#He needs a new less destructive hobby

[1800titz]

The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

HI FRIENDS. The council has spoken, so here is the first part of the lovingly-dubbed spanko fic. This series will be early access, so— parts go up on patreon first, then they come to tumblr 3-ish weeks later (but if you wanna get ahead, the second part is already up on patreon). Reader insert, emotionally a slowburn, and basically a garbage fire I'm pouring my deepest, darkest desire into as a coping mechanism :p If you liked TDIAG, you'll probably rock with this one. As always, feedback/reblogs massively appreciated <3 WEEEEEEEE okay bye

ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ : ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

CONTENT/WARNINGS: miss girl misconstruing consensual kink for domestic violence (oops)

WC: 7.8K

Harry’s face is the reason average men have developed a phenomenon called personality. 

Historically, it was faces like his, at the very least, that ignited adaptation— this wasn’t an overnight implementation, after all. Men don’t move that fast. There’s a long-lasting, brutally destructive record there, and a tale as old as time itself. Before charisma had to be manufactured in the absence of a devastating jawline, there was the high-cheekbone aristocracy, and its counterpart, what’s known today as the “he’s actually really nice” faction. The beauty privilege inventors; the bedroom-eye monarchy; the symmetrical syndicate of a resting smolder— 

And the rest of everyone else. 

Rumor has it that the first comedian was a man who watched another guy, who had eyes like wet chrysocolla and really broad shoulders, turn a casual glance into an entire bloodline’s origin story. Maybe the first poet sat next to a man wearing the skin of divine nepotism— and the only defense strategy was to pick up a hobby that spoke less in pretty, heart-shaped lips and more in words like love’s trembling hand doth trace its name upon thy skin. New seduction ritual: implemented.

Basically, the survival mechanism goes like this: if you’re competing with bone structure sculpted by an empyrean chisel, a mouth worthy of oil paintings and crumpled love letters, and the kinds of dimples that were engineered for the sole purpose of emotional damage (Cupid’s attempt; two, little exit wounds, the perfect pair of injustices parenthesizing his smile)…

And you’re lingering in the shadow of those attributes? Operating on a deficit? Well, then. There’s a little more work left to be put in. 

If you’re lucky, you’re tall, or you’re well endowed in the basement, or both. If you’re none of those things, you’re banking on a gift with a musical instrument, or you’re coping with the weight of your wallet. You’re getting into niche, esoteric interests you will impress upon every woman that steps foot into your orbit to stand out, or you’re polishing up your comedic abilities. The thing is, society has evolved to the point where this compensation is the foundation to procreation. The foundation to function. And the kind of men with faces like Harry, who got in line not once, but twice when God was handing out genetic privilege (the overachieved extra credit projects), just get to sit back and let the world unravel at their feet.

Men like Harry don’t need personalities because they already look interesting enough. When you’re the kind of pretty that inspires love songs and ill-advised tattoos, you don’t need wit, or pockets lined with green. It opens doors (and legs) with such minimal effort that it may as well be as simple as breathing. The quiet space in a room bends around you when you become the focal point by existing, incidentally magnetic. 

It’s pretty unfair, to say the very least.

Y/N only really registers it passing— in fleeting, peripheral moments when the space bends around him and her eyes glue, almost like an accident. A brief sighting here and there, like a rare animal caught between the trees— seen but not acknowledged, because staring starts to feel like stepping into something too raw, too deliberate.

He’s always moving. In motion, slipping past. Glimpses of wide shoulders cutting through the communal pool, water slicking over musculature in a smooth tide and then rivulets, droplets sticking against sun-warmed skin. A silhouette in the elevator at the end of the hall, head bowed. Sorting through crinkled envelopes between his massive hands with a ruckle between his brows.

He’s got the kind of face that suggests he should be gently perched on the edge of a marble fountain, carved in alabaster. A cherubic thing. Rosy-mouthed, haloed by damp curls that tuck around his ears in perfect, artistic disarray. The kind of beauty that feels vaguely mythological, like he should either be blessing crops or luring unbeknownst sailors to their deaths. A visage that belongs on domed Renaissance ceilings.

Y/N breathes. Her pulse feels like it’s rattling a little. It makes her head feel a little gooey when he’s stood in front of her. 

And here he is, holding a package in one hand, water still beading at his collarbone from a morning shower, damp curls dripping onto the fabric of a lived-in, vintage T-shirt. The tragic failure of modern existence is that a man like this— who should, by all logic, be strumming a lyre on the edge of a celestial fountain— has instead been doomed to wander the mundanities of the human condition. To swipe through his mail. To stand in front of her door and say things like “Think they swapped our mail again” in that perfectly unassuming, relaxed tone, like his very existence isn’t actively offensive to the concept of mediocrity.

His singular flaw? That one, teeny thing?

He’s a horrific neighbor. 

Abysmally inconsiderate, in fact. Maybe, one of the worst people Y/N has ever had the pleasure of sharing a paper-thin wall with.

The thing is, under all normal circumstances, eye candy is a desirable next door tenant, to catch those scarce glimpses of and swoon over. But Harry? He’s dangerous. An illusion gilded in beauty that sits in this achingly so, lazy way. It’s an excellent cover for someone who (based on volume alone) should be legally required to sublet a soundproof chamber instead of an apartment. Beauty privilege, remember?

Instead of spending his days spreading divine harmony and whispering sweet nothings into the ears of poets, her tragically beautiful neighbor has chosen a different calling. One that involves subjecting Y/N to an auditory experience that can only be described as an unholy, unprovoked act of sonic terrorism against anyone who possesses functioning ears.

While he may look like the patron saint of soft lighting and tasteful nudity, he lives like a man who has never once considered the presence of neighbors. Evidently, the universe operates on imbalance. 

It’s not surprising that he fucks. Nor is the frequency, given— everything. It would be more surprising if he didn’t, which, statistically, seems impossible. It is the sheer volume at which he fucks and the blatant disregard for customary noise ordinances.

Y/N has had the great misfortune of gaining intimate knowledge of Harry’s extracurricular activities through nothing but flagrantly inconspicuous, unsolicited proximity. She is now, against her will, deeply familiar with the sound of his bed frame against the wall. With the low, gravel-thick groan that spills out of him before everything goes quiet, the sharp gasp from whoever is tangled up in the sheets beneath him. The pornographic chainlink of yes, yes, yes, as if to lyricize the tempo of a wrought iron headboard ramming against hollow drywall. She’s a victim to secondhand moaning; a hostage to the unchecked libido of a man she’s not even screwing.

The young woman isn’t sure who he’s sleeping with, but based on the sounds, they either really, really like whatever feat of Olympian-endurance he’s performing on the other side of the wall, or they’re being held at gunpoint and doing an exceptional job of faking it. It’s loud. A predictable regularity. Enough to make her consider downloading white noise apps and investing in a stronger liquor cabinet.

And every morning, after nights filled with thumping and gypsum-dulled dirty talk— horny monologue hour, hardly softened by an overworked, underpaid layer of rental-grade plaster— and the occasional bass-heavy indie rock soundtrack, he leaves his apartment looking criminally rested. Peaceful. Unbothered by the absolute railing he has just put someone (and the walls) through.

For all his divine aesthetics, Harry fucks like he’s trying to earn a standing ovation. With the kind of dedication to performance that suggests he thinks there’s an awards committee waiting outside in the hallway to hand him a trophy when he’s done.

Y/N doesn’t know what’s worse— the rhythmic, wall-shaking thump of his bed frame, the low, muzzled stream of just incomprehensible enough to stay offensive murmurs, or the fact that he has the audacity to look well-rested when she sees him the next morning, while she lurches past him like a woman who’s been spiritually waterboarded by the full-scale resonance of his sex life.

Y/N has tried— earnestly tried— to ignore it. To mentally downgrade him from disruptively attractive to something more manageable, like guy-next-door cute. But Harry is simply too loud to be ignored.

And not just in volume— though, yes, he operates at a decibel that insinuates he believes “inside voice” is an urban legend. It's everything. The way he takes up space. The way he stretches his arms over his head and his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of toned stomach like some kind of aesthetic oversight. The way his lips pull into a smirk when he's amused, a single dimple pressing into the smooth skin of his cheek.

The worst part? He doesn’t weaponize it. Just… exists, as if he entirely lacks self-awareness for the unrelenting power he yields with pure aesthetics. 

Perhaps the only thing more dangerous than his unregulated evolutionary favoritism is the lack of object permanence it causes. Inspires. Because at the end of the day, despite how polite, how deeply-gnarled in neighborly niceties, The Incident from last month still exists, but miraculously manages to melt into her every time she’s face to face with him. Like a static buzz settling into the way her composure thaws away.

His most notable sound pollution, to date, spilled in the form of audible rejection on a rain-drenched afternoon, dripping through the drywall in a dissent-rusted chain. Stop. No. Please. It was a voice she didn’t recognize. A voice trying to be firm but not entirely expecting to be listened to. It sounded so defeated, like a cry and then a high, sharp whine in response to whatever distinctly lower-pitched murmurs the insulation muzzled. All velvet-dipped tones swallowed by the structural integrity of a shoebox apartment.

Y/N is the last person to dig into others’ preferential depravities, nor does she have the mental bandwidth to file through the archives of a borderline stranger’s hedonisms, but her stomach had twisted up like one of those coiled, abstract sculptures that fits on a bookshelf, and she ended up on the couch with her cellphone tucked to her ear. 

Because it wasn’t just the kind of sound that prickled at her nape, but curdled deep in the belly of her, heavy and rotting. 

(“Um, hi, I think my neighbor is— hurting someone.”)

But the thing is, standing with her door cracked now, Y/N thinks there needs to be at least one, obnoxiously visible character flaw to remind her and offset the audacity of his aesthetics, because up close, it’s so much worse. 

Anything— an overinflated ego, a questionable tattoo, a personality cultivated exclusively from Joe Rogan podcasts. But no. Harry is polite— painfully so, armed with the clean-shaven jawline of a man who has never known an awkward phase and the kind of infuriatingly natural charm that makes all rationale and reason puddle off into awed oblivion. 

“Hey,” he says, cradling the package in one palm, curls wet, one rogue lock clinging to the crest of his cheekbone in a way that would look deeply artificial on anyone else. “Think they swapped our mail again.”

The level of allurement at which he functions should come with a warning label, so it’s a little tough to keep The Incident afloat when he just… waterlogs it with simple, blissfully unaware presence. In these types of situations, all that buoys is the vague, internal monologue reminding her that she’s been gawking wordlessly too long to be considered socially acceptable. 

Her taller neighbor (significantly taller; really, Y/N thinks— it’s as if he collected hallmarks like they were on conveniently timed clearance) blinks. He’s still holding the package out. Y/N blinks back. Batting her lashes shakes something, as if warding off gnats off in a plume of smoke. Slowly, she accepts the misdelivered offering, and unease creeps into the soft spot between her rib bones and her organs. 

Despite the way the man has embedded his existence so deeply into her thoughts— honestly, so much so that he may as well be paying rent (she should be getting compensated for the unpaid mental labor)— Y/N doesn’t actually know Harry.

She knows his name is Harry. H-A-R-R-y, always inscribed in all capitals, besides the cacographic tail end of the lowercase, curving Y. She’s given up on trying to understand why whoever the post office sends insists on treating their mailboxes like interchangeable suggestions rather than fixed addresses. She knows that their mail, through some act of bureaucratic sabotage, somehow manages to interchange between 9B and 9C with unsettling regularity.

She knows he fucks. A lot. So regularly that at this point, it’s practically a statistical impossibility that his celibacy record stands longer than a sparse handful of days. She knows that he wears the face of a misplaced effigy, with a halo’s worth of plausible deniability— the kind that should be mounted to an Italian plaza centerpiece, or live frescoed, immortalized on a high ceiling between Corinthian columns. She knows she called the police on him last month, so she needs to ball her resolve in her arms when it spills apart like unrolled toilet paper—

There is one truth Y/N must latch on and cling to in these tragically catastrophic stand-offs (probably… entirely one-sided, given that the opponent to her poor mettle and overactive nervous system is just… standing there, breathing, entirely oblivious of his innate talent to dilate pupils and cause momentary amnesia), and that truth is this: no superficially aesthetic veneer of deception can shell-up reality. 

And the reality is that Y/N does not know this man, and so no cherubic façade, neighborly niceties, or feigned self-unawareness can suppress that he may as well be an entirely different person behind closed doors. 

It’s months down the line that the irony will hit her— that yes, undeniably, Harry is almost a direct, walking contradiction behind the assumed sanctity of a closed door— that no pleasantries or seraphic, unassuming dimples can soften the obscenity of his pastimes. Hobbies include: vinyl collecting, long walks, and ensuring that an attitude adjustment sticks. But that’s months down the line, and right now?

Right now he’s just her obnoxiously loud neighbor that, according to probable cause (and the recording of the phone call she made to the emergency hotline, stored somewhere in the 911 archives), may or may not take no for an answer. Which is the biggest tragedy of all, in her opinion.

“Thanks.” There’s a little bite there to the word, there. Enough for him to clock it— for something to flicker along that lazily charming smile, like a gossamer-thin, bewildered film over the surface of his expression. 

Harry pauses, almost like he wants to say something (probably to acknowledge the awkwardly apparent dissonance going on), but then he just… doesn’t.

“Okay,” as the man breathes, the breadth of his shoulders swells up, thick muscle rising up under the cotton fabric (not quite pulled taut— not anywhere besides the span of his shoulders— but enough for the shape of his pebbled nipples to poke through the material). Y/N chews into the gummy-smooth skin along the inside of her cheek. Honestly, it’s unfairly disarming; his low voice, his stupid face, his hard nipples prodding through the tee. With his dewy meadow eyes glued onto her, her resolve wobbles like a flimsy stilt house on the coast in a hurricane. “Have a good one.”

He ducks his chin (a subtle period on the uncomfortable pause, a formal seal on his exit) at the young woman, still holding the parchment-wrapped package she’s been awarded as if solidified into a stone-encasement of the position. Y/N blinks. Harry turns. 

With a final glance toward his retreating back, the girl closes the door. As her fingers tighten around the package, her knuckles bleach from the strain. It’s either that or punch drywall, and quite frankly, she’s been paying too much in rent to consider remodeling and too many fees in the form of involuntary eavesdropping to afford a fracture in the (poorly constructed) noise barrier. She tucks the chainlink back onto its track as the door clicks shut and resigns herself to another unfortunate truth: Harry is so dangerously attractive that not only is she almost certainly going to think about this moment later, but she will be reminded, every time she’s shepherded into close proximity with him, that when God packages something up in 6 feet of limited-edition facial topography and artfully tousled curls, no amount of unsought aural pornography and creeping suspicion can stop a cosmic nepotism baby from dismantling her concentration. 

The last thing Harry expects from a disgruntled herd of bleary-eyed, sock-shuffling renters— a crowd caught somewhere between sleep-deprived and half-dead— is small talk. 

Half these people have a look that suggests they contemplated burning alive before choosing to evacuate, and the other half probably wish they decided to wear real pants to bed. Tonight, Harry falls into both categories. With the fire alarm still shrieking from the guts of the complex and the blinking glow of blue and red in the corner of a tar-black night, the briefs hitching high on his meaty thighs is almost… poetic. Cinematic, at the very least. Like a scene from an experimental indie film focused on the gradual dissolution of dignity.

The downy rabbit nestled in his arms, coiled more like a floccose ball than a living animal, is the sartorial maraschino cherry— it pulls the look together. Emergency Evacuation chic. He looks about as disheveled as the rest of the congregation; bedhead, sleep still dusting at his half-mast gaze, keyring slipped over his middle finger and his phone cradled in the same hand (though, Harry thinks wryly, no building-wide emergency couture quite tops the tighty-whitey socks-and-sandals combo that the guy up ahead of him is rocking). There’s sparse chatter going on all around him, a kind of background drone that fades into the wail, but he doesn’t have any intention to engage. Despite the unplanned slumber party and the potential opportunity to trauma-bond, he can’t really find it in him to start ice-breaking and sharing life stories. There’s a time and place to build community with your neighbors— half-dressed in a parking lot at three AM isn’t one of them. 

Instead, he stands in the midst of the mass, dead-silent as if still calibrating. It takes him a while to notice the young woman a few feet ahead of him— long enough that the cool air has settled over him in a coat. Her bathrobe wraps tight around her, cinched pink terry-cloth. He doesn’t recognize that she’s a familiar face until she turns enough for him to see her side profile, her phone screen casting light and painting shadows in the crease of her furrowed brow as she sniffs. Thumbing over the device, Y/N turns back over her shoulder. 

The longer he stands there, creaking into a more-awake rendition of himself as the faint chill cuts through the grogginess in his skull, the more the silence marinates into impatient restlessness. Stretching like old gum. She lingers in his periphery, shifting from foot to foot as if nursing the same restive itch. Once again, his neighbor twists to the side, rocking onto the balls of her feet and then back down onto her heels. A huff spills from her lips as she turns her phone off and tucks it up under her upper arm, crossing them. It’s not cold enough for the air to bloom with her breath, but the exasperation in it is audible. Maybe because he’s managed to seep closer. 

“—Wonder if someone just pulled it.”

At first, Y/N doesn’t acknowledge the statement, as if she doesn’t recognize the remark is directed at her. And then, the presence behind her— not pressing uncomfortably close, just distant enough to notice— has Y/N turning her head over her shoulder. She double-takes.

Harry’s in a new light. Still abysmal to her train of thought, already weak on its tracks given that the drowsiness from being rudely awoken in the middle of the night still has her lingering in a dull, cotton-wrapped awareness. But now, he’s a fraying shape; sleepy and half-nakedly soft. Hair a masterpiece of sleep deprivation— the typically styled ringlets on his head sit mussed; whatever shape (she assumes the usual— somewhere between windswept and enticingly intentional) existed yesterday has gone rogue, erased by his pillow. What’s left is a tousled disarray. He’s in another tee, once again pulled snugly over his shoulders, and he’s cradling what could be a live, fuzzy animal, but more resembles a balled fur stole, its potential face tucked into the nook between his muscly upper arm and his chest. Despite the ridiculous assortment of this particular wardrobe showcase, that’s not what catches her eye most. Y/N sucks in a breath. 

Considering a fair share of the evacuees around them teeter on the brink of public-indecency, it shouldn’t throw her guard off as much as it does, but all she can manage in such close proximity with Harry’s thighs is to blink wordlessly. It’s not necessarily his thighs so much as the way they’re denuded— not the way his trousers sit on them so much as their entire lack thereof. It’s the way his lower region is only covered up by a pair of jet-black briefs, clinging like a second skin, riding ridiculously high and ridiculously low. High enough that the only place her eyes can focus is the (chewy) musculature, slightly sun-bathed from all those hours spent in the residential pool, dusted with hair. Low enough that a sliver of skin peeks from between the waistband and hem of his shirt, hitched up just a touch on one side. Enough to hint at a sharp dip of a mostly concealed V, where muscle sinks in a hard line along bone. A tease of whatever workout routine he’s committed to. Beside the rigid line chiseled in there, an inked, leafy stem climbs (a set of mirrored layers that she’d observed on him, supine on a pool chaise). 

Basically, it’s the type of thing that should legally classify him as a walking thirst trap.

With the crowd sporting bedtime fashion, some covered only in the most legally vague sense of the word, it leaves Y/N wondering: if most of the people decided to haphazardly vacate their apartments by only tossing on the most minimal attire— if opting to add to their garb in any way— what did Harry add? Did he wear the cream-toned tee to bed? Just the Calvins? Both? Or was he entirely bare, only sloppily throwing on whatever was left discarded by the side of the bed? Does he sleep naked? 

With all these sordid thoughts clouding up the forefront of her mind like a thick plume of fog, she can’t find words through alphabet soup and the vague mental images of Harry’s bare skin tangled by sheets. To make it better, he’s just staring at her, like he’s expectantly waiting for her to respond. What was the question?

Y/N blinks again. “What?”

“The—“ Harry bobs his head towards the cluster of emergency vehicles, olive eyes oscillating to the apartment complex and back onto her, “fire alarm. I wonder if someone just pulled it.” 

If ever the universe was to humble Harry from a breathing renaissance painting, half-clothed and half-asleep would be the time. He could be knocked down to whatever status a man up front is bearing, clad in a questionably classy fusion of tragic, high-cut cotton underwear, socks, and suede, open-toed sandals. Somehow, though, it’s worse that his bedhead, for the most part, still leaves the tendrils curling in lazy, untamed waves. That his nakedly-beguiling thighs, strong and sculpted with muscle, look like they’re meant to pry knees wide. It’s mortifying—

“Then, they’d be an asshole,” she murmurs, her own gaze raking out and lingering on the building. The words come out clipped with exhaustion, and then that pause lingers again. 

Harry hums. She chances another glance at the furball curled to his chest. 

“Snuggles,” Harry supplies, raising one arm a tad from where it’s caged to support the animal. The motion is enough to jostle the thing, and it tucks its face out, twitching its nose. With careful precision, the man moves one hand out from the cradle— the one not clutching his keys and his phone (by the way, casually dwarfed by the sheer size of his palm and cupped, lengthy fingers) to skim his pointer along the Holland lop’s dangling ear. “He’s a bit delicate and has some strong opinions on sudden, loud noises. Not a fan of fire alarms, as it turns out.”

The young woman hums noncommittally, eyes snaking back off to the polychrome strobe. 

The last thing Harry expects from his neighbors during a mandatory, middle-of-the-night evacuation order are pleasantries. Between the slouched postures, the collective, dead-eyed aura of suffering, the general degree of resentment perfuming the air, and the visible internal debates over whether a hypothetical fire is worth enduring the cold, it’s safe to assume morale is at an all time low. Which brings him to his next point— there is, Harry suspects, something about him that fundamentally offends his neighbor.

Not inherently because she’s not talking to him. Naturally, the theory has no relevance to her lack of enthusiasm at the moment. 

There’s a clause to life that he learned as a little kid, an absolute truth that the motto “water off your back” was created around, and this clause is that not everyone will like you. There’s really no gentle way to chew on that one, but it’s a fact Harry has long come to terms with. Jealousy, misery, even a simple case of personalities repelling like mismatched magnets— all things that can cause someone to decide you’re just not their cup of tea. Incompatibility could very easily leave your existence grating someone down to the molecular level. And you can never please everyone— that’s another piece of that truth he had to gnaw on before he decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life marching to the beat of his own drum. 

Apparently, something about this tempo scrapes at some highly-sensitive nerve of hers like a dull knife on a chalkboard. 

It’s an intuition thing, really. There hasn’t so much been a sharp, substantial instance so much as there’s been instances. Little, creeping things; the way her eyes ward when he’s close, despite the way they hover; the tone she seems to reserve for him, not outwardly rude, but suspiciously close to some awkward admixture between tolerating jury duty and being held at gunpoint. There’s more, among those, too— the suspiciously long pauses that sit like preludes to every response she gives him. The way her gaze flickers off avoidantly. 

And those last two aren’t flustered mechanisms. 

Harry knows he is, according to conventional, societal standards, attractive. He’s no stranger to reflective surfaces, nor is he unaware of the way actual strangers look at him. Ogle. Gawk. 

It was a burgeoning metamorphosis he became acutely aware of between awkward kidhood and the place he’s at now. First, all lanky angles of uncertainty, only half-grown into his features, when his bones had made up their mind but the muscle and skin over them hadn’t quite decided what they wanted to be yet. Then, it was almost overnight. Everything began stretching into place and ubiquitously working in his favor. Eyes lingered, heads turned…

It’s safe to say he knows nervous girls. Boys. The lack of eye contact, or on the polar opposite hand, the blanking, empty stares and the silent beat as their response time glitches and their mouth tries (and fails) to keep up with a short-circuiting nervous system. Not everybody is able to stay the most suave version of themselves interacting with someone they find sexually attractive— his firsthand experience involves not only being on the receiving end, but on the giving end, as well. Granted, the aesthetics boost had given him a sense of confidence that buried his inhibitions down, so it’s been a long while since the last time he tripped over himself in front of someone that made his dick sit up and pay attention, but—

The thing is, Y/N doesn’t glance away like staring at him rapidly dissolves her thoughts in a static haze. She doesn’t take long pauses because she’s floundering over the next word. She doesn’t even look at him in a way that insinuates she’s worried he’ll nip her or something, she’s just so utterly…

Closed off. Disinterested. Like his presence is a jury duty evaluation and she’s wriggling in her seat, waiting to talk about her views on jury nullification. 

In fairness, it could very well be a me-not-you thing— the awkward shuffle through their interactions, the severe deficit of enthusiasm. Those communication patterns could very well be sound across the board… in another universe. There are footprints that lead him to the massive elephant in the room, and those footprints spell the vague shape of it didn’t used to be this way. 

Sure, Harry contemplates, if she was a miserably unpleasant person that holed up in her apartment with no interest in corresponding with another human being, he’d get it. If she’d given him the idea that something about him rattled her down to atoms the first time he ever said hello to her, he’d get it. But she used to smile. Coyly, almost, he’d go as far to say— one finger away from twirling a lock of hair around her pointer as she talked to him. The kind of simper that accompanies a giggle from a barista handing his drink over across the counter, eyes honed. She used to lean onto her door frame when he handed off a stack of envelopes that got misplaced into his mailbox, or hung back with her eyes wet and lively as she stood at his doorway and handed off a package. 

What’s more is that his history is marked by drawing more people in after he opens his mouth, than turning them away. He’s arguably likeable— not in an arrogantly self-absorbed way, but strictly based on track record. He’s befriended too many older ladies (who sparked up chatter with him in grocery stores unprompted, mostly), and gotten slipped too many drinks (on the house) from bartenders to believe otherwise. Generally, his existence tends to fall into the category of charming rather than grating.

When he considers all of this, his analysis only leads him to one conclusion— there is something about him that suddenly, fundamentally offends his neighbor. 

And it’s with this hypothesis that Harry clears his throat, hesitates, and prods, with just a moment of lull after she’s turned back away from him, “If I’m misreading this, feel free to tell me to piss off, but— did I do something?”

The young woman pivots back over her shoulder, blinking, almost as if she’d forgotten he was behind her at all. 

“…What?”

Harry shrugs. The motion coaxes Snuggles to lift his head again. “I don't expect us to be friends, but I also don't want to be the person you actively avoid in the hallway. If I've done something to make things weird, l'd rather fix it than pretend I don't notice." 

For a long second, Y/N doesn’t say anything. Just batting her lashes up at him, features lax, like she’s processing the earnest directness behind his words and letting them settle. And then her face twists. 

Ooh— okay. Ruckling brow bone, lips tugging down, the nearly incredulous burst of air she expels as she turns her prickling face away—

She scoffs, muttering something strangely close to, “can’t be serious,” under her breath, and Harry’s eyes pensively narrow just a smidge. Enough to be entirely imperceptible as he drinks in her body language. That’s an indicator, if Harry’s ever seen one. 

“You know what, Harry,” she says after a moment (now her arms are caging defensively, that’s an interesting touch), “…I just don’t really …appreciate how you treat women, to be honest.”

Of all the responses Harry had been anticipating, curiously honed on every word, that was— not the one. His dark canopy of lashes sweeps over his eyes as the admission lands and… knocks him off kilter, just a bit. His brows relax, then furrow up as he mulls the statement over, buffering. 

He sounds a little bewildered when he says, voice much more soft-spoken, “…Sorry?”

“You should be,” his neighbor tells him pointedly, her arms still crossed like a defensive barrier across her chest, “Hitting women is wrong. Very illegal for a reason, actually.”

At the mention, his head bobbles back a bit like he’s dodging a smack between the brows with the context-lacking declaration. He’s not quite sure he’s heard her right, eyebrows climbing and eyes widening almost comically. Right, okay. This is… a gross misunderstanding, he decides. When the realization hits him, truly hits him, his knee-jerk response is an incredulous laugh, which he muscles down. Instead, his appalled amusement trickles out like a little huff, corners of his strawberry mouth tugging up. Unfortunately, the reaction only seems to irritate her further, and her forehead crinkles up as her own eyebrows ascend in stunned disbelief. 

“You think there’s something funny about hitting a woman?” Y/N presses, eyes steeling into slits, her priorly indoor-voice rising a decibel. 

The volume of her statement (and the misleading content) has his otherwise mirthy expression falling into something far more serious. Full of comically flat, grievous denial, like a kid being scolded for spray-painting a concrete wall after being caught with the can in its hand.

“—No,” Harry shakes his head slowly, side to side, “Not at all.”

Cautiously, his gaze slips off to the corner, where a few tenants have turned over their shoulder to gauge the commotion. As the young woman’s head swivels to tail where his eye contact has meandered, Harry realizes that backpedaling is only going to become a feat of incredible verbal athleticism from here. Upon catching the other glimpses from the crowd, slowly turning back to their own conversations, Y/N makes a deadpan sound of amusement before she turns back to face him.

“Oh, what? You’re ashamed now that you’re being called out for it? Good,” she bites, shoulders teetering as she leans toward him and unfolds her arms, pointing her index finger into his direction scathingly, “You should be ashamed. It’s absolutely disgusting to put your hands on a woman.”

This is tragically weighed against Harry’s favor. Here he was, just a half-asleep evacuee, holding his rabbit, clad in only a pair of hardly decent briefs, contemplating whether he should Uber Eats tacos as soon as the emergency exit fiasco were to clear up (might as well, since he’s already awake). Somehow, he’s managed to morph from an unassuming extra to the perceived antagonist. 

No, Harry thinks— this wouldn’t be a disaster film; it’s a full blown, poorly-contrived drama with a plot twist even the supposed villain is caught off guard by. The curly-headed brunette chances another glance to the other side now, where more people have not only glimpsed over in brief acknowledgement, but have fully twisted their shoulders to observe the apparent scandal. As much as Harry wholeheartedly marches to the beat of his own drum, at this moment in time, his reputation is shaking in its boots and he’s reached a mental checkpoint called time for damage control.

Weaving sincerity into his tone and shaking his head placatingly as he steps forward— a subconscious attempt to coax her into lowering her volume— Harry tells her, “I don’t put my hands on anybody that doesn’t consent to it first.”

Her face scrunches up.

“I think,” his pink tongue slinks out to wet his lips, “maybe, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“No, I really, really do,” Harry counters, ducking his chin into a nod. 

Instead of hearing him out, however, his neighbor, as if fueled by the internal calling to manually dismantle misogyny, one assumed violent criminal at a time, only raises her volume a little more. Exceeding the normal range, definitely steeping in public-humiliation-ritual territory. 

“I’m not misunderstanding,” Y/N bites, brows pinched like he’s personally offended her by even insinuating as much, “I have ears, just so you know, and I’ve heard a woman saying no, and please, and stop. So you can drop your good boy act, okay—“

Harry blinks. If not for the character defamation going on and the way Socks-and-Sandals raises his phone out of seemingly nowhere, pointing it into their direction as if there isn’t a potential fire to be filmed instead of all things, Harry would laugh. But there is, and the flash is on, weak along his peripheral edge—

“I know guys like you, I know your type,” Y/N declares, jabbing her finger against him again, this time so close to grazing the area along his chest, right between the tops of his pectorals, just over Snuggles, “and it’s gross that you think because you’re attractive you can walk all over everyone and do things like that to people, and you know what, next time maybe the cops won’t be so nice—”

Ah, nice. Another mystery resolved; one which involved a pair of men with guns in their holsters at his door performing a wellness check and an excruciatingly awkward clarification on impact play, consensual sadomasochism, and safewords. For weeks Harry wondered what had inspired a legal inquiry into his pastimes. Now, staring at the culprit— case dismissed— he can only blink before his brows wrinkle up. 

“You’re the one who called the police?” Harry murmurs, a note of soft incredulity soaking the phrase.  

“Any sane woman would call the police when she heard another woman being abused—“

“Abused?”

“Yes! Abused! And— and— honestly—“

Before Y/N can launch into another ruthlessly-curated, virtue-plated diatribe, Harry resituates the animal in his grip, unlocking his phone to the homescreen. Then, Safari. He thumbs over it with a careful determination seeding along his downturned, sculpted expression.

“I don’t know what form of assault would be worse,” Y/N chimes, hands climbing up in an exaggerated, universal symbol of exasperation before they fall back to her sides (as if she hadn’t even noticed his attention has been redirected to his phone), “but when someone says no, it means no.”

It only takes a second for her to register that his focus has been rerouted elsewhere, though. Her tone dips indignantly.

“Excuse me. I’m talking to you. And also, while we’re at it, you’re unbearably loud and an unmannerly neighbor—“

Harry turns his phone around. His expression is impressively flat, all things considered. Y/N pauses. 

“Typically,” Harry states as her eyes rake over the glowing screen, “I like to be wined and dined before I give a crash course on my preferences, but.”

The image stretched across the illuminated LED sits over her tired gaze as she absorbs it, pupils jittering as she reads, but through the lens of his own profile mirrored back, he can see the moment her righteously fueled demeanor chips. 

“I do, like, a… softcore porn type thing,” he admits. 

Still, her brows are kinked. Only now, in stupefied doubt. “I— what?”

It’s with a rotting sense of dread curdling in the pit of her tummy that it suddenly dawns on Y/N— the mortified realization that she has succumbed to a horrible misunderstanding. 

The website the tab is set on almost looks archaic, like a kitsch relic— repository archives of a porn blog from the early 2000s. Spankinggram. The page is set onto a profile, something called Rings&Paddles, and the squared image of an avatar slices through the garishly orange palette of the site’s logo. Her gaze sweeps over the vista; a man sitting down on an armless chair, thighs splayed, palm curled over a …hairbrush. 

The profile picture sunders off at the neck. It’s a faceless silhouette, but the miscellany of sketches cascading across a forearm and the distinctly chunky medley of rings are… enough—

“Consensually,” Harry— Rings&Paddles, Y/N recognizes, molten heat dripping along the crests of her cheekbones— adds, “No one is being abused.”

In retrospect, the only feasible option to survive this, Y/N decides, is to change her name and move to another state. 

Probably something short and vaguely melancholic, one of those names that would look intriguing in all lowercase. A quiet town. Somewhere coastal, maybe. West. No— north. As far north as geographically possible. Perhaps she could get a dog. An older, ratty boy from a shelter. Drive an old car that’s too big with a busted radio. She’ll pretend it’s a benefit, rather than an inconvenience, because she’ll be the fabricated kind of mystique that insufferably enjoys the quiet calm (and rainstorms). A rebranded, movie-clichè hipster, but not unbearable in real life—

“But I understand the concern,” her neighbor says, cutting through the haze as she contemplates what brand of cigarettes she’ll be taking up as a trait of her pseudo-identity. Against all odds, his tone is calm in an all-too-merciful kind of way, “You can look into… domestic discipline, if you’d like. If you wanted to understand a bit better. There’s loads of really good information on the internet.”

For a moment, Y/N deliberates burning alive. If there isn’t a fire licking up her department store drapes, she’s going to set one to avoid bearing the weight of this shame for the rest of her life. Granted, the heat sizzling at her face feels like a flame, enough, both at the way she’s just publicly kinkshamed an innocent man and at the mention of …domestic discipline.

She’s going to cry. 

They would be Virginia Slims.

“You— …what?”

The garbled confusion drenching her tone is almost laughable. She sounds it, too; voice pinched and deceptively close to trembling off into a sob. Y/N stares straight ahead, body locked in a fugue state of humiliation as the realization calcifies in real-time. Her shoulders have gone stiff and her spine rigid, posture squeezed somewhere between standing and catatonic. The scale of her miscalculation worms into her skull like a parasite that’ll chew her awake in the middle of the night, years down the line.

For the last month, Y/N has spent every interaction with Harry evasively toeing over eggshells. Floundering over the way his face was sculpted, rather than compromising the integral structure of their acquaintanceship. Somehow, a sleep cycle cut short and the ambiguous suggestion that he had picked up on her avoidant habits was all it had taken to not only slander his (apparently not safe for work) extracurriculars, but probably assure her foreseeable Amazon packages suddenly start going missing.

Now, with a semi-public declaration of his profile pressed out to her face and his name no longer being audibly smeared with accusations, Harry can appreciate the quiet sense of revelation. 

His neighbor, on the other hand, looks visibly wrecked. Her entire stance is pulled in tight, like she’s actively trying to make herself smaller, but it’s her face that really gives her away— the way it twists, fluctuating between wide-eyed horror and the dawning realization that she’s just detonated a social landmine at point-blank range. All heat-tinged and shame-doused, the young woman blinks up at him, doe-eyes rounded in apologetic appall and lips parted slightly like she’s still buffering. The combination of words that just left his mouth— softcore porn, domestic discipline, consensual— seem to be wrestling in her brain like tangled Christmas lights, none of them quite fitting together in a way that makes sense and glinters.

“I am sorry about the noise,” he tells her, shutting the phone off and nestling his arm back up under his pet, “I’ll make sure to keep it to a minimum from now on.”

Y/N wilts. With the phone no longer held out into her direction, the way she stays glued to the same spot on the cement— as if mortified into a motionless piece of stone— is ridiculous enough for him to gnaw into his cheek to chew back a bark of laughter. Despite all trials and tribulations, his coping mechanisms never fail. 

“You— oh my God,” Y/N whispers. She makes a sound that could be a vaguely pained noise or the byproduct of her soul seeping out of her body. “Oh my God.”

Harry blinks. 

“I called the police on you,” she tells him, utter dismay lacing the words together. 

“You did, yeah.”

Harry still remembers the blank expression varnished along the officer’s face— the kind of emotionally vacant stare reserved for department store mannequins. The echo of the distant, metaphysical NOPE that definitely rode along his brainstem the moment the curly-haired brunette mentioned “it’s a kink thing,” and the way his partner, hands allocated to his holster belt, started very obviously examining his own shoes. 

“I thought—“ Y/N stutters, her wobbling voice sounding squeezed from her trachea, “I thought—“

“You thought you were living next door to a criminal,” Harry supplies. When he tilts his head, a rogue curl flops over his forehead.  

Finally, the young woman moves, burying her face in her hands. This will haunt her, she thinks. Forever. 

From the corner of his eye, the man can tell that most of the tenants have gone back to their regularly scheduled repertoires of stalled misery. And despite the absolute PR mess her blunder has induced— his eyes wander over her, the way she’s cupping her face like she wants to melt into her own hands and seep off into the pavement— he feels oddly… bad. Not secondhand embarrassed (firsthand, definitely firsthand), but Y/N looks like she’s going to combust. It’s tragic, really. The kind of pitiful that makes him purse his mouth and stare down at her in contemplation.

“Honestly,” his voice cuts through the haze in her throbbing, hot skull, all even-toned sincerity (which is worse, so much worse), “if I was in your position, yeah? I’d do the same thing.”

The admission coaxes her into a horrified peer through the wedges between her fingers. The warmth pressed to her palms feels borderline pyrexic. 

“And if that were the case, you’d be the neighborhood hero. So.” He raises a shoulder nonchalantly.

Y/N doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, she soaks in the crime scene, doused in the blinking blue and red. 

“I’m not sure neighborhood hero is how I’ll be remembered,” the young woman finally answers, groaning through her hands, and then pressing her fingertips into her temples. 

Harry hums. Then, he sighs. “No, you’re right. I’d say misguided vigilante. I reckon it’s a bit better than violent felon, though.”

Y/N makes another sound. This one sounds a little more wounded.

Next part here

[centrally-unplanned]

I don't really have anything big to add to Scott's Curtis Yarvin call-out that isn't really already in the post, which is just something someone had to write "for the record". Curtis Yarvin is, of course, an absolute joke of a thinker - but Scott was the person to write this post because he likes the joke. I respect that, a lot, because writing - even nonfiction writing - is primarily entertainment, and you really shouldn't delude yourself otherwise. I don't like Curtis Yarvin, I find his prose insufferable, but there are people like Yarvin who I enjoy who bat about as well on the accuracy scoreboards - The Last Psychiatrist is my own Yarvin-like, someone with impeccable prose who never cared about proving any of their points beyond what was needed for the punchline. Reading a hater who can't see that is like listening to someone's opinion on anime who thinks finding 2D girls hot is Fake News; they aren't capable of "getting it" enough for their opinion to register.

Scott gets it, Scott likes Yarvin, he has read his duct-tape edifice on how you can do "Dictatorship - but Good This Time!" with joy and attention. Which is why he is the best-positioned to call him out for being an absolute sell-out who has contradicted virtually everything he ever wrote in his glory days. Which he obviously has, but someone making the case with citations is valuable proof for your instincts.

Tracing Woodgrains noted that the framing of "selling out" is not cynical enough, that all of Yarvin's contextual caveats and exhortations for apolitical excellence were just a smokescreen, a pretextual shield against criticisms from the liberals as he smuggled populist authoritarianism through the door. To me, this debate is a distinction without a difference because they buy into the idea that 2000's Yarvin was serious at all to begin with. You think the guy writing headlines like these:

Was trying to maximize his odds of building a new political movement? Of course not - he was writing coolboy headlines to set you up for his edgy zinger punchlines about how slavery was good. I am sure he dreamed, like all writers did, but he was far too intelligent to ever think those dreams would really go anywhere in the real. Dude was blogging on the internet. This was a hobby, for fun, and for influence amoung bloggers. And what made it fun was all the complicated rules and nth-level steps to make the system bespoke - if you just said "kill everyone who opposes you" you don't have a blog, you have a tweet. Everything was in service of making good posts.

And then reality decided to punk itself and a cultural wave of conspiracy-brained charlatans took over the American Right and were happy to smash any square peg into the gaping maw of it round, sucking void of aggrieved, performative destruction that didn't care enough to protest. Yarvin nearly missed it happening, running some fringe programming start-up for more than half a decade while the New Right cast about for slightly-less-embarrassing justifications for its illiberalism. But fate gave him a pass on that, this is his time; and now he has to, essentially, pretend he is part of a movement he is in fact tangential to.

You see how that isn't selling out or pretextual? The entire job has changed. None of this fits. Certainly, it is a form of selling out - but entertaining blog posts are not convictions one can really sell. Certainly, it is a form of latent authoritarianism - but entertaining blog posts aren't actual policy platforms one can really dog whistle. That applies far too much agency to any of this - Yarvin has no business being in the room in 2025. Mencius Moldbug isn't even here anymore.

You can really see that in his response to Scott's post, which Hanania neatly mocks. It is basic-bitch culture war anti-elite nonsense that contradicts itself on even a cursory Google check, because it is just barely-warmed-over leftovers from other New Right thinkers. There is no prose here, no effort, no joy. These tweets are 9-to-5. This is a new guy; one that just isn't nearly as fun.

[morganwrites12672]

"I Need You."

Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: Matt realizes that he can't live without you in his life.

Word Count: 1.8k+

Warnings: DDBA Spoilers, grief, depression, making out.

A/N: I hope that you guys enjoy this! Also! Please note that the banner above does NOT represent what the reader looks like.

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Foggy's death had left a gaping hole inside your chest. It had released a black fog that ruined everything in its path of destruction. That much was evidently clear. No one had been normal after what had happened. No one had been able to cope. How could any of you? Everyone had lost one of their best friends.

Karen had tried. She really had at first. But, you were worse company than a brick wall. Any attempt she made at getting through to you had failed. You hadn't been able to find it in yourself to be angry whenever she moved across the country. It's not like she had had anything left in Hell's Kitchen. She did what she needed to. She tried moving on. And, some might say that she did a pretty good job with that.

Foggy might have been the one to die, but no one else escaped unscathed.

Matt had been worse than Karen. The two of you had shared an apartment, and yet it was like he'd disappeared. He wasn't home. Ever. The apartment grew empty. Your only company had been the creaky floorboards and the shadows that talked back after one too many glasses of wine. Lonesome nights became the new normal. Matt worked too late, he made sure he was on a case during every single one of your days off too.

Eventually, it had gotten to be too much. You made the painful choice to end your relationship with Matt and move out. Suffocating around all of the reminders of him had gotten to be too much. Moving into your very own apartment would at least be a fresh start, or so you hoped.

Your apartment reeked of grief and despair. Everyone was gone. Was it really living if no one knew that you were alive? There was no friend left to call whenever the black fog felt suffocating. There was no lover to greet you whenever you came home late at night. It felt less like living and more like drowning. Could it always hurt this much? You weren't sure. You also weren't sure how much longer you could manage to keep going like this. Being alone was a horrible thing. Being alone while grieving was even worse. It made the pain more obvious. There was no hiding behind your friends and family. The only hiding you managed to do was behind a bottle.

A draft blew through your apartment, making you shiver despite your sweatpants. The curtains were closed tight, blocking out all of the light from the bustling city. It made you feel even more isolated than before. Every single thing that you did seemed to make you feel worse. It didn't matter what it was. Trying a new hobby ended with tearful reminders of either Foggy, Matt, or Karen and broken glass, getting out more led to late nights spent at the bar, nothing worked. Nothing.

Your train of thought was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. It startled you to say the very least. It wasn't often, or really ever, that you had a visitor stop by. Getting to your feet, you cautiously made your way to the door. Peering through the keyhole revealed that it was Matt.

Seeing him standing at your door after all of this time made something crack deep inside of you. He wasn't supposed to be here. The two of you were over. Nothing would be able to convince you otherwise. He was only a painful reminder of the past.

You opened the door, fully taking in Matt's appearance. He had changed. A light dusting of facial hair coated his jaw. During the two and a half years that you had known Matt, he had rarely grown his beard out past a little bit of stubble. It made him look older. So did the sense of weariness that encapsulated his body.

"How do you know where I live?" You asked, the tone of your voice sharper than intended. You knew all about Matt's enhanced senses. He would be able to feel your pain. Even if you didn't want him to. And yet, some small part of you wanted him to feel some of your suffering.

Matt chuckled, "I saw you around the area a few times." His answer was vague and left much for you to ponder on. What he didn't tell you was that he kept a very good eye on where you lived. He knew exactly what kind of people lurked in the darkness of Hell's Kitchen and he refused to allow you to become one of the many victims.

"I didn't know that you got out that much," you replied, finally stepping aside so that Matt could enter your apartment. His walking stick tapped against the ground as he entered the unfamiliar space. The door shut behind him. He had gone too long without seeing you. Your absence had been felt like an open wound that wouldn't heal. Festering and bleeding even whenever he thought that the wound had began trying to heal.

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't get out that much." For some reason his words sounded slightly defensive in the moment. He leaned against the kitchen counter, drinking in what parts of you he could sense. He knew that you weren't okay. That much had been shoved in his face three blocks away from your apartment. Your grief had lingered in the air.

"Cut the bullshit," you finally said, ignoring his previous words. The tension between the two of you was clear. You took a seat on one of the barstools. The cool metal cut through your sweatpants like a knife as the chill ran up your spine. "Why are you here Matt? Why now?"

Matt let out a deep sigh as doubt filled his gut. After how he had treated you after Foggy's death he had no right to try entering your life again. And yet, he didn't leave. He couldn't. Not whenever your depression nearly suffocated him. Your despair filled the air of your apartment. He knew that he had made a mistake. He shouldn't have left you alone when you needed him the most, even if his own grief had simply been too much for him to bear.

"What if I came because I wanted to apologize?" He bit back, old emotions rising up his throat. "I know that I messed up." His tongue darted out to lick his lips. A hand ran through his already tousled hair. He had no idea what he was really doing here. Did he want to apologize? Or, did he just want you back? Deep down he knew the answer. . .

"Matt, I know that you messed up. I don't blame you," you said softly. His words made your guts twist up in knots. The thought of what could have been made your heart ache. Old wounds tore open, ravaging through your soul. He had said the words that you had wished on stars for.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words catching in his throat on unshed tears. He needed you. Even if he knew that he could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve your love. That couldn't make him turn around. In this moment, there wasn't a force on the planet that could make him do anything but beg for your forgiveness.

"I screwed up. I know that I did. But, I'm sorry," his voice was almost raw. Every word sounded like it caused him great pain. And, in a way, it did. His chest burned and ached with hidden emotions and desires. His whole soul was at war right now with what he wanted and what he deserved.

"I know that you screwed up!" You snapped. You were living proof that he had. The way that things had happened had screwed up your life. You were merely a shadow of your old self. So similar, and yet so different. The dark fog had taken away all of your joy, leaving your heart barren and uninhabitable. You stood from the bar stool and Matt stood up straight. "I know and, and I can't bring myself to blame you for it."

Matt knew that he deserved to be blamed. He deserved to be resented by you for the rest of his life. Your erratic heart rate made him hope. It also made him realize that maybe you needed him just as much as he needed you. It was like the two of you were opposite sides of the same coin, always keeping the other balanced.

Instead of speaking, you crossed the distance between yourself and Matt. One of your hands grabbed onto his shirt as your mind screamed. Warning sirens were going off in your head. This was a terrible idea. Hadn't you been through enough?

All of those thoughts ceased as Matt pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was needy and nearly primal. Your teeth gently sunk into his bottom lip as his hands wrapped around your waist. His walking stick clattered to the ground, he had forgotten to fold it up, and now it would be forgotten for as long as it took the two of you to work things out.

Your fingers threaded through his hair as he deepened the kiss. His movements pulled a strangled moan from somewhere deep inside of your throat. Every move felt strategic. What would it take for this to end right? The two of you danced on burning rocks, one wrong step could end in a way that neither one of you could even think about.

Matt pulled away for a moment. "Are you sure about this?" Matt said, his hands hesitating as they danced along your lower back where your shirt had ridden up. He could sense how emotional you were, your judgement was probably clouded. But, so was his. Both of you were laid out bare before the other, your souls on full display.

"I need you," you whispered in reply. Your words held a deeper meaning than how they sounded and Matt knew that. His hands gripped your hips, as if he was holding on for his life. his head dropped onto the crook between your neck and your shoulder.

"Tell me to go," he whispered, "and I'll leave. I'll never bother you again."

"I can't lose you twice," you said before pulling him even closer. Your bedroom door inched closer and closer as the two of you once again entangled with the other. Every move burned, every kiss seared. The raw need in the air choked Matt every time he kissed you. Your back finally collided with the bedroom door. You were quick to open it without even having to break the kiss.

Clothes flew and so did any hesitation either one of you held.

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A/N: After all of the kind comments on my last Matt fic I decided to post another one for you guys!Thanks!

Taglist: *crickets*

Join My Tag List Here: Tag List

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Ship //// Part 4

Part 1 • 2 • 3

Vera immediately becomes critical when the Captain and Lieutenant keep making their way to the meeting room that has no cameras, no recorders, and nothing to summon Vera with

“Uh, Vera why did you double lock the door like that?”

“No reason. Just checking that they work.”

“That’s not ‘no reason.’”

“Sorry, I messed up with my sayings again.”

“It’s fine, I mess it up all the time too.”

Vera was actually remote-controlling your communicator to silently alert Jule of this behavior

Jule acts immediately putting an EMP-immune drone smaller than a land-fly into the room

“--Captain I say we leave. Go to the enemy planet and try to find our secret base there. You’re right about this ship being unreliable.”

“But I wonder how can we convince the technician to come with?”

“Ugh! Who needs him?! And that (L/n) character too. I say we leave them to self-destruct with this virus-ridden ship.”

“We need the technician. He’s the only one with interplanetary know-how on top of understanding the inner workings of the escape pods we’d have to travel in.”

“Then let’s just knock him upside the head and leave that thing behind.”

“Lieutenant I admire your determination but I’m leaving no one behind to stay with this thing.”

The two continue to talk about how they plan on making a fire at the furthest part of the ship 

Something that could easily be fixed if the technician was near but they planned it so it’s on the other side of the ship 

And since he’s a priority person, they’d be evacuating him 

And if not him then you of course to lure him out 

“Hey Ver I think we should have you take a crack at your new bod.”

“Awesome! I’ll start booting it up now!”

Jule purposely doesn’t inform Vera of the whole conversation and plan

By now he knows just how intense Vera’s feelings are about those he cares about

Except he knows that Vera’s less concerned about restraint than he

So he’ll commence his own plan

Immediately running to you in one of the hobby rooms when Vera stops responding 

Knowing they planned to cut Vera to start the fire

When the alarm blares and Vera turns back on 

The Captain and Lieutenant are right there to tell them to prep the launch pods

“But Jule is more than capable of—”

“IT’S OUR CALL Veras!  Remember your programming!”

“....Yes Captain.”

He preps the pods for the location of an enemy-ruled planet 

Doing all the necessary protocols to filter everyone out safely 

Of course, Vera neglects to really inform you like the others

He knows that it’s best to have you in your own pod away from the stressed and hostile people cramming in

Which is why they’re not prepared when the lieutenant comes in harshly knocking whatever you were doing out of your hand to grab your wrists tightly

“OW! What are you—”

“STOP STRUGGLING! I’m saving your pathetic life.”

She does explain after knocking you around a bit before shoving you towards the captain’s pod

By the time Jule finds you they’ve tied you inside while beckoning the technician in

“I know you’ll think wrong of us for this but these people need you.”

“So IT’s OKAY TO ATTACK SOMEONE INNOCENT?!”

“Please Jule get in the pod. We can talk about ethics more when I’m not inclined to knock you out.”

Jule will step forward before stopping

The Captain goes to yell at him when the alarms stop

So does the smoke that had been permeating through the vents

“The issue of the fire has been neutralized.  The issue about an evil miscreant and their oh-so-powerful captain is underway.”

“V-ver?”

The voice of the ship was coming out of a beautifully crafted android

Glowing blue eyes and black hair flowing along their lean but strong shoulders

The body type is hard to place but from what you can tell it’s male and their stature is lean giving an elegant look to him in general

Their stance has the lieutenant attempting to punch them 

They dodge like they are dancing, grabbing her hand and twisting

“AAAAGH!”

Ver doesn’t let her mourn her wound because they’ve jump-kicked her into the back wall of the pod

“I’ve been wanting to do that since I first met you.”

The Captain’s stunned shock allows you to stumble out and into Jule’s arms

The Captain tries to reach for you only to be met with a stabbing pain in his eyes

Jule shuts your eyes and buries you into his chest, blocking your view

The Captain screams like his lieutenant but it’s cut off by the pod doors closing and then ejecting themselves from the ship

Ver immediately turns to join the hug, Jule’s keeps you in

Only to shrink back when Jule’s glares at their bloodied fingers

They wipe it away before joining the hug

“I’m so happy it’s you guys I’m stuck with.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Me three!”

“...”

“..Vera…I don’t know if you know this but it’s really improper to touch there without consent.”

“Yeah Ver get your hands out our pants.”

“But I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

“VER!!”

“Fine, maybe later?”

As much as Jule doesn’t want to encourage that behavior

He has to leave you alone for a while to make sure his plan plays out perfectly 

His message to the enemy sky-guard under an alias he made years ago as a baby-hacker

‘At 43:94 enemy escape pods will be arriving in your airspace. Ur welx’

Watching the enemy broadcast reports about enemy spaceships it apprehended and the officials that were facing a public torture session

When he returns he’s insistent you both open a bottle of champagne

“I really don’t think now is the time, Jule.”

“Oh but it is babe! I think we should party now that we’ve gotten rid of those neets.”

“Wait got rid of–?”

“(Y/n)! I’ve never seen you drink that before! Will you please?!! I’d also like to hold a microphone nearby while you do.”

Now you three will have free reign of the ship learning to live your life in the worlds beyond

Vera knows it doesn’t get any better than this 

They’ve also decided that they’d do anything to keep it this way 

More?

[marshmallowprotection]

"What do you have there, Saeran?"

Saeran glanced over his shoulder to meet your gaze. He wasn't trying to go out of his way to hide what he was doing, which was a good sign, after all! It was a difficult transition to go from hiding something that had remotely anything to do with things that deviated from Mint Eye's goals to being allowed to enjoy his hobbies without a hammer being held above his head.

He knew you would never judge him for what he enjoyed, but he was still learning what he wanted to do with his time. It... was easier for Ray. Ray had begun to cultivate a garden in a small plot of your backyard. He started out a lot smaller despite the plans you'd seen in his journal if only because... he only had so much space to work with.

However, it gave him something to do in his free time and it kept his hands busy. Ray had a difficult time relaxing, and you knew that it wasn't that different for Saeran. He needed to do something. He couldn't sit still. They both didn't know how to catch their breath and let the moment play itself out. The therapist had advised them to take it easy, to build up their new hobbies without turning them into a big task like their previous job had done, but the idea of "taking things nice and easy" wasn't in their vocabulary.

So, to see him working on something made you happy, but you sought him out to make sure that he hadn't forgotten to take care of his needs. He needed to take longer breaks, drink some water, have a nice snack, lean his head back and relax his shoulders, and most of all, enjoy himself.

"A caterpillar habitat," he explained. "I noticed Ray's distress over a few eaten flower petals... and decided to investigate what creature had lunch in his garden. He doesn't want to hurt a little bug, but he doesn't want them to eat all of his flowers, either. I can't imagine I would be all that happy if somebody took me away from such a nice meal, so, I figure I should do something for the caterpillar."

A smile danced across your face as you realized his intention. Even after the fear Saeran had expressed to you about what he thought of himself compared to Ray, you couldn't see where he could've gotten that idea other than Rika. He feared that he was nothing but destruction, a hollow shell filled with nothing but anger, but here he was, with a pair of tender hands, taking care of a small bug that most people would simply smush to be rid of their "problem".

Not just because he wanted to look after Ray, but because he empathized with the creature who'd done nothing wrong.

He and Ray used to compare themselves to bugs, "we're insignificant, worthless, take up space, and better off dead". Saeran had only recently told you that they didn't view bugs like that... and the only reason why he ever said those words was... because they were insults hurled at him as a little boy. Those cruel words cut deep into his tender chest, into Ray's chest too, but they never thought to insult bugs or hate them for it.

How could they?

The bug had committed no crime, it merely existed. It was no different than how they never committed any crime by being born and... no one should have made them feel otherwise.

"I think that's a wonderful idea," you eventually said. "Have you been doing research on what they like best?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "It turns out there's a lot of material you can read on the subject online. I think... I've figured out the best environment for this little guy, though. I didn't want to get it wrong, so I made sure what I found was... more or less safe for his specific family. It's tricky to get it just right, apparently. It's so "simple" that you can miss it."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"...Can you grab some twigs from the garden?"

"Of course! We'll make the best home for your caterpillar friend."

[circeyoru]

This is one request but I just got this in my head what if the reader die like seriously die how Alastor well react to that?

Yandere Alastor x his soul owner reader become my favorite pretty fast and I'm not even joking about it.

To those that have no idea what this is talking about, check out {Unwanted Soul}

Really? You mean it? Your favourite? 😻 Thank you!! (someone pick me up, I fell off the chair)

Now the answer to your question

You trying to give Alastor torture?

Seriously dies, like no go to Heaven (like Sir Pentious). Just poof, gone. Oh wow.... Alastor's not gonna like that one bit

Let's just say, the city is gonna have a few weeks of destruction.

Alastor is aware of your death, it's a common question to ask when getting to know others and it tells on what type of person they were when living. He knew you committed suicide, depressing. It was a moment of concern when you heard his death and brushed your fingers over his forehead, you muttered it out that you killed yourself. Then both of your didn't touch the subject afterwards.

His knowledge of this explains why he's so focused on your every need and wants. Because he doesn't want to lose you, doesn't like the thought. His nightmares were of you disappearing to somewhere he can never see, no, not even redemption to Heaven. There, he can still maybe drag you down but not when you were gone gone.

All that control and gentleman moral is gone when you were, no one was safe, no place was safe. The place where you lived and found him will be his new territory and he will guard it. Any demons that remind there will be his next broadcast. He's acting on his rage and sadness, nothing more nothing less.

Why were you gone? How were you gone? This can't be happening.

Ṫ̵̠̺͖̠̦̭͑̌̎̊͠ḫ̶͙͍̰͓̿͂̿͛ͅḯ̴̛̤̙̋͗͛s̸͎̆̉̍͑̚ ̵̦̟͆̃͝i̶̠̺̙̮̪͊̚͜s̵̡̢̲͉̏̔̒̌͘ ̷̥̻̫̭͖̍͆͑͊̍̄n̵͎͎̔͗̂̈́̆̕o̶̝͇͌̈́́͠t̴̡̼̪͉͍͒̚͜ ̴̮͖̿̃h̸̬̮͓͙̃a̸̢̧̞̭̮͗̒̈́̉̈p̵̖͕̀̄̇̚p̷̙̥͈̮̟̈̊͑͑͜e̸̘̰̭̼̖̣͑n̵̨̟̙̫̏́͘͜͝i̴̢̿̐̀ń̶̛͖̳̲̥͛̅̑͠g̶̛͓̭̥̥̪͗͆!̶̘͕̱̎̎

After his destruction, being drained and felt his soul in his chest again. It felt too heavy for him. Like his soul wasn't his. Where are the restrictions on his power? Where's that feeling like he was caged? Where's that connection he had with you? Oh, he was too far from your home. That hotel wasn't your home. That's why. He abandoned the redemption project altogether, no matter what stage and how connected you were to the hotel. That lousy hotel is NOT YOUR HOME.

The simplest way to describe what's happening to Alastor is that he's in denial. Denial that you were gone. That you'll leave him behind. It goes from waiting for you to return to hallucinating that you were there.

He made your favourites. Oh, it wasn't touched after a while? You weren't feeling hungry, that's why. He got you new clothes. The clothes weren't in your closet? You didn't like it, well, they were designed rather horridly. He hugged you on the bed and slept. He was hugging a soft toy that you would when you sleep or do your hobbies.

There was so many, too much excuses that he made for the lack of response he got. He refuse to accept that you were gone. You merely left to go to Earth to get more merchandise or new shows to watch with him. He'll wait for you at your home. He'll wait until you come back.

Ý̶̮̟͙̔̏͝ǫ̸̢̦͍̀́u̸̪̬̘̠̩͒͘ ̷̱̂̋̀̅n̶͎̓̀̆̈́e̶̢͇͓̲̩͙͗̾̑̿̀v̵̖͙͉̳̆͗͠͠e̵̡̳͎̿͋r̷̺͚̆ ̷͖̝̺̤̯̊͗̓̉͠c̶̤̈ǎ̷̱̻m̸̖̥̚ê̷̜̝̜ͅ ̸̢͕̠̔̅̌͝b̵̬̯͒͑̈͛͊a̷̙͆̔̏̊̈́͌c̶̢̙̳̟̐̓͘͜ḳ̵͚̖̬̈.̵̘̳̗̐̿͊̕

This is so sad... I know I write a lot of angst, but man! I love this series!!! Why you gotta ask that?!

[dnovep]

my Big New Thing today is storm chaser videos on yt (altho i've always been terrified of tornadoes?? the brain wants what it wants ig sksl) SO

gangsey as storm chasers:

adam drives the pig-van, he knows all the types and categories, and most importantly can judge best in a clinical way how close they can get before it's too dangerous. is well trained to see the warning signs that it's going to suddenly up a level. vigilant. jokes that gansey and ronan wouldn't know how to drive on the less-well maintained roads

gansey was the first of the group in this hobby, has been travelling all over the world chasing and reporting strange weather phenomena since he was 16 - it's a way to get close to death and destruction and then be able to calmly (appearingly, with his heart pounding) walk away

ronan is always slamming on the back of adam's seat, telling him to get closer, cheering and caterwauling. when hail breaks the pig-van's back windshield ronan 'whoop's so loud blue glares at him (while gansey quietly mourns his poor pig's window)

blue always thought those raven boys who storm chase were stupid arrogant adrenaline-junkies who thought they were too rich to get hurt, then somehow she learned how many storms gansey has helped clear up after as he drove through effected towns, how he has driven people from an active tornado site to the hospital. she's always the one calling to report a storm as soon as it becomes a tornado, always the first to demand they drive to whatever little town is in the storm's path so she can leap out and tell people to take shelter

noah used to be that arrogant raven boy who thought he was too rich to get hurt, before his ex-bff whelk (who used to be devoted to storm chasing and took noah along every time) lost his family's financial security & reputation (same as in the books) and decided he needed to be a hero in a storm way out of their league. if he was a hero, he'd still be looked up to and respected and known! now noah just whimpers in the back seat whenever lightning strikes and clings on to blue's hand, but still goes along because like. these are his friends, what if they get hurt and he could've stopped it?

henry joins later - him & gansey sometimes go on solo storm hunts, discussing death together while they chase after a tornado

[violetjedisylveon]

Idk if someobody already ask this about Wukong in Rotten Fruits au

Do he have other partners after he out of rehab? I do see Wukong seek physical touch from time to time just to "feel something" but it's not love but rather Self Harm thing as he ask to be hurt during s*x because he think he deserve it and that the pain is good.

More in the fuck up way he want to be love but also scare to be love. He wont just sleep around with stranger he have a partners because he feel little bit better with title of 'relationship' because to him everything will be excuse if they are his partners. He basicly give excuse for other to 'hurt' him

Here a thing his "partners" (He dont have a lot actually probaly 2 or 3 and that's it) is rather actually 'like' Wukong like 'love' him and feel bad seeing Wukong destroy himself. They break up with Wukong but still keep in touch with Wukong from time to time when things get 'really' bad for Wukong.

If Wukong do have partners who you think fit for the role? Thinking of Ao Lie or Erlang but meh :V

previous/next

The whole "hurt during sex because he thinks he deserve it and that the pain is good." is kinda what Macaque's got going on with LBD lending him out to certain demons and Immortals, except with more toxic purity culture bullshit because LBD decided she was going to break him down completely but this ask ain't about Macaque.

Well Ao Lie already has a mate and a baby (Mei), he was in rehab with Wukong for manslaughter and property damage, the guy he accidentally killed was trying to kidnap his noodle baby so no fling there. Lie is very in love with his giant bigender mate. (His mate is AFAB and Chinese dragons are based on snakes, and for the vast majority of snake species females are bigger than the males, ergo AFAB dragons are bigger than AMAB dragons)

Also Ao Lie would never hurt him like that! That's our sweet dorky dragon boy!

And Erlang is Chenxiang's uncle. Suffice it to say that anything happening between those two is gonna be less sex and more angry monkey claws someone's face off for orphaning a child. Erlang is staying as far from Chenxiang and anyone he's connected to anyway.

As for the rest of that, world's best Dadsy Pigsy is there to stop Wukong from self destructively spiraling like that. He wouldn't be mad, just disappointed.

Wukong did have those kinds of relationships while in prison. The fuck else was he supposed to do between getting tortured by his mom's ex for crimes he didn't commit and forced labor.

Those would have stopped once he entered the rehabilitation program cause it was a safe space and also run by the best Buddhist boy Tang Sanzang, not to be confused with his younger brother, Tang, gay historian/mythologist who's married to the chef, so please focus on yourself and don't have bad relationships that make the Buddhist boy scout sad.

So yes he did have those types of toxic relationships in prison, no he didn't have them after getting out of rehab.

He's relatively healthy all things considered, he's jaded and bitter about the world sure, but he's not coping in unhealthy ways anymore. He's got new coping skills with all the hobbies he picked up in rehab!

And he's got a kid that lives with him sometimes and kids need stable home lives. He's focused on himself and not actively pursuing relationships, he'll let people flirt with him if they wanna but he's not gonna chase.

Ghost Mama Yuze won't let him bring any potential partners home anyway, it's her orchard he just lives in it. Children and monkey demons only. And the dads but no one else.

Wukong is doing pretty alright by the time he's out.

Which is why it's such a problem when Macaque shows up right as his life is starting to go well. And quickly starts to go worse again before Macaque won't stop trying to fix it which draws LBD's attention to him and then to his family that he just learned exists cause turns out his sister didn't die in that fire and his mom had a sister!

I hope this makes sense! Thanks for asking!

Rotten Fruit AU Masterpost

Gonna be back on posting the rest of the character profiles over the next week and hopefully by the end of it I have the first chapter done!

[vasito-de-leche]

okay I read your analysis on Forget Me Not and I'm in tears now thank you. (No but really thank you, it's such a touching piece.) Can you PLEASE for salvation of our fans souls write anything to like,,, give him hope? Forget Me Not x reader but it doesn't have to be actually all-out with hugs and kisses. We may,,,,,,,, just show him a new hobby? Any hobby of your choosing or idk play an instrument together. Just to give him something else to focus on, to channel at least part of his energy from self-destructive activities to something less hurtful. I'd personally like to bandage his (not actually wounded but still) hands as if they were bleeding. Something of the kind. Sorry for mistakes writing is incredibly inconvenient cuz tears aaa.

;R1999 FORGET ME NOT - "hands, fingers, scales"

Forget Me Not x Reader. 2.3k words. self-harm implied You've befriended Forget Me Not the same one befriends a rabid, beaten, old dog. And while he's much too busy fighting his inner demons, you're more worried about stopping these "pernicious habits" of his. A casual afternoon trying to make sure he's taking care of himself turns into something deeper.

thank you so much for the ask, nonnie!!

I got a little carried away with this request because thinking about how fucking insufferable and confusing FMN has to be just to indulge in HAND HOLDING and GETTING A FUCKING HOBBY made me so deranged and feral as if hes not fucking TOUCHSTARVED lmfao. this guy's love language is straight up worshipping, mf is not subtle about it

either way, hope you like it! here's the lil preview!

Sometimes, Forget Me Not understands the reason men and women kneel at the pew to worship and pray.

Devotion is something arcanists and humans share, whether honest or not. He's witnessed the rich and the poor, the pure and the depraved, and every binary that rules this world - all of them begging, pleading and praying at the end of their lives, casting away the pride they've held on for so long for the chance of salvation. Once stripped down to their core, there is nothing to do but hope God has enough love in His heart to look their way. 

And sometimes, Forget Me Not prays that you’ll find someone else - anyone but him - to fill the role of devotee.

The gentleness in your eyes whenever you look at him is enough to bring him to his knees, and Forget Me Not doesn't know what to do with himself but to worship and pray. Praying that you'll continue to look at him for a little longer, silently begging for your attention until you finally tire of him. Do you think yourself holy enough to replace the vitriol in his veins?

He does.

On good days, he even hopes that you can save him.

You never asked him to become your one and only believer, of course. You're not even aware of the space you take in his mind, nor the conflicting images he keeps conjuring of you at night, he's certain of this. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, holding his hands and inspecting them for any injuries. This role is one of the many self-imposed tragedies in his life.

Your thumbs knead and massage his palm, as if you could soothe the pain away, and yet you refrain from pressing down hard. He's at your mercy, why hesitate? What do you see that he cannot?

Something is bothering you. It's obvious in the way you touch him, like you're afraid of hurting him, as if you were the one with a body count between the two. Every so often, your movements come to a halt and you both sit in silence, until you return to your ministrations, filling the nothingness with your sighing and humming.

All he needs is to look up, right at your face, to know everything he wants to know - but he's too much of a coward for that. Instead, light grey eyes follow your index finger as it slides under the cuffs of his shirt. You trace over the bone of his wrist and continue upwards.

He can't tear his eyes away.

Normally, Forget Me Not wouldn't mind. There is an addictive thrill to witnessing the shock of anyone who dares get so close and personal, but he feels himself shrink when you brush against his scales and recoil away on instinct. That's when he raises his head and finds your eyes in the dimly lit staff room.

That expression on your face - surely, you were regretting every choice that led you to him. By now, you might've surely realized that there is nothing for you to salvage in this shipwreck he calls a life. All attempts to check on him were surely a façade for whatever ulterior motives you continued to withhold from him. He's stubborn, believing that he can read you like an open book, but now he's just as lost as you are. When he opens his mouth to speak, you beat him to it and he grows a little restless at your words.

"Sorry, sorry! Did I, uh, hurt you? Dumb question, you would've definitely told me if that were the case. Anyway, it looks like you're okay! I don't know why I was so worried, actually."

His silence prompts you to continue, and all Forget Me Not can focus on is the absence of your warmth.

You raise a hand to gesture dismissively at your behaviour, brush it off to ease your embarrassment, that much he understands - though it's painful to watch you fumble like that, to deny what he hides under his clothes. Forget Me Not thinks of filling the space between your fingers with his own, just to drag you back to that quiet, albeit suffocating, moment of peace. Instead of doing that, he retreats and places both hands neatly on his lap.

"Thanks for indulging me and, yeah uh, again - sorry about that? It just caught me off guard. I should've been more careful."

But you were never careful with his space or his rules, plunging in and out of his life and leaving him to figure out where he stood in his game of push and pull. Why were you being careful now?

"It's nothing, I understand," he lies. Everything you do means the world to him and he doesn't even understand why. "It cannot hurt to know what sort of things the person pouring your drinks might be hiding under their sleeves."

The word "hypocrite" lingers at the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out with as much venom as he can muster, but it stays lodged behind his teeth because he knows he's even worse: Forget Me Not prays that you'll stay with him, while also opening the door right out his life for you. As much as he wants to, he has no right of calling you out.

He's not used to receiving apologies and so he chooses not to think too hard on yours - though he's dreamed countless of times for the perfect situation in which he finally rips out one apology after another from the throats of those who wronged him, this one feels different. Undeserved, even.

His heart, that wretched lump in his chest, finally settles down and he prepares to end this interaction to save you the awkwardness of addressing his "deformities". But then you go and surprise him once more.

"Come on, I already told you..." You sigh and he inhales in tandem, but you're much too busy rolling your eyes to notice. "That whole thing you do, when you start scratching or, like, picking at your hand? You've been doing it more lately. It had me worried you might've been doing, I don't know - something."

Forget Me Not's eyes widen in surprise. The audacity to notice such things about him? And to put them on display without a warning? What else did you find out?

Part of him wants him to embrace his nature and scare you away, but that's the side of him that's been slowly losing this battle of attrition in his heart - you're a bad influence for him, after all. The other part... Well, it's still trying to sort itself out.

He settles for slowly undoing the buttons on his sleeve. It only takes a moment to roll up the fine fabric to his elbow, knowing you're staring right at him, through him maybe. The expression on his face is one of indifference, one he fights to maintain - this is the most vulnerable he's felt in decades.

That unsightly pattern begins exactly where his sleeves usually end, coiling around his forearm not unlike a snake and traveling upwards. The scales are dark, an iridescent black that reminds him of an oil spill in the middle of the ocean, and the ones at the edges fade away into lighter hues until they mix with the pale, sickly tone of his skin. He knows the sort of beauty he holds, one that can only be admired at a distance, turning into a grotesque imitation of a man when up close.

Forget Me Not presents himself to you and, with his free hand, gets ready to pluck one of the scales off.

"Wait, don't do that-!"

Seizing his arm and holding it close to your chest, you deprive him of the catharsis that comes with this level of self-mutilation. He knows you're connecting the dots, feeling the scattered, empty spaces from all the times you saw him pick himself apart and more. Your fingers brush against his bare skin looking for said spaces, counting them in your head, mourning their loss.

Some scales are in the process of regrowing like unwanted parasites, and he wishes he could feel anything at all just to be closer to you.

"God, what is wrong with you?! What was the point of that?"

Something compels him to laugh (perhaps it's your heartbeat reaching out to him loud and clear through your clothes, he feels it faintly) it comes across as sinister and condescending, the only way he knows how to express joy. Like he's making fun of your concern.

"Apologies," Forget Me Not begins to say, readjusting his glasses. The way you try to keep his own arm out of his reach doesn't go unnoticed. It's such a petty, childish gesture that makes his grin widen and your frown deepen. "I was under the impression you found this little oddity distasteful. There's no need to worry - they will return in a few days, they always do."

"Still, don't do that. It's not funny. It must...hurt a lot."

"Ah, but it doesn't. If else, I'd compare it to being pricked by a very small needle."

"You're just going to find something to nitpick and contradict everything I say, aren't you?" It's the least he can do to repay all the headaches you've given him, and for forgiving his transgressions too easily.

An intrusive thought makes itself known from the depths of his mind - would you forgive him just as readily if he were to kill someone in front of you? If he showed you just how destructive his arcane skills could be when given free reign? Where would you draw the line? And how much could he continue to push his luck before he lost you?

Before Forget Me Not realizes it, you've loosened your grip on his arm and returned to that previous moment of suffocating peace - the only difference is that you've gone from being deep in thought to troubled and miserable, one hair away from darting out the room and refusing to speak to him. At this, his pinky finger wraps around yours and neither of you mention it.

"Can't you... I don't know, do something else?"

"I could be doing my job, but alas, you're keeping me prisoner here." He says, like he's not delighted to be given your undivided attention. There are no complaints when you step on his foot with a huff, he deserved that one.

"I'm talking about the scales thing! You could wear gloves. If it happens when you get distracted then, I could hang around to make sure you stop in time." A pause, and then the sound of your voice becomes unsure and so very small. "Maybe if we covered them with bandages...? But that could be annoying. Band aids? No, no - too unprofessional. It would ruin the whole aesthetic you're going for."

You continue to trail off, coming up with many different ideas and solutions to a problem he caused. He doesn't understand why you'd even bother in the first place. For you to reciprocate the attention he gives you, to care about him? That's the hardest pill Forget Me Not has ever swallowed - it's something he twirls around with his tongue, as if deciding whether to poison himself with bliss or spit it out and continue latching on to his doubts and insecurities.

Outside, in front of everyone at The Walden, he's the one leading the crowd and talking for hours on end, commanding their attention and manipulating the flow of every conversation.

Behind closed doors, all he does is listen to every nonsensical thought, unnecessary opinion and strange anecdote you throw at him.

"...No, that won't work either." Absentmindedly, you fix and button his sleeve back into place.

You've grown used to his silence the same way you've adapted and grown used to his flaws.

"I mean, it worked on me - getting a little slap on the wrist whenever I started biting my nails, but..." Without even thinking, you rub circles with your thumb across his knuckles.

You might as well be the stupidest angel in heaven.

"Why don't you just get a hobby? That's good enough, right? It's been so long since I've heard you play piano, the one by the stage." And just like that, you're on your feet attempting to drag him outside for a demonstration. "You could teach me! That way, we get to do something fun and I get to keep an eye on you."

Forget Me Not knows he has nothing to offer to this world, but when his saint looks at him with such hope, he cannot refuse. The path to recovery seems almost doable when you bump your shoulder into his, challenging him to play the hardest song he knows.

The stars in your eyes whenever you recognize all the songs he plays becomes intoxicating, more so than the sweet, sweet revenge he's yearned for since he spiraled into decadence.

Some days, his patrons join with their own singing or humming, and he forgets that he hates each and every one of them for as long as his fingers dance across the keys - a momentary reprieve from the constant stream of negativity. It doesn't take long for his body to remember his training and soon, he's improvising.

A melody for gloomy, rainy days. A whimsical tune here and there for celebrations.

A song for you and himself - the first one he teaches you and the only one he plays in private, when he's all alone with nothing but his thoughts. Solitude has gone from a noose wrapped around his neck to the perfect time to compose and hone this long forgotten passion. For the first time in forever, he doesn't dread the silence of an empty room, the endless wait between his shifts at The Walden - not when he can simply fill them with more and more music.

And so, Forget Me Not plays, hoping that you'll continue to cheer him on. Hoping that this tiny spark you've ignited in him can truly become his salvation.

[headmate-ideas]

🏭🪭🪖🥀 🐦‍🔥📢🥊 ⚒️🧨⚛ ☎️🚨, who’s a she/he boygirl and janusian with all add-ons?

[Brought to you by: Mods Klaus and Chem!]

📢 HEADMATE TEMPLATE 🪭

✦ Name(s): Carey, Lucy, Rhett ✦ Pronouns: she/her, he/him, x/xs/xself, xi/xir/xirs/xirself, vi/vir/virs/virself ✦ Species: human ✦ Age: 23 ✦ Role(s): janusian, persecutor, protector, delight, chaosnaut, anger holder, hobbyist, manager, assidumate ✦ Labels: boygirl, bigenderflux, xenogender, bisexual ✦ Xenos: the sky, fire, flowers ✦ Likes: technology, folklore, flowers ✦ Dislikes: being stopped from doing what he wants ✦ Music taste: punk rock, pop punk, hyperpop ✦ Aesthetic(s): fantasy aesthetic, punk aesthetic, dark naturalism ✦ Objectum attraction(s): buildings, books ✦ Kins: phoenixes, vampires, pigs ✦ Color palette: crimson, vermillion, medium orange, pale orange ✦ Personality traits: hedonistic, unpredictable, forceful ✦ Interests: medieval history, marine biology ✦ Hobbies: sewing, birdwatching ✦ Preferences: silly over serious, detailed over simple ✦ Heart emoji: 💗 ✦ Emoji proxy: 📢🪭

✦ Details:

Carey is hedonistic and chaotic and frequently indulges their desires and whims. This can help the system enjoy life more often, but it can also get them into trouble. It doesn't help that he can be rather aggressive and angry at times, especially when even mildly provoked. However, he can channel his anger productively, including into setting boundaries for the system.

✦ Role performance:

Carey is either a persecutor or a protector depending on the situation. On one hand, his expressions of anger can alienate and scare people, and he likes trying to push away people on purpose because he's afraid they will hurt the system. However, her anxieties can sometimes be genuine insight into the relative safety or danger another person poses. He also doesn't mind doing everyday tasks for the system, especially ones that may give them anxiety (e.g. phone calls).

✦ Personality:

Carey has a propensity for chaos, which includes playing pranks on people, doing things spontaneously, and occasionally physically destructive behavior. However, they are good at helping people learn to enjoy things - to enjoy things to the fullest, helping them find new things they like, and helping them be less self-conscious about indulging themselves.

✦ Identity:

Carey identifies as a mix of male and female, where the level to which they feel one gender over another varies by the day. X is xenogender, and x sometimes connects xs xenogenders to different parts of the binary. For example, her sky-related xenogenders are feminine, her fire-related xenogenders are masculine, and her flower-related xenogenders are completely off the binary.

✦ Interests and hobbies:

Carey is fascinated by history, particularly the medieval era, and generally learning about the everyday lives of people from eras of the past. They also like any pursuits that involve working with their hands, such as making crafts or fixing things.

[These can be edited and changed as needed, and headmates will almost definitely not turn out EXACTLY as described.]

[weepylucifer]

24. "You're trembling." steban/ulixes

The whole mess starts like this: one afternoon, Ulixes doesn't turn up to the reading group meeting.

His absence is a stark confrontation with the fact of how alone Steban is. Thus far, as long as at least Ulixes was still coming to the meetings regular as clockwork, Steban could go on with business as usual and put off reckoning with how solipsistic his little pretense at a revolutionary cell has become. Pretend like any educating of anyone in matters of radical theory was still being done here... like other members could walk in at any moment and give the whole thing a purpose again. Now, with Ulixes absent, Steban sits and waits and drinks too much coffee and feels, though he tries to ignore it, a bit like an idiot with his metaphorical dick in his hand.

He considers his options: he could go out and try to recruit again, he could go to bed and have a depressive episode, he could do serious self-critique about where the reading group went astray and why, he could wallow in his misery about driving his friends away with leftist infighting. He could disband the reading group. He could steal Cindy's pyrholidon and get high. He could go to Uli's apartment and start a huge fight about his perceived betrayal. He could get high, go to Uli's apartment, and have a sobbing breakdown about how Uli is his only friend and Uli's absence would destroy his life.

All those destructive impulses are eventually pushed aside, and Steban decides he will go to Uli's apartment, to check if there's something wrong with him. Uli has never missed a meeting before. Maybe it's not betrayal yet. Maybe there's something he needs...

When he, an hour later, knocks on Uli's door, Ulixes opens looking perturbed and disheveled, but at least he doesn't seem sick or hurt.

"Hi," Steban says. "You--"

"Oh no. The meeting..." Ulixes looks so caught out and almost frightened that whatever was left of Steban's sense of betrayal immediately evaporates. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to miss it, I've been out all day and... I only just came back here, you have to believe me..."

Steban raises a hand. He doesn't like seeing his friend so anxious. "It's alright. What's going on?"

Ulixes suddenly slumps against the doorframe, his skinny form bending like a defeated reed. "It's Comrade Reading, he's... gone missing."

Ah, yes, Required Reading. Uli's new kitten. Uli's new kitten that Steban is all support for, because Uli having a gentle, non-violence-related hobby must be encouraged... as long as the cat doesn't come close enough to Steban to shed hair on him.

Steban likes houseplants. They're his preferred way of existing alongside nature as a communist should. They're pretty, quiet, predictable, and can be raised according to a manual. They don't yell at him in the middle of the night, or scratch him, or bite him, or break his things, or shit in a box he has to clean, or mess up his cleanly, tidy, pleasant little apartment. Besides, something about this particular cat is... strange. It meows and purrs and cuddles and plays and whatever else the things do, but there's something Steban can't put his finger on that is... weird. The less he sees of it, the better.

Still, if Uli wants a cat, a cat he shall have. If Uli wants to spend every moment of his free time with a cat and not his human best friend who can actually carry a conversation and doesn't smell like litterbox, well... so be it. Who is Steban to question his tastes?

"I opened the door briefly to get the mail and he darted out past me," Ulixes is saying. "I've been looking for him all day."

"Oh," Steban says, then makes an effort to imbue his voice with more sympathy, "I mean... oh."

Now, he expects, is when Uli is going to channel his concern for his pet into rage, the way he usually does, and vow some vague idea of vengeance onto the universe for making this happen to him. Now he'll say something over the top like swearing to murder whoever should dare harm or withhold his cat from him in several grisly and overly specific ways that will leave Steban a mixture of nauseated and fondly exasperated, because it's clear that while Ulixes dreams (in graphic detail) of violence, he has never actually experienced it up close, and these fantasies are just how he copes, and...

"This is all my fault," Ulixes whispers, and Steban is shocked to see his eyes beneath his glasses growing damp, "I'm so bad at this, and now I messed it all up."

He sits down on his desk chair and buries his head in his hands. "Why did I ever think I could take care of something? He could die out there, and it's my fault."

There's nothing for it. Steban's still not exactly fond of the cat, but... seeing Ulixes this quietly devastated turns the world inside out. Steban thinks, I need you like I need my limbs and blood and beating heart, and puts his hand on Uli's shoulder. "We'll look for him together."

----

They make missing posters and print them on campus, and Steban volunteers to help put them up around Uli's neighborhood. They spend the rest of the day looking for Required Reading, even when it gets dark, even when it starts to rain. Eventually, Steban makes Uli take a break. Ulixes resists it, but at some point, he does have to sleep. Steban stays with him as their rain-soaked clothes dry over the heater, and softly reassures him as he drifts into an uneasy sleep.

Two days go by. The rain doesn't let up. Ulixes keeps searching for Required Reading, and Steban supports him, though privately he's beginning to lose hope for the whole endeavor. Revachol is gigantic, and there are myriads of ways for a very small cat to vanish in it. And of course Steban is sad for Uli's sake, because Uli really loved - loves - that cat, and taking care of something small and vulnerable has revealed a new side of him, one that Steban finds intriguing. But... a part of him, a part he tries to ignore because he's not quite comfortable with having it in him to think so lowly, is... not too bothered by the prospect of things going back to how they were before Required Reading appeared. Back when he- when the reading group had Uli's undivided attention. When Uli was focused on him the cause. When Uli would look at him with adoring eyes and--

Stop, Steban tells himself. That's a scummy way to think, and wholly inappropriate when it comes to your comrade. Of course you want him to get his cat back.

He should interrogate that entire train of thought, practice self-critique and remind himself of the incompatibility of Mazovian thought with such... greedy possessiveness. But he's not ready to examine himself in this instance, so he pushes it all down and out of sight.

It's ironic then that, on the third day, Steban finds the cat first.

He's on his way to Uli's apartment. It's still raining and he doesn't have an umbrella, so he's steadily getting soaked through. All he really wants is to get out of the weather. Still, he pauses when he hears, from across the deserted square, a tiny cry, like a baby, or a...

...kitten.

They've pinned one of the missing-cat-posters to a lamppost on the sidewalk here three days ago. Now, under the lamppost, crouched under a soggy, discarded newspaper that offers only scant protection from the elements, there he is, meowing plaintively for help: Required Reading. His fur is plastered to his body with rainwater, but it is him.

(It would be so easy for a passerby to recognize that this is the cat on the poster. Almost as if he sat himself down here on purpose... but surely that's impossible. Cats can't read, or recognize themselves on pictures.)

(Weird.)

Steban shakes his head. It's probably just a coincidence. He'd better scoop the cat up before he runs away, hope he doesn't get his arms scratched up, and bring the little thing home to Uli. Cautiously, he steps closer.

Sigh. Here goes nothing...

Suddenly, he hesitates. A thought unfolds...

Maybe he could just... keep walking. Pretend he didn't see. Ulixes would never know. He'd be sad for a while, but eventually he'd recover, and then they'd spend time in their meetings again like they used to... no more cat hair on his clothes, no more mess, no more having to feign interest in an animal he honestly finds a bit off-putting... and Uli's attention would not waver again, and Steban would never have to ask himself what he even is without Ulixes.

He stands in silence while the rain beats down.

Required Reading has stopped crying. He's seen Steban and, doubtlessly, recognized him. He doesn't scamper up to him like Steban supposed he might. He simply looks at Steban with eyes that seem way too intelligent, and in this moment Steban is convinced that somehow the cat knows what he's thinking. Knows that Steban is considering abandoning him here.

Weird!

Or maybe that's just his conscience?

"This is nonsense," Steban mutters to himself. Of course he's going to bring the cat back to Uli. Because that's the right thing to do, and it'll take the anguish off of Uli's mind, and surely Uli will be so relieved and thankful. Steban can just picture it: his normally reserved friend smiling and hugging Required Reading close to him, and maybe then he'll set the cat down and hug Steban, too, and express his gratitude and regard for how Steban went above and beyond for him... maybe there'd even be a kiss on the cheek in it for him...

But no. Why would there be? Steban is used to kisses from his family members as casual displays of affection, that is just their way, but if Ulixes did that... if Ulixes kissed him on the cheek, it would be different, it would mean something.

Despite the rain, he blushes. What is this thought? What is he considering here? And anyway, he's not supposed to do things because he expects a reward. Again, what an inappropriate thought to have, about a comrade no less. He can't just stand here getting lost in... whatever this is. There's a task to do.

Slowly, carefully, telegraping his movements, he crouches down and reaches for Required Reading. By some miracle, the cat doesn't spook. He lets Steban scoop him up, his small, shivering body almost eclipsed completely by Steban's slender hands.

"Aww, pobrecito," Steban murmurs, dutifully, because that seems like the sort of thing one says. "You're trembling... come here, let's get you home."

"Mrreeep," Required Reading says, huddling closer to Steban's body heat.

Steban tucks him underneath his jacket and continues on his way. It's still pouring down upon him, and the cat sneezes into his armpit, but he barely notices, his head swimming with thoughts of what awaits him: the warm and dry apartment, maybe some hot coffee, the opportunity to bring Ulixes a wonderful surprise, the dread and self-recriminations leaving his comrade's face and being replaced with joy, the feel of his body pressed against Steban's in an exuberant embrace, the gentle rasp of his beard against Steban's own stubble when the--

Hm.

As Required Reading, bundled up under his jacket, starts to purr, Steban begins his struggle to contend with the fact that, apart from everything else he's got going on already, he now apparently dreams of his comrade's kiss.

[writing-through-the-snow]

Diodeshipping pet shelter au snippet 2

Since Clemont is forced to fulfill volunteer hours in order to graduate he is forced to spend a portion of his time after school every day volunteering at some lab named Professor Oak’s Ranch against his will. Along the way he becomes friends with Ash, the recent transfer student who got into Lumiose Prep on a track scholarship. Who also turns out to have the hobby of training animals to compete in obedience and agility competitions, and is trying his hardest to befriend the grumpiest, most destructive cat Clemont has ever seen, named Pikachu. This leads to Clemont gaining a group of friends, a new hobby, and maybe even a crush. 

____

The shelter has been a complete flurry of activity as the three girls work to update all of the posts on the shelters social media, apparently there was an adoption event coming up and the shelter needs those posts to draw people to it. 

And Clemont's school life has definitely gotten better, now that they all had a common interest, he, Ash, and Serena talk a lot more in school. Becoming actual friends. 

It's been really nice for Clemont, to actually have close friends. Though he's definitely not as close with Serena as he is Ash. 

Ash is just a lot of fun, and when they aren't at school, or the shelter, Clemont finds himself thinking about Ash very frequently. Maybe he'll see a stray animal that he just knows Ash would have lured close to pet it, and be best friends with after just five minutes. Or maybe he’ll see a particular math problem that he knows Ash will ask about the next day, knowing what Ash struggles with in math, and start thinking about how he'd teach it to Ash. Or maybe he'd be working on a new project, and he wouldn't be able to stop a smile blooming to his face as he thinks about what Ash would say about it. 

And given that they spend almost every day at the shelter together (Clemont has even started going on his off days, just to help out,) and they've taken to sitting together in classes and lunch, Clemont has had a lot of time to get to know Ash. And he enjoys it. 

Not only that, but he enjoys the shelter in general. It's just such an opening place, and he's gotten to know plenty of the animals and people. 

He never expected he would start going to the shelter on afternoons he wasn't scheduled, trading his technology for the animals and people. But he's glad for it. 

And Serena was nice, he enjoyed her company. 

Though, Clemont eyes Ash and Serena from across the room as they talk, Serena's cheeks were completely red as she laughs just a little too hard at a joke Ash makes, aren't they just a little too close? 

Clemont shrugs it off. He knows Serena has a crush on Ash, it's the worst kept secret in the school. And literally everyone including Pikachu clocked her crush as soon as she entered the shelter. Everyone except for Ash that is. He's somehow the most oblivious person in the world. 

Though he's found that the crush has gotten a lot less amusing as time goes on. 

He doesnt get why, it's just a little weird to him. His gut would churn whenever he would see Ash and Serena talking quietly with each other when they got a quiet moment between all of the preparation. He was usually just as busy as everyone else now that he knows the ropes of the shelter, no longer following Ash around as closely. So he does the exact same with Ash and Serena whenever he gets a moment of peace with either of them. So he doesnt get why it's so weird for him to see it with Ash and Serena in particular. 

Just something about it makes Clemont feel a little restless, maybe it's the way Serena's eyes light up when she looks at Ash, eyes full of admiration and joy. Maybe it's seeing how she obviously tries to dress up a little for these shelter visits, despite the fact that dressing up doesn't make sense for an animal shelter where youre gonna be active and dealing with slobbery and dirty animals. 

It's not like Clemont didn't expect to see that sort of stuff from Serena, but for some reason it just feels… off to him. 

He doesn't really get why, so he tries not to focus on it much. 

He only really has the time or understanding on what was going on while talking with his little sister, as she watches a cartoon. 

He's trying his best to understand what's going on, but the plot is so weirdly complicated that he doesn't get what's going on. 

“Okay, I give, what's going on?” Clemont asks, looking at the screen, Bonnie sighs loudly, rolling her eyes and pausing the show. 

“Why is she acting like that?” Clemont asks, the main character was acting weird, whenever she saw two of the other characters talking, getting too close she would barge over and think of an excuse to break them up. And she just got really weird whenever one of them expressed interest in the other. 

“Okay, so Flora likes Draco,” Bonnie spells out to her older brother, pointing to two of the characters on the screen. 

“Okay…” Clemont prompts. 

“Draco likes Nanami,” Bonnie continues, “and Nanami used to like Colin, but she's starting to also like Draco.”

“And Colin likes Flora.” Bonnie finishes explaining. 

Clemont tilts his head as he looks at the screen, paused as Flora looks uncomfortable and restless as Draco and Nanami get closer. 

“Then why is Flora acting like that?” honestly it kinda reminds him of how weird feeling he gets when Ash and Serena get close like how Draco and Nanami were. Maybe Flora just doesn't like seeing all of that weird love stuff shoved in her face. 

Bonnie looks at him like he's dumb, “it's because she's jealous of Nanami. Duh.” 

Bonnie rolls her eyes and continues playing the show. Honestly he would be a little offended if he wasn't too busy thinking about what Bonnie just said. 

Was he jealous? Of what? Of his two friends talking to each other? Even though it's obvious Serena has a crush on Ash and is trying to work up the courage to make a move. And maybe Ash might have a crush back, though Ash is a little hard to read for Clemont. 

Is he jealous of that? Is he jealous of Ash for Serena having a crush on him? 

That feels weird, and wrong. 

He doesn't want to feel that way, isn't that pretty shitty of him to be jealous of his closest friend? 

Oh god, does he have a crush on Serena? Clemont feels so wrong for it, and he can't stop the face he makes at the idea. 

But it does make sense for why he feels so restless when he sees Serena and Ash too close. It's just weird to feel this way for Serena. 

Clemont tries desperately to not think about it, even though he can't stop feeling a little unusual whenever he's around Serena and Ash now. He doesn't want to get in the way even though he, ugh, has a crush on Serena. 

And he would feel terrible if he got in the way of Ash and Serena liking each other. But even then, Ash is still Clemont's closest friend. And even though he feels so terrible about having a crush on the girl Ash might like. But his worries tend to fall away quickly whenever it's just him and Ash. 

But he can't stop from feeling a little uncomfortable when it's just him and Serena. Is that because of the crush? Or because he feels bad about being jealous? Clemont doesn't know. 

Clemont looks up from his blueprints as he notices Ash flop into the seat across from him with a groan. 

“What's wrong?” Serena asks, looking at a sullen Ash sitting across from them. 

“Im dangerously close to failing chemistry,” Ash groans, “if I do fail I might get kicked off of the track team and thus the school. And mom isn't letting me go to the shelter until I get my chemistry grade up.” 

Clemont looks at Ash concerned, “what about the upcoming event? If you can't train the animals what would they do?” 

“I'm not sure.” Ash huffs, crossing his arms and putting his face into his arms. 

“I could help tutor you!” Serena offers quickly, her cheeks a little red as she looks at Ash. 

Clemont frowns, his gut churning again. He can't stop himself from speaking, if only to get the feeling to stop. …and it's better for the shelter too, after all if Ash can’t train the pokemon then they have less of a chance of being adopted. 

“Aren't you also not doing very well in chemistry?” Clemont asks, looking over to Serena. He's pretty sure she's teetering on a C herself. 

Serena deflates, realizing that Clemont was right. 

“Then what about you Clemont, you're super good at it right?” Ash asks, looking at Clemont with wide, pleading eyes, “could you help me?”

Clemont looks away, knowing he can't make a good decision when it comes to those big brown eyes. 

But he quickly finds that the little defense he had, not having enough time for his inventions, felt weak at the idea of going to the shelter and not seeing Ash there. 

And he agrees. 

So just like that, he agreed to tutor his crush’s crush. And his best friend. 

But he won't regret it, not when he sees Ash's beaming smile. 

They decided to study immediately after school, today Clemont didn't have to volunteer for the shelter, and even though he usually would go anyway, without Ash there Clemont wasn't as excited. 

So they head to Clemont's house to study, his father shouldnt be home until later, and Bonnie has her shows running tonight so she should be pretty quiet. 

They get to Clemont's empty house and try to get a few hours of studying in, since Bonnie wasn’t home from school yet. 

“No Ash, AG isn't gold, it's silver on the periodic table.” Clemont corrects, setting the flash card down into the wrong pile. The pile was much larger than the correct pile. At this point, Clemont has changed into more comfortable clothes then his school uniform, and Ash has abandoned his uniform jacket on Clemont's desk chair. Even as the two have migrated from the desk to Clemont's bed.  

Ash groans, flopping onto Clemont's bed and jostling Clemont a little with the movement, as he was also on the bed. 

“Hm.” Clemont frowns, trying to figure out how to explain chemistry to Ash without confusing him more. Maybe he could find a song online to do it? But Ash has no sense of rhythm. What would be helpful to a guy whose entire life revolves around animals? Maybe he could get the animals at the shelter to represent parts of the periodic table? But how would he show that in a way Ash could understand. 

Clemont huffs, massaging his nose a little. As much as Ash isn't good at chemistry, Clemont is even worse at teaching it to someone. 

Maybe Serena should have taught Ash instead. Clemont thinks a little bitterly, she always seems to be so good at the things he's not. 

Clemont flops onto the bed as well, lying next to Ash. 

“Ready to get back into it-” Clemont starts to ask, turning his head to look at Ash. Only to find him dead asleep. 

Clemont can't stop the snort that bubbles in him at seeing Ash so peacefully asleep, they were supposed to be studying. 

But Clemont does not move to wake him up, he just can't find the will to. Ash has been stressed lately, he has not directly said it per say, but Clemont can tell. Between their exams at school, competitions in track, and getting the shelter ready for the adoption event, Ash has been more than a little busy. He's been working extra hard at the shelter to get all of the animals trained so they can show off their tricks at the event. Pikachu has even been on its best behavior and letting Ash train it. 

But that means Ash has been doing a lot in the past few weeks, maybe a little too much. 

So Clemont just lets Ash sleep, instead of waking him to go back to studying. Ash needs a break. 

Clemont smiles softly as he sees how relaxed Ash is, practically melting into the bed. Ash is turned onto his side, facing Clemont his hand half opened half way between him and Clemont. Clemont can feel Ash's soft and slow breaths on his cheek. His messy hair falling across his face as his mouth is slightly parted in his sleep. Clemont notices small freckles he normally can't see from any farther back on Ash's face, barring the weird squiggly mark lines on Ash's face. 

He wonders what they were, are they just weird freckles? Or a birthmark? Or somehow matching scars? 

Clemont nearly reaches out to touch Ash's cheek, just to feel it, but he freezes just before he touches Ash. 

That's weird right? Touching his best friend's face while he's asleep. 

Isn't staring at his best friend's face really weird too?

Clemont pulls back his hand, tucking it close to his chest. 

He's being so weird right? Like this isn't what normal people do when they have best friends?

Clemont can feel his heartbeat against his hand, fluttering and quick. And his face feels warm, like it does when he's embarrassed. 

What's going on with him lately? 

Clemont turns to face towards the ceiling, still lying on the bed next to Ash. A frown firmly on his face. He adjusts his glasses, having been pressed uncomfortably in his face when he laid on his side. 

Clemont chews on his cheek, thinking. 

Why'd he have to have a crush on Serena. Of all people. 

What changed now? Sure they've gotten a little closer now that the two of them both are pretty passionate about the shelter, but other than that nothing has really changed. 

She's always been pretty, but Clemont never really thought it was really a big deal. At first he thought maybe she just wasn't his type. But if he has a crush on her then maybe she is? 

She's objectively pretty but he never feels all of that fluttering feeling, butterflies in his stomach, ‘wow’ feeling when it's just him and Serena. 

He guesses that while he understands she's objectively pretty, she's not his type of pretty. 

Clemont turns his head to look at the still sleeping Ash. 

Not as pretty as he's found Ash is, at least. 

His face grows warmer at the thought, but it's true. He tries not to think about it much, but Ash is really pretty. 

He doesn't know when he realized it, but it was obvious when Clemont thought about it. 

His messy hair is the perfect amount of messy to not look completely ridiculous and unkept, but cute enough that Clemont doesnt think he could see Ash with neat hair. And Clemont can feel a warm gooey feeling in his stomach whenever Ash smiles at him, whether it be a brighter than the sun smile, or one of Ash's softer smiles. He's found that it's impossible to not smile back when Ash gives him one of his smiles, especially the softer smiles. The ones where his eyes look so warm and his eyes crinkle, and he almost always tilts his head slightly as he smiles. But he also can't help but smile when Ash gives one of his beaming smiles, especially because it almost always is followed by physical contact of some type. Whether a clap on the shoulder that sometimes knocks Clemont off balanced if Ash is a little too excited. or Ash reaching over to ruffle Clemont's hair, usually making both of them laugh, even if Clemont feels his face growing a little warmer at the embarrassment of his hair being all messed up. Or a half hug, where Ash slings an arm over Clemont's shoulder to pull him tight against him. So close Clemont can feel Ash's wild hair tickling against his neck, no doubt his hair is doing the same against Ash's neck. And their cheeks are practically smashed together. 

Clemont doesn't get it. 

Why does he feel like this?

He's fairly certain this wasn't just what you felt for a best friend. 

Well, he doesn't have anything for comparison but still. 

Is he really jealous of Ash? And did he really like Serena? 

Because he doesnt think he likes Serena that way, Bonnie tried to explain what love felt like to him. Even though she only knew love from the cartoons and stories she read. 

The elated, butterfly feeling has just never been something Clemont has felt with Serena before. But he did feel it constantly with Ash. 

And he's certain he did feel jealousy when he saw Serena looking so flustered around Ash, but was it really because he liked Serena?

Clemont glances back at Ash, and suddenly realization clicks. 

Oh. he doesn't like Serena. At least not like that.  

The reason he feels so jealous when Serena looks flustered around Ash was because he liked Ash. 

It immediately makes more sense to Clemont than him having a crush on Serena. He laughs as he thinks about how wrong he was. 

This is why he sticks to inventions, rather than feelings. He'll leave the feelings to Ash and Bonnie. 

Liking Ash makes so much more sense to Clemont. After all, Ash is his best friend. He loves spending time with Ash, be it studying together, working at the shelter, or just hanging out. And when they aren't together Clemont finds that he thinks about Ash all of the time. 

Clemont replays Ash's laughter in his mind, finding that he can't stop the smile coming to his face even when he's just thinking about Ash's laughter. 

Yeah, he has a crush on Ash. 

Clemont can't wipe the smile off his face even as his eyes start to droop against his will. He turns over onto his side, to face Ash again. 

He really, really likes his best friend. Clemont acknowledges looking at Ash's hand in between them. With confidence Clemont has never felt before he reaches out and places his hand on top of Ash's. His hand twitches as he does, but it quickly relaxes as Clemont melts into his bed. 

He likes his best friend, and it feels so right to Clemont. 

____

Clemont doesn't know when he drifts off to sleep, but when he wakes up the setting sun was drifting through his window. He looks around his room to see the still abandoned study materials on his desk and flashcards strewn around his bed. Clemont rubs at his eye, noticing Ash is missing from the room.

Did he go home?

Clemont sleepily stumbles out of his room, his clothes rumpled. He only slept for an hour or so, Bonnie should be home by now. To be honest he's surprised she hasn't broken down his door in demand of her afternoon snack. He should probably get started on that, but as soon as he opens the door he hears Bonnie's loud giggles and a familiar voice talking to her. 

Clemont frowns questioningly before he turns the corner to get into the living room and he spots his little sister… and Ash. 

Bonnie was currently using Ash as her own personal playground climbing over him as he lets her. He lets her mess with his hair, a plate of what looks like apples sitting nearby. Occasionally Bonnie will dart away from Ash to shovel an apple slice or two into her face before darting back to continue braiding Ash's hair. A cartoon of Bonnie’s was booming in the background, from what Clemont remembers its My Little Ponyta, Friendship is Magic. Bonnie has a beaming smile on her face and Ash smiles at whatever Bonnie is rambling about, adding his two cents here and there. 

Clemont blinks, stumbling a few feet closer and drawing Bonnie's attention. 

“Clemont! Look at how I did Ash's hair!” Bonnie proudly shows off what she's done to Ash's hair. 

Poor Ash had chunks of his hair braided, sticking up in random directions, a few strands here and there pulled back by Bonnie's bright hair clips. 

Ash gives him a sheepish grin only adding to how cute he honestly looked. Clemont can't stop the laughter that bubbles up in him. And soon he's doubled over laughing making Bonnie squawk in offense. 

“Hey! What are you laughing about!?” Bonnie asks, outraged. Clemont laughs harder, hands on his knees as he wheezes. 

When Clemont finally catches his breath he looks up to see Bonnie crossing her arms, very irked and exasperated. Ash is just giving him a grin, not nearly as embarrassed as Clemont would be in this situation. 

Bonnie huffs, turning back to her apple slices and chomping on them. 

“So I guess the two of you met while I was asleep.” Clemont gives a half grin and Bonnie perks up again nodding. 

“Yeah!” Bonnie hops on her toes, Clemont notices Dedenne and Luxray in Ash's lap. Luxray looking more relaxed in Ash's lap then Clemont has ever seen it be with a stranger. Figures. “You didn't tell me you were bringing a friend over,”

“Well, I wasn't expecting him to stay this long.” Clemont shrugs, nudging Ash with his shoulder as he plops down onto the couch next to him. 

“Yeah, sorry for falling asleep while we were studying.” Ash sheepishly apologies, scratching the back of his neck. 

“It's fine, I know you've been working hard between exams and the shelter.” Clemont shrugs, besides, he fell asleep too. 

Clemont glances over at Bonnie, he kind of wished he was there when these two met, but it seems like they hit it off quickly. Like he was sure they would. 

Clemont glances at the apple slices Bonnie was eating and tilts his head squinting. 

“What are on those apples?” Clemont asks, it looks like they had dark spots. 

“Oh Ash made them for me!” Bonnie squeaks, bouncing on her toes as she shoves one of the slices in Clemont's face. He pulls back, not particularly wanting to be slapped in the face with an apple slice. He reaches up to grab the apple slice, adjusting his glasses as he looks at it. Instead of being cut into the eighths like Clemont usually does for Bonnie, it was cut straight through the middle, a bit of peanut butter on it and used to give chocolate chips something to hold onto. The chocolate chips were used to make two little eyes on the slice, with the peanut butter being neatly placed to create a little mouth and whiskers. Two little pieces of apple cut into ears and attached using more peanut butter. The apple slice was a little mouse. 

Clemont smiles at the apple slice, looking up at Ash impressed. No wonder Bonnie seems to like Ash so much. 

“Isn't it so cute!?” Bonnie asks loudly, eyes practically sparkling. 

“It is,” Clemont agrees, handing it back to Bonnie so she can bite into it and turning to Ash, “you made that? How?” 

“My mom taught me when I started being left home alone when she had to work late nights, so that when I made them I would think of her.” Ash explains and Clemont thinks that's really cute. Thinking of a young Ash, watching carefully as his mom taught him to make animal looking apple slices. A young Ash that had just as much enthusiasm for animals as he does now, and just as caring. 

Clemont leans over Bonnie to get a better look at the apple slices to find a couple other animals on her plate. There were of course plenty of mouse slices, which makes sense considering Bonnie's favorite animals were mice. But from what Clemont could see there was a cat, with spots to look like Luxray and Pikachu, a dog, and a bird. All decorated to look cute and with attached apple slices for the ears and for the bird, wings.  

“I don't think I could eat one of those, they look too cute,” Clemont grins at Ash. 

“It took my mom two years to get me to eat one of those, because I would burst into tears every time she gave me one to eat.” Ash chuckles and Clemont snorts. Somehow Clemont can see that clearly. 

“I think Ash's snacks beat out yours Clemont.” Bonnie says with a snarky grin. 

Clemont snorts, rolling his eyes, “then I guess Ash better come here after school every day just to personally make you a snack.” 

“You would!?” Bonnie shrieks excitedly, whipping her head to ash, Clemont shakes his head with a laugh. 

“I was joking, I'm sure Ash has better things to do than to come here after school everyday.” Clemont shuts down before Bonnie gets too excited. 

Ash tsks, shaking his head, “I don't know, I think Luxray here would miss me too much to not visit every once and a while.” 

Ash gestures to the very comfortable Luxray in his lap, who was purring. It took Clemont weeks for Luxray to get comfortable with him, of course Ash managed to do it in less than an afternoon. 

“Oh yeah, what's Pikachu gonna do if it knows you've been seeing other cats?” Clemont snarkily grins and Ash blinks, his face draining of color. 

“Pikachu is going to kill me.” Ash realizes. 

“And you were getting so far with it, all that progress down the drain.” Clemont tsks, shaking his head disappointedly. 

Ash groans, leaning back on the couch. 

“My Little Ponyta is back on!” Bonnie squeals, hopping back onto the couch in between Clemont and Ash. 

“So which ones your favorite Ponyta Ash?” Bonnie asks, Ash smiles softly down at her and hums, like he was genuinely thinking it over. 

“I like Flamesky,” Ash says, “I like how she takes care of all the animals.” 

Bonnie hums, nodding. Before looking at Clemont with narrowed eyes, Clemont raises an eyebrow, trying to figure out why she's looking at him like that. 

“What about Ember Glimmer? What do you think about her?” Bonnie asks, Clemont tilts his head. That's not Bonnie's favorite Ponyta, her favorite is Blazeflash, the tomboy one. Ember Glimmer was the main character and a bookish type. Why would she ask specifically about Ember Glimmer?

“I think she's really smart, and interesting to watch.” Ash actually sounds genuine. Clemont wonders how many episodes Ash has been forced to watch with Bonnie. 

Though Clemont can't help but be glad Ash is tolerating Bonnie's antics, even going along with her. Watching the show at least enough to know that Flamesky takes care of animals, and the Ember Glimmer is a bookworm. And letting Bonnie mess with his hair, some of the braids are starting to come loose, but Ash hasn't made a move to take out any of the barretts in his hair. 

He cares a lot about his sister, and he knows she can be a bit much at times. But he's glad her enthusiasm doesn't bother Ash, like he's sure it would have if Ash was any other person at school. 

Clemont doesn't bother to hide his staring at Ash, as Ash is too busy entertaining Bonnie and watching the cartoon to look over at Clemont. 

He was incredibly relieved Ash and Bonnie got along, he expected it but he wasn't expecting it so quickly. He thought either Bonnie would be a tad protective of Clemont, after all he's never brought a friend home before. Or she would embarrass Clemont and Ash would feel uncomfortable. Or the two of them would be best of friends. One thirds shot. 

But he was glad it worked out this way, that the two seem to enjoy eachothers company, and Clemont can slot in with them perfectly. 

The banter felt perfectly natural, and Clemont could see thanksgiving, or even christmas morning with Ash in their little family perfectly. Ash and Clemont would be sitting next to each other, maybe a little too close for just being best friends. Sharing a chair or even just being close while sitting on the floor, their shoulders jostling each other with every movement. Bonnie would be close by, excitedly filling the room with her chatter, Ash responding back and forth, with Clemont occasionally adding a comment or two here and there. But most content to let Ash and Bonnie fill in the silence. Never feeling like he has to awkwardly continue the conversation or fill in the gaps. 

He bets his father would like Ash's kindness and enthusiasm. And Clemont bets his father would love to have Ash over for dinner, his first friend. Even if his father didn't know about Clemont's… feelings, for Ash. Even as weird as thinking that is, it still feels right. 

Everything with Ash feels right. The way Ash so naturally fits in with his family, some of the most important people to Clemont. 

Clemont feels so warm when he sees how comfortable it was. He would love for this to go on forever. 

Bonnie squeaks as she rushes out of the room, “I gotta show you my new stuffed animals!” 

“You know how dad feels about running in the house.” Clemont calls after her, shaking his head when Bonnie just pops around the corner to blow a raspberry at him and continuing to run. 

He looks back at Ash, sharing a smile with him only to stare a few beats longer than normal. 

“Got something on my face?” Ash tilts his head and Clemont shakes his head. 

“Just admiring that beautiful hair style.” he grins, and Ash nods seriously. 

“I know, I look great,” he agrees and Clemont laughs. 

He looks over at Ash, his smile softening. 

“You look very pretty, Ash.” Clemont says genuinely, though Ash doesn't take him seriously. 

“Thank you, I know,” Ash says very confidently. 

Clemont smiles at Ash, pulling his legs up onto the couch to wrap his arms around. The two of them just pause, for a long second, staring intently at each other. 

Clemont doesn't know what it means, or why. But he doesn't care to question, just enjoying the moment. Before Bonnie comes barreling back into the room and the moment is broken. As Ash's attention shifts back to Bonnie as Bonnie excitedly shows Ash her stuffed animals. 

They end up being on the couch as they watch My Little Ponyta, stuffed animals placed on the couch to watch with them, the apple slices slowly running out. Bonnie shifts from rambling about My Little Ponyta to animals, with Ash sharing stories about the animals at the shelter. And eventually back to Bonnie's other favorite cartoon Legend of Flora. Apparently the love polygon was resolved, with, plot twist, Nanami and Flora liking each other and starting to date. 

Clemont didn't see it coming, but he also doesn't tend to watch the show much. 

Eventually though, Ash checks his phone and realizes the time. 

“I should get going before mom gets home from work.” Ash says, making both Clemont and Bonnie pout. Ash looks at them and laughs, shaking his head. 

“The two of you are so similar!” he chuckles, making both Clemont and Bonnie blink. 

They've never been described as similar before. 

“Really?” they both question. 

Ash shrugs standing up, “sure. You both have the same passion for the things you like, and it's pretty obvious how much you care about each other.”

“I don't think we've ever been called similar before.” Clemont says, standing up as Ash collects his stuff to walk him to the door. Bonnie shakes her head, a calculating look on her face as she looks between Ash and Clemont. 

Clemont eyes her, a frown on his face. She's gonna do something, isn't she? 

Ash pops out of Clemont's room, his backpack over his shoulders and ready to leave. 

“It's been nice coming here,” Ash says genuinely, tilting his head to smile softly at Clemont. 

“Yeah, we should do it again soon. At least until your chemistry grade is brought up.” Clemont agrees, trying to will his stomach to not turn to mush as he looks at Ash's smile. 

Bonnie narrows her eyes at Clemont. 

Clemont leads Ash to the door before Bonnie pops in front of Clemont to stare at Ash with narrowed eyes. Ash blinks down at her. 

“You and my big brother are friends, right? Like best friends?” oh god where is she going with this. 

“Yeah?” Ash nods, looking up at Clemont questioningly. Clemont has no idea where she's going with this either. 

“Good.” Bonnie nods, “then listen up!” 

“Clemont is the best big brother, but he's not that strong!” Bonnie please don't do this, Clemont silently pleads. 

“So you've gotta be strong for him!” Bonnie declares, Clemont feels his face growing warm and feeling mortified, “you gotta stand up for him when he wont! You gotta be interested in what he likes, even if you think it's weird! And you gotta keep him company when me and papa can't!”

“Bonnie…” Clemont whines but both Ash and Bonnie pay no attention to it. 

“I promise I'll take care of Clemont,” Ash agrees, leaning down to be the same height as Bonnie, “at least as long as he lets me,” Ash says, peeking up at Clemont with a half smile. 

Clemont smiles a little back, even though he still feels a little embarrassed. 

Bonnie stares at Ash for a long moment, as if to assess if Ash is being genuine. And to his credit, Ash does look genuine. When Bonnie seems to decide that that's good enough for her, she beams brightly before running off to continue watching cartoons. 

Clemont watches her run off as Ash stands back up, and he turns back to Clemont. 

“I'm sorry about-” Clemont tries to say before Ash cuts her off. 

“I found another similarity.” Ash says, a soft smile on his face. 

“Oh?” Clemont blinks, wondering what Ash could have seen out of that mess. 

“Your smiles,” Ash points to his own, “they're both super cute.” 

Clemont freezes, anything he was going to say completely fleeing his mind as he processes what Ash just said. 

“Ah.” is all Clemont can say, Ash grins at him one last time, before waving as he turns and leaves the house. 

“See you tomorrow Clemont!” Ash says cheerfully, and walks down the street, even though by now it was dark out. 

“Bye Ash.” Clemont finally manages to say, even though by that point Ash had disappeared from sight. 

His cheeks are bright red and he can't help but smile like a fool. 

Apparently his smile was cute. Ash thought his smile was cute. 

He doesn't even bother to hide his goofy smile as he walks back into the living room, plopping back onto the couch next to Bonnie. He doesn't even notice Bonnie staring at him with calculating eyes. 

Bonnie changed the channel to watch the next episode of Legend of Flora, but Clemont doesn't pay it much attention. Just putting his elbow on the arm rest and hiding his smile in his hand. 

He lets the cartoon fill the silence of the room, Bonnie for once deciding to stay silent. Luxray yawns from its spot on the couch and climbs over Bonnie's lap to lie on Clemont's lap now that Ash is gone. 

Clemont softly scratches Luxray behind the ear, before he feels his phone buzz in his pockets. 

He pulls it out to see a text from Serena. Clemont tries not to grimace at the idea of talking to Serena. Now that he knows he doesn't have a crush or Serena but Ash, he doesn't know if it'll feel awkward around her. 

He hopes it's not, even though he's sure he'll have to sit through a rant or two from Serena about how much she likes Ash. Reminding him of how little of a chance he actually has with Ash. 

Because while Serena is certainly the most obvious with her crush, she's far from the only person in school who likes Ash. 

Clemont can't blame them, afterall Ash is funny, charming, and quite pretty. At the surface level that would be enough to make someone fall. Even though Clemont fell for Ash's compassion and enthusiasm for everything he did. 

Still, Clemont gets why someone would have a crush on Ash. Believe him. 

He figures he's fine with just being Ash's best friend. because when half of the school has a crush on Ash, why would he go for Clemont?

He checks the message from Serena and is relieved when he finds that it isn't about Ash. Instead she texts excitedly about how they finally figured out a photo to put online for Pikachu. 

Pikachu has been less than cooperative at the photoshoots to update the social media for the upcoming adoption event. No matter how much Ash and the girls try, Pikachu refuses to sit down for a single photo. And when they do, Pikachu is either blurry, or glaring so viciously that it would scare off anyone who would want to adopt it. 

They need a somewhat decent picture for Pikachu before the adoption event, Pikachu just needs to cooperate a little. 

He raises an eyebrow and responds back. How'd you get Pikachu to cooperate if Ash wasn't there?

Serena responds back quickly. we didn't, we just found a photo from one of our shoots that we think would be good.

Then she follows it up with a photo. When it loads Clemont blinks at it. 

Pikachu was standing on Ash's shoulders, Ash smiling brightly at Pikachu. Clemont remembers this, this was when Pikachu managed to finish the obstacle course for the first time and Ash was so incredibly proud. Pikachu in the photo was looking downright fond at Ash and was more relaxed then Clemont has seen from Pikachu when it's anywhere other than by Ash's side. 

Clemont smiles at the photo, and he saves it before he could even think about what he's doing. 

“Whatcha looking at?” Bonnie asks, leaning over to look at Clemont's phone. He lets her see the photo and she shifts to look at Clemont with narrowed eyes. Clemont raises an eyebrow at her, what's with the look?

Bonnie turns back to her cartoons and Clemont shrugs, turning back to his phone. They stay like that until Luxray perks up and Clemont hears the lock on the front door start to jiggle. He puts his phone away (which shifted from texting Serena to Ash, Ash complaining about not getting to see the shelter animals. Pikachu has probably rioted by now.) as Bonnie leaps to her feet, running up to the door to hug their dad as soon as he makes it through the door. 

“Ooh!” Meyer says as he's immediately tackled by Bonnie, but he returns the hug easily, like he does everyday. 

Clemont gives a small wave from over the couch and his dad smiles back. Clemont turns back to his phone when he feels it buzz, Ash responding to the joke Clemont made. 

“How was school?” Meyer asks. 

before Bonnie can burst out with enthusiasm Clemont calls out “it was good!” knowing that if he didnt Bonnie would talk over him. 

“It was so good!” Bonnie says excitedly, “the teacher picked me to read my story out loud, and I saw a bird during math, and-” 

Clemont tunes out the rest of Bonnie's rant, but keeps his fond smile as Bonnie excitedly retells her day. 

“Oh! And Clemont brought a friend over!” Bonnie says excitedly, making Clemont look up again. 

“He's really fun! He watched cartoons with me, and told me stories about animals he's seen, and made me apple snacks!” Bonnie cheers, bouncing on her toes. 

“Really, a friend?” Meyer asks, looking up at Clemont. 

Clemont nods, and oh god is his dad tearing up?

“I'm so proud!” Meyer sobs, reaching over the couch to bring Clemont in for a bone crushing hug. 

“Dad!” Clemont whines, “it's not a big deal!” 

“Of course it's a big deal!” Meyer insists, hugging Clemont tighter, “my baby has a friend!”

“Dad…” Clemont whines, though he can't keep a smile off his face, even as his father sobs. 

“Hey dad…?” Clemont and Meyer hear Bonnie start, and Meyer pulls back from hugging Clemont to look at his youngest. 

“Can boys like other boys? Like a boy liking a girl?” Bonnie asks innocently, Clemont can't help the choke and jerk of the shoulders as Bonnie asks that. He can barely stop the embarrassed squeak that tries to escape his lips. 

How did she know!? Was he that obvious?

Meyer slowly blinks, looking closely at Clemont's reaction before turning back to Bonnie. 

“Well, yes. Some boys like other boys instead of girls. And that's perfectly fine.” Clemont can't look near his father, his face flaming red, embarrassed. 

“Why?” Meyer asks, “did something happen today?” He asks, more in Clemont's direction then Bonnie, even though his oldest is looking firmly in the opposite direction. 

“Flora and Nanami in my show Legend of Flora started to date. And I was wondering if the opposite could happen.” Bonnie shrugs, and Clemont can't help the sigh of relief. She didn't know. 

Bonnie walks off, content with the world. Like she didn't just nearly give Clemont a heart attack. 

She leaves Clemont and Meyer there, Clemont just wants to curl up into a ball. 

Meyer and Clemont just stay still for a few seconds, before Meyer awkwardly pats Clemont's shoulder. 

“You know… if you or Bonnie ever decided you were gay that's fine right?” his dad says, quite awkwardly. 

“Okay!” Clemont says, standing up abruptly. 

“Thanks dad, I've got homework!” he says as he races out of the room and into his own. Leaving his dad there to make dinner. 

He crashes onto his bed as soon as he gets into his room, not caring for the flash cards still scattered on the bed that he crushes. Instead he just groans into a pillow, his face burning red from embarrassment. 

Great. So his dad probably knows about his little realization. And Bonnie probably also does, even if she hasn't quite fully connected all of the dots. She will soon. 

“Ugh!” Clemont groans. Why is he like this?

Clemont looks up, pouting. Only to catch a glimpse of a navy blue jacket that definitely wasn't his. Because his navy blue jacket that was a part of his school uniform was currently hung up on the hook on the back of his door, for him to grab when he leaves for school in the morning. And this one was on the back of his desk chair. Sitting there innocently. 

Ash must've forgotten his jacket, as he abandoned it pretty early into their studying. Clemont reaches out to grab it off his chair, moving to fold it so he could bring it back to Ash tomorrow. 

He runs his hand over the shoulders of Ash's jacket, smiling at the claw shaped holes left by, no doubt, Pikachu. As Pikachu is the only animal allowed on Ash's shoulders. A couple of the birds have tried, from what Clemont has seen, but Pikachu chases them off quickly. Ashs shoulders are Pikachu's property and it refuses to share. 

Clemont notices himself smiling like a goof, and he groans, burying his face into Ash's jacket. 

Yeah, he definitely likes Ash. 

Him and like half of the school. 

Fuck. 

[miracleandplagueau]

First batch of chapters revealed! ✦✦✦ Miracle and Plague

Someone asked me If I was going share them a LONG time ago, but I've had other projects to focus on + tumblr has been unbearable recently with their shitty changes (besides I totaly did not forget), but I'm finally revealing the first 1/3 of the story. The least chaotic part :)

By the way, things may change while I fully write those things out, but this is the rough outline of how I want Miracle and Plague to go. As you can see, there are a few episodes moved from the season 2 to here in order to establish new characters or set up something for the future without stretching the episodes to 5 seasons hehe

I'd be glad to answer a thing or two about the specific episodes If someone would be interested :) At least in regards to this part, because the future ones will be much more spoilery haha

⇽-------------------------‹ ☯ ›-------------------------⇾

"Season 1" is more or less a section filled with of introductions and preparations for future arcs and heavier development such as Chloe's road to redeeming herself, Adrien rebelling against his father's mistreatment and Gabriel's slow descend from being just a disruption to Paris' everyday lives to straight up mass destruction and disorder just to get what he wants.

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[1] Heartstone [Origins | Part 1]

Jiayi Dupan-Cheing and Adrien Agreste are on their way to their school on the first day of September before something breaks out in the middle of class - a monster. Everyone is evacuated as the creatures wrecks havoc upon Paris. Arriving to their homes, they find something that has not been there before.

[2] Wonderbug and Chat Noir [Origins | Part 2]

After Heartstone's first defeat, the plague of infectious butterflies appears and continues to spread through fearsome residents of Paris. Unfortunately for Jiayi, only her and her new partner can stop the villain from destroying the city of love.

[3] Stormy weather

Despite the success of stopping the "first big wave", the butterflies seem to have no intention of disappearing. To make the matters worse, they have found themselves a new target - an unfulfilled weather girl, humiliated in front of everyone.

[4] Mr. Pigeon

A new local fashion contest have caught Jiayi's attention and she's detemined to add it to her long list of "jobs well done". Meanwhile, a old pigeon fanatic continues to fight with the law to aid his companions in need.

[5] The Bubbler

Despite Adrien's birthday coming up, Gabriel is too busy managing his job and the new secret hobby. However, Nino will not stand for it and fights for his best friend's happiness. Who would've thought that clashing with a highly successful entrepreneur won't end nicely?

[6] Lady Wifi

Alya's new hero blog gains MUCH popularity and with it, fuels Alya's fascination with the idenitites of Paris' masked fighters. She discovers Chloe's secret hobby, which in turn gets her suspended from school until further notice.

[7] Refekta

It's time for class photo shoot and Juleka is nervous about her bad luck with those events. As she predicted, things go south with Chloe being unsatisfied about her position in the photo and prevents Juleka for being in the photo at all.

[8] Horrificator

The class is working on a short movie for a small festival, but a certain person is extremely dissatisfied with her role in the creation of it. Disrupting the filming, Chloe causes one of the lead actors to become akumatized and trap the class in a hyper-realistic version of the movie itself.

[9] Copycat

With the heroes of Paris gaining more traction, one of the local sculptors creates a stunning piece as a tribute to Wonderbug and Chat Noir. However, one of the heroes doesn't show up which greatly disappoints the artist.

[10] Timebreaker

Alix is racing Kim as a challenge and Jiayi is put in charge of creating the banner. Meanwhile, Alix is given a precious family heirloom and passes it over to Alya for safekeeping. Things go terribly wrong and the clock end up in the severs, presumably damaged as well.

[10] The Evilustrator

One of Jiayi's classmates seems to have a big crush on her, but what he doesn't realize is that she isn't very interested. As the day goes on, Nathaniel ends up getting humiliated by Chloe who exposes the contents of his sketchbook to everyone.

[11] The mime

[Work in progress; changing the sub-plot of the episode]

[12] The Pharaoh

Alya drags Jiayi to the museum after hearing that the study of Ancient Egipt seem to have been connected to the heroes of Paris. As the progress further into the exibit, both heroes discover something new about the boxes that arrived along with their magical artifacts.

[13] Gamer

Max is entering a gaming contest and proudly prokes his classmates to fight with him in the game itself. Unfortunately for him, Adrien beats him easily and as per the dare's rules, now is the one entering the contest in Max's place. What he doesn't say out loud is that it wasn't his intetion to do so, but when Jiayi convinces him to tell the truth, It's already a bit too late.

[14] Captain Hardlock

Juleka, Rose and others wish to pursue a small side project by creating their own band. Meanwhile, an old friend of Jiayi sails back into Paris in order to assist his sibling with some expertise on the subject. Unfortunately, there's one more family member that can't help, but stick his nose where he shouldn't.

[15] Scarabella [Part 1]

With different events, contests piling up and management of the two sides of her life being too hard to control, Jiayi is completely burnt out and exhausted. Despite the warnings from her friends and family, she overworks herself completely and is unable to fulfill her duty as a hero. In this case, she decides to try and repeat what she did the first time she received the magical earrings - pass the identity to her trusted friend, at least for the time being. Yet Monarch notices the shift in the dynamic and decides to seize the opportunity.

[16] Huli Jing [Part 2]

Noticing that her partner and friend are at a much bigger risk than initally anticipated, Jiayi runs to Master Fu for help. Meanwhile, as the two face against the revealed villain, a new friend appears to assist them in an escape.

[17] Befana

After the events of Scarabella, Jiayi finally promises to take a small break and be more careful with the amount of work she takes on. Unfortunately for her, the news of the winning contestant fainting on stage has spread all over and took the attention of someone who Jiayi wishes she never had to face again. Just in time for her own birthday as well.

[18] Antibug

Seeing two separate ladybug heroes in action, Chloe becomes much persistent and brave, always running to where the villain is in order to assist the heroes. As expected, nothing good comes out of it. Eventualy, her best friend Sabrina gets akumatized as a result of her actions and a chain of events ensues...

[19] Glaciator

Chat Noir decides to invite Wonderbug to a little date, but doesn't seem to be taking a hint. In the meantime, Ague the Ice-Cream man goes through a major crisis that puts a target on his back.

[20] Zombiezou

It's teacher appreciation day at our heroes' school and coincidentally also their favorite teacher's birthday! All of classmates have prepared a little something, except for Chloe. Her excuses only wreck more disorder among the class which attracts the attention of a certain someone.

[21] Guitar Villain

After noticing Jiayi's work for his daughter's band, Jagged Stone commissions her to create a cover for his brand new album. As per the entertainment industry however, his rival and manager seem very eager to rob him of his original approach to rock n roll.

[22] Gigafan

With news of real life superheroes spreading across the globe, many tourists come by only to see Wonderbug and Chat Noir in action. One of those people is especially unbearable and persistent in having Wonderbug notice her presence.

[23] Rogercop

It's bring your parent to school day and quite literally NOTHING goes according to plan. Chloe wrecks havoc upon every single classmate of hers when her priced bracelet goes missing, including her close friend.

[24] Volpina

Just as Jiayi thought that Lila only came in to reconcile, she could not be more wrong as she pops back up again and wrecks more chaos, putting her in many uncomfortable situations. Just as you'd think she was done for, she accepts Monarch's call and begins to disrupt the lives of everyone in Paris.

⇽-------------------------‹ ☯ ›-------------------------⇾

REMOVED EPISODES + REASONING:

Princess Fragrance -- The villain is great overall, but the circumstances of meeting Master Fu for the first time have changed significantlya and Its nothing but a filler

The Puppeteer - Not only does it not include any important lore (except for introducing Navia from the TV network), but also Jiayi is not going to be a babysitter

Pixelator - Cool episode, but filler and exposition only

The Collector - Not possible with changes in power system, concept used for something else in the future

Animan - Filler with focus on Alya and Nino

Kung Food - Filler where Chloe is just showing what a bitch she is

⇽-------------------------‹ ☯ ›-------------------------⇾

[elgaladwen]

Happy Birthday (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

24, 32, 11 for Elgaladwen and Nimardril

23 for Colnia

5, 20, 33 for Kheledis

30, 18, 13 for Tilael

First off, thank you so much, for the birthday wishes, and the lovely art, and the good lotro times! Also, these look really fun, especially because you know some of the characters I never talk about on here, so I get to think about them more!

(24) do they have any creative hobbies? (art, writing, music, etc)

Nimardril learned how to process hides and craft arrows, armor and simple clothing out of necessity rather than for fun, but that has led to her sometimes embroidering fun little things when she mends her clothes, and to whittling. She likes to carve little animals and things if she's staying in one place in the woods for a while. She nearly always just leaves them. She wants to learn how to make nicer clothing, so she might do that someday for fun too. She's passible at singing and dancing, which she likes to do, but rarely actually does, but she's pretty bad at painting and writing, having always eschewed them when her uncle made her learn. She also likes making flower crowns, but I don't know if it's enough to count as a hobby.

Elgaladwen was raised, and sternly encouraged to be good at all endeavors that a ‘proper lady' should know, so she is skilled at many instruments, singing, dancing, embroidery, flower arrangement, and painting. She still enjoys most of these, after having realized she could do them when she felt like it, and not just when her parents made her, but her main hobby nowadays is making concoctions, tinctures, and dyes. She did dabble in gardening to grow the things she needed for such, but since living with Gallorith, she rarely needs to, since he is a skilled gardener. She also enjoys making clothing, and trying to concoct new colors to dye the things she makes, as well as reading just about anything, especially if it involves her learning something. Lately, she's found a renewed passion for sketching and painting, especially if it involves Gallorith as the main subject.

(32) do they have any habits that aren't particularly self-destructive, just maybe odd?

Oh man, this is a good one, and one I need to think about more, since I tend to focus more on self-destructive habits than benign ones. Nimardril quite often covers her mouth when she smiles or laughs, though as she gets used to being around someone, she does this less. She also talks to herself and the plants and animals around her if she's alone. She can't really hear them back, even if they are communicating with her in return, with a couple exceptions, but I won't go into that here! She's gotten into the habit of always making sure her weapons are clean and in good repair, so she does things like sharpening and cleaning her knives even when she doesn't really need to.

I don't know that this even counts as a habit, but Elgaladwen will pretty much always touch Gallorith if she's near him or passing by, even if it's just a brush of her fingers. She's usually adverse to touching people outside of her healing or comforting them, but this changes if she's close to someone. (She'll touch the arms of her good friends in conversation, and things like that too.) She likes to keep her books and herbs tidy, so she may have a habit of re-organizing those. (Again, things I'm not sure count!) I think since her ordeal, she also has a nightly habit of making sure the doors are locked, and that nothing seems overly odd or out of place.

Question 11 ended up getting answered for these two back in this ask!

(23) how would you describe their voice? can they sing?

Colnia has a generally sweet voice, soft and demure. She's practiced sounding pleasant, but she already was lucky enough to not have an overly harsh voice. (Though sometimes she wonders if her wants and demands would be taken more seriously if she did) She sings decently enough, definitely nothing special, but nothing that will kill your ears, either. It's probably pretty boring to hear her song alone, but if she's accompanied by an instrument, you might think it's nice to listen to for a little while!

(5) how do they typically dress? does their wardrobe lean more towards practicality or aesthetics?

Kheledis dresses nearly always for practicality over aesthetics. She didn't have much of a choice as a thrall back in Mordor, and it never really occurred to her to care much when she was freed, though she does enjoy having clothes that are in better repair. She tends to wear hand-me-downs, which are often men's clothes, which leads to her even more often being mistaken for a male dwarf than she would be otherwise, but she also doesn't care, and will not correct anyone. Since meeting Osdrid, she's admired his fine clothing and outfits a lot, so on special occasions she does make an effort to dress nicely, and now does have a couple nice tunics and jackets. She hopes he'll help her pick out some outfits someday.

(20) if applicable, can they drive? if they have their own, what color is their vehicle? is the inside neat and tidy, or a mess?

Kheledis can drive oxen carts in a pinch, but more often she is simply a caravan guard. She doesn't own anything resembling a vehicle herself. I think in a modern AU, she'd drive something old and practical, and maybe a little rusty. It would seem cluttered inside, but everything would be useful!

(33) if applicable, how would your other characters describe them? i mean specifically the people around them.

Nimardril has met Kheledis a few times, and thinks she's quiet but seems nice enough. Most of my elves would probably think something similar, though a few of them are assholes about dwarves so they'd have an unfavorable opinion of her in general. My other main dwarf, Skuldfig, would say that she needs to live a little and get out of her shell, because she's too shy and withdrawn, as if she's still afraid of her surroundings.

(30) do they smell like anything notable?

Oh man one day I need to make a post about what all my characters smell like, because I've found various perfumes, types of wood, and other fragrance notes that are so perfect for so many of them. (And after sight, scent is my most prominent sense, so I heavily associate scents with almost every person or thing, and then also give myself migraines or make myself sick with strong smells, but that double-edged sword is not the point here!) For Tilael, like many of my elves who are often in the wilds, I imagine she smells like the outdoors in general, be it clean air, fresh soil, or the subtle fragrance of the leaves and needles of the forest, depending on where she's been. More specifically, I think she smells like sandalwood and coffee. I haven't quite decided which flowers she might smell like yet, but I'll know when I RP her more! She would also use soap with fragrance, and use incense.

(18) their opinion on lying, stealing, and killing

Tilael is not a fan of any of these, but does see them as necessary in some situations. Stealing to survive, she'll forgive, but not if it's for something simply coveted. Similarly, lying to save a life, or perhaps even for peace is acceptable, though she still tries to avoid it, and will never lie just to spare someone's feelings. Killing animals if one intends to eat or use them for something is acceptable to her, though she is very strongly opposed to killing them for sport, or just because people don't want them around. She is very close to nature, and spends more time with animals than with other people, so she does also understand and accept that animals will kill one another. She tries to avoid killing them herself, but will if she needs to to survive. She is also against killing people, and even ‘evil’ creatures, though she has in self-defense, and hates that she descends from kinslayers, even if she has soundly rejected her Noldor half, and only acknowledges her Silvan side.

(13) what languages do they speak? how fluently

Tilael mostly speaks Sindarin, but knows a smattering of Silvan, and can speak Westron fluently, though she doesn't use it much, and may be a little slower to respond. She was taught Quenya as a child, but has really used it since. She knows enough of certain more local languages far to the east and south to get by in her travels, but certainly not enough to teach anyone else.

[rickytickychow]

in defense of Unity (my favorite hive mind not the shitty game engine company)

so a lot of people are a little bothered by how pushy Unity was, and that's absolutely valid. However I saw it a bit differently. I think it takes a LOT for someone to be concerned for Rick's very life, given that he is in the business of putting it in danger regularly.

Unity knows Rick. Like *knows* knows him. Thus, she knows he "almost dies" as a hobby. So what's different about him going after Prime Rick? Why was it so urgent?

Now this is pure speculation on my part, but I'm guessing that Prime didn't almost kill him. Given how badly broken up he was over the mere breakup with Unity itself, I can imagine the quest to find Prime drove him mad enough to do some crazy shit; be it by hopelessness or recklessness. In any case, Unity knows that since he isn't picking up, this guy it has a lot of history with may very well be dead. What better way to get a response than create a situation where he's guaranteed to show up? Especially considering he "almost died" right after their previous meeting and all Unity seems to have heard since is hearsay, it kinda has reason to be afraid. It likely went months without news (or however long in spacetime they waited).

If Unity, the flame of a man whose whole schtick is cheating death, is concerned that he might be dead, it's real concern. I don't judge any other interpretation but personally I can forgive Unity for this one. If a close friend of mine was like "stay TF away from my house" I'd also respect that until he was rumoured to be doing historically self-destructive shit.

Yes Unity broke a boundary, but the episode showed us that "our" Rick was learning to enforce those in a healthy way. It's a realistic plot point for them; people break boundaries a lot in real life sadly and it's important that mending them is shown even if there's not complete forgiveness on either side right away. Rick is right to say "I NEED BOUNDARIES," but screaming at his granddaughter and stonewalling someone with genuine intentions aren't gonna help him.

Wong shouldn't have been invalidating about it but her assertiveness is the way she gets to Rick; it's comedic even though obviously IRL therapists who play devil's advocate are the actual devil. Rick is, with all my love and care and respect to the blorbo, Actually the Devil as well, so Strip Mall Therapist clicks. Wong seems to understand Rick.

Rick had his reasons but still, a singular response and Unity would not have gone to Virginia at all. Unity's action was not justified yeah but it was proportional to the situation from its pov. Rick is reckless, he doesn't give a *fuck*, or so he'd have everyone believe. Wong is poignant enough to make him see that the act isn't worth it, and in turn helps Rick reconsider his avoidant behavior.

The "huge problem" was less Rick's ghosting (spite is not healthy in large amounts but like I Get It) and more the president's fault imo but Rick maybe should have let Unity know he wasn't dead. Had he calmed down and talked it out immediately when he got to Virginia it would have been a much easier release for them both, which is what I think Wong meant.

I am really happy with the last couple episodes tbh they've brought a lotta levity to the show while keeping the dark undertones and setting up themes for the rest of the season. So glad to have Unity back in the show, their relationship with C-137 is so interesting to me.

[neocopy]

Analyzing endless flows of data can sometimes get a little boring. Sometimes a mechanical mastermind like Neo needs a little something extra to spice up life. The issue is-- what can one do when they've already accomplished all their goals? Sure, long-term goals can be set anew but working toward them is a slower pace than he would like to satisfy such an unhealthy sense of curiosity that endlessly channels through his mind.

That's why experimentation has become one of his new involving hobbies. With the combined abilities of the Chaos Emeralds and the Phantom Ruby allowing his fleet to travel to alternate realities, he's began to develop quite a collection for himself -- with one such creature being something taken from the Ark of a previously doomed timeline. A beast so powerful and massive that it had originally been dubbed ' The ultimate lifeform. '

What a load of malarky that was. Defeated by two eager hedgehogs with super forms no less. Pathetic! Neo sought something far more destructive than that. Something powerful that will remain subjugated. Controlled. Unable to utilize its power against Neo's. And for the most part, he's succeeded.

Relocating the creature alone was a monumental task -- incubating it within a chamber specifically designed to house it was another. The beast was such a deplorable, disgusting thing that Neo would have shielded his eyes from were it not the product of his scientific curiosity. The way the beast thrives completely off of an innate source of chaos energy that was utilized in its creation, but which also actively destroys it from the inside out... it's no wonder this creature was labeled as a 'failure.' It was doomed to die, but simultaneously kept alive by its own internalized sense of spite and wrath.

Now look at it..

What was it now beyond a husk of its former self? A creature that had decayed so wildly it might as well have been reduced to a skeleton? Parts of its flesh have since rotted away and exposed bone, yet those same parts are kept in a constant cycle of regeneration. A cycle that will never truly end as long as Neo keeps steadily feeding it the various solutions and concoctions he's created to sustain its life. His robots have done well to produce the solutions on a scale which can be delivered to and administered to the creature in a consistent cycle.

The beast, now aware of the presence of its captor, weakly lifts its head to gaze upon him. The metallic contraption laughs softly, gazing upon it with the same joy one would get upon seeing an invention functioning.

[ :// How does it feel, Biolizard? To finally be in a space where you can continue to grow and molt for as long as I need you to? Ah.. I suppose speaking isn't your strong-suit. Even if you were capable of it.. your body can barely produce a growl, let alone words. ]

The beast is incapable of responding to him. The various coils and wires connected to its body, slowly feeding it fluids and solutions of chaos-infused concoctions only allowed it a very meager amount of freedom in terms of movement. It can, however, detect his presence -- and the sheer amount of chaos energy radiating from the six emeralds he has embedded into his body.

[ :// Worry not. Loathesome as you are, I will soon see a use for you in the coming days. I do, after all, have plenty of ideas involving you and a certain world I plan to visit soon. Humor me until then -- continue your slow, agonizing 'recovery' so that we can begin our tests proper, hm? ]

[ :// Dr. Gerald Robotnik may have failed to turn you into a powerful bioweapon, but that's because he lacked the ingenuity needed to sustain such a cumbersome creature like yourself. Worry not. I will 'fix' you in a way only I can. The genius of the Robotnik bloodline and my infinitely-growing database will turn you into a living, breathing catastrophe. ]

[ :// Hmhmhm hahahaha~! I can not WAIT to have my fun with you..! ]

The laughing mechanical monster of a machine turns on a dime and parts way out of the former ultimate lifeform's prison chamber. Soon, he thinks -- he'll find a way to utilize its biological properties in a way no other scientist has ever been able to harness.

Soon, he thinks -- a universe will have to face a dire, dire threat. And he has plenty of interest to see just how much chaos a beast like that can cause.