#If you want to learn more about the world you got to ask

[iamtaran]

oh but the way that orange hit me in the gut.

My pa, who was my dad's father, grew up dirt poor in Georgia during the Great Depression. And by dirt poor I mean, when the depression hit he had to drop out of the sixth grade along with his 9 brothers and sister to help run the corn farm, and he just never went back but spent the rest of his life working hard, unforgiving jobs.

It's a bit like what Rue said when Katniss asks. "Oh, no, we're not allowed to eat the crops." Pa's family, they were pretty close to both the Alabama and Florida borders; lots of farms around, livingin a town that had a population under 750 in 2020 so it couldn't have been more than a spit back then. Having grown up in Florida, I know just how large and long the orange groves are, how fruits grow so well all up and down the state, and Georgia, too.

But I remember once he told me, a little gleefully, being prone lifelong to some mischief, "You know, the only time any of us got oranges was one time a year, at Christmas. Each of us would wake up with a single orange in our stockings, and we were so excited we'd eat them whole, peel and all." He told it so normally, wanting to tickle us with the image, the disbelief - "The peel, too? Really?! Eeew, Pa!!" Maybe not even realizing how sad the story was. Or, maybe he did, and it wasn't just to tickle, but a bit of history, too.

He used to take my sister and I out in his 30+ year old truck and drive up the dirt-to-asphalt road that was his neighborhood (barely more than 5 or 6 houses pressed between the edge of the swamp and a bit of dry, scrubby pine woods). Right down the way where the road began over the railroad tracks, this big old orange grove that my dad used to play in as a boy was cordoned off from the rest of the world by some short barbed wire fences. But the thing is, in Florida the law is that whatever hangs over the boundary of one property onto another changes ownership. These oranges hung onto public land and we, the giddy public, could drive right on up next to the fence. Close enough for two knobby kneed, barefoot creatures wobbling in the back to strain up and pick the fruit from the high limbs where no one else had reached. Then Pa could drive us back home to cut them up and have as a snack - and no, we didn't need to eat the peel. Having tried it once, even a tentative bite had me spitting and smacking out the bitter oils from the peel, horrified and incredulous. Y'all really ate this?

A decade later and Pa a few years gone, by happenstance I learned that the United States government had a practice during the Great Depression to get rid of surplus fruit which couldn't be sold, since nobody had the money to buy them and they were just sitting, rotting. We have the photo proof. Can read the history about it, if you just know where to look and find it.

Those Capitol men, they piled all the oranges in fields and burned them, peels and all.

I just finished rereading The Hunger Games for the first time since the book came out. When I tell you that orange had a whole world of history behind it, if it lives on in you, or you just know where to look and find it.

The way that Haymitch talks about food in Sunrise on the Reaping vs the way that Katniss talks about it in The Hunger Games leads me to believe that District 12 got even more starved out after Haymitch’s games. His family is obviously poor, but they still do things like make a cake once a year and buy cheap candy on occasions. Katniss talks about never being able to afford sweets and getting an orange as a special present one time. And her family was better off than most in the Seam. That difference definitely feels like an implication that money and food got even tighter in 12 after Haymitch came home from the Quarter Quell.

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Collision 9/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : SMAU, Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : SMUT (MDNI)

CHAPTER 9 :

Serie Masterlist

Texts messages  :  

Lando 

I’d really like to see you again. 

Just us. A proper dinner. A quiet place. 

You in? 

Ariana 

Yes. 

That sounds good. 

Pick the place. 

I’ll be there. 

Lando 

7PM. 

I’ll pick you up. 

And I promise not to talk about engines for once. 

Ariana 

Not even one metaphor? 

Lando 

Only if it’s a good one. 

And only if it makes you smile. 

The restaurant he chose was quiet, tucked between rows of old stone buildings and dimly lit galleries. The kind of place that still wrote the menu by hand. Where the wine list was spoken aloud and the music stayed low enough not to interrupt a thought. 

He pulled her chair out before sitting across from her, the candlelight between them softening the edges of everything. Her dress was understated and elegant. She wore no necklace, only a hint of lipstick and the weight of something unreadable in her eyes. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. 

“I’m glad you asked.” 

Conversation unfolded slowly, not playful, but personal. She told him about the quiet hours before a show, the meditative routine of stretching, braiding her hair, the way a certain silence meant the performance would go well. 

He told her about noise, how he was used to it. How he’d learned to find peace in the spaces between chaos. 

Their fingers brushed across the table once, accidentally, and neither of them pulled away. 

“I like the way you see things,” she said, over the first course. “ It feels�� thoughtful.” 

He smiled softly. “You make me see things like this, meaningfull.” 

They talked about nothing and everything. Favorite authors. Old regrets. Places they hadn’t been. Her voice was low, steady. His was quiet, almost careful. She asked if he ever got lonely. He said sometimes. She said she understood. 

By the time dessert arrived, something had shifted. The air had grown heavier, not tense, just full. Like both of them were waiting for a moment neither wanted to name. 

And then he set his fork down. 

Ariana noticed the change in his face before he said anything. 

“What is it?” she asked, gently. 

He exhaled. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.” 

“Tell me what?” 

“I have to leave tomorrow.” 

She stilled. “Where?” 

“Brazil. It came together last-minute. Some of the drivers, their partners… someone planned a trip. There’s this pressure to be part of it. I didn’t want to go. But—” 

“You’re going,” she said, quietly. 

He nodded. “Just two weeks.” 

Her eyes dropped to the table. Her hands folded into her lap. She didn’t speak right away. 

“And then I’m going back in Paris,” she said finally. 

“I know, and I'm back at the races” 

The silence was brutal. 

The kind that swells in the chest and spreads into the throat. 

“I thought we’d have more time,” she said softly. 

“I thought so too.” 

They both stared at each other, not speaking, not touching, while the candle between them flickered, helpless against the weight of it. 

“It’s just two weeks,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced. 

“And then we’re in different countries.” 

He nodded. “Different routines. Different time zones.” 

They sat like that for what felt like forever. 

Neither of them said it, the thing they were both thinking. 

That this might be it. 

That this night might be the last night. 

That maybe fate had offered them only a single season, a few weeks, a few moments, a few kisses and now it was slipping through their fingers like smoke. 

They left the restaurant without speaking much more. 

Outside, the air was icy but clear, the kind of winter night where everything felt sharper. Their hands found each other instinctively as they walked. No umbrella. Just the sound of heels and boots and breath. 

At her door, he paused. 

She turned toward him, her keys in hand. 

And then he just said it. 

“I don’t want this to end.” 

She looked at him, eyes wide and shining. 

“Then don’t let it.” 

“Ari…” 

She stepped forward, pressing a hand to his chest. “We don’t know what’s going to happen. But tonight, I want you stay.” 

He didn’t answer. 

He just nodded. 

The door clicked shut behind them, shutting out the world, the cold, the noise, the gossip, leaving only the heavy, breathless space between them.

Ariana turned toward him, standing in the golden, muted light of her flat, her hands twisting slightly at her sides like she wasn't sure what to do next.

Lando didn’t say anything. He just crossed the small space between them in two strides, his hands lifting to frame her face, tentative at first, like he needed to make sure this was real and then he kissed her.

Slow. Gentle. Asking.

Her whole body softened into him at once, sighing against his lips, arms lifting to twine around his neck. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones, keeping her close, anchoring her there.

He kissed her again, deeper now, pouring everything into it, the nerves, the gratitude, the pure, aching need he had been trying to hold back all night.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, Ariana’s fingers curled into the fabric of his coat.

“Can I?” he whispered against her lips, his hands brushing lightly along the curve of her waist, waiting.

She nodded, heart hammering, then whispered, “Yes. Please.”

Carefully, Lando slid his hands down her sides, letting the velvet of her dress slip from her shoulders. He moved slowly, giving her every chance to change her mind. She didn’t, she only arched closer, helping him, wanting this too much to stop.

She reached for him next, fingers fumbling a little with the buttons of his shirt. She popped them open one by one, her knuckles brushing his chest, his skin warm and firm under her touch.

When his shirt finally fell open, she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his bare chest, just under his collarbone, soft kisses that made his whole body shudder.

He groaned low in his throat, catching her waist to steady himself.

"You’re killing me," he murmured against her hair, voice rough with restraint.

She smiled, small, shy, devastating and pushed his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

Lando's hands slid over her body again, down her arms, around her back, following the curve of her ass. He found the zipper at her back, tugged it slowly down, and the dress pooled at her feet, leaving her only in delicate black lace panties.

He stepped back just enough to look at her, to really look and his breath caught.

"You're so beautiful," he said, voice breaking.

She flushed, shifting slightly under his gaze, but didn't try to cover herself.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, hungrier, his hands roaming, rediscovering every inch of skin he could reach.

He backed her up gently until her legs hit the couch. She dropped down onto the cushions, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

Lando knelt between her legs, his hands sliding up her thighs, parting them carefully. He kissed the inside of her knee first, then higher, and higher, patient, deliberate, until she was squirming.

He hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties and tugged them down her legs, slow enough to make her whimper.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said, voice low and thick.

"I don't want you to stop," she whispered.

He kissed her hipbone, then down, nuzzling the soft skin at the apex of her thighs before finally, finally licking a slow, wet stripe through her folds.

Ariana gasped, hips jerking, hands flying to tangle in his curls.

Lando groaned at the taste of her, sweet and sharp and addicting and licked again, slower, more thorough. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, holding her open, pressing his tongue flat against her clit and flicking lightly until she was trembling.

He worked her with devastating patience, circling her clit, dipping into her entrance with his tongue, teasing her until she was panting and begging under her breath.

Then he slid two fingers into her, slow and deep, curling them just right to find that spot that made her cry out, hips lifting off the couch.

"Lando," she gasped, voice breaking.

"That's it," he murmured against her, lips brushing her slick folds. "Let go for me."

He moved his fingers faster now, fucking her steadily while his mouth sucked and licked her clit, never giving her a chance to come down.

She shattered with a soft, keening cry, thighs clenching around his head, nails digging into his shoulders.

He kept going, coaxing every last tremor from her, until she was gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

When he finally pulled away, his mouth was slick, his eyes dark with hunger.

He kissed her knee one more time, almost tenderly, before standing, fumbling in the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet.

He pulled out a condom, tearing it open with shaking hands.

Ariana sat up on the couch, watching him with flushed cheeks and wide, desperate eyes.

He knelt between her legs again, kissing her deeply as he rolled the condom on, her hands clumsy and eager on his shoulders.

"Are you sure?" he asked again, voice wrecked.

She nodded, pulling him closer. "I need you."

Lando groaned and lined himself up, brushing the thick head of his cock through her slick folds.

When he pushed inside her, they both moaned, loud, unrestrained, clinging to each other.

He went slow, giving her time to adjust to the stretch, kissing her face, her throat, her collarbone between every shallow thrust.

She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, her hands scrambling over his back like she couldn't get enough of him.

"Fuck, Ari," he gasped against her skin. "You feel so good."

She whimpered in answer, rocking her hips up to meet his thrusts.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frenzied.

It was deep.

Slow.

Desperate in a way that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with needing : needing to connect, to anchor, to feel.

He thrust into her harder now, faster but still controlled, grinding against her just right to make her gasp every time he bottomed out.

"Look at me," he panted.

She opened her eyes and what he saw there, wild and open and full of him, nearly undid him.

He kissed her again, bruising and sweet, swallowing every sound she made.

Their bodies moved together like they'd done it a thousand times in dreams. The slap of skin against skin, the soft cries, the murmured names, it all blended into a symphony of need.

Her walls fluttered around him, and she sobbed his name into his mouth.

"That's it," he whispered. "Come for me, baby."

She shattered with a cry, nails raking down his back, thighs locking around him.

He wasn’t far behind, with a broken groan, he thrust once, twice more and then came, burying his face in her neck, holding her so tight it felt like he could imprint himself on her skin.

They lay tangled together afterward, breathing hard, bodies slick and spent, neither of them moving away.

Lando kissed her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, like he couldn't stop, like he didn't want to.

Ariana threaded her fingers through his curls, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

They lay there for a long time afterward, tangled, quiet, skin slick with sweat and still pressed together. 

He kissed her again like it would never happen again as they both fall asleep against each other. 

The morning she woke to find him already dressed, jacket half-zipped, by the door. She padded out of the couch where they fall asleep, hair still messy, wearing his shirt that hung too low on her frame. He smiled when he saw her, but there was a weight behind it. The same weight sitting in her chest. 

They didn’t say much. 

Because what could they say? 

His flight to Brazil was in two hours. A house full of friends waiting for him. A vacation with laughter and heat and late nights. And yet all he could think about was the way her fingers clung to the hem of his sleeve, the way she leaned into his chest one last time, how their lips met, slowly, then suddenly, like neither wanted to let go. 

“I’ll see you again,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers. 

She didn’t answer. 

Because maybe they both knew that even if they did… it wouldn’t be the same. 

He lingered in the doorway. 

Then left. 

And the silence that followed felt like a scream neither of them knew how to stop

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @esw1012, @lilyofthevalley-09, @its-me-frankie; @linneaguriii , @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek

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[billiesbunni]

first post kinda scared 😛

billie x reader, slow burn, your an intern👀

hints around smut😛

Everything in between~

Part 1: The First Meeting

Y/N never expected to meet Billie Eilish. She especially didn’t expect to work for her.

It started with a temp gig—three months on Billie’s team as a social media assistant during the European leg of her tour. Y/N was quiet, always a little outside the circle of louder personalities, and mostly kept her head down editing clips and drafting captions no one would read twice.

Billie noticed her on day four.

Y/N was sitting on the venue floor, back against the wall, headphones in, laptop balanced on her knees, cutting footage from the Paris show.

“You made that?” Billie asked, nodding toward her screen.

Y/N blinked, tugging her headphones down. “Yeah. It’s just a quick edit.”

Billie crouched beside her, silent as she watched the video play. When it ended, she turned to Y/N with a small smile.

“You’ve got good taste,” she said. “You picked the right beats to hit.”

Y/N smiled back, heart thudding. “I just go with what feels right.”

Billie raised an eyebrow. “Then your instincts are scary good.”

And with that, she stood and walked away—just like that.

Y/N replayed the moment for days.

⸻

Part 2: The Distance

They didn’t become instant friends.

Billie was warm but distracted. Famous, yes, but more than that—she was tired. Y/N could see it in her posture, the way she curled into her hoodie between soundchecks, the way she stared out of windows like the world outside moved too fast.

Still, Billie started showing up near Y/N more often. Sitting nearby during edits. Asking for second opinions. Making comments like, “You have a calming energy,” before stealing a bite of her granola bar.

Y/N stayed professional, mostly. But her eyes lingered a little too long. Her heart raced when their hands brushed. She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

Until Billie started texting her.

Late night “you up?” messages that led to hours of memes and rambling. The kind of texts that weren’t about work. The kind that made Y/N feel seen.

Still, neither of them moved.

They just hovered near the line.

For weeks.

⸻

Part 3: The Closeness

They got used to each other. Billie started showing up to Y/N’s hotel room, asking to chill. No flirting. Just lying side-by-side, Billie playing with Y/N’s hair while they talked about life and music and things Billie couldn’t say to anyone else.

One night, Billie turned to her, eyes soft and tired.

“Do you ever feel like you’re not a real person when people look at you?”

Y/N blinked. “Like you’re more of a symbol than a soul?”

Billie’s throat bobbed. “Exactly.”

Y/N reached out, gently touched her hand. “You don’t have to be anything with me.”

Billie didn’t say anything for a long time. Then she gave Y/N’s hand a squeeze and stayed close all night.

After that, it was different. Still not romantic. Still not spoken. But the way Billie looked at her lingered a little longer. And the way Y/N felt around her wasn’t just admiration anymore.

It was something deeper.

And more dangerous.

⸻

Part 4: The Realization

Months passed.

Their contract ended, but Billie offered Y/N a permanent role. Y/N accepted.

They fell into rhythm—long tour days, quiet hotel nights. Y/N learned Billie’s silences. Billie learned Y/N’s tells. They moved like planets orbiting each other, aware of the gravity but never quite touching.

Until Amsterdam.

Billie had just played an acoustic set. The crowd had cried. Y/N had cried. And when she found Billie backstage, Billie looked at her like she was the only person in the room.

Neither of them said anything. Not for a long time.

Finally, Billie broke the silence. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so good at pretending you don’t feel this.”

Y/N’s breath caught. “I’m not pretending. I just… don’t want to screw this up.”

Billie stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat of her.

“You wouldn’t,” she whispered. “Not you.”

Still, neither of them kissed. Not yet. It wasn’t time.

But something had shifted. And they both knew it.

⸻

Part 5: The Falling

After that night, everything was louder.

Not in volume—but in feeling. The way Billie brushed Y/N’s hand. The way Y/N looked at her when she laughed. The way they both lingered too long in each other’s doorways.

They started falling without realizing it.

Y/N caught Billie singing to herself in an empty stairwell, eyes closed, hoodie up. She watched for a full minute before Billie noticed.

“You always watch me like that?”

“Only when I think you’re not watching back,” Y/N admitted.

Billie smiled. “I always am.”

They didn’t kiss until Prague.

It was cold. Billie’s lips were colder.

But the kiss? The kiss was warm, slow, and full of things neither of them had been brave enough to say.

It was home.

⸻

Part 6: The Love

It didn’t explode. It bloomed.

Billie started calling her “baby” when they were alone. Y/N started waking up in Billie’s bed more nights than her own. They held hands backstage. Shared glances that meant everything.

One night, Billie stood behind her as she edited clips, arms wrapped around her waist.

“You make me feel like myself,” Billie whispered into her shoulder.

Y/N paused. “I love you, Billie.”

Billie’s arms tightened. “I know,” she said. “I love you too.”

And she meant it.

Because love didn’t come like lightning.

It came like light through curtains. Soft. Constant.

And impossible to ignore.

Part 7: The First Time

They didn’t sleep together that night—not in that way.

But they did fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, fully clothed, Billie’s breath warm against Y/N’s neck, their fingers laced under the blanket.

The first time happened a week later, in a quiet hotel room in Berlin.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t planned. It was slow, reverent—an extension of all the things they hadn’t said in words but had been saying for months with touch, silence, and closeness.

Billie kissed Y/N like she’d waited a lifetime.

And when they finally came undone, tangled in each other’s limbs, Billie whispered, “I’ve never felt this safe with anyone.”

And Y/N whispered back, “You don’t have to run anymore.”

⸻

Part 8: The Questions

After that, things weren’t perfect.

There were questions.

What did this mean for the tour? For the team? For their careers?

They kept it private—for now. Not hidden, but sacred.

Y/N wasn’t a secret.

She was just theirs.

Billie’s team slowly caught on. Finneas smirked when Billie offered Y/N her jacket without being asked. Their tour manager gave a knowing nod when Billie insisted Y/N ride with her on the bus instead of the crew van.

No one said anything.

They didn’t need to.

⸻

Part 9: The Studio

Back in L.A., Billie invited Y/N to the studio for the first time.

Y/N sat quietly on the couch while Billie stood in the booth, headphones on, recording the bridge of a new track—soft, aching, vulnerable.

When Billie emerged, sweaty and tired, she sat beside Y/N, head on her shoulder.

“That one’s about you.”

Y/N turned slowly. “What?”

“I started writing it before I even admitted I liked you. It didn’t make sense until you said ‘I love you.’ Now it’s a whole damn song.”

Y/N cupped her cheek. “Play it again.”

Billie did. And Y/N cried.

⸻

Part 10: The Jealousy

The jealousy hit Y/N by surprise.

A fan had posted a photo—Billie with another female artist, laughing, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, taken at a release party. Perfect lighting. Perfect smiles.

Y/N knew it was nothing. Billie had told her she loved her. Billie had chosen her.

Still, it hit something raw.

That night, Y/N was quiet.

Billie noticed immediately. “Talk to me.”

“I know it’s dumb,” Y/N whispered. “But when I see other people with you—people who can be public with you—it gets to me.”

Billie pulled her close. “They don’t know me like you do. They’ll never touch the parts of me you have.”

Y/N looked up. “Promise?”

Billie kissed her. “On everything.”

⸻

Part 11: The First Fight

The first real fight came over something small.

Y/N had forgotten to bring Billie’s jacket to a shoot. Billie snapped. Tired. Anxious. Cold.

Y/N snapped back.

“I’m not your assistant,” she hissed, slamming the car door.

Billie froze. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know. But you made me feel like one.”

They didn’t talk for the rest of the ride.

Later, Billie showed up at Y/N’s place with takeout and a handwritten note that said, “You’re not my assistant. You’re my anchor. And I’m sorry.”

Y/N pulled her in without a word.

Some fights end in slammed doors.

Theirs ended in tearful apologies and forehead kisses.

⸻

Part 12: The First Public Moment

It was a grainy paparazzi photo.

Billie holding Y/N’s hand in a New York alley, hood up, fingers intertwined.

It went viral within an hour.

The internet exploded with theories. Billie didn’t say a word. Not for weeks. Then one night, at a small benefit show, she sang the love song she wrote for Y/N and changed one line.

Instead of “they don’t see me,” she sang, “she sees me.”

The crowd noticed.

Y/N watched from backstage, her heart in her throat.

Later, Billie pulled her aside. “I don’t care who knows anymore. Let them see.”

Y/N kissed her like they already had.

⸻

Part 13: The Homecoming

Y/N moved in during the spring.

Not officially. Not with boxes or announcements.

It started with a toothbrush. Then Billie cleared a drawer. Then Y/N’s sweater lived on the couch, and her laptop charger lived under Billie’s bed.

One morning, Y/N found Billie in the kitchen, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, pouring coffee into two mugs.

“You’re up early,” Y/N mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

“I wanted to make you coffee,” Billie said simply.

Y/N stepped behind her, arms wrapping around her waist.

“This feels like home,” she whispered.

Billie leaned back into her. “It is.”

⸻

Part 14: The Forever

They didn’t talk about forever.

Not directly.

But Billie started writing more songs with “we” instead of “I.”

Y/N started planning her travel around Billie’s schedule instead of her own.

They talked about adopting a dog. About building a studio in the house. About taking a break from the noise.

And on a quiet Tuesday night, curled up on the couch with Billie’s legs over hers and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn between them, Y/N looked at her and said:

“I’d stay here forever.”

Billie didn’t blink. She just said:

“Then stay.”

And Y/N did.

[jenosonlywife23]

The way back

Ex!Jeno x reader

a\n; a little sth for you guys, im also going through it.

The music pulsed like muscle memory, wrapping around her body in low vibrations. Even now, surrounded by strangers and half-drunk influencers, she could feel him walk in before she saw him. A shift in the atmosphere. Something in her bones recognizing the presence it had loved too much to forget.

Jeno.

Six months was a long time to pretend they were strangers.

She didn’t move. Just kept her glass loosely in hand, her lipstick untouched. He hadn’t changed—still wore black like it was armor, still walked like he wasn’t used to the world watching him, even though they always did.

His eyes found hers across the crowd. One second. Two.

He looked like someone trying to breathe underwater. And she... she looked like someone who had stopped waiting.

They didn’t talk until backstage, after the encore, when Kibum pulled her into a quick hug and said, almost casually, “He asked if you’d be here. I didn’t tell him.”

She smiled faintly. “You didn’t have to.”

And then Jeno was there. Hesitating. Watching her like she might vanish if he moved too fast.

“You cut your hair,” he said quietly.

“You stopped texting,” she replied, voice even.

He nodded once, guilt flickering over his face. “Can we...?”

She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no either.

They ended up at his hotel, the silence between them thick with all the words they hadn’t said.

He poured two glasses of water. His hands trembled just slightly. She noticed.

“I didn’t know how to reach out,” he said finally. “Everything I wanted to say felt too late.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, hands in her lap. “It wasn’t the silence that hurt. It was knowing you didn’t think we could come back from it.”

“I thought you deserved more than waiting around for someone always on the road.”

She tilted her head. “I never needed perfect. I just needed presence.”

He sat beside her. Not too close. Not too far.

“Do you remember that night we stayed up until 4 a.m. painting the wall in your apartment?” she asked suddenly.

He smiled. “We were supposed to do one accent wall and ended up painting all four.”

“And you got paint in my hair.”

“You still let me kiss you.”

“You always knew how to calm me down.”

He turned, eyes meeting hers. “You always made me want to come home.”

She reached out, fingers brushing his. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something can break, and still... still feel like home.”

He held her gaze. “Maybe it wasn’t broken. Maybe it just... paused.”

The first kiss was cautious. The second one wasn’t. It felt like exhaling after months of holding back. She sank into him with the familiarity of someone who already knew the ending and wanted to rewrite it anyway.

His shirt came off first, followed by hers. No rush. No tension. Just hands learning each other again, lips pressed into soft places, breath shared like secrets.

He looked at her like she was something to be remembered. She touched him like he’d never left.

He took his time — kissed her collarbones, whispered her name against her shoulder. She moaned into his mouth when he pushed into her, deep and slow, like he had nothing to prove and everything to feel.

They moved together like music. Her legs wrapped around his waist, his forehead against hers. No dominance. No control. Just connection.

Afterward, when the room was quiet and they were tangled under the sheets, he ran his thumb over the curve of her cheek.

“I thought about you every day,” he said.

“I know,” she whispered. “So did I.”

He pressed his lips to her temple. “I missed this. Not just the... this. But you. Your voice in the morning. Your cold feet under the blanket. The way you always steal half my food even though you say you're not hungry.”

She smiled into his chest. “You used to like that.”

“I still do.”

A pause.

“Can we try again?” he asked.

She didn’t answer right away. She just curled into him, like muscle memory, like instinct.

“I don’t want to lose you twice,” she said.

“Then stay.”

[lizardho]

I also REALLY wanna emphasize that part of the reason our stories are so weird and funny and whatever is because babs and I were tenaciously curious about EVERYTHING and we got REALLY into what we liked. And we got really into storytelling because we love stories, because stories are part of our upbringing and our cowboy heritage, and because they make more sense than real life. And one day I made the mistake (I say this jokingly because it’s actually a really good memory now) of telling my dad that I wanted to learn to write my stories. My dad, who had worked 12-hour swing shifts at the E.R. for my entire life up to that point, felt sad that his job had limited his time with us, and he put his whole pussy into making me a writer. He spent two weeks spending every spare second of his day looking into how to be a better writer. And one day, two or three weeks after I had told him that, he comes to me and tells me that he’s going to support my dream of being an author. And he tasked me with writing a LOT of stuff. Any story I made up, any thought or opinion I had, he asked me to write it down and then he gave me feedback on it. The same thing, or something similar at least, happened to Babs, fwiw.

This is the source of many of my happiest, best memories with my parents, and this was also REALLY annoying as a kid. I’d wanna tell my dad about the story I just made up with my l’il lego guys or whatever and he’d be like “write it down and I’ll give you feedback on your story in 2-3 business days” and like, sometimes I just wanted to yap (Again, looking back on it I have good memories of writing for my dad). But the thing my dad had learned by studying this for us was that the way to get better at writing was to write a LOT, to get a LOT of feedback on our writing, and to be aware of the important elements of a story. Because of this, me and babs have become gifted writers. We wrote a lot, we got lots of feedback, we studied our favorite authors, we studied the tips and tricks of the people who mattered in our lives, and we can fucking WRITE now.

So when we verbalize the little things we did in our lives, part of why it’s fun and funny is because we’re genetic freaks, and we’re not normal, and that makes our lives unusual too. A lot of the shit we did didn’t come naturally which meant we had to make conscious decisions, which in turn are easier to remember.

Another part of why it’s fun is because our dad helped us become excellent writers, and that means we can express ourselves well in writing (in-person is a totally different experience). And it’s always nice to read stuff from people who can express themselves well.

And the last reason it’s fun to read our stuff is because we were raised by a loving nerd-cowboy and a loving feminist supermom, both of whom are neurodiverse in some way. This meant we were almost always safe to share our thoughts and feelings because our parents were genuinely curious about our inner lives and feelings, and they were able to understand how our inner worlds were different from other people’s. It also meant that we were very loved and appreciated, which meant there was always at least one point in our day and one place in our life where we could safely engage in deep self-reflection and analysis. This was helpful for us in being able to uncover the little stories in our lives and really let them sink in. A lot of why we’re good writers is practice and hard work, and also a lot of it is a privilege we received not out of merit (it’s not like we deserved great parents and other people deserved crappy parents, we just kinda ended up with good parents) but out of blind luck and love.

To make this all succinct, many of our stories come from us being able to fully live in our own lives. We didn’t go out of our way to seek excitement - we actually were pretty serious homebodies so we often went out of our way to avoid it. Instead, we found ways to find the magic in the small silly things that happen in life, and finding the magic in simple, mundane, every day stuff makes it easier to add magic into it on purpose too. And if you do that enough it takes you to some strange places. I know both @inbabylontheywept and I have made decisions or done or said things that were unnecessarily complicated or kinda “going out of our way” just because we knew it would make the story of our lives a bit more entertaining or magical. Recognizing that you are living in a story can help you find your own stories. Finding the things that matter to you can help you do this too. And finding your stories can, in turn, make your life as enchanting and silly and bewildering and crazy as our lives have been. It’s an active skill to develop. It requires a willingness to see yourself as a character at times. It requires practice and time. It requires a willingness to make things silly for the plot. And it requires some unspecified amount of autism. But it IS doable, and it can make life more interesting.

How is your life so interesting

Normally, I just kind of laugh this question off, but I've been asked enough times I'm gonna take an honest stab at it.

So, the first thing worth considering is whether the story itself is all that interesting, or whether I am just a good storyteller. My most popular story is about cutting a lot of worms and half, and crying, and then being comforted by my mom. That's not a terribly uncommon or hard to imagine event. A lot of my stories more about the telling than the substance.

There are also some stories that are weird, but they're weird in ways that I also find, like, relateably weird? It might just be that I knew a lot of athletes in college, but I don't think eating raw eggs is that weird. Eating 15 in one go is, but I was roommates with a guy that ate like, three for breakfast, three in his in-class protein shake, and another three at dinner. That guy was attending ASU on a gymnast scholarship, but also, he genuinely ate 5 dozen eggs a week. That seems much more normal than eating 15 in one day.

To say nothing of eating raw onion. Tons of people eat raw onions. It baffles the non-onion eaters, but it's a super common thing. Especially in Mexico.

Some of the stories happen because I am better at noticing story-worthy events than most people. I can't tell you how many times I've been in public, and seen someone do some weirdass thing, and then had to nudge my wife and to get her to watch it too.

If I had to point to the parts of my life that are truly, genuinely, bafflingly weird, they would be my dating stories, and. I dunno. My general thermonuclear dumbass event posts. And I can break down why those two are interesting pretty simply:

I was unbelievably bad at dating. The majority of the time, that just meant that there was a few minutes of stilted small talk and never get a call back. But the thing is, Mormon culture strongly encourages dating as like, a social-practice thing, and I was very motivated to get good at it, so I just kept trying and trying and I think I went on at least 200 first dates before meeting my wife. I genuinely believe that if anyone went on 200 first dates, they would get some pretty incredible bad date stories too. Especially if they had autism. I know I write well, and I can sound very charming here, but it took me a very, very long to get decent social skills. I am just a disturbingly persistent learner.

I am very convincing. This is helpful when I am interacting with other people, because it can do things like, convince them to let me into their secret facility, or convince them to not vote Republican again, or to save at least put the company match into their retirement accounts. But when I'm just debating something with myself, my convincingness works against me: I am very good at tricking myself into believing that bad ideas are, somehow, actually good. This is part of why I have so much sympathy for the right wing lunatics that I work with. Every time I meet a crazy person I go, ah, but for the grace of God, go I. Anyway, this does an unfortunate thing where my excellent verbal skills drive my poor decisions, which results in the very odd combination of welll written, articulate stories about someone being A Fucking Idiot. Like the condom bomber story. I think this is also why most of the lawyers that I meet are insane in their personal lives.

Anyway, those are my theories! I'm gonna tag @lizardho because we mostly had the same childhood, but she has a better grasp on what normal people look like than me, and perhaps she'll have her own theories on the weirdness of our lives.

[wheels-of-despair]

Home Pairing: Sam (Warfare) x You Summary: Sam's finally been sprung from the hospital, and you get to take him home. Contains: The journey home, a quick recap, a new/old friend. Words: 1.9k

You're here.

You put on your turn signal when you see the historic marker on the side of the road, and ease your vehicle onto the gravel patch in front of it. You put it in park and turn off the engine, then turn to look fondly at the drooling, snoring creature stretched out in the back seat.

Sam's not usually much of a snorer, or a drooler, but one or more of the many medications he's been prescribed has been knocking him the heck out. But, he appears to be in less pain when he's asleep, so you have no complaints.

You open the door, slip out of your seat, and close it quietly. You open the back door and put a knee on the floor, leaning in so you can reach him. He's got his legs stretched out over the bench seat, wrapped in a blanket. His neck must be killing him; it almost looks like it's broken, with the way he's hunched sideways against the seat. He still looks cute though, with only his face peeking out of an oversized hoodie.

"Sam," you whisper, placing a gentle hand on his chest. He grunts. You grin and give him a light rub. "We're here."

"Hm?"

"We're here," you repeat, waiting for him to open his eyes. "We're home."

His eyelids flutter open. He blinks a few times, waiting for them to clear, then squints at the brightness, even though it's gray and cloudy out today. He breathes in and stretches, showing his immediate regret with a hiss. His hands fly to his leg.

"You okay?"

"Fine," he says through gritted teeth. "Stayed in one spot too long."

"You wanna get out and move around for a little while?" you suggest.

Sam shakes his head and pulls the blanket off his legs. He grasps the sweatpants bunched at his knees, lifting up and taking some of the weight off as he lowers his legs to the floor. He stretches his legs out in front of him, making horrible faces the whole time. And then, he slumps back against the seat and rubs his eyes.

"Home?" he yawns.

"Almost," you smile. "Thought you might want to be awake for this last stretch. How long's it been since you rode through town?"

Sam scrunches an eye while he thinks.

"Before basic?" he guesses. "Came down to get the wedding rings."

You look to the ring on your left hand, and touch the one around your neck. Usually, it'd be on Sam's hand while he's home, but the meds make his fingers swell. That's alright. You're happy to hold onto it for him.

"Wanna give me a tour?"

A grin slowly spreads across Sam's face, and you're reminded of the summer you met him. Almost twenty years later, and you're still just as enamored by him as you were then.

He winces, and your heart leaps.

"Wanna give me some drugs first?"

You glance at your watch, consult the index card containing the timetable the doctor gave you, and return to the front to get the pills he needs. After Sam downs his drugs and an entire bottle of water, you help him shuffle onto the gravel and into the passenger's seat.

"You ready?" you ask, once you take your seat beside him.

Sam nods. You turn the key, check the mirror, and pull out.

He leans forward, swiveling his head in each direction to make sure he doesn't miss anything. You dip below the speed limit with a smile.

This is the town he grew up in.

The town where his grandparents lived their entire married lives, and where he spent half his childhood in the woods learning SEAL Skills with his dad.

The town you'll now call home.

When Sam got shipped back to the States for an extended hospital stay, you had a long talk about the future. (Mostly because he wasn't able to walk, and therefore, couldn't escape.) It was decided, through hard truths and several arguments and a bucketful of tears, that Sam's military career was over.

So was yours. You'd been working your ass off in the publishing world while Sam was away, and you were sick of chasing trends. Everybody wanted to snatch the rights to the next Twilight, which meant that every manuscript dropped on your desk was about a teenager in love with a monster. You were so sick of it, you could scream. (Much like the angsty banshee in Wailing Winona, a particularly painful read that, thankfully, cannot be found on shelves at your local Waldenbooks.)

You quit your job and packed and had all your stuff either sold or shipped to a storage facility in the town where Sam grew up. His grandmother's house was still standing; thankfully, his mother hadn't sold it off when she passed. Sam had paid the taxes on it every year, thinking that he'd like to build a house for the two of you on the property when he eventually decided to retire.

The timeline had been moved up, but the plan remained the same. You'd visited the house once, just to make sure it was livable, and been scared shitless by a neighbor who showed up to scare off the trespassing stranger. He quickly apologized when he realized who you were; and this was how you met Dwayne, your new neighbor and the person who convinced you that this was not a terrible idea.

Dwayne's family had lived next to Sam's grandparents for decades. His father ran a construction crew - the one who employed Sam's dad when he was home, and taught Sam the ropes as a teen - that had been passed down to him. He spoke highly of Sam's entire family, and was happy to help you get things ready for bringing Sam home. You don't know if you could have done it without him.

"That's the bank where Grandma took me to start my first savings account," Sam remembers, pointing to a brick building on the left. "I was five, but I felt like such a grown-up."

Before you can respond, he continues.

"There's the post office. The hardware store's still open! Wonder what kind of restaurant that is. An ice cream shop! Good thing that wasn't here when I was a kid, I'd have been begging all the time. Wonder how long that dollar store's been here? Dad helped build that house. I helped on that one. That's where Grandma's friend Ethel lived, I used to mow her lawn every Saturday."

When the small town passes by and the houses become spaced further apart, Sam leans back in his seat and sighs. You take your eyes off the country road long enough to spare him a glance; you're not sure if it's the meds kicking in or the thought of being home, but he looks happy and relaxed. You haven't seen him that way in ages.

You flick on signal and slow down, turning into the driveway. Your driveway. Sam grins, leaning forward to take it all in. You drive slowly through the bumpy lane, and Sam doesn't even seem bothered by being jostled.

He sighs in relief when he sees the house.

"Still standing," he mutters.

"Had it propped back up just for you," you tease.

"Houses built by Samuels men do not fall down," he says confidently. His grandfather had built this for his grandmother over fifty years ago, and he was right; you'd done a walkthrough with Dwayne, and he found very little that needed fixing.

You stop in the loop near the front door and kill the engine. Sam stares out his window at the front porch, like he's imagining that his grandmother is sitting there, waiting for him. You wait until he turns to you, with tears shining in his eyes, and smiles.

"Ready?" you ask.

He nods.

You slide from your seat and scurry around to the other side, wanting to help his stubborn ass out so he doesn't jar his legs. He's opened the door when you arrive, but must remember either the pain or the lecture from your last rest stop mishap, because he's waiting for you.

You help him slide down, and he sucks in a breath when his feet hit the ground, but he doesn't curse or gasp. See how easy things are when you let me help you? you want to ask. You do not.

Instead, you tuck yourself under his arm and close the car door, walking him slowly up the path and to the porch. Sam makes it up the stairs, one at a time, and stops to collect himself at the top of it.

"You wanna sit out here for a minute, or go in?" you ask.

"Here," he says through gritted teeth.

He holds onto the railing while you pull the nearest chair to him. He falls into it before he realizes what it is. He slides his fingers back and forth along the polished wooden armrests, as if he can still feel her there.

It's his grandmother's. Dwayne and his father, the greatest neighbors in the world, had moved Grandma Dottie's beloved rocking chair inside after her funeral, to protect it from the elements. Lord knows how many storms had ripped through here in the last thirteen years.

You lean against the banister and watch him, knowing that he'll roll his eyes at the smile on your face when he remembers you're there. You weren't sure how he was going to react to being back in his Grandma's house again after so long… but so far, so good.

"Can I help you folks?" a deep voice booms.

Sam jumps, just like you had when Dwayne had pulled the same thing on you.

"Dwayne?" Sam asks.

"Well, if it isn't little Elmer Samuels," Dwayne laughs.

"You mighta grown into the size of a tree, but I can still kick your ass, man," Sam grins.

You love your husband, but you doubt this; Dwayne is easily twice his size.

Dwayne lets out a booming laugh and steps onto the porch, handing you a covered basket.

"Thank you," you smile.

"That's from Mama," he smiles back. "I told her Little Sam was coming home today, and she flew into that kitchen and pulled out her best cook book so you two didn't have to worry about dinner tonight."

"Tell her we said thank you," you grin.

"I will," he nods. "And as for YOU."

Dwayne turns to his old friend, still in his grandma's rocking chair, and aggressively offers him a hand. It hovers in midair for a second, like Sam's going to leave him hanging, and then they clasp hands and perform some sort of complicated shake that concludes with exploding fists.

Sam looks to you, grinning, and sees your raised eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, did we just blow your mind?"

"You kids are just so adorable," you grin.

Sam scoffs, and Dwayne laughs.

"I'm not here to stay," Dwayne informs you. "I just came to deliver dinner. I'm gonna let y'all get settled in. But if you need anything at all, you call me, hear?"

You nod, trying to pretend that the weight of the basket in your arms is nothing. How many people did Mama think she was cooking for?!

"Thanks, man," Sam smiles, pulling himself out of the rocking chair and giving Dwayne a simple handshake this time. "You're gonna come back soon to get me caught up on everything, right?"

"Absolutely," Dwayne says. "Welcome home, brother."

Home.

[impactrueno]

Hello Spike! I hope your doing well. I had some questions I wanted ask you, since you are from Venezuela. Sorry If I got something wrong, I'm still learning about Venezuela politics and I'm trying to use the resources available to me, but is Venezuela a fascist country? so many sources say its socialist but that doesnt make sense, isnt M*duro a dictator? my other question is, with the US turning into a fascist country, how bad will this affect Venezuela?

don't believe for a second that venezuela is actually socialist, that's a blatant lie from our government lmao. frankly yeah, at times it lines up with fascism better than it does with socialism because this is a government of hypocrites. 🙃 but hey maybe that's just what authoritarian governments aka dictatorships feel like. to give you an example of how little they actually care about actually following leftist ideals, we're still one of the handful of countries in the americas that hasn't yet legalized same sex marriage. something so basic, and yet. i haven't been able to change my legal name either because there's no support for transgender people whatsoever.

(note that same-sex sexual activity was already legal before hugo chavez in 1997. chavez took over in 1998.)

the government took over private companies, meaning they remained private, just controlled by the government. not the workers. never the workers lol. the economy is still more capitalist than anything because pretty much all CEOs are affiliated with the government, and if there's something these people know how to do is steal people's money because they only care about themselves. all government people and their family live like kings while the official monthly minimum wage for the rest of the population is $2. yes two american dollars. i'm not kidding.

opposition is largely suppressed and censored. all news media is government affiliated, otherwise it gets shut down (or blocked in the country if it's a website, for example twitter has been blocked since last june and i can only access it with a vpn) and there are quite a few foreign activists being paid to shill for our government and talk about how great it is.

you know, i've been paying attention to US news regarding trump and it's actually horrifying to see him essentially speedrunning what chavez and maduro did here in the past couple of decades. it's insane how similar they are. and it's scary too because i know where that leads, and it's something i never thought could even happen in the US. idk i just figured people wouldn't let it happen. but they did, because for some insane reason they voted for trump again. and now it's a horror show every day with every news i read.

i still don't know how that will affect venezuela because both trump and maduro act like children and make deranged decisions on a whim. trump's been sending venezuelan refugees back here, the place they literally had to escape from. if you speak up against the government in any way, you are not safe. hundreds of journalists detained and taken to el helicoide (a torture center) for daring to report the truth. hundreds of students detained and killed for exercising their right to protest. last year around the elections i had to deactivate my twitter for almost a month until things calmed down because i had been posting a lot of informative threads about our situation. i had to stop because they were actively hunting people down. it was blatant terror tactics and i hate that it worked on me

the tariffs thing is going to fuck with literally every country in the world, not just us. i guess we'll just get more stuff from china now? i don't even know what to expect but our already shaky economy is gonna tank because of it for sure. btw did you know our currency is so worthless that we all use USD cash now? it's not official or anything but it's all we got lol. we do still use bolivars for some things and you can pay anything in bolivars if you so choose, but when you look at stores, everything is in USD. our country is a joke lol

i gotta stop there because i think this is getting a bit disjointed and talking about venezuela makes my blood boil sometimes lol but i hope that answers your question. be vigilant of sites spreading pro-chavez/maduro propaganda; it will be very obvious once you pay attention to how things are written 🥴 if you want a clear example of what propaganda reads like, check whitehouse.gov LMFAOOO (i'm serious, the articles they've been posting since trump won are another level of insane, what the fuck is this timeline)

anyway i sincerely hope trump gets an aneurysm or some shit before he ends up pissing off the american people into taking to the streets so he can declare martial law. civilians vs military is not pretty.

[jude457]

more inhun nsfw (the obligatory face sitting fic)

Okay, so here’s the thing: Gi-hun is relentless when he wants something. It’s not that he nags — he persists, with this maddening mix of charm and shamelessness. And when he gets that certain look in his eye, that half-grin-tilted-downward thing he does when he’s got an idea that shouldn’t be sexy but somehow is, Inho knows he’s about to be in trouble. The good kind. The kind that ends with his knees shaking.

So when Gi-hun, lounging half-naked across the bed, looks up at him and says, “Why don’t you ride my face tonight?” — Inho almost chokes on his own breath.

“You want me to what?”

And Gi-hun, completely unbothered, just stretches like a cat, lazy and smug. “C’mon. You have never wondered how it felt before?”

Inho turns red immediately, the color blooming high on his cheeks, up to his ears. Which answers the question better than words ever could.

The truth is — Gihun always had this thing. This fixation. With his mouth. With giving. With being close enough to taste someone’s pleasure. With his ex-wife, Gihun used to try — softly, sweetly, but she never liked it. Always pulled away like it was too intimate, too raw. Eventually, he stopped asking. Shut that part of himself down.

But now, here — with Inho, who holds himself like a fortress even naked in bed — something in Gihun aches to give again. To offer. To open his mouth and keep it open until Inho lets go.

Gihun softens a little. The teasing fades into something warmer, steadier. “I want to take care of you, Inho. You don’t have to do anything. Just… let go.”

That’s the hard part, isn’t it?

Even now — with the Games crumbled, the whole cruel machine gutted and exposed — Inho hasn’t let himself stop. He’s still carrying all of it. Still punishing himself with the weight. He doesn’t receive. He commands. He withholds. He endures.

But Gi-hun? Gi-hun looks at him like he’s worth being undone for.

And so, after what feels like hours of internal warfare and tactical hesitation, Inho slowly, awkwardly, climbs onto the bed. Gi-hun lies back, hands laced behind his head, grinning like the world’s happiest pervert.

“This is ridiculous,” Inho mutters, like he hasn’t been thinking about it ever since Gihun brought it up.

Gihun just shrugs. “So be ridiculous. I like it when you’re ridiculous.”

“You’ll suffocate.”

“I won’t. Your ass is not a weapon.”

Inho glares like it absolutely could be, under the right conditions. But there’s a crack forming in the mask — the kind Gihun has learned to wait for. Sure enough, after a long pause and a muttered curse under his breath, In-ho slowly climbs up, knees braced on either side of Gi-hun’s chest like he’s trying to find the most precise placement for a bomb.

Gihun watches with open hunger and stupid affection in his eyes, like it’s the best show in town. “You’re being very strategic about this.”

“Shut up.”

Inho hovers like he’s afraid to commit, muscles tight, thighs trembling slightly with tension. His hands are on the headboard, knuckles white, and Gihun can see the math running behind his eyes: angle, weight distribution, exit strategy. It would be funny if it weren’t so him.

Gi-hun watches, half-hard already, half-amused. “You’re acting like I’m made of glass.”

“You’re acting like you have a death wish.”

Gihun just laughs, warm and low. “Inho. You are not going to crush me. I’ve had worse things on my chest.”

“Not helping.”

“I want this. I want you. Now sit.”

The last word is gentler than it should be. Commanding, but wrapped in softness. It cuts straight through Inho’s control.

With a breath like he’s about to dive underwater, Inho lowers himself — carefully at first, barely hovering. Gi-hun growls a little in frustration, hands gripping his thighs to pull him closer. “Don’t hover. I want you to use me.”

And Inho does.

And then Gi-hun tilts his head up and licks him — one slow, deliberate stroke that makes Inho suck in a breath and grab the headboard in reflex. Gihun moans beneath him, like he’s tasting something he’s been starving for.

Inho swears under his breath, body arching, hips twitching involuntarily. But he’s still trying to hold back, muscles coiled, trying not to lose control. Gihun pulls him down more firmly with both hands and breathes, “Let go. I need this. Take what you need.”

It’s slow at first — tentative, unsure. A soft grind of his hips down onto Gihun’s mouth. A hesitant roll. But when Gihun groans again, tongue eager and open and welcoming, Inho does it again. Deeper. Slower. A rhythm forming.

He lets himself feel it.

The warmth, the wet heat, the way Gihun latches onto him with such reverent hunger. It’s overwhelming — the intensity of being the center of someone’s devotion. No masks. No power games. Just want. Just worship.

Inho’s breath stutters. His hands grip the headboard so tight his knuckles go white. His thighs are shaking already, not from effort but from the unbearable intimacy of it. Gihun’s groaning beneath him, not struggling — thriving, like he lives for this.

His hands slide down from the headboard, trembling slightly as he cups his own chest, then trails lower — touch tentative, but growing bolder with each thrust of his hips. He palms himself, strokes slowly as he grinds down onto Gihun’s mouth, caught in the loop of sensation.

And Gihun — god, he’s into it. His hands grip Inho’s thighs tighter, mouth working harder, moaning into him like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. He’s lost in it, in the taste, the weight, the giving of it all.

Inho’s movements get rougher, more desperate — no longer holding back, rocking against Gihun’s face with growing abandon, chasing pleasure he’s never allowed himself to own. And Gihun takes it, drinks it in, hands stroking up and down his thighs like he’s grounding him through every trembling moment.

When Inho finally comes — with a strangled cry, body seizing, thighs clenching around Gi-hun’s head — it’s not clean or graceful. It’s raw and shaking and honest.

But Gihun doesn’t stop. He keeps holding him. Keeps kissing him. Keeps whispering, once Inho collapses beside him, sweat-slick and wrecked:

“You were perfect. You’re mine.”

And for the first time, Inho doesn’t argue.

(I’m going back in time out)

[hitlikehammers]

🏀That One Time Steve Harrington Visited an Old Friend, Said Thank You 💕, Dished Some Gossip 💅, Gushed About the ♥️Love of His Life♥️, Offered Apologies, and Brought Their Favorite Flowers as a Perk 💐

☕️OR: 4/5 times Steve/Eddie talk to anyone but each other about their feelings (for each other), +1 (other time they turn around and talk to one another)

“Hey Chrissy-lis.”

The first time they’d met, he’d only just learned the word. She flitted around, so fast and wild, and he’d been able to get her to sit still long enough for someone to tie up her hair when he told her if she wanted to be a butterfly, she had to be a chrysalis first—and her in particular, because she was named just right for it.

She’d beamed at him so big. They’d been fast friends. Sports-spouses, someone called them by middle school. They’d laughed over it, but it wasn’t wrong. They grew up together, even if they rarely spoke, rarely saw each other in the off-seasons—a year off made a difference, for schedules and stuff.

And most of what they had in common was sports, anyway. And the shit that happened at home neither of them wanted to say out loud.

Steve thinks that’s what made them work. Neither made the other say it. They both just sat with it. Knew, and didn’t run.

He wishes he’d known she was hurting so bad. He knows he couldn’t have stopped what happened, no more than Eddie. No more than anyone.

Only Eddie and Rob and Wayne know that. They’re the ones who know what he does and what he feels out loud, now—at least more of it—and they stay.

But Chrissy, she’d brought her own little squad to meets, convinced Hawkins to have the most out-of-place little huddle of pompoms, every time Steve dove into the pool.

And Steve got good with his hair—and he taught himself to be great with Chrissy’s, even when she didn’t need the coaxing to keep still anymore.

“So I promised an update.”

Because he comes. He doesn’t stay long. Always brings flowers he holds on to until he leaves. He likes to think she’ll know he’s been here, if there’s any way for anyone to know anything after…

After.

“He is everything,” Steve tells her like a secret, like the little moments of the things they did trade—bits and pieces, school gossip, boys kiss girls kiss boys—between her sitting down and him spinning her scrunchie sky-high around one last time. “He is absolutely the one.”

He smiles—he’s trying not to feel like he shouldn’t smile at her headstone; she was so made of joy. She deserves more than just the flowers when he comes to visit to make sure her shines never dulled.

Or forgotten.

Which reminds him:

“I never did thank you,” which he regrets, because she should have known, but doesn’t punish himself for, because back then he didn’t believe it—or believed it, but with the wrong person, for a lesser thing entirely.

“For always telling me that I’d find that type of person,” and she always said that, whoever he was with would come to any game, any meet, any…any time they sat, him one bleacher above her to get her hair teased high before anyone else came in—she asked it the most about Nancy and he hadn’t seen it, the why.

“That I wasn’t delusional,” which he thought, for sure, once it ended with Nancy. “That I was worth it.”

That he’s starting to genuinely believe now. With Eddie. Who isn’t just the one. Who is everything.

“You were the only person who said it, for a,” Steve swallows hard; “for a really long time.”

Steve fucking hates the people who try, still, to say that some people who die were too good for this world. Chrissy was just too good.

Period.

“If I didn’t thank you enough, I’m sorry,” and he knows he didn’t. But he also knows she didn’t need him to say it to know he felt it—they communicated a lot in what they didn’t say, after all.

“I hope you know my whole heart’s in thanking you now.”

He walks closer to the stone, runs his hands over the top. Sometimes, here, he gets flashes of what could have been, so close, the man who’s his soul and then some could have ended up with a marker, here.

Now’s not one of those times. It’s happening less now.

He looks at the ring on his left hand, resting on Chrissy’s headstone. Maybe that’s why. Mostly he wanted to be closer. Mostly he wants to pretend she could feel the weight of it, the shape of it, and know how much has happened, in how it’s all turned out.

She was never the type to begrudge someone their joy even if she couldn’t find her own. He feels…he’s working on feeling less than horrible about telling her things like this.

He doesn’t actually believe there’s anything after death. Save he thinks he has to, now.

He cannot imagine an eternity that exists without Eddie.

“Thanking you with my whole heart in it, like, that’s a really big deal, now, more than it was before,” he starts to ramble a little around the ache in him, for the loss of her, for the things he has that she deserved too.

Not instead of him, he reminds himself in Eddie’s voice. That she deserves too.

It helps. Even if he says the same in reverse when Eddie comes to see her.

“Because being able to love like this, and someone to want it? To almost, like,” Steve huffs, shakes his head in the wonder he doesn’t think is ever going to die down; “welcome it with open arms?”

He looks at her name etched in the stone. Pristine.

But cold. Nothing like her. They didn’t understand her. He doesn’t pretend he did in just the role of sports-husband to his cheer-wife. But he thinks…he thinks he knew some things.

“My chest just feels fuller, bigger,” he says, tracing the letters, pressing warmth into them even for a moment, because it has to matter; it has to matter more than nothing. “Like my heart’s stretched wide all the time because it doesn’t ever have to shrink itself anymore just to sneak by without getting the shit beat out of it.”

He comes to the end of the deep-carved ‘M’. He kisses the rough top of the stone because, again. Warmth.

Even for a moment. Least she deserves.

“So my whole-hearted thanks, Miss Cunningham, means more now that it ever could have,” he whispers low, swallows against the tightness in his throat; “and it still couldn’t scratch the surface.”

He wipes at his eyes, knowing they’ll be a little wet even before he feels a single tear fall.

He’s not wrong.

“I’ll keep trying though,” he promises and then steps up again, crouches at the base.

“Let me know next time if the thanks feels bigger, like, critique my form, yeah?” he says as he props the bundle of echinacea he’s been holding, letting his cologne mix a little with their sweetness, a reminder she’s not alone when he leaves.

If there’s…any chance at all, y’know. Worth covering all bases, just in case.

“Nail that dismount in the stars, Chrissy,” he murmurs as he stands up and raps his knuckles on the stone one more time, like he always would, light against her shoulder when he’d finished, to her giggling as he tied off her hair:

“Can’t get a ponytail higher than the one you’ve got, now.”

1: Gareth // 2: Mrs. Harrington // 3: Wayne // 4: Chrissy // 5: ??? // +1: ???

💚

✨also on ao3

💫for @penny00dreadful—happiest of happy birthdays, my lovely 🖤

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @eternal-sunflowers @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here, here, and here

[livingmybestfakelife]

Imagine that while in Chicago. Smoke witnessing the occasional dead beat dad. He’s doing his own business on one side of the city while Stack is in the other. And he shows up to the home of a man who he has to collect a small debt from. The person who answers the door is a little girl, no older than six years old, she’s visibility un groomed and shivering.

“Hello sweetie….is your papa home?”

She shakes her head and he asks to be let in. He walks inside and it’s more freezing indoors. As he walks around further, the small home is filthy, the air is stale and when he looks through the icebox and pantry, both are bare. His jaw clenches and he turns around to look at her, putting on a friendly face as to not frighten her.

“When’s the last time you ate baby girl?”

“I don’t know”

He heavily exhales in frustration but still holds onto to his facade. He takes off his coat and drapes it over her small body and picks her up. They leave the house and go to a restaurant a few miles away. She’s snuggles his warm heavy coat closer to her while they’re sitting down and he orders.

“And what do you want? Get whatever you want”

“Some milk and the same food you got”

He chuckled and looks at the waitress

“Steak and eggs for her too”

After they eat he takes her to a children’s clothing store and buys her some more outfits, her own closet being almost bare except for a few items that she’s outgrown. The woman who works at the store takes pity on the child and offers to take her towards the back to get her a warm bath before dressing her in one of her newly purchased outfits.

The little girl walks out looking like an entirely different child. She’s clean and fresh, better quality clothing with more colorful patterns. It’s the type the children of wealthy families wear, the bows on the ends of her pigtails are the cherry on top.

He soon learns that her name is Beatrice, she is in fact six years old, and she hasn’t seen her papa in the same amount of time that her last meal was, which was just a piece of bread and a small piece of ham, and that was what she managed to find in a trashcan before the owner of the restaurant chased her off. Her mother was God knows where, but if Smoke had to guess, she was probably either dead or just as loyal to the street than to her own child just like her dad was.

He didn’t return Beatrice to her home, instead she was taken to a couple he also did business with. One of the very few well to do colored people in a Chicago suburb where some of his wealthy clients lived. They were people who could never have a child of their own, and even with their money, the adoption agencies still gave them the run around with any answers. Little Beatrice would fit right in, anyone who looked at her could tell that even though her father was white, her mother wasn’t, she could pass for light skinned black child without her new potential parents being scrutinized.

Beatrice was hesitant about it at first, this was an entirely different world than what she was used to, but Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins offered to show her some toys she may be interested in, it was ones they were saving all these years in case they got a miracle, and she just so happened to be the one. She jumped up and down excitedly and gave Smoke a big hug goodbye before taking Mr. Jenkin’s hand to head upstairs.

“Thank you for this Elijah”

“She’s a good girl, I’m sure you’ll grow to love her quickly”

“I already do”

They said their goodbyes and Smoke goes back to the gritty side of the city, still not done with the errand he was there for in the first place. He enters the house to see Quinton yelling for Beatrice to come out, kicking things around and swearing up a storm.

Smoke grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall.

“Where she is, is no longer your concern”

“Where the fuck is my kid?!”

“Better off than with you, you son of a bitch!”

He shoved him to the floor, stopping in his tracks to get back up when Smoke pulled out his gun and pointed it at him.

“She didn’t even remember the last time she ate, did you know that?! Bread and ham from a fucking trashcan was her last meal!”

“Look man it’s just been difficult, the little brat wants so much”

“Oh God forbid your kid wants food and clothes on her back”

“Okay okay okay listen, can’t you just look the other way this once? Just tell me where she is and I’ll make sure she’s fed, I’ll give you the money, just let me straighten her out”

“You’re never seeing her again don’t you get that?! What part of she’s better off don’t you get?!”

“Smoke please don’t let that little shit come between our business”

He screams bloody murder when Smoke shoots him in the knee. Bullshit, he’s heard and seen enough of his bullshit for today. He goes through his pocket and pulls out some bills, luckily he got it before he could gamble it away.

“Go to St. Augustine’s hospital and get yourself patched up”

“I have no fucking money to get help!”

“Tell them I sent you and they will”

“Why the fuck are you still helping me?!”

“Because Al still has use for you”

He leaves and heads into his vehicle, he can still hear Quinton’s pathetic cries as he drives away. He always knew he was a piece of shit, but he didn’t know it was to this extent. All he could think about is what could’ve been with his own daughter, he still has dreams about it. Days out to the ice cream parlor and getting her a scoop on a waffle cone. Teaching her the ways on how to hustle, how to know when she’s being played, Uncle Stack picking her up on the weekends and her coming back knowing new slang he taught her, Annie glaring at him and telling him to quit teaching her that stuff. It’s all that he wanted, it’s what Beatrice deserved, it’s what she should’ve always known, sadly it wasn’t, but fortunately it’s the future she would have.

[rbb-travels-of-the-cube]

Stop ya silly siren event starts!

Blue Moon jolted as he was teleported away. Suddenly he was sinking as water flooded his systems. A blaring timer ringed in his head telling him to get out of the water. Not that he had meant to go in water. That damn cube.

Blue Moon thrashed as he tried to figure out the surface. This water wasn't clear, It was foggy. Blue Moon could guess it was the ocean. Not that he was too thrilled about that. Sinking deeper due to his size.

Suddenly he felt a rush of movement in the water. His body froze as he panicked. There was something in the water. There was something that could get him. A shark a whale some other abominable beast. It could literally be anything, And it could probably eat him in one bite.

Suddenly his movement grew more erratic as he tried to escape towards the water surface. He could see the glint of deep blue eyes staring at him. A large tail flashing about as the beast circled him. What seem to be nutting or seaweed caught onto its fins. It was getting near. His water intake was starting to become too much.

Suddenly he felt something against his body. Something that was stiff and clearly coming from higher above him. He latched onto it like his life depended on it. Which in his mind it did. He felt the strange object get pulled down by his weight before it stiffened and started to pull up.

Blue Moon crawled up the item himself. Exiting the water surface with a gasp. Not quite focusing on the shouts as you continued to crawl upward. The Stick like object was abandoned as he climbed onto something much larger. Only the panic as his weight made the bigger object tip over.

Blue Moon crawled as a thing flipped onto its head. Digging into what he would assume wood for grip. He didn't stop until something grabbed his ribbon harshly. Causing him to yell and pain and finally assess his surroundings.

The thing that had grabbed his ribbon was some sort of small animatronic. He wore a large lavish captain hat. His face scarred and his eyes glitchy. Wearing a large captain's cloak over an orange undershirt. His pants were a deep midnight blue. The bot was mostly black and orange. Bearing a similar resemblance to him. Although the silver steel underneath the scars was the telling difference.

He was on a boat. Boat he had flipped onto its belly. This was probably the passenger that was holding the oars He had latched onto. Behind in the distance he could see a large ship. He was most definitely in the ocean as it spanned on and on and on and on and on.

"Hold on ya strange land lubr, and stop staring at the water! I got you!"

[kociamieta]

thoughts on the watcher dlc specifically what it says abt ancients if i may ask !

the vision of an ancient in a car startled me so bad it was all i could think of after that ending...!

[yakny]

"NUNCA APRENDES, PLATITA."

[twosides--samecoin]

💌 Post 4 pictures from Pinterest that describe your OC. Send this to 3 other blogs to keep the chain going!

"Well, I'm from West Virginia, may I remind you," said Nora, indignant. "When the Garrahans and Hornwrights brought the robots in, they stole so much more from us than just jobs. The only time in my life I saw my dad cry was when they turned on the Rockhound and drilled into Mount Blair..."

"...I caught all kinds of hell when I got out and went to Baltimore instead of stayin' and.. Some people I grew up with have to put on gas masks to go outside just so they can go get high in a shack somewhere in the mountains, you know that?"

"...Anyway, I know we already picked up Shaun's Halloween costume, but when we were headed back to the office, I saw this, and.."

She paused and smiled at the contents of her briefcase. "I just started thinking."

Jack tilted his head. "What about?"

"You know.."

Nora's eyes sparkled as she pulled a baby-sized white sherpa rabbit onesie from her briefcase. She held it against her body and smoothed out the fluffy ears so Jack could see their pink sateen details.

"Her."

excerpts from long time running, chapter 17: in circles

[seiwas]

omg im scared my tags are gonna get cut out

were he not born to be a hero he must surely be born for this. <- I LOOOOVE THISS my GODD are u KIDDDDINGME i looooove that so much monty :(( how it ties back in to the start!!

and the way!! he uses what he learned on izuku. and izuku really DID burst into a million tears 🥺 poor guy probs needs it THE MOST WAAAH i loooove this lil interaction i am MUSH

and when he realises its different from touching you??? OHHHH. BOYYYYYY.

i love this monty thank u for writing this

STEADY BEGINNINGS ┊ TODOROKI SHOUTO

tags: GN reader, developing relationship (eventual friends to lovers), touch starved shouto, physical affection (hand holding + long hugs), good god the yearning, obliviousness, jealousy, fluff + angst, pro hero shouto, reader works at hero agency

wc: 3.8K

series masterlist: 2/5

Shouto was born to be a hero.

It is a sentiment shared by reporters and fans alike. Todoroki Shouto, the pride of Endeavor, the saving grace of his family name. True, his development had been entirely up to chance—no matter the intent or cruel desperation behind his father’s actions, he had to rely on the probability that the next offspring would win the genetic lottery—but low and behold, he did, and to many people that alone was a sign of destiny at work.

Ultimately, he chose to continue the path of being a hero himself, but no higher being put him there. His father did. At the time of his birth Shouto had not been a son, not even a baby. He was a project. A small, shapeless, squirmy thing. Malleable, like any young mind. It’s a miracle he retained any will and individuality.

Sometimes when alone with his thoughts, Shouto would hypothesise on the whys and the hows. The conclusion he always comes to is this: any sort of reality in which Shouto succumbs to his father’s ideals and manipulation would have to be a world in which his mother does not exist.

While his existence was planned, and wanted, he was to be a hero and as such, wasn’t cut from love—that came after. He loved his mother. So much so that when she hurt, he hurt. When she cried, he cried. She taught him what it meant to be gentle, to have hope, to aspire to be his own person. Years spent amongst the country's finest heroes and Shouto still regarded his mother as the bravest woman he knew, strong because she refused to be hardened by her circumstances; soft so that she can’t be broken again.

You are like his mother in that regard. Those same echoes of reassurance that softness isn’t weakness, and it isn’t earned. You’ve been touching him more as of late, as if determined to prove it. Static between brushed fingertips, words expressed by simply pressing your knees together, the weight of your hand on his bicep to garner his attention. The build up is subtle and cumulative and yet each instance strikes him with the magnitude of a thermodynamic explosion.

Nobody bats an eyelid to this shift in physicality, which makes it all the more difficult to determine whether he is reading into things or not. It could be that he’s noticing those small instances only because it’s you, and you are all he can think about lately.

You’ve given him permission to reciprocate. He merely has to ask for more if he wants it. What Shouto hadn’t accounted for is the unbearability of being vulnerable enough to ask. An innocent “can you hug me?” becomes so much more daunting to voice with all that longing crowded up behind it. He can’t help worrying you’ll see right through to the bottom of his desires.

A hand comes into view. Bakugo’s ash-smudged finger and thumb pinch and snap together in front of his face. “Come back to Earth, dumbass. Your thousand yard stare is scarin’ my new assistant”.

Shouto blinks out of his stupor and the blurred vignette surrounding his vision recedes. He glances at the skittish man sitting outside Bakugo’s office currently sending worried glances over his shoulder. “I think he’s more scared that you’re back,” Shouto intones dryly. “Isn’t he the fourth one this year?”

“Not my fault they’re all wimps,” Bakugo huffs. A slap reverberates around the office as he throws down a manila folder onto his desk and drops heavily into his chair. He regards Shouto with suspicion overtop his computer monitor. “Whatever you were just thinkin’ about—stop”.

“You don’t know what I’m thinking about”.

“I know you always manage to make Olympic level leaps in logic,” Bakugo rolls his eyes and tears open the folder. He slides out what Shouto assumes is a debrief and flips it between his fingers. Shouto keeps quiet. He reclines into the couch cushions and returns to reading the incident report on his lap, counting down from ten in the privacy of his mind. Anytime now.

Three, two, one.

“So what is it?” Bakugo asks, trying too hard to sound flippant but landing squarely on irritation. “Spit it out before you give yourself an aneurysm”.

Shouto opens his mouth and closes it again. A wave of hot embarrassment washes over him. He knows Bakugo will do him the kindness of being blunt and honest but it doesn’t make it any less humiliating to admit.

In their younger years Shouto saw something of a kindred spirit in Bakugo. He too did not like touch and aggressively voiced his distaste for it whenever he got the chance—which was often, because divine intervention sought fit to give him the most tactile, handsy friend group possible.

As they got older though, Shouto began to realise that the protests and threats were hollow. Despite being vehemently against affection, Bakugo would allow it anyway, and sometimes even seek it out. The aggression was bravado. Bakugo liked having his friends draped around his shoulders. He liked when Mina kissed his cheek, or Kaminari played with his hair, or Kirishima gathered him into a too-tight hug, or Sero tangled their ankles together on the couch.

Only, for him to comfortably accept it, Bakugo needed to act as though he were doing them a favour by allowing them into his space. And Bakugo’s friends played along without complaint.

From what he’s observed you are also an affectionate person. You are liberal with your warmth and adapt seamlessly to the boundaries of those around you. But you were also visibly uncomfortable whenever people took that affinity for intimacy as an open invitation, and recoiled if they encroached on your own.

Shouto has imagined reaching out only for your body to flinch away from him more times than he can count. It’s a battle staged in his head, ingrown fears. The possibility alone was enough to keep him from reciprocating, set in a state of fawn-like inertia.

“There’s somebody I want to get closer to. A friend,” he begins. Bakugo makes an inquisitive noise, props his cheek against his fist and narrows his eyes as he listens. Shouto retells the story in part, deciding to omit your name, and by the tail-end of it Bakugo’s forehead is deeply creased in dissatisfaction.

“You make all your own problems, Halfie. Y’know that?” he mutters, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and sinking back into his chair. “Fine, you don’t want to make this person uncomfortable, or whatever. If you need a hug so damn badly, why not ask Deku? Not like he’d say no”.

Knowing Bakugo would make his dilemma sound ridiculous is one thing, actually hearing it is another. “How do you know it isn’t about Midoriya,” Shouto returns petulantly.

“It ain’t Izuku or anyone else from your nerd squad,” Bakugo says, dropping his hand to drum on the desk. “I would’ve heard about it”.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t touch people. And that’s fuckin’ fine, yeah? But if you had, I know for a fact any one of them would’ve burst into tears and told everyone in a five mile radius”.

“Oh,” it leaves him a little off-kilter to hear. Shouto leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, setting the report on the dark wood coffee table. The corner of the page is curled, and the spine is creased, and the ink annotation has smudged under his thumb. He details these things as he deliberates, the excuses cloying in his throat and thick like he might cry too.

Bakugo was right—if he craved close contact so badly, why couldn’t he go to Midoriya? He knows he would likely be met with enthusiasm.

“You don't have to tell me who. I don’t care. But you’re overthinking it,” Bakugo grunts at his lack of response, in a way that very much suggests that he cares. “Go ask. If they say ‘no’ it’s tough shit, but the world isn’t gonna end. From what you’ve told me they wouldn’t say ‘no’ anyway. Dumbass”.

Shouto nods and gives up the pretense of reading the paperwork. He feels coltish as he stands and brushes down his front, straightening the creases.

“You’re right”.

“I know”.

“Thank you, Bakugo,” he says. A small smile unfurls across his anxiety-bitten mouth. “You’re a good friend”.

“Shut up,” Bakugo grumbles. It’s a testament to his concern that he hadn’t cursed Shouto there and then. “Now get out of my office. What are you doing here in the first place? You got your own!”

“Yours gets all the sunlight. And it’s always quiet because nobody comes in here,” Shouto ignores the baleful slit of an eye Bakugo turns on him. “I’m going to take my lunch now”.

“Do what you want,” Bakugo dismisses haughtily, and Shouto smiles while thinking, not for the first time, that he’s very lucky to have friends like these.

The fidgety assistant bows as he exits and turns into the sun-drenched hallway. Warmth drapes around Shouto’s shoulders, lingering at his nape while he descends the dark stairwell where the light doesn’t reach. His boots thud against the linoleum, and he counts each footfall to keep his face neutral as his legs carry him toward your department.

Somewhere between one and one hundred and thirteen, a fraction of Shouto’s courage starts to dwindle. He grits his teeth. A hundred steps can’t be enough to dissuade him after decades of denying himself any kind of indulgence.

The further he goes into the support wing the more elaborate the layout becomes. You’re in research and development, assigned a workshop close to the quirk analysts. Heads turn as Shouto rolls through. Heroes didn’t often make personal visits to this area. If he thinks hard enough he could count a grand number of two past visits and neither of them were for you.

His stride falters when he catches sight of your nameplate. It is fixed to the wall outside your door, polished and gleaming proudly. Shouto traces the characters of your name engraved into steel before raising his hand to knock.

Your voice rings out from inside, “Come in!”

A pitched beeping sound comes from overhead. The workshop doors begin to open in a theatrical fashion, receding like curtains to reveal your space. The floor is mapped out with tape. Clear boundaries drawn between the work benches, the fume cupboards, the vault and your personal office, in an attempt at organised chaos. He might have been more interested in poking around for the first time if he had not felt on the edge of intrusion.

You’re tucked behind your curved desk surrounded by numerous monitors that dwarf your frame. Shouto furtively takes in your cute, rumpled appearance. The upper half of your coveralls have been undone to reveal an undervest, sleeves tied tight around and accentuating your waist.

“Take a seat, I’ll be with you in…” the dull tapping of practiced keystrokes comes to a stop as you notice him in the doorway. The professional veneer disappears. “Shouto?” you say, mostly to yourself. Your gaze slides beyond his shoulder, looking for whoever might be accompanying him. “Is everything okay?”

There’s a worried twist in your mouth that he wants to smudge away. A look in your eyes—a combination of warmth and weight that tugged at his being. Shouto rolls his shoulders, shaking off the tension, and moving deeper into your office. The doors close automatically behind him. “I’m okay,” he assures, taking the seat across from you.

Your expression gentles, and he likes how your gaze follows him. “I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch with me,” he continues. “But if you’re working I can head back”.

“Lunch?” you repeated. Your eyes darted to the corner of the monitor closest to you and promptly widened. “Oh, shit. When did that happen?”

An upswing of fondness catches him like a blow to the chest. His mouth quirks into a smirk. “How long have you been here?”

“Too long. I got lumped with a new project a few days ago and it’s almost done,” the monitors shut off one by one as you sheepishly press each button. Then you gave him a soft, apologetic look, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy. Must’ve missed me if you came all the way down here”.

Dread shriked through him. The low whirring from the equipment scattered around your workspace is suddenly inordinately loud. Was he that obvious?

You, however, fail to notice Shouto’s anxiety and grab him around the wrist as you pivot the desk. “C’mon. Let’s go before the good stuff is gone,” you tell him.

Shouto had absolutely no clue what the ‘good stuff’ entailed—maybe he should’ve bothered to ask. Atleast it would take his mind off your hand. It’s wrapped around his sleeve, right where the fabric ends, loose enough for him to unshackle from if he wants. When he doesn’t protest the contact you stroke your thumb in an arc over the heel of his hand and squeeze.

Shouto falls into step, too caught up to realise you’ve taken him to the cafeteria. He expects you’ll drop his wrist in the presence of your colleagues, yet you adjust your grip and glance back at him with an encouraging tilt of your head.

“I’m starving. I think I’ll get a rice bowl. Smells pretty good today, don’t you think?”

Shouto hummed his agreement. He felt out of his depth, and he didn’t trust his voice. The spark of giddiness was doing embarrassing things to his throat. The line is mercifully short and before long he has a warm bowl of food held against his front.

“Did you want to sit in here? I can take us to one of the senior staff lounges instead if you want,” you cast a nervous look across the sparse crowd. “I mean, support engineers aren’t really gossiping types but…”

A petty part of him hoped the whispers would escalate. To have your name linked with his, to be known as a person that you cared about—he found that deeply satisfying, for reasons he couldn’t yet put his finger on.

Then again, being alone with you far eclipsed the appeal of flaunting your friendship. “The senior staff lounge sounds best,” he answers after a minute of feigned consideration. You nod, regretfully having dropped his hand, and motion for him to follow once more.

The lounge is a modest room with a kitchenette, a breakfast nook and a few bean bag chairs. It smells faintly like peeled oranges. There are post it notes and blueprints haphazardly stuck to the pinboard, covering an out of date calendar filled out in illegible scrawl. This is no shop awning. There is no rainfall to lend to the ambiance. But you are together in an enclosed space, and that is enough to make his heart beat in anticipation.

You scoot into the breakfast nook. He sits on the same side of the table and tries to subtly spread his knees enough to nudge your thigh. You side-glance in surprise but choose not to mention it. Instead you smile through your first mouthful and ask, “How've things been since I last saw you?”

Achy, like he’s used an atrophied muscle. Lonely, and frustrating beyond words. But he doesn’t say any of that. He digs crescents into his thigh through his pant leg and says, “Boring”.

“Figured that might be the case. I saw the livestream of you fighting Haywire,” you bump your shoulder against his. “The Commission probably dumped a whole load of paperwork on you, huh?”

Shouto wrinkles his nose. He hoped you hadn’t caught that fight. The pursuit of Haywire—an eco terrorist with an electrical quirk—managed to cause an unprecedented amount of damage to the city infrastructure.

“You handled it as best you could. The power grid can be fixed. What’s important is people are alive because of you,” a warm weight covers the fingers restlessly whittling at his pant leg. You pet his hand, “I’m glad you weren’t hurt”.

Guided solely by his impulses, the instant you start to draw back he envelops the top of your hand and sandwiches it between his own. He goes hot and cold all over in quick succession. Boundaries, he reminds himself. But you’re not pulling away. You’re studying him with a knowing gleam in your eye.

Shouto clears his throat. Heat pricks across his skin, concentrated in his cheekbones. “Sorry,” he says. You can ask, a memory echoes. “Is this okay?”

“You don’t have to apologise. I told you it’s fine,” you reply firmly. “I’m happy to remind you if you need to hear it”.

“No, I…” his brow furrows. “I’ve been thinking”.

“That’s not good”.

Shouto snorts and shakes his head, his amusement petering out into a shallow breath. “I want to ask. I’ve wanted to ask like you said I could,” he explains vaguely. “I’m not very good at it, I think”.

You make a soft, understanding sound that immediately sets him at ease. “I guess, after denying yourself something for so long it can be scary to let yourself have it again,” you murmur, a faraway look in your eyes. After a pensive moment the sheen fades and your laughter lines deepen, “I’ll do what I did before, then. If you look like you need a hug I’ll ask you instead”.

“In what way do I ‘look like’ I need a hug?”

“You get this—I don’t know how to explain it,” you gesture vaguely at him. “This blankness about you, but not your normal resting face, I mean you don’t seem all there. I don’t like it. I like it best when you’re happy”.

“Ah,” comes his eloquent response. Shouto drops his gaze to where your hands knot together. Every quark in his body is urging him to get closer, and remain close. “Bakugo thinks I should try to hug Midoriya, too,” he adds, oddly flustered.

“Huh. You talked to Bakugo about—? That’s a surprise. A nice surprise, I mean! Well, Midoriya does give great hugs. It would be good for you to…”

Shouto’s thoughts grow louder and he frowns down at his rice. You’re saying something about physical touch and wellness and friends. Dopamine and serotonin. It barely registers. Two truths are pinging around his skull.

You have hugged Midoriya. Of course you have. You’re friends.

You think he’s great at it.

Why is that so unsettling? Teenagers think like this. Single minded and overly emotional.

He feels the shifting of your knuckles under his palm. “Hey. You’ll need one of these back if you’re going to eat,” you say.

“Right,” he lifts his left hand and picks up his chopsticks to take a pinch of rice from his bowl. He chews until the clamouring in his mind has settled, and you patiently accept his stoic silence without explanation. Shouto hasn’t been this awkward since highschool, and even then he was too wrapped up in his familial problems to be aware of it.

“What’s the project you’ve been working on?” he eventually asks.

You take the change of topic in your stride, leaning closer and lowering your voice to an excited whisper, “I’m not supposed to tell you but—it’s for Deku’s new costume”.

“Midoriya is getting a new costume?” Shouto replies. You playfully shush him and he pouts a little.

“Don’t sulk. He doesn’t know yet either,” you poke a chopstick at the corner of his jutted mouth. “It’s my job to prepare a design portfolio and talk through everything next week. You’ll get a new one too, when you break the top five”.

“If,” he amends.

“You don’t think you’ll move up?”

“Reaching the top was never really a priority for me,” Shouto’s attention splinters, half of his focus on the conversation and the other on the sensation of your skin. He considers overturning his hand to entwine your fingers. “I just want to be the best hero I can be”.

You hum, and as if plucking the desire right from his mind, absentmindedly slip into the gaps between his fingers. Shouto steadies his breathing and takes another mouthful.

The rest of the hour passes, syrupy and slow like molasses. By the final minute Shouto’s palm is sticky and reluctant to part from yours. You usher him out from the breakfast nook first, stacking the empty bowls before directing him back toward the emptied cafeteria.

You slide the bowls along the counter for the kitchen staff to take. Then you wipe your hands down your front as you pivot to face him, thrusting out both arms as he stands frozen.

“Can I hug you?”

Shouto touches his face and you laugh.

“This is because I want one,” you clarify with a warm grin, beckoning him closer.

Shouto inhales steps into the embrace, his arms instinctively wrapping around your back. There are less layers this time—the heat of your body is overwhelming, alongside the gentle rise of goosebumps across your bare shoulders. Your breath fell gently on his collarbone, his head lowering to curl into you. He thinks, were he not born to be a hero, he must surely be born for this.

“Thank you,” you mumble, squeezing his waste a final time as you retreat. “I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

Shouto nods. Your presence moves away like the sun being blocked out and he watches you go, departing words caught in his teeth, an incessant buzz in his fingertips. The walk back to his office is a gauzy yellow haze. Every physiological response in his body told him that he was in a free fall, despite his feet being firmly on the ground.

“Shouto!”

Shouto halts mid-step at the familiar voice. He turns to look at Izuku, at the tentative beginnings of his smile. “Izuku,” he says.

“We missed you at lunch—are you feeling alright?” Izuku asks, slightly bemused. “You look kinda… floaty,” his eyes are dark, softened in the afternoon light as they sweep over Shouto’s figure and his face.

"Izuku," Shouto said before he could convince himself otherwise, “Do you want a hug?”

The innocent question appeared to crash into Izuku with the levity of a bullet train in motion. Tears sprang to his eyes, brighter now. Shouto tenses as he is swept into a solid hug. Izuku smells like fresh air, sweat and sweet-salty broth. He holds Shouto as though trying to keep his seams from bursting; thick arms are secure around his shoulders, and a rough palm rubs broad strokes down his back, smoothing the tension until Shouto is relaxed.

You were right. Izuku does give great hugs. Shouto came away doughy, and fuller, and with the stark realisation that while touching Izuku soothed the ache, it still felt completely different to touching you.

Later, as he leaned his head against the desk surface, he sluggishly contemplated the implications of that.

[constellationguy]

Lies the Genshin Men say

*little explicit here and there*

Explicit sections: Childe, Dottore-ish, Kaeya, Baizhu

The Harbingers

Pierro: He says he prefers to see you in his colors, mainly blues and black. Truthfully he adores you in red. He can’t keep his hands off you when you wear red. He also buys you anything that’s red, dresses, shoes, lipstick, flowers, all because the color reminds him of you. For events he prefers you to wear jewelry with darling bright sapphires but your jewelry case is filled with too many rubies to count.

Il Capitano: He says he prefers his hair straight and unrestrained. The truth is he will fall asleep if you play with or style his long back hair. Capitano feels the most loved when you are braiding his hair or giving him a scalp massage. When he misses you he braids his hair but he starts at the nape of his neck because his big fingers can’t braid from the top of his head like you do.

Pantalone: He claims he doesn’t care what perfume you wear. This statement is partly true. During galas and social functions he tells you to wear sents that are known to be pricey but not oppressive, expensive and understated he says. However at home he loves your natural sent, with out shame he will set you on his lap and tuck his face into your neck and take a deep breath, it seems like a sigh but he really is smelling you.

Childe: He tells you he loves everything about you equally, but it’s clear that he adores your boobs the most. Ajax loves to hug you from behind and squeeze or caress your chest while hugging you and will whine and beg to let him if you deny him. He loves to burry his head in your chest after a long day. When you don’t wear a bra you can persuade him to do pretty much anything.

Scaramouche: He tells you that he doesn’t care if you learn Japanese or not. In reality his knees will buckle if you call him “anata”, after you two got married. When you speak with him in Japanese he is so much more animated and emotional. His heart swells with pride when you two speak Japanese in domestic settings. Sing to him in Japanese and he will cry and or fall asleep.

Dottore: He claims to be dominant, which he is, most of the time. He will boss anyone around and make them conform to his will, but he will burn the world for you if you wanted. You tell him to jump and he will ask how high. He will also be extra pliant if you tug on his hair a bit.

Mondstadt

Albedo: He tells you he doesn’t mind not having a “domestic” relationship. In truth he loves seeing you play with Klee. He loves when you cook for him. He loves coming home to you, if he could freeze time to stay in those homey moments he would.

Diluc: He tells everyone that he doesn’t play any instraments. However at home he will play the sweetest melodies for you on the piano. His playing is for your ears only. The only other people he will play for is your future children.

Kaeya: He promises you that he will never hurt you. However, he will bite, scratch, and suck on your skin all day every day if you let him. He adores leaving possessive marks on you as well as giving you painful pleasure, the best kind of pleasure in his book.

Venti: He claims to be chill and not possessive at all. But he will stare and scowl at people being flirty with you. He will place his hands possessively on your waist when anyone gets too close to you. He would keep you locked up at home if he could, he just could never share you with anyone.

Liyue

Baizhu: Baizhu claims to dislike your bossiness, but in fact in almost any scenario it kinda turns him on. He loves when you use him for your own pleasure. He loves when you tell him what to do to make you happy or to get you off.

Xiao: He tells you that he doesn’t want anymore people in his life. However, he truly wants a few kids of his own running about, helping him make breakfast for you every morning. The thing he wants most is a family with you.

Zhongli: Not exactly a lie but Zhongli doesn’t like you eating non home cooked food. Any food that isn’t made by someone he trusts, he won’t let you eat. However whenever you’re feeling down or kind of out of it he will order food and bring it home to make you smile.

Inazuma

Goro: He tells everyone who asks that he hates his ears and tail touched, everyone is too rough with them. On the other hand, you’re so gentile with him, when you play with his hair that he can’t help but enjoy when you gently pet his ears.

Kazuha: He will tell you that the world is inspiration. He tells you his poems stem from the sights he sees and emotions he feels as he travels. But in truth Kazuha has not written one poem without you on his mind, you have been his muse and inspiration since you met.

Ayato: He says he doesn’t mind what you wear. But he can’t help but feel happy when you wear the expensive silk sets he bought you. Silk just fits you for some reason. To him silk complements your soft skin perfectly, the smooth reflective fabric just radiants and amplifies your beauty.

Heizo: Whenever he is tired he will go on and on about how he “isn’t sleepy” or how he’s “just gonna rest his eyes.” This man is stubborn when it comes to going to bed. He just wants to spend more time with you. You might have to make him tea and scratch his back while he lays on you to get him to fall asleep without a fuss.

Thoma: He claims to be neither here or there on who cooks meals. In actuality in his brain he cries and begs for your cooking. It could be any cuisine and he will be happy. He just loves your cooking and your adoration especially after a long day of taking care of others.

Itto: Itto tells anyone and everyone that he’s married to you. He just loves you so much and fantasizes about your wedding to much sometimes he forgets you’re not actually married yet.

Sumeru

Alhaitham: He tells you that you can sleep by yourself. In reality you and him both know you can’t sleep without each other. If you’re angry with him and you sleep on the couch you two will end up making up in the night when he comes to pick you up and take you back to your shared bed.

Cyno: He claims to not get jealous often but truthfully he craves your attention and gets jealous when he doesn’t get it. He knows how his friends don’t favor his humor so he gets a little insecure when you laugh at their jokes sometimes. Just know he will be clingy behind closed doors to make up for being jealous of his own friends.

Kaveh: Everyday he tells you that he won’t overwork himself, he will take breaks today. He doesn’t, no matter how determined he is he will not take a break until you make him. On days when he’s stuck in his head you have to visit him while he’s at work or at home so he can come back down to earth here and there.

Tighnari: He will complain anyone who will listen about how he hates going into Sumeru city for one thing or another. However he will be giddy when he goes onto Sumeru City to visit you. While he doesn’t like the city, it isn’t so bad when you’re with him.

Fontaine

Lyney: He claims to love all the ways you touch him. However he does have a favorite, he loves when you scratch and massage his back. When you work through his back with your skilled hands he is a happy groaning mess. After a massage he will be like a napping pile of jello. Cuddles with a now loose muscled Lyney are so heart warming.

Neuvillette: He hates the taste of coffee, that’s a plain fact. However, he can’t help but enjoy the taste of coffee if it’s from your lips. The quick good morning kiss you give him as you sip on your coffee makes his head dizzy instead of disgusted like he normally is at the taste of coffee.

Wriothesley: He claims he doesn’t mind you going out alone or without him. Truthfully you are never actually without his surveillance. He has a tracker on your phone and he sends one of his coworkers to make sure you are always safe.