he worked hard. He deserved to come home to a perfect family, in a perfect house, with no complaints.”

You stopped, closely watching his reaction. Maybe you'd said too much, unloaded too much all at once, putting too much pressure on him.

“I remember when we were thirteen,” he suddenly spoke, in a strangely detached tone. It was as if he was talking about something that had unexpectedly lodged itself in his mind and couldn't wait. “And he let us try beer.”

Well, that wasn't the response you'd expected. But really, what did you expect? You'd told yourself countless times that someone's sympathy wouldn't change anything about your situation. But still, you felt a sting, as if he was changing the subject and brushing off your words.

“He let you try the beer,” you corrected him automatically. Yet, despite your grim mood, the corner of your mouth quivered involuntarily. “But you gave it to me because you didn’t like it.”

The memory flooded you, bringing a wave of others with it.

Another summer evening filled with shouting.

You waited until the two arguing figures disappeared into the kitchen walls before quietly slipping through the terrace doors. You’d started doing this a while ago. Your father had always been strict, making sure your mother sent you to bed at the designated time—unchanged since you were seven. And that year, you were twelve. Anyway, one evening, you lay trembling under your blanket. Even the smallest argument seemed like a horror story in a child’s eyes. You saw the light on at your neighbor’s house—Spencer’s and his mom’s. Knowing that after drinking, your father’s vigilance and control weakened, you decided to take the risk.

You managed to sneak out unnoticed once, then again. Soon, it became normal. You’d return about an hour later when the situation calmed down, and his drunken anger had finally shifted to drunken sleepiness, and he wouldn’t notice your return. You never asked about it directly, but your mom probably knew.

“Can we watch something normal, just this one time?” you whimpered at the sight of another nature documentary on the TV in the Reid’s living room.

Spencer, lying on his stomach on the carpet, jumped slightly, startled when you slipped in through the glass terrace doors. However, he was starting to get used to your evening visits and quickly shook off the shock.

“There’s nothing more normal on earth than the processes that happen on its surface,” he said, turning his gaze back to the TV.

You raised your finger, sticking out your front teeth.

“There’s nothing more normal on earth than the processes that happen on its surface,” you repeated, mimicking his pretentious tone in an exaggerated way.

“Go away.”

“Then give me the remote.”

You chased each other around the living room, trying to wrest the remote from each other’s hands. Your squeals, arguments, and laughter never seemed to disturb Spencer’s mom, which always puzzled you. She didn’t even come out when you accidentally knocked over the bookshelf, sending several shelves of books crashing to the floor, which you both scrambled to pick up in a panic.

You often wondered that every day, Spencer watched those science programs, alone in the living room, with the terrace doors open. The darker thought would occasionally cross your mind: What if, just that one time, someone else had barged in? What would have to happen to pull Diane Reid out of one of those strange states she sometimes slipped into, when nothing around her mattered, not even her own son? But, as you said, those were very rare thoughts. After all, you were just a kid.

“Why can’t you watch TV at your place?” Spencer asked, pouting his lips.

He lost the fight for the remote, and you were now watching cartoons. His eyes absorbed them with interest, even though he denied it.

“Evenings, the TV belongs to my dad.”

“Couldn’t you ask him to let you watch something sometimes?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because no.”

“That’s not an answer!”

But even though he pretended to be unhappy, the terrace doors remained open every evening.

You confessed to Spencer that your father had always been like that. He pretended to be fine, then would crack, and afterward deny everything. You saw hesitation on his face as he listened, especially when you described how things were during your childhood. Spencer Reid liked to be right, and he absolutely trusted his own judgment. He hadn’t been a direct witness to those events, unlike you. Your father had always adored him—the small, smart neighbor kid who skipped grades and always asked so many questions about his work in the police. Of course, he had always been the best version of himself around Spencer. You also suspected that he probably always wished for a son.

His assessment, therefore, might not have been objective. He hadn’t seen what went on behind closed doors. For a moment, fear crept up on you. Did he even believe your words? Or did he think you were just fabricating a tragic story to explain a real problem that, in reality, hadn’t started until after you moved out?

Spencer just gave a barely noticeable nod, his forehead tense.

"You spent so much time at our house," he said quietly, uncertainly. "Why...why didn’t you ever tell me what was really going on? Back then and later on?"

You shrugged. Inside, you could have easily mocked your father’s addiction, but in reality, you were still deeply ashamed of it. Like any family of an alcoholic, hiding his bottles, lying that he was sick when unexpected guests came over, never calling the problem by its name.

"I don’t know. You liked him so much." A moment of silence, swallowing hard. "And he liked you."

"I respected him. Like I think everyone did."

One of Spencer's most painful yet beautiful childhood memories was that one specific moment during the holidays. He always spent them only with his mom, who wasn’t always feeling the best, but that one moment stayed with him as something special. When they stepped out onto the terrace, where they had the perfect view of the terrace of the neighboring house. The family that lived there—mom, dad, and their daughter—would also lean out, and they would all sincerely wish each other a Merry Christmas.

Their house was always decorated with colorful lights and those slightly eerie garden gnomes in the night light. They stood on their doorstep, the three of them. Neatly dressed, their daughter in a red dress with a large bow in her hair, clinging to her mother's side. They always seemed so happy, so perfect to him. A strange feeling would arise in his chest, and he’d move closer to his mother’s side, but that only intensified the sensation of something missing inside him.

"You looked up to him."

"Because I was a kid. Look, just because he had an impact on me, on my future…it doesn’t mean I’m diminishing what you or your mom went through," he finally explained, his voice tinged with a slight crack. His gaze was both confused and sad, still processing everything he’d just heard. "It’s really awful, and no one should go through that. I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Or maybe I did, but I didn’t want to? Anyway…I’m sorry for being so clueless."

"You weren’t clueless," you assured him, a weak smile forming on your lips. His words echoed in your mind. “You were just a kid. And I didn’t bring this up to make you feel bad. I’m sorry if that’s how it came across. I just...I wanted at least one person, besides me, to have the full picture”

He nodded, but not in the mindless way that merely signals someone is paying attention. This was different—a deep, understanding gesture, replacing the words that had been growing more difficult to say. You both sat there in silence for a moment, your fingers mechanically tapping out a slow rhythm on the dark wood of the table, while his rested motionless on his knees. It was hard to return to that relaxed, pleasant conversation you’d started with.

“I’m glad we could meet,” you said simply, but honestly.

Usually, saying something like that signals the speaker is preparing to leave. You had already spent a lot of time in the small bar, and with the evening progressing, the crowd hadn’t really changed—only a few more people had trickled in. The thought of going home wasn’t so bad anymore, but still, you hesitated before getting up and grabbing the coat hanging on the back of his chair.

“I am too,” Spencer admitted, briefly rubbing his forehead above his glasses. “But before you go, please, tell me—how’s your mom handling it? Maybe you should give her my regards. I hope she’s...”

He stopped mid-sentence, reading the expression on your face, and immediately understood.

"When...when?"

There was something unbearably unsettling about the plastic chairs in the hospital waiting room. At the same time, you could feel your legs completely numb from sitting in them, yet you also felt you didn’t have the strength to get up. You were effectively stuck, like a prisoner awaiting their sentence. In some ways, that’s exactly what it was.

When you were fourteen, your mom started acting strangely. She got sick—started with mild symptoms like headaches and nausea. Then, she lost consciousness at work, and that’s when they found the brain tumor.

When people hear such news about their loved ones, they often completely change their lives. They pull themselves together to be a support for them, they face the painful reality, and they find the strength to fight their own demons, like quitting alcohol. But your father, he took an entirely different route. It seemed like he was sinking deeper into it. No one really reacted. After all, he was a man facing tragedy; surely, it was okay for him to have one too many drinks. Previously strict with his parenting, he no longer seemed to care much about you.

This threw you into a state of confusion. At that moment, more than ever, you needed an adult, a parent, even if they were the most controlling person in the world. Actually, rules might have even helped keep your family in check, maintaining the appearance of normality.

For the first time, you felt the urge to confide in someone, but you had no one. Spencer had started college, which still seemed absurd to you, considering you were the same age. Your contact with him had dwindled, just when you started thinking of him as a true friend—not the ironic, childish kind. You met from time to time, of course, but it was always hard to open up, especially about what was happening at home. Maybe, if he’d been around, he’d have noticed your dad’s decline. But he wasn’t, and it felt silly to even entertain alternative theories, as if they could change the past.

Your knees shook involuntarily, your fingers almost breaking through them. In the room next door, they were performing the surgery to remove the tumor, which was located in a difficult spot, as the doctor, with a gentle yet experienced face, explained to you in a tone that almost sounded apologetic—as though it was his fault. Your dad had been there with you earlier, but you had no idea where he went with the passing of time. Did you even want to know? No. You wanted to be with your other parent—your mom. You didn’t want to leave that room for a second; you wanted to be the first to hear any news, whatever it might be.

The empty chair beside you was suddenly occupied by someone. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, staring at your shoes, trying not to suffocate on your own breath. You didn’t notice who it was.

"Two years ago," you informed him. After those words, there was always silence—people calculating in their heads whether two years was enough time for you to have pulled yourself together, or if they should treat you like a fragile porcelain figurine at risk of cracking. You always helped them, softening the tension that followed with something disarming. "But don’t worry. We weren’t really in touch by then, so you don’t have to feel bad about not knowing."

Okay, that was one of the stranger things you could have said. Spencer must have thought the same; his mouth literally fell open in disbelief.

"Of course I feel bad," he managed, his voice a mix of a sigh and an incredulous scoff, shaken yet laced with growing pain. He quickly shook his head, as if trying to snap himself out of it. "Of course I feel bad. I—I don’t know why you’d think I wouldn’t. She’s your mom."

Someone’s hand awkwardly reached out to take yours.

You glanced to the side, realizing with disbelief that the person who had sat down next to you was Spencer.

The boy who would get goosebumps at the mere thought of germs. Who openly mocked the idea of drinking from the same bottle, sometimes blurting out that kissing was safer than shaking hands—only to blush furiously when he realized how that sounded.

And yet, he did it. Hesitant, of course, but he reached for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze to disguise the trembling. You barely noticed it. Your hand was shaking too.

Modern-day Spencer rested his forearms on the table, leaning forward. The return of your mother’s tumor had been a blow, and her passing, another. Time, however, had marched on, and you had learned to move through life with that weight. Thoughts of her hadn’t brought tears to your eyes in quite some time. But at the sight of his reaction, the familiar sting returned.

To him, she hadn’t just been your mom. She was the woman in whose house he had spent a significant part of his childhood. The one who always stopped herself at the last moment from enthusiastically hugging him on his birthday, remembering his aversion to touch. The one who listened to him with fascination, praising his brilliance while gently, softly asking how his own mother was doing. The one who loved to sit wrapped in a blanket on the porch with a book, watching as the two of you played a self-invented version of chess that involved running laps around the yard before each move.

You leaned back from him, blinking rapidly to dispel the swell of emotion.

Your mom was to stay in the hospital for a while longer. Night had fallen, and though you couldn't remain until morning, your dad was still nowhere to be found. Instead of fruitlessly searching for him, you and Spencer decided to walk home. The empty streets of the suburbs seemed to meditate in the stillness between you, adjusting to the rhythm of your silence.

Your feet, however, led you both to the playground—a place you hadn't visited in years, having convinced yourselves that you were too old for such things. Even though it was summer, a strange chill settled over your shoulders as you sat in silence on the two solitary swings. Each motion forward felt like it brought you closer to the stars.

It wasn’t that night, specifically, but sometime shortly after, you began to realize that you were starting to feel something more. Lightly, in that innocent, teenage way, you found yourself falling for your best friend. At first, you would have rather died than admit it, but the feeling lingered.

Over the next four years, you saw each other regularly but rarely due to his studies. But you awaited each of these meetings with the greatest impatience, while simultaneously becoming more and more terrified of your own feelings.

"I'm so very sorry I wasn't here then," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. You wanted to shake your head in understanding, to reassure him, but he cut you off. "Not even just at the funeral itself. Just...with you."

"Stop," you pleaded weakly. "You didn’t know. I didn’t tell you. I probably missed a lot of things that happened in your life along the way too." You swallowed to wet your dry throat. The words came out with difficulty, your voice trembling slightly. "At some point, we stopped talking to each other—not the first childhood friends to drift apart and definitely not the last. It just.. happens."

"That doesn’t mean it was right," he replied without hesitation, tilting his head, clearly convinced of the truth in his statement. You weren’t so sure, given your hidden feelings, ones you had no intention of revisiting. Not then, not in that moment, not in that bar. During a meeting that was about to end.

"I’ve known you forever. Well, okay, not literally, but I’ve known you since my brain was forming the most—frontal lobes developing and…what I mean is, you’re really important to me. And I wasn’t there for you when both your parents…"

You let the completion of that sentence fade into the space around you. In the bar, which seemed to exist only in the space you occupied. Breathing more heavily, you recalled all the moments over the past six years when you missed him, wondering what he was up to and how he was doing. Which usually went hand in hand. Sometimes he would cross your mind when you saw kids playing chess in the park, other times you simply thought of him, unable to attribute the guilt to any particular association.

"You’re here now," you said gently, unable to say anything else.

He was still slightly leaning over the table, towards you. Suddenly, as if he realized his position, he slowly leaned back into his chair, exhaling more heavily after a long moment of silence.

You were unable to move, the growing sense of guilt shaping on his face. And when he felt guilty, so did you.

Your goal was to rise from the chair, but your body, against your will, made a different move. To both your surprise, it reached for both of his hands resting on the table, clasping them gently. You tried not to focus on their texture, not to compare them to how they had been before, not to search for that familiar feeling, not to flow with the current of any memories.

Simply to keep him in place for a moment.

“Thank you for being here today,” you whispered, gently squeezing his hands. His fingers, initially limp in yours, were slowly beginning to reconnect, though there was a certain confusion in them. The same confusion was in his eyes. “Thank you for coming as soon as you found out. It really means a lot, Spencer. It really does to me.”

For a moment, you both stayed silent, looking at each other. You both thought you would say something more. You would expand on the thought, maybe call him the best friend you've ever had. Perhaps, without thinking, you'd mention that once you had loved him in a way that might have seemed unexpected. Well, both those options passed through your mind like shadows.

“It’s late.” The third option won. If you had a watch, you would have glanced at it dramatically. That was all that was missing to complete this scene. “I really should be going.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. In the end, he just nodded with silent understanding when he noticed what time it was. Though, it wasn't the time that was the problem. After all, you were both adults who didn’t have a curfew. You could have stayed there until morning. But would that really be good for you?

Slowly, you pulled your coat over your shoulders.

Spencer didn’t move. You wondered if he planned on staying there.

"Do you... do you want me to walk you home?" he asked suddenly, hesitating.

You looked at him, unsure, slipping your hands into your pockets.

"I’m heading the same way," he added quickly, slowly getting up from his seat, even though you hadn’t agreed yet.

You raised an eyebrow in surprise, then remembered that the Reid house hadn't been put up for sale and had been sitting empty for years. You waited until he had put on his coat, and then both of you were exposed to the crisp night air. As you crossed the street, an occasional car passed by with its headlights on, making you both squint. You couldn’t help but think how you never expected that if you ever found yourselves together, side by side in your hometown, it would feel like this. Perhaps you hadn’t even thought that you’d never see each other again. After all, it was quite possible you’d run into each other a few more times. People often bumped into their neighbors from the same apartment block on the other side of the world during vacations, fate had a wicked sense of humor. What you didn’t expect, however, was how present the ghost of your childhood, and the memories it carried, would be during this encounter.

Your steps were oddly small, as though your feet had shrunk. Unconsciously, you extended the walk, turning into a wrong street, just like when you had returned from the hospital after visiting your mother.

 “Are you stopping here?” you asked, your gaze absently drifting to the empty swings on the playground you passed.

Spencer’s eyes followed yours in that direction, and his steps even slowed a little. He probably would’ve stopped if you hadn’t kept moving confidently ahead.

“Just for one night,” he replied, adjusting his glasses on his nose. There wasn’t much enthusiasm in his voice. Sometimes, returning to the family home didn’t bring joy to grown-up children, especially when the house had been empty for a long time—or unbearably loud, depending on the family. “I’m actually flying out tomorrow. I just...really wanted to talk to you.”

You nodded, briefly asking about his mom, then about work, though not in a probing way—just the steady rhythm of a lazy conversation. Slowly, the familiar neighborhood began to shift into the one etched deeply in your subconscious, the one you had both memorized long ago.

Eventually, you both found yourselves forced to stop, mainly due to the sight of your family homes. Standing steadfastly side by side, just like you both had during that entire walk.

“Maybe we should meet up,” he suggested quietly, stopping in front of you. “You know, tomorrow. Just for a moment.”

Staring at his face, bathed in the orange glow of the streetlight, you gently nodded.

“And...maybe sometime after that,” he added.

You were a little short of words, but not because you didn’t want to see him again. It was simply that you didn’t like making promises driven by the moment. For now, you both drowned in nostalgia, unwilling to part ways and disrupt it. But who knew? Maybe once you disappeared from each other’s sight, you’d forget each other’s phone numbers again. Your hesitation seemed to stir something on his face. Perhaps he took it as a refusal.

You sighed deeper and rose onto your toes, wrapping your arms around his neck. It was a very slow, lazy embrace, gradually melding into his body as the scent of his clothes began to tickle your nostrils, and your chin sank deeper into his shoulder, like it was a pillow.

Spencer remained stiff for a moment. You’d only hugged before once, when you were packing your suitcase into the car before leaving for college, as far from your hometown as possible. That hug had been difficult for you. This one, although it too was a form of farewell, felt pleasant and hard to break. Especially when he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms tightly around your back, almost lifting the tips of your fingers off the ground. You heard a soft sigh escape his lips before you pulled away to arm’s length.

"So...see you," you muttered, slowly stepping back, heel to heel. You felt like a magnet being forcibly pulled away from a fridge, shaking your head to get rid of the pull.

Two more small steps back, you should have already turned towards home, but his expression stopped you. Full of hesitation, with a clenched jaw, as if he really wanted to add something, but wasn't sure if he should. You were already half-turned with your back to him.

"Would...would things have been different between us if I hadn't given you that letter back then?" he asked finally, pushing his hands deep into his pockets.

The words seemed to bounce off your ears but didn’t fully reach you. At least not completely. Your posture straightened, freezing in place, facing him once again.

"Well, you know," he tried to explain, forcing a small smile. "We would have stayed in touch more over the years."

"What...what letter, Spencer?"

His brows furrowed, his lips parted, but no sound came from them. Suddenly, he froze, expressionless.

"Did you send me a letter?" you tried, completely not understanding what he meant.

Maybe he had written down your address wrong, and it ended up going to someone else who threw it away. Maybe you had actually received it, but tossed it somewhere in your dorm room, too busy to read it. Then, while dressing, you accidentally knocked it behind your dresser, where it gathered dust through all your years of studying, never meant to reach you again. The cobwebs covering its words, whatever they might have been.

"I left you a letter," he finally said, his voice so fragile that you could almost feel it in your chest. "I knew I wouldn't be able to say it to you. And, well...you were leaving, and I had no idea when we'd see each other again. I just...I didn't want to keep it to myself anymore."

A lingering moment of silence.

"I left it on your terrace," he finally added, barely opening his mouth as he spoke.

You pressed your fist to your chest, closing your eyes for a moment.

"I never got it," you confessed hoarsely, still not looking at him, trying to process what you’d just heard. "On the terrace...God, Spencer. It should've been obvious that someone would throw it out. My mom or dad. Especially him."

He suddenly chuckled, but there was no trace of amusement in it. A bit of absurdity, yes. But mostly, the realization, after all these years, that he had messed up and had no idea about it. On the contrary, he had been under the impression that you knew.

"What was in that letter?"

You felt like you wouldn't go back home until you knew. Spencer, however, shook his head in disbelief, his eyes wide with shock.

"You have to tell me," you insisted firmly. "Whatever it was, please. Even if it's no longer relevant. I just want to know...what you wanted to say to me back then."

His temples tensed as he squeezed his eyes shut. A few breaths later, his muscles loosened. Meanwhile, your body remained still, waiting for what you'd hear.

"I liked you," he finally managed to say. A rush of sound filled your ears. Spencer suddenly let out a bitter chuckle. "It was a love letter. As deep as an eighteen-year-old can get. Maybe...maybe it's better you never got it. I’d be so, so embarrassed by it now…"

"You liked me?" you interrupted him.

You had been enchanted by him for years, not even realizing it for most of that time. Spencer, however, was a complicated teenager, both close and distant at the same time. He was reserved when it came to emotions, impenetrable. Sometimes he’d blush, but never once made a move, never.

He shrugged.

"Well, I guess it doesn't really matter now," he replied. He tried to smile, attempting to wipe away a certain sorrow that still lingered beneath the surface of his expression. "Back then, it didn't really matter much either. But...maybe it's good that you know now. You have...the full picture."

You laughed in a way that was almost tearful, surprising him. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to figure out what he had done wrong to provoke such a reaction from you.

"I think we should talk," you finally said, nervously nodding toward your house. "Maybe...maybe you could come in?"

With held breath, you waited for his response. You felt the suggestion was a bit silly. No conversation could change the course of the last few years, force its direction or undo what had already been set in motion. But you no longer cared about changing anything that had happened between you two. What was in the past was probably already irrelevant. What you wanted now was honesty. The full picture, as he had said. You wanted both of you to have it.

"I don't think so," he replied, taking an unsure step back. A nervous laugh escaped him, probably to loosen himself up. "I mean... I don’t even remember what was in that letter anymore, if you're still curious. It doesn't matter at all... we don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to feel like you should…”

"I liked you too" 

Spencer stopped in his tracks, his hands slipping out of his pockets where he had been nervously hiding them.

"I really think we should talk a little more," you added.

It turned out that those hours spent talking in the bar, just the two of you, hadn’t been enough.

You watched as his chest rose and fell, his head nodding slowly. He agreed.

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch @trulymadlydarling @cynbx @penelopegarciaismygf @awordsmith

[novarex]

Drow Reference Material for your OC and Fanfiction Purposes

This is not a complete list, but here are some references I use often when trying to write thins that are somewhat lore accurate.

This is one of the coolest books I have in physical form. Fortunately for you, you can get the whole book for free in digital form here. I used this CONSTANTLY when writing fics or formulating OCs.

Published in 2012, the same year the Legend of Drizzt book Charon's Claw released, it goes into INCREDIBLE detail about drow culture and the city of Menzoberranzan itself. 10/10

Published in 1992 , Menzoberranzan City of Drow, has a lot of interesting information, but some of it might be old and out of date. There are a few things I noticed that have been changed. This is still a great source of more drow information.

There are two Drow of the Underdark books... this one is for the Forgotten Realms setting and in 2e. The 2007 one is more for other settings as was pointed out to me.

Drow of the Underdark 2e - link in case the one below doesn't work on mobile

Published in 2007, Drow of the Underdark provides more insight into drow culture. There are, however, aspects of this that are outdated. I take some of these older books as if they were written by a person who was observing the drow as an outsider with their own prejudices and preconceived notions.

Demihuman Deities has a ton of text on lots of gods. Good reference for drow gods and just about any other god you want more information on.

Drow language translator - I don't know how accurate this is, but I use it for fanfiction writing anyway.

Excellent resource for Legend of Drizzt and related Forgotten Realms books. Timeline is very valuable when writing fanfiction.

CLCIK HERE TO GO TO REDDIT POST

DO YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT DROW? COME JOIN MY DISCORD SERVER! Due to the nature of drow works and culture, this is an adult level server. Thanks!

[honeqq]

Hi, im about to make everyone miserable with this thought (i've been reading a lot about route #9 and the asks made, alongside the responses you've given)

(Just thoughts, ig..)

Since Clifford is the reincarnation of Ford and has memories of his past life; what will happen with him? Cliff is still Cliff. He is a new person. HE IS himself, but at the same time, he is Ford.

The memories, the feelings, and that heartache he feels whenever he is rejected are something he can't control because in his past life, he loved Bill so much.

"Physically hurts" i'd like to say that due to heartbreak being able to present itself in such a way.

I'm not sure how to formulate this thought or question, but Clifford tries to surpress his memories a lot. Will they overtake him? Will "Ford" come back?

If that happened.. where would Clifford go? "Ford" has no connections with the people in that route but rather his past, Clifford has a whole life here.

His soul has been reincarnated, but he can't never be fully Ford, while Cliff can't never be truly Cliff because he is the new version of "ford".

(I kinda wanna write a one shot of this but, I just need to read more about their personalities to fully grasp it and portray them more accurately, probably why you'll be seeing a lot more from me !!)

—Duckling

Because I done with the route and ppl on twitter cooked me let me spoil !

It does actually ended overtaking him and cliff start to act like ford , but that ended horror bill. he thought he will be happy but seeing ford Infront of him feel surreal that it terrifies him. While he feel nice at first it does feel like a old time but something feel so Uncomfortable he can't describe what.

Cliff the one stealing Ford's Face (they share the same soul so bill doesn't really have commented to that ) but are its even right for ford to steal cliff's life ? Cliff have its own life , own personality , he is own self . And clifford Always have problems to prove that cuz he just think he the continuation of "ford" , the better version of him that his parents and everyone would love he thought. So are he really just going to let himself go like that ?

[roosterforme]

Aim for the Sky Part 22 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: After weeks of looking forward to a quiet day with you and Rose, Bradley almost messes up his own Father's Day celebration. He's lucky you're quick to forgive him. Every day with his daughter is a collection of moments he wants to commit to memory. Every day with you makes him fall more in love.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, adult language, lactation kink, blowjob, DILF Roo

Length: 3800 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Aim for the Sky masterlist. This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.

"Do you have any big plans for Sunday? For Bradley's first Father's Day?"

You looked up from your computer when you realized Cat was talking to you. Truthfully, you did have plans, but they weren't big at all. Your husband just kept telling you that all he wanted was to spend the day with just the three of you.

"Isn't it kind of Jake's first Father's Day, too?" you countered with a grin. When Cat sputtered instead of actually answering, you felt like you'd won this wrong of proverbial chess against a master. "It's okay... you don't have to admit it out loud, but I just know Jake is exceeding all of your expectations."

She dropped down into the seat next to you and leaned in like she was afraid someone else might be listening. "He took Jer to the park with Bradley and Rose the other evening."

"I know," you replied with a laugh. "I needed to clean my house, so I kicked Bradley out and told him to call his bestie, Jake."

Cat looked a little panicked now. "No, you don't understand. I can trust him to take care of Jeremiah."

"Yeah... that's good, right?"

"I don't know!" she hissed. "When I moved to California, it was my intention to never ever get involved with a man again. Just me and Jer. And then when he went away to college, I was going to start collecting exotic pets or something."

You tried not to laugh. "Yeah, Jake kind of ruined that agenda for you, huh?" She buried her face in her hands, and to your surprise, she started crying. You glanced around the lab, but Macy wasn't paying any attention as you put your arm around Cat's shoulders. You were very confused as you whispered, "Are you okay?"

Cat's dark eyes were wet with tears as she met your gaze while somehow shaking her head and nodding at the same time. Her voice was raspy and uneven as she said, "He bought an engagement ring."

"Jake proposed?" you gasped, ready to jump out of your seat. You knew for a fact he wanted to, but he kept saying he didn't think the time was exactly right yet. 

"No. I found the ring. He's terrible at hiding things."

You sat quietly for a minute while she worked at getting herself under control, but then more questions started to formulate in your mind. "I know this isn't where you saw yourself, Cat. I know trusting Jake after leaving your ex is something you've struggled with, but if you love him, then what's holding you back?"

Her fingertips were pressed to her lips, and her hand was shaking. You weren't sure she had even heard your question as she stared off into space and said, "I can't even accurately describe it, because it was so pretty. The diamond was huge. Absolutely enormous. Obviously expensive." She paused and pulled away from you, opening her computer like she didn't just let herself fall apart on your shoulder. "And I have nothing to offer except a child that isn't biologically his and a crippling amount of debt that I'll probably never see the end of." When you opened your mouth to respond, she slammed her computer shut again and said, "And now I'm late to meet with Bickel," before rushing out of the lab.

You stared at the door for a few seconds before you took your phone out and started to draft up a text for Cat. You didn't see her again for the rest of the day, and you didn't send the text until you got home with Bradley and Rose. But you meant every word of it.

You're tenacious and strong, and that's worth a lot more than money. You're the kind of person someone would want to buy a big diamond for.

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

"Why is everything so expensive?" Bradley muttered to himself. "Holy hell."

He was trying to plan out the few days he would have alone with you when your parents came out again for Independence Day. Going back to the oceanfront boutique hotel in La Jolla where you and he had celebrated his birthday two years ago was going to cost a fortune over the holiday.

"Rose isn't going to need money for college anyway," he mused, shrugging at his phone before charging the room to his credit card for three nights. His daughter was going to be a genius. She was already so strong, trying her best to roll over and getting better at holding her head up without support. Suddenly he needed to see her.

Bradley tossed his phone aside and headed for the nursery where you were feeding Rose in the glider chair. When you looked up at him expectantly, he said, "I missed you."

Your gaze was soft as he sat down on the floor next to your feet. "We were with you ten minutes ago."

"Ten minutes ago? No wonder I was getting so lonely," he whispered, reaching out to run his finger along the back of Rose's hand. "Hey, Nugget."

She paused, lips pursed, before she continued eating. It was unreal how adorable she was. Bradley could look at his daughter all day long and never grow tired. He could look at your tits dripping milk all day long, too.

"Let me burp her," he said, making grabby hands as soon as she started to slow down. "It's my favorite."

You handed Rose, who was already dressed in her sleeper, to him, kissing him on the cheek as you stood. "Should I just keep these out for you?" The way you gestured at your breasts left a smile on his face.

"Please. I would very much enjoy it if you did."

You stretched your arms over your head and said, "I'll meet you either in the shower or in bed." Then you were gone, and he was excited to burp the baby and then do whatever you let him do to you.

"Let's see if we can get a nice, big burp out of you so you'll sleep for a few hours," he muttered, pulling one of the many storybooks down from the shelf from his spot on the floor. He'd read every book in the room to her multiple times already, and he couldn't wait until she started to have favorites. Tonight he read about a dragon while he patted and rubbed her back, pausing every page or two to kiss her soft cheek.

She was yawning by the last page of the book, and she did indeed burp for him. When he set her gently in her crib, Bradley whispered, "I can't believe I get to be your dad." He stood there, leaning on the side of the crib until he was certain she was asleep, then he headed for his own bedroom, unzipping his pants along the way.

Bradley found you naked in bed, fresh from the shower and rubbing lotion all over your legs. It was such a mundane yet intimate thing for him to watch, and you didn't realize he was in the doorway yet. "Get in bed," you told Tramp, nodding toward the fluffy mat he slept on next to the bathroom door. "You can't play with Rosie any more tonight. I'm sorry, but she needs to go to sleep after Daddy finishes reading to her."

"I'm finished reading to her."

Your gaze met his as your palms went gliding up your thighs, and you smiled a little shyly at him. Then you reached for the sheet like you were going to try to cover yourself, and he headed for the bed.

"Please don't, Baby Girl," he whispered. "I was really enjoying that view."

You paused and let your eyes drift down his body. "Get undressed and come here."

He did not need you to ask him twice. Bradley yanked his jeans off and tossed them aside followed by his tee shirt and his boxer briefs. You giggled when he climbed into bed in just his socks and hovered above you like he was going to do push ups with his hands planted next to your shoulders.

When he lowered himself down to give you a kiss, you raked your fingers through his hair. He knew there was no hiding how hard he was getting, so he didn't bother. He just pressed himself against you while you licked his bottom lip.

"You're really horny, Roo," you murmured, and he simply nodded. You let one hand drift down along his scarred cheek, and then you were touching your tits. 

He was salivating immediately. He could practically smell you. White beads of your milk formed on your nipples as you gently squeezed yourself, and he whimpered your name. His cock was tapping against your thigh in excitement as he lowered himself down to kiss your lips again.

"It's okay," you whispered. "I know you want to. Go ahead."

Bradley sighed and came to rest on his elbows, letting his mouth meet your nipples.

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

You spent all day Saturday running to three different grocery stores to buy ingredients for Bradley's Father's Day picnic lunch. It cost a small fortune to get everything you needed to make chicken salad sandwiches on homemade bread, a charcuterie board, fruit salad, and brownies. Your plan was to get up very early on Sunday to start making everything, but now Bradley's words made you feel like you were going to cry.

"I'm playing golf in the morning."

He was so nonchalant about it, you thought perhaps he was joking at first. But his expression showed a tiny bit of alarm and remorse, and you knew he was actually ditching you and Rose on Father's Day.

When you spoke, you hated how small your voice sounded. "You said all you wanted was a day with just the three of us."

"I do!" he insisted, reaching for you and pulling you close. "That's all I want. I promise I'll be home by lunchtime."

With that, you excused yourself to go to bed. You didn't bother to set an alarm, because what was the point? Rose would wake you up when she started crying her lungs out to eat, and Bradley would already be gone with Jake, Javy and Reuben. Honestly, you would have thought Jake would want to be home with Cat and Jer, and now you were mad at him, too. You thought about texting him but turned your phone screen side down on your nightstand and tossed your glasses aside instead.

A few minutes later, Bradley climbed in bed as well, and you could feel him trying to coax you closer. "I love you," he whispered, but you stayed curled up in a ball until you fell asleep.

Sure enough, he was gone when you woke up. You didn't even bother changing out of your pajamas to feed Rose. Your plans to wear a cute sundress seemed pointless now as you tried to appease your cranky daughter while you made chicken salad and baked a small loaf of bread.

"You'd probably calm down if your dad were here," you mused, handing her toy after toy only for her to push them all away. Finally Tramp had mercy on you and plopped down next to her on her play mat for a few minutes.

Of course the picnic foods looked absolutely perfect, and you struggled to get Rose burped and down for a late morning nap. "I swear you don't act like this for him," you groaned, fighting the urge to start crying. You'd been feeling better over the past few weeks. Your body was becoming more your own again, even though you were still sharing it with your daughter. The birth control and the healing time were certainly helping, but right now, you and Rose came in second place to a round of golf. On Father's Day.

She spit up all over you before she fell asleep, forcing you to change into your dress anyway. The wrapped present on the coffee table along with the homemade card were enough to make you set a timer for noon. If he wasn't back, you were going to eat the meal yourself. Your stomach was already growling.

But Bradley came through the door at 11:58 wearing gym shorts and a tank top with his aviators low on his nose. "Sweetheart," he said, sounding a little bit out of breath as he headed your way. "You look pretty."

Did he think you were stupid? You got up from the couch and turned off the timer. "Where were you, Bradley? Because you weren't playing golf dressed like that."

His cheeks flushed pink at the same time you noticed something wrapped around his right bicep. When he held his arm out to his side, you gasped.

"Why didn't you just tell me that's where you were going?" you whispered, tears burning your eyes. You felt frustrated and embarrassed that you got upset in the first place.

"I wanted to surprise you," he murmured, wrapping his left arm around your waist. "I've been waiting to do this since you told me you were pregnant." You buried your face against his chest and let yourself cry. "Shit. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said I was golfing. I panicked when they called me back and said they could fit me in this morning. I just really wanted to get my second paper plane as soon as possible."

He held you tight with both arms wrapped around you. "You said you just wanted a day with your girls, and I planned a picnic and got you a present, and then you said you wanted to fucking play golf," you sobbed. "Next time just tell me you're getting another tattoo, okay? Because now when you say you're going golfing, I'm going to think you're getting another one anyway."

"Hey," Bradley rasped, tilting your chin so you were looking up at him. "I'm spending the rest of today with my girls. That really is all I wanted to do today. I'm sorry I lied to you. I feel terrible about it now." His brown eyes were sincere which made you feel a lot better, and now you weren't mad at Jake anymore.

"Can I see it?" you whispered, and he immediately started to unwrap his arm. Right there next to the large paper airplane that had Baby Girl written across it was a smaller one that said Rose in the same script. "God, Roo. It's perfect."

"Just like my girls."

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

Okay, so he came within an inch of completely fucking things up on Father's Day. It wasn't like he planned it that way. He wasn't even sure why he said he was going to play golf. None of his friends would even make a tee time on Father's Day and include him. Or Jake for that matter. Plus, Bradley was fucking terrible at lying. He felt apprehensive the entire time he was getting the tattoo done.

It didn't even really matter if you knew about it ahead of time, but he wanted it to be a surprise declaration of his love for his family. Instead he made you stress out and cry, because of course you had a whole fucking day planned. You loved him that much.

He was right there with you and Rose for the rest of the afternoon. He changed her diapers and helped you pack up the food along with a bottle of pink champagne that was tucked way back behind everything else in the refrigerator. He carried everything out to the Bronco and got both of you buckled in. Then he started driving where you told him to.

"Are we going to our wedding venue?" he asked after a few minutes, and you started laughing.

"Is that what we're calling the parking lot?"

"Sweetheart. That's our wedding venue." Rose hadn't been to that beach yet, and now he was excited. So excited. "Rosie, we're going to show you where Mommy first kissed me and fell so in love that she's incapable of being mad at me even though I didn't tell her I was going to get tattooed this morning."

Now you were laughing harder, and you turned his playlist up a little louder, and the sun felt a little brighter. When he pulled into the parking lot, he backed into the spot where you became his wife, and then he strapped Rose into her baby carrier against his chest.

Bradley watched you pull Rosie's little sun hat out of the diaper bag, and you kissed her nose before putting it on her head. "Don't want you to get too much sun." Then you led the way down the rocky path to the sand below where you spread out a beach blanket. You tugged Bradley's hand until he was on his knees, and then you kissed his nose as well. "Don't want you getting too much sun either."

When he remembered the sunburn he got the day of Mickey's birthday kegger, he shuddered, but you were already squeezing some sunblock onto your hands and smoothing it along his face. You smiled when you got some in his mustache, and Bradley leaned closer to kiss you, and then he didn't want to stop. You ended up on your back on the blanket with sunblock on your nose while Bradley cradled Rose's head.

"Happy first Father's Day," you whispered, running your fingers up inside his sleeve to touch the wrapping around his bicep. "Rose is lucky you're her daddy."

The lunch you made was absolutely perfect. Bradley couldn't remember ever having homemade bread before, and he ate two sandwiches in a row. You and he drank the champagne from the bottle on the blanket before walking down to the water. Your tipsy giggles as he dipped Rose's toes in the water made him smile.

"She hates it!" you cackled when Rose pulled her legs up and wailed. Bradley lowered her down again when the next wave came in, and she pulled her feet away from the water once again.

"Aww, Daddy's sorry," he said, lifting her up and flying her around in the air like a plane to get her to calm down. "I'll take you to Virginia Beach where the water is warmer," he promised. "And we can go to the cemetery and visit Grampy Goose and Grandma Carole. How does that sound?"

His daughter looked much happier at the prospect of warmer water and more time with grandparents. Even though Bradley was here with his family, he couldn't help but think about everything he missed out on. Everything he was still missing out on. 

He never had a dad to fly him around or dip his toes in the water, at least not that he could remember. All he could recall were glimpses of laughter and being lifted out of his crib. He could almost hear a voice, but he wasn't sure if it was even Nick's or if his memory was playing a trick on him.

Bradley held onto Rose a little tighter as you let your head rest on his shoulder. Your voice was soft, barely loud enough for him to hear you over the waves. "I wish I could have met them. I wish they were here to see you with Rose."

He knew one thing for a fact. "They would have loved this little Nugget."

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

Quite effortlessly, Bradley led you back up the rocks while he carried Rose and all the gear. As soon as the sun started to set, the wind picked up and the air got chilly. Even though you nursed Rose, you knew she was going to need to eat again so she could fall asleep.

"Oh, you still have to unwrap your present," you told Bradley when you got home and walked past the living room table.

"Right now?" he asked with a smirk.

"If you want to."

He started to take your shirt off, and you ducked out of his grasp with a laugh. "Not me!"

"I don't want anything else though," he rasped, still reaching for you, but you pushed him toward Rose on her play mat instead.

"She needs a quick bath while you open your present, and then I'll give you a blowjob after she's in her crib."

"Hell yes," Bradley muttered, scooping up the baby and the wrapped gift and heading for the bathroom. You filled up Rosie's little tub, and he set her down in the water then started unwrapping the present but keeping his attention mostly on his daughter. 

"Do you like it?" you asked over your shoulder, and then he realized he was holding a book. A book about him and you and Rose and Tramp.

Bradley flipped through the pages, staring in awe at the cartoon versions of his family. Each of you had been drawn as a superhero, and even the sketched version of Tramp was wearing a little red cape.

"This is the cutest thing I have ever seen. How did you get this?"

"I had it made," you told him. "I sent photos of all of us to a local artist, and she created the book for you."

"Damn," he whispered, tears in his eyes as he looked at each page again. "I'm such a sappy mess now, I swear." Then he sat down on the floor next to you while you rinsed the sand from Rose's tiny feet and started to read the book out loud. "Once upon a time, the Super Bradshaw Family was just about to eat dinner when Super Dad Bradley's phone rang. The city of San Diego needed help, and there was nobody better to turn to."

The story was fun, and the drawings were silly, and he just knew Rose would probably adore this book when she got a little bit older. And he was so lucky he had a wife who did things like turn him into a cartoon superhero for Father's Day and make him a four course picnic lunch.

He also had a wife who dropped to her knees as soon as they were alone. You looked up at him as you pulled his shorts and underwear down to his thighs, kissing his cock as you whispered, "There's my Super Daddy Bradley."

He grinned as he pulled his shirt off as well, enjoying how pretty you looked below his flat abs with your hand cupping his balls. "You absolutely own me, Baby Girl. I'm a fucking wreck for you. I'm all tattooed for my girls now. If you want me to be your Super Daddy, you know I will be."

You licked your lips and parted them, and then Bradley was in heaven.

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

I need Jer to have a dad. I need it in my bones. I also need Bradley to have a sensational 38th birthday before he packs his bags and goes to La Jolla with his wife for three days in bed. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 23

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[covenofagatha]

The Psychology of Love (Part 12)

The Drunk Texts

Your first test is getting closer and closer...

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings: masturbation, phone sex, praise kink

Your professor is right. 

The moment your hand delves through your folds, you shiver and instinctively know that it’s not going to take you very long to finish. 

The kiss in the bathroom, the bite on your neck, the implication that she’s going to do the same thing you are right now when she gets home. It’s gotten you to a point where even a single touch to your clit has you gasping. 

You think of Agatha, laying on her lavender sheets again, jeans unzipped, head thrown back on the pillows, mouth agape in pleasure. 

What you would give to be there with her right now. 

An idea sparks in your lust-riddled brain and a smirk plays on your lips. It may be a bit bratty, but you just want to show her that you’re being her good girl. 

You grab your phone from where it’s resting on your bed next to you and swipe to open the camera. You hold it up and angle it so it cuts out your face but captures you still in her sweater and your hand between your bare legs. She can’t see your cunt, but little is left to the imagination. 

Tapping on the text thread with her, you chew on your lip as you attach the image and type out a caption. Heart pounding in time with your clit, you send it. 

Am I following directions now, Professor? 

She doesn’t read it immediately, still probably driving to her house, so you lazily rub your clit with two fingers, stopping your movements whenever you start feeling your orgasm building up. 

But then her read receipt appears and she begins typing and your heart rate spikes, along with your arousal. You feel tension knotting in your stomach, feel your breathing laboring. 

That’s my good girl. What are you thinking about? 

Agatha’s text kicks the air out of your lungs and you moan involuntarily. Touching your clit sends sparks racings through your veins and it’s hard to think straight. 

Responding with one hand while the other works between your legs is difficult, so you keep your response short, but accurate. 

You. 

Is she picturing you right now, too? Imagining what you’re doing while you touch yourself? You wonder what you look like in her mind. 

She replies quickly. 

You know I like it when you use your words, honey. 

Your walls clench around nothing and you bite down on your bottom lip to keep your whimper restrained. You’re starting to sweat a little in her sweater, but you don’t dare take it off. 

There’s something about fucking yourself in Agatha’s clothes that turns you on even more. Something about Agatha knowing that’s what you're doing. 

It’s taking you too long to formulate a response. You’re not sure how explicit to be and you’re typing with one hand, and she must be getting impatient. 

Because she calls you. 

Feeling like you’re in a dream, you accept it, put the call on speakerphone, and stare at her name like it’s actually her. “Hello?” you whisper, voice hoarse. 

“It seemed like you were having some trouble texting,” she purrs, smooth as silk, and it goes straight to your cunt. “Can you use your words now?”

So many thoughts swirl around in your brain, but you don’t know how to express them. 

“I—I’m thinking about you,” you gasp, feeling like the altitude has changed in your room. “If you’re touching yourself. What it would be like…” You trail off because even though you and her have already crossed many lines, this seems like a new one. 

Agatha hums. “Keep going.” 

Your breath stutters in your chest and you rub your aching clit faster. “What it would be like…to touch you. To feel you. To taste you.” A strangled, muffled groan tears itself from your throat and then you hear it. 

It’s barely audible. 

But there’s no mistaking the sound of Agatha’s sharp inhale, like she’s caught off guard again. Like you wanting to taste her this badly is getting to her in a way most things don’t. 

And it makes you desperate to get her to do it again.

“Better hope you do well on the exam then,” she drawls, but there’s heat in her voice that makes it sound teasing, rather than serious. 

“I will,” you say, eyes screwing shut in pleasure. You slip a finger inside yourself and breathe heavily. “I want to be good for you.” 

Something rustles on her side and you strain your ears to hear for any sign that she’s touching herself. If she is, she’s doing a good job of hiding it. 

Unlike you. 

When you do finally touch her, you want to make her moan for you. 

“You are good for me,” she says and your walls clench around the second finger you fit into yourself. Tingles are spreading all throughout your body and it sinks in that you’re going to come on the phone with your professor. “You’re my good girl.” 

The ownership, the claim, makes your back arch off the bed and your fingers hit the spot deep inside you that pulls a squeak out of you. Agatha chuckles. 

Before you can think about it, you duck your face down and inhale her scent from her sweater and sigh. Agatha’s signature scent makes your head spin and you can see her so clearly right now, between your legs, eyes locking with yours. Wetness squelches around your fingers

“What are you doing?” she rasps. 

You’re too far gone to even pretend that you’re not losing your mind for her. Over her.  

“Your perfume,” you choke out, thumb swiping against your clit. Your walls spasm. “It—I—” You stop, because you don’t know how to explain the reaction your body has to it and why you need to smell it so badly to get off. 

“Oh,” Agatha says, like she understands it perfectly. “You’ve conditioned yourself, honey.” 

Learning about psychology while you’re fucking yourself is something you never thought you’d experience, but for some reason, it’s only making you hotter. 

Fucking Morgan because she smelled like Agatha. Spraying Black Opium over yourself while you masturbated while thinking of Agatha. Smelling her sweater now while you have two fingers buried in yourself. 

The association may have been there from the beginning, but you’ve just been reinforcing and reinforcing. 

“Fuck,” you breathe, waves of pleasure washing through your body, almost to their peak. You’re just missing something. You thrust your fingers faster and rub your clit, feeling the tension about to snap. It’s just waiting for a final push.

But Agatha knows you, maybe even better than you know yourself right now. “You’re just so desperate to be mine, aren’t you?” You make a frantic, pathetic sound, nodding your head as though she can see you. You can almost hear her smirk through the phone and her voice drops an octave. “Then be a good girl and come for me.” 

There’s no use in trying to be quiet, not when your fingers slot just perfectly inside you and press against the spongy spot and your vision goes white and the dam of pleasure breaks inside you and rushes through every crook and crevice of your body. 

You can just faintly hear Agatha’s breath hitch over your heavy gasping slurring of words that are a mix between “Agatha” and “please” and “fuck,” and your mind flashes, showing you images of her having her own orgasm after hearing you moan for her. 

It does little to quench the searing heat and hunger inside of you but Agatha clears her throat and you slow down your thrusts inside of you. Your cunt still aches but you suspect that it might never stop with Agatha around. 

“You okay, hon?” she asks, back to normal. 

Meanwhile, you’re a ragged mess. “I’m okay,” you rasp. “Are you?” You’re asking for more than that though. You really want to know if she was touching herself. 

But Agatha just says, “I am.” 

You could be straightforward about it, but you think your professor is being deliberately evasive. 

There’s a moment of silence before she starts to speak again. “Think you’ll be able to focus on studying now?” 

“I’ll try my best,” you vow. Her sweater still on you makes it feel like she’s giving you a hug and you bury into it, wanting that sense of comfort because you know she’s about to hang up. 

“I know you will,” she coos. “Let me know if you have any more questions. I really want you to do well on this exam too.” 

The underlying implication is clear and makes you shiver even though fire roars in your stomach. 

She wants you as bad as you want her.

——

The next morning, you’re purposely late to Agatha’s class. 

You calculated it. If you got out of bed ten minutes later and sat down with Wanda and Nat in the dining hall until eight-fifty, then even if you jogged to the psychology building, you’d be cutting it real close. 

But when you stroll through campus, you get there five minutes late. Just as you intended. 

Agatha might be mad at you and you’re fully prepared to get called out by her for it, but you don’t care because you want to make sure that her attention is on you as you enter the room. 

Mainly so you can see her reaction to you. Her hickey on the side of your throat from the bathroom yesterday is red and visible and you didn’t put an ounce of concealer on it. You wear it like a badge of honor even though there’s no mistaking what it is. You have her sweater on too, which falls down your body to practically cover the shortest skirt you own so it looks like you’re wearing the sweater and nothing else. 

And when you open the door to her class after you look through the window to confirm that Agatha is lecturing, you get exactly the reaction you were hoping for. 

Your professor stops speaking and looks up at you and you see the moment she realizes. Her eyes glaze over just the slightest and her lips part—there’s a yearning hunger in her gaze. 

It’s hard not to smirk as you cross the room to slide into your chair. You meet her stare. “Sorry I’m late, Professor.” 

She falters for a moment, like she’s rendered speechless. You doubt anyone else in the class notices and you arch your eyebrow, like you’re waiting for her to say something. 

Agatha has a chestnut corduroy button-down vest on with a matching long skirt that falls to just above her ankles and black heels. Her wavy hair seems almost golden-brown as it tumbles down her shoulders and her silver hoop earrings catch the ceiling light. 

She leans on her elbows which are resting on the desk and your eyes are drawn to the lean muscle that flexes in her biceps while she figures out what to do with you. You wonder what it would be like to run your tongue up the crease. 

But then she finally straightens up. “See me in my office after class and we’ll discuss your tardiness.” 

A thrill runs through you and you nod meekly, putting on a show for the rest of your classmates. 

Agatha clicks to the next slide and you quickly get your notebook and pen out. “As I was saying before we were interrupted—” she shoots you a glance and you smile sweetly at her, “neurotransmitters are chemicals that help relay information between the neurons in the Central Nervous System. The nerve impulses travel from the axon of one neuron to the dendrite of the other over the synaptic cleft.” 

If she hadn’t briefly started going over this with you yesterday, you would be completely lost. Even now, you’re still confused. 

“The two main neurotransmitters are dopamine and serotonin. Dopamine is both a neurotransmitter and a hormone, but we’re only going to focus on it as the former. It gives you the feeling of movement, satisfaction, motivation—” she looks at you again, the corner of her mouth quirked up, “and pleasure.”

Your hand freezes and you feel your cheeks grow warm. 

“Too much dopamine has been associated with schizophrenia, while too little has been associated with Parkinson’s disease.” 

Agatha gives everyone a moment to finish writing it all down. You bite your lip and look at her innocently while tilting your neck slightly to the side so her mark on you is brandished proudly. She shakes her head almost indiscernibly—a warning to stop teasing. But you reach up and press on the bruise with your finger; the jolt it gives you causes more pleasure than pain.

She ruffles her hair, more flustered than she’s letting on, and moves on in a hurry. “Serotonin plays a role in regulating mood and emotions, sleep, appetite, and digestion. Low levels have been linked to anxiety and depression. Too much serotonin can cause weakness, fever, hallucinations, and irritability to name a few things. It’s important to have a chemical balance with neurotransmitters because if there isn’t, a lot of things can go wrong.”

Next slide.

“Meanwhile, hormones are chemicals that travel through the bloodstream that are produced by the endocrine system. The three main sources are the hypothalamus, the gonads, and the adrenal cortex. Examples of hormones are testosterone, estrogen, insulin, adrenaline, and cortisol. We won’t go much into these, though I’m more than happy to answer any questions you have about them during office hours.”

Extra studying on these things will definitely be warranted. 

“And of course, we have to talk about the nature versus nurture debate,” Agatha says. 

This is the only part of the biological approach you feel like you’re not struggling with. The nature side believes that personality is determined by genetics, while the nurture side believes it’s determined by the environment we grow up in. You’re pretty sure you’ve heard about it in every single psychology class you’ve taken in college.

“In an experiment to test which side is ‘more correct,’ the IQs of identical twins raised apart, step-siblings or adopted children raised together, and complete strangers were compared to see if there was any genetic or environmental correlation, or none at all. Identical twins raised apart share one-hundred percent of genes but zero percent of the environment and vice versa for step-siblings or adopted children, while strangers would have zero percent in both. There was zero correlation in the IQ of strangers, a mild positive correlation for the step-siblings or adopted children, and a strong positive correlation for identical twins raised apart.”

She pauses to let that sink in and even though you already typed most of this in on the study guide yesterday, you still hurry to copy it all down onto your paper. 

“So both genes and environment play a role in personality, but it would appear that genes have more influence.”

Agatha glances at you, as if asking for your opinion, and you shrug. Her lips curl into a thin smile. 

“And that’s the biological approach. On Wednesday, we’ll go over the study guide for the exam on Friday so bring any questions or things you want to go back over to class. Other than that, everyone have a good rest of your day.”

You stay seated while your classmates scurry out of the room. Agatha examines you curiously until they all leave.

“Want to tell me why you were late today?” she asks and you sit up before stuffing your notebook into your bag. 

You get out of your chair and she walks toward you. For a second, it seems that she might kiss you, but she steps right by you and moves toward the door. You follow in a haste, trying to think of something witty to say back. “Had to figure out what to wear,” is the best you come up with, but when Agatha tosses a look over her shoulder at you in the hallway, you smirk. 

She doesn’t respond until she opens the door to her office, lets you in, and then shuts the door behind her. “You know,” she sighs, strolling around her desk to plop into her chair, “sometimes you’re such a good girl, but then other times, you’re just a brat.” Her tone is meant to cut and discourage but it only excites you. 

“Maybe you should do something about that then,” you breathe, and when she meets your eyes again, you see how dilated her pupils are now. 

I think you like me like this.

It’s what you said to her at the mixer, when she scolded you for sending her teasing pictures while getting dressed. 

Maybe, she had answered. 

But the look on her face is saying a lot more than maybe. 

“I won’t reward you for bad behavior,” Agatha tells you matter-of-factly and you sink like silk into the chair across from her. “But…you might get punished.” 

There’s something about the tone with which she says that that makes you think it wouldn’t be the worst thing to be punished by her. Especially if it ends with a reward for corrected behavior. 

“Oh, yeah?” you prompt with a teasing smile. 

Agatha shoots you down with just one glance. “How are you feeling about the test?” 

“Not too bad,” you say with a shrug. “I have a lot of time this week to study. I really am trying.” You add this just in case you do poorly for any reason, because she has to know that you want more than anything to do well. 

Her face softens. “I know, honey. And it’s okay.” You take that to mean that whatever happens, it will be okay. Whatever is going on between you might not be broken. 

And that gives you a huge sense of relief. 

“So…did you bring me here just to reprimand me for being late?” The suggestion in your tone is clear and Agatha snorts. 

She shakes her head. “No, I actually have something for you.” Your heart skips a beat as she reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a small box before setting it in front of you. 

Your breath catches in your throat. The box is black with gold lining the edges and a white strip across the lower-middle part of it. 

It’s perfume. 

Good Girl by Carolina Herrera. 

“Oh,” you rasp, gingerly reaching out to touch it like it might turn to dust. Agatha smirks triumphantly as you open it. 

Inside, sits the bottle in the shape of a high heel. The glass is sleek and smoky blue and the tall heel is a shimmery gold. You pick it up and hold the firm weight in your hands, your finger finding the button on the counter to spray it. 

“Go on,” Agatha husks. 

It feels strangely intimate when you spray and a puff of perfume spurts out, filling the air with the scent of almonds, jasmine and tuberose, cocoa, and coffee. It’s light and dark at the same time, bright and elegant, and you can’t help but wonder if Agatha will get conditioned to this the same way you have to Black Opium. 

“Thank you,” you say, looking up at her earnestly. 

She smiles genuinely. “Of course, honey. And if you do have any more questions, just let me know I’m always happy to help.” She winks and you smirk. Even though making out with your professor might not be a good way to spend valuable time instead of studying, it would certainly make you feel better. “However, I do have to run to a meeting, so I’m afraid I’ll have to see you later.” 

“Oh—yeah, no worries.” You carefully put the perfume back into the box and tuck it into your bag while Agatha grabs her laptop and a notepad and stands up. 

You walk out with her, and as she’s chatting with you about your plans for the weekend—which makes you think she’s planning for the reward—Rio walks in through the doors that you and Agatha are going straight for. 

Time seems to move slowly and it’s like your eyes are locked with Rio’s as she walks right by you and you can’t look away. Does Agatha even notice her? 

The corner of Rio’s mouth tugs up and she rolls her eyes, seemingly annoyed that you didn’t listen to her. 

But then Agatha stops right before the exit and points to the door to the stairwell. She smiles and reaches out to touch your arm, a friendly pat to anyone but you as it sends sparks racing down to your cunt. 

And Rio is completely forgotten.

——

The bar by campus is crowded, even on a Wednesday night. You know you shouldn’t be here but studying has been draining so when Wanda and Nat invited you to go out with them, you jumped at the chance for a break. 

You remember a teacher from your past saying that breaks were actually necessary to let your brain learn things unconsciously. 

Or it was something like that. 

Plus you figured there was no way Agatha would be here since this is the place usually only college kids frequent. It’s loud and dirty but the alcohol is cheap. 

You buy the first round of shots and it goes down with a grimace. 

“Oh, look!” Wanda says, pointing at a paper that’s pinned up on the wall. “It’s trivia night!” She sends Nat to go sign up while she buys a second round. 

Dinner at the dining hall wasn’t very good tonight, so you don’t have a lot in your stomach and you already feel a slight buzz running through you. 

This is what you need, you think. Get a little drunk, do some trivia, hang out with friends. You have tomorrow and Friday morning for last minute studying, and you’re feeling pretty good now. Review today in class was helpful as Agatha went through the study guide again and pointed out certain things you should pay extra attention to. 

Although you didn’t get any time to talk to her after in her office, you had been the last person in the room again. You had stood up as she walked over and she leaned in and dragged her nose along the column of your throat. Her own perfume filled your nostrils and your body had erupted in goosebumps. 

“You’re wearing it,” she whispered, pulling back. You nodded, seeing the darkness swallow up the blue in her eyes. “Good girl.” 

You lost a good thirty minutes time you could’ve spent studying after that because you were replaying her saying that over and over in your mind while you fingered yourself. 

“Here we go!” Nat whoops, coming back over and downing the shot that Wanda got her. She slams the answer sheet and pencil down between you and Wanda snatches it. “It starts in fifteen minutes. Want to dance?” 

Wanda enthusiastically agrees but you shake your head, so you become the keeper of the answer sheet. While Nat pulls her girlfriend to the floor, you turn the pencil over with your fingers and quiz yourself. 

Projection tests: Rorschach Inkblot and Thematic Apperception. 

Single trait approach: only studying one trait, like Milgram’s obedience study. 

Neurotransmitters: dopamine and serotonin. 

They run dendrite to axon. 

Your forehead wrinkles as you second-guess. Dendrite to axon? Or axon to dendrite? 

Fuck. 

You make a mental note to look that up later. It’s like there’s a block in your brain now and you can’t stop staring at the floor in front of you—you think you must be getting a little tipsy. 

Another glass gets handed to you and you look up to see Nat standing there. You’re not sure how long they’ve been dancing for, but you have another shot now and you take it quickly. 

It hits you almost immediately. The room blurs in and out of focus and you’re a little embarrassed that this is you after three shots. Nat and Wanda seem to be feeling it a little in the way they’re dancing though so at least you’re not the only one. 

You laugh out loud—the last time you were dancing with someone was on your date with Morgan last week, when you had been trying to rile Agatha up. 

It had worked. 

Agatha…

What is she doing right now? It’s not very late, is she eating dinner? Watching television? In bed? 

The thought makes your head spin and skin sear. 

Before you know what you’re doing, you pull your phone out of your too-short jeans and text her. 

Heyyy Professor. What are you up to?

Nat pulls a giggling Wanda back over and yells over the music that trivia is starting soon. Your phone buzzes right as you turn to order another shot. 

I’m just finishing inputting some grades for another class. What are you up to? 

You take your fourth shot and then let yourself be dragged to a table by your friends. They’re bickering about who’s going to write the answers down while a pleasant numbness settles into your body. 

Just thinking about you! I’m really excited for my reward ;)

“So,” Nat drawls, proppy her chin up in her palm and staring at you, “want to explain that hickey on your neck from the other day?” 

An alarm starts to flash through the haze in your brain and you struggle to think of something to say that isn’t the truth. You promised Agatha it would be your secret and even though you trust Wanda and Nat with your life, you know you can’t tell them. 

“I’m kind of talking to someone from a class,” you say, some of the words stuck together. Technically not a lie.  

Wanda gasps theatrically and your phone buzzes again. You fight to keep your attention on your roommate. “Spill! Why haven’t you said anything yet?” 

You shrug half-heartedly. “It’s just a…I’m not really sure what it is yet. But I really like her. Like really.” 

“When do we get to meet her?” Nat asks coyly and you freeze. Never. You can’t. She’s my professor. 

“Definitely not for a while,” you choke out.

Nat peers at you suspiciously, but drops it. With the interrogation being over, you’re free to look at your phone again.

You have to earn your reward first, honey. Are you drunk right now?

It takes you a few times to read it before you understand what she’s saying and asking and then your brows furrow. She’s trying to trick you—if you say yes, she might get mad, but if you say no, she might be able to tell that you’re lying. 

So you ignore the question entirely. 

I want to. I need to. I will. 

Agatha replies three minutes after she reads it, which seems like an eon to you. In the background, you hear the trivia host announcing the first question but you have complete tunnel vision on Agatha's response. 

I have no doubt.

She’s being cagey and you don’t like it. But before you can do something about it, Wanda elbows you gently. “Do you know who won the baseball World Series in 2016?” 

It seems absolutely absurd that anyone would know that. “Definitely not,” you say, shaking your head solemnly, and Nat sighs before writing down a random team. 

Back to your professor. You know she likes when you use your words so maybe that will help right now. You’re not sure what you’re expecting to happen, but it won’t hurt to find out.

I really fucking like you. 

I think about you all the time. 

God, you might be really embarrassed the next time you see her. Or just tomorrow when you wake up in general. It seems like she knows you're drunk so maybe she'll cut you some slack. That could also be why she isn't engaging in the conversation as much as she normally does.

“Quick, who’s the most decorated Olympian of all time?” Wanda hisses. 

Thoughts run together in your head but you know this one. “Michael Phelps,” you say confidently and Nat nods before writing it down. You peer at the paper and see that your friends have answered six questions already. 

You feel slightly bad that you’re being absolutely no help—other than that last question—but it doesn’t take much to forget about that. You tap on your phone and realize that Agatha still hasn’t texted you back. 

Which would be fine, because you know that she’s doing work, but you’re a bit impatient and illogical when you’re drunk.

So you text her again. 

I like the way you smell. 

There’s a dopey grin on your face when you send it and you imagine Agatha blushing when she reads it. That will get her attention. 

And just as you suspected, she finally reads your messages and the bubble pops up. 

So it seems, honey. 

You frown, desperate to make her understand just how much you like her perfume. It doesn’t even faze you that she didn’t respond to any of your other texts. Your thumbs fly and you mumble the message to yourself to make sure it makes sense before sending it. Thankfully the music is too loud and neither of your friends hear it.

After the mixer I rubbed it against myself before I made myself come. Felt so good cause it smells like you. 

Will she like that? Will it turn her on to know that?

You picture Agatha now, cheeks flushed and dark eyes, and it sends a blaring heat through you. 

But the alcohol has adequately done its job and you have to put your phone away because the screen is making you dizzy. You’re vaguely aware of Nat slamming down the pencil on the table because you didn’t win trivia and Wanda taking it before she can do it again. 

One of them grabs your wrist and leads you out of the bar. Nat calls an Uber and it seems like both one second and thirty minutes before it appears. Terms and definitions from Agatha’s class swirl around in your head nonsensically until you think that dopamine is the bigger reward in the delay of gratification study. 

Is that true? You’re not sure. Nothing is making sense. 

You just wish Agatha was here with you. 

Somehow, when you open your eyes, you’re back in your room. You don’t remember getting out of the uber or walking upstairs, but now you’re in your bed and Wanda and Nat are already passed out in the bed on the other side of the room. 

It’s an instinct to reach over into your nightstand, at this point. Your fingers close around the bottle you know so well by now. You struggle to sit up, holding very still for a second so you don’t throw up everywhere, and then spritz. 

Coffee, vanilla, and spice fills the air and the mist floats down onto your pillow. You drop back down and the vial isn’t in your hands anymore. You inhale deeply and while you feel the unmistakable pull in your cunt, you feel comforted too.

Like Agatha’s laying right next to you. 

The perfume is a warm blanket, almost as good as your professor’s embrace would be, and you fall asleep in no time.  

——

When you wake up Thursday morning, you’re blissfully unaware of what happened yesterday night, until the memories come flooding back to you with a dull throb in your head. 

One shot. 

And then another shot. 

Nat pushing yet another into your hand. 

Texting Agatha. 

Another shot. 

Texting Agatha again. 

Fuck. 

You groan and roll over in your bed to see Wanda and Nat still passed out, limbs intertwined with each other. Nat’s lips are parted and she’s lightly snoring. 

The sunlight streaming in through your blinds creates a mirage of slits on the dorm floor and you have to squint at your dresser. The bottle of Black Opium sits there, next to your phone that isn’t plugged in. The vial explains the lingering, familiar scent on your pillowcase. 

You rub your forehead as you reach over to grab your phone and it’s dead. Because of course. 

It takes you a few minutes of blindly fumbling between the edge of your bed and your nightstand to find the charger but you finally grab onto the cord. You settle back into bed while you wait for your phone to come back to life. You can still taste the alcohol on your breath but your head feels like it’s full of cotton at the moment, so you’re not very motivated to get out of bed to do anything. 

Skipping your classes today has never sounded so appealing. Plus you lost an entire evening of studying last night, a choice you don’t regret because you needed to blow off some steam, but all the more reason to stay in your bed all day. If you skip a class to study for another class, does it really count? 

You’re slowly becoming convinced that it doesn’t. 

It’s not like you haven’t skipped before. You just always try to pretend for as long as you can that this will be the semester you don’t. 

But there’s a part of you that’s worried your absence will somehow get back to Agatha and she’ll be disappointed in you. She’s mentioned the department being tight-knit and while you may just be a little paranoid to think that she would actively check in on how you’re doing, you’re still a bit worried. You’re not sure that she would see your excuse of studying for her exam as valid, even though she knows that there’s a lot on the line. 

Even though you’ve been studying every day, you’re still nervous. There’s been pressure on you before, but never with an incentive like this. You can’t help but wonder what will happen if you don’t do well. There’s still some things on the biology side that stump you, and no matter how many times you practice the flashcards, you can’t seem to get it right. What if she puts questions about those on the test?

Calm down. Agatha likes you. She wouldn’t base your entire relationship off of a grade.

It’s not super convincing though. 

There’s still time, you remind yourself. You don’t have class until later and you have time in-between before your next class, plus the whole evening. Agatha also has office hours today, even though you’re not sure if you’d be able to focus at all with her. 

Everything since the mixer last Saturday has been building to tomorrow. You’ve felt it, she’s felt it: the tension that just keeps growing, the electricity that seems to crackle when you stand too close, the tug in your gut that connects you to her. 

All it would take at this point is one whiff of her perfume and there would be no hope of actually retaining any of the information you need to, no matter how well she’s explaining it. 

So office hours might be off the table at this point, just because of how important this is. 

Unless she’s mad about last night—you can’t remember what you texted her—and decides to hold off on the reward, no matter how well you do on the test. 

Would Agatha do that? You really hope not. 

Your phone finally charges enough for the screen to turn on and you quickly open your texts with your professor and scroll back to the beginning of last night. Thankfully, it doesn’t take you too long—maybe the damage is minimal. 

But as you read through, your heart sinks lower and lower. You were quite forward with these and Agatha seemed very unimpressed. She could clearly tell that you were drunk and she was not amused. Her responses do feel familiar and you vaguely remember reading each word separately in your drunken haze at the bar to try to string them together. 

And when you reach the bottom, where you admitted that you rubbed your vial of Black Opium against your clit after she kissed you at the mixer (you don’t think you’re ever going to drink again because that has to be even worse than the hangover you have right now), you almost fall off your bed when you see that she sent you three messages after that. Three messages that you’re now seeing for the first time. 

One from right after you sent your last text.

I’ll make sure to keep that in mind. 

The next was sent about thirty minutes after that. 

I hope you’ve gotten back to your dorm safely. 

You didn't even tell her you were out. You're not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing that she figured that out. At least it seems like she's not too mad—and her concern is sweet.

But then you get to the last one. 

From this morning, about an hour ago. You swallow roughly, butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. This could be going either way for you. 

Come see me in my office today whenever you get a chance. 

Part Thirteen

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @500daysofmarissa @filmedbyharkness @autbot @claramelooo @dandelions4us @agathaallalongg @jujuu23 @21cannibal @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @jeridandridge @hannibalcanniballz @chloeelou02x @hapuchika @xblinkx2 @xanthreee @tobeawriter98

[myfandomrealitea]

so do antis ever have an actual argument for why writing noncon, incest, abuse, etc. is bad and condoning those behaviors IRL, but media glorifying graphic violence is fine? bc all the antis I’ve asked tend to deflect or treat it like a bad faith question.

Because that would then force them to acknowledge that they don't actually care about mainstream media and simply find it easier to target and harass individual people with moral flag waving and threats over massive corporations who would either outright ignore them or smash them with the legal hammer.

What's easier; hounding a teenager online with death threats because they write incest fanfic or forcing international censorship of Game of Thrones and prosecuting George R. R. Martin as an incestuous murdering rapist who creates child pornography?

What's easier; needing no argument other than; "I think its gross and immoral" as defence for your virtue signalling or needing very extensive knowledge of the law, sociology and psychology in order to accurately formulate and prove that creating and/or consuming content relative to specific subjects is more harmful than beneficial and has direct action consequences?

And thus, the answer. Option A is indefinitely easier and more manageable, and more outcome-effective. Antis then real like they're "empowering real change" because if they successfully bully someone off of a platform, they were Right All Along and their activism is Working.

(Whereas if they went after Universal Studios, for example, they would probably be sued into oblivion and laughed at for generations to come. Not very empowering or uplifting.)

[callsignpxnguin]

Kyle Garrick, the Masseur

The first time you entered the parlour, you were beyond anxious.

It wasn’t your idea to visit the place — a couple of your friends had been badgering you about it for a while, and today was finally the day that you caved to their requests.

They insisted that it would soothe your anxiety and stress, and had even gone so far as to book you some specific guy that supposedly had ‘magic hands’. And, whilst you appreciated the effort, you weren’t really sure how to feel about it. Because, frankly, getting your bare back touched by a stranger didn’t sound awfully relaxing.

Nonetheless, you had just walked through the door, so you couldn’t really back out now. You weren’t sure what convinced you — maybe the constant pestering, or the lack of anything else to do. Maybe it was because you had been pushed to your limit so many times that you were willing to try anything to feel better.

The small waiting room was… empty. Quiet piano pieces played in the background over a speaker, a light perfume lingered in the air, and there was a small counter a few feet away where a bell and a treatment list sat. But, apparently, no one manned it. There didn’t seem to be anyone there at all. 

Confused, you approached, eyeing the bell on top before pressing it lightly.

Ding!

For a few moments, nothing happened — until a voice smoother than velvet and clearer than a lake rang out, “Glad to see you made it. I was told you may try to escape.”

Your head snapped to a door to the side of the room that you hadn’t noticed before, where the most gorgeous man you had ever seen was currently standing — and watching you with an amused glint in his warm brown eyes.

For a moment, you were completely stunned. You couldn’t formulate any sort of reply, couldn’t think— because who the hell was this stupidly perfect man? You had never been struck with immediate interest in strangers before, but something about him made your heart stop.

Dark, close-cropped curly hair, shining skin, full lips — and, of course, the most captivating eyes you had ever beheld. It took you a while to compose yourself. “I considered it. But then I… figured I may as well try it. That it couldn’t hurt,” you managed weakly, finally having the dignity to avert your eyes from the man’s face to the floor. Of course, your friends had told him about your hesitance beforehand.

“I should hope it won’t. I’ll do my best to make you feel as comfortable and relaxed as possible.” The man stepped forward, hand outstretched — smooth brown skin and thick fingers shining enticingly. “Kyle Garrick, nice to meet you. I take it you don’t get massages often?”

“…just about,” you mumbled, taking his hand and quickly pulling yours away before you did anything really stupid. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know what’s going on.”

The man — masseur? — Kyle, smiled knowingly. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ve already got a treatment planned out, as requested by your friends, so you don’t have to worry about any of that. Just follow me, if you’re ready?”

”Uh, sure.” 

He gestured for you to follow him, and you obediently did, entering after him into the small door that he had appeared from — that led to a room so nicely decorated that you thought for a moment you had stepped into an advert. A white bed sat directly in the centre, a folded robe at the foot, and along the walls shelves upon shelves of various salves and oils sat in glass jars, neatly labelled and organised.

The room — or, more accurately, parlour — aside from being visually gorgeous, also smelled… delightful. Calming but subtle herbal smells were breezed around the room, the open window at the back providing enough ventilation for you to not feel too stuffy. 

“Nice place, right?” Kyle asked proudly, leaning on the wall with his thick arms folded across his chest. Which you just noticed was stuffed into a slim-fitting white shirt, through which outlined… a lot. Not that you were complaining.

”It’s beautiful,” you agreed, before swallowing nervously.

He chuckled quietly. “I’ll leave for a bit to let you get changed, and then just shout for me to come back and we can start. Sound alright?”

You could only nod mutely. Changed… into the robe. Just the robe. Great.

With a final, friendly nod, Kyle left the room, shutting the door behind him.

You took a few tentative steps towards the bed — and stared at the robe in front of you. Surely, you’d be given something more to cover yourself? You didn’t consider yourself a particularly modest person, but even you had your reservations about only covering yourself with some thin fabric…

But you didn’t have much of a choice, and you didn’t want to keep Kyle waiting, so you quickly stripped down and pulled it as tight as you could around your body. At least it was comfortable — downy and stretchy.

A faint knock. “All ready?” He called from behind the door.

“Y-yeah,” you called back, hastily pulling yourself onto the bed and lying on your stomach, resting your head in the crevice at the top. You immediately didn’t like the feeling — your bare chest was pressed too tightly against the cot, and you just felt so exposed.

“Sure thing.” A rustle was audible, before the door clicked open with a faint noise.

You felt your face burn, anxious before he had touched you. You instinctively felt him moving closer, and heard the clink of jars as he rolled them in on a tray.

”Just before we start, I know you don’t do this often, but in that sense do you mean you go once every few years? Or you’ve just never done it at all?”

”I’ve never done it… like this, before.”

He hummed. “No worries. In which case, let me give you a quick briefing. At any time, if you want me to focus or avoid any specific area, just tell me. If you want me to speed up or change the pressure, just tell me. If you want me to stop completely…?”

”Just tell you?” You finished.

”You’ve got it. Otherwise, just relax. I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. You could even go to sleep, if you feel like it. Okay?”

”…Okay.”

“Good girl.”

Good girl?

You were about to mull over the praise, but you could already feel him getting closer — body heat approaching you rapidly — and immediately your previous thoughts were cleared and promptly filled with worries. Dear god. You were pretty ticklish, what if you flinched too hard and elbowed him in the face? Or what if you shifted too much and accidentally flashed him? Or what if you—

The first feeling of his warm hands against your back was indescribable.

He had covered his palms in some sort of oil, and they glided along your back firmly — leaving goosebumps and nothing but relief in their wake. They eased over your aching muscles like a balm, pressing and kneading in all the right places. It was pleasurable and painful simultaneously, but the pleasure was so intense that it outweighed all of the occasional sharp twinges.

“Oh—“ you moaned quietly, unable to stop yourself.

“Feel okay? Want to change the pressure at all?” Kyle wasn’t really sure how to take your little sounds, though he assumed they were positive because you hadn’t yet shot up and bolted away in the other direction.

You garbled, “No, no, it’s… it’s so good…”

He only hummed, and the sound was almost satisfactory. It was so good, then. The confirmation pleased him.

“You’re just— so strong,” you essentially mewled as he got into a particularly tight knot in your shoulders, face immediately flushing with embarrassment at the next words that tumbled out like a waterfall.

Though you couldn’t see his face, you could hear his smile in his velvety voice. “That’s what the military does to you, love. About all its good for, really.”

You paused, biting back a relieved groan. “You were military?”

“Am, not were,” he corrected. “You really think I look old enough to be discharged? Ouch.”

Immediately, you were tripping over your words. “I— no, of course, I just…”

He laughed, the sound pure and amused. “Hey, I’m just messing around. Yeah, this job doesn’t seem like a typical military part-time, does it?

“…no,” you mumbled. Then, after a moment, “…so why do you do it?”

The question made him pause, though his knuckles didn’t stop their relentless kneading. “Multitude of reasons. My mates told me once I should do it as a joke — said I was charming and strong enough for it. But honestly? I like making people feel good. I don’t get to do that on a day-to-day basis.”

Oh.

“That’s… nice.”

The response made even yourself cringe, but what else was there to say? It was nice — nice for a man who most likely dealt in pain and bloodshed, wanting to almost repent and negate his actions by doing the best he could in other aspects of life.

”Yeah? Glad you think so.”

The rest of the appointment went by mostly in silence. You managed to control your sounds after a while, instead getting used to the sensations. They quickly began to grow comforting, and after more than an hour, you didn’t want him to stop. But, of course, he had to at some point. Most likely when his pay ended — though you could’ve sworn your friends had only booked 60 minutes, and the clock had crept past that timeline. Again, not that you were complaining. You decided that you weren’t going to complain to anything this man was willing to offer you.

Once he was finished, he patted your neck gently. “All done.”

”Mmm…”

His laugh sounded like pure gold. “Was it okay?”

”Better than okay…” you sighed dreamily, so blissed out that you didn’t care how pathetic you sounded.

”I hope so. Maybe you could come back again soon, huh?”

”Yes, please.”

He laughed again. “Sounds good to me.” The way he intoned the sentence made it sound like he was going to add a reason, but he trailed off before he could and continued, “I’ll go so you can get changed again.”

Quiet footsteps left your bedside, and the door once again opened and closed.

“Hngh…”

You slowly pushed yourself up with weak arms, trembling like a newborn foal. It took a long time for you to work up the will to actually put your clothes back on — the oil  covering your skin feeling light and moisturising, making your skin feel so smooth that you couldn’t help but run your palms over your sides a few times just to relish in the sensation.

After you’d collected your things and stepped back out, you smiled shyly at Kyle. He had changed too — out of his supposed work shirt and into a gym vest and shorts, with a bag slung over his broad shoulders.

”Heading for a workout?” You asked.

“Gotta keep my muscles active if I want to keep doing this,” he replied with a smile. “Have a nice day, yeah? See you again soon?”

”Definitely.” You felt your face flush.

Something hung in the air. The clear thing for you to do next was leave, but for some reason the interaction felt unfinished. Were you really just going to walk away from this man? Take the risk that you may never see him again?

But he wasn’t saying anything else, bending down to tie his laces, and you were far too shy to start another conversation. So, you slowly turned to leave, no small amount of disappointment weighing on your chest.

Please, please, please…

“Hey, uh…” 

You froze, your heart suddenly pounding. “Yeah?”

“Hang on — uh, I don’t want to be weird or anything, but you seem really nice, and could I perhaps… maybe…” You didn’t dare to breathe. “…get your number?”

You immediately turned, and it surprised you to see him looking almost nervous. For a man that had just touched you more than you think anyone ever had without even a blush, it was amusing. Thick eyebrows scrunched together just slightly and eyes promptly darting around.

A small, genuine smile broke out on your face. “Yeah,” you answered. “Yeah, sure.”

Yeah so I was in the plane whilst writing this and, coincidentally, there was a GORGEOUS man in the seat in front of me who was basically Gaz’s doppelgänger, and who I quite literally used as inspo for description throughout this whole piece. So credits to that guy, wish I had enough confidence to have asked for his number though 😔🙏

[seumyo]

on cloud nine (phrase.) extremely happy.

REGULAR PINNED POST ☁️ SEND IN YOUR REQUESTS

☆ミ MESSAGE. A little note for everyone <3

YOU GUYS ARE CRAZY FOR 4K+ I never imagined to reach such a milestone, huhu. Thank you guys—each and every one of you for getting us here. I’ve been disappearing and resurfacing so often these days, but swear, I’m back !! I LOVE YOU GUYS !! THANK YOU AGAIN <33

☆ミ DETAILS.

Mutuals get five entries, while everyone only gets three. Please take your time in formulating your request, especially since each particular segment has a certain requirement.

This would go on from June 9 to June 15!

For anonymous entries, that can’t be done since the requirements are sending specific photos that a particular segment asks for!

Fandoms included are ATLA, Haikyuu, JJK, MHA and TWST.

All entries would be under ☁️.9

THE EVENT IS CLOSED !! THANK YOU FOR PARTICIPATING

☆ミ WONDERFUL MOOTIES.

@angeliicheartt @beanxiv @cashmoneyyysstuff @choccorin @expmdgdyn @fushiguruuzzzz @iheartduckie @kurogira @kobunnie @luvkinich @lounaticcc @lunatiqez @miyamoratsumuu @meidiary @omitea @rueclfer @satorisoup @stellar-headquarters @sweetheartsaku @s6rine @seneon @sepptember @solvisun @teabeexo @tokeposts @togacaffe @yintous

You guys are crazy (positive). YOUR SUPPORT JUST SENDS ME STRAIGHT TO ORBIT; I LOVE YOU ALL <33 Get tackled by a wild Eumy, teehee

☆ミ ON CLOUD 9 MECHANICS.

Send in the information needed for each prompt/segment. BUT you must also attach a picture of a cloud that you took for every request. No cloud pictures result to the nullification of your request. ONE CLOUD PICTURE PER ONE REQUEST. Have fun!

CIRRUS — send me a character and I’ll give you an accurate song they remind me of!

CIRROCUMULUS — send me a character and I’ll tell you how you two first meet!

CIRROSTRATUS — send me a character and I’ll make a simple moodboard!

ALTOCUMULUS — send me 2-3 characters and I’ll tell you their love language in detail!

ALTOSTRATUS — send me a character and I’ll tell you how and why you two broke up.

NIMBOSTRATUS — send me a character and I’ll tell you what kind of dates you two would be having!

CUMULUS — send me a character and I’ll make a mini 100 word drabble with your chosen prompt!

CUMULONIMBUS — realistically, how would this character be in a relationship with you (please include details of your personality, lifestyle, and preferences).

STRATOCUMULUS — appearance matchup! (just send in a picture of yourself, and the fandom of your preference)

STRATUS — send me 2-3 characters and I’ll tell you very specific relationship headcanons!

THANK YOU!