#I think it’s more complicated than that

[plutotheplum]

His Eyes All Over Me

sylus x fem!reader

summary: ever since experiencing sylus' frenzy, you find yourself feeling strange. it all comes to a head after your movie date.

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, fluff, kissing, vaginal fingering, oral sex, blow job, p in v, knotting, scent kink, praise kink, breeding kink, aftercare, brief switch!sylus

w/c: 6.1k

a/n: guys idk what happened all of a sudden i was possessed and the breeding kink just appeared <3

also on ao3!

I know exactly what it means, which is why I’m accepting this.

Sylus’ cryptic words leave you confused as the movie ends. It wasn’t even meant to mean anything in particular, although perhaps that was just you convincing yourself that you were in total control of this situation. You were giving the feather to him as a kind gesture, nothing more. 

… Fuck, had he seen it as more? 

A dull throb spreads out from across your temples, your fingers itching to pull out your phone and simply search up whatever it is he meant.

Why did feelings have to be so complicated? 

You bite back a groan, slumping back in the car seat, an irritated look passing over your face.

“Something wrong?” Sylus’ smooth voice cuts through the silence, his eyes glancing towards you as he drives.

“No,” you manage out, trying to stop your voice from dipping into a grumble. You sneak a glance at his face, only to find your gaze dipping to observe the way his long fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, the muscles in his forearms flexing with every move after he’d rolled up his jacket sleeves.

Ever since you’d managed to stop him from descending into a Praedator’s Frenzy, you’d found yourself suffering from a strange affliction. Yes, you had been terrified when you were trapped in that large birdcage with him, panic racing through your body as you tried to stop his sanity from unravelling any further and yet… you’d been embarrassingly aroused.

The way his teeth had sunk into your earlobe, his fangs scraping and vicious against the delicate skin of your neck. You had liked it in some sick sense. The heat that pooled between your thighs was because of Sylus, his feral nature and tight grip on your hips had made your mind swirl, his low, rasping voice, the slight rut of his hips into your ass- 

You needed a cold shower. One with actual ice, preferably.

The car rumbles to a stop, and you get out agitatedly, cursing under your breath when you realize Sylus was following you in, up to your apartment. It isn’t hard for you to notice that Sylus has taken note of your change in behavior, his hands shoving into his pockets as he stares at you.

“Something is wrong,” Sylus muses, tilting his head in a searching manner. “What? You didn’t enjoy the movie?”

“It was fine,” you reply shortly, playing with your fingers. “I think I’m coming down with something.” A blatant lie to a man who probably knew you better than you knew yourself. You clear your throat, coughing a little exaggeratedly. “A cold.”

“A cold,” he echoes, dipping his head to stare down at you scrutinizingly. You yelp when he grabs at your wrist, his fingers pressing against your pulse point. Sylus’ eyes darken, his playful expression fading as his lips thin, his voice a low hiss. “Liar.”

“That’s-” you grumble, pulling your wrist free from his grasp, “that’s unfair.”

He stares down at you for a moment longer, his eyes searching. You squirm under his gaze, heart fluttering a little when he cocks his head to the side before straightening up.

“If you didn’t enjoy my company, you should’ve just said so,” Sylus drawls, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

You roll your eyes, huffing out a breath as you step out the elevator. “I wasn’t lying because I didn’t enjoy your company.”

Your current predicament was actually because of the contrary; you were finding that you were enjoying his company a little too much. You kick your shoes off when you get inside, hearing the soft lock of the door as Sylus closes it behind him. 

When he stares at you blankly, you shoot him an unimpressed look, gesturing towards your couch. “Make yourself at home, Sylus.”

“I don’t remember my former roommate being so… cruel,” he sighs, sounding aggrieved. “Especially after rewarding me with such a heartfelt gift.” Sylus grins devilishly, his lips curving upwards, eyes glinting with amusement. 

You flush, cheeks feeling hot with embarrassment.

“Whatever you think it means,” you snap, glaring at him in an attempt to hide your own flusteredness, “it doesn’t mean that. I was being nice, okay? Because I am a nice person!”

“Right,” Sylus laughs lowly. It’s a derisive sound, mocking and aggravating enough to have you bristling with anger. You watch as he moves until he’s leaning against the back of the couch, his ankles crossed over each other, arms crossed over his chest. “You were being nice.”

“I was!” you protest, body growing warmer. “You’re just being weird and- and sauve because-” 

“Because?” Sylus presses, narrowing his eyes.

“Because you have a crush on me!”

Shit, shit, shit. 

You don’t even know where the outburst came from, but your hand is slapping over your mouth as you stare at Sylus, feeling utterly mortified. You were totally projecting.

“A crush,” he echoes, clicking his tongue as he examines you.

“I- I didn’t mean that,” you blurt out, voice all pitchy and panicky. “I only meant that-”

You squeak when he reaches you in a few measured strides, his calloused fingers squishing your cheeks together until your lips pucker out like a fish. 

“No?” Sylus murmurs, raising his brows, “pray tell, Miss Enforcer, what did you mean?”

“I… I don’t know?” you offer meekly, fidgeting under his grip, desperate to be let free.

Sylus’ nose nudging against your cheek causes you to stiffen, his fingers loosening their grip on you to instead stroke across the skin of your jaw. You let out a soft noise when he cups your cheek, his hands maneuvering your head until his nose grazes across the length of your neck, his breath hot as it fans across your skin.

“And if I did?” he asks, pressing himself closer, arm dropping to wrap around your waist tightly. “Have a… crush as you say.”

“Then- then-” you struggle to form a sentence, biting your lip to muffle any more damning noises that could be used against you.

“Then?” Sylus cajoles, his voice low and lilting, nose pressing firmly into your throat as he sucks in a sharp breath, savoring your scent.

“Then that would be embarrassing!”

You shove at his chest, stumbling a bit, still hazy from his closeness and intimate ministrations. Sylus holds you in place with his gaze, his arms crossing over his chest and you swallow down an indecent sound when you see the slight flex of his biceps underneath the fabric of his jacket.

The kitchen counter grounds you, your fingers pressing against the cool marble. It feels hard to breathe, and rather you’re the embarrassing one, having lost your nerve the moment he had gotten too close.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?” Sylus asks, cocking his head to the side, his shoulders rolling lazily. 

“Notice what?” you shoot back, grasping for a glass and filling it up with water before chugging it down rapidly.

“Stop playing stupid,” he replies, his grin mirthless. “I smelt it on you the moment you stepped into that birdcage with me.”

Now he was saying you smelt bad? 

“Smelt what?” you scoff, partially offended. You turn your head, angling it down towards your shoulder, trying to sniff yourself subtly. 

Sure, maybe you were a little sweaty, but he was making you nervous! You frown at Sylus, and he rolls his eyes, his hand reaching out to grip your chin, tilting your head upwards, towards him.

“Your arousal,” Sylus rasps, his eyes pinning you in place. “Wetness, slick, whatever you wish to call it. I can smell it, Miss Enforcer.”

Your face pales, humiliation washing over your expression, stomach twisting uncomfortably with embarrassment. Whatever thoughts are currently occupying your mind fizzle away, replaced by a sense of overwhelming mortification. 

You open your mouth to respond and clamp it back shut, thinking better of it lest you embarrass yourself any further. Perhaps there was no point to having a sense of dignity, seeing as Sylus had clearly torn it to shreds. 

“The Frenzy Enhancer doesn’t only enhance a Praedator’s Frenzy,” Sylus murmurs, tugging your head back when you avert your gaze, forcing you to meet his eyes. “It heightens our senses; for the purpose of making it all the more agonizing when one is deprived of delivering a bite.”

The LCBI had neglected to include that little fact in your training. You swallow nervously when his thumb traces down your cheek, over your jaw and presses against the jumpy pulse in your throat.

“Even now,” he continues, his other hand fisting your hair to tug your head back further. You yelp at the pain that sears across your scalp, fingers scrabbling at his chest as he presses his nose to your throat and inhales again. “You’re enjoying this, Miss Enforcer.”

“I- I am not!” you protest, doing your best to sound offended and hide the traitorous heat that was currently swirling low in your stomach with every fan of his breath against your skin. “Your nerves are clearly misfiring; d- damaged probably,” you sputter, “after your Frenzy.”

Sylus laughs hoarsely, his eyes lighting up and you know your pathetic excuse hasn’t worked.

“Stop fighting this,” he says, still sounding amused, his eyes softening slightly when he sees how flustered you’ve become. “You don’t stand to gain anything from pushing me away. Haven’t I made my intentions clear?”

“It’s complicated,” you murmur, “you’re- you’re you-”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, raising his brows.

You huff out an aggravated breath, refusing to be cornered.

“Nothing. I only reacted that way because you seemed awfully wanton in that birdcage,” you hiss heatedly, waving your hands about. “Not to mention uninhibited.” 

“I was hit with a Frenzy Enhancer,” Sylus snaps, his fists clenching. “Yes, I was uninhibited, but I was not wanton.”

Your lips purse as you consider Sylus’ response, remembering the way he had arched his back in his frenzy, the subtle buck of his hips when you’d placed your hand on his pec. Not to mention the groaning and well… whimpering. The feeling of his teeth on your ear hadn’t exactly helped in the moment either. 

There’s an itch in you to get the last word in.

“You were wanton,” you argue, shooting him a stubborn look.

“I could have killed you,” Sylus murmurs dangerously, reaching out to grab your hands, his fingers intertwining with yours. “Sometimes a bite isn’t enough. I could have torn you apart, limb by limb until you were all but a severed, bleeding mess on the cold floor. Would you have liked that?”

You can’t say you would’ve, remembering the Praedator attack all those years, but this Sylus and there’s a foolish part of you that hopes that he would have been able to reign in his base desires.

“I’m still in one piece,” you mumble out, “besides, I know how to handle myself.” You sneak a glance down at the way his hands are holding yours, lips pursing as you feel the warmth of skin bleeding into yours. It’s too much for your poor heart, really. “You can let go now.”

“No,” he says quietly, his voice softer as he dips his head, the tip of his nose grazing yours. “I know you want this. I want this.”

You bite your lip at the pleading tone in his voice, heart stuttering in your chest. Sylus’ voice seems to wrap around you, and you peer up at him when he presses his forehead against yours, letting out a heavy exhale.

“Are you going to make me beg, hm?” Sylus muses, a smile pulling at his lips when he sees your lips twitch. “Please?” he whispers, his voice low and soft and somehow the sweetest you’ve ever heard Sylus. “I’ll be good, Miss Enforcer. Please?”

An incoherent noise escapes you, fingers tightening into his jacket as he steps closer, his body flush against yours.

“Will you let me have you?” he whispers, nosing into your cheek. “...Or perhaps you don’t want me to ask. Maybe you want me to lose control like I did in that birdcage. Growling and snapping and feral.”

Sylus was driving you insane. Your body feels hot, mind blank as a shaky breath escapes you when he grazes his fangs against your neck, his breath hot. You can feel how sticky your panties have become, thighs pressing together to try and soothe the ache of your cunt, aware of the overwhelming emptiness of it.

“Do you deny it, sweetness?”

“No,” you concede, your voice trembling, “no, I don’t.”

He hums, nudging impossibly closer, tongue darting out to lave over the erratic pump of blood in your throat. You open your mouth, a quiet mewl leaving you as he smiles against your skin, his lips pressing a heated kiss to your sensitive skin.

“Is that so?” Sylus muses, his hands drifting down to grasp your hips. “Such a shame you’ve waited so long to confess,” he continues, his voice low and purring, “had you asked me earlier, I would have given you my cock; no questions asked.”

“You- you would have?” you ask, your voice strangled as he kisses your neck again.

You can hardly catch up with what’s happening when he spins you around in his arms, his chest flush against your back, arms wrapping around your waist tightly.

“Yes,” he soothes, his fingers wrapping around your throat to tip your head back against his chest. “So many opportunities wasted,” he sighs, clicking his tongue. “I could have had you bouncing on my cock days ago, had my tongue buried inside of you, pounded into you until you were crying, bred you on my knot-”

“K- knot?” you squeak, head snapping to meet his eyes, “I thought that was a myth.”

“Hardly a myth,” he sighs, fingers dipping lower, delving under your skirt, “Praedators have knots, sweetness; intended to-” you gasp when he presses the pads of his fingers against your damp panties, stroking gently, “intended to lock us together.” Sylus smiles against your cheek, revelling in your wetness that was soaking through. He increases the pressure of his fingers, rubbing harder. “And I fully intend to knot you, Miss Enforcer,” he whispers, lips drifting across your cheek in a fleeting kiss. “Oh, don’t look so scandalized. You’ll be begging to be bred the moment I cum inside of you.”

Begging to be bred? Cumming inside? He was going to cum inside? You were most definitely going to die tonight; although perhaps part of you was resigned to your fate, his obscene words making you greedy and leaving you wanting more. 

“Please,” you whimper, rolling your hips against his hand, grasping at his wrist to press his fingers against your clothed pussy more firmly. “I- I want that.”

Sylus lets out a hoarse grown at your whimpered confession, his fingers tugging your panties to the side.

“You’re dripping,” he hisses, fingers sliding through your puffy folds, “so, so wet, baby. Smells like you’re in heat.”

You really had to do more research on Praedators. Maybe you were in heat with how bold you had become, no longer stifling your noises, too far gone to care.

“That’s it,” Sylus rasps, rubbing your slick over your folds before sliding his fingers up to rub against your swollen clit. “Oh, it must ache,” he coos, beginning to rub tight circles against the throbbing bud, “I can feel how needy you are.”

Your head bobs up and down in rapid nods, ass pushing back into him as you rock your hips, whining when he circles your clit and squeezes your throat at the same time.

“Oh- oh fuck-” you mewl when he hunches over you a little, his breath quickening as he presses his hips into your ass like he had done a few nights ago in that birdcage. “Sylus!”

“So wet,” he mutters as though in a trance, his chin resting on your shoulder, fingers speeding up. “Shall I give you my fingers, baby, hm?”

“Y- yes,” you whine, dragging out the word into a low hiss, your nails digging into his forearm.

A sharp gasp leaves you when he eases one finger in, another following suit quickly after. It’s nothing like the feel of your own fingers, Sylus’ are longer and reach much, much deeper. You feel full already, head dropping forward as you moan raggedly, pushing at his hand to try and stuff his fingers inside of you even more.

“Greedy little slut,” he growls, his fingers crooking inside of you, “so needy and wanton, aren’t you? Pushing me away when what you really want is this - my fingers inside of you, my hand wrapped around your throat, my cock rutting into your ass.”

“I do,” you hiccup, mouth dropping open as you continue to moan, hips swaying back to meet his rutting, the everpresent press of his hard cock against you making your cunt drip with arousal. “Ah hah- I do want this.”

“Yes, you do,” he whispers raspingly. “Take what you need then, baby, take my fucking fingers.”

And you do take his fingers with soft cries and needy gasps and desperate whimpers. Sylus quickens his pace, tightening the hold he has on your throat when you try to squirm away, the lewd sounds of pussy embarrassing in the quietness of your apartment. He breathes heavily against your ear, panting as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you, his hand turning slightly to add his thumb to the mix.

You arch your back against him when he rubs your clit, turning your head into the crook of his neck, mewling as you try and bounce, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers. Sylus snarls when you clench down on his fingers tightly, his face pressing into your neck, fangs digging into your skin as he leaves harsh, biting kisses. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you begin to chant, your hand sliding into his hair, fisting it and tugging as you roll your hips needily, panting raggedly. “‘m gonna ah- ‘m gonna cum, Sylus.”

“Yeah?” he rasps, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, careful to not let his fangs sink in too deep. “Cum on my fingers then, grind that wet, little pussy all over my hand and cum, baby.”

A sharp gasp leaves you, fingers clutching at his wrist when he fucks his fingers into your pussy faster, his thumb unrelenting on your swollen clit. You moan brokenly when he kisses your neck, tipping your head to the side to bare more of your neck to him. Sylus growls, his kisses trailing upwards, his lips soft behind your ear.

You cry out when he sinks his teeth into your earlobe, feeling the way his fangs bite into the delicate bone of your ear. It’s just like in the birdcage, you think dazedly. He ruts into your ass harder, and the ragged panting coming from him is enough to make you come undone. You try to steady yourself, but it’s impossible with the way your thighs tremble, head tossing back as you cum around his fingers.

“Good girl,” he breathes out when you shudder and quake in his arms, his grip tightening to prevent you from falling when your knees buckle. Sylus kisses your cheek, dragging his lips to pepper soft kisses along your jaw as you ride out the last few waves of your orgasm, his fingers still stroking over your clit gently as your cunt clenches. “Good girl, sweetness, you did so well for me.”

Chest rising and falling rapidly, you drop your head back against his chest, leaning against Sylus for support. You whine softly when he pulls his fingers free, his hands petting over your skirt as he smooths it down over your thighs.

On shaky legs, you turn, arms wrapping around his neck. He hugs you closer, his head lowering as his nose brushes against yours gently.

“Be mine.”

Your eyes flutter shut when he kisses you, deep and longing. He squeezes at your waist and your hands drift, from his shoulders to his cheeks, cupping them to bring him closer, to kiss him more desperately.

Both of you stumble into the kitchen table, Sylus’ hands landing on either side of you as he deepens the kiss. You whine when he licks at your lower lip, mouth opening obediently for him. He groans and you let your hands drift, pawing at his trousers, palming at the material to feel the hard bulge of his cock, hot and thick and throbbing faintly against your hand through the layers of fabric. 

“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, kissing him feverishly. “I want your cock, Sylus. I- I want you to-” you can hardly believe you’re about to say this, but the thought of it ignites a heat inside of you, an overwhelming need to be completely at his mercy. “I want you to breed me.” 

His crimson eyes flare, hands reaching out towards you, pulling your shirt up over your head. You make an indignant sound when he hurriedly pulls your bra off, moaning in succession when he pinches your stiffened nipples.

“I can do that,” he murmurs, pulling at your skirt and panties too, until you’re bare. “I’ll breed you, baby.”

A laugh bubbles out of you when he picks you up, arms wrapping around his neck and legs around his waist. Sylus’ steps are practised as he strides into your bedroom, tossing you onto your bed. You bounce a little, regaining your balance before crawling towards him, nuzzling into the bulge of his cock.

“‘s big, Sylus,” you whisper, watching with hazy eyes as he pulls his jacket and shirt off in a smooth motion, his defined abdomen on display. You tug at his belt and he tugs it free, pushing his trousers and boxers down to reveal his cock.

It’s thicker than you’ve seen before, the tip of it blushed angrily, pre-cum smeared across the head. Your mouth waters, inching closer to run your tongue against the length of his cock, mewling softly at the heady taste as you trace your tongue across a prominent vein on the underside.

Your brows furrow when you run your tongue along the length again, pulling back to find a swollen ridge at the base of his cock. His knot. 

“Can I touch it?” you whisper curiously, head tilting to get a closer look.

“Go ahead,” he murmurs, fingers spreading out across your scalp, scratching gently.

It’s strange, you think. A little puffier and thicker than his actual cock, darker in color too. You press your fingers against it gently and it gives just a bit under your prodding. You sneak a glance up at Sylus and he raises his brows, a smirk playing on his lips. 

“It’ll feel good inside of you,” he promises self-assuredly, “swells up when- oh fuck-”

His breath stutters when you mouth at his knot, tongue laving over the sensitive spot as you squirm, kissing his knot. You lick over the ridge again, smiling to yourself when Sylus’ thighs twitch. His hand pushes at your head subtly when you focus on his cock again, a quiet breathy sound escaping him, enough to have you perking up and your pussy clenching. You want him as needy as he had you.

“You said you’d be good,” you coo, leaning forward to brush a kiss to his hip, your head dipping again to nuzzle against his cock.

“I- nghhh-” Sylus stammers, his cheeks flushed a light pink when you wrap your lips around the head of his cock and begin to suck lazily. “I- I am being good.”

You hum happily, pressing your head forward, swallowing down more of his cock.

“Fuck-” he breathes out, his hands petting at your hair, pushing down gently to make you take his cock further, until it’s stuffed down your throat and your nose is buried into the snowy hair at the base of his cock. “Feels- ah- feels so good, sweetness.”

You smile when he lets you pull off, lapping at the tip of his cock teasingly, your hand reaching up to squeeze his pec. Sylus swears, his back arching at the action, a soft whine spilling out of him.

“You like this,” you muse, dipping your head to suckle at his balls, relishing in the noises he lets out, watching his thighs tremble. You stare up at him hazily, tongue lolling out for him when he grasps his cock, his hand squeezing at his knot, his knuckles white with tension.

Your fingers pinch at his nipple greedily when he presses his cock back in and you squeal, the sound muffled around the thickness of his cock when he tugs harshly at your own nipple in retaliation. 

“Brat,” he mutters, pushing your head down further, grunting softly when you dig your nails into his thighs and swallow around his cock.

“I thought you were being good,” you whine when he tugs at your hair, dipping his head to kiss you eagerly, his tongue licking into your mouth. You pout when he pulls away, feeling betrayed by the shortness of his submission. 

“Sorry, doll,” Sylus says, petting your head and rewarding you with another kiss; this time softer and sweeter, his lips lingering. 

You let him kiss you in your dazed state, and Sylus takes advantage, crawling over you, his hands kneading at the fat of your thighs. Your bed is already messy, the sheets rumpling as he jostles you a bit, patting your thigh to make you move further up on the bed.

Sylus settles between your thighs, his cock hot and heavy against your stomach as he drops his weight onto you, his hands finding yours before pinning them above your head. You sigh into his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist, the heels of your feet digging into your ass when he rolls his hips, grinding his bare cock against your pussy.

“I like these,” he mumbles when he kisses down your chest and noses into your breasts. An airy noise sounds when he sucks a hardened nipple into his mouth, his teeth catching against the bud before he bites down measuredly. 

You squirm, hips rolling needily when he sucks more of your breast into his mouth, alternating between them when he feels the other being neglected.

“Such pretty tits,” Sylus sighs, pulling back to stare at the stiffened peaks of your breasts, covered in his spit and budding teeth marks that were bound to bruise.

“I thought you were gonna knot me,” you murmur, rolling your hips up, mewling when you feel his cock slide between your folds.

“So desperate,” he muses, letting go of your hands in favor of grasping his cock.

You look down, eyes half-lidded as he grips the base of his cock, right over his knot that somehow seemed a little larger in the moments that had passed. A whine escapes you when he slaps his cock against your pussy, your cheeks flushing when you see the glistening strings of slick clinging to his cock.

“How sweet,” Sylus croons, his grin growing sharper, “even your pussy doesn’t want to let me go.”

You huff out a breath to hide your embarrassment, throwing your arm over your eyes. “Don’t talk like that.”

He laughs, rising up to sit on the haunches of his legs, his hand stroking his cock lazily. “But you enjoy it, doll. Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you want now.”

You watch with bated breath as he notches the head of his cock against your pussy, squirming when you realize how much his cock is actually going to stretch you out. The knot at the base seems even more intimidating; you feel a little nervous, thighs trying to clamp shut just when Sylus begins to push in. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss your cheek, “relax, okay? I’ll take care of you.”

You reach for his hand, trying to calm your rapid heart and Sylus gives it to you, lacing your fingers together before kissing your knuckles.

A soft gasp leaves you when he begins to push in again, and that’s when you feel how girthy his cock truly is. It stretches you, inch by inch and you bite your lip, eyes slipping shut.

“That’s it,” Sylus soothes, squeezing your hand and tilting his head to kiss your shoulder, “take my cock, sweetness.”

An incoherent sound emanates from you when he sinks all the way in, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders when you feel how good he’s stretching you, how full you feel - and that’s without his knot. You stare down, heart fluttering in your chest when you see where you’re connected, his cock buried inside of you.

“A- aren’t you going to put your knot in?” you ask meekly, mouth dropping open when he begins to move his hips, the slow, rolling motions making you see stars.

“When you’re ready for it,” Sylus whispers, his voice hoarse, “pretty pussy’s still too tight for it. Practically trying to milk my cock already, baby.”

You hiccup, tears nearly springing to your eyes when he begins to draw his hips out, thrusting forward more forcefully. Sylus moans loudly and you claw at his back, arms and legs clinging to him tightly when he swirls his hips and grinds them forward, burying his cock in deeper with every thrust.

His knot seems to swelling rapidly, and you peek down with wide eyes, letting out a shaky breath when you see how thick it’s become. It squishes up against you with every thrust Sylus delivers, catching against your clit every now and then. 

“I- ngh- fuck- I don’t think it’s going to fit,” you whimper, trying to push at Sylus’ abdomen when he grips your hips.

He snaps his teeth, irritation showing on his face when you try to squirm away from his knot, his grip tight enough to keep you in place. “Don’t fucking run from it,” he snarls, and you’re reminded of the way he was in that birdcage, feral and unrelenting. 

You gulp when he grips your thighs, pushing them down towards your stomach, practically folding you until your cunt is on display for him. It’s lewd and obscene and so terribly hot, that your pussy clenches down greedily, eager for more of his attention.

“There we go,” he whispers, snapping his hips harder, his balls smacking against your ass, “pretty pussy loves my cock, hm?”

You blink up at him, nodding shyly, the words slipping out of you unbidden. “I love your cock, Sylus.”

Sylus’ hips stutter to a stop when he hears your shy, whispery words, his cheeks flushing to a pretty pink that has your eyes lighting up.

“Y- yeah?” he murmurs, and you laugh when he clears his throat, giddy by the fact that you’ve managed to fluster Sylus of all people. “Whose cock is it then, baby?”

“Mine,” you murmur, your fingers reaching down to scratch at his navel, through the coarse hairs that lie there. “Your cock’s all mine.”

Sylus groans and you yelp when he suddenly spreads you open, gasping when he thumbs apart your folds, his knot beginning to sink inside of you. It’s a tight fit and you cry out, tears pricking at your lash line when he finally manages to bully it in.

You feel so full, you’re almost sure you can feel his cock in your throat. 

“No- shit- don’t fucking clench,” he groans, his head dropping forward to bury his head into the crook of your neck when your pussy flutters around his fat cock and knot, trying to accomodate. 

“Can’t help it,” you wail, fingers pulling at his hair harshly, squeaking when he tugs his knot free and starts to fuck you again. 

Sylus ruts his hips into you, driving forward and pounding his cock into your cunt until you sob, writhing on your bed, the building pleasure entirely overwhelming. The clap of his hips is loud, balls smacking into you with every thrust, his knot creating an embarrassing sound whenever it sinks inside of you, before Sylus pulls his hips back, tugging the knot free.

“Gonna breed you,” he begins to mutter, his teeth nipping at your shoulder and neck, biting with measured care. “I’m going to breed this tight fucking cunt, sweetness. Give you all of my fucking cum.”

“All of it,” you echo breathlessly, “want it- want your knot, Sylus.”

“You’re getting it,” he growls, squeezing your hips tightly before shoving his knot in completely.

You scream, twitching when it swells inside of you completely. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, entirely too large to be tugged free again when Sylus jerks his hips.

“Oh- oh my- fuck-” you squeal, and Sylus smashes his lips over yours in a heated kiss. It’s all teeth and fangs and spit, and you grab blindly at his shoulders, gasping uncontrollably when it continues to swell, growing fatter and fatter until your pussy throbs around it, the knot locking you together.

“Cum,” Sylus rasps against your lips, “cum, doll, cum on my fucking knot. Cum on my fucking knot so I can give you my cum and breed this sweet, little pussy.”

You moan brokenly, thighs twitching when he rubs your clit, the sensations on the sensitive bud trying to make you curl away from him. Sylus kisses you again and you whimper into his mouth, cunt clenching uncontrollably as you cum, head tossed back, and back arched.

He curses, his head dropping forward at the feel of your pussy, and you mewl when he cums straight after, ears perking up at the low growls and breathy groans. His cum is hot and thick, and you’re still too full, filled up with his cum and his cock. The knot doesn’t give way until several moments later, deflating slowly.

Sylus’ cum spills out, hot and slow and you watch with dazed eyes as it leaks out of you, your pussy fluttering around nothing, thanks to the loss of his fat cock. 

“That’s no good,” he murmurs, his fingers spreading through his cum, rubbing it over your folds and clit before trying to push it back into your pussy.

Sylus frowns at you when you slap his hand away, and you give him a half-hearted glare, pussy aching and thighs sore from the way he had fucked and bent you. He hums, slinking down the bed to kiss your thighs and you sigh, running your fingers through his hair, the throbbing in your pussy fading faintly as he massages your sore muscles and kisses your clit every now and then, his actions affectionate.

You let him clean you up, thankful for the glass of water he brings you. Sylus pulls you closer into his chest, kissing your forehead, his hands smoothing up and down your sides.

“So what does it mean?” you ask him quietly, leaning forward to meet his kiss when he tips your chin upwards, “the feather?”

Sylus’ expression sobers for a moment, his lips grazing across your cheek to whisper into your ear.

“That your soulmate is near.”

You pull back, staring up into his eyes suspiciously. When you see the slight twitch of his lips, his usual smirk pulling across his lips, you scoff and swat his chest. He laughs, catching your wrist and bringing your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles.

“What?” he murmurs, “am I really such a bad candidate to be your soulmate?”

“You’re lying,” you grouse, letting him pull you up onto his lap and press his face into the crook of your neck.

“You don’t know that,” Sylus whispers, tilting his head to kiss the pulse in your throat.

You can’t help but think he has such a strange obsession with it. When he emerges from the crook of your neck, you cup his jaw, staring up into his eyes. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, you think, spending every life with him, especially when he’s like this.

“Then promise me,” you say, your voice holding a hint of a challenge. “Promise me that when we’ve passed and our bones are nothing but dust that you’ll find me in the next life.”

Sylus seems slightly taken aback by your request, his eyes widening momentarily before he leans forward, slotting his lips over yours. “Is that a confession of love, sweetness?” He smiles against your lips, nipping your lower lip. “In any case, I promise it,” he whispers, his gaze intense, “in this life or the next, I will find you and have you.”

You purse your lips, heart fluttering at his declaration.

“You’re a fool,” you mumble, pressing yourself more firmly against his chest, head resting on his shoulder.

“And yet you still took my knot.”

“I hate you.”

Sylus pouts mockingly, his lips attacking your cheek with kisses until you have no choice but to let out the laughter you’ve been holding in. His words are a gentle whisper, caressing your skin, his promise tightening the unseen bonds that bind you together. 

“Forever, my sweet soulmate.”

[rafesangelita]

♡ “i think i’m a little bit, little bit, a little bit in love with you.”— your ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement with rafe comes to an ultimate end when he suddenly says the ‘L’ word while he’s inside of you..

warnings: fwb!rafe, f2l, unprotected sex, praise, slight angst, confessions, mutual pining, fluff, soft aftercare

a/n: now presenting… ‘BE MINE?’ 🤍 me and ‘little bit’ by lykke li will always be locked in!!

link: VALENTINE’S DAY CELEBRATION ໒꒰ྀི｡- ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১

ignorance truly was bliss.

here you were, ignoring the way your heart fluttered and ached at the sight of the man who was currently fucking you into oblivion. of course, rafe wasn’t just any man— no, he was your best friend. while you two were terrified of messing up your friendship with a label other than ‘just friends’, it didn’t stop neither of you from falling for each other, both of you resorting to sex with a bullshit ‘no strings attached’ rule that you two obviously didn’t follow. if spending your nights tangled up in each other’s sheets was the only way to be together non-platonically, then so be it.

rafe had his thumb inbetween your lips, your hand wrapped tightly around his wrist as he slammed into you at an unforgiving pace. you don’t know how long you two have been going at it, or how many orgasms you’ve had, but the only way you could describe how you felt right now was stupid. unable to form a single thought, you sucked on rafe’s digit while he lost himself, his head rolling to the side as your walls sucked him in. “h-holy shit!” his hips stuttered, a whimper leaving your lips when you felt the hot spurts of rafe’s cum paint your insides.

rafe felt the shocks of his orgasm ripple through his body, his body collapsing on top of your own as he writhed in pure unadulterated pleasure. “i.. shit— i fucking love you.” he panted, cradling your head before leaving sloppy kisses against the sensitive flesh of your neck. you sucked in a breath, his words hitting you right where it hurt. blinking rapidly, you heard your heart beating in your ears as your mind began racing a million miles per minute.

did he really mean that?

was he just talking about the sex?

what if he just said it on accident?

you couldn’t focus on anything else. it wasn’t until rafe rolled over, his lips trailing across your chest before he saw the conflicted look on your face. “what’s wrong? are you okay?” you wanted to scoff but settled for a slight shake of your head instead. “you just said you loved me.” rafe’s chest was rising and falling as he swallowed thickly, both of you looking at each other with a knowing look in your eyes.

“i know.”

rafe watched as you sat up, crossing your arms over your chest. “you can’t just say that casually, rafe..” you muttered, suddenly feeling exposed despite being naked in front of him a countless amount of times. rafe moved closer, his hand trailing underneath the plush comforter. rubbing circles into the soft flesh of your thigh, rafe sighed before flashing you a soft smile. “there’s nothing casual about what i said,” he started, “it might’ve came out at a questionable time but i meant it.” rafe met your gaze under the dim lighting of his room, the intensity in his stare making goosebumps spread across your skin.

you stayed silent, pondering his words and the weight they carried. of course you felt the same, there was no doubt about that, but to say that you weren’t scared of what this meant would be a lie. you two were entering a new kind of territory. this wasn’t just ‘friendly’ sleepovers anymore, it was more complicated than that. you had sworn off any man that wasn’t rafe, your best friend consuming every fiber of your being. little did you know, rafe had been exclusive with you since he realized he couldn’t stand to not be near you. he needed to see you, talk to you, touch you everyday.

you had undoubtedly made a home for yourself in his brain and his heart, and he had no intentions of ever kicking you out. “do you really?” you couldn’t help but ask, your fingertips finding his under the covers. rafe studied your face, engraving your features into his mind as he thought about what to say next. “i’m gonna tell you something..” he pulled you close, caging you between his arms as he traced the soft curve of your lips, “i can’t pinpoint exactly when i started feeling this way, apart of me thinks i always have, you just made it easier for me to realize it.” his breath fanned your cheek as he spoke.

“everyone on this island has their own idea of me, but you? you know me for who i really am. i’ve never had to put on a show, i’ve never had to fear judgement from you. you just get me, you know?” you felt so warm and fuzzy inside, you couldn’t help but bury your face in his chest. “i love you too, rafe.” he felt like he could breathe when that sentence finally sounded from your mouth, his shoulders relaxing as he released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “yeah?” he pulled away to cup your face as you nodded. “yeah, i just— i didn’t know how to go about something like this.”

rafe hummed in agreement, both of you looking at each other momentarily before leaning in for a kiss. once your lips touched, you felt relief wash over you; months of pent up tension leaving your body. rafe couldn’t believe that everything was out in the open now. “well, our anniversary date is impossible to forget since it’s on valentine’s day.” your heart fluttered in your chest at the proposition. “anniversary date?” you repeated. “yeah.. you didn’t think we’d be single after this, did you?” you giggled against his lips, welcoming him between your thighs again.

“no, i suppose not.”

[emptymanuscript]

I admit I'm on the fence about AI in general... well, on the I have never used it and am not sure if I ever should but I've got the deep fear of missing out side.

But in the context of learning, it strikes me as falling in the same landscape as a calculator or Excel. I use a calculator or (actually more commonly) Excel to do any math because I'm not particularly good at math and never really have been.

BUT

When I was growing up, you did NOT get to use a calculator until you knew how to calculate. This was not a thing to make us suffer or just make life more difficult.

I also had stupid tests where I had to solve 100 math problems in 3 minutes, and I'm not about to argue that was good for me, helped me, or should be inflicted on subsequent generations.

I had to learn how to calculate BECAUSE of the above. If YOU don't know how to calculate, then it is impossible to tell if the calculator gave you the correct answer or not.

Back when I used to post to r/excel, I used to get flack for not showing the "EFFICIENT" way to solve problems but instead would show things step by step. But this is the same thing. If you do things in a big complicated group, you either get the right answer or the wrong answer. If you do things step by step you can CHECK your answer step by step and see if they make sense.

Do I need to know how to do 87^2 in my head in 30 seconds or less? No. I really don't. But I do need to know what is going on and why it is happening.

87^2 = 7,569 is great for a calculator to do. The calculator absolutely can do it faster than most people can. But if I just plug in 87^2 and get 689, how do I verify it? How do I check? Can I even realize, hmmm, that doesn't look quite right. Are my functions all right?

Knowing what is going on is the insurance for that. I can probably catch that, oh, I was trying to use a clever trick and forgot some steps.

The answer isn't all that is important.

And yes, it absolutely can make you dumber. Like I got to hear a discussion between two lecturers I really liked. And one just went off on a tangent and the other was clearly wondering why the hell she was there, this isn't science. BUT because I knew the details of how they were both dealing with the basic problem they were talking about - current science not being able to successfully predict certain phenomenon without numbers to fudge the situation that represent things that can't be proven independently of the need to fudge the numbers - I was able to follow the miscommunication while they, themselves, could not. His tangent made perfect sense in the context of his field of interest and made zero sense in hers. And if all you have the answers with no information of how you got to them, there's zero way to connect "I think the Sun might be conscious" and "I think half of the standard model is based on incorrect assumptions." They were in fact talking about the same things and differing solutions but there's no way to align that without talking about the assumptions, which needs to be laid out in order to UNDERSTAND the answer.

And struggling with my FOMO on writing, there's the basic truth that the reason I fear like I'm missing out is in part because I AM an expert. I have a graduate degree in TEACHING creative writing. I know my shit. So if I ask ChatGPT or whatever to spit out a scene for me, I not only can tell if it is good or bad, I can explain WHY it is good or bad and what needs to be done to improve it. I have zero fear of amateurs asking ChatGPT to spit out a novel for them and getting a novel of quality that I will be competing with. I am scared of people with enough knowledge of how writing works and knowledge of how ChatGPT creating the equivalent situation of me doing long division on paper while they're plugging the equations into a calculator.

A calculator, used as a tool, by someone who understands what they're doing, can do calculations faster and with less errors than someone who also understands what they're doing but isn't using a calculator. But it's not the difference of one being able to do it and another not. It's a difference of speed and accuracy.

It's an entirely different set up when it's someone who understands what they're doing versus someone who doesn't. You can give someone who doesn't know what they're doing all the tools in the world and it will still take them longer and produce an inferior product because they can't understand what they're doing.

And that's the basic problem with using ChatGPT for education. Yes, it can give you an answer. But because you don't know how, you simply have to trust that it is the correct answer. With no way to double check, no way to gauge, and no way to adjust the workflow to better suit your needs.

It absolutely is shooting themselves in the foot. Because school is the point where access to help with process and WHY things work the way to do is easiest to get. It does simply get harder to find the farther away from educational opportunities you get. And when you need it to work isn't the best time to be trying to figure out what you're really doing instead of already having that education and skill under your belt.

It's also relying on the fatal assumption that tomorrow is going to look like yesterday. My earliest datable memory is June 1st 1982. The world is so profoundly different in February 13th 2025, that I am very comfortable promising you that the idea that you can depend on the world looking the same for your entire life WILL get you into trouble because that's simply not the way the world works. Certainly not now. The assumption that it is safe to use ChatGPT now because you will always be able to use ChatGPT is a set up for failure. Will there always be tools? Yes. Will you know how to get future tools to work the same way as ChatGPT? Probably not. I grew up using Dos and then Window's machines. These days, the programs are so different, I find it easier to use a Mac instead of learning the new way that Windows does things.

If you rely on a particular tool solving a problem for you in a way you don't understand beyond that tool giving you the answer, you will be relearning the tool every large iteration. And eventually it will be different enough that it will set you back. That you will essentially be starting from nearly scratch. And then what? If you don't know what kind of answer you should get, how are you going to know if you're using that new tool correctly because some engineer decided that it is more efficient to move in a different direction?

Even novels have changed over the course of my life. Every book I've read that was published in the last 15 years breaks fundamental rules I was taught back in the early 90's. The conventions that I would have insisted that ChatGPT follow have changed. But if I didn't know WHY those conventions existed how would I even know? How would I adjust? Why would it even occur to me that I needed to adjust? ChatGPT sure doesn't know.

That's probably fine if it's just something you're doing for fun.

But if it is your job? Getting things wrong can be the difference between keeping that job and going hungry. It is not a good idea to be utterly dependent on your tools. Tools are to make what you're doing easier, not to do the task for you all together.

Yeah, just don't. The grades are not as important as what you will be able to do (or not be able to do) later in life. And sometimes that later can be a LOT sooner than you anticipate. I watched a LOT of people wash out or nearly wash out of college because they didn't know the whys and hows of what they were doing academically. I saw straight A students flunk out because they just learned the cheat or because their schools were crap and only taught one way to do things or taught nothing at all and just let the cards fall. I had a good friend who came in with a 4.2 GPA and nearly flunk out because she wasn't taught basic skills I had gotten in middle school.

Which was intentional.

Because she was black and poor and I wasn't.

Her schooling was designed to fail her because the best way to make sure someone as smart as her STAYED black and poor was to let her fly without ever teaching her the skills to do better when she needed to. And she was damned smart. And she worked damned hard. And she pulled through and got a master's before I did. But she was in the extreme minority and had a lot of help and still slid through by the skin of her teeth. Most people in her position crashed and burned and ended up WORSE off than they started. Which is great for the powers that be because it makes them a demonstration of why you shouldn't even try. It shows that society is stacked against you. Because it is. Because it is designed to fail.

Understand that ChatGPT is the same set up. It will make things easier. For now. It will give you the answers. It will work. Until it hits the level it can't anymore. And that WILL happen. It is inevitable. And then you have no supports and you ARE going to crash and burn.

There is a reason that ChatGPT is cheap and being forced on everyone. It is controlled by the people who are being served by the current societal structure.

Are you being served? Are you sure? Because if there is ANYTHING about you they can benefit by crushing, washing you out, setting you out to sacrifice, they're going to do it. Anything that is free in our society is a tool to make YOU the product. And they're damn good at doing it. So think long and hard about using that tool when they have so much history and investment in making you crap out for their benefit. Don't rely on them to save you.

I just started grad school this fall after a few years away from school and man I did not realize how dire the AI/LLM situation is in universities now. In the past few weeks:

I chatted with a classmate about how it was going to be a tight timeline on a project for a programming class. He responded "Yeah, at least if we run short on time, we can just ask chatGPT to finish it for us"

One of my professors pulled up chatGPT on the screen to show us how it can sometimes do our homework problems for us and showed how she thanks it after asking it questions "in case it takes over some day."

I asked one of my TAs in a math class to explain how a piece of code he had written worked in an assignment. He looked at it for about 15 seconds then went "I don't know, ask chatGPT"

A student in my math group insisted he was right on an answer to a problem. When I asked where he got that info, he sent me a screenshot of Google gemini giving just blatantly wrong info. He still insisted he was right when I pointed this out and refused to click into any of the actual web pages.

A different student in my math class told me he pays $20 per month for the "computational" version of chatGPT, which he uses for all of his classes and PhD research. The computational version is worth it, he says, because it is wrong "less often". He uses chatGPT for all his homework and can't figure out why he's struggling on exams.

There's a lot more, but it's really making me feel crazy. Even if it was right 100% of the time, why are you paying thousands of dollars to go to school and learn if you're just going to plug everything into a computer whenever you're asked to think??

[bucketbueckers]

TEAM BUECKERS

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: language, kinda silly, kinda rushed

wc: 5.9k

synopsis: For you and Paige, the line between “friends” and “something more” wasn’t always this blurry. You weren’t quite sure how you got here, and if you were being completely honest, you didn’t know if you were brave enough to ever cross that line fully. It’s not until Paige ropes you into a Valentine’s Day couples contest you realize, with the two of you, that line never really existed at all.

notes: happy (late) valentines day 😋 yes i'm posting this after midnight on february 15 and yes i tried my best to get this out on the 14th when it was, you know, actually valentines day, but i fumbled majorly and im like 50% sorry. not proofread bc im sleepy. i lowkey don't know how to feel about this but i think the end makes up for it but i had an idea for this and it honestly derailed. i still don't know how taglists work (if you've asked and you're not on here, i'm sorry i will just throw up and die if i tag someone who doesn't actually want to be tagged in all of my works i hope u understand, pls be super specific my brain doesn't function like it used to) uhhh so yeah lmk what we think & happy vday 🫶

tags: @jnkbueckers

You and Paige weren’t always like this. There used to be a clear boundary in your friendship, a strictly platonic one where her embrace didn’t make your heart race and where her mischievous smile didn’t fill you with an exasperation that bordered on endearment. You didn’t always wear her jersey at games, didn’t always keep her favorite ice cream stocked in your apartment for nights she came over to binge watch the same show the both of you have probably seen a combined thousand times, didn’t always confuse where you begin or where she ends. There used to be a time where the two of you weren’t so inexplicably intertwined in the fabric of each other’s lives. 

If anyone asked, you wouldn’t be able to identify when everything shifted – when your feelings transformed into what they are now. It just happened. The realization was as easy as waking up next to her on the couch, your legs tangled under a blanket far too small for the both of you, her arm tight around your waist to prevent you from falling off of the cushions entirely. It was as easy as the spare toothbrush you keep in your bathroom because she sleeps over so often, as easy as the drawer you have in her room because sometimes her dorm is just closer than your apartment.

So maybe it was kind of inevitable that ‘you and Paige’ turned into a ‘You & Paige.’ The two of you have a simple understanding. You keep her grounded, she encourages you to dream a little bigger. You talk, she listens. You round each other out in so many ways that you’re not the least bit surprised by how many people think that you and Paige are dating. If anything, they’re more surprised when you correct them, saying, “She’s just my best friend.”

You’re content to take your feelings for her to the grave. Maybe you would get over her eventually. She’s Paige Bueckers. She has a national championship and the upcoming draft to focus on and you have your senior thesis due at the end of the semester. The both of you have a lot on your plates – you care for her too much to complicate things for her, even if that means putting your own feelings on the back-burner.

You’re sitting on your couch, twelve pages into your paper, sifting through the twenty-eight (yes, twenty-eight) tabs you have open for your research when you hear your door knob jiggle. You don’t think too much of it, trying to stay focused on the task in front of you before you give up and start scrolling through social media again. However, your discipline doesn’t last for too long because the familiar rhythm of footsteps could only belong to one person. You look up to find Paige making her way into your living room like she owns the place (which she may as well, considering how often she’s around), depositing her duffle bag on the armchair. You greet her, returning to your work, but you feel the couch dip under her weight as she takes a seat next to you.

And then she sighs. Loudly. Dramatically, like she’s begging for your attention. Like you’re not busy. You glance at her from the corner of your eye, finding her staring straight at you, but she says nothing. A few beats pass. You add a new sentence to your paper, pausing to go back and find the reference page. She sighs again, more purpose and intent behind it this time, and your lips quirk slightly. Still, she says nothing, and the silence stretches on for so long that you’re sure she’s given up on trying to annoy you.

You write one more sentence before she leans over, sprawling out across your body, chin pressing into your keyboard. Your eye twitches as a long string of ‘M’s takes over your Word document. Paige sighs again, sounding forlorn, like a kicked puppy, and you know you’re not going to get anything done unless you entertain her.

“Okay,” you say, pulling your computer out from under her head, making sure to save your paper before you close the lid. “What’s wrong?”

Her face brightens almost immediately. “I am so glad you asked,” she states. “So, I’m walkin’ through campus today, right?”

“As one does.”

She hums. “And there’s a shit ton of tabling outside the student union. Frats, clubs, some vegan guy giving out pamphlets –”

“Paige,” you interrupt, raising a brow. “The point?”

“Oh.” She nods, collecting her thoughts. “So there was this club – forgot who they were, lowkey, there was a lot of letters – but on Friday, they’re hostin’ a Valentine’s Day contest and the first place prize is insane. I’m talking gift cards, cookie decorating kits, I think there was even a coupon in there for a fucking spa trip, or some shit, but you get the point, yeah? I wanted to sign us up for it.”

You had to admit – you were a little intrigued by it. Between your class work and Paige and her teammates giving you an aneurysm every week, you were in dire need of a spa trip and a little bit of relaxation. But more than anything else in the world, you knew Paige. You recognized that gleam in her expression – it was a feigned nonchalance, like she was being slick and trying to hide it. “What’s the catch?” you ask bluntly.

She laughs, the sound more surprised than amused, and her head shifts in your lap to gaze up at you. You try to ignore the way it sets off a swarm of butterflies in your belly. “What makes you think there’s a catch?” she asks.

“You’re Paige Bueckers,” you state. “There’s always a catch. Like I knew there was a catch when you asked me if I would hide fourteen blonde wigs in my apartment.”

“They were for CD!” she argues. You narrow your eyes at her and she huffs a little, amused, her lips quirking into a radiant smile. “A’ight. I guess you got a point.” You hum, because of course you do. Her expression turns serious as she sighs, for real this time. “It’s a couple’s contest,” she admits. “But hear me out, okay?”

“I don’t think I have much of a choice,” you grumble, but your mind is racing.

“There’s a couple rounds,” she explains. “Like, the first round is trivia. How well do you know your partner, type shit. They score you, then they eliminate the people who don’t know shit about their partners. Second round is teamwork. They’ll give you a couple of puzzles and the most points will go to the teams who work well together and solve the puzzle quickly. More eliminations, then the partners are separated and they’re asked questions about each other – about what, I’on know. That should be the final round of eliminations and then the remaining couples are ranked based on points and prizes are given. Light work.”

“Light work?” you echo, a little self-deprecating. “Paige, we aren’t a couple.”

“Well, not exactly,” she concedes. “But we know each other pretty well. And can you really say no to the spa coupon?”

You bite your lip, sighing as you truly contemplate it. She’s got you there. The prize itself is worth the heartache that will come with pretending like you and Paige are actually dating. “You sure we can handle it?” you ask.

She pats your side, almost ignorant of the way it sends electricity coursing down your spine. “Duh,” she says like it’s obvious, her lips growing into a confident, assured smile. “We’re a dream team, baby. We got this.”

You could only hope so.

You nervously adjust your dress as you and Paige stand outside of the large room that the Valentine’s Day contest was taking place in. You spent the entire week leading up to Valentine’s Day an anxious wreck – part of you was worried that you would slip up and say something that you would come to regret, maybe say something a little too real. You had to keep reminding yourself that you and Paige were playing a part and once that gift basket was in your hands, then things could go back to normal. 

The two of you dedicated the better part of the week to perfecting your cover story. How you met, where you met, how long you’ve been together, all of the cheesy romance milestone moments that you were certain you’d be asked about. You mutually decided to not get too creative as maintaining the lie would become even more difficult, but you were confident in your ability to sell a story.

“You ready?” Paige asks you, drawing you from your racing thoughts as she squeezes your hand gently. You didn’t even realize her hand had slipped into yours. Now that you’re aware of it, it’s all you can think of. Her hand is strong, enveloping yours completely, and it brings you a calming peace you weren’t even aware that you’d been seeking out. Feeling yourself relax, you meet her eyes and nod, trying not to smile too hard when she beams at you.

As she leads the two of you inside the auditorium, you do your best to not stare too much at her. She’s dressed simply yet elegantly; donning a fitting suit that’s a light pink in color in honor of the occasion, the fluorescent lights overhead reflecting off of her stunning chains and the rings adorning her fingers. Her hair is tied back in her formal slick-back, the diamonds in her ears sparkling, and you really have to drag your eyes off of her. You’d already spent so much of the drive over staring at her and you’re sure she’d caught you a few times but was too nice to say anything to you.

The event had a decent turn out. You count fourteen couples at most, fifteen including you and Paige, although you couldn’t really tell if that was good or bad. Beating fourteen other real, actual, dedicated, in-love couples was totally manageable. So what if you and Paige weren’t actually together, but you were the most convincing pair of best friends the world had ever seen? She said you could do it, and damn it if you weren’t going to get that spa treatment.

The auditorium, however, was decorated to the nines. Lights and streamers were strewn about, various complementing shades of pinks and lilacs matching the Valentine’s Day themes. The tables were covered in pink tablecloths with gorgeous centerpieces. Honestly, you had to give props where they were due – this club has gone all out for this Valentine’s Day event, although you’re sure they probably splurged their semesterly budget on all of the amenities.

Before you or Paige have the chance to say anything to each other, you’re approached by a young woman wearing a pink polo shirt with the club's name and logo emblazoned on the chest. UConn, UMatter. You glance quickly at Paige, trying not to let the amusement show on your face as you remember her words – ‘There was a lot of letters.’ She was so full of shit. “Hi guys!” the young woman greets enthusiastically. “Thanks so much for signing up. What’s the last name?”

“Bueckers.”

The girl nods, scanning her clipboard before finding Paige’s name. “Okay, perfect. Let me show you guys to your table.” She leads you diligently through the room, craning her head over her shoulder to explain. “Madelyn’s gonna be around soon to walk you guys through the trivia section once we start, alright? She’ll let you guys know everything you need.”

You and Paige thank the club member and she offers you two one last smile as the two of you sit down next to each other. Paige’s hand finds your knee, almost subconsciously, and you try to find your dignity. It’s then that you notice the placecard in front of you – elegant script reading TEAM BUECKERS. With a quiet laugh, you nudge Paige’s elbow, drawing her attention to the paper. “‘Team Bueckers,’ huh?” you ask her teasingly. “You forget about me?”

“Never,” she swears. “I think they assign the names based on who registered. Trust me, I had a name lined up and everything. We were gonna be PB & Slay.”

You snort. “I’m Slay?”

“No,” she deadpans. “You’re PB. Keep up, please.”

“Of course,” you say obviously, like it’s definitely your fault. “I’ll do better next time.” She squeezes your knee under the table, smiling wryly at you.

Once everyone filters in, the girl who’d greeted you at the door makes her way to the front of the room, adjusting the microphone. She introduces herself as the president of the UConn, UMatter club, explaining some of their objectives and goals for the spring semester – you tune out a lot of it, which you’ll probably feel bad for later, but you weren’t here for the club recruitment. You were here for the pedicure that was calling your name this weekend. She makes it through the rest of her opening remarks, officially announcing the beginning of the first challenge: trivia. Several club members make their way to designated tables and a short, brunette girl takes a seat in front of you and Paige.

“Hey, guys,” she says, grinning widely and handing the both of you dry erase boards and a marker each. “I’m Madelyn. I’m gonna walk the two of you through today’s challenges. We’ll go back and forth – you answer one, then the other, so on and so forth. If your answers are the same, then you’ll get a point. Ready?” You and Paige hum affirmatively. “Alright. Question for Paige – when is your partner’s birthday?”

Paige huffs, her lips quirking into a smile as she uncaps her marker. “Light work,” she murmurs as she writes her answer down. “It’s a national holiday.” You roll your eyes as Madelyn laughs. Paige flips the dry erase board around, showcasing it to you and Madelyn, and you nod as Madelyn awards you both one point.

“Same question for you,” Madelyn says to you. “When is Paige’s birthday?”

You uncap your marker and write down your answer. October 20, 2001. “The world hasn’t known peace since,” you murmur under your breath, drawing laughter from Paige. You flip your board around and Paige nods smugly.

“Two for two,” Madelyn states. “Next question for Paige. What trait of yours is your partner’s favorite?”

You and Paige exchange a glance, her brow raising teasingly. She writes down her answer and you do the same, eventually flipping your boards over for the reveal. The two of you hadn’t exactly prepared well to answer this one, so you were hoping that you and Paige were on the same wavelength. You lean forward, glancing at her whiteboard, and smiling with relief when you see her answer: she likes my energy. Paige’s smile is smug, but there’s an underlying softness in her eyes. “Don’t laugh at me,” you huff, trying to explain. “You just — you have this way about you, like you’re kind, warm, you make people smile, and you always support them. You’re just genuinely good and, I don’t know, I really like that about you.”

Paige’s smile isn’t any less confident, although she seems a little bashful now, her cheeks tinging pink. “Three for three.” she says.

Madelyn tries to stifle her grin, but it’s clearly not working. “Next question is for you. When Paige is having a rough time, how do you help her relax?”

“With great difficulty,” you gripe, making Paige and Madelyn snort as you write your actual answer. By forcing her to chill the fuck out. You and Paige flip your boards, hers reading a much politer She makes me do nothing all day. Madelyn nods, awarding you the point, but you hardly pay her any mind as you meet Paige’s eyes. “You do too much,” you say, which makes her groan. “You overwork yourself and you microdose a burnout and I have to make you sit down and remember that you’re human.”

“You’re worse than me!” she points out.

You sniff. “This is about you,” you declare, “not me.” Paige rolls her eyes fondly, but she can’t help her laughter. 

“Next question,” Madelyn says, grinning. “Paige, what did you guys do on your first date?”

This was a question that the two of you had prepared for. You both decided that a little bit of the truth went a long way and the truth was that you and Paige had no shortage of quasi-dates that you could easily draw from. You tried not to think too hard about that as the two of you write down your answers. You turn your boards, revealing similar responses of ‘we went to her dorm and made dinner together after one of her games.’

You glance at Paige and she sighs. “Don’t start,” she pleads. 

“I’m actually a little invested now,” Madelyn chirps, which makes you grin and makes Paige bury her head in her hands. 

“All I’ll say is that Paige shouldn’t be in the kitchen without supervision but I really admire her, um, willingness to get creative,” you say kindly. Your best friend pinches your thigh under the table and you jerk back, laughing. Not wanting to embarrass her in front of a stranger, you leave it at that, although you smile at Paige like you’re the only two at the table. “I had a good time, though. She made it memorable.” She smiles back at you, something tender that has your heart constricting. 

The both of you knew the truth, though. Paige was not a good cook. She doesn’t make terrible food — dinner was delicious, but Paige is chaotic and an actual hazard. Watching her chop an onion hurt something deep inside you although she’d seemed so proud of herself. You didn’t have the heart to make fun of her. 

“Five for five,” Madelyn says, drawing your attention back to her. “Next question for you. Who confessed to who?”

You and Paige lock eyes again, a silent conversation passing between the two of you, and you write down her name. You turn your boards, Paige’s name written on the both of them and you smile to yourself. “She was pretty oblivious,” Paige says, referring to you, and your smile falls as your jaw hits the ground. “I dropped so many hints and she just didn’t pick up on them. I eventually got tired—”

“Desperate,” you cut in. 

“Tired,” she emphasizes, smirking at you, “so I planned out this huge romantic thing and at the end, she still didn’t understand so I told her straight up.”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe you’re just not as slick as you think,” you tell her. 

“Nah,” Paige says. “I’m super romantical.”

“Sure,” you concede. 

Madelyn stifles her smile. “Alright. Two more questions for both of you. Paige, what is your partner’s pet peeve?”

“If you get this wrong,” you grumble, hearing Paige snicker as the two of you write down your answers. After you flip your boards, she grins proudly when your answers line up. 

“She hates not being taken seriously,” Paige recites. “She’s an English major. People always think it’s just easy or unimportant shit, like reading and writing papers, but she actually does a lot of interesting analysis and stuff that I never even considered. I’ll admit I was a little ignorant but she set me straight.”

“Wait, I didn’t know you thought that,” you say, honestly confused. 

She shrugs, a little bashful. “I talk a lot but I listen. Sometimes when you leave the room, I’ll read your paper just so I can ask better questions. You get all… glowy. And… I’on know. I like seeing you happy.”

You blink once at her, genuinely touched, and if you weren’t head over heels for Paige before then you definitely are now. She squeezes your knee again, her smile crooked yet tender. Damn it. You are hopeless. 

“That’s so sweet.” You’re a little shocked by Madelyn’s voice, but you clear your throat, refocusing. “Next one for you. What’s Paige’s least favorite season?”

“That’s easy,” you say, writing your answer down. Paige does the same. When you flip your boards, you glance at Paige’s, smiling wryly. “Paige hates spring. She has really bad allergies and all of the pollen is honestly a death sentence, so she’ll get all congested and sneezy and will spend a good two weeks bitching about it and how it makes her Jeep dirty.”

You glance at Paige, waiting for her to say something, but she just shrugs with a smug expression. “Last question for Paige,” Madelyn says. “What is something your partner does to show her love for you?”

Neither of you say anything, but Paige stares at you thoughtfully, another silent conversation passing between you. You don’t need to think about your answer as you write it down. On cue, you both flip your boards, Paige’s reading simply, She takes care of me. You can’t help the way your heart swells, a fond smile overtaking your face. “Before you, I wasn’t really the… you know, the receiver, I guess. Always in control, always expected to lead. You make me feel like I can just be me, which is really hard sometimes.” Paige laughs off the vulnerability, but you see right through it – the painful honesty.

“We’re equals,” you remind her, nudging her leg with your knee. “We take care of each other.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, her voice soft as she gazes at you. “I’m glad that we do.”

You spot Madelyn out of the corner of your eye, which sobers you up quickly. She smiles. “You guys are so cute,” she gushes. “Final question for you and we’re done with this round. What is Paige’s love language?”

You feel Paige’s stare on you as you write, but you don’t glance back at her. You can hear the scribble of her marker, her capping it. When you’re finished, you finally look at her, taking in the soft expression on her face, and despite yourself, a smile grows on your face too. Together, you turn your boards, your answers being the exact same once more — quality time and physical touch. “Ten for ten, baby,” you croon, raising your hand for her to smack her palm against.

“Great job!” Madelyn says. “Let me just go submit these scores and I’ll be back to walk you guys through the puzzle round after eliminations. Sit tight.” She offers the two of you a quick grin before she’s walking off.

“Ten for ten,” Paige repeats, nudging you a little. “We’re like that?”

“I guess we’re actually kinda good at this friends thing,” you retort, although part of you wishes you were anything but.

Paige’s subsequent grin is far too knowing, like she has a trick up her sleeve. “Maybe a little.”

You laugh a little under your breath, adjusting your dress and leaning back in your chair to get comfortable. Before you know it, the scores are officially in. You and Paige had a perfect one, so you weren’t all too worried about getting eliminated in the first round, but five unlucky couples ended up leaving. The two of you watched from afar, trying not to stare too hard at the retreating couples, although they made it hard. One girl walked out crying, gesturing wildly as her partner trailed behind her, a desperate expression on her face. Another one was pure anger, slamming the door behind her. You didn’t think that this club contest would get people so riled up, but you considered that it was probably the realization that your partner truly didn’t know anything about you. You just lucked out with Paige – she understood you.

Madelyn returns quickly and cuts straight to the point. She instructs you and Paige to stand up, handing the both of you a towel, and adjusts your arms until you’re holding the towels perpendicular to each other, almost intertwined. “The goal here is to separate from each other, but it can be tricky because the towels will tangle you up. We’re looking to see how fast you can solve this puzzle and how well the two of you work together. Are you guys ready?” You and Paige nod and Madelyn grins again. “Alright. You can start.”

Instantly, the room around you two is sheer pandemonium. The couples around you are moving quickly, trying to untangle themselves, but it’s clear that the panic is settling in. You and Paige exchange a glance, laughing to each other softly. “Game plan?” she asks you.

“We need to get these like…not perpendicular,” you offer helpfully, and Paige nods, adjusting her arms. The angle change makes your towels bunch up and twist at their centers.

“Spin around,” she instructs. You do as so, the towels untwisting around the middle. You pause to analyze your situation, trying to plan out the moves in your head as Paige does the same.

“Okay, bring your towel over my head and let me step through it.” After that move, the both of you glance down, taking in your situation.

Paige hums. “The rest is easy,” she says. You nod in agreement, a silent understanding passing between the two of you and you move in tandem, twisting and shifting and stepping up until you’re both finally separating from each other in record time, having completed the puzzle. “We’re like that?” she asks you again, her expression smug and satisfied in a way that’s only comparable to when she’s on the court and her lips are curling after sinking a contested three point shot.

“Dream team,” you remind her, letting the victory wash over you, clapping your hand against hers, although she doesn’t immediately release you, squeezing your hand with a proud smile.

“I don’t think I’ve actually seen anyone solve it that quickly,” Madelyn admits. “Or that calmly.” As soon as she says it, a commotion from the other side of the room draws your attention. There’s one couple that are twisted so unnaturally that it looks like they’re playing Twister, but it seems that the girl gets tired of the shenanigans because she drops her towel and storms out with a frustrated yell. “Case in point.”

You laugh and Madelyn walks away again to tally the points and make their final eliminations. Once everything is set, five couples remain out of the initial fifteen. After the last challenge, two couples will be eliminated once more and the remaining three will be given prizes in order of points. You and Paige were determined to finish strong – if the first two challenges were any indicator, you two had this in the bag. True to Paige’s word, the couples were being split up for the last challenge, and she offers you a competitive smile as Madelyn whisks her away.

You pass the time on your phone although Paige isn’t gone for long. However, what does shock you is the sudden bashfulness that’s clear as day on her features, like the last challenge had made her confess something important or she had to be vulnerable. You can’t help the sudden worry that seizes your body, but Paige rests a hand on your hip, squeezing you once with a confident smile. It couldn’t be that bad.

Madelyn leads you into an adjacent room where the president of the club is sitting at a table waiting for you. She smiles when you enter, motioning to the seat across from her, and it feels strangely like entering the principal’s office in elementary school, like you’re in trouble for something. The club president doesn’t spare any time for pleasantries and instead cuts right to the chase, something that you’re grateful for.

“I’m not gonna take up anymore of your time, but after seeing you and your partner perform so well in this contest, I only have two questions for you,” she explains. “This is our second year running this contest and no one has scored as high as you two have, which is kind of insane because the third round scores haven’t been added yet.” You smile politely, honestly unsure of what to say, but the club president continues. “How long have the two of you been together?”

“Going on three months,” you respond, thinking back to the timeline you and Paige had agreed on, hoping your voice doesn’t shake. You are a little surprised by how real your next words feel. “We were best friends for a really long time before then – we still are. Paige is just…that kind of person that makes you feel like you’ve spent forever with her, you know?”

The club president hums, agreeing. She pauses before glancing up at you, studying your features. “What’s something that you haven’t told your girlfriend, but you would want her to know?”

You hardly need the time to think about your answer, responding, “That I love her.” The club president’s expression softens, a smile growing on her face. “We haven’t, um, gotten there yet, but I mean it. I wanna make it perfect for her. She’s given so much to me in the short time we’ve been together and in the time we were friends. And she just…she means everything to me.”

She smiles. “I think you guys are perfect for each other.”

Despite yourself, you smile, a blush spreading across your cheeks. “I think so, too.”

After your solo questioning wraps up, you meet Paige at your table and you offer her a bashful grin, similar to the one she’d offered you when she returned. You don’t have the chance to say anything else to her as the final round of eliminations are being announced. You and Paige are spared, which doesn’t surprise you, and the two eliminated couples take their loss with dignity as they exit. Paige links her hand with yours – final three. In third place, Team Parker. In second…Team Hayes, which means that first place can only be –

“Team Bueckers.”

You and Paige relax immediately, high fiving each other in celebration. What you’re not fully expecting is the tight hug that Paige pulls you into, whispering a fond good job into your ear, although you can’t help the way you soften, sinking into her embrace. She leads you to the center of the room to collect your goodie basket. The various club members send you off with their congratulations, too, and you pretend to not notice the slick wink that Madelyn shoots you as you and Paige walk out.

The night air is cool, making you shiver slightly, and Paige doesn’t hesitate before she’s sliding off her blazer and settling it over your shoulders. You smile gently at her. “You won’t be cold?” you murmur.

“Nah,” she promises, nudging you. “I can handle it. You, though? I’on know.”

“That’s no way to treat someone who just won you these spa coupons,” you say, reaching into the gift basket to wave said coupons in the air. “C’mon, I clutched up, you can’t lie. And to think you wouldn’t have even had a partner for this if you didn’t rope me into it. I think we played our parts pretty well.”

Paige laughs gently, a tinkling sound that carries over the drag of the wind. “You still don’t get it, do you?” she asks, but there’s no true offense behind her words.

You stare at her in confusion. “Get what?” you respond.

“Do you remember that question Madelyn asked you earlier?” Paige says, her steps slowing, tilting her head down to look at you. The street lights reflect off of her face so beautifully, the blue of her eyes illuminated by the soft light. You can’t help the way your heart constricts at the sight. “‘Who confessed to who?’” You hum, urging her to go on. “You remember what I said? That you were oblivious and I dropped a lot of hints you didn’t pick up on?”

The gears in your brain spin for a few revolutions before everything clicks into place. “Oh my God,” you breathe out. “Are you–”

“Confessing?” she says, her lips quirking into a smile. “Yeah.”

“You dropped hints before?”

“So many,” she confirms.

“Oh my God,” you say again. You stop in your tracks, prompting her to do the same. The expression on her face is endlessly amused. “You planned a huge romantic thing – this?”

She shrugs. “The contest was the club’s shit, but yeah. I planned on asking you to come with me to this. I didn’t actually care about the prize, but the coupons are pretty sweet, right?”

You shake your head, ignoring her rambling. “You planned a huge romantic thing, but I still didn’t get it at the end, so you told me straight up,” you finish, partly in disbelief. “You think you’re so fucking slick, don’t you?” you accuse, which just makes her break out into laughter. “You literally sat next to me and told me exactly how you were going to ask me out and I didn’t know? And not only did you do that, but you were right about it?”

“I know you,” Paige says a little smugly. “And I told you that I could be romantical.”

“You are such a pain in my ass,” you whisper, but her arm is slinking around your waist, pulling you into her body as she grins insufferably, and you let yourself be pulled, your hands resting on her chest. “You are literally so annoying.”

Her nose brushes yours as she inches a little closer. “You know what they asked me in the final round?” she says, her voice loud enough for only you to hear. You nod. “They said, ‘What’s something you haven’t told your partner, but you’d like to?’”

“Funny,” you say. “They asked me the same thing.”

She smiles at you. “I told them I’d tell you that I love you,” she confesses.

Your cheeks burn as you register her words. “Funny,” you say again. “I told them the same thing.”

Her expression shifts, something like relief flashing in her eyes, something tender in her gaze. “Did you?”

“Well, I told them that’s what I would tell my girlfriend,” you trail off intentionally. “Seeing as I don’t currently have one of those…”

“Don’t play,” Paige murmurs, squeezing your hip gently, drawing a laugh from you. “Be mine?”

“You gonna share those coupons?”

Her eyes are bright when she responds. “I’on even care about them. Just want you.”

“You’ve got me.”

That promise is all she needs. She smiles at you, happiness in her features, and she doesn’t waste any time before she’s leaning in fully, her lips finding yours. You’re eagerly responding, melting into her as her arm tightens around your waist. You loop yours around her neck, standing on the tips of the toes for better leverage. Before you know it, her grin grows too wide and the two of you are laughing against each other’s lips, the sound of your love and giddiness the perfect way to end a perfect night. If you had Paige Bueckers and her annoyingly charming antics to look forward to, then one thing is for certain – you couldn’t wait to see what she had in store for Valentine’s Day next year.

[telephoniii]

HEARTSHAPED CHOCOLATES

☆彡 in which you gift jamil a valentine and things get complicated

jamil viper x gn!reader

word counter: 3.1K

warnings: reader is prefect, possible ooc, miscommunication (kinda), descriptions of servitude

a/n: i wrote this at 2AM but i think it's really cute. i’m definitely biased because jamil is my favorite and i do NOT have any valentines this year whatsoever 😭

i hope you enjoy!! :>

Jamil wiped down the counter with a frustrated sigh. Kalim had, once again, gone behind his word and threw a last-minute party. One that Jamil had to do a majority of the work for. And now here he was, cleaning up after the incompetent boy.

Nothing he wasn't used to, but upsetting nonetheless. Though, he supposed that he’d be lying to himself if he claimed it was the only reason he felt bitter. His eyes flickered toward a calendar that hung on the kitchen wall of Scarabia.

Tomorrow, it’d officially be Valentine's Day.

Now, most NRC students were as single as could be for a variety of reasons— being a celebrity, focusing on grades, etc. Jamil fell under the category of being too busy. So many, much more important matters were always fighting for his attention. And a lot of them are related to Kalim in some way or form.

Being a destined servant to the Al Asim household wasn't an ideal situation. Plain and simple. Especially when it came to romantic relationships.

In middle school, young Jamil had a few girls he was interested in. However, all hopes of those crushes blooming into anything more died when they witnessed Jamil and his family bowing down to Kalim.

It's difficult to explain his role to his peers. Of course, the older he got the easier it became. But for most of his childhood, it was extremely embarrassing to have to say that he was to devote his life to serving the Al Asim family forever.

It was humiliating, giving leeway for others his age to look down on him. Now it wasn't just Kalim who he was lesser than. It was everyone. And it was hardly fair. Jamil was smarter than all of them combined.

He caught on to things quickly and was easily adaptable. When learning magic, his movement was calculated and precise. Yet, because of his last name, the respect he deserved was never given… Needless to say, he never pursued any more crushes.

By the time he was enrolled in NRC, romance no longer seemed plausible for his lifestyle. He wouldn't be able to devote so much time to another person other than Kalim anyway. That man-child can barely do anything on his own to save his life.

Jamil was convinced he’d spend the rest of his youth alone, only really finding a potential partner once he was free from the chains of servitude.

…And then you showed up at NRC.

You and your stupid soft eyes; that genuine empathy you carried on your sleeve. It's idiotic, really. You were bound to get taken advantage of in a school like this. Against his better judgment, Jamil felt drawn to you.

Despite being magicless and from a whole other world, you seemed to understand and empathize with his struggles better than those he had grown up with. And you weren't just all bark, no bite. You helped out a lot.

Many can just say that they feel sorry for Jamil, yet stand idly by as he served Kalim. You, however, saw him through his overblot. Instead of moving on, you forced him to communicate with Kalim about how he was feeling. It would've been so easy to fall back into the status quo, yet you stayed and improved his life for the better.

He’ll never quite get how one person could leave such a big impact.

You eased his worries about servitude. Being around you was naturally calming. It didn't feel like he had to babysit when he spent time with you. In fact, he felt as though he was learning new things— about both himself and others— every day with you.

The feeling scared him to his soul.

It was terrifying to be this addicted to another person’s presence. He wasn't used to having someone to look forward to: someone he wanted to be around all the time.

Jamil didn't know whether or not to pursue you. The last thing he wanted was to drag you into more of his messes… however, you seemed to frequently do that yourself, choosing to be involved for his sake. He was truly infatuated.

Despite it all, he refused to make a move.

You weren't from this world and all too soon he was sure you’d find a way back to where you were meant to be. It’d be selfish of him to pursue you, trapping you in a place you didn't belong. He knows the feeling of being trapped all too well after all.

There were no telltale signs you’d be interested in him back anyway. You were friendly with all and close to many. Who’s to say one of those fancy princes or endearingly dumb freshmen isn’t the one who’s captured your heart?

He purposely doesn't stand out, unlike some other students. Jamil assumed this put him at a natural disadvantage.

Assumed being the keyword.

Of course you, always breaking his expectations, had to crumble his thoughts by gifting him chocolates.

~

“Jamil?”

His eyes moved from his textbook to you in a second. He raised a brow as he watched you stare at him with an unrecognizable glint in your eyes. “Did you need help with something, Prefect?”

Those words made you perk up, grounding you back in reality. “No! No. I’m fine. Just…”

Clearing your throat, you put down your pencil. The homework in front of you was long forgotten as you focused your attention mainly on Jamil— much to his confusion.

“Do… Do you have any plans for Valentine's Day?” You cautiously asked, looking at him intently.

He furrowed his brows at the question, thinking it over. “Kalim will most definitely want to throw a party for the occasion. I'll be in charge of the decorations, cooking, and— well, everything as per usual.”

Jamil answered truthfully, not seeing much of a reason not to. Yet, he felt like he answered wrong as his eyes met your deflated gaze.

“Got it… Yeah, that makes sense…”

Before he could invite you to the party— you’re one of the only people he’d happily cook for— you messily started scouring through your bag.

He observed you curiously, mentally noting that he should help you clean out your backpack sometime. I mean, the amount of loose papers you have in there is absurd—

“Here.”

His mind goes quiet as you pull out a small, heart-shaped box and slide it toward him. Jamil looks at you like you are crazy, making you chuckle.

“I was hoping to give it to you on Valentine's Day, if you're busy then, I’d rather do it now and save you the trouble.” How thoughtful of you… His shock was transparent as he struggled to form words.

You didn't know whether or not to take that positively or negatively.

“Uhh—” It was awkward, the air was tense as you swiftly stood up. You flashed him a nervous smile. “I should go check up on Grim… Good seeing you?”

Jamil had never felt more scatterbrained. So many thoughts racing at once. Yet so little came out of his mouth.

“Good seeing you too, Prefect.”

~

He never did invite you, did he?

Jamil sighs at his ridiculousness. In the back of his mind, he tried to justify it.

The party wouldn't be ideal for you to come to anyway, he’d be working the majority of the time. He doubts you’d enjoy yourself. It might be awkward for you to even come after that exchange.

However, deep down, he knew he should've said something. Anything. Instead, he just let you leave with unsure thoughts.

Jamil didn't want to leave this be. He wanted to make it right. But with so little time, he was stuck.

~

Valentines arrived unreasonably fast, causing him to frown. The students of Scarabia could sense something was wrong, but no one had the guts. Well, no one except…

“Jamil? Are you mad?” Kalim innocently asked.

Although you made Jamil talk out a lot of his issues with Kalim, the white-haired boy’s voice still irked him to his soul.

“No. What makes you say that?” The Viper responded, keeping his tone neutral and calm.

Nonetheless, Kalim squinted at him with a pout.

“Is this about the Prefect?”

He nearly choked on his spit. “Excuse me?”

“Well, you guys like each other, right? Did you fight over something? Aww, I’m sorry if an argument broke out right before Valentine's.”

Jamil shook his head with an annoyed scoff, giving Kalim an unamused look.

“No, what—? Rewind. What makes you think we like each other?”

Kalim tilted his head like a lost puppy. It only served to frustrate Jamil further.

“Is it not obvious? You’re way happier around them than anyone else!”

Not that anyone pointed it out, but Jamil would undoubtedly deny the way his cheeks heated up at that statement.

“We’re not seeing each other romantically. Neither do we think of one another that way…”

He regretted letting his sentence trail and thinking aloud. Whenever it came to you, he was much less organized than he liked.

“…Well, sort of.” Although he merely mumbled these three words, that was all it took for Kalim to spring up ecstatically.

“Oh! So you like them but you haven't confessed? You can do it at today's party! I’ll invite them right now!” “What! No— Kalim, slow down!”

Jamil had to physically grab the other hot by his shoulders to keep him from bouncing away.

“I'm not ‘confessing’ at this party today, or any time soon.”

That lost puppy looked returned to Kalim’s face. Although he had seen it a few minutes ago, it still pissed him off all the same.

“Why not?”

Because he didn't know how to; plain and simple. Jamil for sure didn't want to have his ‘confession’ be too big. He’d hate for himself to come off as ingenuine to you.

Not to mention, Kalim and his antics have more or less ruined any big, dramatic gestures for him. Jamil can't help but find them corny and tacky now.

However, he didn't want to do something too small. A simple note won’t cut it for him. You deserve more. What exactly that entailed, he didn't know.

“Because I don’t want to.” Jamil unenthusiastically answered. He cut off Kalim before he could speak up. “No more questions.”

Not wanting to entertain this conversation any longer, Jamil walked away. Right. He had other, more pressing matters to worry about. Party preparations.

Food, decorations, music, lighting…

Damn it, why won’t you leave his mind?

~

The party, thankfully, went smoothly. Guests were enjoying themselves, there was enough food for everyone, and Kalim was too distracted by a few people to bother him. Letting out a relieved sigh, Jamil leaned against the wall behind him. His eyes wandered around as he started people-watching.

It was important to stay alert when it came to the people at these parties. He had to make sure no one had harmful intentions towards the young Al Asim. Though, as he should've expected, there were many couples here tonight.

Seems like a lot of Scarabian students brought their off-campus lovers here. Jamil can only hope Crowley doesn't chastise them too harshly for doing so.

He perks up as a slow song plays over the party. The lights are adjusted to dim and soon enough, practically everyone was on the dance floor. Couples, friends, strangers, talking stages— you name it.

It’s no surprise Jamil seemed drawn to the dance aspect of this part of the night. Even if he tried to hide it at times, his passion for the art of dancing always had its way of shining through. He glanced through the crowd to see if there was anyone without a partner.

Thankfully for him, it wasn't too hard to spot someone. These types of parties were always bound to have a few wallflowers. As he made his way through the crowd toward the one he had his eye on, he couldn't help but hear a couple of voices over the music.

“Ace, you little—!” That was all Jamil could make out before he felt a person suddenly collide with him. It didn't hurt or anything, and Jamil had enough sense to gauge it was most likely a mistake—

“Uh, hi.”

He didn't expect to turn around and be met with the sight of you. An embarrassed look sat upon your face as you fidgeted with the ends of your clothes.

“Hey.” Jamil curtly replied.

You gave him that stupid little smile of yours that made his heart race. A hopeful hum left your lips.

“Are you busy?”

He couldn't help but chuckle in response, giving his genuine answer.

“Nope.” He stuck his hand out, pretending that his mind wasn't going fuzzy from being in your presence. “May I have this dance?”

He felt you place your hand on top of his.

“Of course.”

With your permission, he let one hand fall to your waist as he gently guided you in a waltz-like manner. He was more experienced than you, precisely moving as the two of you dance.

You couldn't help but feel endeared. Jamil was pretty from close up. Unfortunately— or fortunately— he caught you staring. He gave you an amused look in response.

However, he didn't expect you to abruptly frown and glance away.

‘You couldn't get your hopes up,’ Your mind reminded you, recalling his reaction to your gift. It was for the better you don't get too attached.

Jamil seemed disheartened by the disconnect. His hand on your waist lightly tightened. Shortly after, a mischievous grin found its way on his face.

Suddenly, Jamil’s movement quickened. You gave him a confused raise of the brow.

“Jamil—?”

He doesn't give you time to finish your thought as he spins you, swiftly catching you in his arms afterward. Taken by surprise, you can’t help the laugh that escapes you.

You've never seen Jamil look more proud of himself as he gave you that smug little smile of his. He barely gave you time to react before he was moving the two of you again.

What you didn't expect was for him to dip you so, so low. Instinctively, you squealed. Your arms clung onto him for dear life.

“Jamil—!”

He let out a laugh at your reaction. “What? It's not like I’m going to drop you or anything.”

Your grip tightened after hearing those words. “Great sevens— you better not drop me!”

He playfully rolled his eyes. Jamil leaned in closer, his voice taking a lower tone as he whispered, “You trust me, Prefect, don’t you?”

You didn't respond to that, instead letting your small glance to the side paired with an embarrassed expression speak for itself.

In the next few steps, he taught you some more advanced footwork. He couldn't help but admire the way you’d smile as you caught onto it quickly. Jamil then spun you once more, this time it was less abrupt.

Prepared, you were able to smoothly go along with it. The boy let out an impressed hum, giving you a satisfied look. His eyes practically told you what he had planned next. Another dip.

The dip was more nerve-wracking than the spin. However, Jamil didn't intend to dip you as low as he did before— thankfully.

Your hold on him still tightened like it did before as he dipped you. Unlike before, Jamil let the pose and moment linger.

You’d gaze up at him, admiring the determined glint in his eyes. The way his hair naturally fell, framing his face, was just the cherry on top.

Oh, and how could you forget those breathtaking lips of his...

His thoughts were eerily similar to yours, taking in your features before letting his eyes roam over your lips. Jamil leaned closer, bringing his face mere inches from yours.

You swung your arms around his neck, making it easier for him to get closer… and closer… and…

Just as the two of you closed your eyes, about to connect, you hear the slow music turn to an upbeat, party song. Next thing you know, you felt your body swiftly being pulled up.

One moment, you and Jamil were so close, the next he was acting as though you were toxic. His hands left your hips as he cleared his throat.

It looked like he was planning on saying something before a familiar voice cut through the crowd.

“Jamil! Come dance with me!” The two of you both heard the young Al Asim shout.

You frowned. Right. He’s busy tonight with duties and whatnot. Although you felt disappointed, you gave him a tired smile and nod.

Jamil’s brows were furrowed, his eyes flickering between you and the direction Kalim’s voice came from.

Tonight seemed full of surprises as Jamil’d hand shoots out to your forearm and hurriedly guided you outside in the opposite direction of Kalim.

You were in shock as he pulled you outside, shutting the door behind him with a sigh.

“…You’re not gonna—?” “If anyone asks, you were nauseous from dancing and went outside with me for fresh air.”

Jamil was dead serious as he spoke, looking at you for confirmation. You nodded your head.

“Uh, got it.”

Silence soon filled the atmosphere between the two of you, the only sound being from the night’s wind. It was oddly tense. You were the first one to break the quiet.

“I’m sorry.” Jamil’s gaze immediately snapped up to yours, narrowing in confusion.

“Sorry?” He repeated, looking for clarification.

You fidgeted with the ends of your clothes. “Sorry for the chocolates. That was probably uncomfortable for you since that kinda gift is usually reserved for couples and all…”

Jamil’s expression softened the more you talked.

“Don’t be. It was a lovely gift.” His hands slowly make their way to yours, gently holding you.

“I reacted the way I did because…” Jamil sucked in a hesitant breath. “…Well, you’ve made me feel things. Feelings that I thought I was incapable of feeling.”

He carefully pulled you closer to him, allowing you to back away if you wanted to. You didn't. You just stared back into his gaze as he continued.

“Around you, I feel unburdened by my responsibilities. I feel… alive.” If you maneuvered your hand right, you could feel his pulse practically beating out of his body.

“I adore you like no other. When I received those chocolates, my mind melted. You… you turn me into such a mess.” He lightly scoffed with a small shake of the head. You can't help but chuckle.

“Nonetheless,” He gave your hands a gentle squeeze. You squeezed back.

“I’d never wish this feeling away. Never in a million years.”

Jamil’s hands momentarily left yours as he fiddled with his jacket. He was looking for something…?

“Although it’s long overdue,”

After a few moments, Jamil pulls out a small, red rose. You recognize it as a part of the decor from the party. He slips it into your hand effortlessly, his eyes staying on yours.

“Will you be my Valentine?”

[larkandkatydid]

There are many ways to be a big weirdo and I think that some are more conducive than others to a happy life and/or to a life where your weirdness can have a positive effect on the world.

So, for example, let's say one is naturally introverted and also naturally imaginative, bright, prone to coming up with ideas about how we could just fix everything if only we tried this one thing. This is describing many tumblrinas and many Aquariuses. And if one spends too much time alone, pondering great, world-changing ideas, then that weirdness starts to fester into something unhelpful. One becomes something between the Unabomer and a person with annoying bad ideas.

A commune, like a college dorm or a nursing home can be so helpful for the introverted because it takes no extra work at all to find people to socialize with. These days, I have to challenge myself to get up, leave the house and go to the volunteer session or protest or concernt or group activity that I know is good for me. It was way easier when all those things were happening in my kitchen.

And most improtantly, I think a person with a lot of utopian ideas for how the world could work benefits from a chance to try those ideas out! And especially benefits from having a social circle that is pre-selected to be into trying out your utopian plan. Should we replace the toilet with a bucket of sawdust and the shower with a grey-water system leading a duck pond? YES! Should we move to having only 1 cup and 1 plate per person in order to master our dishes problem? YES! Should we raise tilapia in the bathtub and quail in the backyard YES and YES!

And one learns from failure that maybe these ideas were actually pretty bad or, most importantly, one learns and gets better at the skills required to make those ideas work. I know several people whose passion for greywater systems first dramatically fucked up their plumbing but who then, after asking for help and even taking a bunch of community college classes on plumbing, became incredibly skilled plumbers capable of creating working grey water systems and also capable of fixing their neighbor's fucked up shower drain. I personally have found that my commune-acquired ability to milk a cow has often helped me build relationships with people who figured that if I know my way around a cow, I can't possible be that much of a big city weirdo. There's an old member of the Black Panthers who has made it his life's mission to spread bathtub tilapia as a small agricultural practice. I know a dude who convinced his local city council to fund a giant mushroom farm on the city compost facility.

This is just a complicated version of touch grass, but I believe in my heart that being weird alone in your own head makes you Jack Torrance and being weird with others makes you the world's own Manic Pixie Dream Girl...and that that one is better.

[masterdreamweaver]

i have further commentary about this that i put into the tags at first but i think it should be part of the main post so it doesn't get lost in further reblogs;

#like hey with all due respect. you are conflating a good handful of things (i don't think i said this part right but that's not the point)

checking tumblr on the phone when you're in the bathroom is a habit. combing your fingers through your hair when you're nervous is a habit.

saying "i can't form habits, the habit forming part of my brain is broken" is. in and of itself. a habit.

hello. i have been professionally diagnosed with adhd twice. it is so much easier now that i am medicated about it. yes. but also quite literally. op is Right.

#i have a life threatening disability that will genuinely kill me if i forget to take my medication #i forget to take my medication a lot. i know this.

#outsource your habits. outsource your motivation. set timers. set reminders. #give yourself a gold star sticker. ask your friends to tell you that they're proud of you. #there are things that make it easier and you are. not entirely wrong. but you're being a negative nancy about it.

#i don't know if i do fully believe you when you say that you've broken your tasks down to the smallest step either

#like my steps for medication are #get food. count carbs. do math. do shot. #that's not small enough. #do shot-- that's so simple and easy. right

no. i have to: - grab my insulin case. - open it. - take syringe out. - take alcohol swab out. - take vial out. - open alcohol swab. - swab top of vial so it's clean. - take backstop cap off syringe. - take front cap off syringe. - purge empty air from syringe. - draw in air. - stick needle in vial. - inject air into vial. - flip vial and syringe upside down. - draw out insulin into syringe. - inject back into vial to get rid of air bubbles. - repeat if necessary. - draw out correct dosage. - take vial off of syringe. - hit syringe with vial in case there's any air bubbles left in there - set syringe down. - expose flesh. (i usually do my shots in my stomach so this is usually as simple as "lean back in chair. lift up shirt." but it's more complicated if you're in public or wearing something more complicated than pajamas etc) - pick up alcohol swab again. - wipe flesh clean with alcohol swab. - set down alcohol swab. - pick up syringe again with one hand. - pinch flesh with the other hand. - place needle against skin. - push needle into flesh until it's fully in there. - inject insulin into flesh. - hit the stopper with my thumb a bit to make sure i get every unit. - remove syringe from flesh slow and careful. - set it down. - pick up alcohol swab. - wipe flesh clean with alcohol swab a second time. - set alcohol swab down. - pick up syringe and syringe caps again. - put both caps back on the syringe. - put syringe in sharps container. - put alcohol swab in trash. - put vial back into medkit. - put medkit back into its place (on my desk i have an organizer with all my shit so it's in reach every second)

and even all THAT. that can be broken down FURTHER. anything can be made simpler and less complicated and easier.

there's a post i need to find which is genuinely about this; "go get a glass of water" for someone without problems might have to be broken all the way down into "stand up walk to door open door go out of door close door walk to stairs walk down stairs walk to kitchen walk to cabinet open cabinet grab cup take cup out of cabinet walk to sink hold cup under faucet turn on sink turn off sink move cup to mouth drink water"

but it's. yeah. you should have made that your own post instead of venting on some genuinely well-meaning and helpful advice

here's some more unsolicited adult advice as someone in her 30s who knows there are a lot of twenty somethings and teens that follow her: if you're trying to build a new habit you really want, and are struggling, you have to break it down to the smallest building block possible. If you're failing, you haven't thought small enough. I know it's possible to hear stories of people who just snapped into new life mode one day by "just deciding", but truly what's happening there is a confluence of events and experiences that force the brain into some sort of epiphany. You cannot will an epiphany. It'll never work. For most times of your life, you will need to build habits intentionally, and that means not working against yourself and to set micro goals. like laughably tiny goals. because once that easy tiny goal is met, you can build off it, tiny goal after tiny goal until you reach your big goal.

so for example, if you want to be a morning person that gets up at ass crack dawn so that you can work out, eat brekkie, shower, and get to work at a leisurely pace, and you're not that person because you will hit your snooze button 800 times, you have to get the big picture goal out of your head. think smaller. "I want to get up 15 minutes earlier than I normally do." If you can't do that, make it 5 minutes. "I want to cook breakfast every day" hell no too big. "I want to eat something, anything, before I leave the house" hell yeah, fantastic. When you go to the grocery store to make sure there are things in the house for breakfast, if you keep buying bagels and microwave sandwiches that you ignore, you gotta think smaller. SMALLER. What's something so easy to eat that you'll never say no to. Is it a yogurt? Is it a handful of grapes? Is it a hostess ho ho? is it hot cheetos? FORGET the big picture of the fantasy put-together woman preparing a full nutritious meal that you'd be proud to admit to. Think only of the smallest goal you can achieve. If you know you can't say no to an ice cream sandwich, put a ton of ice cream sandwiches in your freezer and have one for breakfast every day until it's so instilled in you that you gotta get up to eat something you can start diversifying.

It sounds like, from the lack of habit place, that must take forever. But really it doesn't take too long to form the habit once the discipline kicks in. the trick is that you have to give your brain something easy to become disciplined to. If it's too hard, think easier and smaller. No one has to know. Literally no one in the gd world has to know that for 4 weeks when you were 22 you had an ice cream sandwich for breakfast every day. who cares. If it gets you eating oatmeal with fresh fruit in a few months who cares. you did it, yay. smaller, easier. if you can't do it, think smaller and easier. smaller!! EASIER!!! You are not thinking smaller and easier enough. break your brain thinking how small and easy you can go. SMALLER. EVEN SMALLER, SIS.

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to the idea of a threesome with another member

Request: hey!! can you possibly do !husband!svt reacting to having a threesome with another member?? kinda like if they even would consider it, or who they would choose out of all the others. thank you so much already!! + yes hubby!svt x wifey!reader x another member is what i meant!! sorry for being unclear about that!!🤍

A/N: Some of these choices might make it seem like I’m shipping, lol, but anyway—I hope this is what you wanted! I scheduled this without saving it to my drafts for a recheck, so don’t mind any mistakes I might’ve made. Tumblr doesn’t save changes, but I have way too many pending requests, and it’s getting overwhelming. I couldn’t complete the other requests because of this Tumblr issue, but today, I had an epiphany: I can just post directly instead—at least until Tumblr gets back to me. So please ignore any typos, formatting errors, etc., etc.

This is my personal opinion and perspective. It may not accurately reflect their real-life personalities or behaviors.

Would Definitely Consider It (Under the Right Circumstances):

Jun – He’s the wildcard. He has a flirtatious and experimental streak, so he wouldn’t mind trying it if you initiated the idea. Minghao will be his choice (bahahah).

Hoshi – He’s adventurous, playful and very open-minded. He’d probably be the one to bring it up first just to see your reaction. He loves excitement and if it’s something you’re curious about, he’d be down. Woozi would be his first choice. He’d love to see his usually composed bestie in a wilder setting lol.

Mingyu – He’s open-minded and likes pushing boundaries in relationships. He’d probably joke about it first but if you were genuinely interested, he’d consider it. I think his choice would be Wonwoo or Jeonghan. They already have that chem, and they are someone Mingyu trusts completely.

Minghao – He’s open to new experiences but only if it’s something you really wanted. He’s emotionally mature enough to separate pleasure from deeper love. Jun will definitely be his choice (yes they're each other's choice). They have a natural bond and he’d feel most comfortable with him in such an intimate situation.

Would Maybe Consider It (But It’s Complicated):

Dokyeom – He’d turn beet red at the suggestion but wouldn’t be completely opposed. But the real problem is he’d get too emotionally attached and overthink things. In my opinion, I think his choice would be Mingyu. It’d feel like a fun, spontaneous thingy with someone he already vibes with.

Vernon – He’d be very nonchalant about it and respond with, “I mean…if you want to.” But deep down, he might not actually care enough to make it happen. Dino would definitely be his choice for a threesome. He’d pick someone who’s also laid-back, so nothing feels awkward.

Dino – He’d need a lot of convincing. He might go for it if it was positioned as a ‘fun experiment,’ but afterward, he’d probably get shy or maybe overthink. His choice will probably be Hoshi. There’s already a strong bond, and it would feel more like a game than anything super serious.

Absolutely Not (Too Loyal, Too Possessive, or Just Not Into It):

Seungcheol – This man is territorial. You are his, end of discussion. Suggesting it might even make him a little jealous and possessive.

Jeonghan – He loves to tease about things like this but would never actually go through with it. Deep down, he’s high-key possessive and wouldn’t want to share you.

Joshua – He’s too traditional and reserved. He doesn’t want to take even a 0.001% risk of anything that could potentially affect the relationship.

Wonwoo – Not necessarily out of jealousy, but he sees sex as something really personal and wouldn’t want you or him to share that level of intimacy with anyone other than each other.

Woozi – He’d be so so uncomfortable with the idea. He’s private and values intimacy in a one-on-one setting.

Seungkwan – Absolutely not. He would take the idea as a personal attack, wondering why he alone isn’t enough for you.

[steddieas-shegoes]

uh oh, feelings

for @corrodedcoffinfest popup event 'it's complicated'

rated e, 18+, minors dni | 4,512 words | cw: open ending, steve/gareth sex | tags: established steddie, NOT cheating they're all super cool and fine with this, eddie watches, virgin gareth, first time, bottom steve, top gareth, blowjob, anal fingering, anal sex, left open on purpose because i'm insane and might continue it

also on ao3

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“Dude. You’re making me sad.”

Gareth groans. “I don’t care. I feel pitiful.”

“That’s ‘cause you are,” Eddie pushes his shoulder. It’s playful, but there’s a hint of actual annoyance in it and Gareth doesn’t want that. “There’s, like, a whole crowd of women out there who would fuck you if you asked.”

“I don’t want the whole crowd of women. I want one woman, maybe two.”

“You’re not going from zero to two. So knock down your expectations a little,” Eddie starts. “Also, just throwing this out as an option: plenty of men would be interested in you, too.”

“Yeah? Like who?” Gareth scoffs.

It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it. He has. Plenty of times. More often than he’d ever admit to anyone, especially Eddie.

“I dunno. Steve?”

Gareth blinks once, twice.

“Steve who?” He only knows one Steve and that Steve is very taken by the man hounding him about his virginity right now.

Eddie throws the pillow he’s holding at Gareth. “My boyfriend, Steve! ‘Steve who?’ Fuck, dude, how many Steves do you know?”

“I dunno! Sorry for not assuming you want me to sleep with the love of your life I guess!”

“Everyone wants to sleep with Steve,” Eddie shrugs as if he’s cool with everyone wanting to sleep with Steve.

“Not everyone,” Gareth insists, but he’s not actually sure. Steve is the hottest guy they know. “I don’t think.”

“But you do.”

Gareth stays silent. This feels like a trap. He doesn’t think Eddie would get pissed or anything if he admits it, but he doesn’t want Steve to find out.

“It’s okay if you do. Steve would totally fuck you.”

Gareth’s mouth drops open. “He would not.”

“He would,” Eddie nods. He’s smirking like he’s teasing, but Gareth thinks he’s actually being very serious right now. “Ask him.”

“I’m not gonna ask your boyfriend if he’d fuck me!”

“Don’t ask him outright!” Eddie throws his arms up. “Jesus, no wonder you’re a virgin. Flirt with him, see if he flirts back.”

“Is this some kinda fucked up friendship test?” Gareth stands and starts pacing. Steve will be on the bus any minute and there’s no way he should hear any of this conversation. He’ll cut off Gareth’s balls for even suggesting he cheat on Eddie. He’ll hang them out the tour bus window while Gareth dies on the floor and post an ad for a drummer at their next stop. “Or are you testing Steve? I’m not gonna be a part of that, man. Steve loves you and I’m not getting in the way-“

“Dude. It’s not a test. Get it out of your system and then maybe you can focus on something other than your miserable state of existence,” Eddie walks to his bunk and Gareth is reminded immediately that they’re all sleeping on the bus tonight. Eddie’s plan isn’t gonna work.

“It can’t be tonight,” Gareth is surprised at his own words, shocked that he’s apparently entertaining the idea of fucking Steve. Getting fucked by Steve? “Is Steve a top or bottom?”

Eddie laughs loud enough to make Gareth flinch.

“You’ll find out soon.”

~~~

Soon is two days later, when they finally have a two day break so they can stay in a hotel. None of them stray far, always choosing to be in adjoining rooms and getting room service instead of trying to go out. It’s just easier; no worrying about being seen by fans or trying to book enough security for them to stay safe.

Goodie and Jeff are in the hot tub downstairs, probably trying to pick up chicks, so naturally Gareth is sitting in Eddie and Steve’s bed while they finish their dinner. He’s not worried about being a third wheel, especially not since Eddie told him that Steve would fuck him. He’s still not sure he would.

“Steve, you’ve taken most of Hawkins’ virginity, right?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, huffs a ‘smooth’ under his breath. Steve doesn’t even flinch. He finishes chewing, swallows, and sits back in the rolling chair he insisted on staying in while he ate.

“I wouldn’t say most. A good chunk,” Steve smirks. “Why? Trying to take someone’s virginity?”

“Yeah. Mine.”

Gareth slaps his hand over his own mouth. He feels absurd. He feels like he might puke. He thinks his heart is trying to escape his body via his throat or maybe his ass. He’s unsure if gravity is involved at all, actually.

“You’re a virgin?” Steve chokes on nothing. “Eddie, you didn’t tell me he’s a virgin.”

“I didn’t know you needed to know this about my best friend,” Eddie laughs, ignores the way Gareth is watching them with wide eyes.

“I can’t believe I couldn’t tell,” Steve is shaking his head, looking more disappointed with himself by the second. Gareth isn’t sure what to make of it. He thinks he’s supposed to feel ashamed, but he doesn’t. Not yet. “I can spot them from a mile away.”

Eddie snorts, but doesn’t comment. He’s stuffing his face with his dinner, and Steve’s eyes are focusing on Gareth in a way he isn’t familiar with from anyone, let alone…Steve.

“Uh…how exactly do you know from looking at someone?” Gareth dares to ask.

“Oh, it’s easy. I can’t tell you, but you might figure it out soon,” Steve answers, shoving another bite into his mouth and then standing up.

“How will I figure it out?”

“Because you won’t be a virgin anymore.”

“O…kay?”

There’s no way it’s this easy, right? There’s no way Steve is offering to fuck him and there’s no way Eddie’s just okay with it.

“Eddie, what’s your color on this?” Steve asks.

Eddie looks between them for a moment. “Green,” Eddie smirks. “But I’m watching.”

“Watching what?” Gareth knows what. He can’t believe it’s happening, but he knows.

“You cool with fucking me? Or do you prefer me fucking you? I’m good either way.”

Straight to business it seems. Gareth is chubbing up a little already. What the fuck is going on?

“Yeah, uh.” Gareth swallows around his nerves. He performs in front of thousands of people every night. He can fuck Steve Harrington. “Yeah, I can fuck you. That’s good. Cool.”

Steve raises a brow, looks to Eddie, then back to Gareth. “Is it because he’s gonna watch?”

Gareth shakes his head. He’s fine with that part. Honestly, it might help keep him from throwing up if Eddie’s there. Eddie’s seen him in every state of undress, and every emotion, and he trusts him more than anyone else.

“Is it because it’s me?” Steve steps closer. Gareth’s asshole tightens. It happens when he’s nervous, okay? It’s like fight or flight, except no matter what he chooses, nothing’s getting in his asshole or out of it.

“I mean, it’s not not because it’s you. I’d be nervous about anyone. I guess it’s just…like you do realize that you’re with Eddie, right?”

Eddie and Steve both laugh and it makes Gareth feel dumb.

“Yeah, I do. I love him a hell of a lot,” Steve finally says. “And he loves me a lot. And we both love you and want you to stop moping.”

“You’re not in love with me though?” Gareth has to clarify. He loves Eddie, and he loves Steve, but not like that.

“No, dude,” Eddie exclaims. “Neither of us wanna make you a third. You just need to get over this thing in your head that losing your virginity is the end all be all of your life or something. I can’t stand the face you make anymore. Steve’s sick of me complaining. We love you in the way where if we have to see that face anymore, we’ll bury your body on the interstate so.”

“Right. Okay.” Gareth nods because that makes sense. It’s hard to figure out how this is gonna work later on, after he’s seen Steve like this, after Eddie’s seen him like this. “So, we’re doing this.”

Steve doesn’t answer with words. He gets close enough to pull Gareth into him, kisses the corner of his mouth as a test.

It’s a little weird, but that’s because he was under the impression they wouldn’t kiss. He assumed this was a get in, get out situation. Get the job done and move on. He didn’t expect it to be soft.

“C’mon,” Steve whispers as he pulls back, smiling encouragingly at him. He takes his hand and leads him to the bed. “You know how to get me ready?”

Gareth nods. He’s messed around with himself plenty of times to know what to do, what feels good, what’s too much. He doesn’t know what Steve likes, but he can figure it out as he goes.

Steve takes his shirt off. Eddie groans.

“You look so good,” he groans. “I wanna touch you, too.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Not now. Let Gare have this, baby.”

“He can…he can touch you. If you want,” Gareth says. “I dunno if I want him to touch me, though.”

Eddie’s hand goes to his chest dramatically. “No? My nimble fingers aren’t good enough? Fine!” He smirks. “I’m good just watching. This is for you. I get to touch him all the time.”

Steve is slipping his pants off quietly, letting them have this moment.

“Normally, I’d make you take my clothes off, but I think you know how to do that,” Steve teases. “Unless you’re unfamiliar with this model of jeans.”

“Levi’s?” Gareth takes his own shirt off. “Half my closet is thrifted Levi’s, dude.”

And then they’re both standing in just their underwear. Gareth’s in boxers that he doesn’t remember washing in his last round of laundry, and Steve’s standing there in the tightest gray underwear Gareth’s ever seen, already half-hard.

His dick is huge. Like, way bigger than Gareth’s, maybe also Eddie’s. He’d need to see them both at once to compare, but-

“We’re gonna use colors, even though it’s not a scene, okay? Just so you’re comfortable. Red is stop, yellow is pause, green is good. Use them anytime. If Eddie sees something I miss, he’ll ask you randomly, okay?” Steve pulls his underwear off.

He’s just…naked. Comfortably standing in front of Gareth with his dick out and leaning to the left, getting harder the more Gareth watches him. Who knew Steve was into being watched?

Gareth drops his boxers and he is fully hard. Achingly so. His dick pulses when Steve’s eyes drop down to get a look. Steve’s lips curl up into a smile.

He walks up to him, drops to his knees, and gets his hand around the base. Gareth’s breath catches.

Steve licks a stripe up his dick, sucking the head into his mouth before he takes him all the way down.

“Jesus,” Gareth moans. He’s got pretty good stamina when it’s just him. His dick is sensitive, but he knows how to edge himself. He kinda likes doing it on nights when they’ve got a hotel. He can shove his face into the pillow and get himself close four, five, six times before he shakes apart. He doesn’t know if he can hold back with his dick leaking down Steve’s throat. “Do you not have a gag reflex? Fuck.”

Steve smiles around him somehow, and Eddie is trying hard not to make noise, but Gareth can hear him huffing a laugh against his hand.

Steve pops off for a moment, looks up at him with a grin. “You can touch me.”

Right. His hands immediately go to Steve’s hair, threading through the locks and pulling him in again. He’s under no impression that he’s in control here. He’s just gonna try to keep both hands on the steering wheel while Steve hits the gas pedal.

His fingers tighten when Steve’s tongue swirls around his tip. Steve moans. The vibrations are enough to make Gareth’s legs feel weak.

“Shit. Bed, bed, bed,” he’s saying as he tugs Steve off of him and to his feet. He crushes his lips to Steve’s, any lingering doubt in his mind that this was gonna ruin their friendship long gone. He’s gonna fuck Steve and make him feel good, and Steve’s gonna return the favor, and then he’s gonna keep annoying Steve for the rest of time.

He could throw Steve on the bed, but Steve’s faster. He pushes Gareth down on his back, straddles his hips, and pushes his hands above his head.

Shit, that’s hot.

“How am I gonna get you ready if you have my hands way up there?” Gareth is nothing if not a little shit.

But Steve is also a little shit.

“You’ll figure it out,” Steve’s ass is brushing against his dick and he’s trying not to think about how it will feel inside him. But the more he thinks about not thinking about it, the more he realizes he’s gonna be inside Steve very soon. His restraint is flying out the window and up the street.

He feels Eddie’s eyes on them, but he’s decidedly not thinking about what he might be doing. If it were him in Eddie’s shoes, he’d be jacking it relentlessly.

Gareth is pretty strong. Like, he plays drums every day. Got used to lugging equipment around before they had people who did that for them. Started lifting weights occasionally when no one was watching. He likes being strong, he likes the way his muscles ripple when he’s beating the hell out of his snares and cymbals, angry but beaming from ear to ear.

He likes the way Steve moans when he throws him off of him, switching their positions in less than two seconds.

He doesn’t feel the need to say anything. Steve’s blushing, a pretty pink color across his face and neck, and his lips are swollen from sucking his dick and biting his own lips. Seeing Steve like this is life-changing.

It’s not a falling in love moment, but it’s a moment where he can see why Eddie did.

There’s always a certain charm floating around Steve, and it shifts now, while he’s under Gareth. It’s brighter, damn near blinding. Steve’s glittering gold, intensely blazing as Gareth’s hands run down his chest and sides. He adjusts so he’s sitting between Steve’s legs, pushing them back.

He hears Eddie groan from a few feet away. He’s ignoring it.

“You guys have lube?” Gareth asks.

Eddie throws a bottle on the bed.

“Thanks.”

Stupid of him to assume they went anywhere without some. They fucked like rabbits. He’s pretty sure if Steve could get pregnant, he would have had at least two accidental babies by now.

Gareth stares at the bottle in his hand.

“Still green?” Steve asks quietly.

“Yeah, sorry.” Gareth opens the bottle and uses entirely too much. It’s a different brand than he uses, and he’s nervous, and he can feel two sets of eyes watching his every breath and it’s- “Yellow.”

Steve sits up and takes the bottle from him. He hears Eddie step closer for a moment, as if he’s gonna try to fix it even though he isn’t technically involved in any of this.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks, soft, careful. Unlike any way he ever talks to Gareth.

He kinda hates it. He likes when Steve’s a bitchy know-it-all to him. He likes when Steve gets frustrated at the way he pretends to be dumber than he is about band stuff.

“I just need a minute, I think,” Gareth admits. “This is a lot.”

“Okay,” Steve waves Eddie off and places both hands on Gareth’s face. It’s intimate. It blocks the outside world from view. It feels like it’s just them right now. “It won’t hurt my feelings if you wanna stop. It’s not me, it’s you.”

Gareth snorts. There’s the bitchy Steve he’s always loved.

“I don’t wanna stop. I just realized I’m fucking my best friend’s boyfriend while he watches and it’s taking me a second to wrap my head around that being a normal thing,” Gareth explains. He’s ignoring the way Steve’s dick is rubbing against his. He said yellow, so they have to stay paused until he’s mentally good to go. He knows that much.

“Should Eddie not watch?” Steve asks. As if Eddie would allow Gareth to fuck Steve without being there.

“No, that’s-” Gareth sighs. “I don’t care if he watches. It’s just a lot.”

“Yeah. You’re doing good, though.”

The praise sinks deep into his skin, courses through his veins. He isn’t able to hold back a whine. Holy shit, where did that even come from?

Steve looks thrilled.

“Oh. Well, this is interesting,” Steve says around a smile. “Didn’t think it would go like this.”

“Like what?”

Gareth feels unmoored. Something’s shifted. The entire room feels darker, heavier.

“Stevie, be nice,” Eddie says from a chair. Gareth didn’t even know there was a chair in the corner.

“I am being nice,” Steve doesn’t look away from Gareth. “This is just shocking information and I’m taking it in. Learning. Growing.”

“What information?”

“We won’t do anything with it tonight. But we’ll talk about it after. You gotta stay safe if you decide to try anything with someone and I won’t let someone hurt you.”

“Try what?”

“Later,” Steve pats his cheek and lays back again. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m right here. Take your time, honey.”

The name feels like honey, dripping between them and making them sticky. Gareth wants to lick the word from Steve’s mouth.

Gareth watches as Steve puts his hand on his own dick, lazily stroking to keep himself hard. He can’t look away. A bead of precum falls, drips down his length until his thumb swipes it up, rubs it into his skin.

He licks his lips.

His fingers ghost over Steve’s hole.

“Good?” Steve asks, breathless.

“Green,” Gareth answers as he slides a lubed-up finger into him.

He’s tight, but there’s really no resistance. Steve’s relaxed. Gareth’s relaxed.

Steve rocks back into his touch, eyes glassy as he silently begs for more. It’s easy to read him when he’s like this, wanting more, being greedy in ways no one else ever sees. Steve’s a giver, the least selfish person of all of them, but not now. Now he wants.

Now Gareth is gonna give.

He’s three fingers deep when he manages to find Steve’s prostate. It’s easier on himself, he realizes. He’s spent years figuring out what makes himself tick. He has to watch every rise of Steve’s chest, every twitch of his brow, every bite of his lip. This is finding what makes someone– Steve– feel good, and doing it so they find pleasure.

Gareth sees why they fuck like rabbits.

Steve’s back arches off the bed as he flicks his fingers just right, rubs until he’s sure Steve’s gonna squirm right off the bed. Eddie’s barely even a thought in his mind right now, but he can feel his gaze. He’s making sure Steve’s taken care of, and he’s making sure Gareth doesn’t need to back out. He’s taking care of them in the only way he knows how.

He wants to hand over the reins. Steve’s taking what he’s giving, but he wants him to take more.

He doesn’t know how to verbalize that without sounding desperate.

But something switches between them and Steve seems to just know.

He’s an intuitive guy.

Steve sits up, waits for Gareth to remove his fingers. He pushes Gareth back on the bed, so his head is resting at where the sheets have gathered at the foot.

He straddles him again, throws his hands up above his head again, smirks again.

“Condom?” Steve asks.

Gareth knows from his mom, from health class, from Eddie, from Steve he should say yes. If this were a stranger, he’d say yes.

But this is Steve, who insists on everyone getting tested every three months like clockwork, who has only slept with Eddie for the last six years, who would never even ask if he was at all concerned about their safety. He’s letting Gareth make the call on something that’s normally important. It’s not a test, it’s just Steve letting him have control.

“Can we do it without?” Gareth’s voice is barely more than a whisper. He’s shy. Why the fuck does he feel shy?

Steve nods, soft smile taking over.

“But never do it without with anyone else unless you’re in a committed relationship and both clean,” Eddie says from the chair, ever the mother hen.

“Yes, dad,” Gareth rolls his eyes.

“Don’t call me dad while you’re fucking my boyfriend,” Eddie says.

“I’m not fucking him yet,” Gareth’s words end in a whine as Steve slides down on his dick. He’s so fucking tight, Jesus Christ on the fucking cross. “Holy shit. Is it this tight all the time?”

Steve breathes out, halfway laughs, halfway trying to not whimper.

“Eddie usually does four fingers first,” Steve says. It doesn’t even feel weird to hear him talk about what Eddie normally does.

“Should I have done four?”

“No, honey. Three is good,” Steve leans down to kiss him.

Gareth’s stomach flutters.

He’s inside Steve. His dick is in Steve’s ass.

Steve lifts his body up, falls back down. He holds onto Gareth’s chest, thumbs at his nipples, finds a rhythm.

He knows Steve is athletic, has always been that way and probably always will be that way. He’s got endurance that no one can match, probably not even Eddie. He’s stronger than Gareth by a mile, and it shows when his thigh muscles tighten and relax as he rides Gareth into the mattress.

His pace picks up. Gareth’s hands hold onto his hips, but he’s not really doing anything. He’s just along for the ride.

What a ride it’s been.

“Fuck, yes, there,” Steve gasps suddenly. His legs start shaking. Eddie makes the most high-pitched whine Gareth’s ever heard. It’s a lot all at once and his brain is dumbed down to processing how good he feels and nothing else. “Fuck me, honey. Harder.”

It’s ridiculous how easily he goes along with Steve’s demands now. Normally, he fights him on everything just to be annoying.

But Steve wants him to go harder and he wants what Steve wants.

His grip tightens against Gareth’s hips and he plants his feet against the bed for leverage. If Steve’s wants to get fucked harder, then Steve’s gonna get fucked harder.

“Shit, yes, feels so good,” Steve pants.

Gareth doesn’t know if he’s always like this or if he’s playing it up a little to make him feel more confident for whoever he fucks next. Either way, Steve’s making this a hell of a fun time.

“Is it good for you, honey?” Steve asks.

How he remembers to ask is beyond him. Gareth can’t do anything but nod and moan. He feels sweat beading along his forehead and neck. He doesn’t do this much work unless he’s on stage.

“Tell me how good it is.”

Gareth whimpers. He didn’t even realize he could make that noise.

“So good. So tight, Steve, shit,” Gareth is moving faster now, and he’s really not sure how it could feel good for Steve at this point, but Steve’s eyes roll back in his head and he comes all over them.

He’s impossibly tighter through his orgasm and it brings Gareth to his own peak. He’s shaking through it, not even sure what he’s saying. His hips stutter and stop and he’s filling Steve up with his cum. It’s already dripping back down his own dick, making a mess on the hotel bed.

Steve is brushing his hair out of his face, kissing his jaw, whispering about how good he did. It’s helping and also making it harder to keep this from getting complicated.

No one warned him about the attachment. He figured it would be fine, he could get off with Steve and then they could pretend it didn’t happen or joke about it. He’s crashing from a high he’s never experienced and he’s realizing how stupid he was to think he could ever look at Steve the same.

“Shit, Eddie, come here,” he hears Steve say, but he doesn’t really feel anything anymore. He knows he’s not inside Steve anymore, which kinda sucks. He likes the warmth, might already be a little addicted to it. “It’s okay, Gare. We’ve got you.”

Strong arms wrap around him, familiar in the way they don’t hesitate to pull him close. Eddie’s always been a cuddler, and he’s always known how to hold Gareth when his head’s too loud. Right now his head is silent, but his arms provide the same comfort.

A warm washcloth is on him and he blinks his eyes open to see Steve cleaning him up. Eddie’s behind him, holding him against his chest. He’s fully dressed and Gareth is not.

But he just fucked his boyfriend in front of him, so he guesses this is probably fine.

Eddie’s humming something. He doesn’t recognize it, but he’s still feeling a little out of it.

“Hey, honey,” Steve is next to him now, his hand on his chest. “You with us yet?”

“Mmm,” is all he can reply with.

“It’s alright. Take your time.”

A few minutes pass. He feels less like he’s having a crisis about feelings for Steve and more like he just got fucked within an inch of his life.

It’s a good change.

“Hey,” he says.

Eddie’s arms tighten around him. Steve smiles.

“Hey, bud,” Steve says, and it makes Gareth laugh.

“What happened to honey?” He jokes. But he did kinda like it. More than he probably should.

Steve gently smacks his chest. “I was making you feel special, jackass.”

Gareth sighs. “I know. I did.”

Steve has his underwear back on, but nothing else. Gareth can feel his thigh brushing against his. He’s a hairy son of a bitch.

“Was it good?” Steve asks.

“It was great. Thank you for doing that for me,” Gareth hates how his voice sounds now, a little broken, scared.

“You don’t have to thank me, Gare,” Steve says, careful and calm. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to.”

“It’s true. Steve’s a stubborn bitch,” Eddie butts in. “Can’t get him to do anything he doesn’t wanna do.”

Gareth giggles, ducking his head down. He still feels a little delirious, maybe a little too sleepy for this conversation.

“You wanna stay with us tonight?” Eddie continues.

“Can I?”

“‘Course you can, bud. Need me to get you anything?”

Gareth shakes his head. He just needs sleep. Maybe in the morning, once he’s separated from this a little, he’ll have some coffee and a bagel and he’ll get over this feeling in his chest that’s trying to override the adrenaline of finally having sex.

He doesn’t know what to make of it right now.

But one thing his mom always says is to sleep on hard feelings. If it’s important, it’ll be there in the morning, and it might make more sense.

He sure hopes so.

[crossfandomskylines]

Anywhere But Here

Summary: A Valentine's Day singles event was the last place you wanted to be until an unexpected conversation with Bradley Bradshaw turned the night into something else entirely. What started as shared sarcasm and an easy connection quickly became something deeper. And by the time the night was over you realized maybe fate had other plans after all.

Warnings: 18+. Suggestive Content (some nudity, heavy making out, implied smut but none directly), Alcohol Consumption, Mild Language.

Word Count: 4,389

Author's Note: Still struggling with a little bit of writer's block because of my headspace but managed to write this over the past few days and I think it turned out okay. This is my first time writing for Bradley so I'd love any feedback you guys have! I'm also still a little rough around the edges when it comes to writing smut so I'm sorry if that part isn't good. Hope you enjoy xx

You should have known better than to let your friends talk you into this. The dim lighting, the too loud music, the room full of strangers who all seemed to have the same agenda. It was everything you hated about Valentine’s Day wrapped into one overcrowded venue. 

Somewhere across the room your friends were probably watching and feeling satisfied that they’d successfully dragged you out, but they weren’t the ones stuck making small talk with men who either wanted a rebound, a hookup, or a therapist.

You sighed as you swirled the cheap cocktail in your glass as the third guy of the night launched into a monologue about his “complicated” relationship with his ex.

“Sounds rough,” you said nodding absently.

“Right? And she just doesn’t get that I need space,” he continued, leaning in like you were supposed to be impressed by his emotional unavailability.

You were about to excuse yourself and find your friends when suddenly, a familiar voice cut through the conversation.

"Is this seat taken?" Bradley Bradshaw’s voice was easy, casual, like you hadn’t just been trapped in a one-sided conversation about someone’s divorce for the last fifteen minutes. You blinked in surprise, looking up to find Bradley standing beside you. You couldn’t help the relief that flooded through you at his arrival, a smile tugging at your lips. 

“Bradley,” you said with a chuckle, knowing full well he’d been watching from the corner of the room. 

You’d always known of Bradley. He was part of the same circle of friends though you’d never really talked outside of the occasional greeting or passing comment at group events. He was always nice enough, just not someone you ever felt a need to connect with more deeply.

He raised an eyebrow at the guy you were talking to, still unaware of his impending rescue. “Mind if I steal her for a minute?” Bradley asked, looking at you with an easy grin.

The guy hesitated for a moment, eyes darting between you and Bradley before he finally nodded, mumbling something about catching up with some people. Bradley’s lips twitched in amusement as he pulled the barstool out and took a seat next to you, making it clear he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

As the guy shuffled away, Bradley glanced at you and whispered, “I’ve got to hand it to you, you were handling that a lot better than I would have. I’d have run for the hills by now.” His grin was teasing, but there was a warmth in his eyes, an unspoken understanding.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “It wasn’t that bad, I just didn’t know how to get out of the conversation without being rude.”

Bradley leaned back, getting comfortable. “Yeah, well, you’re lucky I was nearby. My friends usually do a pretty bad job of saving me from stuff like that. But if it helps, I’m pretty good at the rescue mission.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him with a smirk. “I’m sure you are. But I’m guessing Jake and Mickey had something to do with this little rescue operation?”

Bradley chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Guilty as charged. They’ve been trying to convince me to get out here all night. Apparently, they think I’m a really good wingman.” He grinned, clearly not taking the comment too seriously. “But between you and me, I’m just here for the free drinks.”

“Free drinks? I think I missed that memo?”

Bradley grinned as he motioned towards where Jake was across the room. “His price for dragging me out tonight was picking up my tab.”

Bradley leaned against the bar, nodding toward your empty glass. “Speaking of…need a refill?”

You hesitated, but he shrugged, adding, “Promise I won’t try to trauma-dump on you.”

That earned him a small smirk. “Well, in that case… sure.”

He flagged down the bartender, ordering for you without making a big deal of it. As you waited, you glanced around the room at the couples awkwardly chatting, the guys clearly scanning for their next target, the women trying to seem interested but mostly looking bored.

“This might be the worst Valentine’s Day event in existence,” you muttered.

Bradley let out a low chuckle. “That bad, huh?”

You turned back to him, arching a brow. “Come on, you’ve gotta admit half these people don’t even want to be here.”

He shrugged, smirking. “That includes us, doesn’t it?”

You laughed. “Fair point.”

The bartender slid your drink across the bar, and you murmured a thanks before turning back to Bradley. Somehow, standing next to him felt…easy.

“So, what were you doing before you got roped into this disaster?” he asked, taking a sip of his own drink.

You shrugged. “Had plans to drink wine, eat chocolate, and watch literally anything that wasn’t romance related. But my friends staged an intervention.”

Bradley smirked. “Tragic. What were you gonna watch?”

“Probably a concert film. You know, something that really captures the Valentine’s Day spirit.”

His grin widened. “Concert film, huh? What band?”

You lit up, immediately launching into a mini rant about your favorite band. You talked about their best albums, the time you saw them live, how their early work was underrated but their newer stuff still held up.

And Bradley listened. Not in the way people do when they’re just waiting for their turn to talk, but in a way that made it clear he was actually interested. He nodded along, grinning at your enthusiasm, occasionally asking a question or making a comment that proved he was keeping up.

At some point the noise of the bar faded into the background. The awkwardness of the event, the forced conversations, the reason you even came here in the first place…it all disappeared. It was just you and Bradley talking like this was the most natural thing in the world.

And you kind of liked it.

The DJ must have had a cruel sense of humor because without warning the music shifted from upbeat pop to something softer. Something that clearly signaled it was time for couples to pair off.

Around the room, people hesitated before awkwardly stepping closer to their dates or scanning for someone to dance with. You weren’t planning on participating until you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. It was him. The guy Bradley had saved you from earlier. He was lingering near the bar, glancing in your direction like he was debating coming over for round two.

You groaned under your breath. Bradley must have followed your gaze because he leaned in slightly, voice low and amused. “Uh oh. I think your ex therapy patient wants a second session.”

You shot him a look. “Don’t even joke.”

His lips twitched like he was fighting back a laugh. Then after a beat he nudged you with his elbow. “We could always pretend to be together. Save you from another deep dive into his complicated emotions.”

You arched a brow. “Oh, we could, huh?”

Bradley shrugged. “I mean I’d hate to see you suffer.”

You rolled your eyes but honestly? The idea didn’t sound half bad. Better than standing here pretending not to notice your former conversation partner lurking nearby.

“…Fine,” you sighed.

His grin was instant like he’d known you’d agree. Without another word he reached for your hand, his fingers warm as they laced easily through yours. Before you could process that he was already tugging you toward the dance floor.

“Smooth,” you muttered as you followed.

He glanced back smirking. “I have my moments.”

You stopped near the edge of the dance floor where other couples had already started swaying to the music. Bradley turned to face you, his expression a mix of amusement and something softer, unreadable.

“Alright,” he said, his voice teasing but gentle as he placed one hand at your waist. “Try not to fall in love with me.”

You snorted. “I’ll do my best.”

Dancing with Bradley was… easy. You had expected it to be awkward and stiff like the kind of slow dances you endured at high school prom. But he moved with an effortless confidence, his hand steady at your waist, his grip firm but not overbearing.

“So,” he said, his voice warm and low over the music, “how am I doing so far? Best fake Valentine’s date you’ve ever had?”

You smirked. “I don’t know. The bar’s pretty low. But I’ll give you points for effort.”

Bradley let out a soft chuckle, his thumb absently tracing small, slow circles where it rested against your waist. You weren’t sure if he even realized he was doing it, but you noticed. And suddenly, the room felt just a little warmer.

The first song came to an end, and for a second, you thought about stepping back, about making some teasing remark and putting space between you. But before you could, the opening chords of a new song filled the air. A song from your favorite band. Your favorite song.

Your eyes widened. “No way.”

Bradley’s mouth quirked into a knowing grin. “What are the odds?”

You looked up at him, suspicious. “You didn’t request this, did you?”

He shook his head, smirking. “Nope. But now that it’s playing, it’d be wrong not to keep dancing.”

Before you could argue—not that you really wanted to—he pulled you back in.

And this time, you let yourself sink into it.

Somewhere between the first verse and the chorus, the space between you disappeared. His hands settled more firmly at your waist, his fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of your shirt. Without really thinking about it, your arms slid up, looping around his neck.

You felt him exhale, a quiet little laugh against your temple. “See? You’re having fun.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “Don’t let it go to your head, Rooster.”

He grinned, tilting his head slightly. “Too late.”

The warmth of him, the way his chest brushed yours with every slow step, the way his voice curled around your name when he murmured it just loud enough for you to hear. It all felt so natural and easy, like you’d been dancing with him forever instead of just minutes.

And when he made a dry teasing comment about one of the couples beside you, something about their awkward middle school dance stance you tipped your head back and laughed.

The sound must have done something to him because his hold on you tightened, just slightly. Just enough that you felt it. Just enough that you didn’t want to let go.

The song drifted into its final chords, but neither of you stepped away immediately. You were still close. Closer than you probably should have been considering this whole thing had started as an excuse to avoid bad small talk.

Bradley was looking at you, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he knew you weren’t in a hurry to move either. But then the DJ switched back to something obnoxiously upbeat, and the spell broke.

Bradley exhaled, glancing around before leaning down slightly, speaking just loud enough for you to hear. “Alright. You wanna get out of here?”

You arched a brow, pretending to consider it. “Bradley Bradshaw, are you trying to take me home?”

His smirk widened. “Would it work?”

You scoffed, even as heat curled in your stomach. “Not a chance.”

He chuckled. “Good to know.” Then, with an easy shrug, he added, “I was thinking we could go do something actually fun.”

You tilted your head. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“I don’t know yet. But I promise it’ll be better than this disaster.” He gestured around the bar where people were still fumbling their way through awkward conversations and stilted dances.

You eyed him, considering. “You do realize this is how horror movies start, right? Some girl follows a charming guy into the night, never to be seen again.”

Bradley placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You wound me.”

You bit back a grin. “Shouldn’t you buy me dinner first?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “You hungry?”

You blinked. “…Are you serious?”

Bradley grinned. “Why not? We ditch this place, get some food, and actually enjoy the rest of the night.”

You should have said no. You should have come up with an excuse, played it safe, stuck to your original plan of going home alone.

But instead, you found yourself saying, “Alright, Bradshaw. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

His grin turned downright smug. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”

You rolled your eyes, but you let him take your hand anyway, following him toward the exit. Leaving behind the bad dates, the awkward glances, and the Valentine’s Day you thought you were going to have, and stepping into the one you never saw coming.

The bar door swung shut behind you, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the stuffy heat inside. You hadn’t realized how loud it was until now. It was so much easier to breathe out here.

Bradley, still holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, shot you a look. “Alright, I’m thinking pizza. And not some fancy, sit down place. I mean real pizza.”

You smirked. “Define real pizza.”

His eyes glinted. “Late night counter service, greasy but perfect pizza.”

“…Go on.”

“There’s a spot a few blocks from here. Open late, no frills, just damn good food.”

You pretended to think about it, though your stomach had already made the decision for you. “Fine. But if it sucks, I’m never trusting you again.”

Bradley laughed, leading the way down the sidewalk. “That’s a lot of pressure, sweetheart.”

When you arrived after a short walk from the bar, the place was exactly as he’d described. A hole in the wall joint with neon signs buzzing faintly in the window and the unmistakable scent of fresh pizza wafting out the door.

Bradley let you step inside first, the warmth from the ovens immediately washing over you. The glass display case was lined with massive slices ready to grab and go.

“Alright,” he said scanning the selection. “You a toppings person, or are we keeping it classic?”

“Pepperoni,” you answered without hesitation.

His smile was approving. “Good choice.” He turned to the guy behind the counter. “Two slices of pepperoni, please.”

You arched a brow. “Two? What if I wanted two slices?”

Bradley gave you a look. “Trust me. You won’t want the second when you see the size of these.”

He wasn’t wrong.

A few minutes later, you were standing outside, each holding a massive, perfectly greasy slice, the warmth seeping into your fingers as you took your first bite.

You groaned. “Okay. Fine. You were right. This is really good pizza.”

Bradley grinned, chewing his own bite. “Told you.”

The street was quiet, save for the occasional car rolling by and the faint hum of city life in the distance. For a moment, you just stood there, eating in comfortable silence.

Then, Bradley wiped his fingers on a napkin and glanced over at you. “So.”

You swallowed your bite, eyeing him warily. “So.”

His smirk was lazy, unreadable. “Wanna head back to my place?”

You nearly choked. “Wow. Straight to the point, huh?”

Bradley laughed. “Not like that.” He gestured to the nearly empty street. “It’s still early. I figured we could keep hanging out…unless you’re dying to go home.”

You hesitated for a moment, considering the offer. It wasn’t that late, and you weren’t tired. And if you were being honest with yourself you didn’t really want to say goodnight yet.

“…Alright, Bradshaw,” you said, giving him a knowing look. And just like that, you found yourself following him into the night.

When you reached the curb, he gestured toward an old but well kept Bronco parked under the glow of a streetlamp. It suited him. It was rugged, classic, and also a little effortlessly cool.

You expected him to climb in first, but instead he reached for the passenger door, pulling it open.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Seriously?”

Bradley just shrugged, stepping back to give you space. “What? You think I don’t have manners?”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “I don’t know. I just didn’t peg you as the door-opening type.”

His smirk was subtle but genuine. “Guess I like keeping you on your toes.”

Still eyeing him, you slid into the seat. The door shut with a solid thunk, and a moment later Bradley was rounding the hood and climbing in behind the wheel.

Bradley’s place was exactly what you would’ve expected. Laid back, a little old school, but effortlessly him. Warm lighting, a well-loved couch, a few framed photos on the walls, and a record player in the corner. It felt lived in, comfortable.

“You want a beer?” he asked as he tossed his keys onto the counter.

You nodded, stepping further inside. “Yeah, sure.”

Bradley grabbed two from the fridge, popping the caps off with practiced ease before handing one to you. You took a sip as he led you toward the couch, where he sank down with an easy sprawl.

You hesitated for half a second before sitting next to him, tucking your legs underneath you. The conversation picked up right where it had left off with music, movies, dumb things you’d both done as kids.

At some point you kicked off your shoes and stretched your legs out, your sock clad feet nudging his thigh. Bradley didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he absentmindedly rested a hand on your shin as he talked, fingers tracing lazy patterns against the fabric of your jeans.

You should’ve noticed it earlier. That shift, that subtle change in the air. Because somewhere between the teasing and the laughter, something had settled in the space between you. Something quieter. Heavier. Bradley’s fingers stilled against your leg, his gaze flicking to yours.

You swallowed. “What?”

He shook his head, his voice softer now. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing, and you both knew it. The air crackled, and before you could second guess it, you were shifting closer. Bradley’s hand slid up, palm skimming your knee before settling at your waist. His fingers curled there, warm and steady.

You weren’t sure who leaned in first, but suddenly, he was right there. His breath fanned across your lips, his eyes locked onto yours, searching.

And then he kissed you. It was slow at first, just the soft press of his lips against yours, like he was testing the waters. But when you didn’t pull away and you kissed him back,he deepened it, his hand tightening at your waist as he pulled you closer.

Your fingers found the back of his neck, threading into his hair, and he groaned low in his throat, a sound that sent heat curling through your stomach. By the time you finally broke apart, you were breathless.

Bradley rested his forehead against yours, his lips quirking. “So… I’m guessing you don’t regret leaving that singles event?”

You laughed, still catching your breath. “Not even a little bit.”

Bradley’s hands were still resting at your waist, warm and steady, as you hovered just inches from him. The air between you felt charged, humming with something unspoken but undeniable. You moved first, shifting onto your knees before slowly swinging a leg over his lap, settling yourself against him. Bradley inhaled sharply, his hands tightening their hold on you like he was still processing what was happening, like he needed a second to let himself feel you there.

“Yeah?” His voice was low, rough around the edges, his hands twitching slightly against your hips.

You nodded, fingers trailing up the back of his neck as you leaned in. “Yeah.”

That was all he needed.

His mouth met yours again, deeper this time, the hesitancy from before fading as he pulled you closer, molding you against him. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, and he let out a quiet groan that sent a shiver down your spine.

His hands, large and warm, traced slow circles at your waist before slipping under your shirt. His palms pressed against your bare skin, mapping their way up your sides, his touch reverent like he was savoring every inch of you.

He paused, giving you a chance to stop him, but you weren’t going anywhere. You lifted your arms, silently telling him to keep going, and Bradley took his time easing your shirt up and over your head, his eyes flickering over your newly exposed skin. His fingers followed the path of his gaze, tracing along your ribs, your back, your shoulders.

“Damn,” he murmured, almost to himself, before leaning in to kiss you again, slower this time, deeper, his lips moving with purpose as his hands roamed over you.

You shifted in his lap, pressing closer, and that was when something changed. His grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into your skin like he suddenly couldn’t get enough. His kisses turned hungrier, his breath heavier as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss until all you could do was melt into him.

You gasped as his mouth trailed along your jaw, then down the column of your throat, his lips and tongue leaving a heated path in their wake. His hands moved again, exploring more boldly now, and you arched into him, letting yourself feel everything. His touch, his warmth, the way he was unraveling right along with you.

Your fingers moved with growing urgency, skimming over Bradley’s shoulders as you tried to push off that damn ugly printed shirt. But the fabric bunched awkwardly at his arms, refusing to cooperate. Frustrated, you tugged harder, reaching for the undershirt beneath it too, wanting them both gone except now you were tangled in two layers of fabric, and nothing was coming off the way you wanted.

Bradley chuckled against your skin, his breath warm where his lips had been trailing along your collarbone. 

“Impatient, huh?” His voice was teasing, but there was something deeper laced in it too, something thick with amusement and want.

You huffed, still struggling. “If you’d stop wearing so many damn layers—”

He cut you off with another quiet laugh before leaning back slightly. “Here,” he murmured, his hands covering yours, steadying them. “Let me help you out, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped at the easy way the endearment rolled off his tongue, but before you could dwell on it, Bradley took control. He shrugged out of the over shirt first, letting it drop to the floor before crossing his arms to pull the undershirt over his head in one smooth motion.

And damn.

Your breath hitched as you finally took him in. His broad shoulders, toned chest, the soft trail of hair leading down his stomach. His dog tags rested against his skin, catching the low light of the room, and for a moment, you just stared.

Bradley smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Better?”

You didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Instead, you leaned in, hands splaying against his bare chest as you kissed him again, slow and deep, making sure he felt exactly how much you appreciated the view.

Bradley groaned against your lips, his hands sliding back to your waist before gripping your hips firmly, grounding you against him. The kiss deepened, turning messier, more desperate, and when you rolled your hips just slightly, testing the friction, that was when he lost the last bit of his restraint.

His grip tightened, his breath shuddering against your mouth. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.”

You smirked. “Maybe I like the heat.”

His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening for half a second before he suddenly moved, flipping you onto your back on the couch in one swift motion.

You barely had time to gasp before he was hovering over you, his body warm and solid against yours. His lips found your neck again, his hands roaming over newly exposed skin, and suddenly, you weren’t the one in control anymore.

And you definitely didn’t mind.

Bradley’s hands moved with deliberate slowness, fingers grazing over your hips before settling at the waistband of your jeans. His eyes flicked up to yours, silently asking for permission. When you nodded, he made quick work of the button and zipper, his fingers brushing over your skin as he tugged them down your legs, leaving you in just your underwear.

He leaned back slightly, his gaze raking over you, dark and unreadable for a moment. Then, a slow smirk tugged at his lips. His voice was rougher now, lower, as he shook his head. “You’re even prettier than I imagined.”

Your breath hitched, warmth spreading through your chest at his words, at the way he was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

Then, before you could think of a response, he dipped his head, pressing his lips to the base of your throat. His mouth was warm, his kisses slow and reverent as he made his way down, lingering at the delicate skin along your collarbone, then lower, teasing over your ribs before his hands found your thighs.

He shifted, lowering himself onto the floor in front of the couch, his large, rough palms pressing against your inner thighs as he spread them apart. The contrast between his calloused hands and the soft skin of your legs sent a shiver up your spine.

Bradley’s breath was warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as his mouth trailed lower until it hovered just above the place you ached for him most. His grip on your thighs tightened, thumbs stroking slow, lazy circles into your skin as if savoring the anticipation.

“Still with me?” he murmured, his voice husky, teasing.

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers sinking into his thick curls, tugging just enough to earn a soft groan from him. “Bradley—”

His lips curved against your hipbone. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

A slow, unrelenting press of his mouth, a sound of satisfaction rumbling low in his throat as he pulled you closer, as your world narrowed to nothing but the feeling of him, the steady, torturous rhythm of his hands and lips unraveling you piece by piece.

The last coherent thought you had before everything melted into sensation was that you’d never look at him the same way again.

[whispsofwind]

I am probably (definitely) kicking the hornet's nest but... I feel like there's a disconnection in how people approach HP because I've seen so many people say "but aren't the books explicitly anti racism? How can the author be all those bad things if her books are explicitly anti racism?".

And the point is... they're not. At least they weren't intended to be: the whole pure blood thing is less about race, and more about the ridiculous "noble blood" classism that still exists in England. And once I got that I completely revaluated my interpretation of those books.

I loved those books as a child, and I am not going to sit here and tell they're all vad, because they're not. They ARE a cultural phenomenon that shaped both pop culture and Internet culture for the last 20 freaking years, though. And they will continue to do so, if nothing else because outside of the English speaking sphere, PEOPLE DON'T KNOW ABOUT JOANNE'S HATE CAMPAIGNS. Like I cannot emphasise enough, not English speaking people often don't know.

And therefore I feel it's important not only to speak up about the author, but also analyse where the books succeeded or failed, and why.

The elves were adapted from the brownies... with disastrous results, especially if you consider Hermione's campaign. The metaphor with licantropism is an absolute disaster. The way in which muggles are presented (either evil, stupid or both) is ... also not a good look, considering the context. The series is genuinely morally confused, I dare say. It professes the importance of Love TM while also refusing to take a critical look at its own dystopian world building.

Death of the author, or separating the art from the author, are also not supposed to be an absolute frame of reference. They are literary analysis tools that allow you to analyse a work without taking the will of the author into consideration (example: CS Lewis was deeply Catholic and intended Susan not going to Narnia in the end as a metaphor for loss of faith. However maybe I want to analyses Susan's arc in light of misogyny, and the correlation between sexuality and loss of innocence, rather than religion. I am literally ignoring authorial intent to do so, but it's a very valid reading).

However I feel like you cannot analyse any work of art in an absolute vacuum, and expurging the author from the art completely feels, to me, rather simplistic.

I am also not entirely comfortable with the idea of Death of the Author being used as a frame of reference for the relationship with the work AND the author, rather than being used as a simple literary tool.

I always felt like the better approach is to evaluate how to cause less damage and bring the most happiness all around. Does buying the work of Lovecraft cause any harm in this world? I would argue not, since the man is well enough dead. Does buying HP products, or Orson Scott Card's works, or Silvana de Mari's books, cause harm? I would argue yes, because these authors use they money and their platforms to attach real, vulnerable people in a systemic way right here right now. Does SPEAKING about those works cause harm? Does engaging with the fandom aspect of them cause harm? That's more complicated. Critical analysis of a work is, imo, always a net positive, and there's the very real fact that some people pour their hearts and souls into a fandom because it genuinely brings happiness to them and to people around them, and because it allows them to enhance the original world in order to ACTUALLY address the issues that were ignored. That cannot be discounted. However, at the same time it cannot be ignored that talking about a work keeps it alive, which keeps it marketable; then again, fandom's impact on ... anything large scale is negligible when compared to, again, thousands upon thousands of people across the world who don't look the author up, don't engage critically with the text, and just think the Hogwarts Lego Model looks super cute. Which is, like, 90% of the population.

I suppose the main conclusion is nuance: morality is complicated, and making the "morally right" choice is nuanced, deeply personal, and I am not going to judge anyone because they want to reread Harry Potter or want to watch Good Omens Season 3 or whatever, because the world and our impact in it is much more complicated than "person bad, therefore damnatio memoriae good".

hey do you think you could expand a bit on separating the art from the artist? clearly you’ve done it with jk rowling but what are your thoughts on it as a general idea?

okay, but you’re not going to like the answer.

here’s the truth: you can’t separate the art from the artist. not entirely. HP Lovecraft was an incredibly talented, but much more incredibly racist man. It would nice to say you don’t agree with his views but you can enjoy his works without that leaking in but…. well, I’m afraid that would be misunderstanding his books entirely.

Consider, for a second, that Lovecraft’s works were horror stories about extradimensional alien monsters having mutant children with humans, they were about invasions from distant monsters, they were about the purity of quaint European towns being tainted. Consider how this may have all been inflicted by the fact that he just simply despised anybody who wasn’t white. Consider how is opinions on “mixing the races” might fight into this; consider why being unable to maintain the “purity” of white Europe was the scariest thing of all to him.

This extends to Rowling too.

I would love to say we can just acknowledge that she is an awful, racist, antisemitic, transphobic person and then say “but at least her books are good,” because, well, they are, aren’t they? I would say so, for sure. But to suggest that one can separate her from them is…. ridiculous.

Consider why an antisemitic woman wrote about a species of goblins who live among us, but who for the most part keep to themselvesand are maybe a little bit oppressed by the institution, but also hold all the cards, all the money, run the banks.

Consider why a racist woman would write about a species of slaves who loved being enslaved, who enjoyed working for no pay, and cleaning up after humans, with the only small caveat of that they didn’t want to be beaten. Imagine that only the most radical of their species wanted to be free, and he still spent the rest of his life working for no pay and helping out a little white boy and his friends wherever he could. Consider why the only person in the story who thought they should be free, that they should have rights, was treated as an overzealous joke, who was acting against the wishes of those slaves who really LOVE being enslaved. Consider that Rowling went on to say that she kind of considers that girl to be black, now.

Consider why JK Rowling, an open and proud transphobe, wrote Rita Skeeter as having a large square jaw, thick “manly” hands, and dressing incredibly gaudily with the most obvious fake nails and fake teeth and fake hair and fake everything. Consider why a woman who tweets about how trans women are “foxes pretending to be hens to get in the hen house” might write this Rita Skeeter to then illegally transform her body in order to spy on children.

Harry Potter is full of Rowling’s bigotry, start to finish. Not even tangentially, like, “oh the goblins are bad, Rita Skeeter is bad, the house elves are bad, but most of it’s good!” because the deeper you dig and the longer you think the more you realise the entire story is based on her prejudices.

Harry Potter pretends to be an aracial story about found family, but if that were true, why are Harry’s distant ancestors important to who he is today even in the seventh book? Why does Harry have to live with his cousin and aunt and uncle? Because magic inherently prefers blood ties. Whilst Rowling was writing a story that seemed to say, “your heritage is not that important and doesn’t make you better than others” she was still writing a story about a boy who got all of his money through his bloodline, who was protected by living with his bloodline, no matter how evil, who was uniquely able to stop Voldemort because his bloodline passed down the invisibility cloak for generations and generations. Any step Harry takes he is compared to his perfect parents who were exactly like him — he looks just like his father, but he has his mother’s eyes, you know! — consider WHY a woman who is racist might’ve written a story like this. A story that on its surface, condemns a blood caste, but still in every step it takes, validates the idea that blood is thicker than water, and your geneological origin is what makes you special.

You can enjoy Harry Pottwr, of course you can. There are fantastic parts. I love a small group of teenagers deciding to become anarchies rebels and train to fight against fascism in secret. I love the murder mystery plots, I love how the series tells kids that it’s a good thing to be brave, and a good thing to fight injustice, and a good thing to challenge the government. But I cannot separate it from its author because it is such a product of its author. All of the structures of the world, the way things work in the universe, and drenched in Rowling’s beliefs, her bigotries. Of course they are: she made them.

Again. This doesn’t mean you cannot enjoy it. But I think we are past the day where we can pretend that disavowing a bigoted author is enough, and that that somehow separates the text from its bigotry. I think we are past the day where we can pretend that Harry Potter isn’t a deeply, inherently bigoted piece of media. Even the bits we love. I think we are beyond the day where we can truthfully pretend to separate it from her, because she is present through all of it. We MUST recognise its flaws. We MUST admit that she is in every part of it.

[aspenmissing]

Hi! If you're up for angst, can I pls request Arcane characters (including Jayvik) with their s/o *nearly* dying from childbirth? Maybe the whole pregnancy was fine, but during the birth their s/o started bleeding out, or an embolism? (Anything complications you think will add to the emotions is fine ^^)

I feel like this would def be an unplanned pregnancy considering the characters, but it wouldn't be an unwelcome one as they love their s/o so much. Also, childbirth causing possible death yet needed to bring life into the world, is such an interesting contrast that the characters would feel so deeply. Esp as their s/o nearly dies during the ordeal.

I love your writing and the way you craft scenarios so throughly for each character ❤️✨ Thank you!!

ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ-ɪꜱʜ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 8428 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅʙɪʀᴛʜ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ! ɪ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ ꜰɪᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴅɪᴄᴋ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ). ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀᴍᴀᴢɪɴɢ ᴅᴀʏ/ɴɪɢʜᴛ! <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx

JAYCE

The soft glow of the moonlight filtered through the curtains as Jayce sat next to Y/N's bed, watching her sleep. Her pregnancy had been nothing short of perfect. Every doctor’s visit had been smooth, her health had been impeccable, and the baby growing inside her was a constant reminder of the life they were about to bring into the world. They hadn’t planned on having a child so soon, but as the months passed, the excitement and joy they felt grew beyond anything they could have imagined. They spent months preparing, laughing together, and even arguing over names for the baby, but the closer they got to the due date, the more Jayce found himself watching Y/N with a nervous tenderness he couldn’t shake.

He had always been a man of science, of logic, but nothing in his life had ever felt more fragile than this moment. Y/N, the woman he loved, carrying their child, and the realization that the fragile beauty of life could slip away in an instant.

=

The day arrived with the usual excitement. The contractions started slowly, and Y/N smiled, grabbing his hand with a calmness that only made his heart race more. Everything felt normal. Jayce held her hand through every wave, his eyes full of love and admiration, telling her how proud he was of her.

Hours passed. The hospital room was quiet except for the sound of medical staff moving around, checking Y/N, and adjusting monitors. Jayce stood beside her, his heart full of hope, his mind trying to remain calm.

But something changed. The monitors beeped, and suddenly there was urgency in the air. Y/N’s face contorted with pain, and Jayce’s eyes widened as he looked at the doctors.

“What's happening?” he asked, his voice breaking.

The doctor didn’t answer immediately, instead giving instructions to the staff. Y/N reached for his hand again, her grip tight but shaky.

“It’s going to be okay,” Jayce said softly, trying to reassure her even though he wasn’t sure if he believed it himself.

“Jayce,” Y/N whispered, her voice weak and strained. “I love you.”

He kissed her forehead gently. “I love you more.”

But the minutes stretched into hours. Complications set in, and the room was flooded with doctors and nurses. Jayce felt helpless, staring at Y/N, his mind whirling with every possible outcome. The birth of their child—the miracle of life—had suddenly turned into a battle for survival.

He didn’t know how long it had been since the crisis began. His hands were shaking as he squeezed Y/N’s, trying to steady himself. He watched as the medical staff worked frantically, but all he could see was Y/N's pale face, her breathing shallow, her energy fading.

"Come on, Y/N... stay with me," Jayce whispered, brushing a lock of her hair from her forehead. "I can't do this without you."

The world felt like it was crashing down around him, but still, he clung to the thought of their child—of the family they had dreamed of. They had made it through the first hurdle, but something was terribly wrong.

A soft cry broke through the tension. Their baby had arrived.

The doctor handed the newborn to a nurse, who rushed the baby away to be cleaned and examined. Jayce barely even noticed, his eyes fixed on Y/N, who had started to slip in and out of consciousness. He could see the blood seeping onto the sheets, and his heart stopped.

"Jayce," Y/N breathed, her voice barely audible.

"Hey, you’re going to be okay," Jayce said, his voice raw, his chest tightening. But his gaze was fixed on the staff working quickly around her.

The doctor immediately began to assess the situation. "She’s losing too much blood. We need to stabilize her now!"

His pulse quickened. He had heard the term “postpartum haemorrhage” before, but hearing it in real-time made the ground beneath him feel like it was crumbling. He could feel the heat rising in his body as panic surged through him.

The nurses began moving quickly, one applying pressure to Y/N’s abdomen while another attempted to administer fluids, but Jayce felt paralyzed, rooted to the spot, unable to move from her side.

“Y/N…My life” Jayce whispered, his voice breaking as he tried to catch her fading gaze. “Don’t leave me. Please, stay with me.”

Her hand, once so strong, slipped from his, her fingers slack. The room around them became a blur of movement. The life-saving attempts, the quiet, urgent orders being barked by the doctors—everything felt distant as he fixated on her pale face.

"Stay with me," he pleaded, his voice trembling.

His mind raced, his thoughts swirling into chaos. How could this be happening? Their baby had been born healthy, perfect. How could they be faced with losing Y/N now?

Another cry echoed through the room—the sound of their son. Jayce caught sight of the tiny infant in the nurse’s arms, but his attention was divided, his heart torn between the two most important things in his life.

And then, everything stopped.

A nurse came close to him. "We’re doing everything we can. You need to trust us."

Jayce couldn’t bring himself to speak, his voice a tight knot in his throat. All he could do was stare at Y/N, trying to will her to stay awake, to hang on. It felt like time had stretched to an unbearable length.

He reached for her hand again, desperate.

"Y/N…" he whispered, tears streaking down his face. "You have to wake up. Please. I need you."

=

A full day passed before she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, weak but aware. Jayce let out a shaky breath of relief, his body trembling as he held her hand tightly, his son cradled in his arms. He had spent every minute of the past twenty-four hours at her side, torn between the desperate hope that she would wake up and the overwhelming fear that he could lose her.

"Jayce," she murmured, her voice a whisper, but it was enough. "Our baby... is he okay?"

His heart soared with the sound of her voice. He kissed her forehead, his lips brushing against her skin, gentle and filled with emotion. "Yes, love. He’s perfect. You’re perfect."

Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked down at their son, sleeping peacefully in his arms, his tiny hands curled into fists. He couldn’t help but marvel at how fragile and yet how resilient this little life was. He looked at Y/N again, his heart swelling with love for both her and their child.

Y/N’s eyes shifted to the baby in his arms, and her expression softened. Her hand, still weak, reached out slowly, as if it took all her strength just to touch him. Jayce carefully placed their son into her arms, guiding her to cradle him. Her fingers trembled as she held him, but there was a profound tenderness in her touch, and Jayce could see the love already radiating between them.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of the sheets, the faint sound of the baby’s breath, and the rhythmic beeping of the monitors that had kept them on edge for so long. Jayce settled beside her again, his gaze never leaving her face, his heart full of gratitude and relief.

“I was so scared,” Jayce confessed softly, his voice raw. “When you were so still... I didn’t know if I could do this without you.”

Y/N managed a weak smile, her eyes heavy with exhaustion but full of warmth. “You never had to do it without me. We’re in this together.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried all the strength he had come to love.

Jayce brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingers trembling slightly. "I don’t know how I would have gotten through it without you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve always been my rock. And now we have him...”

Y/N’s eyes glistened with tears as she looked at their son. “Our son,” she whispered, the words filled with awe. “He’s perfect. Just like you said.”

Jayce’s heart clenched at the sight of her, so fragile but so full of love. The worst had passed. The crisis had been a terrifying storm, but it was over now, and they had made it through—together. But even though Y/N was stable, the road to full recovery would still take time. Jayce wasn’t naïve enough to think everything was behind them. There would be moments of doubt, moments of struggle, but they had already proven how strong they were together.

Finally, he pulled away just enough to kiss her softly on the lips, the pressure of the kiss tender and full of meaning. “You did it,” he whispered against her lips. “You’re going to be okay, Y/N. We’re going to be okay.”

A faint smile crossed her face as her eyes softened, her gaze lingering on him. “We did it,” she whispered back, and Jayce’s world was whole again.

The cries of their son filled the room, a sound so pure and full of promise. Jayce glanced at the new-born—his son—and then back to Y/N, the love in his eyes unmistakable. He had never felt more grateful, more connected to her, more determined to protect their family.

And as he held Y/N's hand in his, feeling the warmth return to her skin, he knew, despite everything, their family had made it through the storm. They had survived. Together. And there was nothing they couldn’t face from here on out.

VIKTOR

The room was eerily silent, save for the quiet hum of the machines and the muffled sounds of the bustling hospital outside the door. Viktor sat in the chair beside the bed, his cane resting against his leg, his hands gripping the soft fabric of the baby blanket as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

The pregnancy had been perfect. No complications, no scares—just quiet anticipation and soft whispers in the middle of the night. Viktor had spent months preparing, ensuring that Y/N had everything she needed, that their daughter would come into the world without a single worry. He had held Y/N close at night, murmuring reassurances against her hair when she fretted over the future. He had traced circles over the swell of her belly, felt the gentle kicks beneath his fingertips, and imagined the tiny life they had created together. It had been perfect.

But now Y/N was gone—wheeled away in a frantic rush, her blood staining the pristine white sheets.

His hands trembled as he stared at the blanket, the one Y/N had crocheted herself. It was small, meant to swaddle their daughter, but now it felt heavy in his grasp. The weight of everything crashed down on him as the sterile smell of the hospital seeped into his senses.

He hadn’t even gotten to hold her.

Their daughter had been pulled into the world too soon, her first cries cut short as the doctors fought to keep both mother and child alive. There had been too much blood, too many rushed voices speaking words Viktor couldn't process. He had heard the urgency in their voices, the panic, the pleas for more hands, more supplies, more time.

Y/N was dying. The baby was barely clinging on.

And he was powerless.

His grip tightened on the blanket as his chest ached with a pain he couldn't describe. He had fought against fate for so long—against his own body, against time itself—but this? This was a cruelty he hadn't been prepared for.

How could he do this without her? How could he raise a child alone, without Y/N by his side to share in the triumphs and the sleepless nights? The thought of his daughter growing up without her mother, of him being forced to tell her about the woman she would never meet, made his stomach churn with despair.

The door creaked open, and Jayce stepped inside, his usual confidence stripped away, leaving only quiet concern in his expression. He didn’t say anything at first, just took a hesitant step forward before settling in the chair beside Viktor. He looked out of place in the stark hospital room, his broad shoulders tense, his hands clasped together like he was steeling himself for the worst.

“They’re doing everything they can,” Jayce said, his voice softer than Viktor had ever heard it.

Viktor let out a breath, sharp and uneven. “And if it is not enough?”

Jayce didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The uncertainty hung between them, thick and suffocating.

Viktor pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, willing himself to keep his composure, but it was slipping. He wasn’t a praying man—never had been—but in that moment, he would have begged any force in the universe to spare them. To let Y/N come back to him, to let their daughter breathe without struggling, to let them have the future they had planned together.

Just let them live.

The silence stretched, broken only when the distant sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. Viktor looked up, his breath catching in his throat as he clutched the blanket even tighter.

Then the door opened again, and a nurse stepped inside. Her scrubs were wrinkled, and there were dark circles under her eyes, but her expression was gentle when she looked at Viktor.

“She made it through surgery,” the nurse said quietly. “It was touch and go for a while, but she’s stable now. She’ll need time to recover, but she’s alive.”

Viktor felt the breath he had been holding finally escape his lungs, though his chest still ached. His heart pounded in his ears, his body flooded with exhaustion and relief all at once.

“And… the baby?” His voice was barely above a whisper, afraid that if he asked, the answer might break him.

The nurse gave him a small, reassuring smile. “She’s fighting. She’s in the neonatal unit, but she’s strong.”

Strong. Just like her mother.

A choked sound escaped Viktor as he pressed the baby blanket to his face, his fingers curling around the soft yarn. His daughter was alive. Y/N was alive.

Jayce exhaled heavily beside him, clapping a firm hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “See? They’re fighters. Just like you.”

Viktor let out a watery chuckle, shaking his head. He didn’t feel like a fighter. Right now, he felt fragile, like one wrong move would shatter him entirely. But he would push forward, just as he always had, just as Y/N and their daughter had.

His eyes burned as he whispered, “I want to see them.”

The nurse nodded. “We’ll take you to see your daughter first. Y/N will be moved to recovery soon, and you can see her after.”

Viktor gripped his cane, using it to push himself up from the chair. His legs felt weak, but he forced himself to move, to follow the nurse down the cold hospital corridors. Jayce walked beside him, offering silent support should he need it.

=

The neonatal unit was quiet, bathed in a soft, sterile glow. The rhythmic beeping of monitors filled the air, a constant reminder of the fragile lives housed within the incubators. Viktor's steps were slow as he approached, his breath catching when he caught sight of her—his daughter.

She was so small, impossibly so, wrapped in a cocoon of wires and tubes. Her tiny chest rose and fell with each breath, her delicate fingers curled into fists as if she were already preparing to fight against the world. The nurse beside him spoke, explaining her condition, the treatments they were giving her, but Viktor barely heard any of it.

His fingers brushed against the glass of the incubator, a lump forming in his throat. "She is beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "So small… but beautiful."

Jayce stood back, watching but not intruding. This was Viktor’s moment.

Viktor felt a tear slip down his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it away. He simply stood there, gazing at his daughter—the proof that, despite all the odds, she had survived. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe that they would make it through this. Together.

JAYVIK

Y/N had never expected to be a mother, let alone so soon. When she had first told Viktor and Jayce about the pregnancy, she had been terrified. It wasn’t planned, but the fear had melted the moment she saw the way their eyes softened, the way Viktor’s fingers traced over her stomach with a rare, tender reverence, the way Jayce immediately pulled her into a secure, warm embrace.

“We’ll figure this out,” Jayce had promised, pressing a firm kiss to her temple. “Together.”

And together they had. The pregnancy had been as smooth as it could be. No unexpected pains, no complications—just blissful, uninterrupted anticipation as they prepared to meet their children. Jayce had taken on the role of the overprotective guardian, keeping Y/N from straining herself, ensuring she never lifted anything remotely heavy, doting on her in ways that both amused and frustrated her. Viktor, ever the analytical mind, ensured she had everything she needed, meticulously researching prenatal care, adjusting their home to be more comfortable, and making sure she followed a balanced diet.

They painted the nursery together, a soft shade of blue accented by golden stars that Viktor carefully detailed by hand. Jayce had built the crib himself, laughing when Viktor chided him about ensuring the structure was sturdy. They spent late nights together, curled up in bed, whispering about the kind of future their children would have. Would they be scientists? Inventors? Dreamers?

Then, the moment finally arrived.

=

The first cry of their newborn filled the room, a beautiful, piercing sound that had Jayce gasping in relief and Viktor squeezing Y/N’s hand with a soft, breathless, “Má lásko, you did it.” (My love)

A baby boy. Their son.

Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes as a nurse swiftly took the newborn, cleaning him gently and wrapping him securely in a soft blanket. Once the baby was swaddled, the nurse turned to Jayce, placing the small, warm bundle into his arms. He hesitated for just a moment, staring in awe at the tiny life he now held, before cradling his son protectively against his chest. The baby squirmed slightly, his small face scrunching up as if displeased by the sudden shift in environment. Jayce let out an unsteady laugh, brushing his fingers over their son’s tiny hand, while Viktor sat beside them, his usually composed features completely undone by awe.

But then, something was wrong.

Y/N had barely been able to hold him before a wave of exhaustion crashed over her. Her vision blurred, her body felt too heavy, too cold. The warmth of their son in her arms became distant, almost unreal.

“Something’s not right,” she murmured weakly, her fingers trembling as they clutched Viktor’s sleeve. Panic flickered across his face as he turned to the doctors.

Then, chaos.

The second baby—their second child—was struggling. The doctors moved quickly, a sudden urgency gripping the room. Y/N gasped, her breathing uneven, her fingers slipping from Viktor’s grasp as her body grew limp.

“Her pulse is dropping!” a doctor called out.

“Get her to surgery! Now!” Someone shouted, and before either Jayce or Viktor could react, she was being rushed out of the room. Viktor nearly tripped trying to follow, but a nurse stopped him, a firm hand pressing against his chest.

“Wait—no, I need to—” Viktor tried to argue, his grip tightening on his cane, but the nurse shook her head.

“She’s in critical condition. We need to move now.” And then she was gone.

The silence that followed was deafening. The warmth of the moment, the joy of their firstborn, had been ripped away in an instant, replaced by uncertainty and fear.

Jayce sat heavily onto a chair, his hands buried in his hair as he struggled to breathe past the lump in his throat. Viktor stood frozen, eyes fixed on the door she had disappeared through. The hand that still trembled around his cane was the only sign of his distress, but Jayce could see it—could feel the way the weight of helplessness bore down on both of them.

Then, a small sound. A whimper, a tiny hiccup.

The baby.

Jayce forced himself to move, to look down at the small bundle in his arms. Their son squirmed slightly, his little hands curling into fists, his nose scrunching in protest. He was warm, alive, here.

Jayce looked at Viktor, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s strong, Vik. She’s going to make it.”

Viktor swallowed hard, stepping closer to look at their child—at the life Y/N had brought into the world despite the odds. He reached out, brushing the baby’s cheek with a featherlight touch, and for the first time since Y/N was taken away, his eyes closed, his forehead resting against Jayce’s shoulder.

“What if she doesn’t?” Viktor’s voice was barely above a whisper, uncharacteristically vulnerable. “What if—”

“She will.” Jayce’s grip on the baby tightened slightly, as if grounding himself in that reality. “She has to.”

They sat there in silence, watching their son, both desperately clinging to the hope that Y/N would return to them. That their family would be whole.

And all they could do was wait.

=

Time crawled by, each passing moment stretching unbearably. Every time the door opened, both of them would jolt, hoping for news, only to be met with more silence. Jayce paced the room with their son nestled in his arms, rocking him gently, while Viktor sat still, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios he couldn’t afford to acknowledge.

Then, at long last, the door opened again, and a nurse stepped in.

“She’s stable,” the nurse said softly. “She’s awake, and she’s been asking for you both.”

Jayce exhaled sharply, a mix of relief and lingering anxiety washing over him. Viktor let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, gripping his cane tightly as they both moved quickly to follow the nurse.

When they entered the room, Y/N was there, pale and exhausted, but alive. She was propped up against the pillows, her expression weary yet serene as she cradled a tiny bundle in her arms—a daughter. Their daughter.

A weak, but warm smile tugged at her lips as she looked at them. “You took your time,” she murmured, her voice hoarse but teasing.

Jayce let out a shaky laugh, stepping forward and carefully settling on one side of the bed while still holding their son. Viktor took the other side, his fingers brushing gently over her arm, as if to reassure himself that she was truly there.

Jayce wrapped an arm around them all, pulling them into a protective embrace. He pressed a lingering kiss to Y/N’s temple, his voice thick with emotion. “You scared the hell out of us.”

Viktor, ever the quieter one, leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. “Never do that again,” he murmured, his voice strained but filled with nothing but love.

Y/N chuckled softly, shifting slightly so their daughter was nestled more securely in her arms. “I’ll try,” she whispered, exhaustion tugging at her again.

For the first time since this had all begun, they were together. Whole.

And despite everything, it was perfect.

VANDER

The air in the room was heavy with fear, thick and suffocating, mingled with the distinct scent of sweat and iron. The rickety cot creaked under Y/N’s weight as she clutched at the frayed sheets, her body slick with sweat, her breathing ragged and strained. Every moment felt like an eternity as the baby pushed its way into the world—too fast, too violently. There was no time to prepare. There was no time for anything but the agonizing pain that tore through her.

Vander knelt beside her, his strong hand wrapped tightly around hers, his knuckles white from holding on with all the strength he could muster. He pressed his lips to her forehead, his brow furrowed with worry. "You’re doing so well, love," he murmured, though his voice cracked, betraying the fear gnawing at his insides. Every time she screamed, it felt like a blade to his heart. He had fought countless men in the pits, taken hits that left his body battered and bruised, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Nothing could have prepared him for watching the woman he loved suffer.

Y/N’s eyes were glazed with pain, and tears streaked down her face. She gripped his hand tightly, her nails digging into his skin as another wave of contractions hit.

“I can’t... Vander, it hurts... It hurts so much,” she cried, her voice raw and hoarse from hours of screaming.

Felicia, who had been tending to Y/N, moved with practiced hands, trying to keep everything calm as she prepared for the birth. Her face was tight with concern, but she was the only one they had who could help. Zaun had no doctors, no advanced medical tools—only a few trusted hands.

"You need to keep going, Y/N," Felicia urged, her voice firm despite the panic underlying it. "Stay with me now."

But all Vander could do was focus on Y/N. He leaned close, his voice low and steady, though it shook. "Please, love. Just a little longer. We’re almost there."

Her body shuddered beneath his touch, the pain flaring up with every contraction. She screamed again, and Vander closed his eyes for a moment, the sound nearly unbearable. It wasn’t just physical pain; it was the terror in her eyes, the helplessness. For a moment, he wondered if this would be the moment he lost her—if this moment would be their last together. His heart raced, and his hands trembled, but he never let go.

Then, finally, Felicia's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "The baby's coming, Vander!"

A shuddering cry filled the room, and Felicia quickly wrapped the baby in cloth. "It’s a girl," she said, forcing a smile, trying to keep the mood light despite the heavy atmosphere. "She’s strong. She’s breathing."

Vander blinked, the words taking a moment to register. His eyes welled with tears as he looked down at the tiny, wriggling thing in Felicia’s arms. He kissed Y/N’s forehead again, his lips trembling. "You hear that, love? We have a little girl."

But as his voice shook with hope, Y/N’s breath hitched. She didn’t respond.

Vander’s heart stopped, his eyes locked onto Y/N’s face. Her body had gone still—too still. Her breath was shallow, ragged, and the blood… there was too much of it. He felt a rush of panic that threatened to consume him.

Felicia’s face drained of colour as she assessed the situation. "She’s losing too much," she muttered, voice tense. "I need more cloth, more pressure. She’s slipping."

Vander’s hands moved to Y/N’s face, his voice breaking. "Y/N? Y/N, stay with me, love." He didn’t know what else to say. He was desperate, willing to beg, to do anything to keep her here with him.

Her eyes fluttered open, just barely, her lips moving in a whisper. "Vander… keep her safe."

He squeezed her hand tighter, trying to hold back the tears. "No," he growled, voice raw. "You tell her yourself, Y/N. You hear me?" He felt the grip of fear close around his throat. "Stay with me."

She gave him a weak smile, her body sagging under the weight of exhaustion and blood loss. Her eyes closed again, and this time, there was no response.

Silence.

For a heart-stopping moment, Vander thought the worst. He thought he had lost her. His breath stopped as a chill ran through him.

Felicia cursed under her breath as she pressed both hands firmly to Y/N’s stomach, working frantically. "She’s still alive," Felicia said, though her voice was strained. "Barely… Vander, we need to stop the bleeding, now!"

Vander’s hands were on autopilot, grabbing whatever fabric he could find, pressing it firmly against Y/N’s body, trying to apply pressure just as Felicia had instructed. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t care. He could feel the panic rising in his chest like an animal clawing at him, but he couldn’t let go. Not now. Not ever.

Minutes felt like hours. Every breath Y/N took seemed to be a battle, a fight against the dark abyss threatening to claim her. But then—finally—a breath. A weak, shuddering breath.

Vander’s eyes widened, his heart pounding with relief. His forehead pressed against Y/N’s, his shoulders shaking as he let out a broken laugh, full of disbelief. "You’re not leaving me that easy, love," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Not now. Not ever."

Felicia sat back on her heels, exhausted but relieved. She wiped her brow, her face still pale but with a faint trace of relief. "She’s not out of the woods, but… she’s here."

Vander’s tears fell freely as he held Y/N close, brushing her damp hair back from her face, his hands trembling as he placed the tiny bundle in her arms. Their daughter. The little girl who had almost cost them everything. He looked down at her, her tiny fingers curling weakly around his thumb. He traced a finger gently over the soft curve of her cheek, his throat tight.

"She’s got your nose," he murmured to Y/N, pressing another kiss to her sweat-damp hair. "She’s perfect."

And then, impossibly, Y/N’s fingers twitched—barely, but enough.

Vander’s breath caught, his heart swelling with the overwhelming rush of relief. He wrapped his arms around both of them—his love and their child. He kissed her temple once more, pressing a promise into her skin.

"I won’t ever let you go," he whispered, his voice steady now, filled with the depth of his unshakable devotion. "I’ll always protect you. Both of you."

And as the sun began to set outside their little home in Zaun, Vander held onto his family—his heart full, his love steadfast, and their future uncertain, but theirs nonetheless.

SILCO

The low, constant hum of Zaun echoed in the walls of Silco’s private quarters, the tension in the air thick enough to choke anyone within. Y/N lay propped up in the bed, sweat clinging to her skin, her breaths shallow and strained. The dim light from a single lamp flickered weakly against the haze of smoke that filtered in through the slats in the windows. She had always known the risks of childbirth in Zaun—knew that the medical care was nothing compared to Piltover's polished facilities—but nothing could prepare her for the panic that surged through her now. The pain, the fear, and the overwhelming sense of helplessness that pressed in on her from all sides made her chest tighten.

Her hand gripped the sheets beneath her, fingers trembling as another contraction hit. She let out a sharp breath, trying to steady herself, but it was no use. The pain was unbearable, coming in waves that ripped through her body with an intensity she hadn’t anticipated.

Beside her, Silco stood, his cold and calculating demeanor stripped away, leaving only a man who was, for the first time in his life, genuinely frightened. His eyes locked on her face, his hand moving to brush her damp hair away from her forehead. His gloved fingers, usually so steady and controlled, were trembling slightly, betraying his inner turmoil.

"Y/N," Silco murmured, his voice hoarse and low. "Look at me."

Y/N’s vision was blurry, her mind clouded by the pain, but she managed to meet his eyes. The intensity of his gaze steadied her, grounding her in the chaos.

"Stay with me, darling," he continued, his voice firm, but underneath the commanding tone, there was a softness that she rarely heard from him. "You’re stronger than this. You can do this."

"I’m... so scared," she whispered, her voice weak and vulnerable in a way Silco had never heard before. "What if something happens to the baby? To me?"

His heart clenched at her words, and though he longed to tell her that everything would be fine, he knew better than to offer empty promises. But his presence was all she had in this moment, and if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her or their child. He would tear down the world before he let that happen.

The door to the room creaked open, and the doctor from Piltover, a middle-aged woman with stern features and sharp eyes, entered. She was dressed in a sterile white coat, and her hands moved with precision as she approached the bed. Silco barely spared her a glance, his gaze fixed on Y/N as her body trembled beneath the waves of pain.

The doctor moved to assess the situation, but Silco’s attention remained unwavering. His eyes flickered to the doctor once more, but there was a coldness there that sent a shiver down her spine.

"You better do your job, doctor," Silco’s voice was quiet, dangerous, like a serpent coiled and ready to strike. "If anything happens to her, or to my child, I will make sure you regret it."

The doctor didn’t flinch, but Silco’s words were a reminder of the gravity of the situation. He was a man who wielded power not just with wealth and influence, but with fear—and this woman had to know that failure was not an option.

Y/N gasped as another contraction hit, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. Silco’s focus snapped back to her, his gloved hand finding hers and holding it tightly.

"Just breathe," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Breathe for me, Y/N."

The doctor examined Y/N carefully, making quick, efficient movements. Her brow furrowed as she murmured something about the baby being in a difficult position. The words made Y/N's heart race faster, panic gripping her chest.

“No,” Y/N gasped, her voice tight with fear. “Please, I can’t—”

“Y/N,” Silco interjected, his voice sharp but steady. “Focus on me. Focus on my voice. You’re going to be fine.”

But the doctor’s actions were swift and clinical, each movement calculated. Y/N squeezed Silco’s hand harder, the pain becoming unbearable as another wave of contraction hit her. Her breath was coming in short bursts, her chest heaving with the effort to stay calm. But with every moment that passed, she could feel the weight of the situation pressing down harder and harder.

"Is everything okay?" Silco’s voice was a low growl, his eyes flicking between the doctor and Y/N, demanding answers.

The doctor didn’t respond immediately, her eyes focused entirely on Y/N’s condition. She instructed a nurse to adjust the positioning of Y/N’s legs, her voice firm and professional. But Silco’s presence in the room was impossible to ignore, and the tension radiated from him like an aura. His hand clenched around Y/N’s, his breath coming faster now.

"Doctor," Silco growled, his patience thinning. "I said, is everything okay?"

The doctor looked up at him, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "The baby is in a difficult position," she said, her voice calm but strained. "We need to turn her, but it’s risky."

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, her mind spinning with terror. “What do you mean, risky? What happens if—”

"Shh," Silco whispered to her, his fingers brushing over her forehead, trying to soothe her. “We’ll be fine. You’ve been through worse. You can do this.”

The doctor moved quickly, making the necessary adjustments. Silco stood by Y/N’s side, his hand still in hers, his presence grounding her in a sea of fear. He didn’t let go, his gaze locked onto hers, trying to offer any comfort he could.

Another hour passed in agonizing silence, the doctor working swiftly to help Y/N through each wave of pain. Silco never left her side, his words soft and reassuring, though beneath the calm surface of his voice, the fear was palpable.

=

Finally, the moment came. With a final, desperate scream, Y/N gave birth to their baby girl. The room was filled with the sound of her first cries—loud, sharp, and full of life. Silco’s heart skipped a beat as he looked down at their daughter, a tiny, fragile thing, her small fists clenched in the air as she wailed in protest of the world she had just entered.

"She’s beautiful," Silco murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he looked at Y/N.

But just as he turned to give Y/N the smile of relief she deserved, a terrible realization struck him.

Her eyes were closed. Her chest wasn’t moving. The room seemed to go deathly silent as Silco’s eyes locked on her pale, lifeless face.

“No...” he whispered, his voice breaking.

The doctor’s face turned pale as well, her hands moving quickly to assess the situation. “She’s in shock,” the doctor said, her tone suddenly frantic. “We need to stabilize her. Get her breathing again, now.”

Y/N’s body was limp in Silco’s arms, her skin cold and lifeless. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All he could do was hold her, his arms trembling as he pulled her closer.

“Y/N…darling?” Silco’s voice cracked, barely audible as he leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. His heart pounded in his chest, and every second felt like an eternity. “Please. Don’t do this. Please.”

His voice was desperate now, raw with fear as he rocked her gently in his arms. His hand moved to her chest, feeling for any sign of life, but it was like the world had come to a halt.

And then, like a flicker of hope in the darkness, a faint breath shuddered through Y/N’s body. Her chest rose, just barely, and Silco’s eyes locked on hers as she gasped for air.

A sob broke from him, relief flooding his veins as Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, though they were weak and unfocused.

“I’m here, Y/N,” he whispered hoarsely, tears threatening to spill. “I’m not letting you go.”

She reached up weakly, her hand brushing against his cheek, and Silco’s heart shattered at the sight.

"I’m here, Silco," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “I’m not leaving you.”

As he looked down at their daughter—her tiny hands grasping at the air, her cries slowly turning into soft whimpers—Silco knew this moment, this fragile, imperfect moment, would define him forever. He would protect them both with every ounce of his being, and nothing in this world would ever tear them apart.

“Welcome to the world, little one,” Silco whispered, his voice full of awe and love. His fingers gently traced Y/N’s face as he held her close, his heart finally steady, for now. "Together, we will make this world our own."

JINX/POWDER (PLATONIC)

It was an unusually warm afternoon in Piltover when Y/N sat by the window, her hand gently resting on her swollen belly, feeling the subtle movements of the child growing inside her. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. She smiled faintly, a small flicker of excitement still there, despite everything that had happened.

She had never planned to be in this situation. Pregnancy was supposed to be a shared experience, full of joy, a journey that a couple would embark on together. But instead, she was navigating it alone. The moment she told the father of the child, he vanished. Not a word, not even a glance back. Y/N had been left to face the whirlwind of emotions and responsibility all on her own.

The first few months had been rough. She was overwhelmed by the constant rush of thoughts about how she was going to handle it all, but then Jinx came into the picture. It was unexpected, but somehow, it felt right. Jinx had always been chaotic, unpredictable, but there was a kindness buried deep beneath her wild exterior. She showed up at Y/N’s door one day, a basket full of mismatched baby clothes and snacks in hand, grinning like she’d won some great prize.

“Surprise!” Jinx exclaimed, bouncing on her heels. “I’m here to help with your little monster.”

And help she did. Jinx became an unspoken part of Y/N’s life. She never hesitated, always the first to check on Y/N, bringing over food, running errands, and even talking to the baby as though they were already best friends. The moments they shared together were the bright spots in what could have been an incredibly lonely time.

But despite Jinx’s enthusiasm, Y/N knew the truth. She wasn’t sure if she would have survived the emotional toll of her situation without Jinx’s chaotic, but much-needed support.

As the months went by, Y/N’s belly grew, and so did her bond with Jinx. The little one, who they had started calling “Buddy” for lack of a better name, was about to enter the world. The excitement in the air was palpable.

But the birth... that’s when things took a turn.

=

The pain hit suddenly, and Jinx was at Y/N’s side in an instant, her usual wildness replaced with determination. She didn’t know how to handle a birth, but she didn’t let that stop her. She had always been resourceful.

Y/N gripped her hand tightly, her face contorted in pain. The room was buzzing with tension, the medical staff moving quickly around her, and yet Jinx was a rock. Her usual high-pitched voice was quiet, soothing, as she whispered words of encouragement.

“You’ve got this, Y/N. Come on, just one more push. I’m right here. Just like we said... You can do this.”

Y/N nodded, trying to stay calm despite the growing panic inside. Something didn’t feel right. Her vision blurred, and her body felt heavy, as though she was being pulled into the deep end of a storm she couldn’t control.

The complications started to escalate quickly. Y/N’s heart began to race erratically, and her breathing became shallow. The doctor’s faces shifted, from calm to concerned, then quickly to urgent. In that moment, Y/N wasn’t sure if she would make it through. The thought of her unborn child, of everything that had happened, flooded her mind.

And then, there was Jinx. Jinx who had seen so much destruction in her life, but still, in this moment, she was fighting to keep her calm for Y/N. She was holding Y/N’s hand, whispering to her, telling her she wasn’t alone.

“Hey... Y/N,” Jinx said, her voice shaky but determined. “Don’t go anywhere. You’ve got a little one to take care of, right? Buddy’s gonna need you. I’ll be here... Just hang on. You’re not gonna leave me. Okay?”

Y/N barely had the strength to nod, but Jinx’s words, despite the chaos around them, were a lifeline. She squeezed her hand once, as though telling Jinx she was going to fight to stay.

The seconds felt like hours, and the minutes stretched on, but slowly, the tension in the room started to ease. Y/N’s heart rate stabilized, the doctors’ movements slowed, and Jinx let out a shaky breath. She couldn’t believe it. Y/N was still there, still holding on, still fighting. The baby was coming. Buddy was coming.

But just as the baby was finally born, Y/N’s heart took another turn. The doctors’ voices became more frantic. Y/N’s body went limp, and the room seemed to spin. She was losing blood fast, and the doctors couldn’t stop it. One of the nurses began shouting for a stretcher.

“Get her stabilized! Now!”

Y/N was carefully wheeled away, leaving Jinx standing at the edge of the room, her mind spiraling into chaos. She hadn’t even realized she was trembling until she found herself staring down at the small bundle in her arms—Buddy. The tiny, squirming baby, who was crying softly, oblivious to the storm that was still raging in the room.

Jinx stared at Buddy, her hands trembling. Her lip quivered as she held the baby closer. Her mind was in turmoil, the weight of the situation crashing down on her.

“Why?!” Jinx suddenly snapped, her voice laced with desperation. “Why is this happening?! Why is it always the babies—why do they make everything worse?!”

Her voice cracked, the harshness of her words cutting through the stillness in the room. She stared down at the baby, her breath shaky and uneven. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Y/N... she’s... she can’t—she can’t be gone, not like this…”

Buddy’s cries grew louder, more frantic in the tense air, and Jinx’s heart twisted painfully. She trembled, feeling smaller with each passing second. Her grip on Buddy tightened, and the frantic thoughts that swirled in her mind spilled out in a torrent of guilt and anger.

“If you were never born... if none of this had ever happened... Y/N would be fine! She wouldn’t be lying there, fighting for her life because of me. Because of you…” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she choked back a sob, blinking furiously to keep the tears at bay.

Buddy’s cries only grew more intense, a sharp contrast to Jinx’s frenzied breathing. The weight of her words hit her like a ton of bricks, and for a moment, she felt a sickening emptiness, like she was drowning in the guilt that had become too heavy to bear. She squeezed her eyes shut, as though trying to block out the overwhelming reality of the situation.

Jinx’s arms trembled as she held Buddy close, but her harsh words soon faltered. She felt the soft warmth of the tiny body in her arms and the tender, unrelenting pull of something deep inside her—a connection, fragile yet fierce.

Her hands, shaking, slowly calmed, and she held the baby against her chest, her voice breaking.

“I didn’t mean it... I’m so sorry, little one... I didn’t mean it. You didn’t ask for this... None of this is your fault.” Her voice was barely a whisper now, barely audible over the baby’s cries.

Jinx took a shuddering breath, her body wracked with sobs as she rocked Buddy gently, murmuring apologies. “I don’t know what to do... I don’t know what to do without her...”

As the baby’s cries softened into soft whimpers, Jinx pressed her cheek against Buddy’s head, feeling the weight of her own fear and guilt melt away bit by bit. Slowly, almost instinctively, she whispered promises.

“I’ll take care of you, little one. Just like I’ll take care of Y/N. I won’t leave you. I won’t leave either of you.”

The words felt like a lifeline, one Jinx was grasping with every ounce of her being. She closed her eyes, clinging to the fragile life in her arms and the hope that somehow, she would find a way to hold on to both Y/N and Buddy, no matter what it took.

=

Hours passed in a blur of soft cries, gentle rocking, and quiet murmurs as Jinx held Buddy close. The tiny baby had eventually calmed, his whimpers softening into quiet breaths as he nestled against Jinx’s chest. Her mind was still a storm, turbulent and chaotic, but the feel of the warm, fragile little body in her arms brought a small sense of grounding amidst it all.

She hadn’t even realized she had fallen asleep herself until she was jolted awake by the soft creak of the door opening. A nurse stood there, her gaze gentle but firm, catching Jinx's attention. Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

“Ms… If you’re ready, we have a room prepared for you to see Y/N.”

Jinx’s heart stopped for a moment. Y/N... alive?

Her breath caught in her throat, and her wide, shocked eyes flickered down to the baby in her arms. Buddy had fallen asleep too, his tiny hand curled in a loose fist against her chest. Slowly, cautiously, Jinx stood up, her legs stiff from the hours of sitting in the same spot. She held Buddy against her, and the nurse gently guided her down the hall, leading her to a quieter, dimly lit room.

When they entered, the first thing Jinx noticed was the steady beeping of a monitor and the soft rise and fall of Y/N’s chest. She was asleep, pale but alive, the deep lines of exhaustion and pain softened by the gentle relief of rest.

Jinx’s breath hitched in her throat, a fresh wave of emotion crashing through her. She didn’t even realize her legs were moving until she was beside the bed, her gaze fixed on Y/N’s sleeping form.

She carefully sat down beside Y/N, setting Buddy gently between them. The baby shifted in his sleep but didn’t wake, his tiny fingers twitching against the blanket. Jinx’s fingers lightly brushed through Y/N’s hair, a tender touch as she took in the reality of what had happened. Her mind was still reeling, her heart still raw with guilt, but seeing Y/N here, still breathing, still alive, it was almost too much to handle.

A sob bubbled up in Jinx’s chest, but she forced it back, not wanting to disturb the calm around them. She pulled the blanket closer to Y/N, making sure Buddy was tucked safely in between them.

“I... I thought I lost you,” Jinx whispered, her voice barely audible, her throat tight with emotion. She didn’t know if Y/N could hear her, but the words were out, and they felt like a confession she couldn’t keep in any longer.

Jinx leaned forward slowly, her head resting lightly against Y/N’s arm, her eyes closing in exhaustion. “You’re not gonna leave me, right? You promised, remember?” She whispered the words like a prayer, the echo of their shared promises still vivid in her mind.

She closed her eyes, feeling the soft weight of Buddy’s tiny body next to her and the steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Jinx allowed herself to breathe. The world was still heavy, and the future uncertain, but for now, the three of them were together.

Jinx curled into Y/N’s side, her arm draping protectively around the baby, her tears quiet and unspoken as she drifted into a light sleep, knowing that no matter what happened, she would stay with both of them, keeping her promises.

[mrpenguinpants]

Stepping Stone

— A stepping stone is something that helps someone advance or achieve something. He thinks his first push comes in the form of a disinfectant wipe.

— Lighter

Word Count: 17k

Part 1: Marbled Steps Light spoilers for Lighter's/Billy's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

Thank you all for your support and love for the first part! I made this for the fans and yeehawkitty. I don't know your @ but thank you for the generous kofi tip. This is for you (and just in time for Valentine’s week). I love this goofy man way too much—why does every fic I write keep getting longer and longer? The 20k word fic was a JOKE.

The first step of Lighter’s new life was sharp, clean, and tinged with a faint chemical sting. The wet synthetic fibers of polyester, soaked in a solution of water and hydrogen peroxide, smeared against his hands. He had a complicated relationship with disinfectant wipes. On one hand, they were cheap and reliable—a passable replacement for when he ran out of clean soap and water. On the other hand, the cold residue they left behind, clinging to his skin like a snail’s trail, always made him uncomfortable. He’d never liked getting anything on his hands, especially stains. The frosty bite of the air burned as much as it chilled, creeping into the tiny, still-healing cuts on his fingers. Each swipe sent a sting through his nerves. Yet, he didn’t flinch or make a sound. He’s endured far worse. By comparison, these superficial paper cuts felt almost affectionate. Instead, his gaze shifted upward from his reddening and sticky hands to the gloved ones holding the cloth. White gloves—pristine, clinical, indifferent to the nuances of patient care. His supposed new doctor, polished and bright like a freshly unwrapped scalpel, hadn’t even bothered with introductions before whisking him away to this sterile corner.

A thought crossed his mind—maybe all doctors shared a natural disregard for bedside manners, no matter where they came from.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He hears more than feels the wet slap of the disinfectant wipes landing against his cheek, the damp fabric seeping into his skin and snapping him back to the present. Lighter blinks, his eyes momentarily lost as his memories of the past rush forward in a disorienting blur—like a tangle of white noise, punctuated by the fractured, flickering remnants of TV-static pixels.

"Well? Anything to say for yourself, mister?" Your voice is still as blunt as ever, even if your tone has been weathered down at the edges. You still wear the same frown on your face, your gloved fingers warm even when pressing into this skin far too harshly, as though trying to carve your very will into his face. This time, he doesn’t hold back the shiver. The involuntary tremor courses through him, his shoulder shaking as he hunches over himself as if you've sucker punched him in the stomach. Gone are the days when he could sit still as a rock, his body locked tight, immovable while you carried on with your work. Now, he lets himself act like the brat you keep calling him.

The overdramatic shiver pulls an equally exaggerated huff from you, your breath heavy. You peel the wipe from his skin with two fingers, tossing it into the garbage without a second thought. The sound of it hitting the pile of paper is strangely final, a soft but definitive splat. Even after all this time, your bedside manner could still use a little more warmth, a little more tenderness. A small, cynical part of him wonders if that’s the way you like it. But then, maybe that’s part of the charm.

"Uh..." He paused for a moment, trying to wrack his brain for what you had just said before deciding to take a trip down memory lane. From what he remembered, Caesar had invited him into a friendly spar with the Thieren gang that had rolled into Blazewood. You, as their resident doctor, had tagged along just in case any injuries came up. Naturally, it was a complete stomp for the Son of Calydon—they were on their home turf, and it would have been embarrassing if they lost. Then, you had dragged him to your clinic to patch him up, still glaring daggers at that lynx. As soon as you’d pulled out your supplies, the scent of alcohol and hydrogen peroxide had sent him tumbling into the wormhole of the past—until you pulled him back. You’d always been good at that.

He looks up at you, noticing that small notch in your eyebrow that signals your impatience. He can’t help but let out an awkward chuckle, his voice a little shaky around the edges, "Sorry, firecracker. I must have spaced out. What did you say?"

That earns him a pinch on the cheek—one he absolutely deserves, but ow, it stings more than he expects—as you unleash a full-on lecture. He catches only bits and pieces of what you’re saying: how it was supposed to be a lighthearted spar, but he somehow kicked it into overdrive, treating it like a life-or-death battle. How he acted recklessly, for no real reason again, just to look tough. Seriously, who was he even trying to impress? That lynx?! No way, right?! The whole thing wrings out a restrained laugh from his chest, one that’s barely contained, escaping his chest like an unexpected exhale, which only makes you turn an even deeper shade of red.

It’s a striking shade—not quite as searing as the flames that roar from his gauntlets, yet no less radiant. Not as gentle as the sun sinking into the horizon, yet still rich with warmth. Bright, warm, and spontaneous, sparking to life in an instant. Just like a firecracker. He’s always loved firecrackers. They’re fleeting, reckless things—blazing across the night sky in bursts of chaos and artistry, ephemeral yet unforgettable. A single spark, a brief eruption of light, and then—gone. But for that one moment, they demand attention, carving their brilliance into the dark.

At first, he found it irritating—how quick you were to switch gears into anger, flaring up over the smallest things. It reminded him too much of the people he used to work for, the ones who barked orders and hurled insults with spit-flecked fury, who would rather scream and hound him for their lost denny's. It was always the same. The bite of their words, the suffocating heat of their rage. Huffing and puffing, throwing around threats like execution orders over a few misplaced words, as if fear alone could squeeze blood from a stone. The bloated heads of collectors who reeked of whiskey and cigar smoke, who saw him as nothing more than a machine to be wound up with a crank, a weapon to be pointed in whatever direction they pleased.

Red, the shade of their fury. The shade of control, of pressure, of commands spat between bared teeth. He hated it. Hated them. Hated the way their voices rattled in his skull long after they were gone, the way the weight of their expectations coiled around his throat like a noose. He hated it so much that even the color red started to make him sick to his stomach.

And then came the blood.

Dark, dried beneath his fingernails, sinking into the creases of his knuckles. Bright, blinding under the harsh glare of stage lights, soaking the floor, painting his world in a shade he could never wash off.

What a revolting color it was.

"Hey... are you okay? I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so worked up."

This time, there’s no sharp sting of another wipe smacking against his face. Instead, warmth. A palm cupping his cheek, fingers hesitant yet steady as they brush against his skin. You tilt his head from side to side, scanning his face with knitted brows and that same look of quiet worry you always get when you think something might be wrong. Your eyes flicker over his, tracking every subtle shift, every flicker of movement. You must think he hit his head again. That all the times he’s spaced out on you, all the delays in his responses, must mean he’s nursing a concussion. Never mind that he wasn’t even hit during the spar.

"It’s nothin’, firecracker. No need to apologize. I’m the one who spaced on you twice," he says, trying to play it off with a half-hearted smile. But the look you shoot back tells him you’re not buying it. Still, you let it go. Your reservations fall along with your hand, which drops to rest on your hip as your gaze sweeps over him, sizing him up.

"Well... if you say so. Regardless," you spin on your heel, turning your back to him as you start packing your supplies back into the white medkit, your face carefully turned away from his, "Good job as always, champ. Another tally on the chalkboard of ever-growing victories."

He watches you move around the room, each motion deliberate yet just a little too stiff—like you’re forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand rather than the person behind you. After being in this room with you for so long, he sees it all, every subtle sign: the way your hands linger just a moment too long on each item as you tuck them back into place. Even when your eyes flicker toward him, it’s brief—a fleeting connection, like the burn of a matchstick snuffed out too soon. They dart away almost immediately, finding refuge in the sterile white walls or the cold steel of the counter. Your back remains turned, shoulders taut with unspoken tension, the rigid lines of your posture starkly visible through the thin fabric of your uniform.

His gaze drops, drifting downward to his own hands. Water trails down his fingers in slow, deliberate paths, the droplets gathering at his knuckles before slipping free and splattering against the tile floor. Each impact is soundless, vanishing into the quiet that fills the room. He watches them fall, his mind oddly detached, as if the sight of the tiny ripples on the ground might somehow offer an answer he doesn’t have.

He knows he should say something—anything—to cut through the silence. The words sit heavy on the edge of his tongue, poised yet unwilling to make the leap. He opens his mouth but finds it dry, the courage he thought he could summon crumbling into dust. Instead, he lets the moment stretch, the quiet growing louder with each second, his hesitation feeding its weight.

And still, your words from earlier linger. They echo in his mind, looping endlessly, burrowing deep into the corners of his thoughts like a quiet hum he can’t shake.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath. He's never seen you this nervous before, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

He can feel his palms begin to sweat, a creeping heat against the back of his neck that's slowly traveling to his ears. Sure, any compliment you manage to wrestle out of your vocal cords makes him puff his chest up in pride and cower away in a corner, but those are usually accompanied by sincere eyes that drill into this mind. But this time, you're not even looking at him as you push each word out. Is this...?

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

He rises to his feet with an easy, practiced motion, the leather of his jacket rustling as he swings it over his shoulder in one fluid sweep. The weight of it settles against his back, familiar and grounding, but it does little to ease the charged atmosphere lingering in the air. His hand reaches out, brushing lightly against the edge of the doorframe. For a moment, his fingers linger there, his touch hesitant, almost tentative—considering. Turning ever so slightly, with a slow inhale, he finally speaks.

"Back then, before Caesar interrupted us… what were you going to say?"

You freeze, fingers suspended mid-air, caught in the limbo between the impulse to respond and the overwhelming urge to pretend you never heard him at all. The moment stretches between you, thick and charged, pressing heavily against the walls of the room. With a sharp inhale, you force yourself back into motion, grabbing a pen and scratching hurriedly across the paper. But your movements are too rushed, too shaky, and your fingers falter as the pen slips from your grasp and clatters to the floor.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. But he always will and has.

He had a suspicion—an inkling of what you were going to say before Caesar’s interruption crashed through the moment like a battering ram. But suspicion isn’t certainty. And if he misreads this, if he takes one step too far in the wrong direction, the duck-tapped connection between you might collapse. There might be no coming back from this.

And yet, in all the moments he’s spent replaying your words, your gestures, your lingering glances, one truth remains constant: you have always been the one to reach out. The one steady hand that kept him from slipping off the tightrope he’d walked for so long. No matter how precarious his balance, you made sure he never fell alone. Even from the very beginning, when the distance between you was wider than words could bridge, you had taken his hand.

In other words, it's time to make a leap of faith.

-+-+-

The sun hangs low in the sky, just as orange and dusty as he remembers. It reflects off the sand in the Outer Ring so well that it's burning his eyes to a painful degree, but he keeps his gaze on the horizon. When the door—both metaphorical and literal—was kicked open, accompanied by a letter declaring his debts cleared and his ties to the underground ring severed, he wasn’t sure what to expect. What would greet him on the other side? Another fist to his face? A wall of steel, glass, or concrete? Instead, he finds himself here, his supposed benefactor—a red boar with a wild mane of white hair—rambles on in the background, introducing him to his gang of bikers. Their leather vests catch the sunlight, their laughter punctuated by the occasional roar of a motorcycle engine. It’s mostly white noise to Lighter. The words drift past him like the wind carrying dust through the air. He catches the gang name though, or at least he thinks he does. The Sons of...something. It’s hard to care. Whatever they call themselves, it’s not important. What is important is the fact that, for the first time in a long while, no one’s breathing down his neck or throwing him into another fight. For now, at least, he’s free.

He doesn’t know whether to be terrified or to breathe a sigh of relief that, despite all the days spent in the dark, the surface remained the same every single day: normal, routine, and steady. A quiet rhythm of life he once had, back before everything shattered into glimmering pieces and neon blackholes. Back before survival became a battle against shadows, where even his memories felt more like jagged shards than whole reflections. For a moment, he wonders if there’s a name for the psychopomp who escorts people back to the land of the living. Just as Charon ferries souls who’ve received their funeral rites across the rivers Acheron and Styx, shouldn’t there be someone to guide the return journey? Instead of meeting a comforting figure, he finds himself staring into the judgmental gaze of someone who clearly doesn’t want him back among the living. Their white gloves are already curling around his wrists, alive with the faint mutterings of grime and viruses. His first steps up the mountain begin with the acrid sting of disinfectant in his lungs and the sterile touch of cotton swabs.

His new, albeit temporary, abode is deafening. It’s the kind of noise that settles deep, like the muffled pressure in his ears before a swallow makes them pop. Irritating, constant, and inescapable. While it’s undeniably better than the Underground Ring—anything would be an upgrade from that hellhole—it carries a similar kind of noise. The loudness doesn’t come from roaring crowds or fists slamming into flesh this time, but it’s loud all the same. One individual, in particular, seems to embody that more than anyone else. She’s impossible to avoid. The self-appointed ringleader of every bad idea, she lugs a spare tire around like it’s some sort of shield. No matter how careful or quiet he tries to be, she always seems to spot him whenever he attempts to sneak away. Everything about her is loud—her gestures, her laughter, even the way she stomps her boots against the ground as she barrels toward him. Today, she’s waving her arms wildly, yelling at the top of her lungs about a “top-secret mission” to hoard bottles of shampoo. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even ask why. He simply nods curtly, a silent agreement that spares him from the inevitable round of coaxing or, worse, shouting. His compliance earns him a hearty slap on the back, the kind that might’ve staggered him once, but now he barely feels. It’s as if the years have dulled his senses, leaving his body numb to gestures that should’ve felt like camaraderie. He follows her, trudging along as she chatters endlessly, her excitement filling every quiet gap. He doesn’t particularly remember what they did—only the overpowering smell of flowers and artificial fruit. The sweetness of it clings to the air, thick enough to choke him, cloying in its intensity. It lingers in his nose long after the bottles have been stashed away in her “secret” hiding spot. Later, when she moves in for another slap on the back, he dodges it with practiced ease, retreating into his own corner of blood, dust, and dirt.

You would think that, by now, he’d have acclimated to the constant assault of different scents around him. The shampoo that the girls in the gang seem obsessed with has started to lose its overwhelming sugary fragrance, so at least he no longer has to clamp a hand over his nose every time one of them passes by. Small mercies, perhaps. Yet, for all the tolerance he’s built for floral and fruity aromas, there are two scents he’s never been able to endure: blood and chemicals. Unfortunately, he finds himself in the breeding ground for both every time he even slightly nicks himself. A shallow cut on his thigh is nothing to worry about, not even enough to draw a single drop of blood. Yet somehow, he finds himself dragged to the clinic more often than anyone else. He’s certain it’s on purpose. The first time was sheer coincidence, or so he told himself. But every subsequent trip has felt deliberate, the way you grab his arm and hauls him back to that room. The doctor knows.

The realization makes his fingers twitch. It’s not the kind of tremor born of nerves, but a frustration that simmers low in his chest. His eyes glaze over as he tries to block out the sensory onslaught—the stinging scent, the white gloves, the faint hum of machinery in the corner. The irritation builds until it’s nearly unbearable, clawing its way up his throat like a scream he refuses to let out. He wants to punch something. To throw his whole weight into a single, bone-rattling motion—just to expel the tension coiling inside him like a tightly wound spring. Because if he can’t, he knows he’ll be left alone with his thoughts. And that might just be worse.

"You need to take better care of yourself," the doctor says, lightly pressing onto the outside of the cut and looking up at him to see if it causes any pain. There isn’t any. For something this small, there never is. He only spares you a glance before returning his blank stare back to the wall in front of him. The beige paint is chipped in places, tiny cracks crawling up the wall. You should transfer the funds for his bandages in exchange for a renovation. He hears you huff, the mumblings of someone annoyed that their help, which was never asked for in the first place, is going unappreciated. It’s not the first time. Probably not the last.

He hates people like that. People who peacock around with signs practically screaming, Look at me! I’m doing the right thing! I’m a good person! They expect gratitude, praise, maybe even a pedestal to stand on for their noble efforts. The thought makes his jaw tighten.

He hears you sigh again, the sound filled with the same familiar annoyance that he's come to expect. That passive-aggressive pity that lingers in your words when you complain to others about him. "He’s impossible," you'd said, more than once, "won’t listen, won’t cooperate, and doesn't even appreciate the help.", and that you have no idea what he's even doing here. At least he can agree with you on that last part, he doesn't know what he's doing here either in this town full of loud voices and cloying sweetness. He doesn't know how to stomach it.

He can feel your eyes roam over his stiff posture, the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders are pulled so tight they might snap. As if you can practically hear Lighter's inner thoughts through his silence, those unspoken words hanging thick in the air. It's all part of the same stubborn routine, you'll push and prod hoping to find any cracks to sink your fingers into and Lighter will have them patched up and reinforced.

"You know," the doctor continues, a faint trace of irritation creeping into your tone, "I can't keep fixing you up if you keep running into trouble. I’m not a miracle worker."

Lighter doesn't even twitch, just stares straight ahead. He's learned very early on that if he stays still and shuts up, he'll be left alone sooner. He doesn’t need this. Doesn’t need any of this. People like a doctor—like you—always trying to help, always wanting to fix things that aren’t broken. It’s infuriating, how you all think you know what’s best for him. He hates it. And yet, here he is, with a gash that needs tending, caught between the impulse to tell you to shove it and the weight of some unspoken guilt that settles in his chest. He really wants to punch something.

"Yeah, well," he mutters, his voice a low rasp, "Never asked for your help."

The words escape him before he can claw them back, slipping through the spaces before he even realizes they’re there. Small cracks, just wide enough to betray him. Involuntarily, he braces himself. His muscles tighten against his bones, his bones harden like reinforced steel, locking in place to protect the fragile machinery inside. His lungs compress his heart, squeezing it so tightly it feels like it might burst. Those flimsy walls he’s built—made of tofu and paper mâché, laughably weak—begin to tremble under the weight of the wrecking ball swinging his way.

He closes his eyes, holding himself perfectly still. Waiting.

"Yeah, well," you mimic in that same stubborn tone, "you shouldn’t have to."

There’s a pinch at his cheek, light but condescending, like he’s a child in need of scolding. Then the scent of disinfectant reaches his nose, sharp and sterile. Oh. Right. He was bleeding there. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Bullheaded brat,” he hears you mumble just before the door clicks shut behind you.

His first loss doesn’t begin with a fight but with a long, crumpled list shoved into his hands by a short blonde girl wearing a helmet with a metal spike sticking straight up. What was her name again? Luke? No...that was a boy’s name. Luca? No, another boy's name. She’s bossy and dishonest about her feelings, but at least she’s straightforward about what she wants. It’s easy working with her—she doesn’t waste time on small talk, which, in this gang, is practically a miracle. He doesn’t bother checking the list, already stuffing it into his pocket as he swings a leg over a spare bike lent to him for this job. With a sharp roar of the engine, he takes off from the Outer Ring, hoping to escape before anyone else can shove more responsibilities onto his plate.

That, as it turns out, is his first mistake. Sitting at a pit stop on the side of a dusty highway, he finally pulls out the list, intending to glance at it just long enough to plan the quickest route. But as his eyes skim the items scrawled across the page, a sinking realization hits him. He doesn’t know what half these things are. What even is a “Carlishe”? The words blur together, a mix of illegible handwriting and bizarre requests. There are addresses written next to each item at least—small mercies—but the real kicker is that all of them are located within the city. That almost makes him want to turn the bike around and head straight back to the Outer Ring. Almost. Instead, he exhales sharply, runs a hand down his face, and glares at the list like it personally wronged him. He can already feel the headache building.

The city is obnoxious. The constant stream of bodies rushing to their destinations, the screeching of tires against uneven roads, and the blinding flashes of lights from signs and advertisements assault his senses. He pulls his hair in front of his eyes for the nth time, brightly coloured spots popping in his vision and a stinging in the back of his eyes. His skin feels prickly, as if hives are crawling up his arms, the overstimulation setting his nerves on edge. The worst part is the lingering stares. Schoolgirls in matching uniforms clutch their backpacks in one hand, covering their mouths with the other as they whisper to each other. Giggling erupts between stolen glances in his direction. Then there are the men, distracted by their phones, who only notice him in passing—before stopping mid-step for a double-take. Their eyes dart from him to his bike, suspicion clouding their expressions, and they hurry away like he’s about to rob them on the spot. He already wants to leave. The city doesn’t need to say it outright; it’s made its message clear enough. He doesn’t belong here. He’s out of place, and he’s most certainly unwelcome.

He moves a hand to cover his nose, inhaling deeply to scrape up the lingering scents of rust and dust clinging to his gloves. His fingers tremble, his palm damp against the fabric, as he struggles to anchor himself to something—anything—other than the crushing tightness in his chest. But everywhere he turns to, he see's the same friends laughing as they bump shoulders. The bark of a dog as a little girl with a pink bow in her hair chases after it. The scent of lemonade from a nearby stand run by an equally bright yellow pill-shaped bangboo. He presses his thumb harder against the bridge of his nose, a feeble attempt to distract himself from the rising pressure, like invisible walls are closing in on him. His breath comes in short, uneven bursts, his lungs clawing for air, desperate for a relief that refuses to come. His stomach twists violently, and a bead of cold sweat slides down the back of his neck, tracing a shiver along his spine. Everything feels too close, too loud, too much.

He’s panicking. He knows it. The sensation rises like a wave, crashing over him in slow, unrelenting force. He can feel his heart pounding in his throat, the pulse thudding in his ears, drowning out everything else. His hands start to shake more violently now, his grip on his face slipping, the instinct to get away, to escape, clawing at him from the inside. He tries to steady himself, but the dizziness sets in, blurring the edges of his vision. He can’t breathe. His chest is so tight he can’t expand his lungs, and every shallow gasp makes him feel like he’s drowning. The sensation is too familiar, too real. He’s been here before. Too many times. His back against the dirty fighting ring and the glare of stage lights replaced with billboards and concrete sidewalks.

"Lighter? What are you doing here?"

His head snaps up, eyes wild and frenzied, to see you hovering beside him. He hadn’t even realized you’d gotten so close, and the sudden proximity sends him reeling. Before he can jerk back—crashing into his bike and sending it toppling over—your hand shoots out, gripping the lapels of his jacket. His heels dig into the concrete, his hands bracing against the seat of the bike as if it’s his only anchor, but it's your grip that really holds him steady. For a second, the world blurs around him, the noise of the city dimming, and all he can focus on is the warmth of your hands, firm and solid against the fabric of his jacket. The air feels too tight, like there’s not enough room to breathe, and yet, you’re there, keeping him from falling, keeping him steady—

His heart races, the pounding of his blood echoing in his ears, his pulse thudding hard against his ribs. He doesn’t know why, but this—this moment—feels too intimate, too close. He’s not used to anyone seeing him like this: exposed, stumbling, stripped of his usual defenses. He’s always been good at keeping his distance, but now, with your hand on him, everything feels just a little too raw. Too real.

It reminds him of the past. Familiar faces flashing by. The hands that reached out to him before being swallowed in the Hollow.

His hand shoots out before he can stop it—so fast, it feels instinctive, reflexive. By the time he registers what he’s done, it’s too late. In the next blink, you’re on the ground, a startled expression etched onto your face, and his arm remains outstretched, frozen in place from when he shoved you away. The air between you feels heavy, suffused with a tension that wasn’t there before. His chest tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t know whether to apologize or double down, his fingers curling as if trying to grasp at an excuse that won’t come.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched you so suddenly," you say instead, your voice softer than usual. There’s no anger, no accusation, just a calm sincerity as you dust off your pants and straighten up, "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

He blinks, your words catching him off guard. For a heartbeat, he almost doesn’t know what to say. Okay? No, he’s not okay. Not really. His mind races, trying to piece together an answer but he comes up empty. He swallows hard, the dryness in his throat making it difficult, and his eyes flicker away, unable to meet your gaze.

“I—” His throat feels tight, the words tangling together before they can make it out. He glances at you for a brief second, but the weight of your gaze is too much. He shifts his eyes down, focusing on the cracked asphalt beneath his boots, as if it might somehow offer him an escape.

“Yeah,” he mutters finally, the word rough and hollow, unsure if it even makes sense in the context of this moment, “Just—yeah.”

The silence that follows is thick, stretching far too long, like a rubber band about to snap. He can feel the weight of your unspoken words, the way you hesitate, lips parted but still holding back. You want to say something—he knows it—but for some reason, you don’t. Then, with a sharp breath, he shifts his weight and pushes himself back upright. The bike beneath him wobbles, the kickstand threatening to buckle before he catches it with his foot. He grips the handlebars tightly, the rough leather of his gloves creaking as he steadies the machine. His movements are jerky, uncoordinated, but they’re enough to keep him moving, even as his mind stays caught in that lingering moment between you.

“I should go,” he says, his voice low, clipped, refusing to meet your eyes. It sounds less like a statement and more like a command—to himself as much as to you. The words carry an undercurrent of urgency, as though he’s trying to escape the unease curling in his chest. He takes a step back, the motion stiff, like he’s physically shaking off the invisible tether between you. The space between you grows heavier, a palpable weight neither of you acknowledges. He doesn’t wait for a response. His hands tighten around the handlebars of the bike, knuckles pale against the leather of his gloves, before he mounts it in a quick, practiced motion. The engine growls to life, a sound that vibrates in the air but doesn’t quite drown out the tension.

And then he’s gone, the tires kicking up dust as he speeds away, leaving behind the moment, the words unsaid, and you. By the time he returns to the Outer Ring, his pockets are empty, the list crumpled in his jacket, untouched. It’s his first uncompleted job.

It’s painfully awkward for the next few days after his brief run-in with you in the city. He avoids the clinic and stays far from the supply depot, the memory of your touch and your too-soft words still too fresh, too unsettling. He doesn’t know what he expects—maybe a reprimand, maybe nothing at all—but when another girl, the perpetually sleepy one, quietly takes over the task of resupplying, it leaves him reeling. She doesn’t ask why, doesn’t mention you, just takes the list without so much as a glance his way. And yet, there’s an uncomfortable heat crawling up the back of his neck, behind his ears, and it sits there like a stone lodged in his gut. Did you say something to the rest of the gang? Did you mention what happened? Complain about him, the same way you’ve done before? It wouldn’t be out of character; he’s overheard you once or twice. Still, even with all that, he wants to believe there’s a line you won’t cross. Some kind of unspoken doctor-patient confidentiality. Because if there isn’t…then why? Why did you help him? Maybe it was just instinct. Maybe it wasn’t about him at all. Maybe it was for the town you actually care about, the place you’ve chosen to carve out a life in. Or maybe it was just reflex—what anyone would’ve done in your place. But you haven’t sought him out. You haven’t hounded him down, haven’t dragged his name through the dirt as far as he knows. And as long as you don’t, as long as you leave him alone, he can continue avoiding you. He can pretend the encounter didn’t happen. As long as he doesn’t get hurt again, as long as everything stays peaceful, he doesn’t have to face you—or the echoes of the past you unintentionally stirred.

His momentary spiraling is cut short by the sound of a cough, sharp and deliberate, pulling him out of his tangled thoughts. Lighter’s heart jumps, startled, and his leg jerks out, knocking over a chair with a loud clatter. He flinches at the noise, muttering a curse under his breath. God, he’s slipping. Pushing the hair out of his face, he glances toward the source of the cough. Through his squinted eyes, he spots...ah. Right. This was Billy. The supposed "Champion" of the gang. Hard to miss, honestly, given that he’s an Intelligent Construct. Plus, the flaming red scarf that trails after him is impressionable and Billy doesn’t look like anyone else here, his artificial frame and polished demeanor sticking out like a sore thumb among the ragtag crowd. And just like that, Lighter’s stomach sinks. If Billy’s here, then maybe—no, definitely—you must’ve said something. Of course you did. This is it, isn’t it? The prelude to him being kicked out. Again. Another mess, another failure, and now he’ll be chased out in a hail of bullets and gunpowder, all because he can’t keep his head straight for five seconds.

But instead of drawing a weapon or delivering some scathing speech, Billy does something unexpected. He holds out…a pair of tinted shades. Lighter stares, not entirely sure what to make of it. The glasses dangle in Billy’s hand, the Construct’s posture as casual and unbothered as ever. A present, Billy's voice perfectly smooth and indifferent, something the doctor picked up on a visit to the city. Lighter blinks, his mind grinding to a halt. A…present? From you? Why? For a moment, all he can do is stare at the shades, the reflection of his own dumbfounded expression staring back at him in their lenses. His brow furrows as his gaze catches the faint tint of the redish brown color across the glass, cool and distant, like a barrier between him and the world. They don’t look cheap—quite the opposite, actually. Which only makes it worse.

The weight of the gesture presses against him like a slow, sinking tide. He doesn’t know what to feel. Gratitude? Embarrassment? Suspicion? All of it tangles into a tight knot in his chest, a strange and unfamiliar discomfort he isn’t sure how to deal with. His fingers twitch at his sides, and for a split second, he debates leaving Billy hanging, ignoring the outstretched hand entirely. But the weight of of Billy’s unreadable gaze, feels heavier than his pride. Slowly, hesitantly, Lighter reaches out, his movements stiff and mechanical. The shades slide into his hand, the smooth metal and cool glass feeling foreign against his skin. His grip lingers a moment too long, like the act of accepting them is something monumental. As if he's taken the first step up the mountain.

Billy is… nice. He’s nice. Lighter can’t deny that, even if the word feels a little too plain for someone as unique as him. There’s something disarming about Billy—a balance between his quirks and his sharp edges that somehow works. Goofy around the edges, with a kind of restless energy, yet precise and almost unnervingly focused when it counts. He’s one of those people who can make awkward silences feel like they’re meant to be there, and Lighter finds an odd sense of peace in that. Maybe it’s because they share similar roles in the gang, both of them tasked with carrying responsibilities with more firepower. Or maybe it’s something deeper—something about their personalities that clicks. Lighter can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s an ease to being around Billy, like slipping into a pair of old boots that still fit just right. For the most part, Billy is quiet, observing the world around him with that detached, almost mechanical calm. But when you hit the right topic—when you find the one thing that sparks his interest—he lights up like a firework. He’ll start talking, words spilling out in a stream of excitement that’s almost contagious. Lighter has seen it happen before, usually about some obscure mechanical part he needs for upgrading or a tv show about righteous knights who battle against evil. It’s the kind of rambling that could easily be overwhelming, but somehow, it’s not. Somehow, it’s endearing. There’s something genuine about the way Billy’s enthusiasm bubbles to the surface, something that makes Lighter’s guarded demeanor chip away just a little.

What he isn’t prepared for is how his carefully planned baby steps keep turning into leaps of faith. Normally, after every job, when the gang gathers around a bonfire to celebrate—loud laughter, music blaring, and drinks flowing—Lighter sticks to his routine. He’ll slink back to wherever he came from, or at most, brood in the shadows with his back plastered against a dark wall, far away from the chaos. It’s safer that way. Easier. But this time, something feels different. When Billy nudges him with an elbow and gestures toward the sagging couches that have clearly seen better days, Lighter hesitates. He considers it, just for a moment. He could shake his head, retreat to his corner, and Billy wouldn’t hold it against him. And really, Lighter’s presence won’t make or break the party. A couple swigs of Nitro Fuel and everyone will be too drunk to notice who’s around, passing out in ridiculous sleep positions before the night’s over.

His gaze shifts toward the bonfire. The flames lick and crackle, embers glowing as they begin to dull. Behind his tinted shades, the fire isn’t as vibrant as it would be without them. The reds, oranges, and yellows are muted, softened, like looking through a filter. Yet, for once, he can look at the fire without feeling that sharp, throbbing pain behind his eyes. It’s a small relief, and for a moment, he feels almost… normal. His attention drifts upward, scanning the circle of people sprawled out around the fire, laughing and arguing over meaningless things. And then his eyes land on you. You’re slumped over on one of the couches, gesturing animatedly as you rant about the ever-growing stream of patients flooding your clinic. Your voice is tinged with frustration, though it’s more exasperated than angry. Something about how you haven’t had a proper break in days. That explains why he hasn’t seen you lately.

A strange realization settles over him, tugging uncomfortably at the back of his mind. He never thanked you. For the shades, for your help in the city—for anything. The thought gnaws at him, not enough to be overwhelming, but enough to make him pause. He’s not good at expressing gratitude. Hell, he’s not even good at feeling it most of the time. But as he watches you flop back against the couch with a tired sigh, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirs in his chest. It’s not guilt exactly, but it’s close. Maybe tonight, for once, he won’t retreat into the shadows. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll take that next step.

He pointedly ignores the jolt you give when you feel the weight of the couch dip beneath him, the speed with which your head whips around to confirm what he knows must look impossible. Lighter—of all people—is sitting there, arms crossed stiffly over his chest, his gaze fixed on the fire like it owes him money. He doesn’t acknowledge you. Not directly, at least. He’s almost thankful for the heat radiating from the bonfire because, with any luck, you’ll mistake the redness creeping up his ears for reflections of the flickering light bouncing off his tinted shades. It’s not nerves—well, maybe a little—but mostly it’s the awkwardness of being in your presence when he’s not glowering at you from afar or brushing off whatever comment you’ve tossed his way. This is...new territory.

A tiny, traitorous part of him kind of wants to sneak a glance at you. What expression are you wearing right now? Are you gaping like a fish, shocked that the infamous recluse has willingly planted himself within six feet of you? Or worse—are you wearing one of those disgusted looks, the kind you save specifically for when he gets under your skin? He isn’t sure which would be worse, but the curiosity lingers.

For now, though, he keeps his head stubbornly forward, his jaw tight and his arms tense, as if he’s bracing himself for a punchline to some joke he hasn’t caught on to yet. The fire snaps and crackles before them, and the raucous noise of the gang around the bonfire continues to fill the air. Still, the weight of your attention burns heavier than the heat of the flames, and it takes all his willpower not to fidget under it.

...

It wouldn’t hurt to look. Just a quick glance, nothing too obvious. If you’re gaping at him like a fish out of water or pulling that disgusted face as if you’ve bitten into a lemon, then that’s a clear enough message: he’s severely miscalculated and he’ll never make that mistake again. Maybe sitting here was the wrong choice after all. His arms uncross slightly, just enough to give him the excuse to shift his weight, to tilt his head ever so slightly as if he’s adjusting his shades. His eyes flick to the side—just for a second—to gauge your reaction. It’s subtle, but enough to see if there's any tension in your shoulders, if your lips are pressed together like you’re trying to decide whether to call him out or let it slide.

To his surprise, there’s no disgust, no annoyance, not even a smirk that says, Really? You’re here?. Instead, there’s something else, something brighter. Maybe it’s curiosity, or perhaps a flicker of surprise that he’s dared to sit this close to you without his usual defenses up. Like you're struggling to contain yourself before you're about to burst. Whatever it is, it doesn’t scream “wrong choice” the way he expected.

You look...elated. That’s…new.

It throws him off balance in a way he’s not prepared for. That small spark in your eyes, the faint lift of your lips—it’s not the reaction he anticipated, not in a million years. His stomach twists, not in the way it does when he’s bracing for an argument or a fight, but in that strange, uncomfortable way that happens when the ground feels weightless beneath his feet. He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, and forces his gaze back to the fire, hoping the crackling embers will right him. He focuses on that, grounding himself in the heat of the burn, anything to avoid thinking about the expression he just caught on your face. He’s not sure he’d know what to do if he kept looking. He shifts slightly, crossing his arms tighter over his chest as though that will make him feel less exposed. He hopes he looks composed, even though his pulse is racing faster than he’d like to admit. For a moment, he almost regrets sitting down. But you’re not yelling at him—or worse, walking away.

For now, that’s enough to keep him rooted in place.

Man, he really wants to go back to his secluded corner.

“Lookin’ good, Lighter,” you say with a cheeky grin, your eyes curving into crescent moons that mirror the one hanging high in the night sky.

His fingers twitch against his arms where they’re folded, and he huffs, barely glancing your way. He knows you’re teasing, but the warmth behind your tone doesn’t feel mocking—it feels...light, playful in a way that doesn’t dig under his skin.

Still, he can’t help but mutter, “Don’t push it,” though the sharp edge he tries to add falls embarrassingly flat.

The firelight dances in your expression as your grin widens, and for a moment, he’s caught between the glow of the embers and the curve of your smile. It’s not like he’s never seen you smile before—he’s seen plenty of them, but those were always directed at other people. Always at your patients, your friends, or anyone else who wasn’t him. But now, the warmth in your expression is unmistakably meant for him, and it throws him off balance. It feels strange, foreign even, like the weight of something he’s not sure he knows how to carry. He doesn’t know what to do with it—this quiet kindness you’re offering, unspoken yet undeniable. His eyes flicker back to the fire, but the warmth of your gaze lingers, pressing against him in a way that feels both comforting and unnerving. He crosses his arms tighter over his chest, trying to ground himself, but it’s hard to ignore the way his pulse picks up, betraying the calm exterior he’s trying so hard to maintain.

“C’mon,” you tease, leaning back against the couch with an exaggerated stretch, your grin sharp and playful, “I don’t give compliments for free, you know. You could at least say ‘thanks.’”

He exhales through his nose, his lips twitching into something close to a scowl—but not quite. There’s no real bite behind it, just an attempt to shield himself from the moment you’ve trapped him in.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice gruff and low, like the word scrapes against the edges of his pride as it slips out. Your laughter, loud and unrestrained, bubbles into the sky, It doesn’t feel like you’re laughing at him, though. There’s no edge, no smug satisfaction—just genuine amusement, warm and fleeting, like the explosion of firecrackers.

Belatedly, he notices that the leather of his gloves has lost its scent of rust and dust, replaced by the lingering traces of overpriced shampoo and motor oil. He should probably mind the shift, but he doesn't, not as much as he thought he would. In fact, there’s something oddly comforting about the contrast, like a quiet marker of his unexpected immersion into this world. It's strange, but in a way, it's been a long time since anything felt so familiar. Still, for as much time as he spends in your clinic, he's surprised he doesn’t walk away smelling of antiseptic spray. Maybe it’s because he’s never been your patient, but he wonders if it’s more than that. Maybe it’s because he’s become such a regular fixture in your clinic that the place itself has started to seep into him. It’s a funny thought, one that crosses his mind every time he enters your doors to see you putter around in that rhythm you've built for yourself. He watches the way you navigate the clinic, how you hum quietly under your breath when you’re absorbed in something, and how you somehow always know just when he’s lingering near the doorway. It makes something warm stir in his chest.

Aside from him, you don’t seem to have many patients to tend to. Billy doesn't exactly need regular checkups, given that he's more machine than man, and the rest of the gang is often off on other assignments or busy with their own affairs. Now, though, he notices something that’s been creeping up on him—he’s stopped avoiding you at every turn. At first, it was a conscious effort. He’d slip out when you weren’t looking, retreat into the shadows of the clinic or take a walk to avoid running into you when you were... being you—a healer, a talker, an enigma he didn’t quite know how to handle. But now? It’s different. You seem to be everywhere he goes. Your presence is subtle, but it's there—your voice drifting from one corner of the clinic, your footsteps moving purposefully down the hallway. And he’s... used to it. More than he ever thought he’d be. The awkwardness he used to feel is slowly dissolving though there’s still a part of him that’s wary of what it means. He’s learned, in his own way, to appreciate the way you move, the way you’ve managed to fit yourself into his world.

It manifests in small moments—subtle, fleeting, but undeniable. It happens when he sees your fingers blindly reach for something on the counter, and before you can even finish your motion, he’s already sliding the object into your palm. The first syllable of your sentence leaves your lips, but it’s already too late; he’s finishing your thought, speaking the words as if they were his own. Even when you glance at something, then back at him, there’s a strange, quiet understanding. He doesn’t need you to say anything more; he can read the flicker of your thoughts in the way your eyes linger, in the soft shift of your gaze. It’s almost too intimate for him to process, this unspoken bond. His instinct is to push it away, to retreat back to the isolation he’s known for so long. But there's something strangely comfortable in it—something that makes him feel a little less alone, a little less like he's always on the outside, watching the world pass by. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t feel wrong either.

He doesn’t exactly know what to make of it—this strange dance, your steady rhythm next to his stumbling between the two of you. It’s like walking through a fog, not sure if you’re heading in the right direction but trusting the path enough to keep moving forward. There are still moments when he feels like he’s on the edge of something. He’ll catch you looking at him just a bit too long, those small moments of curiosity. What’s even more surprising is how much he’s starting to do the same with you. He doesn’t always understand you, doesn’t always know the right things to say, but when he catches you working, lost in your thoughts, focused on a task, he finds a strange sense of peace in it. It’s a new thing. Before, he’d find any excuse to walk away, but now, he lingers. He stays in the space, watches the way you move with a quiet concentration, and feels that flicker of something—maybe curiosity, maybe even admiration.

He can tell you're starting to loosen up around him, too. Even when he doesn’t respond to what you say in the way you'd hope, you don’t seem to take it to heart like you used to. There’s no hint of irritation, no sharp edge to your words. You don’t push, don’t demand more than what he can give, and there’s something about that that makes him feel... safer? Less like he has to keep his guard up at all times. Bits and pieces of his old personality—those little flashes of the person he used to be before everything became so fractured—are starting to creep out from under the heavy layers of his walls. They find their way to the surface in quiet moments, in the brief pauses between conversations where you almost catch him smiling at something you've said, or when a wry comment slips out without him even thinking. It’s as if the parts of him that used to retreat into the background, hiding in the shadows of his old self, are slowly being coaxed out.

He’s holding two tubes of lipstick, one in each hand, squinting like he’s trying to decipher some ancient code. Burnice just had to be unspecific when she said she wanted to try a new color, an "orange sunset” apparently. What does that even mean? The shade of a fiery sky? A pumpkin? Tangerine? He has no idea, and it doesn’t help that both of these lipsticks look exactly the same to him. The store's bright fluorescent lights glare down from above, making his head throb. He adjusts his glasses, still firmly planted on his nose despite their dimming effect on vibrant hues. Without them, he’d probably be seeing stars. But he can't exactly turn back now. Piper is out of commission, and the rest of the gang conveniently claims to be busy with other duties—though Lighter suspects they’re all just finding excuses to dodge responsibility. That much becomes clear when Lucy shoves a crumpled list into his hands, a smirk playing on her lips like she knows exactly how this is going to go. The paper’s worn and hastily scribbled, the ink smudged in places, and as his eyes scan the contents, a wave of déjà vu washes over him. Yep. He still has no idea what any of these things are.

"Orange Sunset, my ass," he mutters, comparing it to the other like some kind of makeup detective. One might be slightly redder, or maybe it’s just the lighting messing with him. Why does anyone need this many shades of orange anyway? From the corner of his eye, he catches a clerk staring at him, probably wondering why some scruffy guy in tinted glasses is agonizing over lipstick like his life depends on it. He ignores them, sighing as he tries to recall Burnice’s exact tone when she made the request. Did she sound sarcastic? Was this a joke? Because if it was, it’s on him now.

He lets out a deep sigh, the weight of his confusion finally settling in. Yup, he's throwing in the towel. This whole "getting the right shade" thing? It’s beyond him. He has no idea what the girls were thinking when they handed him that list. Honestly, he figures he should just wait for you to come back from the pharmacy across the street. Maybe then, you’ll know exactly what to get, and they won’t think he’s the worst at shopping ever.

Before he can wallow in his lack of makeup knowledge for much longer, he hears a snicker, followed by your voice, "You want to try some on? There are testers available, but I wouldn't recommend putting them on your lips. Cross-contamination and all that."

He turns just in time to see you walk into the store, a white folded bag in hand. You pause for a second, your hand pressed against your face like you’re hiding a smile. It's the same expression you made when he approached you with the invitation to come with him back to the city, eyes glued to the ground the entire time. Lighter places the two tubes of lipstick down, his unamused expression deepening as he shoots you a look.

"What’s with that look?" you tease, clearly amused. "I personally think you'd look great with a bit of color. We can even ask someone to do a color match for you and find your foundation shade."

“I think they’d rather kick me out,” Lighter mutters, his eyes flicking down at himself like he’s seeing his mismatched appearance for the first time. He shifts uncomfortably, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched in a defensive way, "I look out of place."

"On the contrary, I think you need to get your eyes cleaned out." Your voice is teasing but there’s an edge of affection in it, the kind that’s almost imperceptible if you’re not paying attention. The kind of teasing that cuts just enough to be fun, but not enough to wound. Lighter shoots you a glare, but he knows it’s probably not landing the way it used to. It's a hollowed one, more of a reflex than anything intentional. He’s not sure if it’s because you’ve grown more used to his stares or if he’s just losing his touch altogether. Either way, he can tell by the way your grin stretches across your face that it doesn’t bother you as much as it once would’ve.

He’s not entirely sure how he feels about that.

"Look," your hand unconsciously reaches out to tug him down, and, almost without thinking, he follows. He bends down slightly, tilting his head so he’s eye level with you, the close proximity sending an unexpected jolt through him. He's suddenly hyper aware of your fingers curling against the leather of his sleeve, how your breath warms against his cheek, and just how close your face is to his even when you're looking at everyone around him.

“You’re practically out of one of those dramas where the rugged boyfriend goes out to get his girlfriend’s 'personal needs,'” You lean in closer, your voice dropping to a whisper in his ear. There’s a mischievous glint in your eyes as you tease him, almost too easy to notice. You lower your tone, dropping your words like a soft secret into his ear, “I’m sure every girl here is living vicariously through this."

You pause, eyes scanning him up and down with that smirk still tugging at the corner of your lips. It lingers for a moment, like you're reading him, sizing him up, before your words hit him, “I’d say you’d also fill the single dad role, but you don’t look old enough for that typecasting.”

Lighter blinks, a confused frown flashing across his face. He has no idea what you’re talking about, but the way your eyes twinkle suggests it's something... positive? At least, he thinks it is. It's hard to tell when your teasing tone is wrapped up in that playful spark.

Before he can even try to sort it out, you give him a light pat on the back, the action unexpected and almost fond, “Seriously, we’ll find your lost sense of humor soon."

While the days in the Outer Ring are hot and sweltering, the nights bring a biting chill, driving its residents indoors, where only Nitro Fuel and dim lights keep the cold at bay. The boss had invited him to join her and the rest of the girls for an after-party celebrating their new champion, but he’d waved them off, telling them to go on ahead and promising to join later. That promise hangs in the air now as he walks alone down an abandoned street in Blazewood, the quiet pressing in around him. The scarf around his neck feels heavier than it should. He’s never worn one before, and the fabric’s coarse brush against his skin almost itches. Yet, despite the unfamiliar texture, it’s warm. His fingers trace the small ornament stitched into the cloth, a detail meant just for him. It’s new, like so many other things, and he’s still trying to process it all. Everything around him has shifted so suddenly. Billy’s departure—soaring to new heights yet still tethered to the ground somehow. His own unexpected promotion to the forefront. The chaos in between. It’s overwhelming, surreal even, like being thrown into a story he doesn’t quite know the script for. And this scarf, with its peculiar weight, feels like a silent reminder of it all. He glances down at the ornament again, feeling the smooth metal beneath the pads of his fingers. It’s strange, having a physical marker of his place here.

When he first joined, he thought of the gang as just another boxing show, another carousel of passing faces he’d forget as soon as the next fight rolled around. A means to an end, nothing more. Look at him now. He almost wants to pinch his younger self’s cheek—just like a certain doctor does, though she insists it’s to “keep him humble.”. Nowadays, his title as the undefeated champion is only rivaled by how many times he can dodge Lucy's fists whenever he unconsciously picks her up. It’s become a routine—her standing on her tiptoes, stretching for something just out of reach, and him swooping in before she can so much as grumble. She's quick with her jabs, but he’s quicker. The footwork he once honed in the ring is now reserved for avoiding the creaky spots on the painted wooden floorboards—Piper’s after-breakfast nap is sacred, and waking her up is a crime punishable by death or, at the very least, her pointed glare. His “losses” pile up bottle by bottle, courtesy of Burnice’s sticky fingers and her talent for swiping extra Nitro Fuel. She always claims victory in their drinking contests, though he’s the one stuck carrying her home afterward. And sure, maybe he hums her favorite song while walking her back, but if anyone asks, he’ll deny it outright. Then there’s the boss, still as loud and demanding as ever, though now he shoulders the oddly specific responsibility of keeping her stash of romance novels a secret. It's a heavy weight, in a way, but he’d take a hundred bruises in the ring before he’d let anyone find out about her guilty pleasure. It’s funny how things turn out. What started as a pit stop, just another stepping stone in his aimless journey, has become something he wouldn’t trade for anything. Each quirky routine, each odd connection, has woven itself into a life he never expected to want. Yet, some things still remain the same.

His posture relaxes as he soaks in the occasional breeze, letting it cool his skin before he comes to a stop. It’s the usual fanfare—snickers and the grating sound of metal pipes dragging through the sand, a clear attempt at intimidation. He sighs, cracking his neck and adjusting his glasses with a practiced air of disinterest. Pulling his scarf up to cover his nose, he glances over his shoulder toward the group that’s been loitering on the outskirts of Blazewood for the past week. They don’t look particularly tough, their mismatched outfits and lack of coordination betraying their inexperience. Probably a newly formed gang, he guesses, especially since there’s no sense of camaraderie between the members. They’re all bravado and no bond—lone wolves forced to share the same pack. He straightens up, hands slipping casually into his pockets as he sizes them up. There’s no need to get too worked up over this. He has a party to attend.

A simple scare should have been enough to send them running for the hills, leaving the town in peace. At least, that’s how it should have gone. It should have started with a few taunts, the kind that barely even register on his radar. It should have escalated with the rival gang growing annoyed and one of them jumping the gun, rushing at Lighter with more ego than skill. It should have ended with him throwing two well-placed punches toward the leader, the crackle of fire igniting briefly in his gauntlets, enough to remind them who they were dealing with. And it should have concluded with them scattering like leaves in the wind, Lighter strolling back to the after-party with a few extra bottles of Nitro Fuel as a peace offering for showing up late—though he knows full well the girls wouldn’t have minded.

That’s how it should have gone.

But then one of them had to open their mouth.

The words hang in the air like a bad omen, laced with an ill-advised threat toward a certain doctor. And for the first time in a long while, Lighter feels something snap.

The familiar burn of anger flares in his chest, spreading like wildfire. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling into fists without thought. The world around him blurs, his focus narrowing to the gang member who had the audacity to speak your name. He doesn’t hear the rest of their jeers; all he can hear is the pounding of his own heartbeat.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Lighter sees red.

"Lighter! Lighter, stop! Jeez, pull yourself together, you bullheaded prick!"

Your voice cuts through the haze, sharp and grounding, like a lifeline dragging him back from the abyss. There’s a lot of blood. Too much. It stains the ground, splattered on his knuckles, pooling beneath the poor bastard who dared to run his mouth. The smell is what finally does it, sharp and metallic, twisting his stomach into knots. He stumbles back a step, his chest heaving, his mind reeling. His breaths are short and shallow, his vision swimming.

And then there’s you.

You’re always there—always managing to catch him at his worst. Always steady when he’s falling apart.

"Hey, hey, easy there," you say, your voice softening as you approach him. You raise your hands in a calming gesture, palms open, careful not to startle him further, "Look at me. I won't touch you but look at me. Right here, okay? Watch."

You inhale deeply, motioning with your hand as if to guide him.

“Breathe in…”

He follows, though his breath is shaky and uneven.

“Good, now breathe out,” you continue, exhaling slowly and mimicking the motion with your hand, “Good, good. You're doing well. One more time.”

You repeat the steps, your tone patient and measured, until Lighter’s chest stops heaving and the ringing in his ears fades. The blood-soaked street feels a little less suffocating, the weight on his chest a little less crushing. The sharp tang of blood begins to fade, replaced by the sterile cleanliness of your presence. His hands, still trembling, drop to his sides. The fight in him has ebbed away, leaving exhaustion and shame in its wake. He doesn’t meet your eyes, doesn’t say a word.

His first day and he's already gone and screwed it all up.

“Jeez, you really did a number on him. We’ll need to patch him up,” you mutter, crouching down to get a better look at the poor sap sprawled on the ground. Blood’s still dripping, his fellow gang members already fled with their tails tucked between their legs, but he's still breathing. You glance over your shoulder at Lighter, who’s standing there frozen, his fists clenched and his face an unreadable mask, “Come on, I don’t have the arm strength for this."

Lighter doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. His shoulders are rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, like he’s trying to make himself disappear. He's never reacted like this in a long while.

You sigh, standing up and stepping closer. Slowly, you reach out, and after a moment, he lowers his head, his posture deflating. His muscles tense as your hand makes contact, but he doesn’t pull away. Your fingers find his cheek, and with no hesitation, you pinch it. Hard. He flinches, more out of reflex than pain, and you feel the corner of your lips twitch upward.

“There,” you say, your tone lighter now, patting the same cheek you just pinched. Your thumb smooths over the faint red imprint left behind, and for a moment, the tension in his body seems to ease. It’s not much, but it’s enough to break through the fog in his head. His shoulders drop a little further, his fists unclenching. He lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding, the weight of your touch grounding him just enough to find his footing again.

"What's got you so scared?"

A lot of things, if he’s honest. Despite the cool and rough persona he wears as Lighter, the undefeated champion of the Sons of Calydon, he’s scared of more than he’d ever admit. He can’t stomach the sight of blood—it churns his insides and makes his skin crawl. He’s painfully awkward in social situations, fumbling through conversations like a rookie boxer tripping over his own feet. He still messes up Caesar’s name sometimes, even though he’s been around long enough to know better. But none of that compares to the fear that grips him now. He’s petrified of losing the people he cares about—again. That fear sinks its claws into him and doesn’t let go, dragging him back to memories he’d rather bury. It’s why he builds walls, high and impenetrable, around all the words he never got to say. They sit there, locked away, heavy and suffocating, so he doesn’t have to face them or the pain they carry. What if those walls break? What if he lets you see what’s inside? Would you stay? Or would you run, leaving him stranded in the mess he doesn’t know how to fix? Worse, what if admitting he needs help means losing the little control he has left? It’s easier—safer—to keep everything hidden. But as the silence stretches on, he wonders how much longer he can keep it all locked away.

"Yeah, well," you mimic in the same tone of voice, "You shouldn't have to."

Lighter realizes, a little too late, that he’s been neglecting the plaster and glue holding his fortress together. For a long while, he’s tuned out the sounds of crumbling debris and the sharp groan of widening cracks. He’s gotten so used to it, the noise faded into the background, like an annoying hum he could ignore. But when he finally looks up, his so-called fortress isn’t much of a fortress at all. It’s rubble now—scattered cobblestones barely clinging together, a patchwork of failure. And yet, for the first time, he doesn’t feel the urge to grab a hammer and pickaxe, mix the concrete, and start stacking the stones again. It all seems like too much effort for something that’s bound to collapse, no matter how carefully he tries to build it. What’s the point of piling up walls that are only going to be torn down again? For once, the more obvious choice feels… freeing. Maybe he doesn’t need to patch up every broken piece or keep retreating behind what’s left. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to leave it behind entirely. Time to walk up and out of the wreckage, away from the shoreline where he’s been stranded for too long.

He knows it’s inevitable. For the undefeated champion, he sure has been folding a lot. It’s embarrassing, really. He’s so screwed. Somewhere along the trek up the mountain, he tripped over a branch and fell onto the untraveled path—and somehow, somehow, he’s done the one thing he swore he’d never do again. He’s in love. Opening up to the Sons of Calydon, letting them see into the tiny fissures of his heart—that was one thing. But this? This is overkill. The worst part is that his body has decided, after years of running on autopilot, that this is his standard default. The switch to turn it off has rusted over, and now he can’t budge it even a little.

He’s grateful for his glasses; otherwise, everyone would know how his eyes always seem to linger on you, even when you’re all the way across town. How he quickly sits up straighter, crossing his arms over his chest, whenever you enter a room. How he moves his red scarf to cover his mouth when his lips start to curve too high, almost like a chipmunk’s grin. How he breaks into an awkward sweat when he offers you help, terrified that you might reject him—god forbid—because if you do, he’ll spend the whole night replaying it in his mind, over and over, like a broken record. And how Piper, knowing exactly how to get under his skin, will casually say your name just to watch him freeze, making his heart race all over again.

Before, when he decided to lie to himself and shove his emotions down deep, it was easy to embody that indifferent attitude. Now? Now things are different. When you tug at the ends of his sleeves, when he instinctively bends down to hear you whisper some teasing remark about his opponent, he can't help but let out a soft huff of amusement, his lips curving into a small smile he can't quite hide. When he's lounging on the couches during their many parties, arm sprawled out across the backrest, and you join him, leaning against his side, he used to barely register it, continuing to watch the festivities like it was no big deal. But these days, it’s all he can focus on. The way your proximity affects him, the subtle shift in his attention when you're near. And then there are the check-ups. Don’t even get him started on those. He’s been half-dressed around you more times than he’s been fully clothed, and now, suddenly, his body decides it wants to get embarrassed? It’s as if his mind finally caught up to what’s been going on, and he’s not sure if he’s more frustrated or flustered.

What’s even worse is that he can tell you’re different now, too. He’s been in your orbit for so long, circling around the same familiar path, mostly because you’re always there, pulling him back when he drifts too far. You refuse to let him wander off, not entirely—like you’re always keeping an eye on him, tethered to him somehow. But now, it feels like the strings are fraying. While he's finally starting to push forward, to test the limits of whatever's been silently building between you, you’re pulling away. And it sucks. It sucks in a way that gnaws at him, this dull ache in his chest that he can’t shake off. He wants to reach out, to bridge the gap, but it’s like he’s fumbling in the dark, and you're slipping through his fingers, even as you're right there.

As much as Lighter wants to give you 100% of his attention, he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep. It's only a matter of time before the girls state an intervention and it doesn’t take long for them to corner him. No escape routes left, no way to dodge the inevitable. They close in, their grins wide and knowing as they make sure he has nowhere to go but to surrender. He tries to play it cool, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but the tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, after what feels like hours of relentless teasing and subtle pressure, the words tumble out of him. Their champion—Lighter, the undefeated and untouchable—had been crushing hard on their doctor. Sure, it took two hours of wrangling and dusty clothes, but in the end, they had their win. If you could even call it that.

"Wait, wait, officer, wait!" Lucy shouts, her voice filled with exaggerated disbelief. She even stamps her foot for emphasis, and her helmet slips askew from her dramatic movements, adding a comical touch to the scene, "You mean you're in the 'we might be more than friends in the feelings department, but still not in the confirmation phase' period? That's the most iffy period!"

"I guess so..." Lighter mumbles, still stuck on the floor beneath the combined weight of Burnice and Caesar. He’s desperately trying to worm his way out of their hold, but it’s no use. The girls share a look that he’ll never quite understand—because apparently, women have this telepathic connection that they all seem to possess. They turn back to him, wide-eyed, as if they’ve just uncovered some huge revelation.

Ah. Those were the wrong words to say.

"Whaat?! What is this new development?! Why didn’t you tell us?!" Lucy’s voice rises an octave, as her eyes gleam with excitement. She practically jumps up and down, trying to process the new information like a live-wire.

"When? Where? Who?!" Burnice fires off her questions faster than Lighter can even blink, leaning in so close that her face is dangerously close to his. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated with the thrill of gossip.

Then, Caesar clamps her hands on his shoulders, her usual carefree demeanor replaced by something much more serious. The intense gaze she locks onto him is a complete mismatch for her typical bubbly personality, making Lighter feel an unsettling tension.

"Are you being blackmailed?" she asks, her voice flat.

It was the wrong decision to let the girls know that he was crushing hard on the new hire. It started innocently enough, but soon enough, they forced him into their room for what they called a "girls' night," and it quickly escalated into a marathon of magazines with increasingly specific titles. He had barely survived the first few issues, which ranged from "How to Tell If Someone Likes You" to "What to Do When You're an Emotionally and Socially Repressed Individual Who Hasn't Felt the Touch of a Woman and You Don't Want to Come Off as a Creep and Get HR Involved." What the hell kind of magazine even has a title that long? Did the author do that by accident? Was that intentional?

All in all, what he's learned is that he needs to be more talkative, but not too much—just enough so he doesn’t seem like he only cares about himself. But also, he’s supposed to ask questions about you and show interest in your hobbies, but not too many questions because that could come off as probing. And then there’s the smiling part: he needs to smile more, but not too much teeth or it'll seem intimidating, but just wide enough so it looks natural.

He thinks he's going to ask Lucy if she can use his head as a baseball.

"That was... a lot sadder than I thought it would be," you say as the credits roll, the melancholic piano score lingering in the air like an unresolved question. The weight of the story hangs between you, tangible and heavy. It was a tale of two ill-fated lovers who never managed to align their lives, perpetually missing the timing needed for their relationship to truly blossom. And just when it seemed there might be hope, everything unraveled into a hollow, bittersweet ending—one slowly succumbing to corruption, and the other staying by their side despite knowing how it would all end, sacrificing their own happiness just to hold onto the fleeting moments they had left together.

The credits roll, but Lighter doesn’t really notice them. He leans forward, elbows digging into his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. The darkened screen in front of him might as well be a blank canvas—his mind’s elsewhere, swirling around the movie’s ending, still echoing in his chest.

It’s funny, really. The story hit close enough to home that it should’ve left him with that familiar ache, that gnawing feeling in his gut like it always did in the past. Two lovers caught in a cycle of bad timing, one slipping away while the other stays behind, trapped in a choice they can’t undo. Yeah, it should’ve made him feel something, some kind of sorrow or regret—but it didn’t. He just feels… fine. Maybe that’s what’s bothering him. He knows he should feel more, but he’s been through too much of that pain before, and he’s not that guy anymore. Not the guy who drowns in what-ifs and could-have-beens. He’s learned how to move on. He’s learned how to survive the worst things life throws at him. A shift beside him brings him out of his thoughts. He glances over at you, your form curled up against the couch, arms wrapped loosely around the pillow. You’re quiet, almost unreadable, but there’s something about you that makes him feel like he’s not alone in the room. Like somehow, without doing anything, you’ve managed to pull him from the edge of his thoughts and into this shared silence.

For a moment, he wonders if he should feel more disturbed by the movie, or maybe feel bad about how unaffected he is. It’s odd, like something’s wrong because he’s not torn up about it, because he's not emotionally wrecked. He glances back at the screen and sighs, but it’s a different kind of sigh. It’s not regret. It’s relief.

Maybe the truth is, he’s finally found some peace with himself. Sure, he’s still haunted by some old ghosts, but they don’t have the same grip on him. He’s learned to live with the scars, to accept that he can’t control everything. He thinks that’s what the movie tried to say in the end—about choice, about letting go, about moving forward even when it’s hard. He watches you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering just enough for him to realize that you’re not just here, you're with him. That’s enough for him. That’s all he needs. He’s grown. He’s fine. His fingers twitch, still resting against his knees, but for the first time in a long time, he’s not holding on to anything.

"Yeah," he finally says, his voice low and a little rough, "It hits harder than you expect, doesn’t it?"

"I don't know... I think the ending was kind of lame," you say, your voice cutting through the lingering weight of the movie’s somber tone. You shift slightly in your seat, trying to find the right words to explain. "If I were stuck in the Hollow, I think I’d want to run out and keep living on in their memory, you know? Like, make it mean something. If I knew I was the reason my lover passed... I’d be kind of pissed."

Lighter, leaning back on the couch with his arms crossed, raises a brow at your comment. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than usual, as though he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking or not. When he speaks, his voice carries a faint hint of amusement. "So, dramatic sacrifices aren’t your thing, huh?"

"It’s not that," you reply, shrugging as you glance at him, "I just think... if someone gave up everything for me, it’d feel wrong to waste it. Like, what’s the point of their sacrifice if I just give up too? I’d owe it to them to live a life that’s worth it, to make something out of it."

You glance away for a moment, the weight of your own words settling in. It’s a thought that’s been with you for a while, ever since you first realized how fleeting everything really is. People sacrifice so much, sometimes without even realizing it, and you’re not sure how you would handle knowing someone gave up everything for you. Could you live with that? Or would the guilt eat you alive? There’s a deep part of you that’s always felt that need to honor those sacrifices, even if it meant carrying the weight of their legacy on your own shoulders. You meet his gaze again, but this time your expression is softer, less defensive. It’s not that you’re opposed to the idea of sacrifice—far from it. You just want to make sure it isn’t in vain. And sometimes, it feels like the best way to show gratitude is to keep moving forward, no matter how hard it gets.

"I think you're a tiny bit biased," Lighter teases, tilting his head slightly, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and curiosity,

"What about you?" you counter, leaning forward just enough to rest your arms on your knees. Your gaze lingers on him, expectant and challenging, "If you were in that position, what would you do?"

Lighter’s breath catches for a split second, and he shifts his posture, suddenly aware of the weight of your question. It’s a simple enough question, but the way you ask it—intense, unwavering—throws him off balance. His mind starts to race, torn between deflecting and actually answering. He leans back, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, trying to buy himself a little more time to come up with something smooth, but his usual quips feel hollow now. He takes a deep breath and looks away, out toward the window where the dirt and sand stretch on for miles. For a moment, he’s quiet, too quiet. The easy confidence he usually projects feels distant, and the silence stretches longer than he’d like.

It’s not that he doesn’t know what he’d do—he does. But the idea of voicing it out loud, especially now, with you watching him like that, makes him hesitate. He knows it’s supposed to be a simple hypothetical, but everything feels like it’s loaded with more meaning than it should.

"I’d like to give it a try," he says at last, his voice lower now, "The notion of dying for love."

You blink, momentarily stunned by the unexpected sincerity in his voice. For a split second, the usual teasing edge in his tone fades, replaced by something deeper and more vulnerable.

"Huh, really?" you ask, your brows lifting in genuine surprise, trying to piece together the shift in the atmosphere between you.

"Yeah," he responds, his posture shifting as he crosses one leg over the other, the usual air of nonchalance creeping back into his demeanor. He leans back just a little, the teasing grin returning to his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s a flicker of something, a hint of something he’s trying to keep buried beneath the surface, "Why so surprised, firecracker?"

You can’t help but smile at the nickname, but the weight of what he said lingers in the air, pulling your focus. You take a breath before speaking, your tone soft but firm, almost as if you’ve been carrying the thought for a while. Your voice holds a quiet certainty, a belief that resonates with something deep inside you, "I don't know... I feel like you'd do everything you could to save the person you care about, or at least keep living in their memory."

His gaze falters for a moment, something flickering behind his eyes as your words settle in. It’s as though the impact of your statement lands heavier than he expected, like it cuts through the layers of his usual defenses and hits a raw nerve. It stings, more than he cares to admit. There’s a strange ache in his chest, a tightness that only grows as he processes your words. He’s not sure why it’s affecting him like this, but it’s almost painful how close you always are to the truth. How easily you manage to sift through all the rubble, the chaos, the noise inside his head, and find the small, hidden pieces of gold buried deep within. It terrifies him a little, how you seem to understand him without him even having to try. How you can see past the walls he’s so carefully built. He just hopes you don’t notice how tightly his jaw is clenched, or how his chest feels like it’s about to cave in.

"Besides," you add, your voice softening as you meet his gaze. "I don’t want you to die. I’m sure your lover would think the same."

"I’ll try my best," he says with a half-hearted chuckle, though his voice betrays something deeper, something unspoken. "But, uh, no guarantees."

"Then, for both our sakes, I hope you never fall in love."

Ah…you might be a bit too late on that.

-+-+-

"I've fallen in love with you."

The words crash into the silence, sending a jolt through you that leaves your heart thumping erratically in your chest. You spin around, your eyes wide with surprise, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, time seems to stretch out. It takes him a beat longer than it should for him to realize what he’s just said, the weight of it sinking in like a stone. The vulnerability in his words suddenly hits him full force, the tension between the two of you thickening in the space that’s opened up.

The words slipped out before he could stop them, an unexpected ease in their release, and now they hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. His heart stops for a moment, watching you, eyes wide like you've been struck by lightning. Everything seems to slow down, every detail in the room—how the light falls on your face, how your breath catches—feels magnified, as if the entire world hinges on this one, fragile moment.

And then it hits him. He actually said it. His stomach lurches, the realization settling deep like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t mean for it to come out so clearly, so openly, and now the consequences of his words hang over him like a storm cloud.

The silence that follows is deafening, and every second that ticks by only seems to stretch the space between you both, making it feel like the world is holding its breath. He scrambles mentally for something—anything—to undo it, to take the words back, but it's too late. They're out there, raw and exposed. His pulse pounds in his ears, and suddenly the room feels too small, too suffocating. Did he say too much? Too little? Was it the wrong thing to say?

He watches you, frozen in place, his chest tight with uncertainty. This is it. The moment is already unfolding, and he can’t change it now. It’s out there, hanging like a thread between you both, waiting to unravel. He waits for you to speak, but the longer the silence drags on, the more he wonders if he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, and his eyes can't seem to pull away from you. Every inch of him wants to speak, to say something, anything that might undo the tension creeping up his spine. But nothing comes. His mind is blank, his throat dry, and he can feel the weight of your stare, both curious and uncertain. He half expects you to run, to say something that would make everything snap back into place, to laugh it off or tell him he’s out of his mind.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stand there, still, your gaze not wavering. There's a moment where the world feels impossibly heavy and yet so, so fragile. His heart beats faster in his chest, a frantic rhythm he can’t control. His palms feel clammy. The longer you remain quiet, the more he feels like he’s hanging off a cliff, just waiting for the ground beneath him to disappear.

But then, finally—finally—you take a breath, and the tension breaks, if only slightly.

"I…" Your voice is soft, hesitant, as if you're still weighing the words that should follow his confession. It’s a quiet exhale, but it feels like it’s shaking loose everything that’s been keeping you both in place. He watches you carefully, hanging onto every word, his heartbeat slow and deliberate now, the heavy silence between you hanging in the air like a fragile glass ornament about to shatter. What is she going to say?

"Are you dying?" you say and the world both tilts and rewinds, before sparks appear and it falls off the record player. He sincerely doesn't know how to respond to that. So he does the next best thing, honesty.

"Not that I'm aware of, I feel like you'd know that best doc."

"Ah sorry. That was the wrong thing to say. I...I didn’t think you’d…" you trail off, eyes flickering to the floor briefly before meeting his again, something unreadable flashing in your gaze, "I didn’t think you’d say that."

His chest tightens. It's not a rejection, but it's not exactly a declaration of reciprocation either. The uncertainty in your voice makes him want to take a step closer, to close the distance between you two, but he's terrified. Terrified that if he moves, he’ll push you further away instead of bringing you closer.

"I didn’t either, I didn't plan for this," he admits, the words slipping out almost without him realizing it, "But yeah. I really like you."

"Oh..." you interrupt gently, your voice a mix of hesitation and something softer, more understanding, "... how long?"

Lighter freezes for a moment, the question catching him off guard. His eyes flicker toward the floor as he grapples with the weight of it, the answer to something he'd never really considered before now. How long had he been feeling this way? How long had he kept this locked up, buried under the surface?

"How long...?" He repeats your question, his brow furrowing as if he’s just now realizing the depth of the situation. He takes a deep breath, letting the air settle in his lungs before speaking again, the words coming out slower this time, as if he's trying to find the right ones, "I don’t really know... a while. Longer than I’d like to admit, I guess."

He glances up at you, his gaze a little hesitant, but there’s something in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s the vulnerability that’s starting to seep through, or maybe it’s just the raw honesty in his voice. Either way, he can’t help but wonder how much longer you’ll stand there, waiting, as if expecting him to unravel in front of you. Your eyes search his face for any sign that you’ve said the right thing, that you’ve cracked open a door he might have kept shut for so long. But you just stand there, waiting for him to continue, your expression soft, almost... hopeful?

"You didn’t think I’d feel that way, huh?" Lighter asks, his voice betraying a hint of surprise, as if he’s been caught off guard by his own admission. He lets out a slight, self-conscious chuckle, trying to smooth over the tension that still lingers in the air. It’s a bit forced, a little too casual, like he's trying to disguise the weight of the words he just shared. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers brushing against the cool skin there, clearly unsure of what to do with himself now that the silence between you has shifted. "Guess I’ve been a little good at hiding it." He shrugs, though it’s more of an awkward gesture than anything else.

You study him for a moment, watching as he fidgets, his eyes darting away for a moment before he looks back at you, like he’s unsure of whether to keep speaking or leave it at that. It’s almost endearing how out of place he seems, trying to hide behind the nonchalance he’s so good at, but it’s not enough to mask the vulnerability creeping in at the edges.

"But... now that it's out there..." he trails off, as though the weight of his own admission is still sinking in. His voice falters just the slightest bit, and for a second, it’s like the walls between you both crack just enough for something real to slip through.

"Yeah, now that it's out there..." you murmur, your voice quiet, almost contemplative, as you let the moment settle. It’s like something you both knew but hadn’t fully allowed to surface until now. The air feels different, almost lighter, as if the unspoken tension that had lingered between you for so long has finally found a release. Neither of you moves, both caught in that delicate pull of the moment. There’s a strange sense of stillness, as if the world outside of this room has faded away, leaving only the two of you in this quiet, shared understanding. You don’t need to say anything more, not yet. But something has changed, something deeper than words. And neither of you knows exactly where to go from here, but it doesn’t feel as scary as it did before. It feels... natural, in a way. Like it’s been building without either of you realizing it.

For once, you both just sit there, letting the silence stretch out, but it’s different now. It’s not uncomfortable, not loaded with awkwardness. It’s the kind of silence that follows when something unspoken has been finally brought to light, and neither of you feels the need to rush to fill it.

Lighter clears his throat, his awkwardness creeping back in. "So, uh..." He scratches the back of his neck again, looking anywhere but at you. "I was wondering... since, y'know, we’ve, uh... gotten that out of the way..." He pauses, clearly searching for the right words, but they don't seem to come easy.

He exhales slowly, the air caught in his chest like he’s about to dive into cold water. "Would you maybe... want to go out sometime?" He stammers, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a split second before darting away again. "Like, on a... date? Not that I'm... asking you to or anything... it’s just... y'know, if you... want to."

You blink, surprised by the words but not exactly sure how to respond at first. It’s a question that catches you off guard in the best possible way, and you can feel the butterflies stirring in your stomach.

"Yeah," you say, your voice slightly higher than usual, betraying the nerves building up inside you. "I... I’d like that. A date, yeah."

Lighter’s eyes widen for a moment, as though he’s trying to process your response. Then, his face flushes, a mixture of relief and embarrassment flooding him all at once. He clears his throat again, looking anywhere but at you, as if he’s trying to escape from the awkwardness of the moment.

"Alright, then. I’ll, uh... figure out the details." He shuffles awkwardly, hands in his pockets, clearly trying to regain some composure. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel, stiffly walking toward the door.

You, too, turn away at the same time, and the two of you end up facing the door, like a pair of statues frozen in your own awkwardness. Lighter grips the door handle, pausing for a second before pulling it open. His feet move on autopilot as he steps out, but as soon as the door closes behind him, he’s hit with a wave of relief that comes crashing over him. He sinks to the floor, his back against the wall, hands pressed to his face as he lets out a groan, half-exasperated, half-relieved.

"Oh god," he mutters under his breath, his cheeks burning. He’s never been this embarrassed in his life, but at the same time, the pressure that's been building in his chest all this time lifts just a little. The nervous excitement of asking you out still lingers, and he laughs softly at himself. "What did I even say?"

On the other side of the door, you stand frozen, heart still thumping wildly in your chest. You let out a breath, shaky but relieved, and press your palm to your face. You feel like your entire body is buzzing with both excitement and embarrassment. That was... ridiculous. But at the same time, there’s this goofy grin spreading across your face, and you can’t stop it if you tried.

You lean back against the door, smiling to yourself. "Oh god," you murmur to yourself, eyes sparkling with a mix of nerves and happiness. "What just happened?"

And on both sides of the door, there's nothing but a goofy, content smile and the lingering sensation that something has shifted between you two.

---

Not necessarily a tag list, but I remember you were all asking for a part 2. Here is your part 2 lovelies.

@thelocal-idot @yaoduriaa @justlilpeaches21 @fawn-kitten @seraphina02

[this-is-exorsexism]

congratulations, you completely missed the point of this post.

it's not labels that divide us, it's bigots. blaming labels and those who use them rather than unnecessary discourse and oppression is exorsexist as hell.

labels are not the problem and never have been.

takes like this are the reason why specific nonbinary labels are mocked and blamed for all of queer oppression ever, they're why our own community treats us like the "special snowflakes of queers", they're why people act like neutrois, androgyne, aporagender, maverique, trixic, toric etc. people have basically "died out" in 2015.

why do even queer people feel threatened by labels? what's wrong with someone having a less recognised gender or orientation having a label that is as specific as most others? we know you're fine with men and women existing but not with maverique or neutrois people, despite these labels being no more or less specific than male or female. we know you all are fine with gay and lesbian, even achillean and sapphic, but toric and trixic just go too far.

it's obvious even other queers feel threatened by anything that breaks the binary and legitimises genders outside of it even in the slightest.

and nonbinary people who just label their orientation as queer still get harassed, they still constantly get asked what it means, who they're attracted to, and people try to figure out what genitals they must have that way. people complain that a queer nonbinary person is "too vague" because with men and women they can just assume mlm and wlw (of course they always ignore ace and aro people), but nonbinary people complicate things which people don't like.

you're also completely ignoring the fact that most of us already identify as queer in a broad sense, but also use specific labels, which apparently you're fine with (thank you so much for your approval!) except it's also our fault that bigots are trying to divide the community.

no transgender ally would ever think that separating the T from LGB is transgender people's fault for having that label, but when it comes to literally anything else, especially when it relates to nonbinary people, the division our own fault.

exorsexism isn't our fault. exorsexism from periallocishets isn't our fault. exorsexism from other queers isn't our fault. label discourse isn't our fault. it's heteronormativity seeping into queer spaces.

the queer community is literally the only community complaining about there being "too many labels" and how they're "divisive". disabled people have so many labels. no one complains. blind people already have like 6 different words for the blindness spectrum. no one complains. fat people have the fategories, including different words for the same ones. no one complains. but when queers want to have anything that comes after LGBTQ, we're the cause of the division. we're to blame for our own oppression. it's assimiliationism.

how can anyone read this post and think it's about "labels bad" and not about "maybe we should stop bullying nonbinary people". like, even if this take wasn't exorsexist in and of itself, why are you derailing a conversation about nonbinary people never being good enough to be about labels? what's so threatening about a conversation being about nonbinary people and nonbinary people only?

i vote that we normalise letting people call themselves whatever they want.

*nonbinary person calls themself lesbian* "only women can be lesbian!"

*nonbinary person calls themself gay* "you're not attracted to the same gender though!"

*nonbinary person calls themself straight* "that doesn't make any sense!"

*nonbinary person calls themself trixic* "made up label!"

*nonbinary person calls themself toric* "unnecessary label!"

*nonbinary person calls themself gynosexual/romantic/etc.* "you're equating women with vaginas!"

*nonbinary person calls themself androsexual/romantic/etc.* "you're reducing men to penises!*

*nonbinary person calls themself skoliosexual/romantic/etc.* "nonbinary doesn't have a look! you can't be attracted to nonbinary people!"

*nonbinary person calls themself bi* "you're reinforcing the gender binary!"

*nonbinary person calls themself pan* "you're othering transgender people!"

*nonbinary person calls themself poly* "you're just trying to be special!"

*nonbinary person calls themself omni* "that's not a real thing!"

*nonbinary person calls themself ace/aro* "you're just a cisgender heterosexual invading the community!"

*nonbinary person calls themself queer* "that's too vague!"

*binary person uses a label to explicitly express attraction to nonbinary people* "you're fetishising nonbinary people!"

the thread that ties them all together isn't that our labels are wrong or don't make sense, it's that you don't want us to exist and hate on us no matter what we do.

[wee-larceny]

Time to Orbit: Unknown liveblog Chapters 011-020

Chapters 001-010

So recently I've been reading Time to Orbit: Unknown by @derinthescarletpescatarian who may or may not appreciate being tagged in this thing again; a sci-fi mystery you've probably heard about if you're on this webbed site. I am definitely having Thoughts about it, so I'm abandoning my uncomfortably long post for a shiny new one, and also grabbing the opportunity to organise some of those thoughts; we have 180+ chapters and any minor detail might be key. It's only getting more complicated, so let us go through unanswered questions and assorted fuckery. Mysterious, frankly bizarre, and/or outright shady behaviour exhibited by characters:

Captain Joshua Reimann: grabbed an axe and started attacking the walls. Wrecked CR1 and his own arm in the process. Died of an untreated infection. Science Officer Claire Rynn-Hatson, possibly also Science Officer Mohammed Aziz and/or Maintenance Officer Ash Dornae: did some sort of experiment involving dangerous chemicals: the experiment ended in disaster killing Rynn-Hatson on the spot and Aziz&Dornae later due to poisoning. The experiment was conducted for unknown reasons despite the lack of any available medical professionals. Captain Kinoshita Keiko: did not authorise the jettisoning of CR1 even though it cut more than half the crew off from her and made it impossible to turn fore engines on from her position. To be fair it's kind of understandable considering the number of people in there. She also died trying to move a giant, heavy crate of protein bars for some reason. Engineer Leilea Arc Hess: spilled coffee all over a keyboard and didn't clean it up. Also kept a physical calendar even though I don't think you need the AI for the calendar or timed reminders to work. The ship's AI: so many things. Didn't wake any new crewmembers when the deaths started; didn't decrease "gravity" or do anything else to save Captain Kinoshita; woke Aspen and Aspen alone when the fore engines needed turned on; needed Aspen to identify by chip even though it was the one that woke them up just a bit ago, who the fuck else would they be; is definitely lying about CR1; is definitely acting outside its parameters; other stuff probably. The organisation that sent them up here in the first place: doesn't allow personal effects which is comic-book villain behaviour. Also made the AI. Doctor Aspen Greaves: upset the bees.

My questions at this point: Why did Captain Reimann try to damage the ship? I've read Solaris, I know that sci-fi characters don't just go crazy for no reason. Why did no one treat Captain Reimann's wounds? Whose body is missing and where is it? There were only three frozen corpses for four potential dead people in the back of the ship. What is in CR1? How did the 120-something people die there? If a guy with an axe in the process of being subdued can actually cause a hull breach then that's not a spaceship I'd like to travel on. When and why was CR1 locked ? We know when it was damaged but not when it was password-locked. Which captain did it? Riemann probably didn't have the opportunity (it was still open during his rampage and I sure wouldn't have allowed him computer access after.) If it was Kinoshita, why? Why didn't the two halves of the crew reestablish contact? What killed the people at the front of the ship? What's up with the disgusting air filer? What was the experiment that killed three members of the crew? Why can't the new captain override the previous one's orders? Captain locks a door, dies, door is locked forever. That's just bad design. How did the aft engines get irreparably damaged? What happened when the ship lurched sideways? It can't have been just the rotations slowing, because that would decrease gravity unless there's a complicated science reason as to why it doesn't. There can't be a complicated science reason because Derin explains those immediately. Did the crew keep logs? If yes, read them. Current suspects:

Captain Reimann: convenient scapegoat but probably not the root of the problems. The AI: could be. Computers sometimes do stupid shit. My company had to change one of their domains once because a widely used cybersecurity AI decided that we're a phishing scam pretending to be ourselves and wouldn't let the programmers whitelist us. The organisation that launched the Courageous, whatever their name is: programmed the AI. Aspen: no, that's stupid.

[fullsunstrawberry]

[Part 25: gonna eat him up]

synopsis: New year's resolution leads to you hitting the gym with your two muscle-head friends. But things get complicated when feelings and emotions are involved.

word count: 4.3k (didn’t proof read, didn’t have time lol)

content warnings: sex in a pool, spit kink, cunilingus, praising kink, kind of mean dom Jeno, no condom mentioned (ops), a lot of use of the words heat/cock/dick/bulge, grinding, etc.

a/n: happy valentine’s day to all my single people out there!!! Also want to dedicate this post to my Valentine pookie bear @johnnysuhbmarine <3

taglist (18+) CLOSED

"Let's go to the pool," Jeno says casually like he hasn’t been stealing glances at you all night, waiting for the right moment to ask.

You don’t bother looking up from your phone, already getting ready to tease him. “You just want an excuse to see me in a swimsuit.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it. “Yeah, so what?”

You giggle as the bed shifts beneath you. When you look up, he’s sitting there with his swim trunks in his hand, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxes, tilting his head toward the private pool just outside. “It’s just us. You know you want to.”

You pretend to think about it, stretching out on the bed like you have all the time in the world. “Fine but if I catch you staring, you owe me a massage.”

Jeno smirks, leaning down until his lips hover just beside your ear. “Don’t need a bet for that, baby. I was gonna do it anyways.”

The warm water and dim pool lights make the night feel almost unreal. You step in slowly, letting the sensation wash over you. You can feel Jeno’s gaze before you even look up.

He’s leaning against the edge of the pool, arms spread along the ledge, watching you with no shame.

You raise an eyebrow. "Not even trying to be sneaky, huh?"

Jeno grins. “Why would I, when you look this good?”

You roll your eyes, but heat creeps up your neck anyway. Deciding to test him, you swim closer, stopping just inches away. His eyes darken the second you enter his space.

“If you’re gonna stare all night, at least do something useful,” you tease.

His hands find your waist under the water, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against your skin. “And how do I do that?”

“By letting me win when I race you.”

Jeno chuckles, low and deep. “Oh, baby, that’s not happening.”

You pout, trailing your fingers lightly along the back of his neck. “Not even if I say please?”

His grip tightens. “I see what you’re doing.”

You laugh softly, but before you can say anything else, he pulls you closer, pressing you against him as the water splashes around you.

“You like me too much to play dirty,” he murmurs, voice husky, gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes.

You smirk. “Maybe I do. But I think you like me more, so you will let me.”

His lips brush the corner of your mouth, slow, lingering. “I think you’re right,” he breathes,“ and I think I want you to be mine. Officially mine.”

Your heart skips a beat. The words settle between you, heavier than the heat in his gaze, heavier than the teasing touches between you two.

You press your forehead against his, fingers tangling in his damp hair. “Jeno… I already am.”

The space between you vanishes as he kisses you—deep and slow. Any lingering doubt melts away in the warmth of his lips and the steady press of his body against yours.

At that moment, you were silently thanking that this was a private pool, leaving just the two of you.

Jeno pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours, filled with both tenderness and hunger. "I can’t believe you're finally mine," he confessed softly, as if speaking too loudly might jinx it.

A smile tugged at your lips, your heart swelling with warmth. "I was always yours," you whispered in response, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertip.

His lips curl into a wide, satisfied smile. "Yeah, but now it’s official."

"Yes, all yours. No more stupid blind dates just to get over you," you assured him, leaning in to capture his lips in another kiss, feeling his puppy-like smile on your lips.

"Now you can just get under me instead."

You can’t help but giggle at his cheesy line, shaking your head in playful disbelief. “That’s so stupid,” you tease, but the heat in your chest tells a different story.

"Jeno hums against your lips, his hands gripping your waist as he pulls you closer, spinning you so you're now pressed against the pool wall."

The water splashes around you, splashing softly against your skin, but all you can focus on is the way his body feels pressed against yours.

“God I love you,” he murmurs, voice thick with something you don’t quite have the strength to tease him for. His breath fans across your cheek as his nose brushes yours. “Love you so much.”

It took a moment for his words to register, your focus more on the way his body was pressed against yours.

Love.

Your fingers tighten in his hair as your heart races, a rush of emotion swelling in your chest so fast it leaves you dizzy. He loves you. Jeno loves you. And the way he says it—like it’s the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

Damn it. You wanted to say it first.

A shaky laugh escapes your lips, and Jeno pulls back just enough to search your face, brows furrowing. “What?” he asks softly, his hands steadying you against the pool’s edge, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin.

You shake your head, biting your lower lip, trying to swallow down the flood of feelings threatening to spill over. “I was supposed to say it first,” you mumble, half-pouting, half-smiling.

Jeno blinks, and then a slow, knowing grin spreads across his lips. “Oh, yeah?” His voice dips, teasing, but there’s something soft in his gaze, something gentle. “You’ve been holding out on me, baby?”

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t look away. “Yeah,” you admit, fingers trailing down to rest over his chest, feeling its steady, heavy rhythm beneath your touch. “I wanted to be the first one to say it.”

His hands tighten on your waist, his expression melting into something unbearably affectionate. “You still can,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips are just a breath away from yours.

You swallow, your heart beating fast, but this time, you don’t hesitate. You meet his gaze, steady, certain, and let the words spill freely.

“I love you, Jeno.”

The second they leave your lips, he exhales sharply, like he’s been waiting. Like he’s been holding his breath for this very moment. Then he’s kissing you, hard and deep, like he wants to make sure you feel every ounce of what he can’t put into words.

And just like that, you don’t care who said it first anymore. Because it doesn’t matter. You love each other. The worries about how things might get awkward with the group, or whether your friends will accept this, fade away. None of that matters now. It’s just the two of you, and that’s all that ever truly mattered.

Jeno pulls you from your thoughts by pressing his bulge against you, his chest rising and falling with each breath. “I love all of you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, his lips brushing against your ear. “I’ve always been in love with you.”

A heat rushes to your stomach, spreading lower as his fingers flex against your bare skin. You tilt your head back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes under the glow of the pool lights.

“So show me,” you challenge, voice softer than you intend.

Jeno doesn’t hesitate.

He lifts you effortlessly, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist, the cool water doing little to calm the heat building between you two.

His lips find yours again, hungrier this time–claiming. You gasp into his mouth, fingers tangling in his damp hair yet again while he presses his bulge on your heat, letting you feel every inch of him. His lips trail down, kissing a slow path along your jaw, then lower, his teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver racing down your spine.

“Jeno…” His name slips out in a breathless whisper, but it’s enough to make him groan against your skin.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, his voice rough. His hands slide up, his touch possessive.

"Jeno…" His name slips out in a breathless whisper, but it’s enough to make him groan against your skin. His hands slide up, his touch possessive, sending needles beneath your skin.

His lips curve into a smirk. “I love it when you say my name like that.” He shifts you higher against the pool wall, the water swirling around your hips, making you arch your back.

He wastes no time. His mouth closes over yours, a possessive kiss that steals your breath and leaves you trembling. He deepens it, tongue tangling with yours, and the sensations are overwhelming. He leaves a trail of wet kisses down your jawline, to the sensitive part of your neck, making you moan his name again.

“Jeno…” It's less of a name and more of a plea, a desperate sound torn from your lips.

He seems to thrive on it. He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, and the raw hunger in his gaze sends a shiver down your spine. “I want you, Y/N," he whispers, his voice husky, almost desperate. "God, I want you so bad."

Without breaking eye contact, he shifts his grip, sliding his hands beneath your thighs, and lifts you effortlessly. You gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping tighter around his waist for balance. He steps back, positioning you on the edge of the pool, your hips flush against the cool tile, the water dripping down your legs.

The movement brings him face to face with your heat, pressed against the thin fabric of your bikini bottom. Before looking up to look into your eyes.

Your breath hitches, and a blush creeps up your neck, but you don't look away. You meet his gaze, your eyes locking with his, silently consenting.

He leans closer, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Tell me you want me too," he murmurs, his voice thick with need.

"I want you, Jeno," you whisper back, the words barely audible.

His lips curve into a possessive smile, and he pulls himself up out of the water, capturing your lips in another heated kiss. Pressing closer, his hips grinding against yours, and pulling a gasp from your lips. His hands roam down your back, cupping your bottom, lifting you higher against the pool edge.

"I'm going to make you feel so good, baby," he murmurs against your skin. He pulls back slightly, his eyes staring into yours.

"Are you ready for me?"

You swallow hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. You nod, your eyes locked on his, trusting him completely.

His smile is slow and predatory, and he pulls back just slightly, his gaze dropping to your bikini bottom. A flicker of mischief dances in his eyes. He trails his fingers down your stomach. His fingers lingers just above the waistband of your bikini bottom.

He traces the elastic with a fingertip, sending a jolt of electricity through you. You gasp softly, instinctively arching your back, wanting more of his touch.

"So soft," he murmurs, his voice a low. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, his hands still hovering just above the edge of your bikini. "But I want to see more."

Your breath hitches as he slowly, deliberately, hooks his fingers under the side of your bottoms. He pauses, his eyes meeting yours, gauging your reaction. You don't resist, your body screaming for him to continue.

With a slow, deliberate slide, he pulls the fabric to the side, exposing a bit of skin. The sudden rush of cool air against you makes you gasp. He repeats the action on the other side.

He inhales sharply, his gaze darkening. "God, you're so beautiful," he whispers. He leans in, his lips finding the sensitive skin of the inside of your thigh. You moan softly, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

He nibbles and kisses his way closer, closer to where you need him the most. He pauses again, his breath warm against your skin.

"Do you like this, baby?" he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

"Jeno..." you breathe, his name a plea and approval all in one.

That's all the permission he needs. He wastes no time. Your breath hitches as he nears the exposed skin, his tongue flicking out to taste you through the damp fabric of your bikini.

He lowers himself slightly in the water, bracing himself against the side of the pool, giving him better access. His hands grip your hips, holding you firmly in place as he presses soft kisses to your inner thighs, teasing the sensitive skin there.

You gasp, grabbing his shoulders, your knuckles white. He knows exactly what he's doing, driving you wild with his slow, deliberate licks.

Then, with a groan that rumbles in his chest, he begins to eat you out.

His tongue is fast, tracing patterns across your clit, teasing. He sucks gently, then harder. You arch your back, pressing yourself against his mouth, begging for more.

The sensations are overwhelming, a wave of pleasure that overtakes everything else. You whimper, your body trembling as you linger on the edge of your climax.

He knows you're close, and he increases the pressure, his tongue teasing you relentlessly. You cry out, your body trembling as you break apart. Waves of pleasure wash over you, each one more intense than the last.

He continues to lick and suck, milking every last drop of pleasure from you, until you're a shaking mess, clinging to him for support. Finally, when you can't take anymore, he pulls back, a satisfied smile on his face, but doesn't stop.

Instead, he traces the outline of your lips with his fingertip, gathering the remaining wetness. He brings the fingertip to his lips, savoring the taste of you, his eyes never leaving yours. As he does this, you notice his hips begin to subtly grind against the smooth tile of the pool wall in front of him.

He licks up every last drop, his tongue softly rubbing against your sensitive skin, ensuring nothing is wasted. He makes a slow, deliberate show of it, stretching the moment. The steady grind of his hips against the pool wall grows stronger, becoming almost frantic.

Then, the unexpected happens.

He leans back slightly, gathering a mouthful of spit. Your eyes widen in surprise. You can feel the vibrations from his body as he continues to grind against the pool wall, low groans slipping out of his lips. Before you can react, he spits, the glistening blob of saliva landing directly on your clit, mixing with the remaining traces of your orgasm.

A gasp escapes your lips, the sensation both shocking and hot. He watches your reaction intently, his expression unreadable, a slight shine of sweat now visible on his forehead. The grinding motion against the pool wall becomes more urgent, more desperate. Then, slowly, deliberately, he uses his thumb to rub the saliva into your already sensitive spot.

Your muscles clench automatically as he grinds the spit against your clit. You whimper, your head falling back. He gently but firmly cups your face with his other hand, turning your head back to meet his piercing gaze.

He doesn't break eye contact as he gathers another mouthful of saliva. "Open your mouth," he commands his voice, almost a growl.

Hesitantly, you obey, parting your lips slightly. He doesn't waste a second. He spits directly into your mouth, the warm liquid pooling on your tongue. You instinctively want to gag, but his intense gaze holds you still.

"Swallow," he orders, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Without even thinking, you force yourself to swallow, the taste of his spit and your cum mixed was strangely arousing.

As soon as you've swallowed, he moves forward, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss. He kisses you hard, possessively. The taste of his saliva lingers, mingling with yours.

He finally breaks the kiss, his breath ragged against your lips. He cups your face again, his thumbs caressing your cheekbones.

"Good girl," he whispers, his voice low and husky. "You're such a good girl."

He kisses you again, a softer, more tender kiss this time as if to reward your obedience.

You find yourself craving him, longing for more of him. The grinding of his hips against the pool wall becomes almost unbearable, a taunting reminder of what you want, what you desperately need.

Tears prick at your eyes, a mixture of arousal and frustration. You can't hold back any longer. The words spill out in a plea.

"Please, Jeno," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Please, I want you. I need you. Please, I need your cock."

The words hang in the air between you. You watch his face intensely, searching for any sign of his reaction. The grinding against the pool wall stopped abruptly.

His expression remains unreadable for a moment, a flicker of something intense in his eyes. Then, a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. He seems to enjoy your desperation and how ready you are to beg.

He leans in close, his lips brushing against your ear. "Beg for it," he murmurs, his voice a low, seductive purr. "Beg for it properly, y/n."

Swallowing your pride, you let your head fall back, exposing your throat. "Please, Jeno," you repeat, your voice now laced with desperation. "Please, I'm begging you. I want your dick inside me. I need it. Please, please, please."

Jeno’s eyes darken, and his grip on your face tightens slightly. He runs his thumbs along your jawline. He pauses for a moment, letting the tension build, savoring the power he holds over you.

Then, with a sudden surge of strength, he lifts you slightly, hooking an arm under your thighs and pulling you closer against him. The coolness of the pool water swirls around your lower body as you rise, goosebumps spread over your body. The cold water contrasts with the growing heat between your legs.

As he lifts you, you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, clinging to him for support. The movement brings your bodies even closer, and you can feel the subtle shift in the water around your pelvis. He positions you deliberately, maneuvering you until his hard cock, now submerged and slick with pool water, is pressed directly against your soaked bikini.

A gasp escapes your lips, as he grinds against you slowly, deliberately. The cool caress of the pool combined with the friction sends a wave of pleasure to your core. You can feel the heat of his skin, the hardness of his muscle, the throbbing hardness of his cock.

He continues to tease you and himself as he presses against you, moving back slightly, then pressing again. Each time, the feeling grows stronger, increasing the pressure and driving you crazy.

The water sloshes and swirls around your most sensitive areas, increasing the pleasure, while also increasing the torment of him not being in you. Clenching on nothing but water.

He pauses again, holding you suspended in place, his hard cock still pressed against your entrance, both of you submerged to just above your hips.

"Almost," he murmurs, his voice a teasing whisper. "Almost there, good girl. Just a little more begging for teasing me earlier..."

"I'm sorry," you whine, the words barely audible above the gentle lapping of the water against the pool's edge. "I'm so sorry, Jeno. I didn't mean to tease you. Please, forgive me."

"That's a start," he says, his voice still a low growl. "But it's not enough. Tell me what you want. Tell me how much you need me after teasing me like that."

Your breath hitches in your throat. You can feel the blush rising in your cheeks. "I… I want you inside me, Jeno," you stutter. "I need you inside me so badly. I need to feel you filling me up. I need you to make me feel so good."

You can feel his grip tighten slightly, a sign that you're finally getting through to him. He shifts again, a subtle movement that sends a fresh wave of shivers through you. His cock, still slick with water, presses even harder against your soaked bikini bottom, the head of it teasing against your swollen clit.

"Make you feel good, hm?" he murmurs, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "And how should I do that, princess?"

"However you want," you whisper, your voice trembling. "However you want, Jeno. Just… please. Just fuck me."

A moment of silence hangs between you, broken only by the sound of your heavy breathing and the gentle splashing of the water. Then, finally, you feel him shift again. He slides his hands down to grip your thighs, lifting you slightly higher, and positioning you perfectly.

"Alright, baby," he says, his voice now a low, husky growl. "You asked for it."

And with that, he pushes forward, the head of his cock finally parting your wet bikini and pressing against your entrance. The sensation is so intense, so overwhelming, that you cry out, a sharp, uncontrollable moan.

He hesitates for a second, giving you a chance to pull back, to change your mind. But you don't. You cling to him tighter, urging him to continue. And then, with a slow, deliberate thrust, he pushes inside you, the feeling of him filling you up completely makes your head spin.

At first, the thrusts are slow and deliberate, each one building on the last as Jeno takes his time to savor the moment. You can feel his cock growing harder, stretching you to your limits, and yet it's not painful.

"You're so tight," Jeno growls, "You feel so good wrapped around me."

You can't respond, not with words. All you can do is cling to him, your body arching upward as he drives deeper into you. The sensations are becoming more intense, more overwhelming, and you're not sure how much longer you can keep this up.

But Jeno seems to sense your limits, and he adjusts his pace accordingly. He begins to move faster, more furiously, his cock pounding into you with a steady intensity that feels like it could swallow you entirely.

You feel yourself tipping on the edge of your orgasm, the water swirling around you. And then, suddenly, you're there. You're climaxing hard while you search for something to grab. Gripping and squeezing his muscular arm that is gripping your waist.

The world around you dissolves, leaving only Jeno's body, his cock, and the sensation of being utterly, completely consumed by him. You cry out, a sound that's lost in the water splashing around, as the orgasm washes over you.

As you come back to yourself, gasping and trembling with pleasure, Jeno slows his pace, his body still buried inside you. You can feel him trembling, too, his muscles straining.

And then, he leans forward, his lips brushing against your ear. "You’re perfect," he whispers. "Perfect for me."

You can't respond, not yet. You're still trying to catch your breath, still trying to process the intensity of what just happened.

The world spins, the aftershocks of your orgasm still running through you. Just as you start to regain a sense of stability, Jeno throws his head back with a raspy groan. You feel the unmistakable pulsing of his orgasm deep within you, a hot, insistent throbbing that sends fresh shivers down your spine.

He clenches his jaw, his body tensing as his own orgasm washes over him. You can feel his muscles contracting around yours, milking every last drop. He's completely lost in the moment, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged.

Finally, the pulsing slows down, leaving him shaking and still buried deep. He rests his forehead against yours, his breathing slowly returning to normal. The silence hangs thick between you.

He pulls back slightly, enough to look you in the eyes. His gaze is intense, searching. He sees the vulnerability there, the lingering shock of the experience, the dawning realization of what just happened.

A blush creeps up his neck, a stark contrast to his earlier dominance. He looks almost…shy.

"I… I didn't mean to…" he stammers, the words stumbling over each other. He breaks eye contact, looking away towards the edge of the pool. He almost looks guilty.

The shift in his demeanor is shocking. No longer the confident, teasing man from moments ago.

"It's okay," you whisper, "It felt… so good."

Jeno's eyes snap back to yours, a look of relief washing over his face.

“I wasn't too mean?”

His question surprises you. "Mean?" you echo, tilting your head slightly. The word seems so out of place considering how hot that was. "No, not mean. Intense, maybe… but not mean."

The relief that floods his face is almost funny. The tension in his shoulders eases and he lets out a small, shaky breath.

"Good," he says softly, his voice gaining a little more confidence. "Good. I didn't want to… I never want to hurt you." He reaches out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

He quickly moves to support you, one arm slipping under your thighs and the other around your hips. With a gentle but firm grip, he begins to lift you out of the pool.

The water rushes past your skin as he pulls you up. As you come out of the pool, he sets you gently on the lounge chair beside it, smoothing the towel over your skin. You shiver at the sensation.

Jeno moves to sit beside you, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for any sign of distress. He seems genuinely concerned if he took it too far, and a warmth spreads through your chest at the sight.

“Let’s get you all cleaned up and then we can watch a movie.”

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