#I can’t even draw anymore without feeling awful

[whatevahwhatevah]

I don’t know how I want to draw him anymore

[delugyu]

maybe this is evil but i’ve been thinking about txt when another member likes their bsf… or gf… i like messy hehe

i like the way u think hehe

(wc: 2k / warnings: soobin x fem!reader, jealousy, a ton of possessiveness and borderline obsession lol, insecurity, oral (f rec.), overstimulation, choking (f rec.), unprotected sex)

it starts off only mildly irritating. soobin doesn’t care all that much when beomgyu leans in to tell you a joke, or when beomgyu’s hand graces the skin of your arm for a second, or even when beomgyu chooses to sit right next to you on the couch. soobin’s secure enough to not think too much about any of that, even if he does find it a little odd.

beomgyu’s actions get a little less forgivable when he starts letting his touch linger on you. there’s no need for him to brush your hair back, and certainly not to let his hand rest on your shoulder longer than a couple seconds. soobin can’t even keep up with the conversation he was having with yeonjun and taehyun anymore, too focused on keeping an eye on you and beomgyu.

beomgyu surely knows you’re soobin’s girlfriend, so soobin can’t imagine why he’s doing any of this. he doesn’t even spare soobin a glance—even worse, neither do you. you’re just laughing and nodding along to whatever he’s saying, and it’s making soobin’s skin crawl.

soobin silently pulls himself out of the conversation he was in, striding towards you and beomgyu on the couch. a part of him feels at ease when you draw your attention away from beomgyu, smiling up at soobin instead. he nods at beomgyu in greeting before sitting beside you in the couch.

“what’s up?” beomgyu asks, and soobin thinks it’s funny how his friend suddenly wants to keep his hands to himself.

“not much. what have you guys been up to?” he thinks he sounds casual enough when he asks.

beomgyu shrugs. “just talking.” soobin looks at you then, to which you just meet his gaze with a smile. he throws an arm over your shoulders and pulls you in a little closer, and he doesn’t miss the way beomgyu’s eyes linger on the movement.

“anyway,” beomgyu says, looking back at you. your head swings to meet his gaze. “you think you’ll be there on friday?” he asks. soobin’s eyebrows furrow, confused.

“what’s happening friday?” soobin asks.

“there’s this band coming to town,” beomgyu explains.

“yeah, we both like their music. you should come too!” you say. either soobin’s delusional, or beomgyu’s face falters a bit when you make that offer. his arm stiffens around you a bit.

“i’ll go,” soobin says. there’s no way he’d say no and give beomgyu that opening to do whatever he wants without soobin knowing. beomgyu gives him a small smile.

“we should all just carpool then,” beomgyu suggests.

“and we can go to that new restaurant after,” you add. soobin has to keep his face from twisting sourly at the way your attention is still on beomgyu.

a gnawing sensation in his gut tells him to grab you by the hand and leave. the longer he sits here, the more insecure and jealous he starts to feel. he wants you to only spend time with him. he wants to be selfish and awful, and the childish urge to hide you away from the world comes over him.

soobin knows you’d never go too far; he trusts your love for him entirely. what he doesn’t trust is other men, not even his friends. you’re a beautiful woman with the kindest personality, so it’s only natural that people flock to you and try to swoon you. the only reason that usually doesn’t irk him is because you always run back into his arms, looking at him like he’s the only man in the world.

he’s itching to turn your face back towards him, to get you to stop talking to beomgyu and focus on your boyfriend instead. he wants to pout at you and make you feel bad, then he wants you to soothe him and rake your hand through his hair and tell him everything’s okay. he just wants you.

“do you wanna go soon? i’m kind of tired,” soobin says. it’s a little bit of a lie, but he’d do anything to be in a room alone with you right now. it feels like he won’t be able to breathe until you make him remember that your eyes are only for him.

you look at him then, and he can tell you find something in his gaze. “yeah, we can go,” you say. he almost sighs in relief. he doesn’t linger longer than he has to, saying a quick bye to beomgyu before heading out with you.

it already feels like the air is lighter when he gets back to his place with you. he sinks into bed with you, but the feeling of insecurity doesn’t quite leave him yet. he gets up on his elbow and turns to you. he runs his hand down your waist, a small frown on his face as he thinks about you and beomgyu earlier. you turn your head to him, and you look a little tired. soobin wonders if he should just let you sleep.

“lay back down,” you say gently, but he doesn’t. he moves until he’s hovering over you instead, slotting himself carefully between your legs.

“do you love me?” soobin asks, holding your face like you’re something fragile. he brushes a thumb against your cheek as his eyes dart between your own. he can’t help but ask, even if he already knows the answer. he’s dying to hear you say it. it’s like his heart won’t beat again until the words leave your mouth.

“i love you so much,” you say. soobin presses a kiss to your lips, rewarding your sweetness. he doesn’t stop there; his lips move to your jaw, then down your neck, letting his lips worship your skin.

his lips linger at your chest, dragging his bottom lip over your heart. “tell me again,” he whispers, looking up at you when his tongue licks a short stripe up your skin.

“i love you,” you whimper, hand knotting in his hair. he pulls away, only long enough to take off your shirt and bra, and takes in the sight of your skin greedily. he could never get tired of this. he trails his mouth further down, nipping and sucking at your flesh until he’s at your hips.

“you’ll never leave me?” he asks. his fingers dip under your pants, ready to pull them off. he’s hungry for all your attention and reassurance. he needs you to shower him in loving words, to let him get his fill of you while you tell him how perfect he is. he needs to know you love him half as much, half as obsessively and consumingly as he loves you.

“never. i want to be with you forever,” you say. that’s a good answer; it makes soobin smile a little. he pulls off your bottoms so that you lay fully naked and ready for him to please. he wants to be with you forever too, and if time could stretch infinitely, he’d choose for each moment to be spent with you.

soobin brings his mouth to your clit, sucking lightly and rolling his tongue over the bud. something about this soothes him—you giving up your sex to him, gifting him a part of you that’s only his. this and your heart, soobin wants them both at his whim. he’s selfish, and there’s always more he craves. his tongue dives into your cunt, desperately pushing into your walls. he wants to hear you cry, to feel you squirm, to find relief in knowing you’re only his.

“soobin,” you moan, a little quiet and breathy. he grinds against the mattress when he hears you, unable to stop himself. he wants to know you’re feeling good, needs the proof that he’s enough for you.

he goes back to your clit, sucking with more vigor now, wanting more and more. you squeal and jolt at the pressure, and it makes soobin feel like he’s worth something. he works harder for it, needing to see you fall apart for him.

“is it perfect? am i good?” he asks breathlessly, rubbing his fingers insistently across your clit, he comes back down to your hole, lapping up the arousal that spills out of it hungrily, moaning at the taste.

“mhm, so good, binnie, i love it, love you”—you’re cut off with a gasp, mouth falling open as you arch your back.

“i love you more than anything,” he says back, pulling his face away so he can watch when you cum. his fingers keep their relentless pace over your cunt, and he soaks up each little twitch of your body. “more than anything,” he repeats, biting into your thigh. he wants to mark you and make it an undeniable fact that you’re his.

“i’m cumming,” you whisper, sounding overwhelmed and fucked out and pretty. soobin could almost cry; he needs this so bad. your legs tremble and your hips stutter, but he keeps his hand steady. he holds you down to make sure you take it all in and absorb every second of the pleasure he wants to give you.

“so good, my perfect girl, my love,” he rambles, eyes zeroed in on your face as you slowly come back down. he smiles softly at you when your eyes start brimming with tears and you start trying to push his hand away. he doesn’t stop, too obsessed with the sight that no one else gets to see.

your cunt is soaked, and his hand dips down towards your entrance to collect your wetness before coming back to your clit. he coos and pouts at you when he sees you shaking, unable to handle so much stimulation. his poor baby. he can’t stop, though; he needs you to know that no other man would be so determined to get you off like this. only soobin can, only soobin deserves to.

“soobin, ‘s too much,” you whine, blinking a tear from your eyes. he shakes his head and kisses your cheek comfortingly.

“no it’s not,” he reassures. he grabs his cock from his pants and jerks it a few times. he taps his tip against your entrance. “won’t you let me fuck you?” he slides his cock between your slick folds, aching to be inside you.

“yes, i’m yours,” you say, bringing his face in for a kiss. he tangles his tongue with yours, moaning into your mouth as he breaches your entrance, sheathing himself inside you like it’s where he belongs. you wrap around him tight, making his head spin, nothing but primal instinct driving his actions. he groans into your mouth as he fucks you, keeping your hips still with his harsh grip.

“i’m yours too,” soobin pants, eyes flitting down your face. your lips are parted, breathing heavily as he continues ramming into you. “i need you to love me. i don’t want to live without your love.”

“i love you,” you say as if it was commanded. he thrusts a little harder, encouraged by your proclamation. you gasp, “i love you! oh, god, soobin..!”

he brings a hand to your throat, needing to see your body in his hands. he doesn’t want anyone else to ever make you feel this good. he presses lightly, just enough to make your eyes roll back, to feel your pussy clench around him. the feeling of you cumming around him is enough to send him over the edge too. he buries his head in your shoulder, sucking at your skin as he releases inside of you.

he stays there, panting against your skin as the two of you recover from your highs. he takes his hand off your throat and brings it to your chest, placing it over your rapidly beating heart. his heart, the heart he’s earned and worked so hard to win over.

“i love you,” he says again.

“i love you too.” your hand lands on top of his, and soobin finally feels okay enough to let his eyes close peacefully. sleep comes to him easier when he feels your love like this.

[gloomwitchwrites]

could you do one about all the members of 141 if the reader is super sensitive during sex, squeaks and squirms, cries but she likes it she’s just very responsive

Sensitivity during sex is subjective as everyone is different in that regard. So, here is my little offering to you, anon.

Content & Warnings: unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), dirty talk, missionary, established relationship, teasing, overstimulation, cowgirl, mirror sex, vaginal fingering

John “Soap” MacTavish: Soap is a bit of a tease. (wc: 374) Kyle “Gaz” Garrick: Kyle talks you through it. (wc: 457) John Price: Wants you to watch. (wc: 404) Simon “Ghost” Riley: Simon pins you down. (wc: 391)

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny is a tease.

“How’s that feel, love?” he croons with a mischievous smile.

You whimper. Gasp. His hands upon your skin are simply too much.

Without an answer, Johnny goes down on one elbow, changing the position. He’s not even thrusting anymore, simply holding himself inside you, keeping your legs spread wide over his large, muscled thighs.

“Can’t use your words?” he mocks lightly as the tips of his fingers tenderly graze over a hardened nipple.

At the same time, he sinks a bit further, thighs spreading slightly, pushing your legs even wider. You’re unable to do much but writhe and wiggle beneath him. He always does this. Always teases. He loves how sensitive you are, and how your body comes alive beneath him. All the little sounds you make, all the sharp shakes and shivers, only motivate Johnny to draw forth more.

“What will happen if I touch you here, hm?” he asks, his hand dipping between your bodies. When Johnny says “here,” he runs his finger around the place your bodies meet.

Your cry is loud, and it only becomes louder when he trails upward to circle your clit. His name is there, on the very tip of your tongue, but each touch is a zap, stealing your voice.

But this touching and teasing isn’t cruel. You love every second. It only makes the end that much more electric.

“And here, love? What would happen?” he murmurs.

While still moving over your clit, Johnny leans forward, his tongue circling and then sucking your nipple into his mouth. Your body immediately contracts, every muscle tensing then relaxing. A little shiver rattles up through your spine and out to the edges of your limbs. It causes you to squirm, the sensitivity nearly overwhelming.

But there is nowhere for you to go. You are not only pinned to the bed by Johnny’s upper body but by his cock.

Johnny releases your nipple, his mouth forming a smug smile. “Suppose you need some relief, yeah?”

You curl into him, fingers digging into his skin. Johnny brushes your hair out of your face, and that too makes you tremble.

“Lie back,” he soothes, and you melt, molding to the bed as he flattens himself above you.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle talks you through it.

“That’s it. You’re doing so well.”

“That’s my girl. Look at you.”

Kyle delicately guides your legs toward your chest. You’re bent at the knees, trembling, breathing coming fast and heavy. Every touch of his is like a brand against the skin. It is an overwhelming tsunami.

“Kyle,” you beg. “Please.” You don’t even know what you’re begging for. Maybe for it all to end even though you crave the sensation.

“Gotta control that wiggling love.”

“I—I can’t,” you whimper, thighs trembling as he puts you into position.

Kyle parts your pussy with his fingers and you cry out. He tuts and then inserts two fingers. Your hips instantly buck and your back arches, wanting to escape from him.

“No no. None of that, love.” Kyle lightly presses down on your stomach, holding you still as he curls his fingers up and drags them, repeating the motion.

Again, you cry out, and then tears sting your cheeks as you claw at the bedding.

“Control your squirming and I’ll give you what you want.”

“You’re awful,” you whimper, every muscle in your body twitching, wanting to move.

“Do what I say, love. Know you can.” You inhale and Kyle chuckles softly. “That’s it. Good. Exhale. Again.”

He has you repeat the process until the muscles in your limbs calm.

Kyle’s hands retreat, and then he reclines beside you, rotating onto his back. His hand palms the base of his cock, stroking gently.

“Get on top, love. Hands on my chest. You control the pace.”

With a gentle tremble, you swing one leg over Kyle’s thighs, straddling him. You do as he instructs, placing your hands on his chest and angling your hips. He guides himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pushing in, stretching you wide, the sensation shooting up your spin and as well as to the tips of your toes.

“I know you can take it. Fuck, love. That’s it. Good.”

You slowly slide down on him, groaning loudly, nails digging into his chest as you impale yourself on him.

“Oh—fuck.” Kyle’s hands are on your thighs, running up and down them in a caress.

It takes every bit of your concentration to focus on the rhythm of your hips. You’re overly sensitive, and this position reaches deep, hitting that sweet spot every time you come down on him.

“Kyle,” you beg, but it’s without meaning. You just need to talk, to say something, to verbalize your need in whatever way you’re able.

His answer is a groan. “That’s it. Fuck, love. You feel amazing.”

Slowly, your eyelids open, and you’re greeted with a beautiful sight.

“Don’t fucking stop,” he says, one hand sliding between your breasts.

John Price

“Look at yourself, love.”

You are unable to move. Unable to squirm.

John has you spread wide over his thighs like a sacrificial offering. His knees are bent toward the ceiling and just parted enough that you cannot move your legs while draped in his lap. He’s got you impaled on his cock, and he is downright fucking smug about it.

While the motion of your legs is useless, you also don’t have your arms. John has them propped above your head because he doesn’t want you touching him or himself. His own muscles forearms snake up and over your upper arms. It allows you no control, but allows John everything. He can touch your breasts like this. He can touch your clit, your neck, and whatever else he wants.

John rocks and rolls his hips, dick appearing and then disappearing back into your pussy. All you can do is flex your hips a bit but it isn’t enough. You are completely trapped. At his mercy. And the sensitivity is overwhelming.

Without any control, you have to submit to John, and while you love it, it only rockets every ripple of pleasure that much higher.

“See what I have to do,” he murmurs into your ear. “You can’t stop moving.”

Tears bloom in the corners of your eyes like tiny dewdrops. You are far too sensitive for this. John is pushing you into overstimulation.

John nips at your earlobe and you gasp. “Look,” he prompts.

The closet door is open. Not by much, but enough that the mirror that hands on the inside faces the bed. Within, you see yourself, and John. You see how splayed out you are, how needy and pathetic you look in his arms.

“Look,” he says again. “Want you to watch.”

It takes all your effort to focus. Every time John rock his hips upward, his brush of skin against you is fire. It causes everything in you to react and jump. But you cannot writhe. Cannot move.

And that only makes you more frustratingly coiled with untamed need.

Your head falls back against his shoulder, eyelids heavy as you gaze upon the spot where your bodies meet, and how much your body stretches to accommodate him. You can see how your chest heaves, the tightness building and overwhelming your senses.

“Now you see what I see,” murmurs John as his hand delves downward to give you some relief.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Quit your squirming.”

“Then don’t be cruel,” you moan, nearly jumping out of Simon’s arms when he sharply thrusts upward.

Simon’s teeth nip at your throat and this time your body jerks, almost sending you out of his lap.

“Stay still,” he growls, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs.

“You know how sensitive I am.”

“I do. Fucking love it.”

Simon wraps his arms around your waist. It’s an embrace, and yet there is power behind it, the muscles there tensing with anticipation. You inhale, and your exhalation is stolen from you.

Simon twists, and you go with him, rolling onto your back.

You squeak loudly only to be pinned against the bed. “Simon—”

He crushes his lips to yours, his tongue delving for your taste. The only sound you make is a whimper. “But sometimes,” murmurs Simon against your lips. Your squirming gets in the way.”

Using his body weight, Simon drives in at a harsh angle, hitting that sweet spot deep inside. That vibration of pleasure ripples outward, and your body reacts as it always does. But you cannot writhe and wiggle. Simon is too heavy, and he knows this, which is why he’s pinned you.

“Oh—fuck. Simon. Plea—. Please.”

“Please what?” laughs Simon softly before moving inside of you again.

The only reply you can make is a strained moan.

Simon grins, completely smug. “Tuck in, love. I’ll give you something to squirm about.”

Simon wraps your wrists up in one hand, pinning them above your head. He starts to thrust in earnest, his free hand holding the side of your throat. He watches on as tears come to your eyes. Your body wants to move, to buck and arch against him, but you are completely trapped.

Simon leans in, kisses the spots on your cheeks stained with tears. The only thing you can move are the bottoms of your legs. You wrap your ankles over his bulging calves and cling.

Every stroke and brush of his skin against yours is a roaring fire, rocketing you toward overstimulation. Words fall from your lips but they are elusive, just white noise in your ears. You know that you’re crying, that you’re speaking to him, that you’re attempting to move.

But Simon is relentless, claiming every inch of your body like he always does.

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @miaraei

@coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @berarenado

@saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @thewulf @lxblm

@ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow

@kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi

@lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605 @contractedcriteria @lovely-ateez

@gingergirl06 @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @blackhawkfanatic @suhmie

@tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior @glassgulls

[revelboo]

All I can picture with the latest My Favorite Accident update is trying to introduce two cats to each other by smell through a closed door. KO is our housecat (or are we his human? 🤔) who is very protective of us and then BD bites our fingers when we try to let them get used to each other (it was going fine! We swear!) and suddenly KO is swatting the shit out of him because he’s the only one who can bite us excuse you

Pretty much the way his processor is responding to seeing you being manhandled by someone that’s not him.

My Favorite Accident Pt 14

Knockout x Reader x Breakdown

• Backpedaling as that spinning saw whines through the air inches from his chassis, grazing him to shower sparks and hurt, Breakdown stumbles and goes down. And he’s never seen Knockout like this, optics angry and smiling like that. Head tipping as he stands over him, he slowly extends his arm and Breakdown’s chin is forced up to avoid the blade. Knockout can’t possibly be this angry over him roughing up one, little human. Knockout knows him. And as awful as it is, his spike stirs. Responding to the dominance and anger with arousal. Frag. “You know I don’t like it when my favorite toys get taken away,” Knockout whispers, voice a low, angry purr. A seduction. “When they’re broken.”

• Head tilting at the sound of you limping away, his smile becomes brittle. You’re limping. “I wouldn’t have to steal your toys if you’d spend any time with me,” Breakdown counters, tone bitter, drawing his attention and the bigger mech’s yellow optics narrow in challenge. In anger. And it’s empowering to tower over him for once. Even as there’s a whisper of guilt at neglecting him, for making him feel like he wasn’t needed anymore. Had the big moron really thought he’d replace him with a human? “Or do you prefer squishies now?”

• Limping for the wall, you have no idea how you’re climbing up that slope without help when your entire body feels bruised. You don’t think anything is broken, but if they start genuinely fighting, you want to be far away. So over aliens and getting involved in their bullshit. Jealous maybe-boyfriends especially. You like hanging out with Knockout, taunting each other, but it’s hardly worth getting stomped for.

• “Please,” Knockout sneers, retracting the blade. “You can’t be serious.” But the medic’s head still turns to track your slow progress. Venting softly when you start clambering up the slope only to slide back down with a little squeak of noise and what he suspects is swearing. Lips quirking as you immediately make another attempt, he watches Knockout transform his weapon back to a hand, striding after you and leaving him sprawled on his back. It’s a slight, but better than feeling that blade. “What is it about you that just seems to make everyone want to murder you?” Knockout growls and you look up at him, expression relieved. Spark twisting uncomfortably at that, it’s strange to watch Knockout bend and pick you up by the back of your covering to set you back on your feet, a clawed servo lingering on your arm. On the way your skin is discolored and Knockout turns that deadly smile his way again.

• Using a servo to carefully lift your arm, there’s a flicker of anger at the bruises that Knockout can’t ignore. That Breakdown damaged you at all leaves him cold and furious, and your expression is guarded when you look up at him. “Must be my winning personality,” you say, trying to pull away and he hooks his servo around you. That neutral edge in your voice. Like you’re not surprised or angry that you got hurt. Like you expect it. What is he going to do with you? Stiffening slightly when Breakdown eases closer and you tense, eyes narrowing. Afraid of the bigger mech though it flits across your face so quickly before it’s gone and your expression blanks again. Pretending you don’t care. You’re both so exhausting. Venting softly as he studies you and Breakdown, both of you idiots matter to him and he’s not choosing between you. But you’re going to both make his life miserable if you can’t at least pretend to get along to humor him.

• Shivering despite the warmth of the evening, you know you’re not escaping unless Knockout decides to let you so you just glare at his big, dumb boyfriend while he scowls right back. And you’re aching and just want to lay down. Yelping when Knockout vents, seizes you and just thrusts you at his buddy, forcing him to cup his hands and take you in self defense. Clinging to Breakdown’s servos, your mouth falls open because Knockout is striding away from both of you. Abandoning you with his boyfriend, the jerk. “What am I supposed to do with this thing?” Breakdown growls, holding you out in his cupped hands away from his frame and curling his lip at you. It’s only the very real threat that he might drop you that’s keeping you from flipping him off again. “Knockout, come get your fragging human.” And he’s jogging after the medic with you in his hands, getting jarred.

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[paracosmicka]

i've contemplated sending u an ask here for like 2 days regarding ur sonadow art and oufhgh i have to say it is so,, so gentle like the intimacy and softness of it all/pos i hardly see artists that explore the intimate cuddly drawings without the sexual coding so finding your art is so nice?? like refreshing nice as an aroace person bc in my perfect world, many little guys are just cat coded and it's so so cool to me to have found ur art out in the wild also for the mpreg stuff youre literally one of the most normal ppl i've seen draw/bring it up lol, i'm aware so many ppl like to meme on it or make it a fetish which tbh is pretty transphobic, so i'm just really glad you steered it away from that direction and displayed it as something normal and gentle given the context of the au/lh

first off thank you this is such a nice message and i love that people also feel the vibes of soft and intimate from my sonadow art that’s my only ever goal whenever i drew them 😭😭

second off FELLOW AROACE PERSON ACQUIRED 🫵‼️like omg you get it i love thinking about ships in a cat coding way if that makes sense but especially sonadow bc they’re animals so i just love thinking about them as little guys i can put in my pocket just like my cat

like idk if this is an aroace thing bc i don’t hear it described in a way that i relate to exactly so this might just be me but basically: i’ve always loved romance and ships in fiction but as i got older i slowly realized that i don’t think i can feel it for myself. which kinda made me sad at first because the idea of having a partner always seemed so nice, that was the main reason i didn’t think i was aroace at first because i thought i had always wanted to be in a relationship. i did some research and looked into different identities on the aroace spectrum, and thought that cupioromantic was probably the most accurate to what i was feeling, but later didn’t feel like it applied to me because i think the “enjoys the idea of being in a relationship” doesn’t fit right? ig?? idk how to describe it other than i like the idea of relationships, but it took me awhile to realize that i didn’t really want to apply myself in one if that makes sense.

most likely there’s a thing or word out there that already exists to describe that and i just haven’t been looking up the right terms, but basically this is just a very very long way of saying that i feel like whenever i get into a ship it sorta..…attaches?? to my very identity or something?? like i know people can be like “this is my OTP i love them forever and think about them literally all the time” and it’s like YES that’s me but also feels like an understatement, like all of my past hyperfixations on ships are literally ingrained into my soul even i’m not that into them anymore. and i know people compare hyperfixations to relationships and tbh that’s probably the most accurate description but again, that feels like an understatement.

okay honestly idk where i’m going with this i think what i’m TRYING to say is that i feel like because i can’t feel romance for myself my appreciation for ships feels so much more…emphasized, and sonadow is like the longest consistent hyperfixation i’ve ever had on a ship and at that point usually when something has been a “hyperfixation” for 2+ plus years i put it on the special interest display case in my brain except that display case has only ever had like hobbies and fandoms themselves, never an actual fictional relationship that i’m obsessed with but here we are. it might be the development of brain has synched up with this specific hyperfixation but sonadow is the first ship that makes me feel genuinely happy to this degree. it doesn’t make me sad to think about them and also go “aw i’m sad because i’ve never felt that way about another person and probably won’t experience that ever” in the exact same way you would go “aw i’m going to be dead someday” when you think about the fact that you’re alive right now and conscious and exist and have a mini existential crisis of the week. like sonadow doesn’t do that to me, i really just love those stupid fucking gay hedgehogs so much they’ve actually changed the entire layout of my brain and all the neurons and shit they’re everything to me.

ANYWAY JESUS CHRIST sorry for the ramble uhhhh lemme know if you or any other aroace people know what the fuck i was trying to say there hope you’re doing well and also happy new year!!!

[daenysx]

hii!!!! i saw u wanted sleepy maurauders request so can i request a jamie and reader go on a run or to the gym and reader is sooo out of it bc of an injury in the beginning of the year (not kidding i literally can’t run a mile anymore) and he’s like ugh im so sore too just to please the reader and they lay in bed and it’s all very sleepy and cute???

thanks angel, i hope you enjoy

james potter x fem!reader, fluff

"jamie." you whimper, moving your achy legs to get under the covers. "would you please- i can't feel my legs."

james is acting dramatic today and you're kinda having fun with it. he's strong and he must be less sore than you, he doesn't have any past injury pulling him down when he works out. you're still proud of yourself, though, moving your body felt nice. even if it doesn't change the fact that you feel numb and achy all over your body.

"okay, okay, come here." james finally gets you closer to himself to help you settle down. "what should we do to help you feel better?"

"sleep." you mumble. he smells so good, it distracts you.

he takes a breath before turning to his side and adjusting his head to put it on your shoulder. his hair tickles your neck, but you don't mind. "i can give you a massage." he offers, gently.

"you're tired."

"you can give me a massage?"

"i'm more tired."

"aw, poor girl."

neither of you gets any massage, that's okay. james is fond of your warm body next to him, he drags his hand on your thigh just to keep it there. lifting his chin to find your cheek, he gives you a nice kiss. poor, lovely sweetheart. all tired and achy, james wants to be wrapped around you.

you turn your head to hold him, hug his shoulders as much as you can by moving your arm enough in bed. his lips find your collarbone and he draws a line with kisses there, your heart beats tiny bit faster for him.

sleep is like honey in your eyes, intense and effective, you find yourself drifting off suddenly. james listens to your breathing, your fingers unconsciously move on his shoulder blades, and he wishes for you to press harder right there. you could if you were awake, but he realizes the yearning for touch is a part of loving you. he's gonna look for satisfaction in the little touches you give him as you sleep.

"jamie?" you murmur after a minute. you move your arm, it'll go numb if you don't.

"yes, baby?"

"can you hold me?" you ask without opening your eyes. maybe you're still asleep, james isn't sure. "like- closer."

he follows your every word and gets you in his arms, your head fits perfectly on his shoulder, and you settle on his chest. you're the cutest when you're asleep, all pouty lips and sleep filled eyes. james thinks he can watch you like this for an eternity, but his eyes betray him, and he falls asleep.

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Howlin' for You

[A/N: Highly recommend listening to “Not Afraid Anymore” from Fifty Shades Darker while reading what’s under the cut 😘 Enjoy, my fellow Hotch sluts 😈🖤]

“Oracle of Quantico,” Penelope’s voices rings out clearly through the car, “speak and be heard.”

“Hey, baby girl,” Derek croons from his spot next to you in the driver’s seat, and you chime in, “Hi, Pen! Can you do some digging for me?”

“Can I- Y/N Y/L/N,” she admonishes playfully, and you share a knowing smile with Derek. “How long have you been with this team now? You know I’m a digital shovel. Give me a name, date, or a hint of nefarious activity, and I shall reveal all, my love.”

“It’s, uh, the local sheriff,” you confess through a grimace. “Wilson. Who invited us in. I think he’s involved with the sole witness we can’t seem to find. So don’t send anything to their office, just call us or Hotch, okay?”

“Oh, you smart little cookie, you’ve got it. PG out.”

Derek shakes his head before flicking on the turn signal and pulling over at the newest crime scene. “You’re sure about the picture you saw, Y/L/N?”

“No doubt,” you assure him. “I just need Garcia to find me proof that he can’t deny.”

“If it’s there to be found, she’ll find it,” he answers, turning the Suburban off and pausing with his fingers tucked into the car door handle. “But these small town cops are just gonna hate us even more once we prove your theory right.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan, “however will we go on without their respect and admiration?” You hop out of the SUV, not missing the way Derek rolls his eyes before following you across the lawn to grab a pair of gloves from the forensics team and head inside the latest victim’s house.

Several minutes later, you’re examining the contents of the shelves in the living room when your phone rings, and Penelope animatedly confirms what you suspected earlier today. You enter the bedroom where Hotch is analyzing the scene with a critical eye and gently grasp his elbow to guide him away from the primary crime scene- and earshot of Sheriff Wilson.

“What is it?” he murmurs softly, resisting the urge to pluck your bottom lip out from where your teeth are nervously gnawing on it, keenly aware of the local law enforcement’s prying eyes. When you don’t respond immediately, he prompts, “Y/N?”

“Pen and I found something,” you answer. “And you’re not gonna like it.”

You share the information with Aaron in hushed tones, and his brow grows more furrowed the longer you talk. When you finish with a deep breath, he turns on his heel to chew out the officer, but looks back at you before walking away. Taking a quick peek around to make sure you’re alone, he pecks your lips and commends your intuition with a soft smile.

If you had a tail, it would be wagging right about now.

“I don’t have to listen to this!” Sheriff Wilson explodes out of the bedroom, Hotch hot on his heels as they head toward the front yard. You follow after, fingers twitching at your side and ready to draw your gun when you see other officers taking an interest in their heated conversation, fiery eyes set on your boss- but more importantly in this moment, the man you love.

“Everybody just take it easy,” you counsel, grateful when you feel Derek’s solid form now pressing against your arm. Hotch meets the sheriff’s ire with an eerie calm, speaking too low for you to hear. An eerie calm, that is, until Wilson says something clearly so egregious that Aaron barks, “Get off my crime scene, Sheriff, before I have you charged with obstruction of justice.”

The entire neighborhood seems to fall silent; the birds cease chirping, the wind stops rustling through the trees, the local officers slink away from the altercation, and the sheriff opens his mouth to respond, but no words form on his stunned lips. He stalks off to his police cruiser in a huff, and Aaron turns back to instruct Derek to follow him and find out where the witness is.

You, on the other hand, are frozen in place, in awe of the raw power and authority emanating from your imposing man. Your erratic heartbeat thrums between your legs, and if you had even a shred less of self-respect, you would fall to your knees right now to worship Aaron like he deserves.

Instead, you swallow down the saliva pooling in your mouth at the phantom taste of him on your tongue and follow him back into the house to continue cataloguing the crime scene.

Your hunger will have to wait. 

—————

“Fuck, I’m so glad to be leaving this town tomorrow,” Aaron confesses as the hotel room door clicks shut behind you. He turns to find you blindly following him further into the room, a vacant expression on your face, though your eyes track his every move. “Honey, what is it?” His brows draw together in concern while he tugs at his tie. You watch his fingers work their way into the knot to undo it, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips while the embers that’ve been burning in your lower belly for days flare to life. “Honey?” Aaron tries again, genuinely growing worried now. “Do you feel sick? Or did one of those assholes say something to you to get back at me? Just tell me what’s wrong and I’ll-”

“No, Aaron,” you finally blurt out. “I’m just- I need you,” you confess softly, wringing your hands.

He cocks an eyebrow, and you know immediately that he understands your meaning but is choosing to toy with you now. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

“No, Aaron,” you repeat, more forcefully this time. “I need you.” Finally, after days of suppressing your desire, you snap and push him to sit on the edge of the bed so you can straddle his lap, a soft gasp escaping your parted lips when your skirt rides up enough to let you feel the heat of him through your already wet panties. You start grinding on him in earnest, rocking your hips against the zipper of his slacks in search of some kind of reprieve from the persistent ache between your legs. It’s not enough, and you tell him as much amid a whine.

“Oh god,” you keen breathily, “oh fuck, I need more.” His tie already loosened, you tug the loop of fabric over his head and toss it behind you, then pop open the top few buttons of his shirt and mouth hungrily at his chest, moaning at the salt on his skin from chasing down the unsub earlier. You suck a few possessive marks into his skin, whimpering at the feeling of him growing hard beneath you from your repetitive motions, and slide your hands into his hair for a better grip.

Then you feel Aaron’s strong hand on the nape of your neck, pulling you back and forcing you to detach your swollen lips from his chest, now marred with teeth marks from your desperation. He tucks his index finger under your chin and lifts your head up to find tears welling in your eyes and your bottom lip trembling. “Why are you pouting, sweet girl?” The condescension in his tone and the weight of the power he holds over you sends another wave of arousal pooling between your already slick thighs. “Are you feeling empty?”

You blink slowly, and traitorous tears roll down your cheeks when you drop your head into a nod with a pathetic sniffle. He takes pity on you and slides his thumb into your mouth, allowing you to suck on it and gratefully swirl your tongue around the thick digit as you start grinding on him again. Then he runs his thumb down your chin leaving a cooling trail of your own spit on your heated skin before dipping his hand under your skirt to press his thumb against the embarrassingly wet spot on your panties. Your head falls back and your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out as your brain short circuits. You’re practically vibrating at this point, so utterly desperate for him, and he laughs darkly at your need which only serves to turn you on even more. “How long have you been thinking about this, hm?”

“Since-” You swallow down the saliva flooding your mouth before mustering up the resolve to continue. “Since you yelled at the sheriff,” you confess softly, and he chuckles again.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Aaron tuts. “That was days ago.”

You let out a startled squeak when he roughly grabs your hips and deposits you on the bed without warning. His large hands tuck into the dip of your shirt and then he’s ripping it open, buttons flying in all directions. He flips you over with no semblance of tenderness and you let out a gasp, one of his hands unclasping your bra while the other tugs down the zipper at the back of your pencil skirt.

Suddenly you’re on your back again, and within the span of a few seconds you’re laid bare before a fully clothed Aaron, sans tie and the few buttons of his shirt you managed to fumble open earlier. You stare up at his towering figure in awe, your breath coming in short pants that match the heaving of his chest, the only sign that he’s as turned on as you are.

Then he’s undoing his belt buckle, and your walls flutter at the thought of what’s coming next. “Yes, oh yes, please, please, please,” you beg breathily, squeezing your eyes shut and fisting the sheets at the telltale sound of Aaron’s zipper opening.

He slides his cock through your folds to gather your wetness then presses just the tip in, and you release a downright pornographic moan at the sensation. Aaron ever so gently rests his hand on your throat and squeezes once to get your attention, waiting for your bleary eyes to focus on his face before shushing you softly. “Everyone’s rooms are nearby and they need to rest, so you have to be quiet, okay, angel? Can you do that for me?”

Somewhere in the back of your fuzzy brain, you realize he didn’t say anything about caring if your team can hear how much pleasure he wrings out of you. He just wants to ensure your friends can get their much needed sleep after a trying case.

But then you hone in on the throbbing between your legs again, and you remember he’s waiting for an answer. You’re so desperate for him to be inside you that you’d say yes to anything he asked right now, so you nod vigorously, biting down on your lip and squeezing your eyes shut once more. He smiles proudly and says, “That’s my good girl.” Aaron presses his other hand to your lower belly and finally, finally slides into you agonizingly slowly while reverently professing, “You look so good when you’re full of me.”

You’re helpless to do anything but nod again because he’s right, of course he’s right. This is when you feel the most beautiful, feel entirely whole and complete, when you’re being worshipped by and getting to worship Aaron Hotchner.

You let out a whimper that your partner intuits as a plea for him to move, and he begins slowly thrusting in and out of your wet heat, the hand on your stomach keeping you keenly aware of just how big he is with each drive of his hips. Aaron squeezes your throat gently, and somewhere in the back of your mind you know that means he wants your eyes on him. You lift your heavy-lidded gaze to his, weighed down by lust and love, to find him watching your every micro-expression and easily reading your reactions. He can feel what angle, what speed, what pressure makes your body sing, and he hits all the right spots as he gradually picks up his pace.  The bite of his metal belt buckle against the back of your thigh with each roll of his hips reminds you that he’s still fully dressed while you’re stark naked and completely at his mercy, and the power dynamic has you clenching around him, doing everything you can to be as close to him as possible.

By this point, you’re a hiccuping, crying, desperate mess, and when Aaron releases his hold on your throat to grip your hip instead, you choke out a plea of, “Harder.”

“More, baby?” he asks between pants, and you whimper, “Please, daddy, please.”

Aaron lifts your ankle onto his shoulder to get an even deeper angle, pressing his hand down more forcefully against your stomach so he can feel himself moving inside of you with every thrust. He picks up speed until you can’t even cry his name anymore, just little gasps knocking out of you each time his hips meet yours.

Seeking better leverage, he pauses his worship of your body to slide you higher up on the bed so he can brace himself against the wall with his right arm. The change in angle and power of his thrusts has you seeing stars, your hands fisting in his hair in an attempt to anchor yourself to the real world. “My good girl,” he punctuates each word with a hard thrust, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead and a few errant strands of hair falling into his face.

You can’t say anything back, rendered dumbstruck by his expert ministrations, so Aaron carries on with his adoration. “In the field and in my bed, hm? My good little girl. All mine.”

His words are getting breathier by the minute, morphing into whimpers of pleasure that mimic your own, and you start crying harder knowing he’s about to really fill you up. He leans down to lick your tears off your cheeks and you shudder underneath him, raking your nails down his back and clinging to him for dear life.

When you feel his thick cock twitch inside of you, you start babbling, “Yes, yes, yes, give it to me, daddy. Please, oh god, please fucking breed me.” Your desperate command turns out to be Aaron’s undoing, and the feeling of him painting your walls with a surprised gasp has you clamping down around him, every nerve in your body firing at once as an indescribable orgasm rips through you. Despite the muscles in his legs spasming, Aaron continues fucking you through it, evidently trying to make good on your request.

Spent and satiated, Aaron eases out of you, giving you a quick cleanup and shedding himself of his clothes before climbing into bed to help you back down to earth. He pulls you into his lap and dries your tears, dotting gentle kisses along your cheeks, neck, and shoulders. You wrap your limbs around his body, clinging to him, and Aaron rubs your back until you calm down and your hiccups subside to deep breaths instead.

Ever so quietly, he asks, “Better, my baby?” You nod your head where it’s resting in the crook of his neck and murmur, “Thank you, Aaron. I needed that. Needed you so badly.”

“Anything you need, princess, you know that.” There's a thoughtful pause and then, “We’ll talk about that… new thing later. After a good night’s rest.” You’re grateful he turned off the light before getting into bed because a blush warms your cheeks at the memory. Even though he can’t see your face, he knows you’re getting shy and emits a soft laugh. “If you couldn’t tell, I loved it,” Aaron reassures you, then presses his lips to your temple.

He settles back into the bed with you in his arms, running his fingers through your hair to further calm your breathing. “Now get some sleep,” he orders gently. “If you really want me to make you a mama, you need to rest before we practice again tomorrow morning.”

—————

AH tags 🖤 @gothwifehotchner

[elliesflower]

MEAN 👏 ELLIE 👏 WITH 👏 A 👏 LEASH

imagine her bouncing reader on her strap while holding onto her leash so her head is forced in a position where she can only look in ellie’s eyes… bonus points if there’s a bit of choking omfg i’ll cream rn if i don’t stop

cw; mean!ellie, dubcon

no bc she’d be so mean. so so so so mean. there’s no borderline anymore, it’s pure sadism the way she’d having you bouncing in her lap like a little bunny in heat, “yeah?” falling from her bitten-pink lips as she watched you chase your pleasure.

your moans and whines filled the small room, your head thrown back to perfectly show off the black leather collar that adorned your neck—a small, almost unnoticeable “e” carved into the delicate leather.

“fucking look,” she’s growling, yanking on the thin leash that attached to the color with a short metal chain. and you couldn’t do anything except look, to where she pulled you down against her lap, hard, the mushroom-tip pressing something painful at your cervix. “no, no, no, fuck ellie! huuurts,” you’d drawl, trying desperately to bury your face into her shoulder. but she’d have you pinned exactly where she wants you, metal tinging delicately beneath your chin as she pinched the connection between your leash and collar to keep your head in one spot.

“aw, my poor, poor baby,” her voice was getting deeper, had that desperate edge that made you see stars, the pressure of her cock so deeply seated in your velvety walls drawing another moan from your throat, and she was laughing at you, oh my god, “so desperate to fuck me and now you can’t even take it? hm?”

“can take it, n’take it ellie please,” you felt delirious, watery eyes trained on the spot where she disappeared inside of you, so full, so full, not enough, “please, ellie please move,” you sobbed, even thought you know it wouldn’t get you anywhere. you had to try, you had to,

“that’s cute,” she’d mumble, a perverted smile blooming on her face at the sight of you crying over her, over how good you feel, over how good she makes you feel. “you want me to move…like this?” and she’d punctuate it with a snap of her hips, causing you to cry out weakly, the pressure of the collar against your neck starting to make your airway tighten.

there’d be no response, only your incoherent babbling and whimpering as she began to thrust into your sloppy cunt, excruciatingly slowly, eyes closing, breath hitching, “uh-uh, eyes right here baby, right here,” with another tug at your leash to keep your head where she wanted it. her jade eyes pierced into yours and you felt like you could explode,

it was blinding, the pleasure, consuming you all at once and spitting you back out into her lap—your vision blurred as your pussy clenched helplessly around her cock, you couldn’t help it, no no no no no, oh no,

“m’cumming,” you mewled helplessly as you creamed around the silicone, but she didn’t stop, only fucking up into you harder, and harder and harder and jesus fucking fuck it hurt,

“fucking slut,” she’d grit as she watched you come apart, without permission, “so fucking needy you can’t even listen to me now? hmm?

yeah, you were in for it now.

[hom3landr]

"just lie to me, okay? just this once."

Necessary Lies

CW - Major Character Death, descriptions of gore and sickness, ANGST ANGST ANGST

Homelander’s intentions had been pure when he arranged to dose you with Compound V. He’s reminded by a friend that’s how the road to hell is paved

You aren’t getting better.

Homelander’s stomach turns.

You aren’t getting better.

He’d done everything right. The whole process was done under the supervision of all of Vought’s best doctors and scientists. Even as you screamed and begged, he’d been confident that any complications could be swiftly dealt with. Sure, you’d been an adult when the V had been introduced into your system but you are strong. You have to be. You have to.

He watches you in your room. It doesn’t seem right for you to be surrounded by so much blank white. You are color and light but even you can’t withstand the way the awful room dims your soul. Maybe if you could see the sun you’d get better. But the doctors insist you are too fragile to handle any environment except the sterile one you are contained in.

He bites his lip anxiously as you continue to hack up blood, the bright crimson automatically drawing the eye. His instincts tell him to scan you, to watch as the V twists your DNA and transforms you into something greater.

I told you not to get your hopes up. You tend to have a less than stellar track record when it comes to mud people.

He shakes his head and tries to ignore the little voice in his ear. He’s wrong this time. It’s a hiccup that’s all. You’re strong. You are.

The voice is blocked out but not by his own efforts. A horrible cry leaves your lips as your bones crack and shift under your skin. More red spews on the floor. He winces at the wet splat as a chunk of something hits the floor.

That was juicy. Wanna bet that was a lung?

Homelander tastes iron as he splits his own lip. It feels like it’s your blood he’s tasting. It’s your blood he’s spilt.

That one was a little mean, I admit. But buck up Bucko, this is what you signed up for. Maybe you’ll listen to me next time.

He’s done this before. Why the fuck were you the one with complications?

“There’s a good reason Vought doesn’t do it.”

That’s what he told Madelyn that fateful night.

He’d killed her too

He steps to the side as a squad of sour smelling scientists rush in to stabilize you. But what can they do? What can they do now that the only outcome is for the poison to run its course? He vividly fantasizes about popping each one’s head like a ripe melon as punishment for not fixing this. It doesn’t make him feel better.

Please

He begs the voice in his head.

Just lie to me, okay? Just this once.

The once dependable steady rhythm of your heartbeat is dangerously erratic.

You smell like death.

Please!

He worries the cut on his lip with his tongue. It feels strange to have a wound. The scientists flutter around you nervously. They know you’re a lost cause but Homelander’s icy gaze compels them to at least pretend to be helpful. Their terror burns his nose. He decides to make their demise slow.

No can do Buddy, you know that’s not what I’m here for. I’m the only one who’ll never lie to you.

Your heartbeat grows fainter. Your breaths rattle.

One of the scientists pisses himself.

Please…

You turn your head and despite your eyes meeting his, he knows you can’t see him. You wouldn’t be able to even without the wall in the way. He doesn’t think you can see much of anything anymore.

I told you so. Better go in and say your goodbyes.

I hate you

Aw buddy, I’m the only thing you have left.

Your heart stops and a noise all too terribly familiar leaves your throat. The last noise you’ll ever make. A wail just as wretched leaves his lips.

He didn’t even say goodbye. He let you die in that awful room alone. He wasn’t even holding your hand. You were alone like he was alone all those many years ago. Being poked at like he was.

He vomits bile onto the floor.

You’re gonna need me more than ever now. Better get used to it.

[ghcstao3]

(inspired by this tiktok)

-

There is a lake nearby to where Johnny lives.

It’s about a fifteen minute walk, hidden beyond the thick copse of trees that surround one side of Johnny’s home, and it’s something he’d discovered only a week after having moved in several years ago.

This lake is important to him only in that it’s his place. It’s small, secluded, ideal for when he needs that fresh breath of air away from the bustle of life. It’s where he goes to draw, to read, to just exist. It’s his place, and he thinks if anyone else were to discover it, or at the very least be present when he’s also there, the magic of it all would be ruined.

So when he goes out one winter morning, chilly but not so cold that a few layers won’t do the trick of keeping him warm, and sees the figure of someone moving along the shore of the frozen-over lake just as Johnny breaks the sightline of the area—he can’t help the way his heart falls.

But he doesn’t turn to leave, no. Not yet. Because as Johnny gets closer, he finds the figure isn’t moving along the shore, but is instead skating on the ice.

Even with the dusting of snow that blankets the ice, they move with fluidity and a natural grace, and just watching has Johnny’s discouragement temporarily replaced with awe. They pirouette and jump and glide, and for a moment Johnny considers pulling out his sketchbook with cold fingers to capture the scene.

Before he can, though, Johnny is reminded of his irritation and the disturbance that is the skater.

Anyone, anything else and Johnny thinks he would’ve turned and left, maybe trekked elsewhere through the forest to find himself a new spot. Instead, he cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Is that even safe?”

The intruder startles and stumbles mid-stunt, tripping and falling back onto their ass as their skate must catch a divot in the ice. Deserved, Johnny thinks.

They sprawl out for a moment before sitting back up and carefully getting to their feet. They shout back, “Was ‘til you got here!”

Johnny is taken aback by the gruffness of the skater’s voice, a stark contrast to the elegance of before. Johnny shakes his head and marches up to the shore just as the skater moves meets him.

He’s just as surprised by the skater’s height once they’re close. From afar, the idea of confrontation had seemed much less frightening.

The skater then pulls off the balaclava they’ve donned and… Johnny is suddenly much more intimidated for all the wrong reasons.

Even in spite of the garment, the man’s face is stained red from the cold, rosy against otherwise pale skin. Near-white eyelashes frame dark eyes, warm as the hot chocolate Johnny plans on making himself when he returns home, and Johnny is very upset that he feels obligated to be annoyed with this man.

Johnny jabs a finger at the man’s chest regardless, lifting his chin to make a show of his displeasure. “How’d you find this place anyway?”

The man snorts, and throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I live on the other side of the lake,” he says. “Why? This private property or somethin’?”

Reluctantly, Johnny shakes his head. “No,” he grumbles. “I just… I’ve never seen anyone else here before.”

The skater hums, cocks his head. “Then I don’t see the issue.”

Johnny decides he’s not intimidated anymore, not when this stranger is so frustrating, because of course he is. Johnny just wishes he knew how to articulate that this is his spot without sounding like a petulant child.

A gloved hand is offered out to Johnny at his lack of response. Johnny stares at it with disdain.

“Simon,” the skater says.

Johnny glares at Simon. The only reason he finds himself giving his own name, he thinks, is because of those stupidly brown eyes.

A small smile appears on Simon’s face when he does. His hand falls away as he moves to slip his balaclava back on.

“I’ll see you around then, yeah, Johnny?” Simon says.

Johnny doesn’t get the chance to curse him out before Simon is skating away, back across the lake to where he supposedly lives. Whatever.

Johnny retires early that day. He’ll try again for his peace tomorrow, once he’s had time to recover from his encounter with Simon.

And if there’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind that secretly hopes Simon will be there when he returns anyway, then Johnny does his very best to ignore it.

Because it’s his place. His. Not something to be shared, even if it’s with the perfect stranger.

[mymouthisanopenwound]

What has been going on lately…

Oh my step brother said he won’t go to my other step brothers wedding if I’m there. Which is out of nowhere and he won’t tell anyone why but I guess I’m going to be a bridesmaid anyways so I hope he tells me what’s wrong.

Also my aunt backed into my car today and left a huge dent on the front drivers side but it’s cosmetic and my car is a piece of shit so I don’t care.

I cut all my hair off after realizing I’ve had the same haircut since I was 15 and I love it.

I have a better relationship with my mom now, so I don’t feel stressed when she calls.

I am studying for the big engineering exam and it’s awful and I have no free time and I don’t remember trig identities.

I did leg day yesterday and it was the hardest I’ve gone in a while so that feels good, but I’ve been eating so much so I’ve gained fat even though I beat my pr for the mile. I hope to lean out when I’m less stressed but right now bread and hot chocolate are my only comfort so I’m not going to deprive myself of the calories.

I found a kilt at goodwill from Edinburgh for $7 and I know the original price was at least $60 because I have similar ones from my aunt, but it’s for my friend who I’m going to Ireland and Scotland with in August because it’s a little small on my and I have 4 kilts already. I think the colors suit her better as well.

There was a cute barista at the Starbucks and I didn’t realize how much I like guys that look like girls but I 100% do.

Also I can do the splits now, which was my New Year’s resolution, so go me.

I don’t have the brain power to read anymore since I’ve been studying for 8-10 hours a day. I’m excited for when’s schools over and before I start working I with just read, and draw and go for walks and enjoy everything ever.

I should call ma tomorrow.

Instagram reels are so conservative I saw shit about how women shouldn’t be allowed to vote and all the comments were legit agreeing it was scary.

I hope my short hair makes it more obvious that I like girls and queer people, I mean it’s not that extreme but I think my style and tattoos must not have been enough… or maybe I just need to move to a big city because there’s very little queer community here?

I don’t want to make any major life decisions just to find love though, because I’m fine being alone. Well, I’m not alone here because I have so many familial and platonic obligations sometimes it’s exhausting. It’s also rewarding though, because if I go too long without helping people I start to think I’m a shitty person.

I have to piss and I’m tired but I can’t sleep. I feel like I need to watch shitty reality tv.

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 7  No Turning Back (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

Summary : The morning of your interview, anxiety looms as you officially abandon your old job. Arriving at Stark Tower, you face skepticism but are given a chance to prove yourself. Stark critiques your work harshly, then pushes you into two high-pressure challenges, demanding near-perfection under tight deadlines. After relentless effort, you deliver an improved result. Though not flawless, it’s enough—Stark hires you. Leaving the tower, you text Peter: "Get the beers ready. I got the job." For the first time, you’re truly moving forward.

word count: 13.9k

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The next morning, you open your eyes long before dawn. You couldn’t say the exact time — it’s still pitch black outside, and the silence in the apartment feels almost oppressive. The pallid glow of a streetlamp cuts through the half-closed curtains, slicing your face into two contrasting halves. You’ve been lying there most of the night without sleeping, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain tapping gently against the windowpanes. And when sleep finally did take you, it was only for brief moments, fractured by vague, jittery dreams.

But it’s not fatigue that weighs you down. It’s that knot in your stomach — tight, compact, like a lump of steel lodged beneath your ribs. Anxiety. Pure. Silent.

Your phone vibrates on the coffee table. You reach out without thinking, mechanically. A missed call. The screen briefly lights up your face in the darkness. It’s your job. You were supposed to start at 4 a.m. And you didn’t go. You stay motionless for a moment, your thumb frozen above the screen. A voicemail awaits. But you don’t open it. You don’t need to hear it to know what’s in it. Reproaches. Anger. Maybe a thinly veiled threat. You know the tone. You’ve heard it enough to anticipate its every inflection. You take a deep breath. The air in the apartment is warm, almost stifling. It clings to your skin like a tension you can’t shake off.

Should you call back? Pretend there was an emergency, lie, come up with some flimsy excuse just to save face? Or… should you let it go entirely? Own it. Accept that you’ve turned a page, even if you haven’t completely closed the book yet. Your hands tighten around the phone. You’ve never done this. Walked away from a job like this, without notice, without telling anyone. Even a job you hate. Even when you had every reason. There was always that underlying guilt, that fear of disappointing, of ruining the little bit of stability you’d managed to hold onto. But today… it’s different.

Today, you took a leap. You sent your project. You got a reply. And in just a few hours, you have a meeting with Tony Stark. Not an interview with an HR rep tucked away in a windowless office. No. Stark. In person. You slowly let your head fall back until it rests against the couch. Eyes closed, you feel the tension in your neck, your shoulders. The world feels silent. Suspended.

You’ve made your decision.

Time moves slowly but surely. The hour approaches. The one where you’ll have to get up, get ready… and face what’s coming. The interview. The meeting. Stark. You stay seated in the silence, the phone still beside you, its screen black but ever-present. It doesn’t vibrate anymore. It doesn’t need to. The countdown is ticking in your head, inexorable.

A few feet away, Peter is still asleep. His breathing is steady, calm, like a metronome ticking in another reality. You watch him for a moment, curled under the blanket, hair tousled, jaw slack. He seems so far from the world you carry on your shoulders. You envy him. Not just his sleep, but his ability to detach. To breathe. You haven’t shut your eyes. Since your phone buzzed that night, you’ve been there, awake, staring at shadows and the red digits of the clock.

You finally get up, slowly, as if your own body resisted the motion. The floor is cold under your bare feet, drawing a slight shiver from you. Every step awakens a muscular tension you hadn’t yet noticed. Your back is stiff. Your legs heavy. You move in silence, short of breath, as if you were afraid of waking the world.

You push open the bathroom door. The harsh light of the neon assaults you for a second, forcing you to squint. Then, automatically, you turn on the water. The hot jet hits your skin with a reassuring violence, a controlled burn. Steam fills the space quickly, stifling but almost comforting. For a few seconds, you close your eyes. You try to let the water carry away the anxiety, the waiting, the doubts. Just the water, and you. Nothing else.

But it never lasts long. Your gaze lowers, slides over your chest, your stomach, down to those familiar marks. Old traces. Some discreet. Others less so. You know them by heart, even if you pretend to forget. They’re there, etched in. As if your body had become the mute echo of your story. You run a hand over them, mechanically. A slow, almost gentle gesture that feels more like a check than care. You want to make sure they’re still there. Or maybe that they’re still there. Proof that everything you’ve been through didn’t vanish with a snap. You look away. Nothing really disappears. Not even under the shower.

The water keeps flowing a few more seconds, beating against your shoulders in a monotonous rhythm. Then you turn it off, reluctantly, and step out of the stall. Steam has fogged up the room, drawing blurry halos on the mirror above the sink. You grab a towel, wrap it around yourself, then wipe the mirror with your hand.

You freeze.

Your face appears in fragments through the steam, as if you weren’t entirely there. The circles under your eyes are deep, purpled, hollow. Your eyelids are heavy, your complexion dull. You look drained. Almost fragile. Your expression doesn’t show fear, not directly, but it’s there — lurking in the set of your lips, in the tension of your jaw. You sigh heavily, then grab your toothbrush. You force yourself into a routine, to keep your hands busy, to drown your mind in the banality of daily gestures. Toothpaste. Brush. Repetitive motions. Rinse. Dry. Look away. Pretend. When you finally step out of the bathroom, shoulders still damp and nape warm, the apartment’s silence feels heavier than it did when you woke up. Peter is still asleep, wrapped in the blanket, unaware of the storm tearing you up inside.

You softly open his closet door with a discreet creak. Not enough to startle, but enough to make you feel the weight of every move. You’ll have to look the part. Not perfect. Just… credible. No shapeless sweatshirt. Not your exhausted-student clothes. Something that says, "I’m serious." Even if you’re only halfway there on the inside. You skim over the hanging clothes, the soft fabrics, the clean laundry scent. A dark gray t-shirt, simple. A white button-up shirt, slightly oversized but clean. Black jeans, not too worn. You lay them out on the bed and put them on carefully, as if the slightest wrinkle could shatter the illusion. You adjust the sleeves meticulously. Always cover the arms.

You breathe a little deeper, but your heart speeds up. You feel it pounding against your ribcage, as if it’s trying to snap you out of it. This is it. It’s no longer a distant idea. Not a fantasy. You’re dressed. You’re ready. You’re just a few heartbeats away from something that could change everything you know.

The interview awaits. Stark awaits.

The outside air grips you the second you step through the door, brisk, almost biting against your skin still warm from the shower. You inhale deeply, but the chill doesn’t soothe the turmoil pulsing in your chest. If anything, it sharpens it. Each breath stirs up that dull anxiety, coiled just beneath your skin. The street is deserted at this hour. Shutters still drawn, shop windows dark, even the birds seem to be waiting for the day to truly rise before they start singing. You walk with measured steps, but your mind races. Every sound, every rustle of fabric, every footstep echoing off the pavement jostles something inside. You feel like you’re overheating, like an engine running too hard down an empty road.

The solitude is absolute. The world seems frozen, suspended in silent anticipation, while you walk toward something far too big. Uncontrollable. A void you dug yourself by sending that email. You try to breathe slower, but your throat stays tight. Your heart pounds. You haven’t eaten. You barely slept. And you feel it in your legs, in your temples, in the way your fingers curl deep into your pockets.

What if it goes badly? What if he realizes you’re not good enough? That you were just a blip in his overloaded schedule? That you’re nothing more than a name among others, a decent but forgettable project?

You cross an avenue, the light still red for cars, but the road is empty. The city’s silence becomes almost oppressive. As if it’s watching too, holding its breath. And then you see it. First from a distance, blurred by the lingering mist above the rooftops. Then clearer. More massive. Stark Tower. It rises in the middle of the skyline like a blade of glass and steel planted in the city’s heart. It catches the first light, reflects it, dances it along its façade like a futuristic beacon. It’s stunning. Imposing. Proud. It doesn’t need to say “this is where everything begins.” It demands it. Silently.

And you, a tiny figure in the still-sleeping streets, wonder if you even have the right to approach. That world — polished glass, silent elevators, futuristic visions — is it meant for you? Or did you just sneak in by mistake, like a stowaway on a bullet train? You don’t know. But now, it’s too late to turn back.

You swallow, throat dry like paper. You inhale deeply, eyes fixed on Stark Tower’s smooth façade. You’re here. Right in front. There’s no more escape route. No excuse left to back down. The choice is made. You walk forward.

As you push open the glass doors, a blast of cold air wraps around you, sharp enough to feel like it cuts your skin. The interior hits you at once with its contrast: spacious, silent, bathed in a clear, artificial light—almost clinical. Everything is perfectly ordered, symmetrical, spotless—to the point where you fear you might break something just by breathing too hard. The polished black marble floor vaguely reflects your body, distorted, unstable. You barely glance at yourself, but you can feel it—you don’t belong here. You’re not part of this place. Your soles tap softly with each step, a quiet sound but enough to make you feel like an intruder. The echo of your discomfort.

Behind the front desk, a woman briefly lifts her eyes. Auburn hair pulled tightly into a high ponytail, calm face, professional, focused. She's already back to typing before you've even reached her. Her fingers dance across the keys with surgical precision. You stop right in front of her. Half a second of silence. You're searching for your words. Her name tag catches your eye. Virginia "Pepper" Potts. And your heart jumps. Because you know who she is. Everyone does. CEO of Stark Industries. Responsible, brilliant, untouchable. And you? Just a kid in a borrowed shirt, heart pounding in your chest.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The air seems blocked in your throat. Sharp and dull anxiety crushes your chest. You freeze a second too long, your gaze drifting, uncertain. It's only when the woman behind the desk looks up again that you manage to pull yourself together. Her steel-blue eyes briefly scan you, and in a single glance, it feels like she reads everything you're trying to hide—your nervousness, your doubt, your exhaustion. She blinks slowly, calm and methodical.

— "Do you have an appointment?" she asks in a soft, yet perfectly assured voice. Each word articulated with flawless clarity. No hesitation. Just the certainty of someone who’s used to controlling everything around them.

You swallow with difficulty, your heart beating too hard against your ribs. Your fingers tighten around your bag strap despite yourself.

— "Yes…" you finally whisper. "With Stark."

Her expression freezes for a second. A faint line appears between her brows. She lowers her gaze to the screen in front of her, types a few keys, then slowly looks up again.

— "I don’t see anything scheduled on his calendar for this morning."

You feel the blow like a physical hit. Your ears ring. Your throat tightens. It takes one second for doubt to creep into your mind like a cold blade. Your stomach twists. Was it a mistake? A test? A cruel joke? Your voice is weaker when you speak again.

— "I… I got a message from him. Last night. He told me to come at ten."

She stares at you, unreadable. Just enough surprise to suggest she’s wondering, but nothing hostile. Then, with a quiet sigh, she picks up the phone beside the keyboard. Your heart pounds harder. You straighten slightly, tense, as if your body wanted to retreat without your permission. Every second that passes stretches the wait absurdly.

— "Tony?" she says after a short pause. "I have someone at reception claiming to have an appointment with you." She gives you a neutral glance. "He says you messaged him last night."

The silence that follows is terrifying. She listens. Says nothing. No words escape from the other end, and yet every fraction of a second feels like it pushes you closer to the door. You stare at a spot on the counter. A blemish, a flaw in the polish, a faint flicker of light. Anything but meeting her eyes. Anything but facing the possibility of a misunderstanding—or worse, rejection.

If Stark denies it. If it was a trap. If she hangs up and politely asks you to leave… then what? Pepper slowly nods, focused, still silent. She listens with perfect neutrality, but you barely notice the slight relaxation in her shoulders. An almost imperceptible sign. Then she gently places the receiver back on its base, adjusts her blazer calmly, and folds her arms in front of her, chin slightly lifted. Her lips press into a professional, resigned pout.

— "Very well. He’s coming down."

Those few words fall like a verdict. Neither warm nor hostile. Just factual. But to you, it’s a breath of air you hadn’t realized you were holding. You inhale deeply, finally, but the tension in your body doesn’t ease. It’s rooted too deeply to vanish so quickly. You nod in thanks, unable to muster the strength to speak. Pepper watches you for another moment. Not harshly, nor with pity—but with that sharp, precise look reserved for unexpected variables. Like she’s evaluating the risk you pose. Like she’s still trying to figure out why you. You don’t hold her gaze. You lower your eyes, palms damp, shoulders slightly hunched. You don’t want to face in her eyes the doubt you’re already dragging like dead weight.

So you stay there. Frozen. Waiting. The lobby is a well-oiled clock. Everything here moves with precision, orchestrated. Employees walk past you without more than a neutral glance, if any. All walk briskly, files in hand, earpieces in place, their steps echoing softly on the immaculate marble. Their faces are focused, confident, perfectly at home. You, you’re static. A foreign silhouette, soaked from the morning rain, still a bit rumpled from a sleepless night and fear. You feel like a misalignment in a clinical tableau. And then, a sound. Light, but distinct. The hum of metal mechanisms, taut cables. The elevator doors open.

And he’s there.

He crosses the lobby with that innate ease that seems to absorb all the space around him. His stride is fluid and resolute, like he’s never doubted a single step since birth. He wears a pristine black t-shirt beneath an anthracite blazer—fitted, casual without ever being careless. A pair of sunglasses rest nonchalantly at his collar, as if tossed there without thought, yet perfectly in place. Around him, the atmosphere barely shifts. The employees carry on, used to his presence. As if he were part of the walls. Of the very structure. His eyes scan the lobby briefly before landing on you. His gaze lingers, a flicker of recognition crossing his expression. A faint, enigmatic smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

— "Well, look who found the front door."

His voice is calm, slightly amused, but you can’t tell if he’s joking or already sizing you up. Your stomach knots violently. The last time you saw him was in his office, late in the evening, just after you’d rushed to finish your project. You still remember his critical gaze, his sharp remarks. The fear of messing up, the gut-wrenching stress. And now he’s here, in the flesh, a few meters away. You freeze. You don’t know whether to respond, laugh, apologize, or just flee. Your hands are clammy, your heart pounding too hard, and your brain running on empty. You’re not even sure why you came. Did he really ask you to? Or is he here to tell you you should’ve never crossed those doors?

Pepper Potts cuts in, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched, her tone as cold as it is professional.

— "Tony, is it true you scheduled an appointment with him? Because nothing in your calendar mentions a meeting this morning."

You sense her annoyance. Not at you—hopefully—but at the man who once again imposes an exception to her meticulous order. Tony just shrugs, nonchalant, still focused on you. He offers Pepper a vaguely contrite smile without losing an ounce of confidence.

— "Technically, yes. But not officially. You know I like to improvise."

He turns fully toward you, and this time, his gaze grows more serious. And you? You’re still standing there, in the middle of a hall that wasn’t built for you, facing a man who embodies everything you’re not. The moment hangs in the air. From here, everything can shift. Tony stops in front of you, eyes scanning you head to toe with a gaze both piercing and casual, making you feel like you’ve been X-rayed. A half-smile returns to his lips, almost mocking, but not truly cruel.

— "You look more stressed than an intern asked to bring a double-shot espresso, no sugar, high pressure…" He squints, tilts his head slightly. "Relax, it’s not an interrogation."

His tone is meant to be light, almost reassuring, but in your mind, every word echoes like a test. A hidden trial in an innocent sentence. You want to say something, even a joke—anything—but your body won’t follow. Your muscles are taut like electric cables. Your shoulders stiff, your jaw clenched, your heart racing uncontrollably. Tony sighs, glances up at the ceiling like he’s used to seeing candidates frozen by panic, then makes a vague gesture toward the elevators.

— "Come on. If you stay planted there any longer, someone’s gonna hand you a courier application."

And without waiting for an answer, he turns on his heels and walks away with an easy pace, almost nonchalant, as if this was all just a formality.

You stay there for a second longer, frozen, before your eyes shift to Pepper. She's still standing behind the counter, tall and poised, studying you with that unreadable expression—somewhere between distant curiosity and polite suspicion. You can't tell what she thinks of you, and part of you prefers it that way.

So you lower your eyes, inhale slowly, and force yourself to move forward. One step. Then another. And you follow him. The elevator is spacious—almost too much for just the two of you. The silence inside is clinical, amplified by the soft hum of the motor vibrating beneath your feet. You stand upright, arms at your sides, your damp hands clenching the seams of your pants. Your eyes stay locked on the glowing panel, hypnotized by the slow-climbing red numbers. Every floor passed brings you closer to the unknown, yet time feels like stretched rubber about to snap.

Beside you, Tony Stark leans against the wall with perfect ease. Arms crossed, phone in hand, he's scrolling through something with his thumb, completely at ease in a space that only tightens around you. The silence lasts, heavy, until he breaks it without lifting his eyes.

— "So... sleep well?"

You turn slightly toward him, one eyebrow raised. The question is so unexpected it almost pulls a nervous smirk from you. You shrug, unable to say more.

— "Not really..."

He nods, faux sympathy written on his face, before replying in a tone almost too innocent:

— "Shame. You looked like you were getting some solid rest during my conference."

You grit your teeth, just enough for your jaw to clench. He doesn't even look at you, but his smile—you can feel it. It doesn’t hit hard, but it’s clearly a test. To see if you react. If you break. You inhale discreetly, then reply with forced calm:

— "I’m trying to forget."

A quiet chuckle escapes him. He still doesn’t lift his eyes, but his smile stretches just a little.

— "Good. Because I forget nothing."

You freeze, his words spinning for a second in your mind. Is that a threat? A joke? Both? You don’t know—and the worst part is, he knows that. A sharp beep cuts the air, making you flinch slightly. The doors open slowly onto a floor bathed in natural light. The contrast is jarring. A glass ceiling, sleek furniture, screens embedded in the walls—an environment that reflects Stark: functional, futuristic, and intimidating. He slips his phone away in one smooth motion, as if everything is perfectly timed. Then, without a glance your way, he strides ahead, his voice echoing in the cold corridor:

— "Alright... let's see what you're really made of."

And you, still rooted there, have no choice but to follow. You step into Stark’s domain, and the space swallows you whole. His office is just like the man himself: vast, bright, and chaotically brilliant. The room seems alive, constantly humming with movement. Wall-mounted screens blink with encrypted data streams, 3D renderings, and lightning-fast calculations—a language you barely understand. On the workbenches, polished metal and glass fragments assemble in silence, half-machines, half-art pieces, ideas in gestation. A subtle but omnipresent technological buzz fills the air, like the breath of a beast that never sleeps.

Stark crosses the room with the ease of someone entirely at home—because he is. He doesn’t speak to you. Doesn’t look at you. He simply walks ahead without turning around, sure you’ll follow. And you do, of course. A few seconds later, with a tilt of his chin, he gestures to a modern chair placed in front of his desk.

— "Sit."

His voice is calm, almost distracted, but the effect is immediate. You obey without question, sliding into the seat silently, muscles tense. Your back stays straight like a rod, nearly rigid, and your hands latch onto your jeans out of reflex, as if gripping the fabric could anchor you to reality. The stress doesn’t leave you. On the contrary, it seeps into every breath. You’re sitting here, in a place you never thought you’d approach, facing a man who seems both unreachable and terrifyingly real. And still, you can’t help but feel out of place. Like you crossed a forbidden line. Across from you, Stark collapses into his chair with a theatrical sigh, as if he just ran a marathon even though he only climbed a few floors. He props his feet on the desk’s edge, reclining into a posture so relaxed it’s almost comedic next to your own stiff frame. He looks like he’s got all the time in the world. You’re counting every heartbeat—and each one screams a single thing: don’t screw this up.

The stress doesn’t leave you. On the contrary, it seeps into every breath. You’re sitting here, in a space you never thought you’d come near, across from a man who seems both unreachable and painfully tangible. And despite all that, you can’t help but feel like an intruder. Like you’ve crossed some forbidden line.

On the other side, Stark slumps into his chair with a theatrical sigh, like he just ran a marathon even though he only climbed a few floors. He props his feet up on the edge of his desk, sprawling into a posture so relaxed it borders on comical, in sharp contrast to your stiff demeanor. He seems to have all the time in the world. You, you’re counting your heartbeats, and each one screams the same thing: don’t screw this up.

— "So, then…" Stark laces his fingers behind his head, sinks into his seat, and fixes you with his sharp gaze. Not mocking. Not hostile. Just... piercing. As if he’s trying to decipher every micro-expression on your face. As if he’s searching for what you’re hiding inside.

You hold his gaze for half a second, then look away. It’s too much. You feel heat rise in your cheeks, anxiety sneaking into your already tense shoulders.

— "You get why I brought you here, or do you want a hint?"

His voice is light, almost sarcastic, but it cuts through the air like a fine blade. You swallow hard. Your thoughts blur, your brain spinning uselessly in search of an answer that won’t sound arrogant or desperate. It takes you a few seconds too long before you mumble:

— "To see if... I have potential?"

A silence. Then Stark raises an eyebrow, a flicker of irony in his eyes. He nods slowly, like he’s approving a half-right answer on a pop quiz.

— "Not bad. That’s what I wanted to hear."

He straightens slightly, his feet landing back on the floor in a smooth motion. The interview has truly begun.

— "Yesterday, I gave you one hour. Just one."

He activates the screen built into his desk, and with a quick gesture, pulls up your animation. There, in front of you. Like a moving verdict. You hold your breath. The digital wrist animates, reaching forward. The protective fluid envelops it, pulsing softly, hugging its shape. You know every frame, every color choice, every hesitation. And yet, in this moment, it feels like you’re seeing it through his eyes. And you’re not sure you like what you see. Stark watches. Silent. Your heart pounds. Too loud. It feels like it could drown out the low hum of machines in the room. He could say anything. Everything could tip now — one word, one sigh, and it all collapses.

Then he laughs. A short breath, somewhere between sarcasm and pure irony. He doesn’t even look away from the screen when he says:

— "You expect me to be impressed by that? Seriously?"

The words hit you like a slap. Cold. You feel your stomach clench, your fingers tightening around your pants. You knew it wasn’t perfect. You knew you could do better. But to have it thrown at you like that… You swallow a reply, a word, a breath. You say nothing. Stark continues. He tilts his head slightly, thoughtful, and expands the animation with a quick swipe. The image spins, pivots, breaks down from different angles. His fingers tap the desk mechanically, almost absent-minded, but his eyes never leave the motion. He says nothing. He assesses. The atmosphere freezes. You don’t dare breathe.

— "Hm."

Just a sound, barely uttered, but it snaps like a verdict. There’s something dry, annoyed in his tone, something that leaves no room for interpretation: he’s judging. And he’s not convinced. You feel sweat bead at the base of your neck. The back of your t-shirt sticks slightly to your skin. Stark suddenly straightens, forearms on the desk, his face now serious. No more casual attitude. He stares at you with brutal intensity.

— "Alright. Let’s be honest."

You swallow.

— "You call that a clean animation? Seriously? You think I’m gonna give you gear, access, a seat in my building — when you hand me a render where you can still see the seams?"

You stay silent. Paralyzed. Every word he says punches you in the gut. You open your mouth, a defensive instinct, a reflex, but he raises a hand to cut you off. Precise. Sharp.

— "Look here."

He points at the screen, zooming in on a sequence you know by heart. And yet, at this moment, it feels foreign, sloppy, like a child caught red-handed.

— "The compositing’s off. You see that? It’s floating. The fluid drifts too far from the arm. And here..."

He slides his finger to shift the timeline.

— "Your timing’s stiff. No breathing. You go too fast, then too slow. It lacks flow, rhythm. You’ve got an idea. Sure. But an idea’s not enough."

You clench your fists on your thighs, nails digging into your jeans. You feel exposed. Taken apart piece by piece under the cold light of his critique. And what kills you is—he’s right. You know it.

— "Let me guess," he goes on, leaning back with a tired sigh. "You figured, ‘I’ve only got an hour, so I’ve got an excuse for a half-baked render.’ Right?"

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. That’s exactly what you thought. And he just pinned it, like he looked inside you. He shakes his head, clearly disapproving.

— "Bad strategy, kid. I spot that crap from miles away."

His eyes lock on yours, razor-sharp.

— "You wanna work with me? You do the work. I want precision. Guts. Not a lost student patching things up between two insomnias."

You take a deep breath, but it’s painful, trembling. You feel tiny in this chair. Like the floor might open beneath you any second. And still… you stay. Because despite everything, you’re here. Because he still called you in. Because maybe, just maybe, there’s something behind his words. You wait for what’s next. Because you’ve got no other choice. His eyes stay locked on yours, unyielding. He doesn’t even blink. This is a test. A real one. Not just a jab. He wants to see if you can take the pressure. If you’ll melt or hold your own with some dignity.

You swallow your pride, clench your jaw tighter, then lift your chin. Your voice stays low, but you fight to keep it steady, controlled.

— "I did what I could with what I had..."

A sarcastic glint flashes instantly in Stark’s eyes. He pulls that half-smile that can make a room laugh or crush you like a bug.

— "Oh yeah?" He leans forward a bit, arms crossed. "So if I give you real gear, what’ll you give me? A miracle?"

You inhale slowly. The tension spikes, but you refuse to back down. Your pulse pounds in your throat, a surge of adrenaline warming your temples. He’s pushing you — and strangely, it brings clarity.

— "I don’t think I’d pull off a miracle, no." You hold his gaze. Your voice steadies, almost in spite of yourself. "But I’d rework a lot of elements."

He tilts his head, slightly intrigued. Not mocking. Not yet. Just... curious.

— "The animation lacks fluidity, yeah. Because I worked in full 2D. My computer couldn’t handle more. I had to make do."

Stark doesn’t move, but one eyebrow rises a millimeter. He’s waiting.

— "If I’d had a proper machine, I would’ve used a 3D simulation. Physics-based. Played with viscosity, weight, collisions with the skin. Made the material feel alive."

Your voice no longer shakes. You’re not justifying. You’re explaining.

— "And I would’ve worked on lighting — not just cheat layers with shadow masks. Real texture. Dynamic reflections. Not what I patched together with three preset effects."

Silence. You don’t move. You meet his eyes, your heart still beating too fast, but with a new spark. The kind that says maybe — just maybe — there’s something worth defending. Stark says nothing. He taps his finger gently on the desk, eyes still on you, looking thoughtful. He’s listening. And that, in itself, might already be a victory. You feel the momentum shift. That you’ve caught something in his gaze — curiosity, a tiny opening. So you go on, letting your voice follow the thread of that possibility.

— "It’s true I couldn’t optimize everything in an hour. I didn’t polish every frame, didn’t fine-tune the textures or adjust all the timings... But the core is there. The idea. The intent."

Stark lets out a dry chuckle, barely more than a breath, shaking his head, amused despite himself.

— "So what you’re telling me is, you’d have made a masterpiece if you weren’t working with a toaster?"

You crack a smile without meaning to, shoulders lifting in quiet resignation.

— "Pretty much."

He squints. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just attentive. He watches you for a few seconds, like trying to read past the static. To gauge what’s behind the tremble in your voice, the fatigue on your face.

— "Hm. Interesting."

He turns slightly, his eyes falling back on the animation still looping on the screen. Arms crossed. And for the first time since you walked in, he’s quiet. Observing. Analyzing. The air has shifted — still tense, but less hostile. He’s not testing you anymore. Not right now. He’s thinking.

You remain silent, your breath caught in your throat, hanging onto the slightest reaction. You feel like you’re suspended over a void, fingers clenched onto a table far too smooth to offer any real grip. Then he takes a deep breath, straightens slowly, and his gaze locks back onto yours. This time, it’s clear. He’s made his decision.

— "Alright."

He clasps his hands in front of him, elbows resting on the desk, his face neutral again—but not cold.

— "I won’t lie to you, kid. I’ve seen way more impressive stuff than this. People with golden diplomas, stacked portfolios, and state-of-the-art tools."

He pauses, letting his words hang in the air.

— "But I’ve also seen people with all that… and zero instinct. No fire. Just polish. Emptiness."

He leans in slightly, his eyes gleaming with something sharper.

— "You worked with nothing. And you still managed to create something that tries to say something. So… yeah."

A small smile, discreet but real, pulls at the corner of his mouth.

— "I’m giving you a chance."

You freeze, breath cut short. His words echo in your head like a truth you can't yet believe. He’s not joking. It’s not a trick. Not an illusion. It’s real. An opportunity. A foot in the door you thought was locked forever. Stark leans slightly back against the desk, his gaze still locked on yours, more serious now.

— "A chance. Not a job. Not yet."

His tone sharpens, precise like a blade.

— "You’ll work on a bigger project. With my resources, my tools. And if you manage to produce something decent with all that… then we’ll talk."

Decent. The word snaps like a whip, brutally simple. He’s not offering favors. No charity. Just a trial. A full-scale test. You don’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified. It’s dizzying. It’s no longer an abstract idea, a rushed animation: it’s tangible. Real. And now, you’ve got no excuse.

Stark tilts his head slightly, waiting for your answer.

— “So? You in?”

You feel your throat tighten. You could still hesitate. Still hide behind fear, behind the “what ifs.” But you know the moment is now. It’s now or never. You swallow hard, then finally exhale, your voice a bit hoarse, a bit tense.

— “I’m in.”

A discreet smile flickers across Stark’s lips. He stands up without another word and starts walking to the back of the room. You get up instantly, following on unsure feet. He stops in front of a clear area, distinct yet close to his own desk. He gestures toward a perfectly arranged workspace, lit by natural light filtering through a large bay window.

— "Good. Come here."

On the table, a cutting-edge computer, massive screen, powerful tower. Next to it, a professional graphics tablet, high-end design accessories. It’s an altar for creators. A space you’ve only dreamed of, seen on magazine pages. Stark taps the edge of the desk, like saying: your move.

— "Here’s your space."

He gestures briefly toward the brand-new high-tech desk. The giant screen waits like a blank canvas.

— "Try to make it worth it."

He turns around, arms crossed, and stares. He hasn’t lost a shred of his natural authority. The air still hums with intensity from the conversation, and you can feel that what comes next will be decisive.

— "Now let’s talk about the project."

His voice cuts through the silence like a fine blade. No small talk, no detours. The atmosphere shifts. He sizes you up, top to bottom, almost clinically. As if assessing exactly how much you can give—or waste.

— "Listen closely, kid, because you’re going to have to prove I didn’t waste my time on you."

You nod slowly. Your pulse pounds in your throat, but you don’t look away. Stark’s focus is total, almost suffocating. And you know there won’t be a second chance. He steps toward his own desk, pivots slightly on his heels, and positions himself in front of you. Arms crossed, shoulders relaxed—but his gaze is razor sharp. He waits until you’re perfectly focused. You instinctively freeze, hanging on his every word.

— "What I’m going to ask you…"

He lets a silence linger, long enough to make you tense. A strategic void, just enough to raise the stakes.

— "…is not a college assignment. Not an exercise. Not some project where you throw in two cool effects and ambient music to fake depth."

He tilts his head slightly.

— "It’s a real test."

You feel adrenaline spike in your veins. Your brain kicks into overdrive, already trying to guess what he wants. But nothing leaks. He lifts a hand and taps a small embedded panel in the desk. A beep sounds, followed by a soft click, and one of the wall screens lights up. The interface is dense, overloaded with data layers, incomprehensible code, and technical renders. Schematics float in 3D, slowly rotating. You recognize only a fraction, but the whole thing is overwhelming. Almost intimidating.

Then, at the center of the screen, he points to a model. A metallic glove. Gleaming, incomplete. Almost alive. He doesn’t need to say more for your mind to start making connections. The shape. The textures. This technology… it reminds you of something. Not a finished product. A sketch. A base. Somewhere between prototype and dream. Stark crosses his arms again and turns toward you. His gaze locks with yours.

— "You’re going to work on this."

He lets the silence stretch a second longer, like he’s forcing you to really observe the projected image. The glove turns slowly on screen, revealing exposed circuits, raw joints, zones clearly awaiting refinement. It’s not a finished render—it’s a lab. A prototype still in progress.

— "It’s a work base," Stark says, his voice breaking the stillness with the calm authority of someone who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. "A nanotech prototype I’m exploring. Not finalized. Just… promising."

He turns to you, hands in pockets, eyes sharp.

— "What I want from you is an animated modeling of its activation."

You frown slightly, already breaking the idea down. A basic animation? No. He cuts you off instantly, like he’s reading your mind.

— "Not a flashy effect. Not some stylized demo flashing lights everywhere like a teenage video game trailer." He lifts a finger, punctuating each word. "I want it to look believable. Physically logical. Organic."

Your brain snaps to attention. What he’s asking has nothing to do with school projects. He wants research, nuance, precision.

— "That means you’ll have to think like an engineer," he continues, suddenly slapping his palm flat on the desk. The sharp clap startles you. "As much as like a designer."

He stares, unblinking. The glove keeps turning behind him, like a clock already ticking on time you haven’t even started using.

— "If your particles react like a badly tuned smoke plugin, or if your shapes assemble without coherence, I pull the plug. Got it?"

You nod, throat a little dry, but you hold his gaze. Because you want to rise to this. Because you refuse to back down. But he’s not done. He straightens slowly, steps back, and says more casually:

— "Oh, and last detail: you’ve got three hours."

Three words. Three seconds. Three hours.

Your stomach knots suddenly, like your body wants to revolt before your mind even catches up. Three hours to conceptualize, model, animate, and make believable a tech process still in R&D? It’s borderline impossible. Stark doesn’t give you time to spiral.

He tilts his head, a wolfish smirk playing on his lips.

— "Scary, huh?"

You inhale deeply, slowly, like trying to hold back the adrenaline spike. Yes, of course it’s scary. But it’s a familiar fear. The kind that comes with real challenges. The one before every turning point. You look back at him, and even if your voice is low, it’s steady.

— "Yeah. But I’m doing it anyway."

Stark narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s filing that away. You slowly approach the workstation Stark pointed out, as if walking toward that machine means crossing an invisible line. The desk is clinically neat, but the gear on it takes your breath away. The computer looks pulled straight from a technophile’s dream: a massive tower with silent fans, accented by subtle LEDs, a curved screen with vivid colors, nearly unreal sharpness. You graze the desk’s edge with your fingertips, checking if it’s all real. The keyboard is mechanical, each key perfectly aligned, the mouse fits your palm with surgical precision. Nothing like your dented, sluggish old laptop.

Behind you, Stark leans casually on his own desk, arms crossed. He’s watching you, saying nothing, his gaze burning with restrained urgency.

— "Well?" he says, voice flat but firm. "What are you waiting for? The clock’s ticking."

You take a deep breath. Three hours. Not a minute more. Your fingers find the keyboard, your thumb nervously clicks the mouse. The interface explodes onto the screen. A constellation of pro-grade software appears: some you know, others… not at all. Even the module names spike your heart rate. You choose to launch a hybrid 3D platform—one you’ve only seen in cracked demos or YouTube walkthroughs. And then, everything accelerates.

The first few minutes hit like a shockwave. A technical and mental slap in the face. The machine responds instantly, but you're always a beat behind. Options overflow, renders appear in real time, each function hides a web of tools of which you only master a fragment. You open windows, test, close, reopen. A true labyrinth. Your heart is pounding, sweat beads on the back of your neck. Every click is an attempt, every shortcut a desperate hope.

You're both thrilled and terrified. The excitement of raw potential, of this power you've never had in your hands, clashes with the panic of not being good enough. You're in unknown territory, and the enemy is time. But you can't retreat. Not now. So you keep going, holding your breath, determined to make this environment your own. To turn this machine into an ally. You tweak the first shapes, drop the first simulation nodes. It's slow, hesitant, but each second teaches you. You start to see the logic. To improvise. To dare.

Three hours. Already slipping through your fingers.

You begin at the beginning: importing the raw glove model, the one Stark showed you a moment ago. The file is heavy, precise, every joint, every ridge modeled with near-clinical meticulousness. You insert it into the scene, adjust the scale, pause to observe the metallic curves frozen on the screen. Then comes the first real step: surface treatment. You choose a reactive texture — a material meant to change with light, temperature, movement. The idea is there: something alive, almost organic. You apply the texture. Launch a first preview.

And the result lands like a guillotine: rigid. Cold. Artificial. The material reacts poorly. The light bounces too evenly, reflections are flat, shadows inconsistent. You frown, tweak a few parameters, launch another render. Still lifeless. The surface looks hastily painted, like the glove was coated in shiny plastic. You mutter under your breath and try again. Switch shaders, adjust normals, implement a more dynamic reflection map. Revisit global illumination. Again. Still nothing. Every attempt leaves the image stubbornly dead. Pretty, maybe — but empty.

Frustration starts to crawl in, quietly. Your breath shortens, your stomach tightens. Usually you can handle this. Even on an old PC that lags past 300MB, you’ve always pulled through. You learned to tinker, cheat, optimize every detail to save your render last minute. And now? Now you have everything you ever dreamed of: a war machine, a screen that displays textures like they're real, a toolbox to make any studio jealous… And yet you can’t do anything. You stare at the massive interface, your mouse pointer gliding aimlessly through digital void. Every menu reminds you of your limits. Every new attempt, a dead end. Like being dropped into a race car without ever learning to shift out of first. You've got speed and power, but no control. And time erodes with every heartbeat.

Ironic, isn’t it? Finally in the right place, with the right tools… and you feel like you're drowning in your own inadequacy. You inhale slowly, fingers tightening on the mouse. You have to take back control. Breathe. Stop panicking.

Minutes slip away, sneaky. Ten. Then twenty. It feels like you’ve clicked a thousand times, opened dozens of tracks… for nothing. The model sits there, overburdened with clashing effects. You jump from software to software, desperate for a more intuitive interface, a magic tool to simplify it all. But each render gives the same verdict: it’s not working.

Your stress gnaws at your focus. Your hands tremble slightly on the mouse. You mutter to yourself, curse internally, start over again — and you know it’s off. It’s blurry, overloaded, almost gooey. Nothing responds right. Nothing looks how you imagined. Then, without warning, footsteps echo behind you. You freeze. Your shoulders tighten instinctively.

Stark.

He stops right behind you, his shadow stretching across your glowing screen. You feel his gaze pierce your work — cold, surgical. He says nothing at first. And it's almost worse than being interrupted mid-try. You don’t dare move. Don’t even dare breathe. Then, finally, his voice drops. Dry. Sharp.

— "Oh, brilliant."

You close your eyes for half a second, bracing for what’s next.

— "So in twenty minutes, you managed to crap out a pile of blurry, ugly pixels."

His tone drips sarcasm. And the worst part? He’s right. The render looks like a digital sketch vomited out by an engine too old for this kind of job. Textures are glitching, lighting is off, and the fluid meant to glide naturally across the glove surface has the texture of glowing jelly. Horrible. You grit your teeth, eyes locked on the screen. The humiliation rises to your throat. Stark leans in slightly, arms crossed, like an art critic facing an incomprehensible painting. His silence is almost theatrical.

— "Tell me… are you experimenting, or just pretending to work?"

He straightens up, raises an eyebrow.

— "Because if that’s your level of focus, I’ll save us three hours and spare you the shame."

His voice is calm — too calm. Each word hits the sore spot. He’s pushing you. The pressure’s unbearable. Your jaw tightens, breath shortens. The fear of failure clings to your neck like a cold hand. But you can’t crack. Not now. You grit your teeth. Hard. Do everything not to react, not to answer, not to show how much his words cut deeper than they should. But inside, it burns. Not at him — not really. At yourself. At your inability to master this damn software, your hesitant hands, your head spinning too fast and not fast enough. You want to do well. You want to prove you belong here. But every click feels like a mistake. Every attempt, a step closer to ridicule.

— "Come on, kid. Show me you’re more than dumb luck."

And with that, he turns on his heel. He walks away, not even glancing back, leaving you alone with the screen and a knot of anxiety lodged in your throat. You can still hear his voice in your head, mocking. "Ugly, blurry pixels." You want to punch something. Scream. But you do the opposite. You breathe. Once. Twice. Close your eyes. Place your hands flat on the desk. And start over.

You dive into advanced shaders. Explore dynamic fluid parameters. Test particle engines you’ve never touched before. You learn on the fly, line by line, slider by slider. You shift strategies. Stop trying to replicate an effect you know. Start building one you feel. The liquid shouldn’t just coat. It should reveal. Like armor that understands your body, follows its curves, strengthens without replacing. Time passes. You almost forget. After over an hour of brutal effort, something clicks. A smooth sequence finally plays: the glove begins to form, starting from a central point, spreading in a fluid, translucent material that hugs the hand, following each joint with almost organic precision. Reflections adapt to movement, light pulses softly — as if the material were alive.

It’s still raw. Still imperfect. But you’re holding onto something. Your heart pounds in your chest, this time with a mix of hope and defiance. You haven’t given up.

You take a deep breath and lean slightly away from the screen. Your eyes sting, your neck is stiff, your fingers still clenched around the edge of the desk. The render loops on repeat. It’s no masterpiece. You know that. But it’s alive. It’s coherent. And above all, it’s miles away from the chaos of your early attempts. You could almost feel relief.

But the sound of footsteps behind you rips that illusion of respite away. Stark is back.

He walks in slowly, arms crossed over his chest, face unreadable, posture as relaxed as ever — but each step he takes toward you feels like a warning. He stops behind your shoulder. You feel his presence like a weight, an invisible pressure, his gaze scanning the screen line by line. The animation keeps looping, the liquid flows, the gauntlet forms. You hold your breath.

Silence.

Then a dry chuckle escapes him. Sharp. Mocking.

— "You call that progress?"

A chill shoots down your spine. Your heart skips a beat. You expected criticism, sure. But not that tone. Not that contempt seeping under your skin. He gestures at the screen brusquely.

— "It’s better than your pixel mess, I’ll give you that. But it’s still ugly. Stiff. Predictable."

His finger almost grazes the screen as your work loops beneath his eyes. He then turns toward you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that almost makes you look away.

— "What did you do here? A cleaner version of your first attempt?"

You open your mouth. You want to explain. Say you’ve never had access to equipment like this, that you’re just now learning the tools, that it’s a miracle you even pulled this off in just over an hour. But he raises a hand. Sharp. Final.

— "No."

One syllable. And everything crumbles.

— "Not enough. Start over."

He doesn’t raise his voice. He’s not angry. But in his voice, there’s finality. The kind of uncompromising tone you don’t argue with. Not here. Not with him. You freeze for a second. The screen keeps looping. Your work keeps looping. But inside your head, everything’s stopped. He just told you to redo it all. Erase everything. Start from scratch. Stark stays put for a few more seconds, arms still crossed, eyes locked on you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s waiting. Not for an answer — for a reaction. He wants to see what you’ll do. If you’ll take it. Or fold. If you’ll sulk like a kid, or lift your head like someone who’s still got something to prove.

You say nothing. Not a word. But inside, you’re burning. Frustration rises to your throat, a brutal tension ready to snap. But you breathe slowly, deeply. You clench your jaw, swallowing your pride, your fatigue, your fear. He won’t let you settle for "not bad." And you know it. What he wants is excellence. What he wants is to see how far you’ll go when you’ve got nothing left to lose.

So you start again.

Your desk becomes a battlefield. Sheets pile up around you, scribbled with nervous sketches, arrows, diagrams. You redraw the fluid’s movement over and over, analyzing its behavior in transition, chasing that perfect moment when the material seems alive, in sync with the arm it wraps. You don’t even check the time. You work with rage, with method, with instinct. Each click sharper. Each effect tighter. The software you cursed an hour ago starts to obey you, respond to your pace. You’re not in control yet — but you understand it. Better. Faster. Stark circles back behind you regularly, commenting without mercy. His voice cuts, his remarks surgical.

— "Too stiff." "Where’s the personality?" "I’ve seen tutorials do better." "Trying to put me to sleep or is this meant to captivate?"

Each comment hits. Not because they’re unfair — because they’re true. And because they sting where it hurts most: in your need to do well. To be seen. To finally be acknowledged. But you hold. You don’t even look at him when he speaks. Sometimes you nod. Sometimes not even that. Not out of arrogance — because you’re elsewhere. On fire. Focused. Burning with a fierce will to get it right.

Two and a half hours. You’re no longer aware of your aching back, the sweat on your temple, your heavy eyelids. Your brain’s on overdrive. Adrenaline’s replaced panic. The fear is still there — alive — but it no longer paralyzes you. It drives you. It guides you. You refuse to fail.

Not now. Then finally, after one last tweak, silence settles. Something just changed on the screen. The fluid reacts. It wraps around the virtual arm with new elegance. No more stiffness, no more dead zones. It flows, contracts, solidifies with almost eerie coherence. It’s not perfect, no. But it’s believable. It’s alive. It works. And that’s when you feel it.

Stark moves closer, footsteps muted on the floor, until he’s just behind you. You don’t even need to turn — his silence is a presence all its own. He says nothing. Not a breath. He watches. And that silence… crushes you. You hold your breath. Your heart pounds so loud it might echo through the room. You don’t move. You don’t dare. Every tension in your body hangs on what he will — or won’t — say. He narrows his eyes. Leans in. Zooms. Zooms out. Replays the animation. Slows it down. Observes. He rotates the simulation from every angle, searching for invisible flaws, a detail you missed. Arms crossed. Analytical stare. Meticulous. Ruthless.

Your work plays: three hours condensed into a few seconds of animation. Three hours of doubt, sweat, second-guessing, furious persistence. It’s all there. You can’t change it now. And him… unmoved.

He steps back, straightens slowly. Fingers tap the desk’s surface in an irregular rhythm that grates your nerves. His expression unreadable. Not impressed, not disappointed. Just… elsewhere. Lost in thought. You want to speak. Explain. Justify your choices. But you know it’s pointless. Worse: a weakness. Stark doesn’t want excuses. He doesn’t care about intentions. He wants results. So you stay silent. And wait. Then, finally, Stark straightens fully. A faint, almost imperceptible chuckle escapes him.

— "Hm."

One sound. But from him, it carries the weight of a verdict. Your stomach knots instantly. You don’t know if you just passed… or only barely survived. He stands there a moment longer, eyes still on the screen. Then raises a hand and points to a specific spot in the animation.

— "I won’t sugarcoat it. It’s better than I expected in three hours… but it’s not there yet."

Your heart tightens. You don’t know if that’s praise or warning. He moves to the screen, adjusts the interface, zooms in. The fluid slows, unfolds frame by frame.

— "Look here." His voice now sharper, almost surgical. "The dispersion. Still too stiff. Too linear. You can feel the simulation. You can see the math."

You focus where he’s pointing — and you see it now. Where you thought the transition was smooth, he spots a motion too uniform, too neat.

— "This thing’s supposed to be alive." He points again, a little more sharply. "Instinctive. Organic. And this? It’s just data slapped on a dead skeleton."

He turns toward you, and this time, his gaze offers no escape.

— "Tell me the truth. Did you really push your algorithm? Did you take a risk… or did you just code something safe, something that wouldn’t crash halfway through?"

Your throat tightens. You already know the answer. You didn’t go where you could’ve. You played it safe. Delivered a stable render. Clean. Predictable. You aimed for "good"… not "brilliant." And now, he sees it. Stark exhales, long and almost weary, then shakes his head in resignation.

— "That’s what I thought." He straightens, hands on hips, gaze fixed on you like a cold spotlight. "You went for safety. For efficiency. And left boldness behind."

You bite your cheek. You know he’s right. And it stings to admit it. He’s not yelling. He’s not angry. But his tone weighs heavy. He’s judging. Measuring. And you feel each second of silence as a box he’s either ticking… or crossing out.

— "So…" He lets it hang, just long enough to spike the dread twisting your gut. "Does this warrant me firing you right now?" A pause — your breath stops.

Then:

— "No."

You barely exhale. You’re not even sure if it’s relief. It’s a "no" that grates, a provisional no. Almost a warning.

— "Does it make me want to give you real work?" He turns slowly to you, arms crossed. His gaze fixes — hard. A silence. Long. Long enough for heat to rise up your neck.

— "Not yet."

Every word is a slap that snaps you awake. You didn’t fail. But you didn’t convince either. And here, in his world, that’s almost the same thing. Stark stares at you for a few more seconds, then something shifts in his posture. He stands straighter, shoulders easing slightly, and his expression changes. A different glint crosses his gaze.

— “Alright.” He taps the edge of the desk with his finger, almost absentmindedly.

— "Now let’s see if you can work under real pressure."

The tone drops. It’s no longer a question. It’s a statement. You lift your head slightly. He’s taking you further. He brushes a finger over the surface of his touch desk, and a new project opens on the central screen. More complex. More detailed. Lines of code, dynamic renderings, layout plans with annotated zones. This time, it’s no longer an exercise. It’s real. Something in development. And he’s just invited you to touch it. You raise your head, eyes locked on the screen. An inner click — fleeting but distinct. Is he… is he actually giving you a real opportunity? Not a formality test, not a pretext for humiliation. A real project. You force yourself not to believe it too much. Not yet.

But the screen speaks for him. And what you see is anything but trivial. Your focus narrows. This isn’t a practice animation, not a free imagination challenge. It’s dense. Structured. Lines of code intertwine with 3D visuals, each element paired with real-time data. A living, nearly autonomous system. At the center, a complex modular structure — something between a second skin and a flexible armor. You swallow slowly. This is real. An active development prototype. And you’ve just been exposed to this level. Stark gives you no pause. He slides a finger over the tactile table, and the modeling suddenly expands. The interface reorganizes itself, zooming in on a specific material section — a finer, more sensitive zone. He points to a highlighted diagram, where tension lines cross in an almost organic mapping.

— "This," he says without looking at you, "is one of the concepts we’re trying to stabilize. Next-gen adaptive polymer." He zooms in again, and you can see the simulated molecular structure deform precisely around a moving object.

— "In theory, it’s supposed to react to pressure and movement, cover a surface to reinforce it, protect it… without locking it." He lets the silence linger, then turns slightly toward you, a half-smile at the corner of his lips. "In practice?"

A raised brow.

— "Still buggy."

You slowly nod, trying to absorb it all. Your eyes scan the screen, analyzing without even realizing it. You don’t have all the keys yet. You don’t even know where he’s going with this. But you feel, in the very air around him, in the clipped tone of his voice, that he’s expecting something from you. You have no idea what. But this is no playground.

— "I want you to take what you’ve learned today and integrate it into this."

Stark nods toward the screen, then turns to you. His gaze is sharp, precise, inescapable.

— "Improve the material’s formation sequence. Give it coherence. Logic. I want an organic result, not a flashy plug-in demo."

He leans back against the edge of his desk, arms slowly crossing.

— "And this time, not three hours. Less."

A cold wave washes through you. Your heart skips a beat. You open your mouth, ready to protest, but Stark’s expression — firm, non-negotiable — shuts you down instantly. You already know nothing will make him change his mind.

— "How long?" you ask, throat dry, tight as a wire.

He glances at the wall clock, almost absentmindedly.

— "One hour."

Your brain screams. One hour? For a project of this level? Far more complex structure, layers of dynamic interactions, evolving textures… In one hour? He catches your panic, and a brief chuckle escapes him.

— "Scared?"

It’s almost a provocation. Almost an invitation. You clench your fists without even noticing. Of course you’re scared. You’re terrified. But he expects something else. He expects you to stand. To refuse to back down. You take a deep breath, your lungs protesting. And you lift your chin.

— "No."

Stark watches you a moment longer, then gives that trademark crooked smile. The one of a man who knows you lied… but respects that you dared lie while standing tall. And the clock, it’s already ticking.

— "Good. Then sit down and prove it."

His voice snaps like a starter gun. No motivation. No promise. Just an order. A challenge. You sit down at the computer immediately, breath short, temples pounding. Your heart beats in your chest like a frantic metronome. But you no longer have the luxury of listening to it. You have to move. Now. Your fingers graze the keyboard, hesitate for a split second, then start moving — cautiously at first, then faster and faster. You open the files, unlock the layers, load the textures. Your gaze analyzes, scans, memorizes the parameters already in place. Materials, tension points, particle systems. You dive in. The stress is still there, tightening your chest. But you convert it. Bend it. It becomes raw energy. Fuel. Your focus sharpens, almost clinical. Every second is a puzzle piece that vanishes if you don’t catch it in time.

You scrutinize every corner of the 3D model, eyes fixed on the screen as if trying to decipher its breathing. You observe the shape, the structure, the articulation points. The polymer must react like an organism: hug the arm, slide along the virtual skin, then settle without hindering movement. It’s all in the transition. In the balance between flexibility and resistance. You close your eyes for a moment. In the darkness of your eyelids, you try to visualize the perfect movement. You imagine it: a wave of material stretching like water, coiling like muscle, stabilizing like a second skin.

You reopen your eyes, grab a notebook from the desk and sketch rapid, instinctive diagrams. Waves of lines, arrows, impact zones. It’s not art. It’s a survival map. No time to waste. You launch the simulation. Apply a dynamic texture. Program reactions at contact points, adjust particle speeds, implement visual elasticity. You want it to live. To breathe.

The world around you disappears. You forget Stark, you forget the time. Only you, the screen, and this technical ballet that must execute flawlessly remain. Your fingers fly over the keyboard. Every click, every moved cursor is a life-or-death decision for the rendering. The mental ticking returns. It won’t let go.

Forty-five minutes. You inhale deeply, hold the air for a few seconds, then exhale slowly, as if to push the weight off your chest. This is where it counts. You feel the panic brush your fingertips, but you don’t let it in. You lock your mind. If the standard method doesn’t work… you’ll have to reinvent everything.

And fast.

You dive into the propagation parameters, recalibrating the algorithm to give it a more instinctive logic. No more rigid trajectories, no more imposed paths. You change tactics: instead of forcing the liquid to obey, you invite it to respond. To follow, to contour, to embrace the volumes. You tweak the repulsion rules, adjust response delays, implement a softer inertia in the motion dynamics. The first preview shocks you: for the first time, it flows. Literally. The polymer hugs the virtual arm, reacts to joints, even seems to hesitate before stabilizing, like living matter understanding what’s expected of it.

You refine the reaction in tension zones — inner elbow, wrist, tendons. Insert a micro-delay between movement and solidification, to simulate organic adjustment. Textures become more believable, rhythm more accurate. It’s no longer a demo. It’s a performance. Behind you, Stark has straightened slightly. You don’t see him, but you feel it. His gaze is no longer distant. It’s locked on your screen.

— "Hm… interesting."

Just that. Two words. But this time, no sarcasm. No smirk. He’s focused. He’s evaluating.

The clock in the corner of your interface glows red:

05:00.

Five minutes. Your breath quickens. Your heart pounds in your temples. You no longer feel your chair, or the room around you. Every tick is a countdown, a bullet ready to fire at your neck. You launch the pre-render. The final touches must be surgical. You tweak acceleration curves. Reduce latency between phases. Rework the incident light on the polymer surface — one spot too shiny here, a halo too rigid there. You correct friction zones. Refine the transformation cycle. Again. And again.

Your fingers blur over the touchpad. You’re not thinking anymore. You’re executing. The screen reflects your work. Living material, adaptive. Not perfect, no. But believable. Innovative. And above all: alive. Adrenaline pulses through your veins, each heartbeat hammering your temples in sync with the ticking numbers.

04:30.

You scan the animation, and suddenly you see it — a break, a glitch in the fluidity. A transition too sharp, too angular. It breaks the illusion. The movement snags, stutters. You dive into the interpolation curves. No time to hesitate. You tweak tangents, smooth the entry, round the exit. Your eyes catch the values, but your brain begins to blur the lines. You’re not thinking anymore, you’re correcting.

04:00.

Your fingers tremble. Your palms are sweaty. You barely breathe, suspended in a state of alert close to snapping. Your nerves stretch, every muscle drawn like a bow. And still, you continue. A cold pressure slides down your spine. You want to do well. You must do well. You inhale through your nose, deeply, banishing chaos from your mind. The silence behind you is total. No comment. No mockery. Nothing. And it’s worse than anything. Stark’s silence is the shadow of a raised blade.

03:00.

You adjust light reflections on the polymer surface. The material must react naturally. Not like brushed metal, not like digital gel — like smart skin. Your tweaks are precise, millimetric. But time is slipping away.

02:00.

Your breath shortens, choppy. Each click echoes in the room like a heartbeat. You press your lips together, eyes locked on the fluid’s contact points. The joint zones finally come to life. The flow moves coherently.

01:30.

You hear — no, you feel — Stark approaching behind you. His shadow slides silently across the floor. He’s there, standing, arms probably crossed, watching. Waiting. You can almost feel his gaze weighing on your neck.

01:00.

Final stretch. Your fingers speed up, your mind sharpens. You adjust activation rhythm: smoother transition, more organic propagation. You lower reaction latency. One-tenth of a second saved — a world of difference. The effect takes shape. For the first time, the polymer looks like it knows what it’s doing.

00:30.

You launch a final playback. The movement is fluid, believable. But your instinct screams: not yet. You readjust brightness, reduce particle overheating along the forearm. Tiny detail, invisible to untrained eyes. But not to his.

00:10.

Beads of sweat slowly roll down your back. Your gaze flickers between parameters and animation. It’s there. It’s ready. Almost.

00:05.

You inhale deeply, hands trembling on the keyboard. A moment of hesitation. Just one.

00:00.

You hit the final key. The render launches. The screen freezes briefly… then lights up. It’s done. You remain still. Your fingers slowly slide off the keyboard. Your arms fall limp at your sides, numb. Your breath is irregular, short, but you’re still standing. Drained, muscles burning. You didn’t break.

Behind you, Stark says nothing. He watches. His silence is abyssal. You feel his gaze glide over every pixel, every detail of the animation. You slowly turn your head, throat tight. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown either. He is… unreadable. You wait. Ready to take the blow. Ready to fall. But you know one thing: you gave it everything. The verdict lingers like a silent shadow stretching over you. The silence grows nearly deafening, heavy, suffocating. The air is thick in the room, saturated with tension. Stark doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen, dissecting every detail of the render with clinical precision.

You don’t even dare to breathe. The anxiety devours you from the inside, like a slow poison spreading through your veins. Every second feels endless, every tick of the clock on the wall echoes violently in your mind, louder than the beating of your heart. Your throat is dry, your hands still clammy, the stress climbing with every silence stretching between you. You feel like the whole world is hanging on this very moment. You’d like to break the silence, say a word, ask a question, even attempt a smile to ease the atmosphere, but you know it has no place here. Stark is a master of silence, and you’re just an amateur, frozen in anticipation of his verdict. If you interrupt him, even out of curiosity, he’ll make you pay for it. And if he’s not speaking, it’s because he’s weighing every detail, every particle of your work, looking for a flaw, a fault, a crack. Maybe even a problem you didn’t catch yourself.

So you wait. Not a word. Not a gesture. Just the kind of waiting that paralyzes your mind. You don’t even dare meet his eyes. You know he’s evaluating you, but you have no idea whether it’ll end in failure or a minor victory. The ticking of the clock keeps hammering through the room. Your thoughts race, panic slowly gnawing at you. This silence has become a silent judge, a ruthless witness to your rising anxiety. Then finally, Stark moves. But he still doesn’t speak. He leans in slightly, zooming in on a section of the render. He pivots, adjusts angles, scrutinizes, analyzes with an almost tangible concentration. He straightens, crosses his arms again, and stands there, still impassive.

The seconds stretch on. Still nothing. Still this endless waiting. You almost feel like time itself has stopped, as if everything is frozen around you in a moment of total uncertainty. You wait, eyes fixed on him, body tense, holding your breath, not knowing if this will be the moment he finally drops a devastating critique—or an unexpected approval. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Stark finally draws a deep breath, his gaze still fixed on the screen. He lets out a :

— “Hm.” that echoes like a gunshot in the empty room. That sound, as simple as it is, hits you like an electric shock. It could mean anything—or nothing. An affirmation or a pending critique, a veil of uncertainty that you have no clue how to interpret.

Your stomach clenches, tension mingling with frustration. That “Hm.” could just as easily be a positive note as a whisper of disappointment. And you have no idea which way it’s going. Stark keeps staring at your work without another word, making minor adjustments on the screen. He zooms into different angles, changes the lighting to examine how the polymer reacts. He still hasn’t looked at you. The silence thickens further, every one of his gestures underscoring his absolute calm—such a contrast to the storm in your head. His movements are calculated, meticulous, as if searching for the tiniest flaw. You feel every second pass, as if your entire future hangs on the decision to come.

Then finally, he speaks. And all he says is :

— “Not bad.”

That’s it. Nothing more. No compliment. No encouragement. Just a factual statement that hits like a slap, a breath slipping from your lips, but nothing more. You try to interpret it, but there’s nothing to interpret. Not bad. It could’ve been worse. But it’s certainly not good enough for him to be satisfied. The doubt stays, lurking, gnawing at you from the inside.

He straightens slightly, turns his head slowly toward you, and that’s when his gaze changes, when he assesses you again. His expression stays unreadable, but his eyes sharpen, as if he’s trying to understand something beyond the visible. He seems to be evaluating your reaction, weighing you.

— “…For a first attempt.”

It’s not even a compliment. It’s an observation, but a judgment disguised as a pseudo-praise. You feel disappointment creeping in, but you don’t have time to dwell on it, because Stark isn’t done. He points to a specific detail in the animation on the screen. You follow his gesture, your eyes fixing on the point he’s highlighting. A tiny flaw. Almost invisible to the untrained eye, but blatant enough for an expert like him. The polymer, despite its regained fluidity, shows a slight lag in the transition, a small dissonance in the motion that shouldn’t be there. Imperceptible to most—but not to him.

— “The reaction is smoother, that’s clear. But the timing’s still too mechanical.”

His words hit like a cold blade. You’re still not there. Not good enough. The stress morphs into additional pressure, a crushing weight on your shoulders. But he’s not wrong. That’s exactly how you feel too. It’s close—very close—to what he expects. But not quite. Not yet perfect. He narrows his eyes, a sharp look that seems to dissect every pixel of your animation.

— “And here…” He points again, his finger brushing the screen. “The particle dispersion lacks smoothness. It’s still a bit too forced. You tried to control it instead of letting the effect evolve naturally.”

Each remark echoes in your head like a hammer. You feel your ego flinch under the weight of his words, but you don’t budge. You take it—you’ve learned to. After all, you knew it wouldn’t be perfect. This is a first attempt, a first try under intense pressure. He’s right, of course. You know it. And you’re ready to learn from every bit of criticism. But he doesn’t stop there. After a long second of staring at you with that scrutinizing intensity, he pulls back slightly and sizes you up with a gaze heavier than ever. It’s no longer just analysis. It’s a test. He’s watching to see how you handle what just happened.

— “What would you do if you had more time?”

The question catches you off guard, freezing you in place without a ready answer. The voice in your head screams that it’s a trap, that every word needs to be weighed. You open your mouth slightly, surprised, before quickly collecting yourself. You know what he wants: a real answer. No excuses. No pretending. You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm, and reply, more confidently this time. “I’d try to optimize the dispersion so it better follows the motion dynamics. And I’d adjust the transition latency to make them feel more natural, more progressive.” You speak clearly, without rushing, hoping it’s enough to answer his question.

A silence settles. He doesn’t say anything for a second, but his eyes remain locked on you, as if weighing every word, every inflection in your voice. Then, slightly, he tilts his head, a faint trace of interest in his eyes. It’s neither approval nor rejection. Just observation.

— “Hm. So why didn’t you do that from the start?”

The trap. That’s when you feel the tension spike. It’s a loaded question, but you can’t hesitate. You know that. You swallow and think fast. This isn’t just curiosity—he’s looking for a real explanation. An honest justification. After a few seconds of reflection, you force yourself to answer, voice steady but direct.

— “Lack of time.” You shrug lightly, a trace of frustration in your posture. “I prioritized overall coherence rather than focusing too much on the details.”

You wait in silence, trying to decipher his expression. It’s the truth, after all. You didn’t have time to go further, but it wasn’t out of negligence. You made choices, necessary compromises to move forward. But is that enough for him? A heavy silence falls over the room. Then, as if making a simple observation, Stark exhales a faint nasal laugh and nods. A slight smirk tugs at the corner of his lips—barely there, but enough to make you doubt what just happened.

In a detached tone, he finally says, as if it were nothing:

— “You start work tomorrow. 8 a.m. Don’t be late.”

Your heart skips a beat. You’re not even sure you heard it right. What is this—a joke? Another test? You stand frozen, unable to react immediately, trying to understand what just happened. The idea that this moment might change everything hits you like a bolt of electricity. But at the same time, there’s no smile, no enthusiasm in the air. It’s just… a statement. A simple directive. You search Stark’s face, looking for any trace of humor or irony. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just that same disconcerting neutrality, that impenetrable mask.

Through the office’s bay window, the sunlight begins to fade, casting a golden and almost unreal glow across the room. The contrast between the warmth of that light and the weight of the moment hits you suddenly. You've crossed a threshold. You're starting tomorrow. Stark Industries. No going back. But then, why won’t that knot in your stomach go away? Why does this feeling of anxiety mix so tightly with the excitement? Because tomorrow, it’s no longer a game. It’s real.

And like a blow to the head, a new worry slams into your mind. Your housing situation. You need to find a solution—fast. Get your stuff back from Matthew. Leave for good. Because you can’t keep working here while crashing on Peter’s couch. That’s no longer sustainable. Stark clearly notices the mental space you’ve just spiraled into, and with a sharp snap of his fingers in front of your face, the sound jerks you harshly back to reality.

— “You planning to pass out now or wait until you’re out of my office?”

You shake your head lightly, like trying to clear water from your ears. You come back to yourself, but the weight of everything that’s just happened crashes down on you.

— “No, it’s just...” You search for words, but he doesn’t give you the time.

With a lopsided grin, just as arrogant as it is irresistible, he cuts you off.

— “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re overheating. It’s normal. Go home. Cool off. And be here tomorrow.”

And just like that, as if the conversation had only just ended, he’s already turning away, going back to his screens as if what just happened was nothing more than a minor blip in his day. But for you, right there, in that suspended moment, everything is shifting. This is no longer about survival. This is no longer just one of many options. Stark just handed you a chance, an open door—and you know you can’t let it close.

As you step out of Stark’s office, a nervous smile clinging to your lips, you nod lightly at Pepper. She raises an eyebrow, her expression a mix of intrigue and curiosity, before responding with a knowing smile. Her gaze seems to grasp everything you're feeling without a single word needing to be said. She must have seen hundreds of young people like you come through here, but today, there’s something different in your eyes. The air of the tower, usually so impersonal and cold, suddenly feels warmer. A little more alive. Every breath in this space feels a bit lighter, a bit more filled with possibilities. In a single moment, your life has just shifted.

You pull out your phone with a trembling hand, unable to hide the excitement pulsing through your body. You quickly type a message to Peter, your heart pounding in your chest:

"Beers tonight. I got the job!"

You hit send, then slide your phone back into your pocket, palms slightly damp. Lifting your gaze, you take in the city sprawling before you. New York, that vibrant, ever-changing urban jungle, finally feels within reach. Every street corner, every sound, every movement seems more familiar now, less distant. And for once, that feeling of disconnect, that strange sense of being out of place that’s followed you everywhere, starts to fade. You’re no longer just a spectator. You’re part of this world. And in this moment, everything feels possible.

The air is crisp, almost invigorating, laced with the distinct aromas of the city. The asphalt still warm, soaked in the fading heat of the day, blends with the spicy scents from food trucks parked along the avenue. Grilled smoke wafts upward, adding a salty-sweet note that feels like an invitation to get lost in the city’s nightlife. Lights begin flickering on all around you—neon signs blinking on building fronts, car headlights weaving a fluid dance. The storefronts bloom with light as dusk quietly takes over the street, casting shadows and splashes of color. The city comes alive as day slips away.

For the first time in a long while, you don’t feel like just a bystander. There’s this sensation, faint but real, that you’re moving forward. Not just through a draining daily grind, not just trapped in a stifling routine, but truly heading toward something new, something exciting. You’re no longer here to simply observe the city. You’re in it, fully, and for the first time, it feels like the world around you isn’t a wall—it’s a canvas. One where you can finally paint your own strokes.

[pigeonwbraces]

I way not be able to draw stuff for my au rn but I can make text posts! Sooo

KIDS PROBLEMS - AN AU EXPLANATION

In my au the Mansion acts more as a base of sorts Slender lives in it full time and has rooms for all his proxies but the proxies themselves don’t HAVE to live there and most actually choose not to instead opting to live all over the place Some stay in midrelm some live in normal town’s city’s abandoned houses non abandoned houses some live on the road and in their cars and many more places.

A lot of proxies also come from bad childhoods and are often nicer to the younger proxies because of this, many of the adult proxies find themselves adopting or simply just looking after the kiddie pastas as even tho they could leave them unattended they often know from experience how badly that can fuck a kid up just leaving them to fend for themselves in this sort of environment.

While yes most proxies try to give these kids somewhat decent lives all these characters have issues and these issues like it or not can have an affect on the children they look after.

So heres a post explaining SOME of the aus characters and what their problems are.

Sally: Sally is actually quite confident and okay with her past she used to see what happened as something to be ashamed of like she deserved it and as a result it made her hate her own body constantly covering up never accepting the idea of crushes or anything remotely romantic, but as she got older and after she fell under the care of Kate she began working out those issues accepting that what happened was bad but not her fault, she’s now a lot more confident she’s not afraid to wear more revealing things like tank tops or shorts without feeling ashamed of it, she’s a lot more open about romance and actually goes out of her way to learn about it to make sure she can spot red flags and green flags in relationships and help others from being potentially taken advantage of.

But no matter how hard she tries that fear that worry will never fully go away, she’s only 12 right now and has a long way to go in regards to fully healing, she feels awful for not being able to fully bond with and trust Tim Brian and Toby like Kate seemingly can and she knows they’re good people who don’t want to hurt her, but she’s always going to be worried not just for her sake but also Kate’s, as much as Kate tried to raise her in a loving environment they were living in a very physically unstable one, constantly moving worrying about money and safe places to sleep living in Kate’s car a good portion of the time. And Sally was there for all of it , She doesn’t want Kate to be in any risk anymore and that includes being cautious of her new roommates.

Nina: Nina was only 10 when her life was destroyed over the boy she thought she actually had a chance with, Jeff weather you like it or not is a bad person in this au, tho he didn’t start that way he was raised by very distant and selfish individuals who were more worried about their money and status than their own kids. Because of this Jeff thought Nina being obsessed with him was cool, he liked having a mini me who looked up to him and would do anything he said, so what if you can’t actually stand her and are just manipulating her to keep her around where else is she gonna go she killed her own parents to be here?

So yeah Nina while living with Jeff wasn’t doing so good Jeff was an asshole she was a child Liu just stood back cuz he didn’t wanna be involved and Jane hates her, for a good majority of her life she felt trapped with Jeff it was like walking on eggshells, she thought she’d be happier living like this but she wasn’t and it was only getting worse…until Nurse Ann got involved, Ann had fallen for a similar situation in the past and she knows how dangerous it can be so she ended up with a soft spot for Nina the more she realized her situation, so currently Nina has been taken in by Ann and Dr.Smiley it’s not much Nurse Ann tries to help but she is still a pretty mean person she’s encouraging Nina to be strong and take action against Jeff and not to let herself get hurt anymore but in the process is also making Nina more cold hearted she’s basically learning how to set boundaries with people but in a way that way to aggressive witch with Jeff would he understandable but this isn’t just towards him it’s with everyone.

Lazari: Lazari..is complicated, She finds herself hating herself she wants so badly to be a normal person but at the same time doesn’t feel like one, she hates being a demon and yet she finds comfort in all the demonic stereotypes she was told to hate, she’s lost in an angry confusion she’s both human and demon and angry at both halves of herself, the human side told her that it was a crime she was even born they locked her away and treated her like something to be ashamed of, and the demon half shows no remorse her father was nothing but evil in her eyes even Slenderman the demon that took her in has done such horrible things, she has always clung onto the idea that she could be a good person because she was half human and humans aren’t like demons right. But humans were the ones who gave her those scars on her back humans were the reason she’s now trapped as a Proxy because she knew if she didn’t she’d have nowhere else to go…she didn’t want to but the older she gets and the more she learns about demons the more she starts to decide that maybe she should give into them, embrace the stereotypes and be the demon all those humans had hated for so long, because at the end of the day demons are just animals trying to survive and she’s trying to survive to.

Ben: a lot like Lazari Ben also doesn’t feel human but he tends to show the most sympathy towards people because of this, as far as he’s aware he’s dead and lives on as some sort of tech based ghost and technology doesn’t feel emotions technology isn’t human, and neither is he. So he takes on the pain of his friends as no reason he should be bothered by it right yeah sure he shouldn’t care but they need someone to talk to and he’s the least likely to be bothered by their emotions to the point of it affecting his own emotions because well, he doesn’t have any he’s non human and so he doesn’t have emotions…or at least he keeps trying to convince himself, but the more he listens the more he learns the angrier he gets he hates the people who hurt his friends even if he’ll never admit it even if he’ll never admit that he actually does see them as friends, he cares about people he feels emotions but he doesn’t feel like he SHOULD even if he says that it doesn’t bother him and he doesn’t actually care and that he’s just a weird Ai ghost who can’t feel anything cuz he’s not real won’t change the fact that he was REAL he was a real kid who died he was a real kid who had his life taken away and doesn’t want to accept the fact he’s dead.

Ight that’s all I got so far there are a lotttt of characters and I could go on endlessly about who affects who and why characters act how they do and why so and so is friends with so and so but all this typing is giving me a headache 💀

[bearlyfunctioning]

Don’t panic ‘The Bear Minimum’ will still show up every now and again, just a lot less than it used to. This is a continuation of my thoughts on the comic I posted here last. I’m just not enjoying making art anymore, like -not at all- & it’s really getting me down. Art is an intrinsic part of my identity, so not wanting to do it feels awful. This reticence has been building for at least 4 years now & as of last year I have been acting on my desire to leave art as a career, before I burn out to a crisp. Please note this is the first time in a long time I am feeling mentally healthy & have the resources to go without my portion of our income for some time (while I try to get IRL work). So, I really need to seize this moment of security to make big life changes. Even if it means we’re going to have to tighten our budget a lot while I try to find work. Some of you may remember that I am attending school full-time for an assistant administration diploma, ideally to have a broad skillset to bring with me while job hunting. I’ll be graduating from that course at the end of May if everything goes as planned. I have been on a commission hiatus since the start of this year to put schooling in action, continuing only with the weekly comic & monthly Patreon exclusive work. This brought my monthly income down to 1/3rdof what it usually is, but that was all I could manage alongside fulltime school. Doing so much less drawing has been incredibly beneficial to my RSI hand pain! For the first time in years, I can go to sleep without restrictive arm braces & I don’t need maintenance from the physiotherapist. I honestly thought that was permanent so I can’t even convey my relief there! However, despite drawing a lot less, my love for making art did not return. I enjoy making comics, but they are a whole lotta line-art & that can be a very repetitive process. Being a comic artist has been extremely good for my growth online; to the point where I owe half or more of my current following to it. Some people don’t even know I draw other things, that’s how good their reach is compared to my other art. Despite that I am going to be taking the comic off schedule. Even if it means sacrificing most or all my Patreon income and kneecapping my reach on every platform. I’ve been making the comic 4 times a month, with little break for 6 years. It started as a good outlet for my thoughts & an exercise in consistency, as I had never had a schedule of any sort prior. Doing the comic weekly was a great lesson in self motivation, but no one is forcing me to continue with it other than me. Plenty of times the deadline came I didn’t have a good idea & just made something I wasn’t proud of, because it was income and because I had just done it every week for so long. If you don’t enjoy my non bear/comic art, then I suppose we’ll part ways. In the end I must do right by me though & I feel like this is the best choice right now. Patrons have been notified on what will be happening over there in their own post.

[subjecta5newtella]

some nalby for @mazerunner-rarepairs month - AU square

It’s late evening after a light post-season practice, and Alby and Newt are headed for the dining hall when Minho catches up with them. 

“Alby!” he calls, jogging over and blocking their exit from the soccer fields. 

Alby sighs. “What?”

“Three of the freshmen challenged Thomas and I to a scrimmage, and everyone else has already left.”

“I’ve already cooled down, I’m not going to start running again.”

“Aw, come on. Thomas and I could beat them two-on-three, but that’ll damage their morale.”

“Call someone else back, then. I’m done for the day.”

Technically, he’s done in general. He’s a graduating senior who doesn’t have to come to practice at all anymore, but as the outgoing captain, he still feels a sense of responsibility. And maybe he’s not quite ready to let go, but that’s another thing entirely. Still, he draws the line at getting all sweaty again because of Minho’s pride or whatever. 

In a stunning display of self-restraint, Minho concedes that battle, then turns. “Hey, Newt?”

“What?”

“If we all promise to go easy on you, do you wanna join?”

Alby catches the exact moment when something sparks to life in Newt’s eyes.

It’s probably a bad idea. Newt can run on his bad leg, but only short distances, and his ankle and hip both have a tendency to hurt the next day. The shift in his balance makes dribbling more challenging than it used to be—he can do it, but it’s not the simple thing it once was. Newt knows all that intimately, of course, but Alby also knows he misses soccer like nothing else, had spent an evening on the bathroom floor in tears between bouts of throwing up vodka on the anniversary of the day he’d been told he’d never play competitively again. He’s a student coach now, and a damn good one in Alby’s (admittedly biased) opinion, but that’s far from the same. 

“You’ll go easy on me, eh?” Newt says, with a smile that looks a little dangerous.

“Well, you know, it’s been a while, we don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to convince me to play against you.”

“Aw, come on. The freshmen are getting way too cocky.”

“Fine. But if you mention anything about going easy on me again, I’m betraying you and joining them.”

He hands his backpack over to Alby, who can’t help but say, “Be careful.”

Newt rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine.” He jogs out onto the field, managing his limp with relative smoothness.

Thomas does a little bit of a double take when he sees Newt joining them, but he drops back to take up a position on his right. He’d played right midfielder when he’d transferred to their school, before Newt had moved him to the left to cover a skill gap, and that combination of Thomas and Minho on their left flank had scored them the game winning goal in conference championships. 

It’s not just Alby’s biased opinion, really. Newt’s a good coach. He’s already gotten an offer to stay on next year as a paid position, and he’s probably going to take it, which means Alby needs to find a job here, even though neither of them have actually talked about that out loud. It’s the two of them. It’ll always be the two of them. 

A couple minutes into the scrimmage, Newt strips the ball from George and sends it up to Minho to do the rest of the running, and in that fast, fluid movement, Alby remembers the way he used to be. Starting lineup, number five, center forward. Quick. Vicious. Glorious. Other teams complained about facing him, and every time they did, Alby felt a stab of pride. People watched him, people admired him, but there were times when Newt would pull off something impossible and look back with a smile that was sharp and wild and beautiful and Alby had known it was for him.

Alby loves this version of Newt without question and he knows he will for the rest of his life, but sometimes it’s hard not to mourn the way things were supposed to be. It’s selfish, maybe. His life is not the one most affected. Knowing it’s selfish doesn’t stop him from feeling it sometimes, 

Newt’s alive, though, which is something Alby doesn’t take for granted, and in the present moment he’s celebrating Minho’s goal. It’s a little tasteless, maybe, but it’s also their first time playing together since sophomore year and they’ve already scored, so they might be entitled.

The game continues and Alby loses himself in it, watching the way Newt and Minho click back into being a solid offensive unit, how Thomas works well with the two of them even in a position that he hasn’t played in a while. It’s easy to forget that he and Newt have never actually played together. They’re a good team. They could’ve been a great one, but that’s the kind of unproductive reasoning Alby tries to shut down whenever Newt gets caught up in it, so he does his best to close it off within himself as well. 

After about ten minutes, Newt slows, then stops, mimes bowing out. He joins Alby on the sidelines as the others keep messing around, retying his hair as he does. “Can’t keep up with the youth anymore.”

“Hurt?”

“Nah. Just old. No stamina anymore.”

Alby’s not sure he believes that, because Newt’s barely even breathing hard, but Alby lets it go because he also doesn’t look like he’s in pain, either. He’ll take an excuse over a breaking point any day.

“You looked good out there,” Alby says, handing Newt’s backpack back to him. 

Newt gives him a sarcastic little salute. “Thanks, Captain. I was awaiting your approval.”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Newt says, then after a moment adds, “Thanks.”

Things will never be what they used to be. It’s a waste of time to pretend otherwise. But he has Newt, and Newt has him, and they’ll get through together. They always do. 

Alby laces his fingers through Newt’s, and they head off for dinner. 

[lostusagis]

Wooing Namida

( A drabble for my ship with @jiraipink )

Kamui had been staring outside the window of his ship, sitting silently. As Namida’s birthday got closer, he knew he had to do something really special for her. She did so much for both his, and Kagura’s birthday. She didn’t need to go so above and beyond, but she did without really wanting anything in return. Namida always did that for both of them. Which was why…. Kamui wanted to give her a special day as well. Especially since he had been so awful to her last year. His bandaged hand clenched into a tight fist, thinking about the things he said to her back then. He could only imagine how lonely she was feeling at the time too, she doesn’t have any family. She lived in the Kabuki district alone.

How did she feel that day when he was being so mean to her? Kamui didn’t think of any of those things back then, having been so irritated with her existence. Only wanting to spite and annoy her. He didn’t take her situation into consideration, he only saw her as a means of entertainment since pissing her off was funny to him at the time. But now…. She's so important to him. He didn’t want to piss her off the way he used to. Kamui liked being annoying at times, and teased her a lot, but it was harmless and he always made the effort to not take things too far. At least not anymore. Namida made him learn to watch what he says, and be more considerate of people’s feelings. Well, only her feelings. He was only considerate of her. Seeing her cry, and get upset made him feel hatred for himself. More than what he already felt. He couldn’t bear doing that to her. Not again. 

Kamui wanted to show her nothing but kindness and affection, the same way she showed it to him. The warmth, and kindness….. the happiness that engulfs him whenever they were together, he wanted to share that. Namida constantly made him act like a better person than what he was used to. Had they never met, he never would’ve discovered the value in having such a precious friendship with someone. She constantly made his heart race, put smiles on his face, would brighten up even the worst of his days…..

For a simple human, she had so much power. At least over him. 

So… he wanted to repay her for all of that. He wanted to make her the happiest woman ever on her birthday. Kamui wasn’t sure how to do that though, and there weren’t a lot of options with people he could ask for advice. 

Abuto…. definitely wasn’t an option. He constantly complained about the amount of money Kamui put into buying things for Namida, and how he avoided doing work when he wanted to spend time with her too. He’d probably just complain more if Kamui went to him, which would be really irritating.

Kamui sighs, using his index finger to draw the shape of Namida’s My Melody hairpin on the glass window absentmindedly. He then took out his phone, and came across an advertisement for Odd Jobs. 

‘’Oh, they’re able to afford advertisements?’’ Kamui mumbled to himself, looking over it. He contemplates for a bit, wondering if this was a good idea.

Should he…..? There wasn’t really anyone else. But that guy was a pain in the ass, just looking at him made Kamui want to smash his face in. 

After mulling it over for a while, Kamui caved. He dropped by Earth and visited Odd Jobs. For once, he opened the sliding door without sabotaging it. His gaze was greeted with his sister’s, who had been upside down on one of the sofas, on her phone.

‘’Woah, what are you doing here? You usually let me know when you’re about to visit.’’ Kagura asked curiously, sitting right up and crossing her legs. She noticed he looked more serious than usual. ‘’Are you okay?’’

Kamui immediately forced on a smile, ‘’Can’t your big brother just drop by for a visit?’’ The younger Yato gave him a skeptical look,

‘’Drop the fake smile, what’s up? I can tell when you have something on your mind.’’ Her chin rests in her palms, looking over at him. Kamui’s smile falters, as he plops down next to her.

‘’Namida’s birthday is coming up… so….’’ He’d stare down at the floor, with melancholy within his eyes, and Kagura could easily tell he was having doubts again. She bumps her elbow into his side slightly,

‘’Don’t look like that, whatever you do, I’m sure she’ll be happy. You’re really annoying when it comes to her, but I can tell she really enjoys being around you.’’ Despite Kagura’s words, Kamui still had the mindset that he had to do something extravagant. Worry finds itself on her face, seeing him look so down. ‘’Why’d you come here though…. if you’re worried about her birthday…?’’

‘’Wanted to ask that samurai for advice.’’ Kamui finally looked up and turned to her, ‘’Where is he?’’

Kagura’s eye twitched, ‘’Advice…? From Gin-chan? Are you sure?’’

‘’You guys do Odd Jobs, right? So I figured advice about how to make a girl happy would count as something like that.’’ He fiddles with the end of his braid, looking away. He had been skeptical about this himself, but didn’t really have any other options.

‘’Why don’t you just ask her to be your girlfriend? That’ll make her SUPER happy.’’ Kagura partly mumbled,

‘’Huh?’’ Kamui didn’t fully hear her, looking back over at his sister confused but she smiles and feigns ignorance.

‘’Nothing! Nothing at all!’’ She turned on the TV, ‘’Gin-chan is out getting snacks right now, he won’t be back for a bit. Soooo, let’s watch some anime!’’

‘’Is that my netflix account?’’ Kamui would ask, but Kagura loudly coughs and quickly switches over to crunchyroll. Her brother was glaring at her as she decided on an anime to watch. Eventually picking something involving spies, assassins and telepaths. 

About an hour later, the sound of the door could be heard and Kamui was immediately on his feet and eagerly greeted Gintoki with a grin. ‘’Hey there mr. samurai!’’

Gintoki was startled, backing up the minute he heard that obnoxiously cheerful voice. ‘’What the hell do you want?’’ He walked past him to put down the bags in his hands on the table in the living room. Kamui followed suit,

‘’Oh, oh, I wanted to ask if you could…. do a job for me?’’ Eagerness filled those bright blue eyes of his, meanwhile Kagura was going through the bags on the table looking for the cookies she asked for and immediately started snacking on them.

��’A job? For you?’’ Gintoki sits at his desk, arms folded behind his head as he’d think for a few seconds. ‘’Hmmm, nah.’’

Kamui persistently goes up to his desk, pulling out his wallet. ‘’I’ll pay. Either that or I’ll beat you senseless. Pick one.’’ The cheery smile on his face only made his words all the more unsettling. Gintoki grumbles under his breath, taking the money once Kamui pulls it out of his wallet and slips it into his kimono.

‘’Fine. What do you want me do?’’ He didn’t even make an effort to hide his disinterest, since he couldn’t stand being around Kamui. But that didn’t seem to bother the Yato in the least. Kamui was grinning ear to ear, hoping advice from him would be beneficial in making Namida happy.

‘’I want to make Namida happy for her birthday. So I wanted advice on how to do that.’’ When the older Yato asked that, Gintoki just looked at him then over at Kagura as if silently asking ‘’Are they dating yet, or what?’’ with a dumbfounded look. 

Kagura understood and just shook her head, silently mouthing ‘’No, because he’s a fucking idiot.’’

Gintoki sighs, sitting up straight in his chair. ‘’Why don’t you just sleep with her, Kamui? I’m sure it’ll make her very-’’ His words were cut off by Kamui grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, tightly holding him up with a pissed off smile.

‘’If you don’t take this seriously, I’ll hurt you. Really badly.’’ His grip tightens, making Gintoki struggle to breathe more, ‘’Also, if you say anything perverted about Namida… You will seriously regret it. She’s extremely important to me. I don’t want to have sex with her, I just want her to have a really nice day. Got it?’’

He didn’t get a response since Gintoki was barely able to speak, but Kamui at least let him go. Albeit, by tossing him to the floor. Kagura felt it was well deserved and just minded her business. Her fudge filled cookies were a lot more interesting right now. She was really tempted to leave given that she knew this entire thing would be a cringe fest. Plus, it just grossed her out. She didn’t want to know what lovey dovey crap Kamui and Namida would end up doing. 

Gintoki groans, struggling to stand, using his desk for support. It was going to be a long ass day for him. ‘’Date. Take her out on a date then.’’ He hoped that answer would suffice for Kamui.

‘’Date…?’’ Sapphire hues blink curiously,

‘’Yes. Dates can make a girl happy.’’ The minute he was told that, Kamui’s face lit up. He figured he could request a fake date with Namida on the day of her birthday, and basically give her a day off too by making the day all about her. 

‘’Okay! Tell me what I can do on a date that’ll make her happy then! I’ve never been on one of those before!’’ Things like that didn’t even interest him to begin with, at least until he unknowingly fell in love with Namida. She made him grow interested in things he didn’t even consider beforehand.

‘’You could use pickup lines on her.’’ Gintoki leans his cheek into his palm after sitting back on his desk, ‘’Say the right ones and it’ll have them swooning.’’

‘’Oooh, what are… pick up lines? Like… what are we picking up?’’ Kamui had zero experience when it came to this, so…. he wanted to know every bit of detail possible.

‘’You don’t pick up anything dumbass, look I’ll give you an example-’’ Gintoki was interrupted by Kagura clearing her throat,

‘’As much fun as it would be to overhear two guys saying pickup lines to each other, I think I’m going to head out because I’m already nauseous. I’ll be with Soyo-chan, goodbye love birds.’’ What Kagura says immediately pisses off both of them, which was her goal before leaving.

‘’I think I’d have better standards than a complete psycho like this guy, I feel bad for Miss Big ti-’’ And a punch was immediately launched at Gintoki’s face, Kamui cracked his knuckles after. 

‘’She has a name. I told you to not make any perverted comments about her.’’ The glare he gave the samurai would be enough to terrify even the scariest of Amanto. Gintoki clutched his bleeding head, letting out a groan.

‘’Fucksakes…..’’ He was wondering why Kagura just had to have the most violent of family members. Kamui was worse than his father. Especially since he probably meant it when he threatened to kill him. Although, getting pissed over Gintoki making perverted comments is awfully hypocritical. Since he had seen the way Kamui looks at Namida when they come over sometimes. The Yato wasn’t very subtle when it came to looking at her chest, but even if they’re just friends… it seems Namida was already claimed. Gintoki really does pity her. Especially since Kamui seemed very possessive. He shuddered over what could have happened had the Yato discovered that brief time Gintoki blatantly checked out the girl. Must be lucky she didn’t rat him out for that. Gintoki would be dead. A puddle of bloody mush on the floor. She probably wasn’t in her right mind anyway if she befriended Kamui though. But, he was curious…..

‘’Wait, Kamui. What kind of….. friendship do you have with this girl?’’ Gintoki leaned his cheek into his hand, looking up at him from his desk, the joy that showed on the amanto’s face after he was asked that question made the samurai immediately regret asking.

‘’We’re really, really, REALLY good friends! Best friends actually! See? Look at this, we have matching bracelets!’’ Kamui held up his wrist, showing the bracelet that said ‘best’ that rested over the bandages wrapped around beneath it. ‘’She has the one that says ‘friends’ because we’re best friends, she gave it to me for my birthday! But that’s not all!’’ His excitement was really overwhelming, and annoying. He kept going on and on, speaking so quickly.

‘’I always visit her when coming to Earth! We do all sorts of things together. We cook together, play video games together, we cuddle together, kiss, hug, hold hands, bite each other and-’’

‘’Enough. PLEASE!’’ Gintoki finally interrupts, towards the end it was sounding less like friendship and more like lovers. He gave Kamui the most annoyed of looks, ‘’You really are a fucking idiot.’’

‘’Eh? How? I was just answering your question.’’ No logical thought in sight, he probably really only thought about this girl night and day. 

‘’You kiss her and bite her, and can say you’re just friends?’’ The nod Kamui did made Gintoki pinch the bridge of his nose, realizing how out of touch the guy was with anything that wasn’t violence and murder.

‘’She makes really cute sounds when I do either, and it just… makes me want to do it over and over again.’’ He couldn’t stop gushing over her, feeling warmth and uncontrollable joy from the thought of Namida alone. Gintoki only continued to understand Kagura’s disgust with every waking moment he was forced to witness this.

‘’I see…. so you get turned on then.’’ When he said that, Kamui gave him a look. As if it touched a nerve. It made Gintoki want to mess with him, ‘’C’mon Kamui, even if you’re an idiot… you’re still a man all the same. She’s made you turned on a bunch of times before, right? Did you get hard during all those times you spent with her?’’ 

He got the reaction he wanted because Kamui immediately started choking him with the collar of his shirt again, ‘’Drop the subject. I came here for advice not for you to bring up perverted crap about me and Namida.’’ the way he got so defensive and pissed off was basically revealing that what Gintoki said was true though. When he was released, the samurai had to do his best to hold back the smug grin threatening to show on his face. It was really easy to get on Kamui’s nerves, which made messing with him all the more funny.. 

Despite the truth to it, Kamui was really embarrassed over every time that kind of situation happened. It was not something he wanted to talk about with Gintoki of all people.

‘’Right, riiiiight. Advice to make your ‘best friend’ happy. Gotchaaaaa.’’ The advice about sleeping with her would have been beneficial in Gintoki’s opinion, given the amount of clear sexual tension between them. But, it seems that was crossing the line despite everything else they did. 

While he was contemplating what kind of advice, Kamui went into the bags Gintoki brought earlier to eat some of the snacks. Then went into his fridge and grabbed a carton of his strawberry milk too to go along with it. Fudge cookies, and strawberry milk.

‘’Hey asshole older brother, you don’t live here. Stop making yourself at home.’’ Although, everytime he said that, it went through one ear and came out the other. Kamui even had the audacity to sit on his desk too. 

‘’Hurry up. I don’t have all day.’’ Didn’t listen to a single thing Gintoki said, given the way he’s stuffing his face still. Crumbs everywhere. No consideration. Worst family ever. The most frustrated of noises came out of Gintoki’s mouth. He decided to just get this advice crap out the way and quickly get him out of here.

‘’Alright, alright.’’ He scratches the back of his head, pondering how to even begin. He looks Kamui up and down, studying him for a few moments thoughtfully. Then an idea came to mind, ‘’Oh. Why don’t you dress differently? In a way you know would make her really happy.’’ 

The suggestion was really vague and made Kamui turn his head to look at him confused, still chewing on the cookies. ‘’What do you mean? Dress how?’’

The samurai stood up, walking around to face him and kept thoughtfully looking at him, cupping his chin. ‘’Hmmm, well…. I think-’’ He only slightly touched Kamui’s braid before his hand was then being violently crushed under the Yato’s monstrous grip.

‘’Don’t touch my hair.’’ Kamui blankly blinked up at him, putting down the box of cookies, 

‘’Ow, ow, ow, fuck! I was just trying to explain that she’d probably like it if you wore your hair differently is all- Fuck! LET GO!’’ The pain practically had the samurai on his knees, but after explaining it Kamui smiled.

‘’Oh! Okay, I get it! So…. you think she’d like if I wore my hair down?!’’ He hadn’t let Gintoki go yet, ‘’She always calls me pretty after all. She’d probably like that a lot! What should I wear with that style?’’

The samurai was whimpering on the floor in pain, praying to the buddha who had forsaken him. ‘’T-T-Tux….’’ He managed to sputter out in between his agony. ‘’G-Girls… l-like… men in…. tuxedos….please…. let me go before you crush my hand…’’ the tears leak down his cheeks.

Kamui stared at him while he begged to be released, unfortunately the Yato found it really hilarious and kept doing it for a bit. A mix of revenge and just him enjoying Gintoki’s pain. When he did let go, the samurai let out a relieved sigh feeling his hand throbbing afterwards. When he so miserably stands up, he just mutters under his breath.

‘’How does miss big tits keep this guy in check? Seriously.’’ Although, Kamui heard that very clearly and punched him for that comment, making him crash into the wooden floor.. 

‘’What did I say? Kagura’s not here to protect you, so watch it. She might come home to a corpse if you’re not careful. The plot’s not here to protect you anymore.’’ Kamui would smile threateningly, getting closer and closer to standing by his word everytime Gintoki said something perverted about Namida.

Gintoki glared at Kamui from his spot on the floor, sitting up and wiping the blood from his bleeding face. ‘’Well, if I’m dead. You won’t get help with your problem.’’

Kamui clicked his tongue and looked away annoyed.

‘’Speaking of which.’’ Gintoki stands up, and sits back in his chair. ‘’Let’s talk more about the date. I mentioned pick up lines earlier, right?’’

‘’Uh huh.’’

‘’Basically… you just gotta say something that’ll make her heart race. Make her blush and swoon. ‘Namida, your lips look so tempting. It’s so hard holding myself back’ or something like that.’’ For some reason, hearing Gintoki say that really pissed off Kamui. Having imagined Gintoki being the one saying it to Namida, instead of him. That wasn’t the samurai’s intention but he wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp now.

‘’Maybe wink at her too after saying something that really gets a good reaction out of her.’’ That suggestion put Kamui off, finding something like that embarrassing.

‘’Women find that appealing?’’ He would ask that, although if Namida had done it to him… he probably wouldn't mind it. 

‘’Depends who’s winking at them. Drunk, creepy perverts? No. Pretty boys? Probably.’’ 

‘’Drunk, creepy and perverted… Oh, you mean like yourself?’’ Kamui would say smiling, making Gintoki wish he’d burst into flames. ‘’What, did you try this out and fail miserably?’’

‘’You should be a little nicer to your sensei, Kamui. I’m trying to help you out with mi-’’ He paused before he used that nickname he gave Namida again, seeing the Yato already cracking his knuckles again. He fakes a cough, ‘’I’m trying to help you out with Namida. Your best friend. So… respect me more.’’ 

‘’Please remember I’m restraining myself from breaking every bone in your body right now, Mr. samurai.’’ The words come out cheerfully, despite the murderous thoughts going through Kamui’s mind. He wondered how his sister lived with this guy, she had more patience than he did for sure.

‘’I don’t have to help you.’’

‘’I also don’t have to let you remain alive, yet here we are. Do I need to put you through some more torture for you to get the message?’’ Kamui stepped closer, and that seemed to intimidate Gintoki enough to stop joking around. Holding up his hands to stop him.

‘’Okay, okay! Have a sense of humor.’’ He huffs, then taps his index on his desk. ‘’Anyway, back to what we were talking about. Say something really cool and charming, then drop the wink and I’m sure she’ll be swooning.’’ 

Gintoki was trying to figure out an example, thinking maybe that’ll help. He stood up, and went to Kamui. Then took his hand, and went on one knee putting on his most charming grin. ‘’You’re the most beautiful girl in all the universe. No planet I’ve been to has ever had someone as remarkable and as unique as you. Namida.’’ 

Kamui immediately snatched his hand away and immediately punched him again in retaliation, disgust on his face. ‘’Don’t ever use me in your demonstration again.’’

Gintoki hissed in pain when knocked against his desk, ‘’I was showing an example you bastard! I’m trying to be helpful and you keep resorting to violence!’’ Blood dripped down his nose as he barked at the other,

‘’Be helpful in a less gross way.’’ Being touched in such a way by anyone other than Namida, made his skin crawl. Only she could grasp his hand like that. Only she could be affectionate with him. No one else. Only her. Only. Her. He hated being touched without permission. It often happened when idiots had the balls to flirt with him. They either did not know who he was, or were just REALLY stupid. Sometimes both.

Gintoki seemed to be pushing it though, having wrapped his arm around Kamui’s shoulder as if they were close friends. Actively pissing him off more and more, ‘’Kamui. You need to be more open to touching too if you want to make her happy. Women like being touched, you know… here and there. Get what I mean?’’ 

‘’I get that I want to kill you right now for being so casual with me.’’ Kamui responds with an all too dangerous smile, but Gintoki ignores it, wanting to get his point across. He leaned close to his ear,

‘’Some groping might add a little spice to your date.’’

Silence settled within the room for a concerning amount of time, before Kamui started beating him without remorse. ‘’It was a joke! A joke!’’ Gintoki would yell in between getting punched and kicked. Kamui eventually stopped, breathing out in frustration.

‘’Asking you for help was obviously a mistake. Why would you suggest something so stupid? You thought ‘hey, this guy doesn’t know much about women so maybe I’ll trick him into sexually harassing someone really important to him’, right? You’re really hilarious.’’ Kamui at least knew that much, especially given the time he accidentally groped her before. He scowls at Gintoki and holds out his hand,

‘’Refund.’’ 

Gintoki was trying to recover, thankfully having gained endurance from the numerous times Kagura or Umibozu had kicked his ass. He holds a hand up, ‘’Wait, wait. Hear me out.’’

‘’You told me to grope Namida, I think we’re past that. Believing anything you say is too dangerous. You’ll make her hate me.’’ His bandaged arms folded over his chest, looking down on the samurai from where he stood. ‘’I came here because I wanted to avoid that. I constantly make mistakes that upset her. So I… wanted advice to avoid that but asking a bastard like you was the last thing I should’ve done.’’ Shoulders slumped as he frowned, looking away sadly. Kamui wished he had more options. He didn’t have any other people he knew that could help. Or maybe Abuto would have been a better choice, Kamui just didn’t want to deal with the tedious complaining that would come with him.

Gintoki however, ended up feeling bad. Seeing Kamui look like that came as a surprise. He looked genuinely remorseful. ‘’You know Kamui, I think you’re worrying over this too much. She probably would be happy with anything you do.’’

Frustrated fingers thread through his bangs as Kamui gritted his teeth, ‘’No. Just doing anything is not good enough! I want to make sure everything is perfect! I want to make sure I don’t mess up! I don’t want to make her cry anymore, and I don’t want her to avoid me like she did before! I want her to stay by my side, I don’t want to lose her! She’s really important to me! You don’t get it! I was also REALLY awful to her during her last birthday and NEED to make up for that after everything she’s done for me!’’ He was growing more upset to the point his voice cracked while yelling, feeling a tightness in his throat while trying to keep his emotions in check.

Gintoki was mulling over what to say, not exactly expecting to deal with Kamui in such a state. Kagura was probably better at this, since she knew him better. But she bailed. He leaned his head against the desk sighing.

‘’At the very least, try the date idea I gave you. Dates and all that are pretty normal when you want to have fun with someone. You can trust me on that.’’

Kamui looked at him skeptically, doubting everything he was told by him. ‘’Trust me Kamui.’’

‘’What part of what you told me today is actual advice I can believe?’’ 

‘’Everything except what I said about groping I guess.’’ The samurai shrugged, ‘’I guess that sort of thing would just work with courtesans or something.’’

Kamui rolled his eyes, ‘’If anything that you told me to do messes up our friendship, I’m killing you. That’s a promise. And not Kagura or that bald bastard will be able to save you. I’ll make it slow and extremely painful, making sure you suffer every second until you breathe your last breath. Got it?’’ That threat was enough to make anyone piss their pants. 

‘’Yeah, yeah….’’ Gintoki was nonchalant, exhausted from the constant beatings he had gotten while Kamui was here. ‘’If anything, try acting like the male lead in a shoujo manga. Those are really popular with women after all.’’

‘’I’ve never read Shoujo manga before though. They’re boring.’’ Kamui found no interest in reading about love. Gintoki found it pretty ironic that he hated the romance genre so much, yet acted like a lovesick yandere psycho.

‘’You could also…. act like an otome character too.’’ That suggestion striked a sudden reaction from Kamui, eyes slightly wide when remembering Namida talking about something like that. 

‘’Huh….’’ Although, Kamui doesn’t fully remember having thought the whole thing was stupid. There was some character from an otome that Namida really liked. She stopped bringing it up though. ‘’Acting like a character sounds…. really…. would that actually be appealing for her?’’

Gintoki waved his hand dismissively, ‘’I barely know her, so how would I know? Given your reaction, I’m guessing she’s into that stuff?’’

‘’She is. At least, she used to be. She hasn’t brought it up in a long time.’’ Kamui recalled making fun of her one time for it. He was feeling weary, stressing  so much over this, burying his face into his hands.

‘’How about you just teach me more of those pick up lines?’’ When he brought his hands down from his face, his cheeks were slightly red. ‘’I think at least… maybe… s-she’ll like that.’’ Kamui had a feeling he was going to have to push through a lot of embarrassment for this. He’s done things before to make her happy, at the expense of his own pride, solely because he can’t stand her looking sad or disappointed. He’d remember when he went to sanrioland for Kagura’s birthday, and saw how happy she was just because he put on that head band. His face was red the whole time, but he started to eventually forget about it seeing the look on her face. 

Kamui looked over at Gintoki who was rummaging through his stuff, ‘’What are you doing?’’ Eventually a dvd set was thrown at him. He catches it then looks at the cover, dread shows on his face.

‘’An anime about hosts? How will this be helpful?’’

‘‘Their whole purpose is to make women happy.’’

‘’Don’t they basically lie and play with women’s feelings to sleep with them though?’’

‘’Kamui, they’re not courtesans. What the hell did you think that cabaret club was that we have over here?’’

Kamui tapped his chin, ‘’Uh… Kind of just assumed it was similar to Yoshiwara. But I don’t really go to that place to begin with since I’m not interested.’’

Gintoki ran a hand down his face irritably, ‘’Just watch that anime.. Although, when it comes to looking for inspiration for your date… the tall, blonde guy is your best bet.’’

Kamui’s stare lingered on the dvd set, before going to the TV and slipping it inside. It seemed like the samurai was giving decent, trustworthy advice now so he’ll give the benefit of a doubt. Murder was still an option if the date went badly though.

After watching the dvd, Gintoki was helping him through gaining the same kind of charm as the character he told Kamui to look to for inspiration. Every second of every minute Kamui felt the utmost embarrassment from this.

‘’Just say it. Stop being a little baby.’’ Gintoki would encourage, meanwhile the Yato was as red as a tomato scowling at him before sighing and deciding to continue.

‘’P-Princess…. you look r-really… b-beautiful today.’’ The words came out somewhat like a mumble, unable to shake off the embarrassment. He’s never really gave Namida a nickname like that, nor did he know if she’d even like it. He always found nicknames like that to be extremely stupid and cringe.

‘’I can barely hear you.’’ Gintoki put his hand near his ear, then smugly smirked. ‘’You sound like a shy school girl.’’

That remark made Kamui want to smash his face in so badly as he glared at him. But he was actually being helpful so the Yato refrained. For now. ‘’P-Princess…. you look really beautiful today…..’’ He stammered less that time, and was more loud.

Gintoki clapped, ‘’Wooooah, you’re not completely hopeless. Good job.’’ He snorted slightly, trying to hold back his laughter since this was the same Kamui who was a huge threat three years ago.

Kamui was choosing to ignore the mocking since he was more concerned over the date with Namida. ‘’Princess, your lips look so irresistible and tempting. L-Let me k-kiss them over…and over again.’’ His face felt so hot, he really hoped this was going to please her.

‘’Hmmm….’’ Gintoki leaned his arm on Kamui’s shoulder, humming thoughtfully. ‘’You know, that line could probably hit better if you whisper it into her ear. That’ll make her swoon.’’

Kamui huffs from the close, unbearable contact yet endured. ‘��Really? Won’t that creep her out?’’ 

He’d hear a thoughtful hum from the samurai again, ‘’Good question, shall I show a demonstration?’’

It earned him an immediate kick in the shin, making him fall to his knees in pain. ‘’Fuck! Damnit Kamui! It wasn’t a joke, I’m trying to help you out here!’’

‘’You say a mix of helpful stuff, then extremely creepy stuff so I’m trying to figure out what I should or shouldn’t believe. Don’t whisper into my ear, that’ll make my skin crawl. I told you I don’t want to be part of your demonstrations.’’ The first time was enough. Despite him having been here all day, he didn’t consider Gintoki a buddy or anything. Just a nuisance who’s temporarily useful. 

Gintoki was wincing in pain from his shin being hit so hard, thinking it might be broken. ‘’Damnit…’’ He figured it was time to just end this, ‘’I think you’ve gotten enough advice for your date. Can you leave now?’’

Kamui tilted his head, ‘’Eh? That’s it?’’ He was expecting more, and was willing to put himself through the hell of dealing with Gintoki in order to get as much advice as he needed.

‘’Just… do the usual things you do with her too, and if all else fails. Sex is an option.’’ Gintoki shrugged, still feeling his shin throbbing in pain. Kamui stared at him, before smashing his face repeatedly into the wooden floors then promptly stomped out. Leaving him bloodied and bruised before leaving.

He’ll figure out the rest then, since this guy was USELESS.