#I may have forgotten stuff but here it is

[loquaciousquark]

DAI Update

I haven't forgotten Tav's BG3 playthrough (I have the pictures put together, just need to assemble the posts), but now that I've gotten through the first Solas romance scene, I felt the need to share some DAI screenshots to mark my progress.

This is Adahla Lavellan, electricity/spirit mage. She likes history and religious study and puzzles and, much to my chagrin, Solas.

She's got the vallaslin of Dirthamen (secrets, knowledge) and a hunger to understand the roots of major historical & legendary events. I'm still learning her as I play, but so far I know she's very self-assured and has almost no regrets; once she commits to a path, she lets go of wondering what else might have been and completely focuses on the decisions still ahead.

I've been trying to lean into the spy stuff mentioned in the prologue & in her codex. I know she was a foundling left with the clan at birth by non-elves, and she has a fascination with other cultures and especially with the various theologies scattered across Thedas. (I'm pretty sure she devoured every Genitivi text she could find growing up.)

While she does worship the elven gods, she doesn't disbelieve in any of the others; rather, she's deeply curious about finding ways where the elvhenan tradition and Andrastian tradition can both be true, or where the legends of the Old Gods and Tyrdda Bright-Axe might have overlapped at their religious root.

Her familiarity with these cultures made her the most suitable to represent the Lavellan clan at the Conclave. The mark is more of an exciting mystery to her than a painful burden, and though she does believe in the diplomatic efforts of the Inquisition and is firmly comfortable in her place leading the charge against Corypheus (since he wants to kill specifically her), she's secretly most invested in the Inquisition's acquisition of ancient texts, access to libraries, and uncovering of secrets. For her, "Inquisitor" is a decidedly literal title.

Romance stuff under the cut.

I was very unsure of how the Solas romance would go with a character like her. As @silksieve said, I'm coming at the romance from the wrong end; I already know who Solas is and yet know literally zero of the romance structure. I needed to create a character who could survive a heartbreak, and I think I've done that, but I'm fascinated to see how the intermediary beats shake out.

However, the romance ended up sparking naturally due to lovely happenstance. I've been keeping Solas in the party almost constantly so I can learn to like him, which meant he was present as I worked through all the astrariums and ocularums in the Hinterlands, the Storm Coast, and most of the Emerald Graves. (Yes, even here, I'm still a completionist.) This led to a nice bit of headcanon that Adahla & Solas worked through a lot of the star puzzles together, which meant that later in the Graves, when I stumbled upon one without Solas in the party, Adahla & I both had a moment of seriously missing him and wishing he was there.

It felt natural, therefore, to examine (logically and methodically) why she was missing him so much, and after bringing him a copy of the unsolved map so she could watch him solve it and judge the number of tries it took him, I think she realized she was growing interested in more than his stories of Fade wanderings and legends out of time.

Considering this whole relationship started with him being grabby and rude while she felt like death, I'm amazed they've gotten this far. She may not have always liked him, but she has always respected him, and I the player was surprised at how smooth the change in her opinion felt.

Also as a player, I'm still a bit unsure of Solas myself. I like the deep wealth of history and knowledge he provides, but there's a...a sort of rigid pride to him that I personally still find off-putting. As I mentioned on stream, I'm going to need to see some chinks in the armor to really buy into the romance in any major way. Plus, he's just so...blandly designed! I dunno. Bald, beige, and a boring dresser? I know this is a me thing, but dang, seeing the concept art with dreads...well, a girl can dream.

Adahla, however, is having a great time. Once she decides on something, she commits with her whole heart, and now that he's admitted to being thrown off-balance during the Fade scene, she's made it her mission to keep him on that back foot as long as possible. I again have no idea how the romance plays out, and please God don't spoil me, but she & I are both hopeful that she'll keep him guessing through the end.

In terms of gameplay, I've about finished the Hinterlands, the Storm Coast, the Emerald Graves, and the Forbidden Oasis. I plan to do Wicked Eyes & Wicked Hearts (or whatever it's called) next, followed by Crestwood, and then will keep working through the maps one by one. The level gating isn't quite as bad as I remember, though still annoying, and my few QoL mods have shaved off the worst of the gameplay irritants (thank you @bettydice!).

All in all, I'm having a really good time! Like I said, I'm still a little doubtful about Solas myself, but the character concept coming into shape for Adahla feels sound, and I think she's resilient enough to weather some of the revelations that Priory wasn't. I'm excited to keep going and find out! :)

Also, my girl, because I still love her best:

[weepylucifer]

oh hell yeah jedi enjoyers

thanks for the tag @darth-kote!!

okay so i'll say some stuff abt the jedi, even tho it'll probably be kinda basic!!

first, i love them all living in their temple - it may look weirdly ugly from outside, but all the rooms inside have always been rendered so beautifully in the prequel movies. i like that it's so huge and old most jedi don't know what all is in there, bc it's so rich in history and the force. i'd watch a whole miniseries about a group of jedi just exploring the temple, plunging deeper and deeper into forgotten levels filled with ancient wonders... i like that they're all living there in this sort of loosely familial way that's not clearly defined as "jedi mommy, jedi dad, padawan siblings" they're all just vibing and communally raising the younglings

i like that they practice mindfulness, actually. it's a nice take on "how would these people with powerful cosmic powers keep themselves from flipping out and destroying the world". is it always perfect as a technique? no. can it lead to some jedi getting in their head about if they're doing mindfulness correctly? sure. there can be some fun conflict in that. on the whole tho yeah, being careful about what you do with your emotions is actually a good thing!

controversial but, i like non-attachment. us normal people constantly have to accept that our loved ones will die someday and we can't magically stop that from happening. this is close to my heart bc, not to overshare too much, but several people i love are in very bad health and will never get better. instead of constantly already grieving people who are still here with me, i've been trying to be more jedi about it and just enjoy the moments i do have with them right now, knowing this will all go away someday, and probably a lot sooner than i'd like. it may sound corny but learning about jedi philosophy is fr helping me with something that's been causing me a lot of anguish in my real life. and accepting that relationships end someday (in death or heartbreak) doesn't mean i don't love my loved ones while they're here!! so yeah!! i love the way the jedi love

idk who to tag, so just. if you (whoever you may be) see this and want to add something, tell em i sent ya

Tag Game for Jedi Enjoyers

Me scrolling my dash and finding like thirty well structured arguments detailing why the Jedi are good and complaining about people not getting it: …maybe I just need to follow more people but I think maybe we, the people who love the Jedi, have forgotten we’re allowed to actually be joyous about this thing we love, rather than just placing ourselves in constant opposition to people who do not love it. I love a well structured argument probably more than the next guy, but I’ve seen more than one person, myself included, feeling super discouraged and burnt out by it all.

Here’s the rules:

Say one thing—lore, character, headcanon, oc, book recommendations, fics, anything—you love about or involving the Jedi. Explain it in as much or as little detail as you want.

No arguments, no “I hate when people—,” no telling me which Disney show sucks the most.

Tag two or more people you think will enjoy this activity.

[freesia-writes]

Behind the Scenes of a Writer's Mind

I noticed something tonight that I thought might be helpful to share. You [hopefully] often hear fanfic writers urging interaction and support. It may seem selfish or prideful at first glance, but there's a lot more to it. Have a seat. 😉

The best metaphor I've heard is someone who loves cooking for others. Yes, they do it because they like it, but there's a deep gratification in sharing that work and talent with others and getting to hear how much it was loved and enjoyed. Same with writing.

I asked my favorite author @dystopicjumpsuit about her works -- which had the most emotional impact, which was the tastiest smut, which is her best piece, etc -- and was delighted to hear her answers because there were elements that I hadn't known or noticed, and it made me so excited to read them again (and a few for the first time, haha). It gave a new appreciation, a neat back story, and a richer experience to the fics. (READ THE ASK/ANSWER HERE)

She turned the ask back on me, and while I hadn't expected that, I was surprised at the process as I tried to answer. I had taken a good half a year off from writing after finishing the Hunter longfic. I had poured my heart and soul into it, and when it was done posting, it was kinda... empty. Life also was fairly crazy, so this side of me kinda went away for a while. I still wanted to write. I missed being here. But there was just no inspiration or motivation, and you can't force that.

But something neat happened when DJ gave me the chance to consider my own work. I reread some oldies. I smiled at things I'd forgotten about. The questions forced me to look at the good parts, my favorite parts, the best parts that I'm most proud of.

As a writer, it's easy to forget that. You get used to writing, you get used to your style and approach and voice, and sometimes it just gets to a point of "why bother"? ESPECIALLY if there's no feedback from readers. But it was awesome to be reminded of how my writing brings me joy, and that it's a particular area of gifting but also something that's honed and developed and refined over the years.

Considering the beautiful elements of what I've been able to create breathed fresh life into me. It brought confidence where there had been indifference. It reminded me of the fun of writing and the unpredictable nature of how it all goes down. It rekindled some of that joy of bringing delight to others with my time and effort. It rejuvenated the creative part of me that loves the process as well as the product.

So WRITERS -- if you're in a pit, perhaps read some of your own stuff. Enjoy it. Read works by other authors you love and ask them about it -- it'll likely remind you of some experiences of your own. But also, if the motivation isn't there, don't sweat it. Enjoy what you can and, if the fickle mistress of inspiration returns, bang that thang til fics fall out. (I'll see myself out, thank you.)

And READERS -- you enjoy what we create, yeah? Do you know that you'd likely enjoy it wayyy more if you had a lil behind-the-scenes knowledge? It truly enriches the experience all around, AND it's so encouraging to authors to be able to share not only the finished product but some of the joy of the process. So don't be afraid -- drop some asks, leave questions in reblogs, engage!!

If you've read this far (without skipping, you weasels), please consider this a free ticket for a fic request. ;) Drop one in my inbox and we shall see if the gods smile upon my mushy brain and clumsy fingers. But also, thank you for reading, and I hope that both writers and readers are encouraged to enjoy this space more fully!

FREESIA OUT 😘

[themintman]

INTRO POST RAAAAAAH 💥💥💥💥

Erm hihi!! My name is Clemont but I also go by Mint. I am 16 and use he/him pronouns! I post a lot of art n just ramblings here. I will keep updating this post over time, so feel free to check in and see what's new!

I'm also on Tiktok but I don't really post there anymore.. oopsies - @/Clemont_ine

My content will probably change over time, but for the last three or so years I've been feral over Minecraft Story Mode, specifically season two so expect a lot of that lmao.

Expect an ungodly amount of Jack and Nurm. Like an excessive amount. It's not healthy.

Other stuff that may explode into my page every once in a while /interests ⬇️

A hat in time

Deltarune / Undertale

Miitopia

Mcyt (specifically DanTDM)

Spiritfarer

pokemon

Delicious in Dungeon

My asks are open for literally anything!! I love to answer questions about my designs, headcannons, etc. I also take requests and art trades!!! They just may take a while to finish depending on stuff like what you want me to draw, if I'm busy, my mental health, all that stuff. So feel free to say hi! 🩷🩷

I love being social but am too scared to initiate contact, which is what prompted me to start a Tumblr. It seems like a more social app then stuff like Tiktok in my eyes, and the people seem a lot more chill. So if you comment something or repost one of my posts and don't get a response, know that I did see you! I read what you said and likely had a little giggle to myself, just some days being social and talking is harder than others. Also, I ramble in my tags. Like.. a lot.

I have a second blog for my Pokemon IRL stuff! @aerial-ace (may rb this on that blog as an intro of sorts there too LMAO)

My art tag is #clemont_ine but im.. not great at keeping track of it. Sorry 😞. But quite a few drawings are under that!!!

Erm... yeah so that's all!!! Again, will update on the occasion. But I'm very glad to be here!!

[icewindandboringhorror]

reminders of the passage of time moodeboard

[the-moon-pal]

Thinking of Snake Actor Mark surprisingly and now I'm thinking of running with an idea HDHDH

[plugnuts]

This here is my about me for the SP Olympics ^^

Name/Pronouns:

Heya! I’m Skyy and my pronouns are they/he

Favourite Characters:

Tweek and Stan (normal and Profile/Program versions OHG). Additional background beloved boys are: Dogpoo and Louis! But my other faves are: Kenny, Red, Kevin, Craig, Butters and Kyle.

Favourite Ships:

My all time fave sp ship has got to be either Style or Creek, but I do adore Twyle, Clenny, Bunny, Revin and Louglas (Louis (red and black scarf kid) and Douglas (grey beanie kid)- a ship my sibling and I made up and love)

Favourite Headcanons:

Stan still has Sparky in my eyes, Craig can still use his eye lasers, and I love the hc that Kyle is a Psychic and that Stan can communicate with the dead. I also do love me a freckled Kenny, Tweek and Kyle, and autistic Craig and ADHD Tweek, bi nb he/they Stan and ace nb they/them Kyle and also gay demiaroace demiboy he/him Tweek and gay agender they/them Craig.

Favourite AUs:

I have two aus that I have posted about on here that I love and it’s my BNHA AU and my Digital / Cyber AU tho the latter doesn’t have reference sheets unfortunately, and the former has only ten characters in the roster currently. Not of my own stuff tho? SOT universe my fckcin beloved- and also Outlaw Tweek OUGHG (especially if he’s with Incan Craig-). y’know. I already mentioned Program Stan but. Program Stan. but also- TFBW them is also soso good. The Goth Stan and Scene Kyle au too- I love them. ALSO! Pokémon AU. I adore Pokémon AUs SO much. Give Tweek a Sylveon for me- I’ll hug you so tight.

Favourite Tropes:

I don’t do tropes that often, but I do love me some Red String of Fate! Or even idiots to lovers/friends to lovers.

Favourite Friendships:

I love me some platonic Twyle SO MUCHC. And Staig friendship YESSS!! Like. Them just mouthing off to each other about their boyfs or just going to each other for advice etc. for their respective partners means so much. to me.

I will appreciate anything given, but art, fics and playlists are very beloved c:

[togglesbloggle]

My boyfriend has really vivid, elaborate dreams. He’ll often wake up and talk about some grand narrative- travel, exploration, politics, performances. I’ve always been a little jealous, he can hold really good plots together for them sometimes.

But anyway, this does have a downside; vivid, elaborate dreams make for vivid, elaborate nightmares. I can usually tell when it’s one of those nights, since he grinds his teeth pretty badly.

I was never quite sure what to do when I knew he was having a bad time of it, though the grinding alone was enough to worry me and push me towards intervening. I used to just shake him gently, hope to rouse him just enough to reset the dream or something, but it wasn’t too effective and anyway waking him up all the time isn’t good for rest.

I’m rather proud of the strategy I eventually settled on: gently, so as not to wake him up, I’d lay one arm across his hands, wrapping his fingers around me so that he was holding on. Nightmares being nightmares, I can usually count on a pretty tight grip when this happens.

It may seem a little odd, but consider that holding on to something with both hands is typically a very agentic frame of mind. We hold on to things that give us power, in one way or another, and possessing objects often makes us feel powerful in some respects. That has consequences, even for a dreaming mind.

I knew it was working when he woke up rather mystified from one such dream, and told me that he’d been running through the caverns of some dungeon or cave system, pursued by monsters, but then all of a sudden he was holding a giant anime sword and fought them off instead. So I got to be a sword for him that night, I was delighted.

I don’t usually get to know exactly what happened, since even for a very vivid dreamer like Ritter, nine tenths of these things get forgotten. But I know I’ve been things like door handles, steering wheels, stuff like that. And even when I don’t know what I am to him, he doesn’t grind his teeth nearly as much- the sleep is deeper and more peaceful, so I get plenty of feedback that it’s working.

It’s such a perfect encapsulation of love in microcosm, isn’t it? No matter how much you mean to them, and how much they mean to you, the gap between two conscious lives is fundamentally separating you. But fundamental does not mean insurmountable. There’s this whole world in him, full of dreams and perspectives that I’ll never truly experience. But I will be a part of those worlds all the same, finding little ways here and there to make sure that the dreams of me make him a better, stronger, and happier person.

Or at least, so one hopes. It’s a difficult challenge, and things often go awry. But usually you get at least a little lucky.

[nomaishuttle]

another successful therapy

[kjsfandoms]

Secret Santa

Eddie Munson x Reader

Description: Mrs. O'Donnell's yearly Secret Santa finally went well this year for Eddie Munson

Word Count: 870

------

Each year Mrs. O’Donnell had the idea to have her class take part in secret santa. Whether you liked who you got or not, you had to participate. It was a grade. As for Eddie Munson, someone who didn’t give a single fuck about his grades and shitty classmates, always managed to skip it for the last two years. This year though, he was way too determined to graduate to care about any of that. Plus this year it was different. Y/N was in his class. 

The two had never actually spoken to each other, but they would always steal glances at one another. There was something about her that he was so drawn to. That’s why he was secretly hoping he would get to be her secret santa. He’d finally get a reason to talk to her.

But alas, luck is never on Eddie’s side. He reached into the Santa hat that had the class names inside and pulled out Tina’s name. ‘Great.’ He thought to himself. He watched as the hat got around to Y/N as she went to pull out a name. He didn’t see the name, but he most definitely did see how she didn’t look his way. ‘There goes my chances.’

—

The day of secret santa Eddie walks into class holding a little gift bag with some candy. No way was he actually going to try getting a genuine gift for these assholes. He sat in his seat as the class started to pile in. 

“Alright class, now that everyone is here you may all hand out your gifts.” Mrs. O’Donnell says, wearing that stupid cursed santa hat.

The whole class starts moving around and Eddie makes his way over to Tina’s desk. He places the bag down without a word, knowing she wouldn’t want to speak to him anyway. Eddie makes his way back to his seat and slouches down into it. He knew nobody would actually care to give the freak a gift, so he reaches into his bag to pull out his notebook full of campaign ideas, deciding to work on that instead. 

From the corner of his eyes he can see the chair beside him being pulled out. To his surprise, it’s Y/N. 

“No way you actually got Tina a gift.” She smirks and sits down.

“Nah, just some candy. Didn't even try.” Eddie says calmly, even though he is internally screaming right now.

Y/N lets out a small laugh in response and then reaches down to her backpack. “Well, in case you were wondering why I’m here, I am in fact your secret santa.” she says as she pulls out a little gift box and then an even smaller gift box sitting on top.

Eddie is in so much shock he doesn’t even respond and lets her place the gifts on his desk. She doesn’t seem bothered by his silence and instead smiles and says, “I didn’t really have the money for an actual gift, so I made you some stuff instead.”

He reaches forward and grabs the smaller box first. He opens up the top to reveal a bracelet made out of guitar strings with some added charms of a skull and spider. “No way. This is so cool!” Eddie says through excitement, nearly jumping out his seat. Some students looked over at his mini outburst, but he couldn’t give a single shit right now. “I thought you might like that.” Y/N says with a grin, happy to see him enjoying his first gift.

“How’d you know I play guitar?”

“Well, it wasn’t hard to guess," she says as she looks him up and down, "but I did see you at the music store in the mall a few weeks ago buying some new guitar picks. That’s what gave me the idea for your next gift.”

Eddie had almost forgotten that there was another gift box sitting in front of him. He slips the bracelet onto his wrist and then reaches to open the other gift box. This time, he was truly at a loss for words. He reached into the box and picked up a little mini bouquet made out of wires for stems and guitar picks as the petals.

“Do you like it?” 

Eddie looks up almost in disbelief, “Do I like it? What kind of question is that? Y/N, this is insane!” He twirls the three flowers in his fingers to inspect them even more. Dark red and blue picks held together by hot glue, and even had some green picks as leaves. 

He looks back up at Y/N, trying to contain his smile, and says, “I have to get you something now. These are way too good for me to not get you anything in return.”

“Eddie, it's fine. It’s a part of the game, you don’t need to get me anything.” Y/N replies, also trying to contain a smile.

“No, that’s so unfair! C’mon, just one gift. I’ll even let you pick. It can be anything, well, almost anything. I’m on a tight budget here, but you get my point.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“How about a date?”

Up until this moment Eddie had never given a damn about Mrs. O'Donnells, but holy shit was he sure thankful for her right now.

"A date it is."

[reasonsforhope]

Story from the Washington Post here, non-paywall version here.

Washington Post stop blocking linksharing and shit challenge.

"The young woman was catatonic, stuck at the nurses’ station — unmoving, unblinking and unknowing of where or who she was.

Her name was April Burrell.

Before she became a patient, April had been an outgoing, straight-A student majoring in accounting at the University of Maryland Eastern Shore. But after a traumatic event when she was 21, April suddenly developed psychosis and became lost in a constant state of visual and auditory hallucinations. The former high school valedictorian could no longer communicate, bathe or take care of herself.

April was diagnosed with a severe form of schizophrenia, an often devastating mental illness that affects approximately 1 percent of the global population and can drastically impair how patients behave and perceive reality.

“She was the first person I ever saw as a patient,” said Sander Markx, director of precision psychiatry at Columbia University, who was still a medical student in 2000 when he first encountered April. “She is, to this day, the sickest patient I’ve ever seen.” ...

It would be nearly two decades before their paths crossed again. But in 2018, another chance encounter led to several medical discoveries...

Markx and his colleagues discovered that although April’s illness was clinically indistinguishable from schizophrenia, she also had lupus, an underlying and treatable autoimmune condition that was attacking her brain.

After months of targeted treatments [for lupus] — and more than two decades trapped in her mind — April woke up.

The awakening of April — and the successful treatment of other people with similar conditions — now stand to transform care for some of psychiatry’s sickest patients, many of whom are languishing in mental institutions.

Researchers working with the New York state mental health-care system have identified about 200 patients with autoimmune diseases, some institutionalized for years, who may be helped by the discovery.

And scientists around the world, including Germany and Britain, are conducting similar research, finding that underlying autoimmune and inflammatory processes may be more common in patients with a variety of psychiatric syndromes than previously believed.

Although the current research probably will help only a small subset of patients, the impact of the work is already beginning to reshape the practice of psychiatry and the way many cases of mental illness are diagnosed and treated.

“These are the forgotten souls,” said Markx. “We’re not just improving the lives of these people, but we’re bringing them back from a place that I didn’t think they could come back from.” ...

Waking up after two decades

The medical team set to work counteracting April’s rampaging immune system and started April on an intensive immunotherapy treatment for neuropsychiatric lupus...

The regimen is grueling, requiring a month-long break between each of the six rounds to allow the immune system to recover. But April started showing signs of improvement almost immediately...

A joyful reunion

“I’ve always wanted my sister to get back to who she was,” Guy Burrell said.

In 2020, April was deemed mentally competent to discharge herself from the psychiatric hospital where she had lived for nearly two decades, and she moved to a rehabilitation center...

Because of visiting restrictions related to covid, the family’s face-to-face reunion with April was delayed until last year. April’s brother, sister-in-law and their kids were finally able to visit her at a rehabilitation center, and the occasion was tearful and joyous.

“When she came in there, you would’ve thought she was a brand-new person,” Guy Burrell said. “She knew all of us, remembered different stuff from back when she was a child.” ...

The family felt as if they’d witnessed a miracle.

“She was hugging me, she was holding my hand,” Guy Burrell said. “You might as well have thrown a parade because we were so happy, because we hadn’t seen her like that in, like, forever.”

“It was like she came home,” Markx said. “We never thought that was possible.”

...After April’s unexpected recovery, the medical team put out an alert to the hospital system to identify any patients with antibody markers for autoimmune disease. A few months later, Anca Askanase, a rheumatologist and director of the Columbia Lupus Center,who had been on April’s treatment team, approached Markx. “I think we found our girl,” she said.

Bringing back Devine

When Devine Cruz was 9, she began to hear voices. At first, the voices fought with one another. But as she grew older, the voices would talk about her, [and over the years, things got worse].

For more than a decade, the young woman moved in and out of hospitals for treatment. Her symptoms included visual and auditory hallucinations, as well as delusions that prevented her from living a normal life.

Devine was eventually diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, which can result in symptoms of both schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. She also was diagnosed with intellectual disability.

She was on a laundry list of drugs — two antipsychotic medications, lithium, clonazepam, Ativan and benztropine — that came with a litany of side effects but didn’t resolve all her symptoms...

She also had lupus, which she had been diagnosed with when she was about 14, although doctors had never made a connection between the disease and her mental health...

Last August, the medical team prescribed monthly immunosuppressive infusions of corticosteroids and chemotherapy drugs, a regime similar to what April had been given a few years prior. By October, there were already dramatic signs of improvement.

“She was like ‘Yeah, I gotta go,’” Markx said. “‘Like, I’ve been missing out.’”

After several treatments, Devine began developing awareness that the voices in her head were different from real voices, a sign that she was reconnecting with reality. She finished her sixth and final round of infusions in January.

In March, she was well enough to meet with a reporter. “I feel like I’m already better,” Devine said during a conversation in Markx’s office at the New York State Psychiatric Institute, where she was treated. “I feel myself being a person that I was supposed to be my whole entire life.” ...

Her recovery is remarkable for several reasons, her doctors said. The voices and visions have stopped. And she no longer meets the diagnostic criteria for either schizoaffective disorder or intellectual disability, Markx said...

Today, Devine lives with her mother and is leading a more active and engaged life. She helps her mother cook, goes to the grocery store and navigates public transportation to keep her appointments. She is even babysitting her siblings’ young children — listening to music, taking them to the park or watching “Frozen 2” — responsibilities her family never would have entrusted her with before her recovery.

Expanding the search for more patients

While it is likely that only a subset of people diagnosed with schizophrenia and psychotic disorders have an underlying autoimmune condition, Markx and other doctors believe there are probably many more patients whose psychiatric conditions are caused or exacerbated by autoimmune issues...

The cases of April and Devine also helped inspire the development of the SNF Center for Precision Psychiatry and Mental Health at Columbia, which was named for the Stavros Niarchos Foundation, which awarded it a $75 million grant in April. The goal of the center is to develop new treatments based on specific genetic and autoimmune causes of psychiatric illness, said Joseph Gogos, co-director of the SNF Center.

Markx said he has begun care and treatment on about 40 patients since the SNF Center opened. The SNF Center is working with the New York State Office of Mental Health, which oversees one of the largest public mental health systems in America, to conduct whole genome sequencing and autoimmunity screening on inpatients at long-term facilities.

For “the most disabled, the sickest of the sick, even if we can help just a small fraction of them, by doing these detailed analyses, that’s worth something,” said Thomas Smith, chief medical officer for the New York State Office of Mental Health. “You’re helping save someone’s life, get them out of the hospital, have them live in the community, go home.”

Discussions are underway to extend the search to the 20,000 outpatients in the New York state system as well. Serious psychiatric disorders, like schizophrenia, are more likely to be undertreated in underprivileged groups. And autoimmune disorders like lupus disproportionately affect women and people of color with more severity.

Changing psychiatric care

How many people ultimately will be helped by the research remains a subject of debate in the scientific community. But the research has spurred excitement about the potential to better understand what is going on in the brain during serious mental illness...

Emerging research has implicated inflammation and immunological dysfunction as potential players in a variety of neuropsychiatric conditions, including schizophrenia, depression and autism.

“It opens new treatment possibilities to patients that used to be treated very differently,” said Ludger Tebartz van Elst, a professor of psychiatry and psychotherapy at University Medical Clinic Freiburg in Germany.

In one study, published last year in Molecular Psychiatry, Tebartz van Elst and his colleagues identified 91 psychiatric patients with suspected autoimmune diseases, and reported that immunotherapies benefited the majority of them.

Belinda Lennox, head of the psychiatry department at the University of Oxford, is enrolling patients in clinical trials to test the effectiveness of immunotherapy for autoimmune psychosis patients.

As a result of the research, screenings for immunological markers in psychotic patients are already routine in Germany, where psychiatrists regularly collect samples from cerebrospinal fluid.

Markx is also doing similar screening with his patients. He believes highly sensitive and inexpensive blood tests to detect different antibodies should become part of the standard screening protocol for psychosis.

Also on the horizon: more targeted immunotherapy rather than current “sledgehammer approaches” that suppress the immune system on a broad level, said George Yancopoulos, the co-founder and president of the pharmaceutical company Regeneron.

“I think we’re at the dawn of a new era. This is just the beginning,” said Yancopoulos."

-via The Washington Post, June 1, 2023

[mrnnki]

kinda done with existing rn so if I act like pos over the next few days, yell at me

[choochooboss]

Submas Sketchdump Vol. 4 July 2022 Part 2!!

I knew that particular month beat my all time record for productivity multifold but I had forgotten SO MANY PIECES from the original collection!! I think I finally got them all?? More stuff under the cut!!

BREAKMAS!! WIP of the first piece I posted of them, here's the link to the final version! I tried coloring this first but the black & white had ultimately more impact so I went with that!

TRAINS!! I like this base color version too! Link to the final version!

The top sketch is a direct reference to Cluedo! A spinoff game, "Missingo", starring certain familiar characters trying to figure out what happened to Ingo/trying to prove their innocence in the case! Also WIP sketches for these two Breakmas comic pages!

As you may know I adore butlermas! For the classy and stylish look which appeals to me in general, and coincidentally I had played PLA & got hit by submas train only one week before butler Ingo's banner rolled out! The pure bliss of finally meeting both twins in a game I felt was incomparable!! This moment in the Curious Tea Party event was really entertaining to me! We got to see submas get serious and stand up against this selfish collector thief! Two towering train twinks with commanding voices looming over the unfortunate guy was enough to make him change his mind ahah! They truly are the protectors

1-hour submas challenge prompt "Descend"! This is the actual one hour result before I continued rendering this!

Mmmmm not my first attempt at drawing them hug and definitely not my best OR last. I want to make that moment something very special when I finally go all out on it!!

Comic cover vibing~

The scrapped last page for this silly comic! Sorry the dialogue is all over the place on the first piece, might be hard to read! I wasn't happy with how I presented Elesa, I wasn't familiar enough with her character back then so I thought of her carrying a toy taser to threat her friend even as a joke was too much and I couldn't come up with anything else for it. This held me back from posting the other three pages for another 5 months! In the last panel

I prefer to not mess up the twins too much but my brain is still very curious and conjures some peculiar stuff like this sometimes.. I think I may have broken his arms there looking at the anatomy, ooops! I hope you don't mind the photo quality or the two weird guys in the corner, they escaped containment!

Idea of warden Ingo, being projected to modern era by his Alakazam, walking through crowd on a train platform & Emmet standing inside a passing train. Their eyes meet for just a few seconds...

Pokemas Ingo practise!

Another WIP of a piece I posted! I started this piece like this but then later I decided to flip the whole thing.

YET another WIP of something I already posted! No idea why I went and mixed up his suits but I like this sketch! They rarely end up looking this clean haha

Sketch version of the self-defense practise piece! I love getting creative with action stuff! I barely ever think of how difficult they are to draw, I just get so excited and fixated on visualising the scenes in my mind I just keep at it, pull out refs and pose in front of mirrors until it looks good to me! I want to draw more action scenes but besides being challenging to draw my brain comes up with more silly and cute ideas than cool ones unfortunately ahah

One more WIP, here's the link to the final results!! I really like how genuine their expressions look here even if the faces are a little off. I recall spending a long time figuring out this perspective. I thought it would be fun to you to see how all these pieces started and... looking at the sketch above and the stuff before that, you can compare some range of my style!

RANDOM SUBMAS MISSILES GO

OHHH looks like some nasty passengers got the best of them!! If I recall correctly there was no fight because they managed to paralyse the two before they could act. Fully awake yet completely helpless... how convenient unfortunate. Thank you so much for checking these out!! Not every sketch is that exciting but I'm always happy to hear your thoughts on these!

Previous posts: Sketch dump Vol. 1: April-June 2022 Sketch dump Vol. 2: July 2022 Sketch dump Vol. 3: August 2022

[heich0e]

ever since you were young, you've fallen victim to at least one terrible cold per year.

it's not your fault—your almost laughably fallible immune system is seemingly genetic, as your family was always the same growing up—but even that biological truth does little to make you feel better when you're in the thick of cough and cold season, waiting for illness to inevitably strike. one faint, meagre consolation from your predictably lacklustre immune response means that you at the very least have a fairly well-practiced routine for when you fall ill. you know the brands of medication that work best, the fever patches with the most reliable adhesion, which teas seem to help decongest you better than others. you've got soup recipes, and hot water bottles, and fuzzy socks tucked away at the ready for when you need them, because you know that you eventually will.

but this season, there's a wild card in the mix. a variable you haven't had the opportunity to plan for in years past.

shouto.

you met shouto last summer at a going away party to which you were a plus one of someone who didn't even know the person who was going away particularly well. you'd been beyond shocked when you turned up to the gathering only to see half the top pro-hero ranking list gathered before your very eyes. even more shocked when the most handsome one in the room—in the world?—bothered to speak to you.

your relationship with shouto built slowly. you were casually dating last cold season, so he hadn't had to witness you at your lowest, but this year you're living together—having moved in rather suddenly just shy of your one year anniversary since your lease was ending and shouto's apartment was more than suitable for two.

so now here you are, languishing in the bed you share with your still unfairly handsome pro-hero boyfriend, drifting in and out of consciousness in a decongestant fuelled haze, with a (now tepid) fever patch stuck to your forehead.

and there is a god awful racket coming from outside your bedroom door.

peeling yourself up from the loving embrace of your mattress is a nearly herculean task, but once you're upright it's not so hard to stuff your feet into your slippers and stumble your way to the the door. your head feels heavy and your cough is still in the nasty hacking stage, but you suspect your fever's dropping, which means the worst of your illness is likely over. any relief you may feel is decidedly shortlived as you turn the corner to the kitchen and freeze in place.

"shouto—" your voice is so raspy it sounds foreign to you "—what are you doing?"

in the kitchen, standing in the eye of what can only be described as a culinary hurricane, is your apron-clad boyfriend. he has one of your barrettes clipping his two-toned bangs up off his forehead, and a smudge of something (presumably edible) across his cheek. his eyes are wide as he turns to face you in the centre of this disaster, a carrot in one hand and a potato masher in the other.

"i," shouto pauses, and though you know it's not for dramatic effect it sure sounds like it is, "am cooking."

you start coughing, and rush to cover your mouth—turning away and bending a little at the waist from the force of it. you see shouto step towards you in your peripheral vision, but with the hand not covering your mouth you wave him away—you should have gotten a mask before you left your bedroom, but in your haste you'd forgotten to grab one.

"you sound terrible," shouto remarks and then follows up his own commentary with another, somewhat reproachful, "that's not very nice."

you look at him curiously, confused as to what he's just said and he points to his ear where he has one wireless earbud in.

"that was bakugou," he explains, and you realize he was only relaying the comment of his friend on the phone. "i'll call you back," he says again, and this time you don't need to wonder who he's speaking to before he plucks his headphone out of his ear and sets it (and the carrot and potato masher) down in the very limited counter space left.

shouto fidgets with his hands now that they're empty, inching a bit closer to you—slowly, like he know's you're going to wave him off again and is trying to avoid it.

"how are you feeling?" he asks.

"a bit better," you say, even though you don't sound it.

"why are you out of bed?" he follows up his first question with another, concern in his gaze.

"i heard... something," your eyes scan the room as you take in the very something you speak of. "why are you cooking?"

"i'm making you soup," shouto says, and then looks around the room at the scene you'd just surveyed. then he looks back at you again with a somewhat grim expression. "i'm trying to make you soup," he corrects himself.

and maybe it's the fever, or the decongestants, or the fact that he's possibly the sweetest man you've ever met in your life (on top of being the most handsome), but suddenly you feel like you might cry. or laugh, maybe. you aren't entirely sure either of them is off the table.

"what kind of soup?" you ask him, and this time your voice is croaky for an entirely unrelated reason.

"chicken soup," he answers, and he's suddenly closer than he'd been at first—having continued creeping closer to you when your guard was lowered. "with ginger. you said you like that."

"i do," you answer, and when shouto reaches out to wrap his arms around you, you have no will left in you to push him away. you tuck your face against his chest and relax against the firm, familiar shape of his body pressing into yours.

shouto peels the old fever patch from your forehead and tosses it aside, replacing it with the delightfully cool palm of his hand. he's been doing this since you fell ill, and was more than a little affronted the first time he came home from work and saw that you'd put a cooling patch on in his absence—as though jealous that it wasn't his touch that you were turning to for relief.

"was bakugou helping you make soup?" you ask, leaning into his hand.

shouto hums, and you feel the sound reverberate through his broad chest. "i don't know if helping is the right word."

"why did you have a potato masher out for chicken soup?" you then ask, remembering the utensil he'd been holding when you first walked into the kitchen.

"potato masher..." shouto says, realization heavy in his tone. he'd clearly had no idea what it was to begin with. "i was looking for a slotted spoon."

you laugh, and then cough a little.

"you should get back to bed," shouto insists.

"just another minute," you sigh, reaching up to hold his wrist and keep his hand in place. shouto freezes, and you feel his eyes on your face, peeking up at him through your lashes.

"what?" you ask him curiously.

in place of an answer, shouto wraps his arm (the one you don't have in your clutches) around your waist and hoists you up, balancing you against his hip like an overgrown toddler.

"sho-shouto! wait!"

he doesn't wait. in fact, he barely acknowledges you've said anything at all as he trots back in the direction of your shared bedroom. before you even manage to get your bearings, shouto's placed you gently back into bed, shucked his apron, and crawled in alongside you under the covers. you hardly have time to miss the cool weight of his hand before it's returned to its rightful place against your brow.

"what about your soup?" you ask him, but even in spite of your own words—and the fact that you've been keeping him at arm's length for days out of concern for his own health—you find yourself curling up against his side in bed, snuggling closer.

"i don't think it was going to taste very good anyway," shouto remarks somberly. he pouts a little. "bakugou said he'd drop some off for you later, because he was worried my soup was going to kill you."

you laugh, and then cough, and then rest your cheek against his chest.

shouto's heartbeat thumps steadily beneath your ear. his hand stays cool against your skin.

you may not have planned for him, but you think you might keep him around.

[ellecdc]

Hi Elle! I'm here to hibernate, and I was thinking maybe a poly!rosekiller (you've got me hooked on Barty and Evan) or whatever pairing you think works best, love all our boys, with either:

“they’ve slept for like twelve straight hours. should i be worried?"

Or

“hey, i think it’s time to go to bed.”

Because I am both. Chronically.

If you don't respond it's totally cool, you're such an amazing writer and so many people love your stuff I totally understand not being able to respond, lovely girl!

P.S remember to drink water :)

thanks so much for the prompt, doll!! and thanks for being here with me; I'm happy to be celebrating with you <3

the winter games

poly!rosekiller x fem!reader who's asleep and Barty's afraid of [702 words]

CW: immature boyfriends, muggle/modern au, Barty hit someone with his car but it was chill and also not pictured, mentions of dicks but not described

Evan swore his eyes were beginning to cross when his paperwork was interrupted by the sound of a hastily whispered “Rosie!” 

Evan looked up to see Barty standing in the doorway to his office. Well, it was more like to see Barty’s shoulders and head floating about halfway up the door frame as he leaned around it without actually stepping in. 

“What is it, bee?” He drawled as he turned back towards his work.

“I need help.”

“With what?” 

“Hiding a body.” Barty deadpanned. 

Evan let out a tired sigh and looked up at him. “Again, Barty?” 

“With Y/N, Rosie! And for the last time, that cyclist I hit was fine; he bounced right back up and smacked the hood of my car. He certainly wasn’t too hurt to cuss at me.” 

“What’s wrong with your Treasure?” Evan asked - diverting yet another grumbling at how inconvenient hitting another man with his car was for Barty - as he organized his sheets into a neat stack. He may have called you Barty’s Treasure, but you were his poppet, and Barty seemed to think you needed his help so Evan was inclined to help you. 

“She’s asleep.” Barty said simply - troublesome cyclists forgotten - causing Evan to pause.

“I hardly see what the problem with that is, Barty.”

Barty stomped his foot and rolled his eyes as if it were Evan who was being rather meddlesome and vague. “She’s asleep in the kitchen.”

Oh…that was the problem. 

Sure enough, covered in an array of flour, sprinkles, and icing, you were resting your head on one folded arm with a piping bag sitting dejectedly in your opposite hand; a small stream of red icing pooling out the bottom. Sound asleep. 

You’d refused Barty’s help earlier in the evening, stating that he wouldn’t do as good a job and you wanted your holiday cookies to be perfect. Evan didn’t particularly blame you for that, but he did feel rather guilty that you couldn’t trust your boyfriend to not pipe dicks on all of your sugar cookies when your back was turned. 

“You didn’t want to wake her up?” Evan surmised as he gently took the piping bag from your hand. 

“Listen, I love her with my entire being, but I’m kind of afraid of her.”

Evan couldn’t help but huff a laugh at that. “Fine, can you clean this up then?” He asked, gesturing vaguely to the state of the kitchen as he came up behind you and leaned over your frame. 

“Poppet.” He murmured as he gently rubbed at your shoulders. “Come on, doll.”

An incoherent sound of discontent escaped your lips as you tried to rise; Evan’s weight above you kept you from sitting up too quickly. 

“Hey, I think it’s time for bed.”

“But, th’cookies-”

“Will be here in the morning.” Evan argued as he allowed you to sit up slowly. “Barty’ll even help you with them.”

“No he can’t, Ev. He’ll ruin them.”

“He will not because whilst he’s helping you, I will be supervising Barty.”

He felt something warm in his chest as he watched you struggle to wake up; brain working overtime to make sense of your surroundings and to make sense of what Evan was trying to tell you. 

“We’ll get it done in the morning, yeah? Together.” He offered gently.

“Yeah…” You let out with a sigh after a beat, Barty letting out a sigh of relief of his own from behind him. 

“Go get in your pyjamas, pretty girl.” Evan instructed as he helped you stand, pressing a kiss to your hair and patting your hip in dismissal before watching you plod off in the direction of the bedroom.

“Ev, can’t I just-”

“No.”

“Just one.”

“I said no, Bee.” Evan pressed more forcefully. 

“I hardly see what the issue with one festive dick is.” Barty grumbled as the two of them followed you towards the bedroom. “What if I save that one and then we give it to Reg?” 

That gave Evan pause. 

“One.”

“Thank you!”

“What’s happening?” Your voice sounded from somewhere in the washroom, causing both boys to freeze outside of it.

“Nothing.” They chorused; one of them in the form of a question and the other in the form of a delighted cheer.

[pedgito]

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | Lucien De Leon x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | it was never a favor, allowing him to take up space in your apartment. but, time after time, he finds his way back and somehow, it brings an unexpected normalcy to your life.

author's note | in my heart, it's still flores. but canonically its de leon. i had the opportunity to watch the movie and hot take, it was...alright. but pedro's character made me just as feral as i expected. so here's this absolute monster for no reason other than, well, me ovulating.

content warning | 18+ mdni, the uninvited spoilers, set post-movie, roommates to lovers, enemies to lovers, reader works in the film industry, financial hardship, shitty living situations, lucien is a schmooze and a drunk, but also a sweetheart, angst, feelings, reader has shit luck with dating, there's also smut in here somewhere i swear (oral, couch sex, unprotected piv, all the good stuff)

word count — 11k (sorry lmfao)

“Lucien?” You grumble around the chewy granola bar you’ve snatched from the craft table, “Lucien De Leon?”

The agent, Lucien’s agent—James, also working for a few of the on-set cast, looked hopeless.

He nods, squeezing tight at the phone in his hand, one more inconvenience text from snapping it in half.

“No,” You refuse, chewing at the sweet and sticky granola, “why—why me? My tiny apartment?”

“He’s exhausted any other chance,” The agent explains vaguely—yeah, real convincing, this guy, “listen—I like you, you’ve helped me in plenty of binds. It’ll be two weeks before he’s leaving for work, I just need somewhere to keep him for a while.”

“You’re making it seem like I’d be dog sitting or something,” You retort, watching as the agent glanced down at his phone, notifications spilling in, “this is Lucien—controversy magnet, and he’s rude—”

“You’ve gotta get to know him—”

“The one set I’ve worked on with him he spilled my coffee on me and acted like I made him do it. Fuck him, tell him to sleep on a bench.”

“I’ll pay you,” He scrambles, “Just—please?”

You pause, narrowing your gaze. Being a production assistant hadn’t been the life of luxury, minimal pay in an overpriced city in a shitty apartment with barely decent and affordable rent was nothing short of miserable.

“How much?”

“A thousand,” He offers—a shrug of uncertainty follows.

Silence stretches.

“Two thousand? Come on–that’s a thousand for each week.”

“Make it three and you’ve got a deal.”

The agent is quiet for a few seconds before he caves, sighing heavily, “Fuck, fine. Three. Can I drop him off tonight?”

“Tonight?” You balk, “You know, you’re actually the worst.”

His hands grip your shoulders, shaking you with far too much force than needed, “You’re a lifesaver, thank you.”

He’s long gone and buried in a phone call before you grumble a disgruntled, “You’re welcome.”

-

You consider later that evening that disclosing the recent…activities around your apartment complex would have been a good idea, especially with someone as high profile as Lucien taking up space in your one bedroom apartment.

Three break-ins in the past two weeks, noisy and unruly neighbors both above and sandwiching you—it wasn’t exactly peaceful or safe, but it was something. 

You wait with a creeping anxiety as you tap your chopsticks against the homemade ramen you’ve made for yourself, one true moment of happiness in the day as you’re finally sitting down to relax, feet aching terribly.

It was coffee runs and constant back and forths over forgotten supplies or paperwork—it was the perfect job to keep you active and on your toes, never sure when someone might blow up on you for whatever reason it may be—you were nothing special, helpful, but when it came down to it, you were more or less in the way, so you often made yourself small out of habit. 

The knock that startles you is hurried, like a panic. It sends your heart rate skyrocketing but your name echoes on the other side of the door, scrambling to open the door, you’re faced with two men.

The agent, James, a decent man despite his unorganized and erratic personality—and Lucien, a piss poor disguise covering his face.

You snort, addressing the ball cap and sunglasses with an amused expression, it was doing nothing to cover the instantly recognizable wispy brown hair of his and aquiline nose—the upcoming king of stage and screen. It was a wonder he even made it here in one piece.

“A natural chameleon,” You joke, widening your door to let them inside—the apartment was clean, thankfully. You’d scramble to get home after work and pick up, given you didn’t have much time to actually prepare, “seriously—get inside before someone clocks you.”

The agent stays though, like his feet were planted.

“He’s all yours,” He tells you, “you’ve got my number—don’t let him leave. I’ll check in when I can. Keep an eye out for paps.”

“Hey, no—” You interject, watching as the agent turned on his heels and departed, “we didn’t agree to—”, turning the corner with a shout of a long, helpless, “that!”

You sigh with a deep frown, turning over your shoulder to find Lucien with a chopstick in hand, noodle dangling from the utensil with a curious face, sniffing it cautiously. 

“Hey!” You chastise, plucking the chopstick from his fingers, “Stop that.”

He looks at you curiously, obviously taken aback by your tone of voice and lack of intimidation by him, like a startled cat.

Jesus, okay.

You force a calming breath through your nose and look up at him, “Would you like some?”

“Is it gluten free?” Lucien inquires, peering over your shoulder at the still steaming hot bowl of soup.

“Actually, yeah,” Your brow furrows, “it—it is.”

“Sure,” He shrugs, beginning to remove his cap and glasses, along with his jacket, resting them haphazardly on the kitchen island as he takes a seat on the only other unoccupied barstool in your kitchen.

“Oh no,” You swiftly rectify his actions, “we’re not doing this—there’s a coat rack for a reason and a shelf by the door for things like,” You walk toward the front door, hand circling the object like a cherished belonging, “keys—sunglasses, hats,” You stress the final two words and point at the items before jutting your thumb frustratingly at the door, “—if you don’t mind, while I make your dinner.”

It was clear he’s spent most of the past several years with people ready and waiting on him, never questioning or ordering around, but it was basic human decency, you weren’t going to allow him to be amiss to it.

He obliges quietly, a surprise to you. You hide the satisfied smirk as you pour the broth into the bowl along with the noodles before placing the bowl on his side of the island, placing another dish near him, scattered with different toppings.

Lucien looks silently intrigued, the ends of his mouth curling down in interest as he sprinkles various toppings over his food, beginning to eat silently as you return to your own meal.

After a long enough silence and Lucien’s occasional slurping you decide to set a hard boundary, given the various personalities you’ve dealt with in the industry, it was you being proactive out of habit.

“Let me be clear, I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart,” You inform him, locking eyes with his intense stare, something you hadn’t forgotten, not since the on-set incident, “This is still my home. Don’t be an asshole about it.”

“James said you were a firecracker,” Lucien smirks slightly, resting his chopsticks along the top of the bowl, “and a little bit of a bitch, but—”

“Good, he hasn’t lost his mind then.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a professional at this shit now. You won’t even know I’m here.”

Highly unlikely, you think.

He even makes a point by grabbing his bowl and emptying it before placing it in the sink before extending his hand out to your own bowl. You watch him wash the dishes, something that looks unnatural, but you aren’t going to complain.

“You always cook like that?” Lucien asks curiously over the running water, head turning over his shoulder briefly.

“No, only Friday. I never have time otherwise, work is…busy,” A generous way to describe it, but Lucien doesn’t seem to care or question, drying off the last dish before extending his hands out by his side in a grand gesture.

Maybe he was expecting a roaring applause, but you don’t give him the satisfaction. You offer him a genuine thank you but it doesn’t extend beyond that before you’re trailing a few feet over toward the living room, a clean pillow and blanket draped over the couch, along with a fitted sheet if he felt like using it. It was all unmade, allowing him to set it up himself.

“Also,” You clasp your hands together at your front, “James didn’t mention this because I didn’t tell him but we’ve had a string of break-ins for a while now, so—always keep the deadbolt locked. Please.”

His eyes widen, looking around the apartment for the quickest escape. You were on the seventh floor, the only other escape option was a less than reliable balcony that you barely used.

“I have a bat,” You tell him, before pointing toward the door beside the entrance, “in the shoe closet, but I think we’re okay.”

“Think?”

You shrug, “It hasn’t happened yet, but the police have shit response time around here.”

Lucien looks overwhelmed, but nods.

“Oh, and the neighbors like to have really loud sex—walls are thin. Have fun.”

“No puedo creer esta mierda—” He mumbles under his breath as you turn your back, a sharp flap of a sheet, and a short laugh from you follows.

“Blame your agent, Lucien.”

He didn’t think you’d understand him, but your astute hearing proved otherwise. 

Lucien was putting on an act with his gesture, clearly. 

He doesn’t respond, pouting his way through the process of setting up his new bed for the next couple weeks in silence, ignoring the soft click to your door as you turn in for the night, the creeping and soft city noises filtering in through the thin apartment walls.

It wouldn’t be an easy night but he's never really liked big, empty houses anyways.

—

The weekend is uneventful; you fear it might be a dream, too good to be true, a complete fluke.

Maybe he had a change of heart overnight, but Lucien is overly polite.

He deconstructs his bed both mornings, packing it away in a corner of the living room, listening to the television at a reasonable volume with fresh coffee in the coffee pot, he cleans up his dishes and leaves a marginal mess. 

The real kicker—he has the ability to keep the toilet seat down with your now shared bathroom attached to your bedroom, a real…gentleman. 

You eyed him suspiciously most of the day, when he’s unaware and preoccupied, wondering when the facade would drop. Does he even remember the coffee incident? 

He had to, right?

He approaches with a silent gesture of his emptied cup as you fill your own.

Fine—you pull the cup from his grip and fill it to the brim, sliding it back over carefully.

He sips gingerly as he raises it to his lip before speaking, “S’good coffee.”

“Thanks,” You answer nonchalantly, pouring a generous amount of sugar and cream into your coffee and stirring, watching as the dark black lightened into a soft brown, “are you a coffee guy?”

“I’m an anything guy,” Lucien responds, “but—good, it’s good. I’m impressed.”

“Why?” You ask with a little more bark than needed, a flippant tone rounding out your morning irritation as you readied for work. “Are you—you really don’t remember, do you?”

Lucien raised his eyebrows in question, expectant.

“Your last job, up in Hollywood Hills. You spilled coffee all over me, blamed me, then got me suspended for a week, because of your outburst. I barely managed rent that month”

His eyes narrow, recollecting the thought like he’d been stricken with temporary amnesia.

“You’re all so much of the same, y’know?” You continue, sipping generously from your cup as his face relaxes, following your movements with a casual glance. “Cocky, egotistical, little dicked men. Without me you wouldn’t have that ridiculous fifteen dollar hyper whateverthefuck water you insisted you needed in your trailer, or your dry cleaning? God forbid. Seriously, fuck you.”

“Wait—” Lucien staunches, hold his hand up in pause, “hold on—”

You wait for approximately half a second before you roll your eyes, pushing beyond him to gather your bag and keys, “You know, I don’t need a disingenuous apology. I’m not doing this as a favor. I’m being paid.”

James had lied to him, that much he was figuring out as he processed the situation. You weren’t someone offering up free charity, a helping hand for a starving actor in need—except that wasn’t the case for him. Despite his team's careful guidance; he was a repeat offender of bad choices and money management, a part-time alcoholic, and a serial flirt. He knew how to play his hand and he was good at it, but with you—it was clear that you were a challenge.

But, it was only a couple weeks. He could survive that. He was a people person first and foremost and he’d charm the hell out of you if given the opportunity. 

“James said he’d be by in an hour to pick you up for your meetings today—lock the door when you leave. Please.”

Still speechless, he watches you leave with a stiff, crisp shut of the door.

He couldn’t remember, racking his brain for one incident after another. His own fair share made him cringe in hindsight, but he…couldn’t remember. He’d almost hoped you were a fresh face, leaving him free of judgment, but it was clear that this situation was about pure survival.

-

“You did do that,” James confirmed to him as they left the first brand meeting that morning, “It was the morning of the big awards show—you remember?” He doesn’t wait for Lucien’s response, continuing, “Poor kid got her ass chewed out and had to take a trip to the clinic for the burns. It was…a mess. Never cried, though. I’ll give her that.”

And, like a strike of a match, it floods back. You’re shocked expression, mouth slightly agape as the sting of pain settled in, bracing for the impact of Lucien’s wrath because you knew. A man allergic to accountability, oozing power, it was almost too easy.

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Apologies seem pointless now, but it could help. But…be genuine.”

“I’m genuine.”

James gives him a certain look, one that argues otherwise.

“I am.”

Only time would tell, really.

By the end of your work day, it was with great relief as you stepped through the door of your apartment until you remembered one fine detail you had told Lucien more than once.

Lock the door.

The eeriness hits you as the door clicks shut behind you, the place falling into a dead silence for a brief moment, your bag hitting the counter as you maneuvered your keys between your fingers, ready to take on what you could with what little strength you had to offer.

Just maul their face off, that seemed like the best option.

You count the seconds in your head, breath held tight and constricted in your chest. You quickly check the available pathways—living room, kitchen, before slipping down the hall, left with the only room to flee if not away from your apartment.

Bedroom light off, not a thing out of place, pristine even—but your eyes track toward the bathroom light seeping underneath the gap in the door. With careful, measured movements you approach the door although you haven’t thought through the actual process of what you wanted to do.

But, before you can react the door is swinging open as the bathroom is plunged into darkness, revealing a sopping wet Lucien, towel tied tight around his waist as he slings a smaller one over his shoulders, completely relaxed until he spots you.

Both of you scream—you out of anger and fear, Lucien at the incoming hand that he snatches by the wrist, your eyes landing on each other, your nostrils flaring in frustration.

“You’re insane!” Lucien shouts, shoving your hand away, “You nearly tore my face off.”

“I thought you were an intruder,” You seethe, “—what kind of maniac showers with the front door unlocked while home alone?”

“You said you had a bat,” Lucien excuses, “I could have defended myself.”

You sigh, plucking the keys from your grip before you toss them on your bed, stepping away from Lucien and away from the radiating heat of his body as it glistened, obnoxiously.

“Get out,” You snap, “get out—go—”

“I was just gonna…grab my clothes and come change in,” He weakly gestures toward the bathroom, earning a sharp look of distaste in his direction, “alright—alright, Jesus.”

He pauses for a moment, though. Before the lightbulb clicks on and he’s scrambling into the living room and back in record time, shoving a small white envelope into your hands.

“What is this?” You ask tensely, blindly ripping at the seal as you stare at him.

“It’s uh—what I owe you, for the coffee thing. I…I remember now. Figured I could pay you for the work I made you miss…is that about right?”

You peer at the wad of cash. It was indeed, enough.

“You’re unbelievable,” You reply, shaking your head.

It gives him false hope, wondering if it was all going to be brushed under the rug and that he could continue the rest of his stay in a somewhat semblance of peace, but then your expression flips and oh…that’s not…

“Are you physically incapable of saying the words “I’m sorry”—would it kill you? Allergic to accountability? God, you know what, I’m gonna call James and tell him I just can’t do—”

“No,” Lucien panics, hand around your bicep as you attempt to push past him, immediately recognizing the fierceness of his grip he loosens it, calms himself, “no—please, listen…I…I didn’t think you’d care enough to hear it. I do remember now and I was a dick, I was trying to offer a gesture of good faith. Peace, even?”

“Is this even your money?” You ask curiously, brow furrowed as you help up the envelope.

“Yeah, yeah—I pulled it out of my savings. Why? Do you…not want it?”

You quickly snatch the envelope away, “No, I’ll take it. But, words mean a lot. Like calling me an ignorant little bitch.”

“Okay, okay. I am sorry. I had a lot going on and I know that isn’t an excuse either, but I am.”

You tilt your head in examination, peering through the raw emotion on his face, whether he was putting on a masterclass in acting or not, it was believable enough. You could remain bitter, even if it meant suffering in silence, but you liked the peace just as much as he, so you compromise.

“You still have to get out,” You inform him, walking your fingers tauntingly toward the door, “and I swear, Lucien, if you used all the hot water—”

-

Lucien was insistent about rehearsing at least five hours a day, even on weekends. Luckily, most of those days you were spared, but when you’re barricaded away in your bedroom, sound travels. And Lucien doesn't care much to stifle his performance, maybe it was a weapon to backfire at your inconsiderate neighbors, but it was driving you insane.

He’s stuck on one scene, clearly a building tension that explodes and apparently he can’t nail, having heard the lines a hundred times over through the muffled walls—your first instinct was to complain, tell him take it elsewhere, but you remember your deal with James. Lucien just needed a place to stay for a while and this was his job.

Eventually, you poke your head through your bedroom door with a cautious expression, watching Lucien examine his face in the mirror, filing through various emotions before he finally gives up, tossing the script against the counter.

He spots you as he turns, already gearing up to apologize or maybe even excuse—but instead, you speak.

“Is it for an audition?”

“How’d you know?”

“The yelling, the emotion—I guess? I help on set with self tapes from time to time. I’ve learned to spot the difference between just memorizing lines and trying to feel the script.”

Lucien pushes his lips out in thought, tongue rolling over his teeth as his hands settle against his hips, pushing the sweatpants lower on his hips as he stands, deliberating.

“Just ask,” You tell him.

“You any good?”

It was a genuine question, not meant to attack your own ego. Besides, it makes you laugh.

“I’ll get your good side,” You promise him, surfacing from your room as you beckon for his phone with your hand, getting straight to work.

It only takes a few minutes to find a solid place to set up, against one of your cream colored walls, pictureless and plain, but with ample lighting from inside and out, it highlighted the wispy grays in Lucien’s untamed curls hanging over his forehead, the wrinkles creasing there as he looked down at the script and examined the text.

“Do you have them memorized?” 

Lucien nods absently, his finger trailing down the side of the paper until it was suddenly gone, snatched from his hands with a smile on your face as you pointed for him to slide into frame. You take a step back, watching the screen with a careful eye before motioning with a finger for him to move a few centimeters to the left, “There. Perfect.”

You flatten out the creased paper as you speak, “From the top?”

Lucien smiles halfheartedly—the stress washing from his face for a moment—and nods.

–

You could keep up, that much was obvious.

Lucien is used to the monotone voice on the other side of the camera during auditions, forced tones and half-cocked emotion, it was hard to act against and with, but he’s learned to push through for the sake of a role. 

It was an emotional scene, almost a requirement to have that intensity to act against and Lucien caught your eye line at one point, face buried in the script as you uttered the lines with teary eyes, letting your own emotion fill you to the brim and flow out, giving him a real and authentic reaction to act against.

He watched it back with a grin, mostly out of his own cocky admiration for himself but the secret you’ve been hoarding, a welcome surprise.

“Have you never considered acting?” Lucien asks curiously, emailing the video off to his agent.

“Cameras are daunting,” You shrug, folding and filing away some freshly washed towels as Lucien reclined on your couch, “I prefer being behind them.”

“You’re a natural,” He offers honestly, “that’s really rare.”

You shake your head in amusement as you riffled through the unfolded laundry, separating in different piles until you come across a no longer white blouse, stained a soft pink—and of course, Lucien. It was Lucien who offered to take laundry down the night prior, needing a moment away from being cooped up in the apartment, swearing he had it under control.

“I told you not to put this in the wash load with the colors! Look at this—” You held up the obviously stained blouse, crumpling up the fabric and tossing it to the couch with a frustrated huff.

“To be fair, it’s been years since I did my own laundry,” Lucien responds casually, “—don’t worry, I’ll have James buy you another.”

Your face twitches, actually twitches.

“No, no—it…it’s fine. It’s only a shirt,” You tuck a loose hair behind your ear as you heave the towels into your arm, “just—whites and colors, always separate them.”

And while living with Lucien had mellowed out some, it was still tumultuous at times.

Fighting over the bathroom was a regular occurrence, both of you guilty. But, that could be worked through, it wasn’t the end of the world. Occasionally it was the lights, a bad habit of Lucien’s to leave them lingering in his wait, lamps and fixtures, nothing was safe. Opened cabinets, items forgotten and out of place. It was all tedious and frustrating, picking and choosing your battles as they came, brushing far too much under the rub for the sake of peace.

You knew it was almost over, enjoying a quiet night to yourself while Lucien was apparently out at dinner—you weren’t sure, you didn’t really care, but you enjoyed the glimpse of what was to return to you, tucked away on the couch while half-dressed, hand stuffed into a freshly popped bowl of popcorn.

It was Friday and your neighbors never failed to come home from a rowdy night of partying with everything but sleeping on their mind, getting straight to business and your grab for the remote was immediate, turning up the volume to drown out the obnoxious moans and groans of drunk sex happening on the other side of the wall.

Lucien arrives back somewhere near the middle of the movie, the soft laughs from you pulling his attention to the couch as he clocked the nineties rom-com on the television, your cheek resting against your balled up fist, placing his wallet against the counter to signal his entrance.

“Loud enough for you?” Lucien jokes, approaching the singular piece of furniture in your living room, fingertips pressing against the arm of the couch as he takes in your appearance, shirt barely reaching beyond mid-thigh, thick socks keeping you warm as you curled in on yourself, careless that Lucien was definitely looking you make a noise in question, the words processing in a delayed manner.

You reach for the remote, pausing the movie briefly to reveal the reason; the insistent thump of wood against cheap sheetrock and moans, squealy and high-pitched, forcing a raised eyebrow from Lucien that needed no words.

“Nevermind,” He concedes,hands thrown up in defeat with a chuckle hidden behind his teeth, walking closer to examine the screen, filing through his internal rolodex of films and drawing a blank.

“Are you going to keep standing there like a total weirdo or are you going to watch the movie?” You ask with a joking tone, tucking your feet underneath you as you made room, glancing down at your phone as a notification brought the screen to life.

Lucien catches the faint tug of a smile on your face as you type away, clicking the phone into sleep mode a few moments later before continuing the movie without a word.

You’re not sure which one of you succumbs to sleep first, but it didn’t matter, finding that you both aligned together easily as you slept, covered with a blanket that Lucien must have snatched somewhere near without disturbing you—and when you wake in the middle of the night, complex quiet throughout, you can’t even find it in you to move.

–

Lucien’s length of stay was diminishing quickly and you were relieved, only a few more days and things would be back to normal, you’d be three thousand dollars richer, and you wouldn’t have to confront the fact that Lucien wasn’t entirely as bad as he seemed, temper aside.

You’re both on your way out the door on a weekday morning when you spot him, navy blue hoodie draping his body, one you favored because of its size and comfortability.

“That’s mine,” You utter as you’re fisting your keys into your hand and tucking a makeup applicator away in your bag, “that’s…mine—why is it on your body?”

Lucien looks down, perplexed. He could’ve swore…

“It’s mine, I swear,” You’re peering over his shoulder and pulling at the collar, examining the tag by his neck, or lack thereof—you always cut them out, hated the feeling against your skin.

“It’s mine,” You say with finality, “But, it’s fine. I’ve been meaning to replace it anyways. And now that you’ve worn it, definitely.”

“Ouch,” Lucien chuckles, shaking his head at your bluntness, “I guess I deserve that. I did think it was mine, though. Swear. Must’ve gotten mixed up somehow.”

 “Oh, well, just burn it now—oh, shit, before I forget,” You point your finger at his chest, stopping him in his tracks, “I’ve got a date tonight. I’ll more than likely be gone when you get back here. I’m leaving a key under the mat, you know the deal. Respect it…protect it like you give a shit if anything happens, it’s all I have.”

“Date?” Lucien teases, “Sounds—”

“We’re not doing this,” You cut him short, finger raising higher in reprimand, “don’t do that.”

Again, Lucien values his well-being, so he admits defeat. 

It was difficult for him, his eagerness to please and charm, to command the conversation and impress—but with you, it was impossible. Truly, it was mesmerizing to him.

It was several hours later when Lucien arrived at the apartment, pointedly locking the door behind him as you had reminded him several times—he wasn’t completely aloof.

His orders takeout on a whim, disguised under a fake name and the careful directions to leave at the door, having practiced the art of subtly when it came to laying low, enjoying a couple beers from a pack James had bought him as a small celebration for a week of good, decent meetings. 

Things had been looking up recently and it made Lucien unsettled in a way, but thankful nonetheless, sipping at the beer generously and relaxing well into the night, dusk turning to black skies and few twinkling star lights, drowned out by the thick smog of city pollution. It started raining eventually, a soft pattern picking up gradually and he, for natural reasoning, is slightly concerned. So, he stays up despite some lingering exhaustion, barely hitting a quarter beyond eight o’clock when the door handle rattles, soft curses on the other side of the door that send him to his feet, peering through the peephole to spot a sufficiently blurry outline of you.

And what he opens the door to is not what he’s expecting, although, he wasn’t even sure what he was expecting in the first place, but this…it wasn’t it.

You were wet, clothes dripping and rain water pooling at your feet, everything sticking to you like an uncomfortable glue, cold and shivering, your bottom lip trembling.

Without thinking, Lucien shifts into action. 

He doesn’t ask a single question, not at first. Silently pulling the items off of you as you allow him; keys and purse first, clanging against the counter before he’s pulling your coat of, blouse, even kneeling down to remove your shoes before he’s carrying the clothes to the bathroom with you in tow, turning on the shower until it was steaming up the mirrors, heat radiating through the room as you pulled at the button of your jeans weakly, fumbling with cold and feeble hands.

He holds his hands up, careful not to approach in a way that would startle you or force you into attack mode, which seemed unlikely with the disheartened look on your face and he asks quietly, “Do you need help?”

You’re quiet for a long, tense moment before you nod, trying to quell the full body shivers as he assists you in stripping down to your underwear, also soaked. He pulls the curtain back and helps you over the side of the tub with the solid weight of his hand and speaks again despite your silence, “I’ll wait in your room—do you need anything?”

It doesn’t take a genius to piece things together as Lucien settles against the edge of the bed and it angers him for some forlorn reason, a feeling he hasn’t experienced in a long time. When the shower cuts off, he straightens, hesitates—should he leave? 

You’d want privacy, right? Yeah. No, definitely.

He rises to his feet without another thought, his awful timing sending you straight into his chest as you swung the door open, towel snug around your body and smelling sharply of fresh, citrus body wash.

“S-sorry,” You stammer out, “you don’t—you don’t have to wait around, Lucien. Or give a shit, either. I don’t expect you to and I don’t care—”

It was unusually cold. He’s become familiar with your snark, that sharp and cunning personality, but this was different. This was a push, a defense of hard and impenetrable walls building up before his eyes and he speaks without thinking, hoping that it slips through the cracks.

“Regardless, I’ll listen,” Lucien provides—it wasn’t an overwhelming expression of fake, forced care or, god forbid, love. But, it was a raw enough response that it grabs your attention, “—if you want me to.”

—

He cranked up the heat while you dressed, flipped open his leftover takeout, and listened. You weren’t used to this and for a while, you were half-expecting him to find a way to turn the situation on himself, a sob story for a sob story. But, he doesn’t.

“This sushi…” You savor the taste, eyes falling closed.

“Good, isn’t it?” Lucien smirks, popping another into his mouth with careful precision, chopsticks in hand.

You could cry, it was such a strong and startling feeling that it caught you off-guard, “Yeah, really good.”

You clear your throat, tears shoved aside, “Have you ever ditched a date before?”

Lucien shakes his head with a subtle frown.

“Right, Lucien De Leon,” You respond jokingly, that magical emphasis around his name, “any woman would be dying for all of….this,” You gesture to him lazily with a faux disgust that couldn’t even be forced, both of you divulging into a laugh.

“Hey, you said it,” Lucien shrugs with a pointed wink that you shouldn’t find so attractive, but the natural charm he emits makes it impossible, “—but, no. Can’t say I have.”

“Even the ones who wouldn’t put out?”

“At the risk of sounding like an asshole—“ Lucien begins, but you follow the rhythm of the conversation and it isn’t long before the lightbulb strikes on and you’re nodding.

“Right, you probably don’t have an issue in that department. Stupid question, sorry.”

You pluck the last piece of sushi off the styrofoam and chew, speaking behind your hand, “I should’ve known that dude was a prick, only stared at my tits the entire date.”

Out of reflex, his eyes drag to your chest and you click the movement in an instant, “Not helping,” You warn him lightly, “I guess I was too blunt, he kept…touching me. I told him I didn’t feel comfortable going back to his place, he made some excuse to go to the bathroom and I waited for a half hour. Until the server came by with the bill—so, not only did he ditch me, I paid a hundred dollar tab and I didn’t even eat my food.”

Even in Lucien’s wild days, he couldn’t imagine doing that. Not when he was drinking more heavily, partying, hooking up on a daily basis—before his first failed marriage, it was foreign to him. 

“You could’ve called me, or James, shit—an uber.”

“Phone died,” You shrug lamely, “it doesn’t matter, anyways. And don’t get me wrong, casual sex—it’s fine, but I got too hopeful, I guess. All men are the same.”

“Come on,” Lucien jests, “that’s not fair.”

“Fine, enlighten me, then.”

“You can’t expect fairytale shit—I mean, I’m one failed marriage and plenty of missteps in my life. Do you think I’m a bad guy?”

“Do you want me to answer that honestly?” 

Lucien sighs in defeat, scratching at his mused hair as he tosses the empty food container aside.

“I’m fucking with you,” You offer in a quieter tone—even if you weren’t friends with him, he didn’t have to put in the effort to help or listen, but he was, “I’m—just, thank you.”

“I’m in good graces now?” Lucien asks curiously, that playful mischief gracing his face with a smile.

You make a motion with your hand from your head as you grab, like pulling a thought and throwing it away, “Coffee incident? Forgotten—unless you pull some heinous shit.”

“You know, I might actually miss this,” His finger does a swirling motion, encompassing your living room, “you—eh,” a shaky hand motion that earns a jab to his thigh from your foot, “shit, ouch—that was a joke.”

“I know,” You concede with a smirk, “—I won’t, though. I want my couch back. And my bathroom.”

“If it makes you feel better, I think you’re a catch,” He tells you, “although, I do like the ones that bite, so—“

You reach forward this time, swatting playful at his chest with the back of your hand, but his fast reflexes beat you, your fingers smacking into solid rings.

He snickers softly and examines the grimace on your face as you pull back, “Pobrecita,” He coos mockingly, reaching for your hand and pressing a gentle kiss against the skin, “see what I mean?”

You ignore the heat that strikes through your body like a freshly lit match, pulling your hand away with a distinct eye roll. 

He’d be gone soon and this would all be a ridiculous memory to think back on. 

There was no room for newly evolving feelings, or worse, infatuation. 

—

The three months you spend falling back into your normal routine is monotonous, safe, but the kind of security that has you itching for change. You find yourself checking on Lucien more often than you should, regular social media checks, the occasional subtle question to James when you happened to catch him on set. It wasn’t healthy, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

He did seem more erratic, often coming across other quick clips and social media stories of him at the club during waking hours, pure reckless abandon, he was having the time of his life—you couldn’t blame him, but it was…slightly alarming.

It was a Saturday night when all hell broke loose, police sirens raining down the street as you raced to your open window, peering down at the obscured face of a man in cuffs as he was roughly shoved into a police car before there’s a pounding knock at the door, your heart nearly bursting out of your chest at the sound.

Turning on your heels and swinging the door open, you can’t help but find yourself speechless at the sight.

“Think they caught your burglar,” Lucien notes under his baseball cap, eyes catching the cascading red and blue lights outside your window, duffel bag at his feet and a regretful look on James’ face.

You tilt your head at the discovery, your brain working overtime before your eyes widen.

“Just hear him out,” He pleads with prayer like hands, phone sandwiched between two begging palms, “Lucien—go,”

Lucien seems to stutter-step in his mind, not expecting to be the one leading this proposition as he side-eyes James, “I…need a place to stay…again,” Lucien squints his eyes and stares up at the ceiling, looking almost embarrassed, “for the next six months.”

“No,” You nearly shout out incredulously, “the first time wasn’t a trial run.”

There’s a long moment of tense eye contact and uncertainty.

An underlying worry in your gut at the sight of Lucien, a little worse for wear but still mostly himself, gripping tightly at his carry-on bag in his hand, thumb rubbing nervously at the leather strap.

Goddammit.

–

He’s paying the entire six months of rent he planned on staying there while he filmed for a movie they were shooting a short ten minute drive from your complex, a quaint little studio gracious enough to let the crew film free of charge—he’d given you the whole spiel, in one ear and out the other still wondering how you’ve tangled yourself in this web again.

“Can I just ask you one thing?” You inquire, helping him file away some of his clothes in a drawer you had emptied out for him like this was normal. He makes a soft noise of acknowledgment with his lips pursed together, tired sunken eyes staring back at you, “Why not get your own apartment? A house? I mean, you’ve got the money?”

Lucien clears his throat, scratching at his neck where it jostles his chains, fingers slipping under the silk fabric of his shirt, “I, uh—feel weird…livingalone,” He rushes out, quickly turning to grab more clothes as you stand, hand placed against the top of your dresser as your brow furrows, feeling like you’d just fallen deaf.

“Come again?”

A small huff as Lucien passes a stack of expensive shirts, material that had to be ethically sourced or…some bullshit like that, he’s told you the story before in passing.

“I don’t like living alone, ‘s why I float,” He offers lamely, tossing the empty duffel into the corner of your room—you’d pick it up later, it didn’t matter, “I left all my old stuff to my ex-wife, it was easier that way.”

Often you had to remind yourself that Lucien was older, nearing his late forties while you were still managing through your late twenties, a big thirty on the horizon.

It dawns on you then that you don’t know much about Lucien at all outside of tabloids and gossip sites, the rumor mills running through Hollywood—you often find yourself reminding you of the fact he was still a person, with troubles, clearer now more than ever.

“It wasn’t always like this,” He assures you, “I’m a fuckin’ mess, I already know.”

“I think we’re beyond judgment, Lucien,” You assure him, “You saw me sobbing and nearly naked—just keep this place clean, like you give a shit about it, alright?”

Lucien nods dutifully, “Yes, ma’am.”

–

You learn quickly that his long term stay meant that little quirks were beginning to surface—always organizing your things out on the sink opposite of his own, a small gesture that didn’t go unnoticed when you were rushing out the door on days he wasn’t given a call time. Or how he always made sure there was food waiting when he arrived before you—takeout or not. He wasn’t a great cook, but he could manage.

In turn, you tried to cook more often. And he loved to hover, but not with a homey, warm feeling that made you feel safe, rather like a curious dog nipping at your ankles. And more so, he would finish his own plate before looking cautiously at your own before you nod, allowing him to pick from your plate with a greediness that made you giggle under your breath.

“My ex-wife never cooked,” He had told you once, “I mean, she tried—but she was terrible. And this,” His tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek as he steps at the homemade ravioli, “is there anything you can’t do?”

“Say no, apparently,” You gave him a solid once-over, a look from head to toe—he’s never offended anymore, taking the playful jest in stride, it had already been a month and it was beginning to feel like normal, again, having him there.

Your conflicting schedules meant a lot of time away from each other, which wasn’t bad. It almost helped more than you expected and while your apartment wasn’t well-fit for a roommate, Lucien made the place feel less empty.

You couldn’t say it out loud, but you were starting to understand the charm. You could see beyond the facade and the persona—a troubled man with ambition, purpose, but a mountain of struggles. The drinking wasn’t a surprise, nor his uptick in smoking. He always smoked out the window so the smell wouldn’t permeate, but the drinking started to become…an issue. 

It wasn’t that Lucien couldn’t handle himself when he drank, but he often did it to fill the dead time—so he said—when you were still at work, fighting with his own demons in his mind. He always ended up on your bed those nights, curled up in a fetal position at the wrong end and you couldn’t find it in yourself to move him, draping a blanket over him before you decided to spend the night on the couch. It was a weekly occurrence after a while, slowly growing in frequency.

He always apologizes, tells you he won’t do it again, but eventually you find yourself melding around him, sleeping in a way that keeps you comfortable and doesn’t disturb him. You don’t judge him, don’t think any lower of him—but there was concern and Lucien could see it growing with every passing conversation as the weeks dragged along. 

By the third month, the dam breaks.

You don’t sugarcoat anything for him either.

“Do you need rehab?” You ask bluntly, watching him peel the gold-flaked under eye patches from his face, shoulder leaned against the doorframe, “Or, like, therapy?”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” He defends, washing his hands under the warm water, “I can get sober if I wanna, but it helps with the stress, you know?”

“No,” You respond honestly, but softly, “I don’t. Unless this is just some big excuse for you to sleep in my bed, which if it is—”

Lucien chuckles, toweling his hands dry, “You caught me.”

“You would tell me if it was getting bad, wouldn’t you?”

It seemed like the least he could do, considering how greatly you were carrying the burden for him by allowing him to stay in the comfort of your own home, treating him like a human. You ignored the tabloids anymore, always negative and nefarious toward him, like he wasn’t allowed to make a few mistakes along the way. He had to be perfect, given his troubling start in the industry. DUIs, cheating, eventually settling down to marry but that didn’t work out great for him either—you’d done some research lately, out of pure curiosity to understand what he wasn’t always willing to share, but you preferred to hear it from him.

Lucien squeezes at your chin in a comforting manner that makes you grimace in feigned disgust, forcing a gentle laugh through your nose as he answers, “Yes, I would.”

–

When he should, he doesn’t. 

Award season was approaching and work was hectic, Lucien had wrapped on his next project and his previous one was gearing for a big release and line of promos, which meant Lucien had to be on his game.

The lamp in your living was broken, a shattered glass bottle on the floor beside it, a trail of clothes following to your room and a heat in the apartment that was sweltering in a way that had you stripping down immediately to the thinnest layer you could manage without getting to your underwear, jeans and a thin strapped top as you walked barefoot toward your room.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting or hoping for, but it isn’t this.

He’s naked, completely bare, save for the blanket draping his groin to save his modesty, out cold but skin obviously clammy, reeking of alcohol and sweat and you can’t help scrambling to the floor, unable to form any type of tangible sound. You check for a pulse, fearing that you might have just found yourself in an inescapable scandal, but it was there. That soft thump, thump, thump under your fingertips before you press the back of your hand to his skin and despite the sweat, he’s cold. He must have sweat out most of the alcohol in his system, your eyes dragging to the forgotten bottle on the ground.

You sigh, eyes falling closed as you gather your thoughts. You devise a plan, slow and methodical—first was to clean, grabbing the clothes and broken glass from the ground, leaving no trace of his mayhew before you’re returning to your room and straight for the bathroom, immediately turning on the cold water, the stream forceful as it pushed through the showerhead.

“Fuck,” You curse to yourself as you glance at Lucien who is mostly dead-weight, struggling to understand how you can get him from one point to another—with another quiet huff you approach him, shifting until you can get your arms under his armpits and heave him up, blanket falling from his waist as you yelp, eyes shooting toward the ceiling as you continue to drag his slumped body toward the tub, “okay—god, Lucien, you fucking owe me.”

It takes some maneuvering and the unbelievability that you are so incredibly close to his bare ass and dick in a way that most would fall over backwards for, regardless of the situation—it felt wrong, seeing him in such a manner and so completely helpless, but you shove the thought aside as you finally get him in the tub, the cold water waking him almost immediately.

It starts with a gasp, a sharp tug of the curtain and coarse, “Shit,” that assures you he was alive and well, coherent, even. A small smile tugs at your lips as you hear him let out a string of curses before he finally settles.

“There’s a bottle of water and some Advil on the counter—take it,” You instruct behind the curtain, “I’m going to grab dinner—try not to hurt yourself, please.”

He doesn’t acknowledge you, not that you expected it. And it doesn’t take long to grab the food either, calling it in and driving there and back in about twenty minutes, finding Lucien freshly showered and sitting on the stool near the counter, eyes telling a story of exhaustion but his insistently bouncing leg telling another.

“Chicken or steak?” You ask nonchalantly, holding the styrofoam containers in both hands.

He takes a moment to answer, unsettled by your calmness, “...steak.”

You hand it over without a question, grabbing a couple drinks before you’re digging in, standing opposite of him rather than sitting, eating in a silence that grows, thickens.

“It’s quiet,” You note the obvious before you scroll through your phone, searching for a soft tune to play through your speakers, something to fill the air, “better—how’s the food?”

“I like it,” Lucien responds with a full mouth, somehow endearing as he swallows and sips at the second water you offered him, attempting to help keep him hydrated, even if it was still annoyingly hot in your apartment, “—I…I think I broke your AC.”

“You did. I’ll put in a work order for it to get fixed,” You answer, a solution to the problem, “are you okay?”

If Lucien was being honest with himself, he can’t remember the last time anyone has asked him that—not genuinely, anyways. He falls silently, biting at his bottom lip in deep thought as his eyes squint, poking quietly at his food.

Talking was hard, you understood that. But, you hoped there was some trust built between you in the past few months, that you hadn’t laid your vulnerabilities out bare the night you came home rain soaked without the ability for him to share too. Plus, he’d broken your favorite lamp.

“It’s complicated,” Lucien diverts, but that doesn’t stop you, eyes lying in wait as you laid your utensil down to listen, “—I’ve got two kids. One, he’s eighteen…awesome, awesome kid. His name is Raynor. I didn’t meet him until a few years back, I’ve been tryin’ take make up for that. We even went on a roadtrip a couple summers back.”

Lucien fiddles with the cap on the water bottle idly, speaking further, “I, the other, my daughter, she’s a couple years old—it was a crazy night with a co-star,” You clock the information immediately, knowing who he was talking about without the confession, and he knew too—it wasn’t exactly a well kept secret in Hollywood as Delia was now married, to another co-star, raising that child, “a long story for another time, but we’re going through this nasty court battle.”

It would explain his financial situation a little, his willingness to take roles as he could, but the growing stress on his face as weeks passed, the tendency to hide or ignore the situation rather than face it—you understood, to a degree. 

“So, all the drinking? The transiency?”

“It just helps,” He shrugs—helps him forget, temporarily, before it all comes barreling back at him, “she wants to revoke shared custody—she’s got her more anyways, with my work and everything, but she wants to deem me unfit, make it—” Lucien’s throat tightens, exactly why he wanted to avoid this conversation entirely, “she wants to erase me and the moment the press gets wind—”

All hell would break loose. 

“Lucien, I don’t think it works that way,” You assure him, even if your knowledge was slim, “there’s…that's your right, she’s your child.”

“Given my history, the judge could consider it,” Lucien replies lackluster, ashamed, “look—I’m sorry to dump this shit on you, I fucked up your apartment, I can find another place to stay and I’ll pay out the rest of the rent like I promised.”

You look at him with a gentle expression, tilting your head until his eyes finally rise, “I asked,” You remind him, “and I hated that lamp anyways, so you did me a favor,” It was a lie, but given his emotional state it was acceptable, watching as he forced a weak laugh, “I’m not kicking you out either, if the media publishes anything about it, you hunker down here. I can deal with a few paps, you know? We do work in the same industry, after all. I may not understand the full scope but I do understand, Lucien.”

He returns a look with sad, red-rimmed eyes as you reach to clean up your shared dinner, before approaching him with a careful few steps, a hand gliding over his bicep and your fingers rubbing at the small dip in the back of neck, your first real initiation of genuine touch. He was a touchy person himself and seemed at ease by the feeling, your lips coming to press a soft kiss against his cheek. Kind, friendly, you pat at his back.

Something changes between that touch and the look he gives you as he turns, eyes flicking toward your lips out of desire, silently he pushes logic aside and leans forward, pulling your chin into his hand like he has before, a familiar touch followed by a foreign one, plush lips against your own that has you swimming in a mix of emotions, eyes falling shut briefly before you realize what was happening, lips parting slightly as the tip of his tongue touches your own before you’re ripping away, eyes wide.

“Oh my god,” You utter out, wishing the words had stayed inside of your head, “I, uh–I’m—”

You stutter relentlessly before you’re scrambling toward your room, door falling shut with a soft click as you sink into your sheets, heart racing uncontrollably and your hands covering your face, unable to face what you had just escaped from as a knock comes a few minutes later on your bedroom door.

You couldn’t face him. You couldn’t.

Eventually, he leaves. Slow footsteps that eventually lead toward another door that closes too, unsure of where he was wandering off to, but you couldn’t think about that, not with the conflicting, battling emotions in your head and chest, a startling yearning coming from just a simple touch.

He was everything you despised—somehow finding level ground, adoring him, caring about him, it was never supposed to go this far. He started as an inconvenience, a disruption to your life…and now, you weren’t sure you could imagine it without him there, in some form.

It takes a couple hours, already deep into your slumber, but the dip of weight in your bed startles you for a moment before the movements stop, the strong press of a back against yours, and an unspoken security that pulls you both under quickly.

He’d gone out drinking again, but at this point, you couldn’t blame him.

–

He awakes to a sweet smell, distinct and fresh. And air, cool air. It can’t be dawn, the sun is too far in the sky to be early morning. Lucien rises with a heavy grogginess, rubbing at his eyes as he finds his footing and walks toward the living room of your apartment, finding your back turned to him as you fiddled with the buttons on your AC as you bid someone goodbye, a man carrying a toolbox descending toward the hallway.

He gears up for an apology, the words balancing on the tip of his tongue.

Suddenly, you’re in front of him, two filled mugs in hand, coffee just the way he liked.

 And Lucien doesn’t know when or why the feeling overtakes him, but he kisses you again. It isn’t a simple peck. It was full, all-consuming, feet lifting off the ground type of kiss.

No, literally—you rise to your tiptoes as the cups jostle in your grip as two large, warm hands curl around your back and his lips melt against your own, earning a starling gasp that slips through slightly parted lips, followed by his name after a moment too long.

“Coffee, coffee,” You mumbled quickly, “hot—burning, my toes,” Lucien pulled away quickly at the words, watching as the tan liquid pooled at your feet before he rushed to clean up the mess.

You watch with an amused expression before you finally hand the cup of coffee over, “Good morning to you too, I guess,” You smirk, biting down on your cheek to stifle the laugh that was fighting it’s way out, “please don’t tell me you’re still drunk.”

“I need to apologize,” Lucien tells you, “...again—I’m—I’m sorry for kissing you—again, like that, assuming that was something you wanted. I got pulled into the moment—”

You’ve had all night and morning to think it over, mulling over the emotions and feelings, still not quite sure, but you couldn’t help the swirling feeling of nervousness that had grown more frequent in Lucien’s presence, his looks, his flirtatious nature and touches. You were under his spell completely.

And if you didn’t want to kiss him, you would have stopped him.

Besides, you didn’t want to be the bearer of more bad news after his terrible night, having been let go from your job position that morning, no notice—you were still reeling, but didn’t want to burden Lucien with the news.

You needed something else to occupy your mind.

“Drink,” You instruct, taking a seat on the couch as you sip at your coffee in silence, watching as Lucien mirrored your actions and sat at the opposite end, legs out-stretched and his chest on display, tanned skin with neatly trimmed chest hair, soft tummy leading into the charcoaled, stretchy lounge pants leaving little to imagination as he fidgeted in his seat.

“Where’d you go last night?”

Lucien’s face immediately flushes with guilt, “The—a bar. I didn’t drink. I swear, I—”

He makes a small noise of frustration and closes his eyes, “I did something stupid, I needed a distraction, alright? I shouldn’t have kissed you, that’s not what you wanted, I know that.”

With a silent reservation, you press the coffee cup into the table in front of you before slowly make your way toward him on your knees before you pluck the half-empty mug from his grip and return it to a similar spot, feeling a surge of bravery as you climb onto his lap—there’s some underlying stupidity there, you think. But, fuck it.

“You don’t know what I want,” You assure him, fingers dragging along the top of his head before you’re tugging at the stands to tilt his head back, kissing him soundly, sweet dark roast on your shared breaths as you lick into his mouth, the opposite hand pressed flat against his bare chest. It takes a while, but eventually his brain catches up, along with his movements, and his hands curl around your bare thighs, fingertips grazing the silk shorts you wore to bed the night prior, like butter against your soft skin as his fingers climb and dig, pressing into your skin as you continue to discover every inch of him he had to offer—mouth, tongue, neck, chest.

It was a dormant hunger that had awoken after careful thought and pure primal need, tired of waiting things out for perfection when you had something tangible in front of you.

He’s mumbling your name softly as you lean into him, the bottom of your lip dragging against the tip of his nose as he pulls you away, strong hands encompassing your face as he looks at you, searching your glazed over eyes, “What are you doing?” He asks, apparent concern.

“Distracting you,” You tell him, immediately diving back in to kiss him, nipping at his chin playfully, a shaking sigh falling from his lips, “are you distracted?”

He chuckles weakly, “What happened to me being a cocky, egotistical, little dicked man?”

“I can go back to hating you if you want,” You respond, nipping at his ear before you pull back to look at him, so close you can feel his breath against your lips, “If you’re into that sorta thing.”

He could see in your eyes that you needed this too, a way to shut your brain off for a while, months of failed dates you’ve told him all about, in detail, he can’t help but chuckle at your eagerness, stifling a groan as you core grinds against him, cock stiffening with the movement.

“Maybe,” He’s undecided, “we’ll see how this goes.”

You smile wide, feeling a surge of pride as he returns the kiss more fully, a hand twisting around the back of your neck as he kisses you fully, all wet and uncoordinated but it makes your heart flutter in excitement.

“Let me taste you,” He begs, clawing at your top in an attempt to get his hands on your skin, pushing up the fabric as you follow his movements, top off, stripping your shorts down along with your underwear, an eager Lucien gripping at your hips to maneuver you down into the cushion as he hastily shoves the table away with his feet to make room for him on the floor, no reprieve as he hooks your legs over his shoulder and splits his tongue through your folds, licking up the center.

A man of his word, he tastes. Noisily he licks and prods, tongue dipping inside of along with wandering fingers, sucking gently at your clit until you’re yanking at his hair, hand curling over the back of his scalp, fingernails digging into the top of his back, moans spilling from your lips like a flowing river, the rapids rushing through, walls clenching around nothing but cool air as Lucien parts from you, admires. 

He’s got two hands on your thighs to keep you open, “Wider,” He coaxes, your breath quickening as he squeezes at your thighs, “right there, don’t move.”

He shoves his pants down his hips, the heel of his palm rubbing down his shaft as he wraps his fingers around his cock, jerking himself off at the sight of you, glistening and eager, your fingers digging into the cushion fabric—you’ve seen him before, naked, in starkly different context. 

But, he had nothing to be ashamed of, your eyes counting the faint splattering of freckles on his chest as his hand glides over his cock, tugs, thumb sliding over the tip to spread the precum down his shaft and you don’t hear him calling your name until his hand touches your skin, gliding over your knee as he taps, coming to with a weak, “Huh?”

Lucien laughs under his breath before he’s beckoning you closer, pushing up with your palms as he cups his hand under your chin and asks—no, demands, “Spit,” He tells you, following his order without missing a beat, the saliva dripping into his hands as you push it past your lips and he moves closer, knees settled on the plush rug in your living room, guiding you until your ass was nearly hanging off the couch and using your saliva to aid the tug of his cock.

“No condom,” You quickly interject, slightly out of breath. His mouth opens like he wants to respond but you quickly shush him, “we can avoid the spiel, I’m on the pill.”

Lucien shrugs with a cocked smile, “Just checking. You alright?”

You nod eagerly, dying for a reason to shut your mind off.

It was the perfect angle, his hips just level enough with your hips that he slid in with ease, adding his own string of spit into the mix as rubbed it down your cunt and pushed his cock inside—deeper, deeper, the head of his cock sliding against your folds teasingly as he rocks his hips until he’s fully flush inside of you.

Your anxious hands are taken hold by him, curling around his wrists instinctively before they’re being shoved over your head and against the back of the couch, his towering frame leaning over you as his hips piston you at a bruising pace, deep enough that it aches. It’s been long, so long and you feel pathetic for already wanting it so bad, core pulsating with an insatiable need.

His breath is hot, wet against your skin as his teeth graze against your breast, sucking the skin between his teeth as you gasp, “Louder,” Lucien coaxes, “let ‘em hear you. Think they deserve it after all they’ve put us through.”

You laugh at that, full-body and airy, eyes falling shut as Lucien plants a foot against the floor, changing up the angle to an intense degree, his cock slipping out briefly as he adjusts, catching glimpse of the string of shiny slick that connects you both before the thick head of his cock pushes back in, a soft squelch of admittance, a tell-tale sign of your obvious enjoyment.

If he knew this would shut you up, he would’ve tried seducing you months ago—though, he had a feeling the attempts would be futile, he was floating on his own cloud of disbelief that after all his wrong-doings, his missteps, it hadn’t pushed you away.

“Show me—huh, show me what you like,” Lucien pleads through baited breath, hair sticking to his forehead from the sheen of sweat, his own hands leaving yours with the silent promise that you wouldn’t move them, finding purchase underneath your thighs and pushing them up toward your chest, your fingers gripping around the back of the couch in desperation, “touch—touch yourself, show me.”

The drag of your hand is slow, but eventually your fingers hover over your cunt, pressing against your sensitive clit as you circle, slow and intentional movement that rips a loud moan from your chest matched with his pointed thrusts, feeling his stamina weaning as he watches, hips stuttering.

“You’re a fucking dream,” Lucien admires, “makin’ a damn mess, too. You hear that?”

He slows down on purpose, partially for his own benefit but he’s proving his point, that sticky squelch of arousal, his faint grunts mixed with your quickly rising moans.

“Does it make you nervous when I stare?” He asks curiously, eyes locked on your pussy, watching his cock split you open, gripping him and pulling him back in eagerly with every thrust, “Look at me—answer me, baby.”

There’s something so distinct in the way he says it, laced with an addictive drug.

Your eyes peel open, bleary behind near tears and you shake your head.

“Do you wish it did?” You counter, earning a subtle head shake from Lucien as he pulls out.

A moan of disappointment leaves your mouth before he’s quickly jostling your around, chest against the couch, his hand spreading wide over your back as he bends you over, fisting his cock as he feeds it back into your greedy cunt, the swollen head making you gasp as it pushes through your over-sensitive folds.

He uses the leverage as his hand climbs, gripping at your shoulder to pull you up, bracketing your body into the couch with a knee at your side, pressing you tight into his chest, his hand sliding around to your chin and turning your face to his, lips parting as he fucks you with a newfound ferocity, eyes rolling back so deep you aren’t expecting the fingers that find your clit, circling the senstive nerves until you’re tipping over the edge, soft encouraging words pulling you through your orgasm like a gentle wave, his fingers slowing down as you resurface.

He comes soon after, his hips stuttering out of pace again as you lean forward, feeling him pull out at the last possible moment before he’s painting thick strips of come against your lower back, the fingers of his left hand digging into your skin as he grabs you tight, the tip of his cock sliding against your ass.

You collapse with a content laugh, oblivious to Lucien searching frantically for something to clean you up before settling on one of the kitchen towels, your body slumped lazily against the couch and sighing when you feel his warm touch, the words slipping out on their own accord, “I got fired.”

“What?”

He tosses the dirty towel aside and passes over your clothes, pulling his own lounge pants back up his hips, sans underwear—and it makes you curious how often he does that normally, comfortable as he takes a seat, legs spread wide as he settles into the cushion.

“They called this morning,” You explain easily, pulling your top over your head and maneuvering your panties and shorts back on, “wouldn’t give me a reason, but it doesn’t matter.”

Lucien’s brow furrows in thought, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips out of habit.

“Is this one of those situations where you’re gonna ask if I’ll sign an NDA?” You half-joke.

He shakes his head almost immediately. He doesn’t seem to find it amusing, almost slightly concerned—or wounded?

“Come work for me,” He insists, “I’ve been needing an assistant.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” You ask him, staring at his flush chest and mused hair, evidence of rigorous sex all over his face, it was almost enough to have you confessing some unspoken feelings, but you weren’t that easily broken down.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Are you just trying to find a reason to stick around longer?” You tease him, a smile peeking out behind your tired expression, “Because it won’t work.”

“No—I’m serious about getting my shit together,” Lucien promises, “I might need a little help…but I want to.”

“Can I think about it?” 

Lucien nods, hands dropping to his lap as he fiddles with a ring on his finger, eventually trailing toward the chains around his neck before his head is popping up, a quizzical look on his face.

“Wait—was that because you were having a bad morning?”

The sex, he means.

A smile breaks out on your face, “Nothing an orgasm won’t fix.”

He can sense it isn’t the full truth, but he doesn’t pry.

“Damn straight,” He chuckles, both of you falling into a comfortable silence.

–

Your answer doesn’t come for a solid week, thinking over the pros and cons. It was complicated, indeed bound to be messy if you allowed it, but Lucien was promising to double your pay, no undermining, no hovering—it seemed too good to be true.

But, you were taking the risk.

Lucien was still awaiting the imminent release of the court documents, the storm of press, but when you were secured in the safety of your apartment, hidden under the blankets as Lucien clung to you, head buried in your chest and his cock still buried inside of you, a slow and lazy day was what he needed, but he also craved you—and he was addicting, impossible to deny.

“We can’t keep doing this when I start working for you,” You remind him.

“Who says we can’t?” Lucien asks curiously, adjusting his hips as he slides deep inside of your cunt, peering up at you with soft eyes, “We keep it casual, if we decide we wanna stop. We stop. It won’t affect your job. I’m not that much of a dick, baby.”

“Well, for starters, you can’t call me baby at work.”

Lucien nods dutifully, listening to you divulge into a long lists of hardset rules, eventually pulling your focus back to him, his hips moving at a slow but gradual pace until you can’t focus any longer, giggling loudly as he buries his face into your neck, a sufficient end to the conversation.

The rest could be figured out later.

-

dividers: @/saradika-graphics