#Hoardings in indoor

[gottagobuycheese]

truly nothing like the relief of cancelled plans

[sophsun1]

It's too warm today *stamps feet* make it stopppp!!!

[butcherlarry]

Hahaha, I don't have a plant addiction, what are you talking about? *sweats nervously*

[kelseytheballerina]

Reflections on building a better me

Exercise is not optional. Mental satisfaction from completing yet another workout cannot be overstated. Physical satisfaction from feeling good and enjoying your body in clothes, the mirror, and photos cannot be overstated. Stop messing around, stop info hoarding, go exercise. And tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day. And the next day.

Looking your best depending on circumstances (ie, casual, dressy, bedtime, etc) is not optional. External confidence from taking care of your appearance top to bottom and loving what you see in the mirror is highly valuable.

You feel better when you eat better. You’re proud of yourself when you eat better.

Hobbies, hobbies, hobbies. Do you feel embarrassed when someone asks what you do all day and you can’t come up with an honest answer that doesn’t make you sound like a loser with no life? You need hobbies. Some that are outdoors, some that are indoors. Some that are taxing, some that are relaxing. You will enjoy life more, become a more well-rounded individual, and have positive ways to spend your time rather than racking up more hours on your phone. Get some hobbies. Plural.

Procrastination and laziness should disgust you. You shouldn’t be able to relate. You should strive to be above that. You like yourself better when you complete your tasks and get things done in a timely manner. You’re proud of yourself when you’re on a roll and have a productive streak. You’re impressed by productive people and no one likes a lazy bum.

Decide what you want from life and pursue it ruthlessly. Don’t take advice from people who don’t have the life you want, unless they were once on your desired path and fell off. Even then, you listen to them when they say what NOT to do (learning from their mistakes) but clearly they don’t know what TO do bc they didn’t make it to the finish line. Take “do this” advice from people who crossed the finish line and have what you want. You’ll find that the amount of input that is actually valuable to you has suddenly dwindled. Good. Less chatter in your ears.

Get yourself in order before you go around critiquing everyone else. Get YOUR face in order. Get YOUR body right. Get YOUR money up. Get YOUR style in order. Get YOUR relationship together.

Stop coming to everyone for validation like a toddler. Validate yourself. Do you like it? Okay then. Are you over it? Okay then. Stop being so weak. Stand tall, lead yourself. Stop being such a follower.

Be a good person. Help your family, lend a hand to strangers, give back, say sorry, do things for loved ones just because, show affection, work things out, watch your mouth, speak respectfully, remember that the world owes you nothing. Stop being an insufferable freak.

You can’t change anyone but yourself. Get yourself in order and be a good role model. That’s all you can do. Give people advice when they want it and then go about your business. Get yourself in order. Get yourself in order.

Outrage content is the lowest form of entertainment. Engage in things that make you happy or educate you. Doom scrolling only leads to doom. Don’t like this person? Don’t click on their articles or videos. Unfollow and block. Don’t like these people? Leave their spaces. You don’t have to be outraged every day.

Always keep your word to yourself. Make a plan, stick to the plan, always deliver. If you can’t be reliable for yourself then who can you be reliable for?

[strang3lov3]

Fighting Fair

Joel doesn’t know what or who started this fucking thing, but he’s finishing it. Tonight.

Tags: impish activities, soft dom!joel sorta aggressive joel, forced proximity, cock grinding, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie (always), teasing, dirty talk, almost somnophilia (they’re sleep-teasing each other unconsciously) sexually frustrated morons, good ol' fashioned "we have to get naked and share body heat to stay warm" trope

A/N: I had to drag myself kicking and screaming into writing this fic that put me through the fucking ringer!!! Thank you @theywhowriteandknowthings @merz-8 and @beefrobeefcal for the general fic help and encouragement! And I think also @noxturnalpascal and @tightjeansjavi and ESPECIALLY @notjustjavierpena who talked me through this fic a couple weeks ago and gave me the push I needed to finish it when I was stuck. You guys all rock ❤️

It’s too cold tonight, even indoors and with a fire burning. He moved the large sectional couch as close as he could safely get it by the fireplace, gave you his jacket, and you’re still hoarding the blanket. Joel tries to gently tug on the blanket that you’ve wrapped around your body, see if maybe you can spare to lose a few inches of fabric. You don’t budge. Joel sighs, “Y’can share, ya know.”

“This is sharing.”

“It’s not, actually. I’m the one sharin’ here. I gave you my coat, you can quit hoggin’ all the blanket,” Joel tugs harder on the blanket, it’s old and kind of scratchy, worn out by the years. “C’mon. Let up.” 

“You can have this much,” You mumble, giving Joel a small amount of the fabric. 

“How generous of you,” Joel mutters sarcastically before pulling the blanket entirely off of your shoulders. “Thank you. S’very kind.”

“Hey,” you whine. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says. He covers his body in the blanket, making sure to cover your legs and feet as well. His hands brush over your own and he winces at their ice cold temperature. “Jesus, girl. Gimme these,” he mumbles, taking your hands into his own and holding them tightly. “Hands feel like icicles.”

“This fucking sucks, Joel,” you complain. 

“It does,” he agrees. Joel’s been dreading this point in the year. He’s eased up on his ‘no fires’ rule for the most part, but fire doesn’t help when it’s as cold as it has been. Tonight, he’s grateful you spotted this old house from afar, even more grateful it has a fireplace. But it’s especially cold tonight, maybe even nearing below zero temperatures. Even with a glowing fire and a shelter preventing the chill of the wind piercing you to the bone, he’s not sure that’s enough to keep you both warm. Joel shivers, “This shit’s not workin’.”

You shake your head no. It’s not. 

Joel’s not quite sure how to offer up his idea. It’ll be fine, or at least, it should be fine. What needs to happen is you and Joel need to get cozy and share body heat, the real way, with both of your bodies completely bare and pressed against each other.

Most of the time, you and Joel fall asleep separately. Occasionally, however, Joel will wake up in the early hours of the morning with your body inexplicably tangled in his, your head laying on his chest. The first time it happened, Joel was annoyed. “Get off of me,” he grumbled. “Not your fuckin’ teddy bear,” You whined in response, and when Joel tried to move you from him you clung to his body tighter. “Jesus,” he mumbled to himself. 

After about the fifth or sixth time of waking up with you clinging to his body, he stopped trying to fight it. In fact, he even started to hold you closer, stroke your hair. Sometimes he’d wake up holding you, other times he’d wake up with your arms wrapped around him and your tummy pressed against his back. It was nice, mostly. 

Mostly. You have the most uncanny ability to tease Joel in your sleep. Your hand will mysteriously travel from his side up to his chest, your thumb rubbing over his nipple. Other times, it’s your leg that brushes against his crotch. Or your ass, wiggling against his morning wood. After you wake, he’ll leave you alone for a few moments to quietly take care of himself, stroking his member to the thought of your naked body, your soft curves and smooth skin. Sometimes he’s not able to sneak away in the mornings and he’ll be hard as a rock and miserable the entire day. It’s unbearably frustrating. He’s never brought this tendency of yours up to you and he never will, because you’re not doing anything intentionally, at least he thinks. Though, there was one time after a particularly excruciating night of teasing, he thought he saw you smirk as he left to take care of himself. It was probably nothing. 

That’s what he’s worried about. Your body, naked against his, teasing him. His arousal won’t be so easy to hide without the protection of clothing, not to mention he may not even be able to fall asleep. It’s not gonna be an easy night, but it’s the only option at this point. 

Joel clears his throat, “We’re gonna try somethin’ different tonight,” he starts, “An’ we’re not gonna talk about it. Ever.”

“Okay,” you say, unsure of where he’s going with this. 

“You trust me?” he asks. You nod. “Good,” he says, “We’re gonna share our body heat. An’ it works better with skin to skin contact, which means we’re both gonna get naked and close under the blanket, but we’re not gonna talk about it. Not tonight, not ever. Can you do this?”

“I can,” you tell him. You’re not totally surprised by Joel’s idea, but you’re glad he was the one who brought it up. Truthfully, it’s been something you’ve been thinking of doing with him for quite some time now, since the weather’s been getting so cold. You’ve pictured it, rubbing your bare feet against his legs for some warmth. He’ll probably kick you away, complain that he’s cold too. You’ll tell him too bad. 

“Okay,” he mumbles awkwardly, “Okay, s’good. I’m gonna turn around and get to it then, f’ya wanna…” 

“Yeah, got it.”

You and Joel separate, he places the blanket at his end of the couch as he begins to unbutton his flannel. You remove his coat from your body then shimmy off your pants, leaving them crumpled on the floor. You catch a glimpse of Joel’s back, the firelight dancing on his toned and broad muscles, the scars and stretch marks decorating his skin like art. Quickly, you avert your eyes and begin to remove your shirt. You don’t notice Joel stealing a peek at your body, the blush creeping up his cheeks when he sees your bare breasts. 

“Ready?”

“Mhm,” you mumble, but you’re anxious. You’re not sure how it happens, but you’ve been waking up with Joel here and there. Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night with his limbs inexplicably wrapped around you, his chin resting on your head. The first time it happened, you were confused. You tried to shrug him off of you, but Joel only held you tighter, sleepily mumbling in an annoyed tone. 

After about the fourth or fifth time of waking up with him holding your body, you stopped trying to fight it. In fact, you’d back yourself into him, even scratch his forearms to relax him. There’d be times you’d wake up being spooned by him, other times you’d wake up spooning him, with your arms wrapped around him and your tummy pressed against his back. It’s nice, mostly. 

Mostly. Joel has this inexplicable habit of teasing you in his sleep. His hand will mysteriously travel from your side up to your breasts, his thumb catching on your nipples and rubbing them softly. Other times, he presses his cock against your ass, nudging you and gently grinding against your ass. When you wake, you find somewhere quiet to touch yourself, rubbing your clit to the thought of his body, his warm eyes, the groaning noises he’ll make when he stretches in the morning. Sometimes in the mornings, you can’t sneak away and you’ll be soaked all day, miserable as your core pulses and aches for him. It’s god awful, unbearably frustrating. But you’ve never brought this tendency of his up to him and you never will, because he’s not doing anything intentionally, at least you think. Though, there was one time after a particularly excruciating night of him teasing your nipples, you felt him touch you a little more intensely, like there could have been conscious thought behind the action. It was probably nothing. 

This is what you’re worried about. His body, naked against yours, teasing you. It’s gonna be a difficult night, but you know it’s the only option.

Joel reaches for the blanket, spreads it out as he inches back towards you on the couch. “You can lay on your side like that, facin’ the fire,” he offers, and you follow his suggestion. Joel slots himself behind you and tucks the blanket around both of your bodies, then pulls you closer to his body. “Yeah, good girl. You got it. M’gonna hold you tight like this,” he tells you. 

Good girl. His words send desire flooding your veins. Sweet talking in your ear, his hands holding you close and tight. God, this is trouble. 

“Just need to scoot a little closer, like–” you back your ass into his crotch, “M’just so cold, Joel.”

Fuck. Joel can feel his growing arousal pressing against your ass. “I know you are, hon, just–don’t move like that on me,” He keeps you as close as he can against your body, pressing the length of his arm against your torso to keep you warm. His hand brushes against your breasts, thumb caressing your nipple. You gasp. 

“Need you closer, though,” you mumble, wiggling against his crotch once more. His length hardens fully, prodding against your ass. His breath hitches, “Ignore it,” he grumbles, now annoyed. How many hints does he have to drop? Or are you doing this shit on purpose?

You’re annoyed too, honestly. He’s not directly groping you, but his fingertips have not left your nipples, lightly grazing over them and setting your skin on fire. Do you need to spell it out for him, what he’s doing to you? Surely it’s intentional on his end. Has to be.  

There’s a moment where you’re quiet and so is Joel, both of you tired and confused and sexually frustrated with the other. Maybe you’re looking for a fight, but something’s gotta give. Fuck it, you’ll be the one to instigate. “Ignore what, Joel?” you ask, voice incredulous and laced with sarcasm. 

“I’m–my–fuck,” Joel stammers. He feels your body move with your stifled giggles. “Knock it off.”

“It’s all for me, isn’t it Joel?”

“Dammit, just–shut up,” Joel stiffens as he feels his face and neck begin to warm. “And mind your business. S’not for you. S’not for anyone,” he lies, cringing internally for his defensiveness, definitely overcompensating. He rolls his eyes, knowing he was right. Five minutes into sharing body heat with you and it is not going well at all. You twist your hips once more. “I said ignore it,” he grumbles, his hand finding your hip and holding it firmly in place. “Not rub your ass on it. Now sit still. You’re testin’ my patience.”

“I can’t help it, Joel. I’m just trying to get comfortable,” you lie. 

“Yeah, whatever. You’re gettin’ me in trouble is what you’re doing. Now for the love of god, quit it.”

Ten minutes go by without an incident, and Joel is focusing on trying to sleep with your naked body pressed against his. He’s certainly beginning to warm up but at what cost? He’s breathing in your scent, feeling your warm skin under his hand, which is hard enough to deal with. And then you fucking do it again, because his fingers are still lightly touching your sensitive nipples. “What did I just say?” Joel flips you on your other side so you’re facing him, then holds your jaw between his fingers. “Look at me,” he tells you. “Knock it off. Quit your squirmin’, quit wigglin’ your ass on my–” You can’t hide the grin that forms on your lips at his accusation. You purse your lips in an attempt to hide the amusement you’ve garnered from your payback, but Joel sees it. “Why’re you fuckin’ with me?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You know exactly what you’re doin’. Why are you fuckin’ with me?” 

You shrug, “You started it.”

“I never fuckin’ know what you’re talkin’ about,” Joel complains through a deep sigh, exasperated.

“The teasing,” you explain, “You snuggle me and end up teasing me, playing with my tits and whatnot. You know what you do,” you accuse, “So I’m getting you back. Fair’s fair.”

“So you get worked up and you retaliate by givin’ me a hard on. Charming,” Joel grumbles, “And you’re one to talk about wanderin’ hands. Do you know how many times I’ve woken up with your hands in places they shouldn’t have been? Shouldn’t even be fuckin’ sleepin’ together.”

“You never complained about it before,” you retort, referring to the accidental snuggles that take place between Joel and yourself. 

Joel wears a confused expression for a moment, then glares at you. He narrows his eyes at you, completely misunderstanding what you meant. In his head, he’s thinking that you’ve just admitted all of that accidental teasing–it has been fucking intentional on your part. He knew it! “Before? You’re tellin’ me this is a hobby of yours?” he spits, “I knew you had ulterior motives with that late night cuddlin’ of yours. You’ve been gettin’ me hot an’ bothered on purpose, haven’t you?”

You sigh, “No, I’m talking about—” and then you realize, if Joel thinks you’ve been intentionally getting him worked up all this time, he’s been doing the same shit to you to retaliate. “Only because you did it to me first,” you accuse. 

Joel scoffs. “I don’t believe this,” he scoffs, “I don’t care who started it, I’m finishin’ it right now.”

Your heart pounds as desire pools in your gut, a warm, sticky feeling. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talkin about,” Joel whispers in your ear, his hot breath tickling your skin. “I’m gettin’ you out of my system once and for all. You’re fuckin’ ridiculous. We’re done with this.”

Joel shifts his arm, reaching for his cock. You watch as he wraps his palm around his member, thumb swiping over his red and swollen tip. His soft belly bulges against his arm that’s pressed tightly against himself as he strokes his member slowly, patiently. When you reach for his cock to replace his hand with your own, you’re in disbelief as he swats your hand away. “Joel,” you whine, confused.

“Was never really teasin’ ya, by the way. Think you’re a little selective in that way. Seein’ and hearin’ what you want to.” Joel accuses in a gentle tone as he continues to massage himself, “And even if I was, you don’t fight fair.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, sweetheart, all that shit you do to me, I’m gonna do right back to you,” Joel reaches for your leg, grabs the back of your knee and hikes your leg over his hip, pulling you closer and exposing your pussy to him. “Not going to go easy on you sweetheart, you sure you want this?” he asks, giving you an out. But you nod anyway, your tummy fluttering with desire as your mind begins to race, wondering exactly how he’ll retaliate after being pent up like this for so long. “Good,” he says. 

Holding his cock in his hand, he guides the tip to your center, collecting the slick pooling at your entrance and taps the thick head against your clit. He pulls you closer and begins to drag himself through your folds. “Joel,” you gasp, “What are you doing?”

“Tryin’ out your modus operandi,” he breathes. “Isn’t this whatcha were just doin’? Rubbin’ up on me?”

“I wasn’t–mmmm,” you hum as he continues to rub the head of his cock against you, “Wasn’t like this.”

“You’re full of shit,” Joel groans as goes up and down, up and down, notching his tip ever so quickly inside of you to gather your increasing arousal and dragging it through your folds, paying special attention to your clit. You’re pulsing, clenching around nothing as he teases you agonizingly. “You’re makin’ a fuckin’ mess. S’all for me, isn’t it?” he taunts you, using your words from earlier. “God, you don’t take much at all. Soakin’ me, sweetheart.”

He notches his tip inside you to collect your wetness once more and you cry out, “Just fuck me.”

“You’re not gettin’ it,” he breathes, “Told ya, you’re gettin’ your comeuppance.”

You feel like you’re gonna burst. He rubs the head of his cock over your clit in circles, listening to your whines of displeasure when he pulls away from you to focus on his own pleasure. When presses himself against you again, he focuses his tip only at your clit, your slick helping him to slide up and down with ease. When he begins to roll his hips for added pressure, you bite into his shoulder to contain your cries. This is agonizing and so fucking delicious all at the same time. 

You adjust your hips, simultaneously reaching for Joel’s cock to guide him to your entrance. You need him now. “C’mon, now. You mind your manners,” he chides you, “S’not any way to get what ya want.”

“Please, just fuck–need you inside me.” 

“Sure thing,” he says in a honeyed tone. He replaces his cock with his fingers, leisurely dragging them through your slick folds before dipping first one, then two fingers inside you. He finds that delicious spot inside you, but curls his fingers lazily, not yet providing you with what you need. You’re throbbing, aching, hungry for more. 

“Joel, not–”

“Shoulda been more specific, then,” he interrupts. Bastard. When you try to argue, Joel flips you on your back and guides his cock to your entrance, notching his tip in you again, this time not leaving. You whine eagerly, wrapping your legs around him and pressing your feet into his ass, trying to pull him closer. You need him inside you, now.

“Not all at once,” Joel purrs as he enters you at a glacial pace. He pushes inside you gradually, letting you feel every inch of him, stopping momentarily to adjust the blanket over his shoulders to keep both of your bodies enveloped in warmth. Joel bottoms out inside of you and pulls back out, then enters you again, so fucking slowly. You’re not sure how he manages to tease you while fucking you, but he’s doing it. You just need more, need it faster, harder, more. You reach for your clit, but Joel pins both of your hands under one of his own as he fucks into you. Tears of frustration begin to build in your eyes. “You can cry all you want, sweetheart,” he coos, “You made your bed. We’re not done with this yet,” he continues, “But, maybe if ya sweet talk me, apologize for startin’ somethin’ you couldn’t finish…”

“M’sorry, Joel,” you apologize quickly. All your fire, your mischief, Joel’s now extinguished like a flame.

“I knew you’d be sorry,” Joel murmurs. Knowing how badly you need to release, Joel snakes his other hand between your thighs and circles your sensitive clit with his thumb ever so lightly. Torturing you, taunting you with what you could have and never giving you more. 

He’s fucking you at a steady pace now, the tip of his cock brushing against your g-spot. It’s not enough. The wet, gushing sounds of your cunt and the way Joel’s skin feels against yours has you feeling dizzy. Joel’s savoring the way you’re squirming under him, straining your wrists against his locked grip. He knows you’re aching for release, but he’s determined to teach you a lesson, even if that means torturing himself. 

Yes, as pleasurable as this is for Joel to watch you fuck around and find out, it’s misery for him too. Fucking his fist with the tip of his cock kissing your pussy was no easy task, and neither is holding back from how he truly wants to fuck you. Because, truthfully, he wants to fucking ruin you. Show you just what he thinks of these stunts you’ve been pulling. Show you just what he thinks of your wandering hands and your innocent ‘adjustments’.

“Please,” you gasp, “Just make me come, Joel.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. M’not feelin’ particularly generous at the moment.”

“Please,” you whine, “Been needing y–this for so long.” 

“Ahhh,” Joel hums, “And the truth comes out,” he groans as he rolls his hips against you, “S’that what all of this is about? Been needin’ me?” you nod quickly, “Tell me how long you’ve been needing me.”

“Fuck, Joel, I don’t know. Forever,” you cry, “I need to come now, please. Need to come on your cock, fuck.”

“F’ya said somethin’ earlier instead of toyin’ with me like you’ve been doin’, we wouldn’t be in this mess, sweetheart.”

You don’t know how much more you can take. Tears of frustration trail down your cheeks, each of his thrusts hitting deep and massaging your insides, intentionally, powerfully. 

Joel’s right there with you, struggling as well. He wants nothing more than to keep fucking you without allowing you to finish, having never seen anything before so erotic and beautiful as your squirming, writhing body. Your soft body, those sweet noises, that frustrated face of yours. And it’s all at his hands, he’s the one  responsible for turning into this mess. 

“Fuck,” he whispers through a shuddering breath, “Not gonna–”

“Joel,” you cry, the only word you know anymore being his name.

“Let’s be done with this,” he decides, fucking finally. He circles your clit steadily now, finding a pace and a pressure that has you letting out breathy gasps and moans as your orgasm approaches. “Want you to come for me,” he says.

His words are all you need. That warm, sticky feeling in the pit of your stomach builds quickly and releases almost instantaneously, sending pleasure erupting through your veins. You feel it everywhere, the back of your thighs, deep in your gut. Wave after wave of pleasure rocks your body as Joel’s thrusts quicken as he fucks you at a now frenzied, sloppy pace he chases his own release. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, coming with a deep, stuttering moan of your name. His muscles jerk and tremble as his cock pulses inside you, painting your insides with thick ropes of his spend. He pulls out of you groaning, his hot, slick release making your thighs sticky. He places a gentle kiss to your lips and then to your forehead, the action a stark contrast to his previous demeanor. All's right with the world now. Sexual frustration solved.

He takes his place behind you again, pulling you close to his chest for the last time and making sure the blanket is covering you both. You’re certainly warmed up now. A little too warm, even. But you’re not complaining. 

“Still not talkin’ about tonight,” Joel reminds you, “Ever.”

“Nope,” you agree.

Another quiet moment passes. For shits and giggles, you rub your ass against his crotch. “But I take it we’ll be doin’ this again, won’t we?” he says, defeated as you continue to tease him.

“Definitely.”

“Good god,” Joel sighs, “Get back over here, then. You drive me fuckin’ nuts,” he adds, pulling you back for round two. He was right, it’s a long night ahead of him.

[thearcanagame]

What are the M6's bad habits?

Asra leaves cups and mugs everywhere. Hoards them in his bedroom.

Nadia "loses" socks in the wash and just buys new ones.

Portia repots plants indoors.

Julian leaves his clothes all over the floor. Who needs rugs when you live with Julian?

Lucio refuses to do the dishes.

[beenbaanbuun]

Hi hi! I hope life is treating you well and you’re drinking lots of water and resting well!

I would love to hear your thoughts on dragon!San the brainrot for him has been real lately 😭💖

so this actually changed the chemical infrastructure of my brain and i couldn’t decide how to write it so i hope this is okay 😭😭

——————————————————————————

so ask anyone who i speak to on a regular basis and this is all i’ve been able to talk about for days because i have so many ideas for it

arguably too many for me to even begin to think about structuring them in a way that makes sense…

but hey, we can try right?

so initially my first thought was ‘omg, i’m going to make this little guy so sad…’ and i will! but i promise it will make sense

so san is a people person—or dragon, i guess—right? sure, he’s a little shy but at the end of the day, you can tell he loves being around people

all throughout his childhood he wanted nothing more than to work with kids, maybe be a teacher or something! he’s good at helping people, right?

it just sucks for the poor guy that as he got older, he started to get bigger, his nails started to grow into something akin to talons, and his canine teeth became sharp and menacing

there’s a reason you never really see any dragon-hybrid teachers…

the day san got kicked off of his teacher-training course was probably the saddest day of his life, but at least he had you at home! the most precious jewel in all of his hoard…

honestly, san would love nothing more than to keep you bundled up in his den, wrapped in all six of his limbs—are wings limbs?—to keep you protected from the outside world

realistically, though, he’s all too aware of a humans needs to keep you indoors

you’re like a houseplant with the way you need sun to survive

he also knows that you need to work, since it’s borderline impossible for him to get a job

he’s too scary to work with people, too drawn to shiny things to work with money and too underqualified to work a 9-5

he always feels guilty that you’re the main breadwinner for the household, but he doesn’t mind being a house-husband all that much

he’s more than content taking care of his hoard, after all, and since you are his most prized possession…

speaking of his hoard, it’s kind of littered about the apartment, although most of it is in your bedroom

necklaces and jewels hang from the living room’s light, making it look closer to a chandelier than a regular lampshade

gold and silver appliances are his favourite making the kitchen look somewhat gaudy in comparison to what it originally looked like

as for your bedroom, it looks rather similar to howl’s…

in fact san was almost giddy when you first showed him howl’s moving castle, pointing at the screen with a wicked grin on his face

“see! its not just me who likes to decorate like this!”

you don’t have the heart to tell him that howls moving castle is just make believe and no one decorates like him…

but you suppose it’s not so bad; san dusts it from time to time and the things that dangle from the ceiling are perfect for you to zone out and stare at whenever san is rushing around looking for something to clean you up with after fucking you dumb :)

because let’s be real, dragon!san definitely has a huge cock to match the rest of his body

and despite his sweet demeanour outside of the bedroom, he’s an absolute demon inside of it

he’s possessive, more than anything, so if you ever come home smelling of anything other than him, then you best believe you’re being whisked away to the bedroom the second you step food through the front door

hands will be on you before you even know it, talons tearing at clothes and stripping you naked before you even get chance to tell him that this shirt is far too expensive to tear

you don’t even get much chance to protest after he’s torn it from you either because his lips will be on yours and his forked tongue will already be lapping at the inside of your mouth like his life depends on it

everything happens so quick because he’s just so desperate to make sure you know that you’re his again

he needs each one of your senses to be filled by him, he needs your mind to only think of him, he needs your pussy to be dripping with him

he knows he doesn’t own you but he needs to feel like he does

when he’s like this, it’s always quick. he needs to fuck you hard and fast before that strange smell that doesn’t belong to him sinks into your skin and stays there forever!

it’s purely instinct driven, really…

and maybe later he’ll take you for round two, only this time he wants to actually savour you

now you smell like him again, he can relax as he forces his cock inside of you

he can take his time kissing you and making you feel like the most beautiful person alive

he can let his hands trace every inch of your body, appreciating every dip and curve you have

and once it’s over, he can sit there with his cock still plugging you up and appreciate your blissed out face as you recover from what can only be described as a heavenly experience

[afreakingdork]

Soft Spot - Chapter 8

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

Someone's excited and someone isn't in this week's chapter art by @garbagemilkshake

Rated: Explicit

Warnings/Tags: Romance, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Married Life, Aged-Up Mutant Ninja Turtles, Villain Donatello (TMNT), Love, POV Second Person, Babies, Pregnancy, AFAB reader, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Fertility Issues, Pregnant Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Reader-Insert, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Cum Eating, Turtle Noises (TMNT), I have a Biology Degree and I’m Using it, Menstruation, There WILL NOT be any Miscarriages

Synopsis: First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes the next step about as smooth as the others arrived. The baby-oriented sequel to Weak Spot.

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

Trigger warning: There is a mention of miscarriage. Reminder that there will be no miscarriages in this story. I apologize to anyone who has suffered that grief and please know that while times may be tough in this story, they will get better.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. leapt into the air. With a swivel of his torso that would have been impossible with mammalian spinal columns, he rotated all the way around to snatch a Frisbee. He then landed with the brunt of his weight denting dead grasses. Doing the same spine breaking spin, he whipped the plastic disc away from him. It shot with lethal accuracy at your mate who caught it without wasting a bit of movement.

The Frisbee was launched again and the game continued on as it had.

It had been going on for some time now.

It seemed like everything had.

This family picnic.

The last few weeks.

The persistent chill in the air.

It was why you were able to be out like this in the first place. For weeks, clouds took root in the sky. They darkened the doors of NYC and filtered out vibrancy. What was left was the usual humdrum of the city’s occupants and the only other entity that marked winter: cold.

Those who braved the elements bundled up, but there was little to see. All color was sucked from the concrete and buildings leaving everything a similar grey casing as the cumulus constellations above. Even a bright colored coat amongst the sea of neutrals seemed a pale comparison to how it appeared on a store rack.

It sent hoards of people indoors where golden tones were meant to encourage circadian rhythm. Bars were packed until condensation clung to the windows and hid them away from the chill. Restaurants buzzed with patrons looking for bowls of comfort and rooftop parties were dotted with the glowing embers of heat lamps instead of fairy lights.

They glowed like fireflies overtop the city, you imagined.

In reality, you hadn’t seen them.

You hadn’t seen much as of late.

Your husband had become a husk.

You had played out the rest of your Valentine’s trip in quiet contemplation. Waking for the multi-course breakfast should have been a treat and to an extent it was. It helped mop up the bitter feelings of the night before and there was love baked into every bite. The couple and other bed and breakfast tenants made for lively conversation and you heard life stories.

Ones that included family.

Ones that turned Donnie further inward.

He had yet to emerge in the time that followed.

When S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. phoned about the parks being empty, Donnie hadn’t challenged him. He agreed to an outing regardless of the conditions. Your son then immediately texted you with complaints of Donnie’s pliancy since he’d had a whole presentation planned to convince him. You offered to listen, but you certainly weren’t going to turn down the offer. In the end, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. gave up and you instead ironed out the necessary details that brought you now to the park.

Only a few joggers happened by at an irregular pace and they were so bundled up they didn’t blink an eye at the giant purple humanoid automaton.

To a side glance, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was nothing more than a colorfully dressed being braving the cold in layers. In reality, your son generated his own warmth and the cold meant his processors were firing at some kind of top optimization. He could finally walk around in his humanoid form without being gawked at and having the park to yourselves was an added bonus. S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was living out his dreams of playing catch with his dad, even if said man was less part of the game and currently acting like an automated machine that fired discs.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. nabbed the plastic out of the air in another momentous leap before he ran over to you. “See that one? Did I get higher that time?”

“I think so…” You pondered to play up his excitement.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s legs folded up so he could more closely match your height. “Well!?”

You rolled your eyes over the darkened sky before landing on him. “I bet you can do better.”

“I can!!” He revved to his feet and launched the Frisbee at Donnie. “Throw it high!!”

Your husband complained and the disc then cleared S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s leap by several leagues. “Shoot!”

It disappeared into some dead brush.

Heavy metal footsteps clabbered after it. “I got it!”

You watched the lights on S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s chassis disappear and turned back to Donnie. Your husband’s eyes were both fixed and unfocused after where his son had gone. It had been weeks since you’d seen life shine off his gaze. He fully moved through motions and had never verbally accepted that you were no longer trying. Instead, he let his actions speak louder as you’d gone through your next ovulation cycle without having sex at all.

General intimacy might also have been absent had you not pushed for it. Your mate didn’t deter you, but was a lackluster partner in that regard. You often curled up against him on the couch for the sake of it and it was only after you continued to root stubbornly did he relent with an arm around you. You’d settle as thanks for it, but he no longer churred.

You hadn’t heard the sound since that accursed morning.

There was no helping it.

As Donnie had hypothesized, you became his strength where he lost will. He could easily be led, but he lost the desire to plan. This was his version of burnt out, you thought, as you took over making meal plans and keeping track of household stock. You often left him notes of what needed to be done that day and he always had them complete by the time you got home. It was a little more on your mental load, but his despondency didn’t make the extra work a chore. You wanted to care for him. The only exhaustion you had faced in the last few weeks was the one that struck you every time you opened your calendar. 

The ovulation schedule was still overlaid amongst your daily tasks.

Since Donnie was no longer updating it live, it now ran on the last approximate data. You saw the time when your body supposedly released an egg, but if Donnie’s nose picked up on it, he didn’t betray that information. He was a shell that currently did what he was told, ate what was put in front of him, drank until a glass was empty, and slept when he laid down. You cared for him without a single question as you imagined this was all very new for him.

He had never spoken of burnout before though you imagined that was probably the stemming factor for his big 30s change. Years of scraping by took its toll on him and had manifested in him giving up the will to fight. He carried on for the sake of it after that and history seemed to align with what was happening now. It made you wonder how or if Donnie had ever learned to process grief. 

It didn’t seem like it since his reaction to such was to shut down. While he rarely treated himself like a computer these days, it seemed like an instinct to fall back on those old habits. The moment the chip in his brain couldn’t process one thing, the system kicked in with a failsafe. It robbed him of all other emotions during the reboot. He was in safety mode which glided by on the barest instruction. Sex, to that extent, was out of the question for a multitude of reasons, but the largest reason had to be it was inadvertently the cause of his crash. Doing it again led to that ultimate are you or are you not pregnant scenario that had caused his malfunction in the first place. Until he could handle that exact computation, you would be in stand by with your pocket warmers close, not that you were troubled by the actual cold.

It had been S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. who created the electric blanket you were currently perched on. He was becoming acutely aware that his parents’ flesh bodies were negatively impacted by the cold. You weren’t exactly sure, but you had a feeling he had downloaded data on babies and it had scared him to find out how fragile they were. That was presumably connected to the dangers of motherhood which was why it made sense when your son demanded to take you out shopping for a downier winter coat. You’d picked him out a cute beanie for his worries which he’d clipped onto his head. It flopped around as he jumped which was exactly what it did when he burst from the bushes. “Found it!”

“Where was it?!” You called out to him.

“Tree!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. threw his arms out to mimic branches. “I didn’t cut it down!”

“That’s my boy!” You cheered him on.

He wriggled happily before coming over. “Soup time? I’ve been keeping it toasty!”

“Sure.” You moved to give him room on the blanket if he wanted it and looked toward Donnie. “Come back in!”

Your husband didn’t jostle and walked forward as if a command prompt had been entered.

You pulled up a secondary blanket that was tucked around your legs.

Donnie knelt down on a far edge of the ground cover and S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s chest compartment opened up.

Right next to his facsimile of a heart was a large thermos which he extracted and set down. “Don’t touch it yet. Outside temperature reads 93°C.” 

“That’s not toasty; that’s boiling.” You chastised him.

“Nah, it’s totally food safety holding temp!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. scoffed.

“When’d you get your license?”

“I got a part time job!”

“And you didn’t tell me!?” You pinched up the fabric on Donnie’s pants to tug him.

Your mate shuffled only an inch closer.

“I don’t tell you everything, mom.” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. took a bitter tone, but his digital eyes wrinkled at the improv.

“My baby, I remember when you were just a microchip…” You feigned sobbing and pulled a seam on Donnie’s pants harder.

He finally came close enough that you could toss some of the blanket over his lap.

There was still a modest distance between you.

“So embarrassing!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. whined.

“Bring someone home so I can show them your baby pictures.” You grinned and grabbed the handle of a soft-sided cooler.

From inside you produced a nice crusty bread you had gotten that morning with S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. as a pre-game outing.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. tugged the cooler to him to get bowls ready and dolled out steaming cups of soup.

“Mom…?” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. watched on as you relished tearing into the loaf.

He sounded nervous so you addressed him seriously. “Yes?”

“I… don’t have a job.” His eyes were pricked with pixel tears.

“I know, dear.” You patted his hand.

“And I’m ace!” He burst into a phony sob.

“But your dating profile!” You feigned a gasp.

“I just love a free meal and ice breakers!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. supposed agony had him falling over onto you.

He was metering his weight and you wrapped an arm around him. “We’ll figure this out. It’ll be okay.”

“Yeah?” He looked up at you and his display blinked away tears.

“Of course. I’m always here for you.”

“And… scene!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. shot upright and you were barely able to get out of the way.

You tittered along with him as he passed you a spoon.

You took it and gave it to Donnie along with a bowl and some bread.

He stared down at the mixture before ladling some up and eating it since it was there.

You gave him a forlorn look before S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. passed you some soup of your own.

“Which parts were true?” You took a knowing bite.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. clammed up and picked up some bread for the sake of it.

“Shelly.” You didn’t need to press heat to know your son would crumble.

“The dating profiles and ace part.” He tore a bit of the bread flesh out and worked it between his metal digits into little tight balls.

“You’re… dating!? Like actually?!” You perked up before you got a bite in your mouth.

“Yeah…” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. gave way to despondent embarrassment and balled up more bread.

“I feel like I want to congratulate you, but you’re acting weird…”

“I kinda sorta… Uh… keep ghosting them…?”

“Oh…” You finally took a bite and found the temperature warmed your throat pleasantly.

“Yeah… I love the first date. Ugh, I could do it a million times over! The talk! The first look where they get that feeling! Each person is totally new and figuring out how to make them laugh that first time! Unf!! That’s what I bet it feels like when you take a good bite of food! Has to be!”

“Sounds like it, but…”

“I know…” He ground out and wilted. “Some of them get real mean when I turn them down after. There’s like expectations. That stuff sucks. Can’t we just hit it off and end it there?”

“Not really how it works… It sounds like these people are looking for a real connection. How much are you telling them beforehand?”

“Mostly the synthetic body stuff as a test. If they can deal with that then it’s all picking a place.”

“I meant about you being ace or that you don’t want anything long term.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was getting close to hollowing out his slice of bread.

“You’re not.” You ventured a guess.

“I’m not.” He agreed with a pout written in his body language instead of on his display.

“You’re feeling guilty about it.”

“The last guy got so sad…” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. set the empty crust aside and started building up his bread pellets into a pyramid.

“It hurts. It sucks to think you met someone only for them to just want to stop after one date. Can’t you set the apps so it’s not romantic?”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. knocked over his growing tower.

You waited.

“You can do that?!” Your son’s eyes shot to yours.

“Depends on the app, I think.”

“Show me your profile!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. made an immediate grab for the pocket of your jacket that had your phone.

“Hey! Just because you can hear where it is, doesn’t mean you get to take it before I say yes!”

“Kid rules!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. protested and snagged the flap on your jacket anyway.

You were unable to swat your son away as he got your phone and plugged it into a port in his hand.

“Kids learn certain boundaries.” You grouched and gave up to eat.

“Nah, kids break the rulez. That’s with a ‘z’ by the way.” His eyes blinked at the display. “There’s nothing here!”

“It’s almost like I’ve been in a committed marriage for years!” You dunked your bread into the soup and watched it sop the liquid up.

“But you said you could make friends on it.”

“I have friends.” You chuckled.

“More friends.”

“I’m pretty good with the friends I’ve got.”

“So you just stop!?” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. looked at you like the odd one.

“I’m not against it.” You reached out to take your phone back.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s eyes rolled over into binary.

“What are you doing?” You turned wary.

“Found it!” In a blink, he projected a display of a dating profile you had made in your 20s.

You screeched straight through setting your soup safely aside and waved through the pixels to destroy it. “What is that?! Where did you find that?!?”

“Nothing on the internet dies!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. cackled pure malevolence to the cloudy sky.

“Is that active?!” You hissed and started grabbing at S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s form in an attempt to stop the display.

“Nah! It’s an archived page!” He giggled.

“Who archives that!?” You asked rhetorically before switching gears. “Turn it off now, mister.”

He laughed louder and the image dissipated.

You sank back into the blanket with a scowl.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. held out for a few seconds fiddling with his bread again.

“Want advice?” You sighed.

“Yes please.”

“Apologize to whoever will listen. Be honest about how much you feel comfortable with sharing. It’ll help. People can usually sense when someone isn’t honest.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. nodded.

“And ask that last guy to be your friend. He might be up for that. He might not be. It’ll all depend. Just stay safe.”

“Are you warning me about stranger danger?” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s eyes sparkled.

“Yes.”

“Will you give me a curfew?!” He cheered.

“You live on your own!”

“Aw!” He whined long. “Can I move back in and get one?”

“Back in?” You got hold of your bowl. “How long has it been since you were living with Don?”

“What was it, dad? Like nine-ish years?” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. turned to Donnie as if he hadn’t been silent all this time.

Donnie didn’t look or respond.

“Nine years, 142 days, and six hours.” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. told you.

You gave him a sympatric look for trying to include Donnie.

He took it with an understanding bob. “It’s not like there’ll be room for me soon anyway.”

“Shelly…” You had always had a feeling that S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was insecure about his place since you’d told him you were trying for a baby, but this was the first time he’d voiced it.

He waved his hands to dispel your worries. “Not like that! I want a little dude or dudette sibby!”

You tried to stifle a laugh.

“I do!”

“No, no.” You reached out to take one of his hands. “Not that! ‘Sibby?’”

“I’m gonna teach them all the cool slang!”

“Sure…” You teased.

“I am! I’m gonna be so cool! The coolest bro ever! I’ve been downloading books and everything!”

You softened. “You are.”

“Can I babysit?”

“Only lame big brothers don’t.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. gasped, horrified.

You squeezed his hand, not that he could feel it.

He did notice though and looked up to you. “How’s that going? The data hasn’t been updating like before…”

The way Donnie’s spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl was palpable.

You sent him a nervous look, but he didn’t return it.

When you got back to S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N., you saw your son had done the same.

“Clean.” Donnie spoke his second or third word of the day.

You slurped down the rest of your soup and held the last bit of bread in your mouth before passing him your bowl and utensils.

He got his own and walked off.

“I mean it’s obvious something happened.” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. spoke as soon as Donnie trended out of eye line.

You chewed quietly before you spoke. “It really seemed like I was pregnant for a minute…”

“Did something bad…?” He searched you with growing anxiety. 

You shook your head. “No miscarriage, just a late period.”

“Could be late from stress.”

You bobbed your shoulders both agreeing with the possibility, but also not knowing for sure.

“What happened?”

“The emotional toll is… getting to us. It finally caught up with Donnie… I don’t know, Shelly. I asked if we could stop trying for now.”

 S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s red eyes widened.

“He’s not getting back on his birth control or anything, we’re just… I don’t know! We didn’t talk about it. I guess we won’t be obsessed with the schedule? I guess it just happens if it does…?”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. nodded.

“He’s hurting and I can’t help.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. tipped over until he could rest his head on your shoulder.

You set your cheek atop him. “I was hurting and he was there for me, but now it’s reversed and I think I’m doing everything I can, but maybe there’s something more.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. shook his head under the guise of snuggling closer.

His body radiated warmth and you leaned into it. “I know… Part of this is him coming to terms with what will or won’t happen.”

“I don’t really get it.” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. spoke softly after you hadn’t for a while. “The urge to reproduce or whatever, but I get family. I love family. I want more to love.”

An arm snuck around to hug you.

You wriggled until you could sling one around him.

He rumbled with what you identified as a digital version of a churr. “When’d you get that?”

“Used a mixing board and messed with the levels a few weeks ago.”

“That’s fun.”

“Makes me feel closer to dad.”

“You’re just like your dad.” You pecked just above the point of S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s triangle.

“Thanks.” He rumbled louder.

You chuckled and rubbed his arm.

He adjusted a bit so he could lay in your lap.

You made sure he was whatever version of comfortable that worked for him before you followed lines in his body with your fingers.

He relaxed there for a while and his eyes closed. “You’ll make good parents.”

“I hope so.”

“You will. Dad’s come a long way. You’ve always been great. Fun to make yell.”

“Goodie.” The corner of your lip quirked sarcastically.

“It could take years.”

“I know…” You murmured.

For a long moment you both existed as parent and child.

“I think… we need to accept that. I think that despite hearing those low odds, we thought we could beat it like we have everything else. I think all this… shit, all these shitty thoughts, this misery, is a weird warning.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. watched you.

You looked down at him. “You can’t strong arm a baby. A baby takes time.” You rubbed the area where his cheek would be. “A baby takes understanding and you can’t force it. You can’t force any kid. Knowing every logical science fact in the universe isn’t going to convince a baby to stop crying. Kids are little nonsensical storms. Maybe all this was showing us that. The sooner we accept it, the better.”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. reached up and took your hand.

“Do you think Donnie will ever make up for how he treated you?”

“No.”

“But you still want him to?”

He thought for a long moment. “No.”

“Are you waiting for something…?”

“Nothing.”

“Why… did you stay? Why do you still bother? You became independent, why didn’t you leave?”

The line of S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s smile was so genuine you felt your very being soothed. “He’s my dad.”

You had to look away.

You looked up at the cloudy sky.

It sat the same way it had for weeks.

Unmoving.

You lost focus as you stared at the diffused light.

You didn’t see anything until a sharp zap of cold nipped your nose.

It almost felt wet, but from what you saw of the sky there was nothing there. 

You had to bring your head lower to see the tiny tufts of snow. 

You patted S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s chest to get his attention.

The flakes weren’t heavy enough to come straight down and instead flittered off with weak will to gravity.

“It’s snowing…” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. mooned.

He was soon up from your lap and catching your hand.

You were on your feet in moments and he threw his head back. You watched as his digital tongue appeared from the line on his beak and a snowflake hit him only for it to melt instantly. He cheered for it and you threw out your frame to do the same. The snow tasted sour on your tongue and you gagged a little. S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. fussed about acid levels and you returned the concerns by wondering why he hadn’t warned you. He started to respond before he ran for the sake of it and you chased after.

He purposely kept within reach so you could catch him and when you did you caught his wrists. You then threw your weight to one side which spun him, but didn’t knock him over. You kept up momentum, soon running. S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. caught your hands right back and you were twirling until the flurries made for white blurs around you. Increased speed eventually broke you apart and you both fell onto crunching grass with giggles.

Donnie appeared over your head and you looked up at him with warmed cheeks. “It’s snowing, Don!”

He nodded and offered you a hand.

You let him help you up and tried not to look too owlishly as he initiated a secondary action by dusting grass clippings from you.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. was still on his back and watching with glowing eyes.

“Where’s the stuff you rinsed?”

Donnie looked over to the blanket.

You followed his sight and assumed by the open cooler that he had stuffed the tableware in there. “I might have eaten some acid snow.”

Your husband’s face didn’t betray much, but his chin dipped a little to check.

You stuck your tongue out for him to see.  

A snowflake immediately landed on it and you choked as you stumbled away. “Ack!!”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. hooted with laughter.

“That was dumb!” You coughed and returned to find Donnie with the faintest light in his eyes.

Yours tripled in size.

He did nothing more and only continued to watch you.

You thought about double taking, but instead chewed your lip.

It took some heavy debate before you gave it all up to chance, “Did… you trick me?”

His gaze softened the smallest amount.

Your heart skipped a beat.

You meant to say something, but a flake then touched down on the tip of Donnie’s nose.

His eyes crossed to look at it and you reached up in a great show.

He lowered his head for you thinking you’d wipe it.

You were going to and fisted up your fingers so your thumb was free.

Just before you made contact, you switched grip so your forefinger was extended and used it to swipe down the melting droplet straight into your mate’s mouth.

The acidity hit his heightened taste buds and he reared away from you with the most movement he’d made in almost a month.

Both you and S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. couldn’t contain your giggles.

You both felt the moment Donnie recovered more than saw it.

“RUN! DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. shrieked before kicking up lawn to take off.

You pivoted as quickly as you could to run the other way.

You heard S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. scream out something about Donnie not being able to catch you both before there was an explosion of sod. You turned back, having run a good many feet away to find debris falling with the snow and Donnie hunched over the jangling arms of his son’s body in a crater. You peeped a single time as his head shot toward your direction. You made it exactly three more leg lengths before your husband dropped down in front of you.

You tried to keep from running into him, but your backpedal tripped you.

In a perfect tango maneuver, his hand caught your waist and you were tugged flush with him.

You hadn’t been this close of his violation in a while and butterfly wings beat against your insides as you looked up at him.

His gaze poured over you, still partially withheld, but opening up further by the second.

“You were listening to me and Shelly.” You told him.

“Yes.”  

“Did Shelly know?” You tilted your head.

“One can assume.”

“Did you two set me up?”

“No.” Donnie almost smiled, but caught himself.

“Shelly!” You called out. “Did you!?” 

“No!” You heard some earth shift and assumed he was pulling himself up. 

“You okay?” 

“Yup! Can we do that again?!” He cheered. 

“Later.” Donnie rolled his eyes and didn’t bother raising his pitch.

“You seem to like what I thought. About not rushing kids?”

Donnie evaluated you for a while before he looked off to the side. “Sound rationale.”

You reached up and placed your palm flat to his cheek.

He leaned into you. “I’ve been distant.”

“You needed to be. I always told you. It’s fine as long as you know I’m waiting.”

“Always…?” He turned up the end of his sentence with a raw tear to his chilled gaze.

“Always.” You agreed and tucked your fingers into his mask.

He gave a faint exhale and leaned down.

“You don’t have to force yourself to be okay. Even now.”

Again, his lips twitched like he might smile, but didn’t.

You thought that was enough.

He came closer until he was just shy of kissing you.

His reluctance to marry your lips meant something so you only watched him up close and let your hand slide down to his shoulder.

He liked the maneuver and felt comfortable enough for his eyes to shut as he took in your closeness.

You nosed into his airspace and commingled just like that.

The snow didn’t pick up and stayed little wayward flurries that would sometimes brush your skin.

Long after they dotted and melted against your coat did Donnie’s forehead brush yours and he gave the barest churr.

Your fingers spread out against his collar and you sighed contentedly.

“I’d like to continue our exercise in spontaneity.”

“Oh?” You breathed out and felt the warmth of it bounce back from his skin.

He nuzzled you amongst a slight nod.

“I’d like that. I like being close to you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t stay away.”

“You needed me.”

“I did.” He pulled so there was the pressure of your body against his. “Needed you close. Need you.”

“I’m here.”

This time when he nodded it was to lift his head.

“What’s left from your list? Double penetration?”

That finally got him to smile, but he squashed it.

You chewed on your grin.

“An entire mechanism for such, my present at the lab, and something new I’ve added as punishment.”

“Edging…” You hissed at your kryptonite.

Donnie only sent you a confirming look before he released you.

You took a few steps to give him space.

“Now?!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. chirped as he waited the same distance away.

“Run!” Donnie snarled once before taking off.

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. squealed delight as he thumped away on bulky limbs. “Wait! This body sucks for this!”

“Too bad!” You heard a clunk of metal before you saw Donnie reach him. “I believe this is called: tag!”

“Tag…” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.’s mouth line warbled and Donnie turned to run. 

“Tag! Mom! It’s tag!”

“There’s no tag-backs so…” You saw Donnie signal you for which way to go and you ran that direction.

“Tag!!!” S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. cheered before his plodding footsteps were sent in your direction.

(Check out behind the scenes for this fic and more on my Patreon. You can follow me there, here, or the tag #softspotfic for updates)

@tmntxthings is busy with life changing stuff and @thepinkpanther83 is sick as a dog! Much love to my precious betas in these trying times!

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

There's Beauty in Tragedy

Pairing: Jennifer Jareau x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.9k

Warnings: home invasion, robbers, being tied up and gagged but not injured, mostly fluff

Summary: You own a multi-billion dollar company, and that means you're a target for a specific group of people who robs very rich. The whole experience is very scary but you meet the woman of your dreams because of it, so you can't be too mad at the situation.

Square Filled: crime scene (2023) for @cmbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

This big mansion is all to yourself. A dozen bedrooms and bathrooms, a big movie theater, a gorgeous indoor pool, a luxurious spa next to it, and that’s barely scratching the surface. Why do you need all this? Well, you don’t. You’re more than happy with living in a two-bedroom house that you can craft to your liking instead of a big place like this.

You make so much money that you had no other choice but to put it toward your dream house. Your heels click on the clean tiled floor as you walk into your sleek office where you know a hoard of emails are waiting for your response. For someone who is the CEO of the best jewelry company this country has ever seen, you have a shit ton of work you need to do.

Your passion in life is to make jewelry for people to feel beautiful in. It all started in the basement of your parent’s house like every other great company has. The first people you ever made jewelry for were your parents with jewels you found while camping one summer. They were so impressed that they told their immediate family who were interested in you doing this for them.

They told their friends who told their kids who told their friends and soon, everyone in town was lining at your door for your jewelry. That’s when you started taking commissions only for people who are willing to pay which is how you were able to buy your first car with your own money. Yes, you got a job when you turned seventeen so you can get experience under your belt even though you could live off what you were making on your jewelry sales.

Once the business got big enough to work out of your parent’s basement, you used your money to buy a small space in the local mall where you could extend your services to more people. You hired a few of your friends to help you with the business for a few years, and the company was only getting bigger.

It got to the point where you bought yourself your own building, and hired a call center team, IT services, mailroom workers, and a whole fleet of teams who could do the work you were doing back in high school. You named yourself the CEO of Shining Star Jewelry and retired at an early age.

You’re doing pretty well for yourself and you don’t like to hide it. You sit down at your desk and work on answering emails for a couple of hours. Afterward, you’ll make yourself some dinner and take a hot bath while watching your favorite TV show. The first hour goes by quicker than you thought it would, and you look at the time with a yawn. Maybe you can get away with cutting it an hour early.

You’re about to log out of your account when your security cameras pick up something in your backyard. Two men are in your backyard with a big black duffel bag slung over their shoulders with the intention of breaking in and stealing shit. They smash the back door and walk inside your home.

You’re not sure what to do in this situation. Do you hide? Do you run? Do you call someone? Your security alarm is set up to send a silent alarm to the local police if you don’t turn it off, so the police are coming either way. The only problem is, you’re not sure how long it will take them to get here.

Your fight or flight response kicks in and you choose to run in hopes they don’t find you. However, luck isn’t on your side because as soon as you step foot out of your office, both men stand in your way.

“Lookie lookie what we got here,” one of the men says.

They’re both wearing skull bandanas that they have tied over their face so that the only thing showing is their eyes.

“Take anything you want. Please don’t hurt me,” you beg.

“Tie her up,” one of them says.

The bigger man grabs your arm harshly and yanks you into your office. He takes out some rope, duct tape, and zip ties that will be used to subdue you. You have no clue if you’re going to lose your life, get raped, get injured, or whatever they have planned. Instead of fleeing like your body is telling you to do, you allow the man to do whatever he wants to do to you in hopes that he doesn’t hurt or kill you. He ties your ankles together with zip ties, your wrists are tied with rope very tightly, the zip ties your ankles to your wrists so you can’t use your hands, and duct tape is wrapped around your eyes and mouth so you’re forced to breathe through your nose.

“Are you done?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go. A place as nice as this must have good security alarms. The police will be here any minute.”

Both men leave you alone in your office to wonder what they’re taking and where they are. You have a lot of nice expensive shit everywhere that they can make a lot of money off of, but there is so much of it that they can’t possibly take it all before the police come.

Twenty agonizing minutes later, you hear police sirens outside your house. You’re not sure if the two men are gone, and if they are, you hope your cameras caught which way they went. Two officers knock on your front door to check if you’re alright. You try screaming as loud as you can but the duct tape is preventing you from making a lot of noise.

“Check around back,” one of the officers say.

Both of them split up to see if there is any disturbances only to meet at the back door which is shattered with glass all over the ground.

“NYPD! We’re coming inside!”

Both of them train their guns in front of them as they walk inside. They stick together and sweep each room one by one until they get to your office. They walk in and aim their guns at you thinking you’re one of the intruders.

“Shit,” the first officer curses and holsters his gun. He kneels next to you and takes the duct tape off first. “You’re okay, Miss. We’re here to help.”

“I couldn’t fight back,” you cry. “I am so scared.”

“I understand. Robles, help me with the zip ties.”

Both officers remove you from your ties. They didn’t kill you. Why? Paramedics come so they can check you out while more officers come to gather intel on what items the burglars stole, where they went, and who they could be. After the paramedics clear you, a female officer sits down with you in your living room.

“I know you must be scared out of your mind, but do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“No.”

“Okay. Do you remember what the intruders looked like?”

“They had masks covering their face. I could only see their eyes. They were wearing skull bandanas around their faces. One was really big. He’s the one who shoved me into my office. The other one was really skinny. I probably weigh more than him,” you scoff. A look of realization comes over the officer’s face. “What?”

“Excuse me.”

She gets up and walks over to another officer. She whispers to him but the sound carries over to you so you’re able to hear her.

“Call the FBI. They’ve struck again.”

You’re not sure what’s going on or why the FBI needs to come here for two people stealing shit but you have no choice but to wait for them to arrive. They’re coming from Quantico, Virginia which is only an hour by plane. Three agents go to your house while the rest are set up in the NYPD station.

“Agents, thank you for coming.” You look to the left and see the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever seen. Blonde hair, slim, and from what you can tell blue eyes. “I’m Detective Faulkner.”

“I’m Agent Hotchner. These are Agents Jareau and Morgan.”

“You told me over the phone that this matches the other crime scenes?”

“Yes. My men found Miss Y/N in her office with duct tape over her mouth and eyes with rope and zip ties. The intruders wore skull bandanas. I read through the files that they’ve been hitting houses up and down the coastline, right?”

Two men have been hitting rich houses and stealing billions of dollars worth of things. They don’t kill their victims, but it’s suspected that they sell the items and use the money for their trafficking business.

“Yes.” JJ’s eyes look over at you and you look away to prevent her from seeing your blush. “Is this her?”

“Yes. She’s pretty shaken up.”

“I got it,” JJ says to her team and walks to you alone. “May I sit?”

“Please.”

“My name is Jennifer Jareau. I’m with the FBI.”

You’re still scared and traumatized at what happened to you, but you’re not going to let her know. She is too gorgeous to worry about you crying. Her eyes are bluer up close and her cheeks are rosy which comes from a natural tint rather than makeup blush.

“Jennifer? That’s a beautiful name. It’s suiting,” you flirt.

“Thank you,” she blushes deeper. “Can you walk me through what happened?”

You tell her exactly what you told the female officer earlier.

“After they tied me up, all I kept thinking was this is it. This is when I’m gonna die. I haven’t had time to look through my things but I had some pretty valuable items, most of which can be replaced. Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“That these men have been doing this to a lot of other people?”

“Yes. They only hit victims who have millions to billions of dollars to their name, and they just so happen to strike in the richest city in America.”

“Yeah, I try to have the best security defenses but sometimes that doesn't even stop people.”

“We’re going to work hard in catching these guys and returning your items back to you,” she promises.

“Well, I appreciate that.” She moves her long hair out of the way to reveal she has a sparking diamond necklace on. That twinkle can only be found in one place, and you smile flirtatiously. “That necklace is beautiful.”

“Thank you. I got it for my birthday last year.”

“I knew I recognized it. I designed it. It makes your eyes sparkle.”

“You have good taste, then,” she blushes.

“Beautiful jewelry for a beautiful woman.”

JJ can’t help but smile at your compliment. She has to admit, she was taken aback by your beauty when she first saw you. You’re a victim on a case she’s working so she can’t pursue you but after the case… you never know.

JJ and her team work tirelessly to capture the two unsubs before they move on to the next state. They’ve been hitting one or two big houses in each city, only choosing two cities in each state, and they’re moving across state lines which is why the FBI is involved. They normally deal with serial killers and psychopaths, never really touching on serial burglars. You’re the first person in this city to have been hit, so they’re going to hit one more person before moving to the next big city in New York.

After the police left, you tried to go back to your everyday life without possession of your things, but you tried. The press got hold of the story pretty quickly so your PR team is working endlessly to try and get behind the story before your name is dragged through the mud. You’re on your way out the door when you get a call from an unknown number.

“This is Y/N,” you answer.

“Hi, it’s Jennifer from the FBI.”

“Oh, to what do I owe the pleasure?” you smile.

“Do you mind coming down to the station right now? It’s about the robbery.”

You don’t have to look at the time to know you always have time for her.

“Of course. I’m on my way.” You drive straight to the police station which is only a ten-minute drive. You walk inside and greet one of the officers. “I’m here to see Agent Jareau.”

“Y/N, I’m glad you could make it,” JJ smiles.

“I wasn’t busy. What did you need me for?”

“We realize the burglars are going to be hitting another house soon, and we need your help locating some people.”

“Do I get to work with you?”

“If you’d like.”

“No offense to the others, but they’re not as pretty as you are,” you wink. JJ blushes once again at your compliment and leads you to an empty conference room. “So, when you mean ‘some people’ do you mean ‘rich people’? As in, do I keep in touch with any other rich folk in the city?”

“Yeah,” she says sheepishly.

“Don’t be embarrassed. I actually like to keep a record of all of my competitors in the area including who has enough money to overthrow my company.”

“I don’t think that can happen. Your jewelry is one-of-a-kind.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Jennifer, but there are a lot of people who seem to think they can outshine me.”

“Right. Who’s on your list?”

“This list is gonna cost you. Would it be too much if I asked you to go grab coffee with me? You know, like a date?” JJ’s mouth opens and closes as she tries to search for an answer. Her pale skin darkens deliciously, making you think if the rest of her skin is the same way. “I’m sorry but you’re gorgeous. When I see something I like, I grab it before someone else does.”

“Look, I’m flattered you asked me on a date, but I don’t think it would be very professional since I am working on your case. It would raise suspicions to my boss, and I don’t want to ruin anything for anyone.”

“Completely understandable. What about after?”

“We’ll talk then,” she smiles.

You give her the list of every known millionaire and billionaire in the area that you have numbers for. If someone has money, you make it your business to know who they are. The list is handed to their technical analyst, Penelope Garcia, to see if she can narrow down the very long list. The list you have in New York City alone is over seven hundred residents who are targets for this duo-team.

With Penelope’s help, that number is drastically decreased to less than fifty using the parameters they are searching for. The FBI and NYPD work on calling every person on that short list to make sure they know what’s going on and how they’re a potential target. All of them answer but one, and that’s the one that the FBI is going after thinking the two unsubs are going there.

From what you gathered, they were in the middle of a heist with bags of jewels, cash, and other expensive items when the FBI and NYPD showed up. They’re not killers but they don’t like to be cornered. If they really do work for a trafficking ring, being caught is worse than being dead, so they decided to shoot their way out.

One of them died and the other was apprehended and arrested.

They haven’t had time to sell any of the possessions they stole while in New York, so all of your items were returned back to you. Your PR team used this to your advantage to make this seem like a happy ending for you in the eyes of society. If the public can sympathize with you, then you won’t face backlash for something that wasn’t your fault to begin with.

It isn’t fair but that’s the way the world is.

JJ escorted you back home when you told her you didn’t feel safe going back there alone. She took this as an opportunity to be alone with you knowing it’s why you asked her to take you home in the first place.

“I appreciate you taking me home,” you say when she walks you up the stairs to your front door.

“I didn’t want you to feel unsafe.”

“I want you to know I will be working with my team to increase security here so we don’t have this issue again. Though, it’s such a shame to see you go. I thought we were having fun.”

“We were,” she smiles.

“Here, take this.” You reach into your purse and grab one of your business cards and a pen. You scribble your personal phone number on it since your cards only have your business phone number. “I can work remotely anywhere in the world or not at all. It’d be a real tragedy if I never got to see you again. I hear Virginia is nice this time of year. I’d love to take you out.”

“I’d like that, too.”

“Call me.” You open your front door and step inside. “Or if you have some time right now, would you like to come in for some coffee?”

She looks at her watch and shrugs.

“I got some time,” she smiles and steps inside.

x

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[foundtherightwords]

Love, If You're Near

Pairing: Michael (Hoard) x OFC

Summary: With a troubled past and a hopeless future, Gwen is just trying to survive on the streets of London. When she meets a man named Michael with a rather strange request, she shrugs and goes along with it, never dreaming that she will find a soul just as broken as hers, or that sometimes broken pieces can fit together perfectly, to bring healing and hope when one least expects it.

Warnings: discussions of prostitution and domestic abuse

Word count: 6.8k

A/N: I've had this idea for Michael even before "Hoard" was released, and after watching the film, I was happy that it was still viable. I don't condone Michael's actions, but I can see where his desire for love and affection comes from, and I hope that after what happened with Maria, Michael could start his own journey of redemption and healing. It is what I based my idea on. I also took some inspiration from "Frankie and Johnny" (the 1991 movie with Michelle Pfeiffer and Al Pacino, not the song).

"Hoard" takes place in 1994, and this is about 4 years after that.

Also, big thanks to @wheels-of-despair for sending me a transcript of the movie. It's helped me tremendously in deciphering the East London dialogue!

Gwen dropped down on a bench outside Dalston Junction Station, slipped her right shoe off her aching foot, and gingerly touched the raw red spot on the back of her heel, through her fishnet. "Cheap piece of shit," she grumbled. Except the shoes weren't exactly cheap. Twenty quid down the drain and they hurt like fuck, even after she'd tried every trick in the book to break them in. But her last pair had broken beyond repair, so it was either this or go barefoot, and she didn't want to step on broken needles and used condoms and whatever garbage that littered the backstreets of Hackney. Plus it was freezing. She'd met a stag do the previous night, and they had kept her out until the morning, eventually straining her all the way over in Chiswick. It was almost noon by the time she crawled back to her flat. It was too cold to sleep in, so she'd whiled away the day in coffee shops and pubs, waiting until it was time to go back out on the street. At this rate, she would take a five-quid blowjob in a car if it meant getting somewhere warm.

Across the street, the Hackney Carnival Mural shouted at her with its peeling musicians and protestors waving their "Unite for Peace" banners. Gwen turned away, annoyed. Idiots. What good is peace, when one is cold and tired and doesn't even have a decent pair of shoes?

It was almost Christmas, and a slow night. The nights had been slow for a while now, not like when she first started. Ten years on the streets, she thought she'd known how it worked. Then three years in the clink, and when she got out, it was like Brave New World out here. Foreign girls flooded the market. The pimps and the punters liked them because they were younger and easier to control, but the local girls knew that naïveté was just an act. These newcomers were tougher and meaner, and they wouldn't hesitate to pull a knife on those that dared to encroach on their territory. That was if they were still on the streets in the first place. It was all indoors now, and they didn't even have to rely on the old tart-card-in-phone-box method of advertisement. The Internet had that covered.

Gwen readjusted her long blonde wig and sighed. Sometimes she felt much older than her thirty-one years.

She put her shoe back on with a grimace. Perhaps she could try her luck up the road, near the Shacklewell Arms. Her friend Medusa worked that corner, and sometimes she would let Gwen stay with her so they could team up against the new girls.

Medusa's real name was Melissa, but all girls needed some exotic street names. For Halloween one year, back when they were both younger and sillier and full of hope, Gwen had even helped her attach plastic snake's heads to her dreads, both giggling like mad.

Gwen took the backstreets to avoid the twinkling lights, the sound of Christmas music, and the scents of evergreen and cinnamon that spilled out from every door and shop window. They depressed her. Her feet would not thank her for the detour, but her heart would.

By the time she reached the Arms, she was sure her blister had burst and was bleeding. Some indie band had just finished their gig, and the front of the pub was crawling with people. Gwen peered into the crowd, trying to make out Medusa's statuesque form. As she spied Medusa's dreads swinging to and fro, Gwen opened her mouth to call her friend. Her eyes fell on the man next to Medusa, and the call died in her throat. It was Medusa's boyfriend and pimp, Nico.

Despite Medusa's insistence that Nico was "not that bad", Gwen knew better than to face him. At best, he would cajole her into coming to work for him, and at worst he would threaten and force her. Gwen knew what it was like to tie yourself to a man. Usually, she could chase Nico off with a few choice words, but in her current state, cold, exhausted, and irritated, she had no strength to deal with him. She beat a quick retreat.

And collided with someone.

It was a man coming out of one of the cheaper and seedier establishments that lined the back alleys behind Shacklewell Lane. "Excuse me," he mumbled.

"'s alright," Gwen said. And, because he was a man and she was working, she added, out of professional habit, "You looking for company?"

"No, thank you," the man said, a little too quickly, and started to walk away. A few steps, then he seemed to have second thoughts and turned back. "How much?" he asked.

Gwen gave him the once-over. He was probably in his mid-thirties, medium built, dressed in old jeans, an older jumper, and sturdy boots. A working man, then, not a tourist or an out-of-towner looking for some cheap thrills. Not her ideal client, but beggars cannot be choosers.

She told him her hourly rate. "Forty quid and I'll do whatever you want, darling." It wasn't high, all things considered, but it wasn't cheap either. She had her dignity.

The man shook his head. "That's—that's out of my—sorry." He turned away again.

Gwen slumped against a brick wall with a sigh. Maybe she should call it a night. The prospect of her cold flat with its empty fridge was not very welcoming though. Maybe she could find Medusa again. She was desperate enough to even risk Nico.

As she struggled to her feet, she staggered backward and collided, for the second time that night, with someone. This time it was a little girl who was coming out of a doorway with her mother. The girl was holding to the hem of her mother's coat with one hand and in the other was a teddy, which she dropped to the ground.

"Sorry," Gwen said. She quickly picked up the teddy, dusted it off, and handed it to the girl with a smile. "Here you go, love."

The girl stared back at Gwen with enormous eyes but said nothing and made no move to take her teddy. The mother snatched the toy back. "Why don't you watch where you're going, you slag!" she snarled. "And stay away from my kid."

"You watch where you're going!" Gwen spat. "What are you doing, dragging a kid out on the street this late anyway? She should be in bed!"

The mother's nostrils flared. "Don't tell me how to raise my own kid! What does a slut like you know about being a mother?" With that, she snatched the kid up in her arms and stormed off. Swallowing her anger, Gwen walked away in the opposite direction.

A moment later, a wail from the little girl caused Gwen to turn back, just in time to see the woman yank the teddy out of her hand and toss it into the nearest bin.

An inexplicable fury prompted Gwen to chase after them despite her blister, not even knowing what she would do if she caught them, but the woman turned down a side street and disappeared. Only the teddy stared up at Gwen from the bin with a rather mournful look, or so she imagined.

She picked it up and straightened up the bowtie around its neck. "I know more about being a mother than that bitch," she said to the teddy, and, without knowing why, she put it in her bag.

Feeling eyes on her, she looked up to see the man who had rejected her still standing at the mouth of the alley, watching her with a strange expression. Something in his dark eyes made blood rush to her cheeks, and she growled, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

He approached her slowly. "Forty an hour, you say?"

She stood up a little straighter. "Yeah."

"And you'll do whatever I want?"

"Within reasons," she said warily.

"Where can we go?"

"You have a car?" He shook his head. "Well, then that depends on what you have in mind," she said. "Even an alleyway would do, though I have to tell you, I'm not keen on getting any more blisters tonight." He colored slightly, and Gwen found herself wondering if this was his first time. She glanced at his hand. No ring. But then again, this type always takes care to leave their ring at home, don't they?

"My flat's not far from here," he said. "Do you mind—?"

Gwen hesitated. She made it a point never to go with a customer to a place she was unfamiliar with. Too risky. But she was cold and tired and just wanted to get this done.

She scrutinized the man, more carefully this time. He had dark hair pushed away from his forehead in soft curls, and a face that, had she been feeling better, she would have found quite handsome. What really struck her, though, were his eyes. They were dark and large, fringed by ridiculously long lashes, which made him look almost boyish. Gwen, who had to rely on false lashes and mascara to get such a doe-eyed look, stared at those lashes enviously. Noticing her scrutiny, he glanced at her briefly and looked away again. That shy, beseeching look finally cinched it for her.

"Alright," she said. "But cash up front."

"Fair enough." He opened his wallet and handed her some crumpled fivers and a tenner. Gwen counted them carefully before stuffing them into her bag. She also checked that her pepper spray was still in her bag—no matter how unassuming the man looked, or how sad his eyes were, she had to be careful. Technically, it was illegal to carry pepper spray, but Gwen never let a small thing like legality stop her.

Her fingers brushed across a little card, and Gwen paused momentarily. She'd been given that card by a group of women who roamed the area in twos and threes, who might be mistaken for working girls at first glance. She supposed that was their disguise. They were a non-profit helping to get women off the streets, they said. Give us a call anytime, they said. Gwen had scoffed at their optimism, yet for some reason, she still held on to their card. 

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"What do you want it to be?" she said, again out of habit, too tired to actually be coquettish. The man raised his eyebrows at her, and Gwen relented. "You can call me Queenie." Medusa wasn't the only girl with a ridiculous street name.

She didn't ask his name. She didn't care.

They went down Shacklewell Lane, away from the bright lights and loud noises of the Arms, crossed the A10, and through some side street lined with terraced houses. Then the houses gave way to chippies, greasy spoons, Laundromats, and off-licenses. Gwen was whimpering by the time they reached a block of council flats, its brown brick façade the color of dry blood under the dim streetlamps.

"You all right?" the man asked, glancing at her.

"How far up?" Gwen managed, looking up at the looming building, trying to calculate how quickly she could run out of there, if necessary.

"Fifth floor."

She let out an involuntary groan. The man looked at her for a moment. And then, before she realized what he was doing, he scooped her up in his arms in one smooth movement and carried her up the stairs, bridal style.

"Do you mind?!" she protested. The man said nothing, only kept walking.

Gwen tried to wriggle out, but she was too tired and his arms were too strong, and after a moment, she gave up and leaned her head against his shoulder. He smelled, not unpleasantly, of soap and sweat and rollies, and she found herself pressing her nose into the crook of his neck, breathing in his human scent, to purge from her memories the stench of piss and stale beer and rubbish that had assaulted her all through the night.

For all his strength, the man was panting a little by the time they arrived at his door. He set Gwen down on her feet and fumbled with the lock. The moment they were through the door, she collapsed on the nearest available surface, which happened to be an old, rather threadbare sofa, and pulled her shoes off.

"Take it from me," she said. "Never wear heels."

He seemed amused. "OK, I won't." He went about flipping on the lights. "Do you want some Epsom salt for that?"

"Nah, I've had worse."

The man disappeared behind a door down the hall—the bathroom, she supposed—and emerged a second later with a plaster. He then knelt in front of her, rolled down her right stocking and lifted her foot into his lap, not in a sensual or seductive way, but rather matter-of-factly, and stuck the plaster on her heel, like a parent cleaning up a child's skinned knee. This done, he pulled out the sofa and made a bed on it, still in that same matter-of-fact manner.

Something rolled out from under the sofa—a piece of Lego. Gwen's eyebrow went up. Following her eyes, the man saw the Lego as well and turned red. He quickly kicked it back under the sofa and went on making the bed as if nothing had happened. Well, if he wasn't going to say anything, then she certainly wouldn't either.

"Right," she said, rolling down her other stocking. "Let's get started, shall we?"

He turned toward her, looking alarmed. "No, no, no," he said and put his hand over Gwen's, stopping her. "Clothes on, please."

Gwen tilted her head. It wasn't the first time she'd been asked to keep her clothes on, though it was rare enough that it still came as a surprise. She wasn't keen on having her dress all wrinkled and stained. It would be a nightmare to get it clean. But she pulled her fishnets back up anyway

The man sat down next to her on the sofa bed, sheepishly avoiding her eyes. "I'm Michael, by the way," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Michael," Gwen said, because that's what one is supposed to say when someone introduces themselves.

"Would you like something to drink? Cup of tea?"

If he'd offered her some wine or whiskey or even beer, she might have accepted, but tea was probably the least erotic drink Gwen could think of. "No, thanks," she said. She didn't trust him not to slip her a Mickey—hey, Mickey and Michael, that's rich, she thought, chuckling to herself. When Michael didn't say anything, she reminded him, "You only paid me for an hour."

"Could you—" he began, looking down at a spot on the scuffed floor. "Would you mind—could you just hold me?"

Is that it? Gwen had to stop herself from grinning. This really was his first time then, poor lamb. She scooted closer and wrapped her arms around him. "Like this?" she whispered into his ear. Michael nodded and eased them both down on the bed until they were spooning, with her behind him, so she couldn't see his eyes. "What else do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Just this."

Gwen frowned. "What?"

"Just hold me like this, please."

She sat up to look at him properly. He was lying on his side with his eyes open, staring not at her but at something or somewhere else, miles away.

"You're not going to make me put a giant diaper on you and breastfeed you, are you?" Medusa had once met a punter with that request. It had been part of the reason why she'd decided to work for Nico, so she could avoid another awkward situation like that, though, in Gwen's mind, it was rather like out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Michael turned to her. "What?"

"You don't want to tie me up, and you don't want me to tie you up?"

"No."

"You don't even want to have sex?"

He blushed again. "No."

"So let me get this straight," she said. "You're paying me forty quid to—spoon you?"

"Yeah." He sat up as well. "Look, if you're not comfortable with it, I understand. I'll pay you for your time, and then you can go."

She considered. As far as requests went, it was an odd one, but certainly not the strangest she'd had. And it sounded innocent enough—perhaps the most innocent of all. Still, she would not be lulled into a sense of safety. She pulled her bag a little closer to make sure she could reach inside and get the pepper spray if necessary. Her shoes would be a write-off—she could run faster barefoot anyway.

"Just—hold you?" she asked again, wanting to make sure. "For an hour?"

He looked up at her with those dark eyes, imploring, infinitely sad, like those of a lost child or a dying animal, and Gwen felt her heart stumble. "Yes, please," he said.

"I'm not charging you the full rate just for a bit of cuddle!"

"It's OK, really. I don't mind."

"I do," she insisted. "It's about being professional. What do you do for a living?"

He seemed taken aback by her question, but he answered anyway. "I'm a cleaner. At St. Mary's Hospital." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "Used to be a bin man. But I couldn't take the stink anymore."

Something in the way he said it made Gwen think that there were other reasons besides the stink for him to give up being a bin man, but it was none of her business. "You wouldn't take the full wage for cleaning half the hospital, would you?" she asked.

Something like a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I guess not."

"OK, so let's say twenty an hour, and we have a deal."

A moment's hesitation, and he extended a hand. They shook on it. His hand was warm, his grip strong and steady, and Gwen wondered why such a man could be so alone, and so lonely.

She made to give him back the twenty quid, but he pushed her hand away. "Keep it. I may ask you to stay longer."

"All right," she said, tucking the bills into her bra. "No funny business, mind."

"No."

She lay back down and put one arm around him again, leaving the other free so he couldn't easily pin her under him. "Is this OK?" she asked.

"It's fine," he said. "You don't have to do anything. Just—be natural."

Natural. Gwen wasn't even sure if she remembered how to be natural in bed anymore. She knew how to be enthusiastic, how to be dominant or submissive, how to be seductive, even how to be afraid. But natural? She no longer knew what that meant.  

The minutes ticked by.

While they lay there, Gwen let her eyes wander around, trying to find some clues that might point to danger. She saw a sparsely furnished flat, similar to her own. There were only the sofa bed, a coffee table, and a TV taking up the front room, a kitchenette to the side, and two closed doors, one leading to the bathroom, the other she had no idea. She saw more evidence of a kid—childish drawings on the fridge door, a small toothbrush, a bowl of half-eaten cereal on the coffee table. If he had a kid, she certainly hoped the kid wasn't locked in that spare room.

Her wandering eyes returned to Michael. He had taken his jumper off and was now in a vest. There was a tattoo on his bicep. "Who's Billy?" she asked.

"Mate of mine, from school," he said in a small voice. "He OD'ed."

"Shit," she said. And then, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." His hand found hers, clasped it to his chest.

"What are you doing?" she asked, pulling away.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Your hand's cold. I was just trying to warm it up."

"I would've worn a coat, but unfortunately it doesn't go with this outfit," she joked. Her only warm coat would've covered up what she was trying to sell. She left her hand in his, feeling the heavy thump of his heart under her palm. He nestled into her with a sigh, but she remained stiff, keeping some distance between her chest and his back, so she could bolt at the first sign of danger.

But it never came. Instead, his breath evened out, and soon he was asleep.

Gwen must have dozed off as well, for she remembered jolting awake. Michael was still sleeping, holding her hand to his chest as if afraid she would fly off if he let go.

This could be her chance. After making sure Michael was sound asleep, Gwen carefully slid her hand out of his grasp, got out of bed, and tiptoed down the hall. She opened two closed doors. One was a bathroom, just as she suspected. The other was a bedroom, a kid's bedroom, painted in bright, buttery yellow, with a frilly little bed and cheerful toys and books piled on the shelves, a complete contrast to the sad, gray flat outside.

Gwen's feet took her into the room almost of their own volition. She gazed about, a strange melancholy washing over her. No, there wasn't anything strange about this sadness. She knew exactly where it was coming from; she just didn't want to think about it.

There was a framed photo on the bedside table, and she picked it up—it was of Michael, smiling a big, happy smile, carrying on his shoulder a little girl of about two or three years old, who had his same brown curls and his chocolate button eyes.

"What are you doing?" said his voice behind her.

She jumped and dropped the picture, which landed safely on the bed.

"Sorry," she said, fumbling to pick up the frame. "I was looking for the—uh, bathroom. I didn't mean to snoop."

"It's OK." He didn't look angry, only a little awkward, like she had stumbled on an embarrassing secret. It emboldened her.

"This your kid's room?" she asked.

"Yeah." He took the picture frame from her and set it back on the table. "She lives with her mum. I only have her on weekends and when her mum has to work nights, but I try to keep the room nice and clean for her," he explained.

Gwen let out a small breath and reminded herself to stop watching so much The Bill. From the way he had been so secretive about it, she was expecting something tragic. She was glad it wasn't.

"That her?" She nodded at the picture.

A ghost of a proud smile hovered over Michael's lips. "Her name's Amelia."

"Pretty name. Suits her."

"Don't let that face fool you, she's a little terror."

"How old is she?"

"Turning four soon."

"Oh, that's a great age," Gwen said without thinking. "That's when you can start to have a real conversation with them, and it's so fun."

"It is." Michael looked at her sharply. "Have you got a kid?"

For a moment, Gwen considered telling him the truth. It felt so nice, so normal, to talk in that cheery little room, as if sunshine had been stored in its bright yellow paint and the warmth of it was seeping into her, chasing away the cold of those long, lonely nights out on the street. She wanted to hold on to that feeling a little longer.

But she was here to work, not to have a heart-to-heart like she was on some bloody chat show.

"No," she lied.

"Because you sound like you know kids," he said.

Anger pricked at Gwen's insides. Who did this punter think he was?

"It's none of your business," she snapped. Michael continued to stare at her, and the intensity of his eyes forced her to look away. The flat was closing in on her, suffocating her, like her old prison cell. She couldn't breathe. She had to get out of here, get away from this strange man whose eyes seemed to penetrate her very soul.

She grabbed her bag. "I have to go."

Michael glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised. "But I paid you for two hours."

"Here." She tossed the money on the bed, picked up her shoes, and all but ran. He caught her at the door.

"What did I do?" he asked.

"Nothing. I just have to go."

"Don't do this," he said, clutching at her arm like a child afraid of being separated from its mother. "Don't leave. Please." The pleading note in his voice now sounded more like a command. That voice, the hard grip of his hand, and the dark glint in his eyes awoke something savage within Gwen, a cold fury she hadn't felt in years.

"Let me go," she said quietly, "or I'll kill you."

He dropped her arm in an instant. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his eyes glistening with what looked like tears. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you—I just don't know how to—"

As suddenly as it appeared, Gwen's anger vanished. She couldn't afford to lose her temper like that.

"It's fine," she said. "Just let me—"

Before she could finish, there was a knock on the door. "Michael?" said a voice on the other side. "You in?" A woman's voice.

Michael turned to Gwen, his eyes enormous on his pale face. "Hide," he mouthed to her.

A part of Gwen wanted to be defiant and face whoever was at the door—a wife? A girlfriend?—so she could watch Michael squirm, but another part of her took pity on his panic. Rolling her eyes, she made her way into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

"Leah," she heard Michael say, as he opened the front door. "What's wrong? Is Amelia all right?"

Peeking through a crack of the bedroom door, Gwen saw a woman standing in the doorway. She had auburn hair pulled into a tight bun and a scowling, disapproving expression that seemed terminal. A little girl was asleep in her arms.

These must be his ex and their daughter then. Gwen retreated into the shadow of the room, feeling strangely embarrassed, like she had intruded on an intimate scene. In some way, she had.

"She's fine," Leah said, and Michael let out a breath of relief. "It's my mum," Leah continued, looking harried. "She's had a fall. I have to go to Cardiff to see her. Don't know when I'll be back, so I can't take Amelia with me—" She looked around the flat, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the bills scattered on the sofa bed. Michael looked away, his cheeks flushed. "Is this a bad time?" Leah asked.

"No, not at all," Michael said quickly. "I'll take her. Call me when you get to Cardiff and let me know how your mum is."

With a curt nod, Leah handed their daughter over. She brushed a curl away from the sleeping child's forehead and went downstairs, but not before throwing another suspicious look over her shoulder.

Gwen waited for another moment or two until the coast was clear, and emerged from the bedroom. Michael, with his arms full of a sleeping toddler, gave her an apologetic look.

"Well, I'll be off then," Gwen said, trying not to show how the sight of the little girl was affecting her.

Michael hesitated. "Listen," he said. He tried to take her hand, but his arms were too full to reach. "You don't have to run off like that. I'm sorry about earlier. Stay for a bit. It's cold out."

"I'll be fine," Gwen said lightly. "And you're busy. I should go." At the door, she paused. "Good luck, Michael."

At that moment, Amelia lifted her head from her father's shoulder. "Daddy?" she said, her voice thick with sleep.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," Michael said, and the tenderness in his voice made Gwen want to cry. She knew she should be going now, but some invisible force was rooting her to the spot, making her watch Michael with his daughter as if hypnotized. "Mum has to go to Grandma's," he was saying, "so you're staying with me for a bit. Is that all right?"

The little girl rubbed her eyes with a chubby fist. "Where's Snappy?" she said.

Michael looked around. He patted the pockets of Amelia's coat and came up empty. "You don't have him with you?" The girl shook her head. "You must have forgotten him at home then."

"I want him."

"We'll get him when Mum comes back—"

"I want him now!" Amelia demanded. She no longer sounded sleepy.

Michael gave Gwen an exasperated look over his daughter's head. Despite the twist of pain in her heart, Gwen couldn't help but grin back in rueful sympathy.

"What's Snappy?" she whispered to Michael.

"Her crocodile." Turning to Amelia, he said, "Don't worry, Snappy will be fine—"

But Amelia was not having it. "No!" she shouted. "I want Snappy! I'm not going without Snappy! Give me Snappy!"

"Let's just go to bed first, and then I'll find Snappy for you, yeah?"

"No! I don't want to stay here without Snappy!" The little girl started kicking and wriggling to get out of Michael's arms, and there was a shrill note in her voice that Gwen knew well would be followed by a tantrum. Wincing, Michael set Amelia down on the floor. The little girl pushed at her father, shouting, "I want Snappy!"

"Hey, hey, stop," Michael gently admonished her. "I don't have a key to Mum's place, so we can't get in. You have a lot of toys here—"

"I don't wanna stay here! I wanna go home! I want Mum!"

At that, something seemed to break within Michael. Without saying a word, he dropped Amelia on the sofa bed and went over to the kitchenette, where he plopped down at the table with his head in his hands. All the while, Amelia kept crying for Snappy.

Gwen looked between the despondent father and the wailing toddler. None of this had to do with her. She did not need to get involved. She should leave now.

She didn't leave.

She sat down in front of Amelia, who continued to sniff and snuffle. The violence of her tantrum seemed to have passed into a sulk.

"Hi," Gwen said. "You're Amelia, right?"

The little girl wiped a sleeve across her runny nose. "Who're you?" she asked.

Gwen glanced at Michael. He was still sitting with his head in his hands. Odd, that. Why was he acting like a tantrum was the end of the world? "My name's Gwen," she said. Michael raised her head at this, but made no comment. "I'm—I'm a friend of your dad's. Amelia's a very pretty name. Have you ever heard of Princess Amelia?"

At the mention of a princess, the girl's large brown eyes, so like her father's, widened in interest. "Who's she?"

"She was the youngest daughter of King George III. She was very nice and kind. Her father loved her very much, and so did her mother and her brothers and sisters." Gwen paused. Perhaps she shouldn't mention that it was Princess Amelia's death that drove her poor father to madness. "And there's also Amelia Earhart," she said. "She was the first woman to fly across the Atlantic." Again, Gwen paused when she remembered that Ms. Earhart disappeared while trying to fly around the globe. She looked at Michael to see if he'd noticed her bungled attempt to cheer his daughter up. He was still at the table, watching her with an inscrutable expression, just as he had when they first met in the alley. She cleared her throat and returned her attention to Amelia. "Now, can you be kind like Princess Amelia and brave like Amelia Earhart?"

Hesitantly, the little girl nodded. Gwen smiled. "Good. Tell me about Snappy then."

Amelia's little mouth screwed up, and she blinked rapidly, threatening tears again. "He's—m-my croc-crocodile," she hiccupped. "He's gold and has black teeth and he's very scary and he protects me."

"Ah, so that's why he has to stay home then," said Gwen, as if she'd just made a great discovery. "He has to keep it safe for when you and your mum come back."

"Really?"

"Yes. He knows you'll be perfectly safe here with your dad. And"—here Gwen pulled out the teddy from her bag and handed it to Amelia—"in case you're feeling lonely, here's Teddy. He may not be as scary as Snappy, but he can keep you company until you see Snappy again, all right?"

Amelia took the teddy, turned it this way and that, and held it experimentally. Finally, satisfied that the teddy was safe, she hugged it to her chest and smiled at Gwen through her tears.

"Now there's a great big smile," Gwen said, smiling back and giving the girl's nose a little bop.

"My dad always says my smile's as big as Christmas," said Amelia.

"And he's right."

As if on cue, Michael appeared next to them. He nodded at Gwen gratefully and took Amelia into her room.

Gwen was still sitting on the sofa bed when he came out a few minutes later and sat down next to her. "You're really good with her," he said.

"So are you."

"No, I'm not. You heard what she said. She didn't even want to stay with me."

"Michael, she's four," Gwen said. "She's knackered. A four-year-old would say they hate you one minute, then turn around and kiss you the next. That's what they do."

"How do you know?"

Gwen rubbed a hand across her eyes. Amelia wasn't the only one who was tired. Gwen felt like she could lie down and sleep for a thousand years. "I lied earlier," she said. "I do have a kid. Her name's Emma. She's six—no, seven now."

Michael tilted his head, looking at her more closely. "Where is she?"

"She lives with a foster family in Croydon. I haven't seen her in three years." The foster mum sent photos, and Gwen tried to call when she could, but it wasn't the same. "Sometimes I'm afraid she's forgotten me."

"Why can't you see her?"

Gwen didn't answer. It was a wound she wasn't ready to open yet.

Michael went back to the kitchen and fiddled about with the kettle. He came back a moment later with two steaming cups, and handed Gwen one. It reminded her of the tea she used to make for herself as a kid, too sweet and milky for her liking now, but she said nothing. They sat sipping their tea in companionable silence.

"Do you believe some people just can't be loved?" Michael asked.

"What?"

"Some people always seem to end up alone. It's like they can't be loved."

Gwen took a moment to answer. The punters all liked to talk. They would complain to her about their jobs, their wives, their girlfriends, their mothers. She could hear Medusa now, telling her, "We're like trick cyclists, darling"—Medusa was not Cockney, but she'd heard that slang for "psychiatrist" on The Bill or EastEnders and liked to slip it into her talk because she thought it made her sound cool—"except we're cheaper and they get some sex on top of that." So when a customer talked, Gwen would just nod absently and say "Is that so?" while thinking of something else.

Now, having been brought closer by the talk of their kids, she asked Michael, "Why do you think that?"

"Everybody in my life is gone," he said, his voice bleak. "My parents—well, they weren't fit to be parents, really. I lost count of how many foster homes I lived in. None of them wanted me. My brother took me in, but then he moved to Australia with his wife and kids. Maybe it's my fault." His head drooped. "I met someone once. I loved her. Or I thought I did. But I fucked it up. I didn't see what she was going through, and I made it worse."

"Was it Amelia's mum?"

"No." He sighed. "But I fucked it up with her as well. She's too good for me. They're all too good for me."

"Is that why you hired me?" Gwen asked before she could stop herself. Michael turned to her, and the look in his eyes went through her heart like a pin. It was the same look he'd given her when they first met, so lost and vulnerable, the look of a lifetime of hurt and loneliness. Now she understood why she had been so taken by it. It was a look she knew well, for she had seen it plenty of times when she looked into the mirror.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean—"

She shrugged. "It's alright. I'm used to that."

He put a tentative hand over hers and closed his fingers around it. "Thank you, Gwen," he said. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for helping me with Amelia."

"Hey, my pleasure." She grinned. "She's a good kid."

"I was frightened to death when she was born, you know," Michael said. "I didn't know what to do. I still don't. What if I fuck it up like I fuck up everything else in my life?"

Gwen squeezed his hand. Finally she understood his despair earlier, just as she had understood his loneliness; understood it because she saw it in herself.

"Want to know why I went to prison?" she asked. "Why I haven't seen my daughter?"

He looked at her, not with morbid curiosity as most people did when they learned she'd been to prison, but with interest and sympathy. She pulled off her blonde wig, and, turning her head, spread her mousy brown hair over her ear to show him the ragged scar just above it, which the hair couldn't quite cover.

"Her father, my piece-of-shit boyfriend—he gave me that," she said. "And worse. Then one time, he pushed me too hard. I pushed back. He hit his head on the kitchen counter." Her voice trembled. It was the first time she spoke of this in three years. She steadied herself, and continued, "I could've called an ambulance, but I didn't. I just stood there and watched him die. Got me three years for that. Involuntary manslaughter." She lifted her eyes to Michael's face. "Think you can fuck up your kid's life worse than I did?" she asked. She tried to laugh and began to cry.

Michael reached out and drew her to him until she was in his arms with her head on his shoulder, just like how he'd held Amelia. He said nothing, but in his embrace, she could feel her fears quiet down, if not fade away entirely. She thought of Emma, and herself, of Amelia, and Michael, of the frightened child inside all of them, waiting only for someone to reach out and hold them and tell them that it's going to be all right.

She buried her nose in Michael's neck, taking in his scent of soap and sweat and smoke, and let out a breath she had been holding for three years, or perhaps even longer. "This is nice," she said. "I can see why you'd pay for this."

Michael's shoulders and chest rumbled pleasantly with laughter, and Gwen smiled as well.

"Can I see you again?" he asked.

Her smile faltered. Somehow, his question made her sad. It brought her crashing back to reality, a reality in which she would have to go back out on the street soon, back to the cold and the loneliness and the emptiness.

But professional habit won out in the end, and she didn't even sigh as she gave him the answer she'd always used with all her customers, "You know where to find me."

"No, not as Queenie," he said. "I want to see you again as Gwen. And without the wig. Can I?"

She lifted her head to look at him. He didn't let go, only slid his hand up her shoulder and her neck to cradle her cheek. As the warmth of his gaze and the tenderness of his caress enveloped her, Gwen made a decision.

Tomorrow, she would go and buy Emma a Christmas present. And bring it to her in person.

Tomorrow, she would ring that number on the card of the non-profit group.

But today, tonight, she would stop running away.

"Yes," she told Michael. "Yes, you can."

THE END

Yes, "Snappy" is the crocodile that Maria gave to Leah.

And of course, it wouldn't be my fic without a Snow Patrol song to accompany it (the title comes from the first line of lyric):

[oftlunarialmoon]

Ciao lovelies! I have written before on the topic of Age Regression many times, from explaining what Age Regression is, to Age Regression Self-Care, to Age Regression Journaling. I never explicitly said before now, but I, myself, am an age regressor to cope with stress (and some other mental health reasons). The reason why I have officially decided to come forward and say so is because I feel that I want to keep writing posts on the topic of age regression, some with personal experience perhaps, so I want to be open with you all and let you know why I continue to write on this topic. I’ve also noticed some of this blog’s audience is made up of age regressors like myself, and I want to provide you all with some content from a safe, welcoming, and open-minded source. All that being said, today I’ve decided to write down 101 activity ideas for Age Regressors/ Things to Do When Bored, Age Regression edition. Please be sure to let me know in the comments (yes, you can even comment anonymously!) if you like these ideas, please be sure to tell me your favorite!

101 ACTIVITIES FOR AGE REGRESSORS

Outside Activities for Summer

1.       Play on a swing-set!

2.       Play hopscotch!

3.       Color with chalk!

4.       Build Fairy houses with materials you find outside!

5.       Take pictures of your toys in nature! This works especially well for dinosaur toys, animal toys, et, because they look like they’re meant to be in nature!

6.       Jump rope!

7.       Go swimming!

8.       Go fishing with a net and play catch and release!

9.       Go to a beach and find cool seashells!

10.   Read a book outside in the sun!

11.   Go for an ice cream!

Outside Activities for Fall

12.   Find leaves and flowers and press them into a journal. You can also do Leaf rubbings, where you put a piece of paper over a leaf and use a crayon to rub over it to get the imprint of the leaf on the paper!

13.   Carve a pumpkin!

14.   Go to a pumpkin patch and take lots of pics among the pumpkins! You can even pick out one to take home and make into a Jack-O-Lantern (like #12)!

15.   Collect cool leaves and make a leaf arrangement/wreath!

Outside Activities for Winter

16.   Build a snowman!

17.   Build a snow-fort!

18.   Have a snowball fight!

19.   Try to catch snowflakes on your tongue!

20.   Make snow angels!

21.   Play hide and seek in the snow!

Outside Activities for Spring

22.   Collect flowers and make bouquets!

23.   Make flower crowns!

24.   Play tag with some friends!

25.   Weave grass into cool shapes!

26.   Collect cool rocks/gemstones…You can even pretend to be a dragon who’s collecting rocks for their hoard!

Indoor Activities for Any Season

27.   Redecorate your room!

28.   Clean your room! (I know, bleh, but if you clean then you’ll have a clean slate for #27!)

29.   Change your phone’s wallpaper/lockscreen (check out our Instagram Highlight for some of ours!)

30.   Play with makeup!

31.   Try out new hairstyles!

32.   Play dress up!

33.   Play with some dolls!

34.   Play pretend! You could pretend to be a teacher for your dolls/toys, or even have your stuffies go on super cool adventures with you!

35.   Craft! You can make accessories, décor, toys, clothes, anything! Check out our DIY tag for lots of fun crafts!

36.   Read some kid books!

37.   Stim! I like crinkles when I’m small, and I also like slime and flappy hands!

38.   Play with squishies!

39.   Walk around a store and look at all the toys and kid stuff!

40.   Go on a Dollar Store shopping spree! You can get a lot of stuff at a dollar store for under like $20!

41.   Color in some cool pictures!

42.   Design a new OC (Original Character) 

43.   Draw some comics! They can be of yourself or of your OC’s!

44.   Cosplay your OC’s/any character you like!

45.   Do a photoshoot!

46.   Make a sensory bottle!

47.   Set up a dollhouse!

48.   Make beaded bracelets!

49.   Make yourself a snack!

50.   Or a meal!

51.   Bake some cookies (just be careful with the hot oven, okay?)

52.   Have a dance party with your stuffies!

53.   Make a playlist to regress to!

54.   Find new regression YouTubers!

55.   Play some video games! I love Slime Rancher , Animal Crossing, and more!

56.   Play with some phone apps! I love Animal Crossing Pocket Camp, Pastel Girl, and Pokémon Go!

57.   Try to mix your own perfume!

58.   Design a picture using glitter!

59.   Draw some fashion designs!

60.   Start an age regression journal! 

61.   Practice some age regression self-care!

62.   Make a self-care box!

63.   Make figures from modeling clay!

64.   Paint your nails!

65.   Give your stuffies/dolls a makeover!

66.   Find cute regression music! 

67.   Make posters for your room!

68.   Make gifts for your friends!

69.   Find a new penpal!

70.   Write letters to your pen-pal!

71.   Start a sticker scrapbook!

72.   Open some blind-bags!

73.   Watch some toy youtubers. Our YouTube Channel has some toy videos, my other favorites are Cookie Swirl C and My Froggy Stuff!

74.   Make your own YouTube Channel!

75.   Create a mystery to solve with your stuffies!

76.   Solve a Crossword Puzzle!

77.   Solve a Wordsearch!

78.   Finish a puzzle!

79.   Design your own puzzle!

80.   Make an escape room for your toys!

81.   Paint something!

82.   Watch cute anime like Himouto Umaru Chan!

83.   Watch cute shows on Netflix like Twelve Forever or Hilda!

84.   Watch fun shows on Hulu like Gravity Falls!

85.   Go to the library!

86.   Play chess or checkers!

87.   Watch a movie! I like Welcome to Monster High!

88.   Go see a movie in theatres!

89.   Make temporary tattoos using food coloring!

90.   Make your own T-shirt using a blank T-shirt and fabric paints!

91.   Take a little nap!

92.   Put on a play with or for your stuffies!

93.   Make clothes and accessories for your stuffies!

94.   Make clothes and accessories for your dolls!

95.   Make furniture for your dolls!

96.   Make your own blindbags for a friend!

97.   Upcycle your old clothes and jewelry by designing them into something new!

98.   Visit a thrift store!

99.   Go to a museum!

100. Go to the mall!

101.  Visit an Arcade!

WHEW! I hope that is enough ideas for you bored little ones out there. Have a great day!

[triggerlil]

i bet God heard you coming

It humbles Gale all over again how the world keeps going. When he'd returned home from the war and the horses at the Spencers' stables still nuzzled into his palm, when Marge died and the sun still set pink over the cottonwoods across the fields. Now John was gone, and the birds still trilled excitedly in the early morning mist.

1.9k, also on AO3

It's one of the first warm nights of Spring when Gale looks at John for the last time. Sure, he has photos: the one John gave him that's long since creased from the amount of times Gale's held it, the hoarded newspaper clippings with smudged smirks and group shots around the planes where faces blurred. But this was his last moment seeing him in person, and despite the sadness that claws at his chest and grips his heart, he wants to remember everything. The dark sweep of curls across John's forehead, the crooked part of his nose from an unclean break, the small scars and marks that pepper his skin (which only ever made him more handsome), long still eyelashes the ghosts of which seemed to flutter now against Gale’s cheek. He absentmindedly brushes the sensation away, the raw skin under his eyes stinging, and his hand comes away wet with tears. He would’ve figured he had none left. 

He needed to make this quiet moment count because of all the things he’d never committed to memory. The blue of John’s eyes was already fading, would the tenor of his laugh be next? Would it only be the horror that stayed? The way John looked with blood splattered across his face, the sound of his shouts when he’d woken panting, the smell of gunpowder and death? If nightmares were the only parts of John he could salvage, that was better than nothing. 

He settles a hand over where John’s are folded across his stomach, wedding ring new enough that parts still shine. He knows he’s cold, but Gale sucks in a breath when he touches John’s cheek. It's as cold as when they marched.

“How’d we get here, huh?” He whispers, shaky. He’s going to have to move on soon, let others take their time. No one would interrupt him, but he can’t handle it much longer anyhow. The silence closes in and the overwhelming perfume of flowers starts to make him feel sick. He wants to sit John up and hug him so tightly he breaks his ribs, shake him until his bones fall out so Gale can finally accept the truth. “You weren't supposed to die on me, John.” 

He feels panic start to rise in his throat, bile and tar, he takes one long last look: there are the freckles he’d counted, the strong jaw he’d held, lips he’d ran the pad of his thumb over, broad shoulders and arms that’d wrapped around him, a chest he’d once seen rise and fall. He wrenches himself away before he can choose to stay and walks quickly back through the wake and out to the lawn. He should say something to Josephine, but he doesn’t know how. He hadn’t wanted to be around anyone when Marge died—except John. It’s late, the funeral is tomorrow afternoon, he’ll say something then. Gale sits on the pavement and waits for Esther to say goodbye for the both of them. Not for the first time he wishes he smoked. He settles for taking a toothpick and fiddling it between his teeth. Esther touches his shoulder gently as the crickets start singing, and they drive back to their hotel without talking.

The air is cool the next morning when Gale goes for a jog. The shock has worn off somewhat; he no longer has an excuse to stay indoors and wallow. Regardless it wouldn’t be a good look, grown men don’t grieve like widows over their best friends. Even if said friend should’ve had plenty of time left. It humbles Gale all over again how the world keeps going. When he'd returned home from the war and the horses at the Spencers' stables still nuzzled into his palm, when Marge died and the sun still set pink over the cottonwoods across the fields. Now John is gone, and the birds still trill excitedly in the early morning mist. His feet still strike the ground as his breath turns ragged and he has to bend over at the side of the road to dry heave and swallow hungry gulps of air. He shuffles back to the hotel and into the shower, listens to Esther get up and start dressing, singing under her breath. His wet hair dripping onto the back of her neck, he helps with the clasp on the pearl necklace he’d given her before they left. He wants to feel some part of Marge beside him today. Esther had been hesitant to accept at first, but Gale knew Marge would’ve liked to see it worn again. She would’ve wanted him to be happy. Tough luck, he thinks. She and John had made that pretty difficult. 

A few years older than Gale, Esther had lost someone herself. Her first husband had been shot off one of the beaches in Normandy and swallowed by the ocean. It’s unfortunately part of why they work so well together—they both know this isn’t their one great love, but it’s comforting and safe. They’ve talked a lot about the past, but Esther doesn’t know about John. No one knows about John. No one will ever know about he and John. Esther fastens the buttons on his service dress when his hands start shaking too much and goes on tiptoe to place a kiss under his eye. He wants to tell her she looks beautiful in black, but can’t get the words out, so he just takes her hand and doesn’t let go, even as they drive. 

“He was a good man,” Gale ends up saying. “I’ll always remember him.” It’s lame in comparison to the vastness of both their grief, but Josephine still clasps his hands, hugs Esther, and thanks them for coming all this way. 

Then they’re moving on, and Gale is speaking consoling words he can’t hear to John’s two daughters, who have so much of his playfulness in their features that he can barely stand it. Esther is calmly leading him to their seats, saying something, and he nods despite not understanding anything. The first speech is lost to the rushing of blood in his ears. He’s supposed to get up and say something, he has his speech tucked into his breast pocket, but his vision has tunneled down to nothing but the casket and the knowledge that John is in it. 

Yesterday was the last day he’d ever see John again. Esther squeezes his hand and he realizes it’s his turn. He somehow stands in front of the familiar faces of grief and talks about how John helped him get through the war, as if that’s even half of it. He can’t say he wishes he’d been there when John was five and scraped both knees falling off his bike, just so he could shush and console him, or how he would’ve held ice to every black eye John got fighting after school. He can't say he remembers watching John smoke outside the barracks and the swoop in his stomach when everything clicked. He can’t explain that John is someone he’s always known, that when he died he took a part of Gale with him. His voice cracks only once, and then he’s in his seat and doesn't remember walking back over. Esther takes his hand again, and she will never know just how deep his grief goes. He will never tell her about nights in the Stalag when it was so cold everyone was sharing bunks, but those were also the only nights he actually slept, drifting off to the comforting length of John's body pressed against his. Gale will take to his own grave how John came running after Marge died, sleeping together again—cramped on the couch because Gale couldn’t stand to be in the master bedroom—or the one brief moment they’d had alone before John’s wedding, Gale straightening John’s collar and running his fingers through the scruff of hair at the nape of his neck. They will never have any of that again, and Gale somehow has to find a way to live with it. He has to survive for the both of them, now. 

The air feels muggy with promised rain as guests trickle out of the funeral home. The Egan grandchildren run around on the grass, unaware of what they’ve lost, and their innocent screams carve a hole out of his stomach. He stops to talk to some of the other men from the 100th who were able to come, but he mostly nods and avoids their pitying stares. They invite him out for drinks tonight, in John’s honor. Hotel checkout is at 0900, but  by now he’s used to late nights and early mornings. Esther breaks away from the group of wives that have found themselves huddled around Josephine, and they drive somewhere for a coffee. 

“Are you going out tonight, for John?” She asks him.

He shrugs, wishing his hands would burn to the sides of this chipped diner mug he's holding.

“It’s been so long since any of the girls have seen each other, Josephine wants us over for wine later. You’d figure she’d be too exhausted, but I think she likes the distraction.” 

“Her and John always had that in common.” 

Esther stifles a laugh and pretends to cough. 

“I said I’d only go if I wasn’t leaving you alone.” 

Gale weighs his options. Stay in with Esther and feel guilty and sorry for himself, lie just to be alone, or go out with the men who are the closest to understanding what he and John had. 

“I’ll probably go out, just for a bit.” 

She nods, sipping her coffee. One milk and one sugar as opposed to Gale’s black; Marge liked just milk, and John was always two milk and enough sugar to rot your teeth. The steam tickles his face and the coffee tastes like every funeral he’s attended—bitter yet familiar. They decide to spend what’s left of the day at the cinema, and he runs his thumb along Esther’s wrist as they sit in the dark. He gets absorbed enough in the story he forgets where he is, the repetitive touch lulling him into the past. He’s at the local theatre in Wyoming watching an unbearably sappy romance with Marge, he’s in the barracks next to John smiling slyly around a toothpick while they bump knees and the men shout profanity at the projection. 

He doesn’t drink that night, the first and last time will always be that swig from John’s flask on VE-Day, but when he’s walking home down unfamiliar streets he fishes out a cigarette he got from a stranger at the bar. He exhales slow, lets the cloud of smoke envelope him in the familiar scent he’d come to associate with John. The rush to his head is a bit like flying a plane, the calm reminiscent of the sky stretching out before him, and he understands how people get addicted. He walks past a church and squints in the dark. He’s never been very religious—doesn’t count the desperate prayers to any God listening while enemy territory rushed towards him—wasn’t raised on it and never bothered. He takes a shuddering inhale and watches the embers burning down towards his fingers. He gazes at the cross atop the roof, silhouetted against the starry sky, and asks God for one last favour: if there is a Heaven, can Bucky be there waiting for him? He wants to see him at the pearly gaits, smirk playing on his boyish face, as he asks Gale what took him so long.

[toxooz]

i'm sure you've described them before but i can't find anything on it so, could you describe the skate squad's powers if they have any?

idk if would say powers moreso just abilities BUT

Ponti with his HUGE ARMS can smash rip tear crunch squish impale ect. his bigass tail can put a hurtin too he can easily hold down a body under there, His ears can hear for miles if he really focuses, and finally his infamous death roll which is basically a gator death roll where they latch onto a limb and twirl tf outta their body

Abios eye has a bunch of phycological powers (oops) and can infiltrate the frontal lobe and get into someones head, see memories (spoiler alerttttttt 👀👀), and can manipulate feelings by controlling the brains chemical production, and probably a lot of other cool brain stuff i gotta get back on my neuroscience im rusty 😔 his eyelashes also emit pheromones that aid in all his succubs stuff but its close range

Ollie n his big brute strength ofc the fact that orcs are naturally super buff n strong but also his demon features where he does the thing similar to Gandalf when he makes the room all dark and terrifying when he's not fuckin around (it was heavily inspired by that) Ollie can make a room go cold and dark from his '''aura'' for lack of better word. His presence gives you the same chills as seeing a ghost and makes you hallucinate ect. That why when he does that ppl typically get too caught up in their body's fight or flight overdrive to be able to think clearly. I'd like to think he gives off Large Animal presence like as if u were in front of a horse or lion and that feeling is amplified when hes indoors lmfao AND he can also 'get in the head' as well like he can say some demonic shit that echoes off of the inside of the skull and can shake the very core of the soul (probably sounds like Sauron in tha head)

Kariiii has her dragon fire that's super hot and glittery so she can be a lil master of illusion if she wants. I'm thinking abt giving her gecko hands n feet so maybe she can climb on walls too if not she can still climb with her wing claws. She can lick her eyeballs and shes also got some fairy pizzaz that kinda works like a special 'aura' as well. She does have a hoarding pink things problem but she makes sure its at least presentable for the most part pfft

Remy oh bOI he doesn't have much goin for him but i think hes kinda got what Ollie's got just to a miniscule extent like he can make the room feel uneasy if he's all sulky and angsty but its only enough to mildly scare or irritate not so much 'strike fear into the hearts of men' cause hes also got that everlasting shadow over the eyes

he can climb like a monkey with his tail ( so can Abby) so ig he's rlly good at parkour

Oscar's got his slime that can be a blessing or a curse when it comes to sticky situations and in the water he's kinda a menace he is SUPER agile and uses his ears for fins when he swims. He's got a 2nd jaw in his mouth for grabbing prey and those teeth carry a nasty bite

Vinny may be soft n fluff but he's also got his lil needle claws and teeth and can be really flexible and agile as well cause son cats WILL fuck u up when theyre angry

[inkblot-mirror]

Diasomnia Dorm Headcanons:

-Contrary to popular belief, the students are not all fae. There’s mainly humans, some beastmen and one or two merfolk as well.

-There’s very few fae in NRC to begin with, it just so happened that some of the most prominent (Malleus and Lilia) ended up in Diasomnia. There are others in other dorms, such as Pomefiore and Heartslaybul.

-Disputes are solved through one way: duels. Can be with magic or with weaponry, like swords.

-Everyone is required to train in swordplay. Lilia is the instructor. Riding lessons are also given.

-Malleus, is worshipped and seen as a central figure, through both fear, peer pressure, and genuine admiration.

-Biggest dorm in size, smallest dorm in population. Sebek’s year (1st years) barely had any new students sorted in Diasomnia aside from him and a few others. This kind of feeds into their superiority complex/arrogance!

Doesn’t help that having Malleus as a housewarden no doubt scared a few individuals into transferring dorms.

-Very chilly and drafty, even with magical fires and heating spells. The dorm outfit only helps mitigate some of that.

-With the exception of Lilia’s room, pretty spotty or non-existent wifi connection overall. If you need internet, stand outside Lilia’s door.

-Previous housewarden was basically pressured into almost giving up the position on the spot when Malleus joined NRC. (I mean he could of fought for his position through a duel, as most housewarden duels are, but that’d hardly be fair).

-Back then, Diasomnia was basically split into two factions: those who were loyal to the then-current housewarden, and those who wanted Malleus to be in power immediately.

-Solution: the then vice-housewarden was booted and the position given to Malleus. He became housewarden at the beginning of his second year.

-Lots and lots of hidden corridors and winding passageways, super easy to get lost in. The fourth floor corridors in particular are magically enchanted to change their layout every hour because that’s where the treasure rooms are (where Malleus keeps his hoard).

-Because it’s a medieval castle, it has dungeons (complete with prison cells). Lilia jokingly (?) scares freshmen by saying that’s where all misbehaving students will get sent.

-The outdoor walkways leading to the castle front door is surrounded by invisible magical barriers. That way a poor student doesn’t accidentally loose their footing and go plummeting into the abyss.

-Due to Malleus’ little tantrums, its often rainy and thunderstormy outside. Good thing the lights inside are magically powered, otherwise there’d be alot of power outages. But rooms can occasionally get leaky.

-Aside from Lilia’s erratic bagpipe playing, one can sometimes hear haunting string melodies coming from somewhere in the castle. Younger students say the dorm is haunted, but its really just Malleus practicing his violin or cello.

-It’s not unusual to see flocks of bats fluttering around indoors. Yes, they are Lilia’s familiars.

-The dorm of LARPers and theater kids (yes Diasomnia are theater kids, like Pomefiore.) They way Malleus runs the dorm can be seen as a bit archaic and straight out of the middle ages to outsiders.

-Has its own library, filled with books on Briar Valley history and ancient magic.

—————————————

Ignihyde Dorm Headcanons:

-Boasts super high speed wifi and best connection on campus. Password is changed weekly and posted in the dorm Twstcord (the dorm’s primary source of communication with one another)

-Daily messages and announcements are all pinned in the dorm Twstcord, head mod being Idia.

-Idia once lost a game of Fortnite to the previous dorm head. And that was how he become the current Housewarden.

-Anime constantly plays on the holographic TV screens in the lounge.

-Anime and video game music play through the speakers in the hallways.

-Disputes resolved through PVP online matches in TWST LoL/Valorant/Fortnite, etc.

-It’s always, duper, freezing cold with AC on blast at max. Gotta cool down all the servers and PCs.

-The more social students play tabletops and card games at the lounge tables.

-Idia has access to everyone’s phone passwords and laptop history just cuz.

-Lots of labs and private work spaces for students to tinker with their tech and projects

-Despite being the geeky nerdy gamer dorm, it mostly smells very sterile and clean. Like a hospital. Ortho is equipped with “Disinfect Mode” just in case—he’ll spray down smelly, nonbathing students with the strongest dose of body spray and deodorant.

-No one knows how to cook and the kitchen area is stocked only with ramen, chips, and energy drinks.

-No 1 Rule: DO NOT BULLY ORTHO (unless you wanna get doxxed and blasted to smithereens by a laser).

-All non Ignihyde students are subjected to a finger print, iris and facial scan upon entering (security purposes ofc!) the data is entered into Ortho’s database for future reference.

-All doors are activated by either keycard or number pad. Lights and water and other amenities are voice activated.

-Like Diasomnia, the outside walkways are lined with an invisible barrier to prevent wayward students from falling into the depths of the underworld.

-The lone fae student in Ignihyde is no doubt fascinated by all the technology and innovative devices.

[rendy-a]

hi hi! can I ask for some househusband Ruggie with a side of cottagecore? the literal kind- fluff, and tysm for writing! his S/O has a garden full off food, can work carpentry and the repair work, so.. does he just decide to be a malewife with the occasional side gigs? (at least half of his living costs just became free) how would he navigate a life like that? would he brag about his S/O? did he pull a 'yes I do the cleaning yes I-' in the head the second he learnt about it? ty again!

Thank you for the request! I had to look up what Cottagecore was but, agh! that fits Ruggie so well. He'd love to have such a self-sufficient spouse as his partner. I hope you enjoy my musings about living in the countryside with Ruggie.

He can’t get used to having food available all over.  Garden, check.  Orchard, check.  Canned food in the pantry, yes.  Homemade bread on the table, you know it.  Is this home or a buffet?  He can’t help but hoard a little bit of food in his Tupperware.  Luckily, turning those leftovers into new meals is also one of your hobbies.

Ruggie has spent so much time doing odd jobs that he can’t comfortably sit still for long periods of time.  You introduce him to some of your idle hobbies to help him deal with the change.  Knitting on the porch wiles away the evening.  You’ll each have a new pair of warm socks before winter.  When the snow keeps you indoors, you teach Ruggie how to needlepoint.  Embroidered cushions make great gifts (and are easy to sell in the summer farmer’s market shishishi!)

Self-sufficiency means making a lot of things yourself.  Ruggie is used to fixing items from his odd jobs but you are full-on making things from scratch.  Whether it is furniture, a new garden bed or a replacement roof on the shed; if something needs making, you are making it together!  You need to teach him the ropes, but Ruggie makes for a first-class woodworking assistant.  There is nothing more satisfying than finishing a project that you’ve done together.

Deep fall was setting in and Ruggie was doing his annual check-over for winter.  You both knew it was unnecessary, but it gave him comfort to know things were there, so you ignored it.  You passed by the root cellar and could hear him counting jars of your canned food.  “How are things looking down there?” you called to him.  You heard a surprised yelp from below before your spouse’s face appeared in the stairwell.  “Geeze, don’t scare me like that.  I almost dropped a jar of peaches,” he reproaches you gently.  You smile an apology to him.  “I think we’ll be ok.  Might have to ration the berry jam; I wish we’d have noticed when the birds started in on our bushes,” he finishes with an annoyed expression.  You give him a grunt of agreement and wander away. 

The next time you noticed your spouse doing his secret inspection was the following day.  You were returning from the neighbor’s place.  You had an arrangement with them to trade some of your special recipe canned tomato sauce for their soft, homespun yarn.  You had chosen a yarn ball with golden hues that reminded you of your spouse’s adorable ears.  You smiled as you walked over the last hill separating your home from the next and caught sight of those same adorable ears poking up from the rooftop.  You knew what he was doing up there; checking for leaks and worrying that your little nest would be less than cozy over the cold winter months.  Even so, you called up to him, “Lose something up there?”  He jumps up and looks down at you guiltily, “Ah no.  I thought I heard a bird or something trapped up here and came to give it a look.”  You smile at him, “Find any?”  He looks at you suspiciously, “No but maybe I should keep looking.”  You wave a goodbye, “Ok Dear, just be down in time for dinner.  I’m making those biscuits you like so much.”

Dinner that night was a quiet affair, but it usually is.  One of your favorite parts of living in the countryside is the silence that comes from having no close neighbors.  You love the soft change in melody when the birds stop chirping and the night insects take over instead.  You open the oven a tiny crack to check on your cooking (it’s progressing well) and then wander off to find your spouse.  Ruggie is in the linen closet checking over your warm blankets; probably both counting the quantity and searching for holes that need mending.  “How’s the inspection going?” you ask from behind.  Ruggie heaves a tired sigh, “It’s all in order.”  You tilt your head to the side, “You don’t sound happy about that.” 

He grabs the collar of his shirt and looks at you accusingly, “It’s not right.  Something doesn’t feel right.  Life can’t be this easy.  My life can’t be this easy.” He finishes quietly looking at you out of the corner of his eye.  You step to his side and rub his back comfortingly.  You’d chase all his demons away, if you could but you know this is a battle for him to conquer himself.  You lay your head briefly on his shoulder and remark, “Diner will be done soon.  Come sit down whenever you are ready.”  Then you give him a kiss on the cheek and head back to the kitchen.

One of your favorite things about cooking for Ruggie is how thoroughly he enjoys his meals.  He eats your simple fare with relish, lip-smacking after each course.  “Seconds?” you ask impishly.  He gives you a wide grin and holds out his plate.  You put another helping on and he thanks you with his signature “Shishishi!”  When you finally gauge that even a glutton like Ruggie has had his fill, you come over to collect his plate.  You put your arm around him and kiss the top of his head, “All set?”  He lets out a contented huff and puts his hand on your arm, “Yeah, I’m full.”  You move to grab the plate, but he does not release your arm.  You look down at him and he mutters, “So full.”  Then he leans his head into your belly and closes his eyes.  You move to give him a full embrace and lean your head on the top of his own. 

The winter winds would come soon but what did it matter when your cottage was so filled with warm love.

[dinoace2]

Things Left Unsaid

Cute sad moments is how I cope ok

1.2k words of soft Aziracrow angst

s2 spoilers!

~~~~~~

Crowley paced the shelves of the bookshop. He always did. If there was nothing else to do, then he would spend his days looking over the dragon's hoard of literature that built up over the past millenia or so. Why was he there anyway? Perhaps waiting for something? But Heaven knows - no, he knows - that what he's hoping for isn't going to return.

The new guardian of the shop found this to be a normal occurrence now. She would watch the demon wander aimlessly for hours at a time, keeping an eye out for nothing at all.

Muriel occasionally brought him pastries and to-go coffees, by Nina's recommendation, so that he wasn't walking a marathon indoors on an empty stomach.

After far too long of walking toward an unattainable destination - onlookers could argue he'd carved a groove in the hardwood floor of the path he'd followed - his legs led him to the chair of Aziraphale's desk in the bookshop's study.

They collapsed beneath him as he finally sat, the overworked limbs numb from use. Now that he was still, he was exhausted. His whole body felt heavy, weighed down nearly equally by fatigue and sorrow. His eyelids were heavy, and after a moments' hesitation, he let them close.

The door's bells chimed, not necessarily uncommon for this time of day, but the footsteps that followed made their way...right to him.

"...Crowley..."

The demon froze and his eyes shot open, now quite awake and very aware of his surroundings.

He scrambled to his feet, pulling his glasses off his face, hoping this wasn't some sort of trick of the lighting.

He reached out, tentatively, as if the being in front of him were to shatter or vanish at his touch.

"Angel?"

Aziraphale gently took hold of his outstretched hand, his crystal blue eyes gazing lovingly at Crowley.

He took a breath, then opened his mouth to speak. "Crowley, i-"

Nothing else got through. The angel was cut off, his lips interrupted as the demon pulled him into a tender embrace, and an even gentler kiss.

This one was different than the last time.

Last time was rough, aggressive...afraid. a desperate pull, a final plea for Aziraphale to see things from Crowley's perspective. Begging him not to leave.

But this one?

Both angel and demon were clinging to one another with the same level of need. The same want, the same desire. The same mournful feeling of having missed the other for so long. Crowley's fingers curled in the hair at the nape of Aziraphale's neck, and Aziraphale, still quite unsure what to do, rested his hands on Crowley's back.

The kiss broke breathlessly, the pair leaning their foreheads together. Neither dared to break contact with the other, lest his beloved vanish before him. As long as they could feel one another, they would remain. As long as they held each other, they were real.

Aziraphale reached up, gently swiping tears off the demon's cheeks with his thumbs. "Please don't cry, Crowley..." he whispered.

Crowley shook his head, reaching up to hold the angel's hand against his cheek. "I...i didn't think you would come back..."

"I'm so, so sorry, Crowley, I really am," Aziraphale said gently, looking up at him. "I was so...overwhelmed by heaven's offer...and...i...I really did think I would be able to make a difference. I thought that...together, I - we could..."

"Doesn't matter," Crowley muttered, pulling his angel into a tight hug. "Because you're back. You're here. We're together again. And-" he took a shaky breath. "I can tell you what I wanted to say before..."

He stepped back, taking both of Aziraphale's hands into his own. He breathed steadily through his nose, gazing intently into his eyes. Those eyes he missed so much, those eyes that, no matter what else changed over time, were always the same gorgeous sapphire shade. No matter what happened, he knew his angel would stay the same.

"Aziraphale...i- ngk-" his voice caught in his throat, and he took another breath. "I'll spare you the dramatics. I think I used 'em all up last time anyway." He let out a weak chuckle. "...i...I love you, Aziraphale. I don't know how long I have, maybe always, but I need to say it now. You're the only thing I know I can count on. You're everything to me, and you always have been. You were my first, only, and best friend, and my heart broke when I thought i lost that. It's unfortunate that it's taken this long for me to say so, I know...but...we have the rest of, well, forever, to try and figure this out. And no matter what comes..." he squeezed their hands. "We can do it together."

As he spoke, Aziraphale's eyes welled with tears, and for the second time in existence, he found himself completely speechless. He reached up and kissed his demon once more, pouring his entire heart into their embrace. He didn't know what to say, he couldn't find the words. The depth and feeling of everything he could never tell was coming out through his actions now, or at least he'd hoped so.

When they parted for breath, he hugged him tightly. His entire body was shaking as the tears spilled over his cheeks, feeling too overwhelmed to say everything he wanted. After a long moment, he finally pulled himself together enough to whisper, "I love you too, Crowley."

They held each other for a long time, neither wanting to let go.

"Crowley...?"

"Yeah?"

"Crowley...."

"I heard you, angel...what is it?"

"Mister Crowley, are you okay?"

"...why are you talking like that, what's going on?" He opened his eyes.

Muriel stood over him, shaking his shoulder gently. "Mister Crowley, you're crying...you were sleeping..."

The demon sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. He was still at the desk. Still sitting. His legs still burned from walking so much. Tears blurred his vision and he felt like he couldn't breathe. He felt like everything was shaking. Muriel studied his expression intently. "...are you alright?"

Crowley let out a long sigh, putting his glasses back on and lightly pushing her aside as he stood up. "Im fine."

The young angel looked at him worriedly, while he made his way to the shop's door. "Where are you going?"

He sneered, pushing open the door with a familiar ding. "I need a drink."

‐

The Archangel Aziraphale looked at the square, a little window to Earth that he couldn't quite call a screen. His vision blurred with tears and his shoulders shook as he watched Crowley empty another glass.

They'd been apart like this before, but...this time he felt further away than they ever had been in six thousand years.

Due to his new assignment, he couldn't leave Heaven...no matter how much he wanted to.

He'd remembered stories through history where angels visited in dreams, and he wanted to try. It worked, but not nearly as long as he had hoped it would.

He didn't get to say what he wanted to. It always seemed to work out like that. His heart ached with everything he couldn't say. "Im so sorry, Crowley...."

He sighed, closing the 'window' and slumping down in his desk. "If only I could've asked you to forgive me..."

He choked back a sob and held his head, the angel's cries echoing in the empty, endless halls of what humans called paradise.

~~~~~~

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