#Its not a good or respectable need. But its one I have

[lucabyte]

some thoughts on Claude

alt title: diversity win! this Butch Nun is crafting bombs in an unventilated room in her convent while actively courting Mother Superior! Do Not Give Them Access To Unlimited Power No Matter How Nice They Are

+ bonus

[elssero]

pros and cons of my faves being your roommate!

includes- bakugo, kirishima, denki, sero, shinso, izuku, shigaraki and monoma ! (college au makes most sense)

-inspired by @tokeposts post about shinso being a bad roommate ily toke.

bakugo is very clean, he tidies up after himself very well, as in you’ll hardly find even a trace of him living in your shared areas. he’s also an amazing cook, and while he won’t make meals specifically for you in the beginning, if he has leftovers i’d imagine he may leave tupperware with the note ‘leftovers, help yourself.’

however, i think he’s loud. and in the most inconvenient times. its 8am and he’s blasting music while he works out and ur suffering from a horribleee hangover, he does not care.

i would imagine it takes him awhile to open up to you, but when he eventually does he would much rather cook or go to the gym with you compared to watching a movie on the couch. overall a 8/10 roommate because i cannot forgive the early morning wake ups.

kirishima is an absolute sweetheart, introduces himself straight away and attempts to spend time with you immediately. he’s a great conversationalist and i think he would be amazing at making you feel safe and comfortable.

however, i think he’s clumsy. like your replacing your plates once a month type clumsy. he doesn’t mean it! and he always (tries) to clean up after himself! maybe it’s also that he doesn’t quite know his own strength, shattering glass that takes 20 minutes to clean up with just his grip.

he opens up immediately though, offers to walk you to class (even when he doesn’t have one himself sometimes, but you don’t need to know that.) i think he would also introduce you to his friends too, but he always asks very politely before he invited anyone over!

denki is a horrible roommate. he’s messy and forgetful and he can’t cook and god forbid you ask him to do some laundry for you, he’s completely and utterly hopeless.

it’s a shame that he’s so funny. like an absolute joy to be around. he’s interested in you immediately (in more ways than one) and he takes every opportunity to be around you. hes also super good at finding cheep local places for food and drinks etc, always begging to take you to this new restaurant he’s been dying to try.

‘hey so i burnt our dinner, how about i order us takeout and we watch a movie instead?’ -and so becomes your little thursday night tradition of trying all the takeout places that’ll deliver to your place and watching cringy movies to go along with it. it’s adorable really. he SHOULD be like a 2/10 but he’s so charming it makes it hard.

sero is the chillest guy ever, i believe he was brung up with proper manners and he knows how to take care of himself, it’s a very favour for favour situation. he cooks and you do dishes, you do laundry and he takes out the trash, it’s very domestic from the get go.

however, i think he has a problem with just inviting people over. getting home from a longgg lecture and suddenly there’s three boys in your house that you’ve never met and your subjected to a round of questioning when all you want to do is go to bed. sometimes it feels as though he always has company.

he’d realise pretty fast that it was irritating you though, suddenly your getting messages ‘when will you be home so i can kick denki out so we can hang out.’ it’s sweet. i believe he would be more of a series guy than the movie type. don’t you dare watch an episode without him.

shinso is respectful, he never touches any of your stuff, never gets in your way or makes you uncomfortable, you can just go about your life while having him as your roommate.

but you never see him. you hear him, sometimes at all hours of the night when he’s up finishing a project or showering at 4am when you have a lecture at 8. i think he’s also a procrastinator, you ask him to take out the trash at 7.30 before you leave and you get back at 3 and the trash still isn’t taken out.

sometimes you wake up to a delivery from your favorite breakfast spot on the counter though, so that makes up for it.

izuku is so kind, while he’s a little hopeless at first, he’s very eager to learn. you do have to teach him how to do the laundry and how to use the stove, but he gets it after a few tries. once you begin splitting up the household tasks, things get alot easier. especially when you keep finding your favourite snacks in the fridge.

he can sometimes be overbearing, he won’t go as far as to sneak into your room to try and see what type of stuff your into but he might sneak a peak when you leave ur room.

hugeeee on studying together! brings home ur favorite coffee during finals season and you guys spend hours at the table working at your respective subjects, it’s a fun time.

shigaraki is quiet, most of the time, minus the rare scream at his pc. he doesn’t cook- and he sure as hell doesn’t clean, but he also doesn’t really make any mess, barely leaves his room and orders take out for every meal so he’s not really causing much harm.

it’s definitely you that has to make the move to get to know him. he could go months without speaking to you and everything would be fine for him, until you have enough of course.

once he realised that your okay to hang around with you guys start gaming together, he introduces you to his friends over vc and he gets teased relentlessly for taking forever to become your friend. he starts ordering take out for two.

monoma is the fucking worst, absolutely helpless, huge rich kid energy, i’d even go as far to say he genuinely offers to pay you to do his half of the household chores. if you refuse he’ll probably mope around for a few days before he begrudgingly asks you how to use the washing machine, it’s a grilling few weeks, but you guys get over it.

he’s a hugeee gossiper, knows everything about everyone, you find out things about people that you don’t even know, he can piont to have the people on your walk to campus and tell you a story about them. absolute shit stirrer.

offers to take you to this super nice restaurant free of charge… makes up for the weeks you spend literally teaching him to be an adult… no other reason… it’s literally only to make things even… definitely not a date….

[genderkoolaid]

i'm venting, so feel free to ignore this- idk how to explain what i mean all that well so forgive me if this is a Mess. I'm really tired of people telling me to just keep living out of spite. Or that I have to keep living because me 'living' is a act of resistance. It just makes me feel so tired. and Mad. I lack the words to really explain it but i just. Why do I have to keep going on spite? Why does my existence have to be a act of resistance or be politicized? I don't want to keep Living out of spite or because people say i have to. I think its mostly because I'm just exhausted and I think I'm burned out and Tired of being told i need to survive off of spite, or being told i just need to keep going because i have to. sorry for dumping this in ur ask. stuff is just hard n idk if you or anyone else gets what i mean.

This is a very understandable way to feel! I'm also not super into "living out of spite" myself. I'm glad it works for many people (being alive is good!), but it can get tiring when that is the dominant advice you are receiving and you know it's not gonna work for you. Idk if this is part of your experience but I know as a chronically suicidal person, it can also get exhausting constantly being reminded (sometimes in ways that feel condescending) that you are expected to want to live and if you don't want to live, that's Bad and you must Correct Yourself.

If you want an alternative perspective to chew on, here's my personal outlook:

Having the chance to be alive is good. Being alive is a complex experience, but one that enriches the universe, and that matters a lot to me spiritually. There is only one you, with your unique body and experiences and thoughts and choices. Death is inevitable, so when possible we should try to spend as much time as we can living our lives, adding to the cosmos, trying our bests to have a good time.

Its a fucked up time ahead, and it's fucked up time now. Life was never going to be free of suffering, and it's a pointless tragedy that people cause all this extra suffering on top it.

But the time will pass anyways. We have the chance to be alive right now, and all we can do is keep going. It's not an act of resistance, it's just accepting the presence of your right to existence, and making us of it.

Gonna once again reference Alexandre Baril's concept of suicidism (the oppression of suicidal people) and mention that while I think it's very respectable to try and give people reasons not to die– it's the last decision you can ever make, and it shouldn't be done lightly– oftentimes people end up reinforcing the idea of people who died by their own choice as, in some way, failures. I don't think this is fair. I'm not going to begrudge anyone the choice of when they want to stop living. I don't think anyone is obligated to live until they are forced to stop. I don't think any oppressed person who had died by suicide has "let their oppressors win."

Give yourself space to feel however you need to about your life. It's alright to feel tired of living; that's entirely understandable. Your relationship with your life is your own and it does not need to be justified to anyone.

[bridenore]

HD Erised 2024 recs

Here are some of my favorite fics from @hd-erised 2024. Listed in alphabetical order.

All These Winding Threads by @starquestingfordrarry [35k]

The tides of Draco’s accidental magic pull him under and leave him gasping. There’s a hungry ache that sits deep in his bones, growing worse every day. Soon it’s all he’ll be, a starving skeleton clawing at its throat. He needs a solution. Unfortunately, that solution looks an awful lot like Harry Potter.

As Luck Would Have It by @sleepstxtic [12k]

In Sixth-Year, Harry and Draco both win a vial of Felix Felicis from Slughorn and, under its influence, have sex in the Room of Requirement. In the aftermath, can Draco and Harry navigate their respective roles in the war, while grappling with their burgeoning feelings for each other?

Body and Soul by Justlikewriting [22k]

When the headaches became worse and it got more and more difficult for Draco to work, he was left with no other choice but to recognise his stupid problem exactly for what it was. Even if that meant realising that the best, or perhaps even only, solution could solely come from one person: the one person he hadn’t seen for months, the one person he was still in love with. The one person who should never know. Because, clearly, Harry would never be able to give Draco what he needed anyway.

A Dragon to Call Mine by @fantalfart [24k]

Well, Harry is tired. Somewhat. He’s been The Boy Who Lived for quite a few years now—or what Harry privately likes to call himself; The Boy Whose Life Is Continuously Messed Up By External Forces or The Boy Who Can’t Take a Break or The Boy Who Gets to Keep Living Indefinitely or The Boy Who Is So Done or even The Boy Who Is, Apparently, Never Taking Time Off—and it never really gets better. Easier, yes; boring even, but never better. So, when he was about to finish his speech that morning, when a rogue dark spell was aimed at him and that dragon showed up, white scales blanketed by the sun, Harry almost grinned. Because seeing the creature felt more like finally than it did danger. — Or, Harry finds out that living with a dramatic, opinionated dragon might be everything he’s ever wished for.

Equally Cursed and Blessed by @moonflower-rose [18k]

Harry's back at Hogwarts to attempt his final year, again. This time he's sure there'll be no shenanigans. Well. Maybe there'll be a few.

In a Year’s Turning by @hoko-onchi-writes [89k]

There’s an undeniable crackle in the air. Draco knows it down to his marrow. Can never unknow it. He doesn’t have to turn to know that Harry is standing at the library entrance. The hair on the back of Draco’s neck prickles. They’ve avoided one another for nine years. Managed not to run into one another during the week of Andy’s funerary rites. They’ve glimpsed one another several times. But they never came close enough to speak. Draco’s kept to their rules for most of a decade. Letters only. Plans for Teddy. Updates on Pansy’s gardens. No references to the Christmas of 2001. Draco spares a moment to grieve that he couldn’t have put this off another nine years. Then, he turns. “Hi,” Harry says. Draco’s throat aches. “Hello. It’s been a while.” Harry quirks a smile. "I wondered where that top went." -- Or: Harry is struggling to raise Teddy by himself. Enter Draco.

Just a little liquid luck by @smehur [5k]

Draco unbuttons his cuffs and the first three buttons at the neck and pulls both his shirt and his vest up over his head. “Oh,” comes a shuddery sigh from the other side of the bed. “No, leave it,” Potter hurries to say when Draco moves to smooth his hair back into place. “It’s just. It’s. Good. Like that.” Draco smirks, though he dares not look down at himself and the expanse of the flush burning hot stamps into his flesh. Tracking the movement of Potter’s eyes, he runs a greasy finger over the thickest of his scars. “You like them, don’t you? Pervert.” Potter tosses his head back, jostling the mass of his curly fringe from his forehead. “I bet you were into scars long before you had any of your own, Malfoy.” Yes, Draco wants to say. I want to lick yours. What he says instead is, “Fuck you.” “Fuck you,” Potter echoes, putting the same pregnant emphasis on the F. Draco bites his lower lip, wrestling down the rise of euphoria. “Your turn,” he says. “Take that off.”

The Most Splendid Thing by @lqtraintracks [61k]

Star Quidditch rivals Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter become accidentally bonded. They still hate each other, but now it’s untenable to leave each other’s sides—and my, but it feels oh so good to touch. They’re either going to murder one another, or fall in love. OR: A story in which Draco finally allows himself happiness, and Harry finally learns that he deserves to be whole.

Old love don't rust by tray_la_la [20k]

“Why do you keep coming?” Malfoy asked at last. Harry mulled over the question. For a moment he debated trying to turn the tables and asking Malfoy the very same thing. But this time he didn’t want to hold back. “Because I can’t stop,” Harry said.

The Pain From an Old Wound by @citrusses [30k]

Getting hit with a mysterious blood curse is all in a day’s work for Harry Potter. Having to work with his former colleague, rival, bully, and boyfriend, is not. Harry’s not sure which is going to do him in first: the curse sucking his magic dry, or Draco Malfoy, as frustrating, condescending, and painfully attractive as he’s always been.

palindrome by @garagepaperback [25k]

“Why did you let me kiss you?” Potter smirks. “That’s not how I remember it. Why did you let me kiss you?” “I’m stuck in a time loop. You’re not going to remember, so.” Draco’s tongue drags, calcified around the words. “Why not.” Potter’s brows furrow but the smile stays undented. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

Runaway Train by iota / @sorrybutblog [18k]

Harry was already keen to figure out what’s been causing a series of disturbances in the London Underground before Draco Malfoy showed up acting suspicious. Two explosions, several very confused Muggles, and a cloud of mysterious sticky powder later, Harry and Malfoy can’t seem to keep their hands off each other. Can Harry shag his way to the answer to all of his questions? Seems unlikely, but what can a man do but try?

A Soft Place to Fall by @amomorii [142k]

When Harry arrives for his first year teaching at Hogwarts and is struck with a bizarre malignance, how on earth is he supposed to react when Draco Malfoy suddenly cares? Or; A darkness crawls out of Harry, and there's only so long he can keep it to himself.

Storm's Eye by @shiftylinguini [12k]

Harry's surprised that Draco didn't have wards up preventing mortally wounded former school mates-turned-ghosted work fellows from bursting into his house. In Harry's addled mind, this seems like a great opening line to say to Draco's gobsmacked face. He doesn't get that far, though. Or: Harry gets hurt, Draco is a vanishing alchemist who may or may not be able to save the day, but under no circumstances are either of them willing to talk about Their Feelings. Well. Maybe "mortal peril" circumstances will do it, actually.

Sub rosa by @tessacrowley [37k]

After the tragic and unexpected death of his mother, Draco Malfoy’s quiet life as Potions Master, Hogwarts professor, and Head of Slytherin gets upended—first by the manifestation of mysterious and inexplicable magic, and then by the revelation of an inheritance deliberately hidden from him his entire life.

Where Starlight Falls by @agentmoppet [33k]

The magic concealing Sirius’s Last Will and Testament doesn’t reveal the full extent of Harry’s inheritance until two years after the war. When it does, it turns out that Harry has inherited more than just the Black Family vault—he’s inherited the family’s magic, too. He just has to find it first. And he needs Draco Malfoy’s help to do it.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

[jetii]

Light in the Dark

Pairing: Hound x fem!Reader

Words: 13,250

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! fluff, hurt/comfort, coworkers/friends to lovers, black cat/golden retriever dynamic, reader is a medical examiner so there's some gore/corpse talk, anxious/insecure reader, we love men who respect boundaries, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f recieving), biting/marking

Summary: On a bustling planet like Coruscant, you enjoy the comfort and solitude of your profession, even though it can be lonely. The only one who can't seem to let you be alone is Hound.

A/N: First fic back after my little break from one-shots! I've been kind of trapped in a rut with life stuff and struggling to adopt the "write for yourself and not for others" mindset, and this is the first fic in a while I wrote truly just bc I wanted to and it felt good. Hope you enjoy!

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

Coruscant has never been your favorite place. It's not the people, though they are numerous and can be rather rude, or the architecture, though it is both imposing and suffocating. No, you’ve decided, the reason that you hate Coruscant is the fact that it is so damn bright all the time.

A hundred sunrises are reflected by a hundred different buildings, a hundred sunsets by a hundred more, and even when the clouds are thick enough to obscure the sky, the city still glows with an unnatural, garish light that’s almost impossible to adjust to.

It's why you prefer to spend your time in the lower levels of the planet-wide metropolis, where the shadows are as thick and comforting as the air is stale and the smells are unpleasant. You don't care. The neon signs, the advertisements, and the glow of the holonet broadcasts keep the streets and walkways lit well enough for you to see what's in front of you. The dimness suits your mood better than the glaring brightness of the upper levels.

It's also why you found yourself in perhaps the most undesirable profession on the entire planet, despite the fact that your talents could have seen you gain a much better one. When the only place you're comfortable is in the quiet dark, why not work there, too?

Being a medical examiner might not seem like a glamorous job, but there are days when it's better than having to deal with living patients or, Force forbid, their family members. In the end, the dead don't judge. They also can't complain. It's a win-win situation.

It's nice. On a planet where you have no space, no quiet, no solitude, you're grateful for the morgue and its constant stream of silence and stillness. You don't need to be around others when they're alive, anyway. They just make things complicated.

Most of the time, you're left alone to your own devices. No one's eager to hang out with the corpse doctor in the basement of Coruscant Guard precinct. That's fine. You like your solitude, your peace and quiet, your personal space. 

And the only problem, the only disruption, is Hound, who also happens to enjoy your personal space.

The clone is... odd. He's tall and broad, his skin a rich, earthy brown and his hair a dark, curly mass that always looks unruly. It's hard to believe that he's a member of the Republic's military, what with his lopsided smile and easygoing manner, but you've seen him in action. He's fast and deadly, with a calm, steady gaze that is belied by the manic gleam in his eyes.

And he likes you.

You aren't sure why. It's not as if you're particularly friendly, or that you've gone out of your way to befriend him. In fact, you're pretty sure that your attitude toward him has been less than warm. You aren't sure how it happened, but you're fairly certain it started the first time he'd visited the morgue.

There's a door at the top of the stairs that leads directly into the lab, a metal slab that swings open with the slightest touch, and he'd stepped inside, glanced around, and flashed a crooked smile that made your stomach flip-flop. It had taken him less than a minute to locate you, and the next thing you knew, he was standing beside you, watching you work.

At the time, you'd barely spared him a glance. He was a new face, and not one you were interested in looking at. There were things that needed doing. Reports that needed writing. A body on the table that needed cutting open and dissecting. All of those were more important than a stranger, and so you'd ignored him until he spoke.

"What are you doing?"

You'd answered without looking at him, your hands deep in the cadaver's abdominal cavity, your fingers wrapped around a lung. "My job."

"You're the new M.E.?"

"No, I'm a serial killer who's pretending to be a medical examiner so that I can have access to the morgue."

He’d laughed. You didn't. It had been a long day, and you weren't in the mood to deal with some joker who didn't have the sense not to interrupt a forensic pathologist while she's in the middle of an autopsy. 

Your answer had apparently been the right one, though, because he'd nodded and said, "Good. The last one was an idiot."

You'd blinked at that, your head slowly turning to look at him. It wasn't a joke. He was serious. You'd had to swallow the smile that threatened to surface, and instead gave him a cool, polite nod. 

"That's good to know."

You'd returned to the autopsy then, but not before seeing the way his eyes had lit up. Not before seeing the spark of interest, the challenge. It wasn't the kind of attention you wanted, and it certainly wasn't the kind of attention you expected to keep. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, he kept coming back, and somehow, you'd found yourself looking forward to his visits.

That had been a year ago. A year, and every few days, he was back.

You're in the middle of the autopsy of a man who was found dead in an alley when you hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs behind you. You don't have to look up to know that it's Hound, because his gait is unique to him. He walks heavy and fast, not because he's in a hurry, but because he's too large and too solid to do anything else.

Biting back a sigh, you look up. 

"I thought I told you I'm busy today."

"Hello to you too," Hound laughs. He's still peeking around the doorway, watching you, his head tilted to the side. He looks like an excited puppy. Fitting for his namesake, and, unfortunately, quite endearing. "Can I come down?"

You set your scalpel down and give him an exasperated look. "Since when have you ever asked?"

"Since you told me to," he replies as he pulls off his helmet and fixes you with a grin so blinding, you nearly flinch. Against your will, a flutter of butterflies rises up in a wave in your stomach, and you look away from him to try and hide your blush.

"I did?" you ask. You think back to your conversations with him. Had you asked him not to barge into your workplace and distract you with his... Hound-ness? You honestly can't remember. "Huh."

"So can I come down or not?" 

He's still grinning, and he's still standing half-in, half-out of the doorway. His dark eyes are fixed on you, and there's no denying the excitement in them.

You pause, both to gather your thoughts and to make it seem like you're deliberating. You don't need another distraction right now. You really, really don't. But the longer you hold out, the more his eyes light up and the wider his smile gets, and, damn it, you can't help it.

"Where is she?" you ask instead, pulling off your gloves and crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Hound gives a dramatic sigh and steps aside, and Grizzer comes bounding down the stairs straight for you. Her nails scrape and clack against the floor as she skids to a stop at your feet, and before you can even kneel down, she's on her side with her legs kicking in the air, tongue lolling out of her mouth full of dagger-sharp teeth. She's begging you for belly rubs, and how are you supposed to deny that?

"What am I, chopped liver?" Hound asks, sounding put out.

You look up at him, one hand scratching the spot under Grizzer's chin that makes her leg twitch, and raise a brow. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, his helmet dangling from his fingertips, and his hair is wild and curling from being confined for so long.

"You aren't here for a belly rub," you reply, and a flush rises up on his cheeks. You bite back a smile. "Or are you?"

"No, but I wouldn't mind one."

His grin is back, and you roll your eyes.

"Get out of my lab," you order, pushing Grizzer's shoulder gently until she rolls over onto her feet and stands, panting happily. 

"But I brought you lunch!" Hound protests.

"You did?" 

Your eyebrows raise in surprise as you glance up at him, then at the paper bag in his hand. You hadn't expected that, and it throws you off a bit. You'd assumed he'd come down here because he was bored. And you weren't entirely sure how he'd managed to afford food for the two of you on the Guard's budget, either.

Your confusion must show on your face, because he laughs. 

"Grizzer and I saved a tooka from a high-rise balcony today," he explains. "The guy owned a restaurant and gave us lunch in thanks. I thought you'd be hungry, so..."

His sentence trails off, and he looks suddenly unsure of himself, as if he's made a mistake. Your heart flutters and then does a double-take, and the warmth in your cheeks spreads down your neck. He'd bought lunch for you? How is this the same man who had been so obnoxious and annoying the first time you'd met him? How is it possible that he's still here, still trying, when you're convinced you haven't given him an inch of encouragement?

You quickly stand and reach out to take the bag from him. You don't miss the way his eyes widen slightly at the gesture, and his fingers brush against yours as you take the food.

"Thanks, Hound," you mutter. You muster a small smile for him, and you're rewarded by the sight of a blush creeping down his neck and the tips of his ears. "That was really thoughtful of you."

He shrugs and looks away, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "Yeah, well, it's not a big deal or anything."

It is a big deal, though, and the realization settles over the two of you like a blanket. It's not often that someone goes out of their way to do something nice for you. You can count on one hand the number of people who've done so since you moved to Coruscant, and Hound is at the top of that list.

"Anyway, we've got the afternoon off, so I thought I'd swing by and see what you're doing," he continues. He's clearly eager to change the subject, and you can't blame him. This whole situation has suddenly become awkward.

"Well, right now, I'm in the middle of an autopsy," you say, gesturing vaguely at the dead man lying on the table between you. Hound leans over and takes a long look at him, then wrinkles his nose.

"He smells bad."

You roll your eyes.

"Dead people tend to," you point out, and he laughs.

"I noticed." He gives the cadaver a long, hard stare, and after a moment, says, "Stabbed in the back."

"I haven't started yet," you protest, and he shakes his head.

"Didn't need to," he replies. He points at the body. "Knife went in here, hit the kidneys. It's messy, and whoever did it was either in a hurry or didn't know what they were doing. My guess is the latter."

"What makes you say that?"

"No defensive wounds." He's pointing at the hands now, the fingers still curled as if they were grasping for something. "He was caught by surprise."

"You're right," you say, impressed. "Maybe I should get you to do this instead."

He grins at you, all cocky confidence and charm.

"If you wanted to spend more time with me, you could have just asked."

"Don't flatter yourself," you retort. You're fighting back a smile, though, and it's a losing battle. "Go sit over there and leave me alone."

"Fine, fine."

He raises his hands in surrender and goes to sit at the table in the small kitchenette, Grizzer at his heels. While you clean your hands and put away the equipment you'd been using, he pulls off his gloves, sets his helmet on the table, and pulls the food out of the bag.

"There's a lot of food here," you remark, and Hound nods.

"Yeah, the owner insisted. I think he felt guilty that his tooka almost fell."

"How did that happen, anyway?" you ask. Hound looks down at Grizzer, then back up at you, and smiles sheepishly.

"Grizzer may have chased it up the side of the building," he admits. You snort. Of course she did.

"Well, it's good to know the Guard is keeping the people safe," you tease, and he grins.

"We do our best."

"Mm."

You settle across the table from him and begin to unpack the food. You pull out the cartons and containers and spread them out on the table between you, and you can feel Hound's eyes on you the entire time.

"So, how's it going?" he asks, and you give him a flat look.

"What do you mean, how's it going?" You pick up a dumpling and bite into it, pointing at the other boxes of food with the remains. "Eat."

He picks up the container of noodles and fishes around for a piece of meat with his chopsticks, then shrugs.

"I dunno, you've just seemed kinda down lately."

"Down?" you echo. You raise an eyebrow at him. "I'm a forensic pathologist, Hound. How exactly am I supposed to be 'up'?"

"You know what I mean."

He's giving you a look, and you sigh. Yes, you know what he means. You know that he knows when you're upset or anxious, and you know that he can see right through the mask of cool indifference you wear when you're trying to hide it.

"It's just a little crowded up here," you say. You're not going to talk about this, not with him, not now. Maybe not ever. But you can tell him a little, just enough to ease his worry.

He nods. "It's loud."

"Loud," you agree, and take a sip of your water. It's loud, yes, and there are far too many people. Sometimes, you want to scream. The sheer amount of life pressing down on you can be overwhelming, and the silence and stillness of the morgue is a balm on the ragged edges of your psyche. "And bright."

"Too much light," he agrees, and you give him a wan smile.

"Right."

He's quiet for a few minutes while you eat, and you're grateful. It's nice, sometimes, to have someone to share the silence with. Nice, too, to not have to fill it with unnecessary words. Sometimes, just the presence of another person is enough.

After a while, though, the quiet becomes too much for him, and he speaks.

"Are you not happy here?"

The question catches you off guard, and you nearly drop the dumpling you're holding. "Happy?"

"Yeah." His brow furrows, and his frown deepens. "Do you not want to be here?"

"Of course not," you say automatically, and he winces. The look on his face sends a jolt through you, and you realize your mistake. I mean, I do! But..." You pause, thinking. How can you explain this? How can you put it into words? "I don't fit here, Hound."

"You fit fine."

His response is quick, almost desperate. You can see the worry in his eyes, the uncertainty, the fear. Does he think you're leaving? Do you want to leave?

That's a question you've been asking yourself for months now. You'd left Eadu, and the only place you'd known as home, in order to start a new life. You'd chosen a career, a city, a place to live, and a path that would make your parents proud. And you're here, but you're not. You're just floating through life, going through the motions and keeping yourself busy, but it doesn't mean anything. Nothing has purpose, and nothing is permanent. You don't even have any friends.

Except...

You look across the table at Hound, who is still frowning. He's worried about you. The realization makes your stomach flip-flop again, and the dumpling you'd just eaten suddenly feels like a stone.

He's actually, genuinely, truly worried about you. He's the first person to actually care about your wellbeing in a long time, and it's not just him. He brought you food. He's always trying to make you laugh. He brings Grizzer down every chance he gets. He wants you to be happy.

"I don't know," you finally say, and your voice is soft and uncertain. "I just... feel like something's missing."

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" he asks, his voice soft.

You don't have an answer. You've been here for a year now, and yet, you feel as if it's only been a few weeks. As if it's still the beginning. Maybe you've gotten a little further, but not enough. 

You haven't settled in, but the thought of leaving Coruscant is a terrifying one. There's nothing left for you back home. Your family doesn't want you there. The planet is too cold, and it's too wet, and the skies are too dark. You prefer the artificial sunlight and the artificial warmth and the bright lights that never turn off. 

The only problem is the people. They're everywhere, all the time. In your apartment building. In the precinct. In the cantinas. On the speeders. And you hate the crowds. You hate the noise. You hate the way everyone is always talking, and the way they walk with no regard for anyone else, and the way they never seem to shut up, and...

Hound is still watching you, his expression worried. You shake your head and manage a smile.

"No," you say, taking another bite of the dumpling. "I think I'll stick around a little longer."

"Good."

His relief is palpable, and a wave of guilt washes over you. How did he manage to wriggle his way into your life? Why does he care about what happens to you? How does he even know what's wrong?

You don't have any answers, and the more you try to figure it out, the more confused you become. It's just Hound. He's just a clone. He's a good guy, a kind man, a decent human being, but why is he different from the others?

You've met other clones. You've met other guards. They're all polite and courteous, but none of them have gone out of their way to befriend you. None of them have spent the time and energy Hound has, and none of them have ever given you a reason to trust them. Not like Hound has. Not like he continues to.

He's always around, always ready to lend a hand. He's a constant presence in your life, a constant source of comfort and support. You didn't ask for him, and yet, there he is, a bright light in the darkness that surrounds you.

"I mean, I don't have a reason to go anywhere," you say. You're trying to sound casual, but you're failing. His eyes are focused on your face, and he's not blinking. You're not sure what's happening, or why, but it's making you uncomfortable. "But if I did, it'd be too much trouble to uproot everything and move, right?"

"Right."

"Besides, I have a job. And an apartment. And my boss isn't a complete dick, which is more than most people can say." You smile at him, but his expression doesn't change. He's still looking at you, his dark eyes intense, and the feeling of unease grows. "And I like my work. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes it's boring."

"I understand," he says, nodding. He doesn't smile. You swallow hard, then look down at your plate.

"And... I don't know, there are perks." You give a small shrug, trying to seem nonchalant, and hope that the sudden heat in your cheeks isn't noticeable.

"Perks?" he asks. His eyebrows rise, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Like what?"

"You know," you say, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Things."

"What things?"

He's teasing you, now, and you're blushing.

"Just things." You shove the rest of the dumpling into your mouth and chew slowly, trying to buy yourself some time. "Grizzer. And, um..."

"And?" 

Hound is smiling at you now, and it's hard not to return it. It's just so damn contagious. It's like looking at the sun, or standing next to a star. It's hard to look away.

"Don't make me say it."

"I wanna hear you say it."

"Hound..."

"Please?"

"Ugh, fine," you sigh. You roll your eyes and set the empty dumpling container aside, then lean back in your chair. "You, okay? Happy now?"

His smile widens, lighting up his entire face. It's impossible not to smile back. You can feel it spreading across your face, and there's nothing you can do about it.

"Yeah, actually. I'm pretty happy," he says, his voice soft. "Thanks."

"Good. Now shut up and eat."

You look down at the remaining food, but suddenly, you're no longer hungry. Instead, you find yourself glancing at him from beneath your lashes. He's digging back into the noodles, and Grizzer is sprawled out at his feet, chewing on a bone.

Maybe it's not so bad.

It becomes a routine after that.

Hound comes down almost every day after his shift to hang out and have lunch with you. Sometimes he brings Grizzer, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he has food, sometimes he doesn't. It's not much, but it's something. It's a bit of comfort, a bit of normality, a bit of light in the otherwise dull, colorless life you're living.

And once, when you're knee-deep in a complicated case and you forget to eat, he brings food down for you anyway. He doesn't stay. He just leaves it on the table and goes back upstairs, but not before making sure you know it's there. It's a simple gesture, and it's sweet, and it makes your heart flutter.

You aren't used to that. You aren't used to people going out of their way to make sure that you're taken care of. It's not something you've ever really experienced. But now that you've seen it, felt it, you aren't sure if you'll be able to live without it.

The next time he comes down, you're not surprised. You're expecting him. Hound still waits for permission to enter your space, and you're secretly pleased by that. You're grateful that he respects the boundaries you've set, especially since most people don't. They think they can intrude, can walk right into the lab, because they have clearance. Hound, however, does not, and so he always knocks. Always waits. Always gives you a moment to prepare.

You've also gotten used to his presence, and it's easy enough to keep working while he chats away.

Today, though, the conversation has died, and you've gone back to your paperwork. He's quiet, and there's an odd tension in the air that you can't quite pinpoint. You can feel it, and you're fairly certain that he can, too. You want to ask, but you don't. You know him well enough by now to know that he'll tell you if something's bothering him.

"Hey," he finally says, and you look up from your work. He's sitting across the room, still eating his food, but he's not looking at you. His attention is fixed on the table, his jaw clenched.

"What's up?" you ask, trying to sound casual. Trying not to show your concern. He's fidgeting with the lid of the empty food container, his hands moving faster than usual.

"Are you busy later tonight?"

"Probably," you say. "Why?"

"Just curious," he says with a shrug, and he turns his attention back to his meal.

He's lying. He's a terrible liar, and the fact that he's refusing to make eye contact only proves that something's wrong. You put down the stylus you'd been using and turn your chair to face him, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Why?"

He shrugs again and shoves a large bite of noodles into his mouth.

"Hound."

He chews and swallows, and the frown deepens. He doesn't answer.

"Hound," you repeat, a bit more forcefully. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're obviously upset about something," you point out. You lean forward in your chair and rest your elbows on your knees, watching him. "Did I do something? Did I piss off someone in the Guard again? I swear, they can't handle constructive criticism."

He shakes his head, a small smile playing across his lips. "No. It's nothing like that."

"Then what is it?"

He opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head again. His dark curls bounce around his face, and you're distracted for a moment. Then, before you can ask again, he stands. He gathers the garbage from the table and puts it into the recycler, then heads for the stairs.

"Hound."

He freezes in his tracks, his shoulders stiffening. He looks like he's debating whether or not to leave. Finally, he turns and gives you a sheepish smile, his face turning red. 

"There's an officer's gala tonight," he says, and your brow furrows. What's so bad about that?

"Okay," you say slowly.

Hound stares at you, his jaw clenching and unclenching, as if he's waiting for a response. You have no idea what he wants you to say, or how you're supposed to respond, and so you wait. You sit and stare, and his discomfort grows.

"I'm invited," he says. He's starting to fidget again, and his voice is quieter. "They're supposed to have good food and decent booze. It'll be a nice night out."

"Sounds like fun," you hum, nodding. Not for you, but that's not the point. He's a social person, and you're not. It makes sense. "I'm glad you're going."

"So, are you coming with me?"

Your jaw drops, and you nearly fall out of your chair. It takes a second for the question to sink in, and even longer for it to register. Is he serious? Does he really expect you to go with him? To an event where there will be dozens, if not hundreds, of people? You're not sure if he's joking or not. If this is a trick, it's a cruel one.

"Wait, what?"

Hound looks like he wants to disappear, and the flush on his cheeks has darkened.

"I mean, you don't have to," he says, shaking his head. "It's fine. I know it's not really your scene, but I thought maybe—"

"You're serious?" you ask. Your heart is pounding. You can feel it in your throat, and in your chest, and in your ears.

"Well, I figured, y'know, since I have to go, I might as well make the most of it. So I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," he says, his voice a low rumble. He's practically mumbling, and you have to strain your ears to hear him. "As, y'know, a date. Maybe."

"Me?" you ask, barely able to find your voice.

"Yes, you," he laughs. It's a bit forced, and the nervousness in his voice is obvious. "No one else is down here, so I'd have to be talking to them."

"Right, but..."

"Look, if you don't want to, it's fine," he says. "I know this isn't your thing. I just thought, y'know, we could spend some time together, outside of this place."

You stare at him, unsure of what to say or do. He wants to take you out on a date? He wants you to be his date to the gala? He wants to spend time with you outside of the morgue, when there are other things that could easily catch his attention? He actually wants to spend time with you, of all people?

"Hound, I... I don't think..." Your voice trails off, and you clear your throat, trying to find the words. How do you tell him that it's not a good idea without hurting his feelings?

"Oh." His face falls, and he looks so disappointed that you immediately feel guilty.

"No, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, I get it," he interrupts, waving his hand. He forces a smile. It's fake, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "You're right, it's a dumb idea."

"That's not what I meant," you insist.

"It's cool, don't worry about it."

"Hound, I'm sorry—"

"No, it's fine. It's my fault for bringing it up."

"I don't—"

"It was a stupid idea. Just forget about it. We can—"

"I want to!”

You blurt the words before you can stop yourself, and the moment they're out of your mouth, you wish you could take them back. Your face is hot, and your hands are trembling, and the butterflies are beating their wings against your stomach, but the damage is done. You've already said it, and the shock on Hound's face only confirms it.

"You want to?" he asks, his brows raised.

"Yeah." You duck your head, staring intently at the floor. It's easier than looking at him. "I want to. I'm just... Not good with social stuff."

"You're better than you think," Hound says, his tone soft and warm.

You give a small shrug, and a heavy silence falls over the room. After a few seconds, he speaks again.

"Look, the gala is gonna be boring as hell," he says, and you peek up at him through your lashes. He's grinning, and the warmth in his gaze makes your heart skip a beat. "Everyone there is just gonna be kissing each other's asses, and it'll be the same people as always. The same stupid conversations, the same stupid stories, the same stupid shit. And it's not gonna be fun."

"Wow, sounds like a great date," you say sarcastically.

"But if you're there, then it'll be bearable," he finishes. "You'll make it fun. You're always funny, and interesting, and... And..."

His voice trails off, and his face is beet-red. You bite back a smile. He's never this flustered. It's adorable, and it's also a boost to your ego.

"Are you sure?" you ask. "I mean, I don't exactly have a pretty dress, or anything like that. I'm not exactly high-society material."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Wear whatever's comfortable."

"You're sure I'm not gonna be in the way?"

"I'm positive."

"And if I get bored or overwhelmed?"

"Then we can leave and do something else."

"Really?"

"Really."

You pause, thinking, then nod. "Okay. Yeah, sure. I'll come."

"You will?" He looks excited, and his smile widens. "You really will?"

"Yeah," you say, laughing.

"Alright!"

Hound pumps his fist in the air and gives a whoop of victory, then bounds over and wraps his arms around you. Before you can protest, he picks you up and swings you around.

"Hound, put me down!"

After one more swing, he does, and you nearly collapse into his chest. You're dizzy, but his grin is infectious, and soon, you're smiling back. 

"Sorry," he laughs.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're amazing."

The compliment is given so easily, and it's so earnest, that your face heats up. You look away from him, not wanting him to see how much the words mean.

"Anyway," you mutter, pushing him away. "Go do something useful, and let me get back to work."

"Yes sir," he says.

He snaps a salute, his expression still bright, and then turns and runs up the stairs. Grizzer chuffs once, then follows him. He looks so excited that you can't help but smile, and the butterflies finally settle.

It's going to be fine.

It's not fine.

As soon as your shift ends, you race back to your hole-in-the-wall apartment and tear through your closet, looking for something, anything, that doesn't scream 'I'm socially awkward and I have no idea what I'm doing.'

But the clothes that you brought from Eadu are simple and functional. You hadn't been planning on attending any galas or balls or fancy parties. There's nothing here that screams classy or elegant or sophisticated. It's all cheap, practical, and serviceable, and you're quickly losing hope.

You're about to call the whole thing off when you see a dress tucked into the corner, hidden beneath a stack of towels. You frown, unsure how it got there, then snatch it up and hold it up in front of you.

It's a nice dress, one that your mother had forced you into for a cousin's wedding several years ago. It's a dark, deep blue that fades to black, and the sleeves are long and sheer. The fabric is soft, and it's still in good shape, which means you probably shouldn't have left it buried in the closet for so long.

Sighing, you carry the dress to the bathroom and change. The dress is a little loose, but it's not too bad, and you're able to tighten it enough so it fits. It's not as bad as you remember, and the longer you look at it, the better you feel. This is fine. You can pull this off. It'll be a lot better than the shapeless smock you wear every day, and at least Hound will appreciate the effort.

Your hair is a different story.

It's a mess, and your fingers aren't much help. You're tempted to cut it all off, but you'd promised yourself that you'd never go that route again, no matter how frustrating it is. You need help, and you've got half a mind to comm the office and ask the receptionist for some advice, but she's not much better off than you are. You're just going to have to improvise.

An hour later, you're ready. Or as ready as you're going to be.

The dress fits nicely, and the makeup is the same dark shade as the dress, so at least it goes well together. Your hair is still a bit messy, but you've managed to get it into a bun and pin it down so that most of it is out of your face. You've even found a pair of heels in the back of the closet, and though they pinch a little, they're not unbearable.

When you step outside, the first thing you notice is that the sun is setting. That's not a good sign, because it means that you've already wasted an hour and a half doing nothing.

The second thing you notice is that Hound is leaning against the wall opposite your door, wearing his formal uniform.

He looks gorgeous.

You've never seen him dressed up like this, and it takes a few moments for you to register the sight. The uniform is crisp and clean, with gold buttons and a high collar. There's a single stripe across his chest, signifying his rank, and he's got a medal pinned to his lapel. His hair is slicked back and tidy, and he's even taken the time to polish the mud and dirt from his boots. He looks professional and commanding and sexy.

"Wow."

The word slips out before you can stop it, and Hound's head snaps up. He blinks at you in surprise, then slowly smiles, his eyes roaming over you with blatant appreciation.

"Wow," he echoes, his voice a low rumble.

A flush rises up your neck, and you swallow hard. "Is this okay?"

"Are you kidding?" Hound laughs and crosses the distance between you in a few long strides. He towers over you, but he doesn't feel threatening. In fact, the closer he gets, the safer and more secure you feel. "You look amazing."

"I look like a mess," you say, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"You look great." He reaches out and tucks the hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin, and the blush spreads further. His touch is surprisingly gentle, and his fingertips are calloused and rough. "You always do."

"Thanks," you mutter.

He tilts his head to the side, and his smile widens. "You're beautiful."

"Stop,” you whine, ducking your head. You're used to Hound's teasing, but not this kind. Not the kind that makes your pulse quicken, or makes your heart stutter.

"No, really, you are."

"Hound..."

"So beautiful."

"I mean it. Stop."

"Gorgeous."

"Hound!"

He laughs and holds his hands up. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

"Uh huh." You give him a dubious look, then roll your eyes. "Let's go."

"Yes, ma'am," he says. He offers his arm, and you hesitate for a moment before taking it.

It's an odd sensation, touching him. Not bad, necessarily, just odd. You're used to his casual manner, the way he always brushes his shoulder against yours, or the way he nudges you when he wants your attention. But this is different. It's intentional. Intimate.

You're not sure how to feel.

"Shall we?" he asks.

"Yeah," you reply, and your voice comes out soft and breathless.

He leads you out of the building and down the street towards the main avenue. He's tall and solid and sturdy, and his stride is long and confident. The two of you look like an odd pair, and you feel a bit self-conscious. He, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed. Hound keeps up a steady stream of conversation, and you're grateful. It distracts you from the fact that his arm is pressed firmly against yours, and it's difficult not to lean against him.

By the time the two of you reach the venue, the sun has set and the city is lit up with artificial light. You can see the gala from blocks away, and Hound is quick to point out the various dignitaries and important officials who are milling about. He's not particularly interested in politics, and you suspect that the only reason he knows so many names is because it's required of his job. He does, however, enjoy making fun of them behind their backs, and his comments have you in stitches by the time the two of you are in line to enter the hall.

"Ready?" he asks, glancing down at you.

"No," you admit, but there's no point in stalling. It's not like you can turn back now. You'd agreed to come, and the least you can do is stick to it.

"Good," Hound laughs. "I'm not, either."

"Somehow, that's not reassuring," you mutter.

"C'mon, let's go."

He pulls his arm away from yours, and your skin immediately grows cold. Before you can protest, he places a hand on the small of your back and leads you inside. The warmth and security are immediate, and you lean into his touch without thinking. He stiffens for a moment, but he doesn't complain. Instead, he leans closer, and his thumb brushes against the fabric of your dress, stroking in slow circles.

As soon as the two of you step inside, the noise levels increase tenfold. People are shouting, talking, laughing, and dancing, and the band is playing a loud, boisterous song. Everything is bright and loud and colorful, and the smells and sounds and sights are overwhelming. The panic returns, and you freeze. Hound must notice, because he squeezes your waist.

"Breathe," he whispers.

You do as he says, and the tension eases. The noise fades to background static, and the colors stop spinning. Hound doesn't remove his hand, and it's a welcome weight, keeping you anchored to reality.

"I don't know about this," you say, your voice so small and so quiet that it's a wonder he hears you at all. But he does, and he gives you a reassuring smile.

"We don't have to stay," he promises. "If you get uncomfortable, we'll leave. It's not a big deal. We can do whatever you want."

"Really?"

"I mean it." He gives a small shrug, and a slight flush colors his cheeks. "If you wanna ditch, we can ditch. It's no big deal."

You stare at him, dumbfounded, and wonder how you'd ever gotten lucky enough to meet someone like him. Someone who is patient and understanding, who never judges or pries. Someone who just wants you to be happy.

"Thanks," you say.

"Don't mention it," he replies, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Wanna grab a drink?"

"Sure."

He guides you over to the bar, and the two of you order your drinks. He chooses something strong, while you opt for a glass of wine. As soon as the bartender sets the glass in front of you, Hound snatches it up and takes a sip.

"Hound!" you yelp, smacking him lightly on the arm. "What the hell?"

"Sorry, force of habit," he laughs.

"Why the hell are you so used to stealing other people's drinks?"

"Because my brothers are assholes," he says. He puts the glass down and raises his hands in surrender. "I promise, I'll let you drink the rest."

"Damn right, you will," you grumble. You pick up the glass and take a sip, eyeing him over the rim. "I'm watching you."

"I'd expect nothing less," he says, grinning. He reaches over and grabs his own drink, and the two of you clink glasses. "To... I dunno. To whatever the fuck this is."

"To us," you reply, and he laughs.

"Yeah. To us."

He downs the entire glass, then turns and watches the crowd. Couples are pairing off, and the band has started a slow waltz. You spot Commander Thorn with the Senator of Atrisia in the middle of the dance floor, looking rather pleased with himself, and your stomach does a nervous flip. How the hell is she able to wear those heels without tripping and falling? It looks exhausting. And painful.

"Do you wanna dance?"

The question startles you, and you whip your head around. Hound is looking down at you, his brows furrowed, and he seems hesitant.

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you want to dance?"

"Dance?"

"Yeah." He nods towards the floor, and the couples swaying back and forth. You let out a breath, shaking your head, and you take a long sip of your drink.

“Not really, no," you admit.

You watch his shoulders slump, but the look on his face is more relief than disappointment.

"Okay, good," he says, letting out a heavy sigh.

"Oh, thank the Force," you mutter, and he grins.

"Didn't think you'd say yes, honestly."

"And what if I had?" you ask. You arch an eyebrow at him, and the grin widens.

"Then I'd have made an ass of myself trying to impress you," he says. His dark eyes shine with amusement, and the corner of his mouth twitches. "Not that I don't normally do that, anyway."

"Mm," you hum. "You do alright."

"Yeah?" he asks. He cocks his head, and the smile disappears. "Really?"

"I mean, yeah." You take a sip of your wine and try not to think about how warm and safe and secure he makes you feel. Or how handsome and charming he is. Or how much he actually cares. "You're not too bad."

"High praise," he laughs, his tone dry. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"I can't tell if you're serious or not," he says, giving you a wry smile.

"I'm very serious," you retort. You're smiling, though, and it's a struggle to keep a straight face. "Dead serious."

"You're awful," he snorts, shaking his head. "Absolutely awful."

"That's why you like me," you tease.

"Well, not the only reason," he murmurs. There's a faint blush on his cheeks, and the expression on his face is far too sweet for someone who is usually so gruff and unruly. "There's plenty of others."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says. He looks away, his eyes darting around the room, and a heavy silence settles over the two of you. He clears his throat, and his hand finds yours. "C'mon, let's go see what they've got for food."

"Sounds good," you reply. You let him lead the way, his fingers laced through yours, and his grip is strong and firm.

It's going to be a long night.

You end up staying for a couple hours.

The food is excellent, and the booze is decent, and Hound keeps his promise. You stay glued to his side, letting him lead the way and navigate the crowd. He introduces you to some of his friends, and it's not as awful as you'd feared.

You make polite small talk, and laugh at their terrible jokes, and they seem impressed. Thorn even goes as far as to say that you're good for him, and when Hound shoots him a warning look, he only grins.

It's not as awkward as you'd feared, but it's not exactly relaxing. Thankfully, Hound is good at picking up on your cues. When the chatter starts to die down, he knows to make an excuse and move on. When the crowd gets too thick, he pulls you away. When your anxiety starts to mount, he finds a place where the two of you can be alone.

At some point, the two of you find a quiet spot in the corner. He leans against the wall, and you lean against him. The two of you watch the people milling around, and the band strikes up another lively tune. He's still got an arm wrapped around your waist, and his hand is resting on your hip, his fingers tracing slow circles on the fabric of your dress.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.

"I'm fine," you say, and this time, it's the truth. "Thank you for this. I know I'm being difficult, and I'm sorry."

"You're not being difficult." He's smiling, and his fingers move from your hip to the curve of your spine, sliding down your back in a soothing motion. "You're perfect."

You snort, and the butterflies are fluttering madly, beating their wings against your stomach, rising higher and higher. You ignore them and roll your eyes. "Whatever you say, Hound."

"I mean it." He turns his attention away from the crowd and looks down at you, and the intensity in his eyes takes you by surprise. "You're incredible."

"Oh, come on."

"Seriously, you are."

"Hound, I've been a nervous wreck all night. If that's incredible, I hate to hear what you think of the other people here."

"Other people don't matter,” he says. His tone is soft and warm, and the way he's looking at you makes your heart skip a beat.

"Of course they do."

"Why?"

"Because... Well, because..." Your words trail off, and you frown.

That's a good question.

Why does it matter?

Who cares if someone else has a nicer dress or better manners or more friends or a more prestigious title? Why is it important? What does it matter, in the grand scheme of things? You're not even sure anymore, and you find yourself searching for an answer. A good, solid, valid reason that will make sense, but there's nothing. Nothing that isn't completely superficial or trivial.

"They don't," he says. His eyes are fixed on your face, and the intensity of his gaze is unsettling. He's so serious, and his expression is so tender, and it's so unlike him. But before you can respond, he smiles and shrugs. "I'm just sayin'. No one else matters."

"Maybe," you murmur, and your head falls to his shoulder.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises.

You know he's right. He's never lied to you before. He's never been dishonest, or cruel, or uncaring. He's always been considerate and thoughtful and kind, and he's the first person who's cared about you since you left home. He's always there, waiting at the bottom of the stairs, with a smile and a joke and a friendly hello.

He's always there, and that's a good thing.

You take a deep breath and turn your attention away from the crowd and back towards him. He's still watching you, and his expression is soft and open and vulnerable. He's not trying to hide anything, and it makes your heart flutter.

"Good," you whisper, and he smiles.

And then his hand is on your cheek, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye.

"I've got you," he murmurs, his voice rough. "You know that, right?"

You swallow hard and nod, and he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. Your noses bump together, your lips inches apart, and your breath catches.

"Thank you," you whisper.

He's still watching you, and the intensity of his gaze is almost too much. There's a flush on his cheeks, his breath coming out in short, quick puffs. You can tell that he's hesitating. Waiting. Giving you time to react.

You can't speak. You can barely breathe. But your fingers curl around the lapel of his jacket, and you pull him closer. That's all the encouragement he needs, and his lips brush against yours in a featherlight kiss.

The kiss is slow, and soft, and sweet, and the butterflies explode in a whirlwind of emotion and sensation and excitement. Your skin is on fire, the heat spreading from your face down your neck and chest and lower, lower, lower. He's not pushing or demanding. He's gentle and patient and caring, and it's perfect.

When the kiss ends, Hound pulls back, but not far. He's still close enough to press his forehead against yours, and his hand is still on the nape of your neck, his fingers tangled in your hair.

"Okay?" he whispers.

You nod, and his smile widens. He leans down and kisses you again, and this time, the butterflies aren't fluttering. They're flying.

It's perfect.

The rest of the evening is a blur.

Hound is by your side the entire time, keeping you grounded and safe and secure. His hand is on the small of your back, his fingertips gently stroking the fabric of your dress. He keeps his pace slow, matching your steps, and his voice is a low, steady rumble in your ear, whispering little bits of information and gossip and stories. It's easy to tune out the other people, to ignore the music, to focus only on him.

By the time the two of you leave the gala, the moon is high and the streets are mostly empty. Hound walks you home, his hand never leaving your waist. You're both a bit tipsy, and the walk seems much shorter than usual. It's not long before the two of you are outside your door, and he's reluctant to let you go.

"Tonight was nice," you say. You're leaning against him, your face pressed into his chest. His arms are wrapped around your waist, his fingers splayed across your back. His hands are warm, and the heat from his touch is spreading across your skin, sending tingles down your spine.

"It was," he agrees, and his lips brush against the top of your head.

You sigh and relax further, resting your cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart is a comforting rhythm, and the scent of his cologne is a pleasant mixture of spice and leather. He smells amazing, and you can't resist pressing a quick kiss to the base of his neck. He shivers, his hands tightening on your waist.

"We should do this again," you murmur. "But maybe next time, without so many people."

"Yeah," he chuckles, the sound low and husky. His lips trail along the shell of your ear, and the butterflies are awake again, fluttering lazily. "I'd love to take you out again."

"I'd like that," you whisper.

You want to tell him that you had a great time, that he was a perfect date, that you don't want the night to end. You want to tell him that he's amazing and sweet and kind and generous. You want to tell him that he's the only person who's cared about you in a long time. You want to tell him how much it means to you, and that you'd be happy to do it again.

But the words are stuck in your throat, and the butterflies are blocking the way, so instead, you tilt your head back and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark and hooded, and his face is flushed, but his smile is warm and soft. He's looking at you like you're the only person in the world, like he's happy just to be near you.

"Do you want to come inside?" you ask.

It's a risky move, and a bold one. You're not usually so forward, and the alcohol is giving you courage. But you can't deny the desire coursing through your veins, and the thought of him leaving makes you feel empty.

Hound blinks, his eyes shifting from your door and back, and he swallows hard.

"If you want me to," he says. His voice is soft, but there's an edge of desire to it, and it's a struggle to keep your hands from trembling.

"I do," you whisper.

He stares at you for a moment longer, then nods.

"Alright," he murmurs, his voice rough. He presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose, and a flush rises up your neck and into your cheeks. "Then I'll come inside.”

His hands are still on your waist, and you reach up and grab his shirt, pulling him closer. His breath hitches as his body comes flush against yours, and his grip tightens. The kiss is more passionate this time, less hesitant and timid, and it sets your nerves alight. The butterflies are in full force now, and they're flying so fast and hard that you're sure they're going to escape.

The two of you stumble into the apartment, barely managing to shut the door behind you. Your hands are buried in his hair, and his are wandering up and down your sides, tracing the curve of your hips and the swell of your breasts. You pull away for a moment, trying to catch your breath, and Hound immediately starts pressing a series of quick, sloppy kisses along the length of your jaw.

"I've wanted to do this for a while," he whispers, his voice hoarse.

"Me too," you admit, a bit breathless.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad."

He captures your lips in another kiss, and his tongue slips into your mouth. The kiss is rough and wet and hot, and you moan into his mouth, gripping his shirt tighter.

Your legs hit the edge of the couch, and you fall backwards onto the cushions, dragging him down with you. He lands on top of you, and the sudden weight causes you to yelp in surprise. He catches himself at the last second, bracing himself with his arms, and he breaks the kiss.

"You okay?" he pants, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah, sorry," you mutter.

He grins and ducks his head, resuming his trail of kisses along your jawline and down the column of your throat. Your head falls back, and you moan, tugging at the hem of his shirt. His lips are searing, and the heat is spreading across your skin, setting every inch of you aflame.

He's intoxicating, and you want more.

You push him off, and the two of you scramble to your feet. He grabs the back of his shirt and tugs it over his head, tossing it to the side. You're not sure where it lands, and you don't care. Your attention is focused on him and him alone. You're staring, shamelessly drinking in the sight, and your mouth goes dry.

He's built like a mountain, broad and thick, and his skin is covered in a patchwork of scars and tattoos. You can't stop yourself from reaching out and running your hands along the smooth planes of his chest and the ridges of his abs. The muscles flex under your fingertips, and his eyes drift shut.

He's practically vibrating with anticipation, and when your fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers, he grabs your waist and pulls you close. He doesn't have to say anything, because his eyes are screaming. They're full of want, desire, need. You can feel it in the air between the two of you, heavy with anticipation, with promise.

You reach up and cup his cheek, running your thumb along his lower lip. He parts his lips, and his tongue flicks out, teasing the pad of your thumb. His teeth graze the sensitive skin, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

The two of you move together, and your lips crash against his in a bruising kiss. You're a tangle of limbs, your bodies pressed so tightly together that you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. His hands are wandering, sliding over the curve of your ass and up the length of your back. He grabs the zipper at the top of your dress and slowly pulls it down, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin.

The dress pools around your feet, and he lets out a low whistle.

"Goddamn," he breathes as his gaze roams over your body.

You bite your lip and look away, suddenly embarrassed. Your face is burning, and you wish the butterflies would go away. But they're relentless, and they're not going anywhere.

"Hey, look at me," he says, his voice low and soft.

He places a finger beneath your chin and gently tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His expression is tender, and the smile he gives you is full of affection. He leans down and presses a feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth, his hands sliding over your shoulders and down your arms.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs.

"You're not so bad yourself," you reply.

He chuckles and shakes his head. "You have no idea, do you?"

"What?"

"How gorgeous you are." He cups your cheek and traces the curve of your jaw, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "You're incredible."

"So are you."

"No, I'm not," he laughs, his hand sliding up your neck to tug gently at a loose strand of hair. "I'm just a guy who somehow managed to convince the most amazing woman in the galaxy to go on a date with him."

"Shut up," you scoff.

"It's true," he says, and there's a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "I'm lucky to have met you."

"Hound..."

"So, so lucky," he repeats. He leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It's a quick, fleeting kiss, but it's enough to make your heart stutter. "You're incredible."

"Hound, shut up," you groan.

He laughs, the sound rich and deep, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

"Make me."

You reach up and grab the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his hair, and you press your mouth against his. The kiss is hungry, desperate, demanding, your lips parting, tongues clashing, teeth biting, noses bumping. He growls, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your body.

When the kiss ends, he's still holding you, and his forehead is pressed against yours.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his breath hot against your cheek.

"Yes," you breathe.

"I don't want to rush—"

"Hound, if you stop now, I'll kick your ass."

He laughs and wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you easily. Your legs automatically wrap around his hips, and he carries you into the bedroom, his lips trailing along the column of your throat. The mattress hits the back of his legs, and he sits down, settling you in his lap. You straddle his thighs, your knees digging into the soft fabric of the bedspread, and you bury your hands in his hair.

He slides his palms over the curve of your ass, squeezing and massaging the supple flesh. His mouth finds yours, and his tongue slips past your lips, exploring and teasing. The taste of alcohol is still heavy on his breath, but beneath it is something else. Something stronger. Something darker.

You're vaguely aware of him reaching for the clasp of your bra, and it loosens, falling away. You break the kiss and pull back, and the expression on his face nearly undoes you. The raw, naked hunger in his eyes is enough to make the butterflies beat their wings wildly, and you can't help but grin.

"See something you like?" you tease, and he groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Fuck, yes," he growls.

He cups your breasts, his fingers teasing and pinching, and your breath catches in your throat. Your hips shift as his thumbs rub against your nipples, grinding down against him. The first brush of your clothed pussy against his erection is electric, and the noise he makes sends a fresh wave of heat washing over you.

He's hard and thick, his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers. You roll your hips again, and his hands tighten on your breasts, his nails digging into the sensitive skin. The pain is delicious, and you moan, rocking against him again. He groans, his hips jerking, and his lips find yours. The kiss is rough and demanding, and his tongue is practically fucking your mouth, licking and stroking in time with the movements of your hips.

He pulls away, his eyes wild, and his hands leave your breasts, sliding down your sides to settle on your waist. He holds you still as he thrusts up, grinding his cock against your pussy. You gasp and moan, your head falling back, and his mouth finds the exposed flesh of your throat. He latches onto the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sucking and biting. He's leaving a mark, and the thought excites you more than you'd like to admit.

His hands move lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, and he lifts you up, rolling the two of you over. He looms over you, his body a solid wall of muscle, and he kisses you, slow and deep. Hound shifts, and his knee spreads your legs wide, pressing against the soaked fabric of your panties. You whimper into his mouth, bucking your hips, trying to find some relief from the building pressure against the hard muscle of his thigh.

Hound pulls away, and you groan, reaching for him, trying to drag him back. He's too far away, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath hot against your skin.

"Last chance," he whispers. The husky tone of his voice, coupled with the sight of his eyes, dark and hungry, sends a jolt of pleasure through your body, straight to your core. "Are you sure?"

You nod, unable to find the words.

"Tell me," he says, and his thumb slides under the thin strap of your panties. He teases the edge of the fabric, tracing lazy circles over the curve of your hip. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you," you breathe, the words coming out as a needy whine.

His eyes widen, and a grin spreads across his face. It's not the playful, easy smile that you're used to seeing. It's wolfish and predatory, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

He hooks a finger into the waistband of your panties and tugs them down, tossing the ruined fabric aside. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of you, both of you breathing hard, chests rising and falling in sync, before he descends with a low growl. He licks a slow, teasing line up the inside of your thigh, stopping just shy of your aching pussy. His lips ghost over your mound, the lightest of touches, before moving to the other thigh, repeating the torturous action.

The first swipe of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, the sound echoing off the walls. He laps at the sensitive bud, swirling around it, then presses the flat of his tongue against the folds of your pussy, lapping at the wetness leaking from your core. You buck your hips, desperately grinding against his face, but he holds you still, keeping his movements steady.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily.

His tongue plunges inside you, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open. His eyes are closed, and his expression is one of pure bliss. He's moaning, his tongue darting in and out, tasting every inch of you. You bury a hand in his hair, tugging at the short strands, urging him on.

He's relentless, devouring you, his tongue thrusting in and out of your cunt. His thumb brushes against your clit, sending shockwaves through your body, and you gasp, arching off the bed. You're close, the pressure building and building, and his tongue moves faster, curling and twisting inside you.

You're not going to last.

You're not sure if it's the alcohol, or his enthusiasm, or the sheer fact that it's Hound who's between your legs, but you're already close to the edge. The pleasure is overwhelming, flooding your body, washing over you like a wave.

"Please, Hound, I need to come," you plead. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop..."

His grip on your thighs tightens, his tongue thrusting faster, deeper, harder. He moans, the sound muffled by your cunt, his lips sucking at the sensitive bud of nerves. Your hips jerk, grinding against his face, the pressure building and building until it's almost too much. You can feel it, the orgasm just out of reach. It's just a matter of seconds. A matter of moments.

And then you're flying, your entire body trembling, shaking, pulsing. You're vaguely aware of the loud, ragged moan that escapes you, but you're too lost in the pleasure to care. The orgasm rips through you, crashing over you like a tidal wave, drowning out everything except the feeling of his tongue fucking your cunt.

You're panting, gasping, writhing on the sheets, every nerve ending on fire. Your body is shaking, your muscles twitching, and it takes several moments before the aftershocks finally subside. When the last one passes, you're left breathless and boneless, sprawled on the bed, struggling to catch your breath.

You feel a rush of cool air as Hound pulls away, the sound of his belt being unbuckled barely registering. Your head lolls to the side, eyes fluttering open. He's standing next to the bed, his pants hanging loose around his hips, his cock standing proud, flushed and achingly hard. He's looking down at you, his gaze hooded, his pupils blown wide.

"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do that?" he murmurs. His voice is low, husky, full of desire.

"Probably as long as I've wanted it," you say. You reach up, fingers wrapping around his wrist, pulling him towards you. He hurriedly kicks off his pants, nearly tripping over the fabric in his haste, then settles over you, his hands planted on either side of your head.

"How's that possible?" he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Because we're idiots," you laugh. You reach up and grab his neck, tugging him down, and he dips his head, capturing your lips in a kiss. His tongue slips past your lips, and you moan at the taste of yourself.

"Maybe," he agrees, the word a soft sigh against your mouth. "But I don't care."

"Me neither," you whisper, a slight smile curling the corners of your lips.

You shift, spreading your legs, welcoming him into the cradle of your thighs. His cock brushes against your folds, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins, and the two of you groan. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, his heart pounding against your chest, the scent of his cologne filling the air. He's everywhere, surrounding you, enveloping you, drowning you in his warmth.

Hound shifts, his hand wrapping around the base of his cock. Precum is leaking from the tip, and the head is flushed red, almost purple with need. He lines himself up, the head teasing your entrance, but he doesn't push inside. Instead, he slowly circles the swollen bundle of nerves, coating his cock with your slick as he leans forward and braces himself on his forearm. 

His mouth finds yours, kissing you deep, his tongue plunging into your mouth, mimicking the slow, lazy movements of his hips. The kiss is intense, possessive, claiming. He's branding you with his touch, his taste, his scent. He's marking you as his, and it's perfect.

The head of his cock slips inside you, and he moans, his body shuddering.

"Tell me what you want," he whispers, his voice rough.

"I want you," you whimper.

He thrusts, sinking in another inch, and you cry out. He's stretching you open, and the feeling is incredible. Your walls flutter, your hips bucking, but he's holding you in place, pinning you to the mattress.

"Say it again," he growls, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

"I want you," you moan, the words coming out in a breathy, needy rush.

He pulls back, the head of his cock just barely stretching your entrance. The sudden loss of his warmth makes you whimper, but before you can protest, he surges forward, filling you completely.

Every inch of you is burning, every nerve ending screaming. You're full, stretched to the limit, molded perfectly to the shape of his cock. His body is flush against yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hips rock, grinding his pelvis against your clit, setting off another round of sparks.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans. "So fucking good."

His words send a thrill through you, your cunt tightening around his cock. He curses, his hips jerking, and his hand finds your stomach, pressing down.

"Easy," he murmurs. "Don't want to hurt you."

"You're not," you gasp, and your walls ripple around him again. He moans, his head dropping to your shoulder.

"Fuck," he hisses. "Don't do that. Not yet."

You can't help but laugh, breathless and lightheaded. He's being so sweet and careful, and you can't resist the urge to push him a little further. You contract again, squeezing and releasing, feeling every inch of him buried deep inside you.

Hound's head snaps up, his eyes wild, his nostrils flaring. There's a moment where the two of you stare at each other, neither one of you moving. And then, in one smooth, powerful thrust, he drives his cock all the way inside you.

Your back arches, and his mouth latches onto the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, biting and sucking. His teeth graze the bruised flesh, and his hips snap, his cock slamming into you.

You cry out, nails digging into the hard planes of his shoulders. He sets a slow rhythm, each thrust deep and deliberate. He's not holding back anymore, and neither are you. His hands are on your waist, and he's slamming his cock into you, each thrust punctuated by a sharp slap of skin on skin. You're moaning and gasping, and his name falls from your lips, over and over.

You can feel another orgasm building as he picks up the pace, and the heat is spreading, coiling and twisting. His cock is hitting all the right spots, and you're so close, the edge just out of reach.

He leans back, his hands moving to your thighs, spreading you open. The new angle is deeper, and his cock is rubbing against the spongy patch of nerves. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, and his eyes are dark and hungry.

"Come for me," he rasps. "I want to see you come on my cock."

You cry out, and your fingers twist in the sheets, gripping the fabric tightly. He's pounding into you, his hips slamming against yours, his cock driving you higher and higher. The heat is spreading, and the colors are blurring, and the only thing you can focus on is him, and the feel of him, and the taste of him, and the smell of him.

He's everywhere, and it's too much.

The coil snaps, and the orgasm rips through you, tearing a scream from your lips. Your back arches, and your cunt convulses, tightening around his cock like a vise. His breath hitches, and his hands grip your thighs tightly.

"Fuck," he grunts, his hips stuttering, his cock throbbing. "Where?"

It takes a moment for the question to register, but when it does, you manage to find your voice.

"Inside," you gasp. "Please, Hound—“

That's all the encouragement he needs. His cock pulses, and he moans, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The heat spreads into your core, his cum filling you, and the aftershocks wash over you, the waves crashing and rolling, leaving you boneless and spent.

His arms wrap around you, and he rolls the two of you over. He's still buried deep inside you, and the feeling of his cock pulsing and twitching is almost enough to make you come again. You're both shaking, and he's muttering something, his words jumbled and unintelligible.

You're not sure how long the two of you stay like that, his cock buried inside you, your bodies tangled together. But eventually, the pleasure subsides, and you can breathe again. You press a kiss to his collarbone, then his shoulder, and his grip tightens around you.

"I'm not sure if I'm dreaming," he says, and the admission is so earnest, so vulnerable, that it nearly breaks your heart. "You're real, right?"

"As real as it gets," you reply. You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. "Promise."

He lets out a sigh, and his grip relaxes, his hands sliding over your sides, down your back, along the curve of your ass. You run a hand through his hair, smoothing the messy strands. He shifts to lean into your touch, and his softened cock slips free, leaving a trail of his seed across your thigh.

"You okay?" he asks, his breath warm against your ear.

"Mhm," you hum as you kiss his neck.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" His tone is soft, and there's a note of concern in his voice.

"No," you whisper.

He lets out a sigh, and his lips press against your cheek, featherlight.

"Good," he murmurs.

The two of you lay there, your bodies entwined until eventually Hound moves, rolling you onto your side before sitting up and stretching. He runs a hand through his hair, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple. 

You watch, enjoying the view, but you can't help the way your heart sinks as he gets up. You know that he's going to leave, and the realization is a sharp stab of disappointment. You try not to let it show, and you do your best to keep your expression neutral.

But he must sense it, because he pauses and looks at you, his brow furrowed.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine," you reply, not wanting to admit the truth. You don't want him to think that you're clingy or needy or dependent. That's not who you are. At least, it's not who you want to be.

"You sure?" He studies you, and the look in his eyes is thoughtful. "You seem a bit...tense."

"I'm fine," you say, giving him a smile. "Just tired."

He snorts and shakes his head. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He moves to the bathroom, and you hear the sound of water running. He returns a moment later with a wet cloth, and he sits down beside you, cleaning up the mess that he left. He's gentle, careful, and you can't help but notice the way his fingers tremble slightly as they move over your skin.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," he says, his tone apologetic. "I wasn't planning on taking things this far."

"I wasn't either," you admit.

"Well, shit." He tosses the cloth to the side, and the grin that spreads across his face is lopsided and endearing. "Now what?"

"We can pretend this didn't happen," you suggest, even though the idea leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Hound’s brow furrows, and his smile fades.

"Why would we do that?" he asks, his tone incredulous.

"Because..." Your words trail off, and your heart races.

Because you don't want him to think you're desperate. Because you don't want to scare him off. Because you don't want to ruin the friendship that the two of you have built. Because you don't want him to regret it.

He sighs and reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your cheek, and the gesture is tender and gentle.

"Hey," he says, his voice low. "It's okay. You don't have to explain."

"But—"

"Listen." He takes a deep breath, and his hand falls to the bed, his fingers tangling with yours. "I like you. I really, really like you. And if you want to pretend this didn't happen, we can. But if you want to see where things go, I'd like that, too."

"Really?" 

"Really," he says.

You swallow hard, trying to find the words. He's giving you an out, a way to save face, a chance to take a step back. But you don't want to do that. You don't want to lose him. You don't want to pretend that this didn't happen. You don't want to go back to the way things were.

You take a deep breath, and his fingers squeeze yours.

"Hound," you begin, then pause, collecting your thoughts.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "I get it."

"I like you," you finally manage, the words tumbling out in a rush. "And I'm sorry. I know I'm bad at this. But I like you. And I want to see where things go."

"Oh, thank fuck," he breathes, and the relief in his voice is palpable.

"What?"

"I was worried you were going to say you regretted it." He grins, and the tension drains from his shoulders. "I was worried you were going to tell me to leave."

"Never," you reply, your heart leaping. "I'll never regret this."

"Good."

He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It's different from the others. There's no urgency, no desperation. It's sweet, and tender, and full of promise.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers when the kiss ends. Then his mouth twists, and he looks away, his voice turning sheepish. “Well, I can leave if you want. If you need some time alone, or some space, or—"

"Stay," you interrupt.

His smile widens, and he squeezes your hand.

"Okay," he says.

He pulls the covers over the two of you and lies down beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. He pulls you close, and you nestle against his chest, enjoying the warmth of his body.

"Thank you," you murmur, your voice thick with sleep.

"For what?"

"For tonight. For everything."

"Of course."

You're tired, and it's getting harder and harder to keep your eyes open. You can feel yourself starting to drift off, and the last thing you remember before sleep claims you is the feeling of his lips pressed against the top of your head, and the soft, steady rhythm of his heart.

You fall asleep with a smile on your face, the warmth of his body chasing away the last vestiges of loneliness.

And when you wake, he's still there, holding you tight.

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[casualatienjoyer]

Imagine if an oppressed race in America magically became able to switch races with the help of Christian God. I think Sanderson tries to handwave the oppression away with "well they were wrong, eye color has no religious/social meaning! They proved that because darkeyes can become lighteyes!" But the actual white supremacists will not fucking change their minds about a Black person that changed the color of their skin. Even if said Black person is glowing and flying around. They'll call it the work of the devil, they'll call it claiming the "culture" they "earned" because their ancestors "worked hard to get to where they are." That person might be able to pretend to be white, but goddamn it how could they abandon their people like that? Why would they? Obviously its not a perfect metaphor because Black people have a whole culture separate from white people that darkeyes SEEM TO LACK, but the reaction from white people/lighteyes should be similar.

I don't gaf about Odium attacking and them needing the darkeyes's help. No society progresses that quickly, that easily, and when it does, it IS NOT because Jasnah fucking Kholin said to cut the shit. Speaking of Jasnah. Sexism is another thing that was just removed from the plot. My best guess is that Sanderson wanted to include women in the plot without the barricade of "the men wouldn't let her do that." I can accept that one slightly more than the darkeyes thing, but it's still a gross oversimplification that could have been an interesting plot point and a way to show women fighting their way to a position of respect rather than it being given to them.

Basically, bigoted people do not change their minds because of facts, because their hatred is not because of facts. The Stormlight Archive is a good story for other reasons, and could have been a much better one.

Now that the first half of stormlight is concluded. Can any of you honestly say you're satisfied with how the class system and its dismantlment were handled?

I remember when I said that the moment Kaladin stopped being treated like a darkeyes, he stopped caring about darkeyes. We just stopped hearing about them for the rest of the series despite class struggle and systemic oppression being a major plot point that never got resolved.

Everyones argument for my take was that the systemic oppression WAS resolved and that the social classes were being dismantled.

I remember reading that and being like? Were they? Was the overarching conflict of the last two books just resolved off-screen with barely any mention?

Was class dismantlment really enacted by the will of a monarchy? When has that ever happened in history, and what are the moral implications of that?

Why couldn't there be any question of power spoken from the lower class without being shamed for it? Why was kaladin the one who had to work on his prejudice against lighteyes and not the other way around? Why was Moash written that way?

How can we even be certain that darkeyes and lighteyes ARE equal citizens? How many povs or conversations have we had with an actual darkeye in the last 3 books where they talk about their current rights and social status, how it's changed, and how their lives have improved?

The only example I can think of is the guard that died for Navani in book 4.

How absolutely certain are you that the only reason that kaladin doesn't think of darkeyes anymore is because there are no longer any darkeye problems?

Notice how im asking a whole lot of questions with no answers. Again, are you satisfied with how class was handled in Stormlight Archive?

[magiturge]

How did Hank and Sheriff first meet? And develop their relationship further?

well.. for their first meeting, you know. it left an impression.

with hank momentarily hesitating on the trigger to relish in the success of their rampage, just to lay with their brains on the table. it’s a lasting image.

in terms of developing their relationship more i need to back things with more context lest i wake some day, read this and feel a harrowing emptiness.

so if you’ll take a seat, pardon me, it’ll be long.

hank killing sheriff left a lingering grudge on him, printed on his mind for the years to come and as a result, hank became the target of almost any anger that came of the sheriff. even if more of sheriff’s mental strain and break came from jeb, his anger would funnel towards hank because his wrongdoing was more cut and dry than what jeb did to him.

the grudge festers and it’s almost as if it’s been put on a pedestal, kill hank j wimbleton, get your get back. give them the bullet you owe them, straight to the dome. you’ve got a force of men behind you, a fortress of some kind so do something with it. get that revenge.

and yet, those feelings aren’t reciprocated, because it was never that personal for hank.

..

the question here is “what does it mean to be recognized and acknowledged by hank j. wimbleton?”

what does that mean?

it’s what the sheriff wants, or atleast thinks he wants. for hank to get it into their head when he finally takes the shot that the sheriff is above them. you’ll see that i reign above you, that i’m better than you and you won’t get that jump on me again. you’ll answer to me, i’ve got the edge over you.

it’s just that hank doesn’t care.

even hatred isn’t reciprocated.

..so when they cross into the industrial sector, perhaps on their way to a different mission, and a particular grudge bearing cowboy puts his boot down, with years of actually toughening up under his belt, things are different.

somethings are the same though.

because when they have a spat on the wall of the industrial sector, and despite sheriff’s grand improvement in his capabilities in combat, when he gets slipped under and hank gets the upperhand, what does it do?

it relishes on the trigger, just the very first time.

because hank doesn’t respect anyone, hank doesn’t respect the sheriff.

and that’s how it gets its victory rugpulled out from under it, because he isn’t a defenseless coward anymore, he’s a coward that’s got a tougher shell and knows a way around a gun.

this should feel good, that he gave hank that bullet to the dome he owed him, but it doesn’t. not because he feels guilt, or remorse but that feeling that clarity that.. he’s watched hank clearly die in front of him long ago, and they came back. they always came back. even in a more grody, wretched shape they came back.

what made this death any different. and what stops them from coming back and chasing him down for this loss.

you’re acknowledged, at what cost.

one thing i like to clarify with hank, is they don’t have an issue with dying itself, but they have an issue with the way they die. if it was a stupid reason, a win stolen out from under it, bullshit that makes it all an inconvenience.

and that was all 3.

this is where i like to imagine they begin to have reoccuring spats between the two of them, across the industrial sector. ending in tight draws, be it from mutually sustained injury or sheriff ducking under the bullets of his own men into safety, a scummy tactic to escape his own loss.

..

hank is fragile. even in their hulking, tall and ominous frame they’re fragile. a network of bodies that don’t belong to them but they bear anyway. skin that isn’t theirs, grafted onto injuries. a heart that beats oddly, an inorganic jaw, muscles meeting the end of recruitment.

they’re a skilled killing machine, but they’re not immune to bodily exhaustion.

when you’ve got a score to settle, a petty useless on and off fight, with an equal parts FRUSTRATING target to catch. a practical moving turret, a once aimless useless coward knowing his way around a revolver, it gets exhausting.

so even when you’ve got the motivation to fight on, at some point, your frankenstein’s monster of a body will fail.

i’ve neglected to mention throughout this on sheriff’s side, he’s been continuously ruminating on just getting hank to buzz off again. that anger got washed away in victory and the clarity of this useless, resource wasting spat comes in.

so when hank’s body gives out in exhaustion, and they’re staring at each other. instead of gunning him down he..

..runs.

instead of keeping it up, he runs. instead of making sure hank is dead, even knowing as he glanced that the body is still moving, he runs.

..something about hank, is that it views many things through the lens of how optimal it would be in combat.

and the choice of a coward, turning his back on them, choosing to not shoot him dead like any reasonable mercenary would, his ‘stupidity’ was intriguing.

that’s how it begins.

because one of you is a script, and the other an actual entity. there are differences to be worked with.

their relationship develops more in the way of trial and error as hank is a rather independent, socially avoidant person in the sense it has little use for small talk, talking to people in general, sparking a conversation. sheriff also holds a certain image of hank in his mind as a killing machine incapable of grasping things like affection, friendship, even the idea of caring for someone, being considerate.

hank doesn’t have faith in anything, it just does.

sheriff has little expectation, but hungers the most.

it’s all still a cat and mouse chase, still with knives and guns but with an addition of chasing down thoughts and emotions.

a curious, intrigued desire to understand.

because you’re peculiar, and you did something stupid. you’re not the same as i last remember you being, a coward that put up so little of a fight and ran. you know what you’re doing now, and that irritates me.

sheriff is the most human of the cast to me, having had a social life, a job, a rational and completely reasonable fear of someone chasing him with a gun with intent to kill. a seldom seen sense of self preservation. he’s jaded and he’s desensitized but he doesn’t forget.

those kind of human treats, those luxuries of affection, of consideration and care.

hank doesn’t know that by default, it’s taught, it’s learned, it’s attached.

they never stop fighting, but they also never stop exploring each other.

they never normally vocalize their want of the other but they never stop digging their nails into each others skin when the embrace isn’t tight enough.

it’s a rocky, unpleasant and jagged path they’re walking..

and it feels good.

[violet-eng]

🔞 See you on the other side | Thanos (Choi Subong x fem!reader)

I HAVEN'T WRITTEN ANYTHING IN A LONG TIME, VERY ASHAMED OF HOW BADLY WRITTEN OR BASIC THIS MAY BE.

Anyway, I don't know where this came from, I've had this desire for Choi Seunghyun stuck for like 10 years now, somehow I had to get rid of it. I'm still embarrassed…

Awkward plot, as always, I must add drama because if my life is full of drama then the fanfic just the same.

Summary: Fem reader has cancer, her ex is Subong, who asked her for drugs when she was working at the hospital, she gave them to him because they were for his jet lag and dizziness, but things escalate and she ends up fired and he with some sort of dependency. Anyway, they meet again in the squid game and he tries to fix everything with her because he obviously didn't forget her. And OBVIOUSLY for this first fic we have the typical and respectable BATHROOM SCENE.

Warnings 🔞🔥: mentions of cancer, SEX, SMUT, oral fem receiving, fingering. That…

In this fic, Thanos would be behaving somewhat bottom/sub? Is real life T.O.P a bottom? ask jiyong, enjoyyyyyy but not too much

〇△□〇△□〇△□〇△□〇△□〇△□〇△□〇△□〇△□〇△□

Three people down, or perhaps it was four? In situations where one's personal safety is compromised, the finer details can appear insignificant. Your hands and legs trembled, and your entire body was a nervous system susceptible to error and misstep. You felt the acceleration of your heartbeat in your throat and ears, echoing in your head, and perspiration running down your cheekbones, the salty sensation in your mouth.

Your eyes turned to the spot where a figure was jumping carefree, holding the surprise in your chest when you saw Subong in the crowd, your Subong. He looked like a hallucination, hovering among the players, jumping over the corpses with a maniacal grin… drugs… your drugs.

The daily game had reached its end. It was shocking that people had died in such a strange way, and there were many questions to be answered. However, the pain was even more overwhelming because cancer was like that: painful, unbearable without medicine, especially in the current circumstances.

'Señorita' the voice was behind you; you felt his presence, the shadow of his figure enveloping you completely, and the scent of his skin and the dye of his hair brought back precious but bitter memories. How much pain love can endure.

'Su-bong', you whispered, though you thought your voice was firm, the nuance was faint and the volume low.

'My baby! What are you doing here?"His arms abruptly embraced you, drawing you into his body, and your cheek bumped against his chest.You felt that familiar, heady feeling of being protected by him — loved.

Away from the crowd, Subong inspects your face, noticing spots of blood that are not yours and a couple of dark circles under your eyes… nothing else.

'You don't look well,' he says with a grimace.

'I need some,' you say, your breathing heavy, your eyes watering, your gaze beseeching, 'You owe me. I got them for you.'

He does not take you up on your request, nor does he attempt to argue with you, because he knows that is one of the reasons you lost your medical licence.

'Say "Aaah"'.

He brings one of his hands in front of you, a colourful pill between his fingers, and slowly touches your lower lip to make you open your mouth.His fingers enter, and your tongue takes the pill, but habit, treacherous habit, appears and your tongue tastes his fingers. A touch of what you had been.

Your eyes meet his as you both reminisce about the good times you shared during your relationship. When you two were an item, he would gently slide his fingers into your mouth, and within moments, you would be caught up in a passionate embrace, him on top of you, making love from behind while whispering a range of compliments in your ear.

'Better?' he inquires, his fingers gently tracing the lips around your mouth. You nod as the memory fades. You feel as if you've tasted a taste of normality, something you haven't enjoyed in years.

The night after games and food, you feel heavy and lethargic. You sweat and shiver, and you realise that it is a reaction of your body. You had treated several patients like this for years, and the helplessness of becoming one had made you fall into a very dark place, almost abandoning yourself.

"Bathroom" you request one of the guards, but your voice is not as steady as your gaze. The guard declines, and you consider that if you had a pen with you, you would have moved him out of your way, as you did with the insurance agent who had refused to cover your chemotherapy.

"It's urgent. I just want to freshen up" you insist, aware that in your position you can't make demands like that.

‘Hey bro, she has cancer, if it was your sister or your mother would you treat her like this?’ Subong appears at the right moment, after having watched you for a long time, “look at her, she can't even stand up”.

He places his arm around you and shakes you vigorously, as if manipulating a rag doll. His methods are deceptively straightforward, yet his success is unparalleled.Even if you had been in optimal health, he would have still prevailed.

You wash your face and pour water on the back of your neck, observing the reflection in the mirror. Your bruised features bear little resemblance to the respectable oncologist you used to be.

Subong's drugs have effectively mitigated your feelings of rejection, causing all sentiments towards the person in the mirror to dissipate within moments. Although you don't recognize yourself, you feel a sense of rejuvenation, as if returning to a state of strength and painlessness.

Subong approaches you, resting his chin on your shoulder, leaning his hands against the sink. You feel his breath in your ear and the soft brush of his lips on your neck, his kisses below your ear, at the precise spot that makes your skin bristle, reminiscent of their days together.

Subong's voice, husky and subtle, with sweet undertones, asks, "Feeling better?" The enigma that is Subong: he seems impenetrable and stoic when he raps, yet under the stage he is a sensitive and playful creature, always with a striking look and a touch of madness.

"Better," you reply, looking in the mirror and observing the closeness between the two of you, as if time hasn't passed, as if you were never done with him, as if your souls weren't on a tightrope drifting off to who knows where. You experience a sense of longing for him, the intimacy, the warmth of his embrace, the soft rhythm of his breathing, the way his lips cling to your skin without kissing you, as if it causes him discomfort to touch you, as if you were made of porcelain.

"When we make that money, I'll pay for your chemotherapy," he says. His voice is masculine and deep, rough, and his eyes are like fogged glass, intrinsically wounded by your illness as if it were his own.

"What about your debts?" you inquire, turning to him, cradling his face in your hands, him still leaning on the sink behind you.

He bends down to look at you blearily, and with a smirk, almost cartoonishly, he says, "Fuck the debt. I only care about your well-being. I'll see who I'll take his share from."

This provokes laughter from you, which you hadn't experienced in nearly a year. The corners of your lips ache, and the sensation of your cheeks expanding sends shivers down your skin.

Subong remarks, "There it is," as he touches the tip of your nose. "My girl's cute laugh." His fingers trace the contours of your lips, evoking memories on your skin with his touch, and reviving sensations you thought were lost.

He knows how to make you feel good, how to tease you, and how to be gentle because he knows your body wouldn't be able to handle it if he used all his strength.It's like when you went to the bars -the body remembers, so you move naturally from soft kisses and panting to one of the cubicles.

Your pants are on the floor, your underwear is around one of your ankles, and you are sitting on the toilet seat.Subong is skilled at rapping, which allows his tongue to glide with delight. He breathes softly as he holds his face between your legs.His fingers glide up your thighs, tracing ancient marks with his thumbs, while his tongue paints your velvety walls with his devotion.

You intertwine your fingers in his hair, your head thrown back, your eyes rolling back as the combination of drugs and his adept tongue takes hold. You hear him emit a low, throaty sound as you discreetly disengage from his grasp and press his face against yours, his nose brushing against your sensitive area.

You inhale his scent, the rhythm of your heart accelerating, and you feel the warmth of his fingers between your legs. His fingers begin to brush against your folds, and you recognize the familiarity of this touch.

"I don't think I can bear it," you whisper, pulling him away from you. Your hands are in his hair, your eyes fixed on his, which are black and smiling as his tongue wipes his chin. His tanned skin is glistening with the crystals of your juices.

"I promise to be gentle. I will make you feel good, baby." The dichotomy of sweetness of his face and the naughtiness of his fingers exploring your womanhood plunges you into an unknown territory somewhere between amusement and discretion.He enjoys seeing the way you squirm at his touch, at his fingers delving inside you and roaming over formerly dominated territory.

He swiftly locates your sensitive areas, his fingers pressing firmly into your body. His fingers disappear into your ecstasy, and you begin to rhythmically shake your hips, in harmony with the intruders testing your last reserves of sanity.

"So… ohhh-"

Subong looks at you satisfied as you begin to chant incoherently. He has always loved to please you, and that's why he has been so devoted to your body, learning every nook and cranny and experimenting with his movements to achieve the perfect reaction of your being, which is now destroyed under his fingers.

"More," you moan, gripping his shoulders with your nails, and he, your devoted instrument of pleasure, takes you to the edge of losing yourself in your own pleasure, of feeling every electric fiber of your body.

"Don't hold back."The rough voice and soft tongue are in full effect, and you can feel your body responding with heightened sensation. Your voice is almost a scream, your teeth holding back your lips, and your shoulders tensing as it reaches its peak, and then it explodes inside you. You exhale hard, your legs wrapping around his head, your hands in his hair, almost tearing out his locks.

"Shit," he laughs, as you shudder and catch your breath. "When you heal, I'll do you better. I promise." He rises to kiss you, his tongue touching the roof of your mouth, and your own taste bathes your tongue.

"How did you know I had cancer?" you know this is not the time to ask, and yet you do.He smiles over your lips as he kisses you.

"When I went to see you at the hospital, they told me you had been arrested by the police for stabbing an insurance agent during your chemotherapy," he says over you, proud as he wipes traces of saliva from your chin.

"You knew my medical license had been taken away. Why did you look for me at the hospital?"

"I wanted to beg your forgiveness. I would ask one of your old friends for her phone to call you, you would have answered them," he said, kneeling down to pull your panties up.

"I am sorry I blocked your number."

"It's all in the past," he says, smiling up from the floor and wiping his lip with his thumb. "It was good," he continues, "when we get out of here, you can unblock me."

"Do you believe we'll survive this?" you pull up your pants and escort him out of the cubicle.

"I'm not certain of anything, but if anything happens, I'll see you on the other side," he says, taking your hand in his and stroking the back of your skin.

"See you on the other side…"

[galactic-knightmare]

Random Aible Information before I go to bed for ya'll >:3

(plus a small section of his finished ref since I haven't showed it yet(it still has spoilers)) I'll put it under the cut :3 (not the spoilers, but the info. ya'll ain't gettin spoilers)

Aible's very had to guess the emotions of- his expression always looks either bored or angry, and its impossible to tell for most people. Kinger (and Queenie, depending on if I bring her back or not) can kinda guess, with Pomni having a vague idea of a guess, but aside from that no one can fucking tell. Caine meanwhile, just needs to glance at Aible to tell whats going on in his head. Aible doesn't like being touched by people. he's more than happy to manhandle someone if he needs to (usually its Jax, since he's the resident troublemaker) but if someone initiates the touch then he is not happy at all. He'll just barely tolerate some of the cast (mostly Zooble and Ragatha) and He's alright-ish with Kinger, Queenie, and Pomni, but that's mostly because they always make sure to ask first, and he tolerates(likes) them more. Caine meanwhile could use him as a jungle gym and he wouldn't bat an eye. Caine can get away with a lot of stuff with Aible compared to everyone else honestly. He could pop Aible's head off of his body and Aible would still only be mildly annoyed with him. (Everyone else who tries this-coughJaxcough- would get punted into the sun(or the moon, Aible isn't picky)) Aaaaannd to finish it all off, heres his relationships/opinions of everyone Ragatha : He's alright with her. She tries to keep the peace and he respects that. Zooble : Their willing to call Jax out on his bs, and he appreciates that. He also likes how blunt they can be. Gangle : He doesn't really have that many thoughts on her. He likes that she doesn't cause trouble though. Jax : Probably the only person he hates, or at least kinda hates. Jax is a troublemaker and Aible doesn't like rulebreakers. (a ship between these two would be so fucking funny though) Sun : Shes a bit too talkative for his liking, so he kinda just tolerates her. Moon : He likes how quiet she is, but aside from that he's mostly neutral towards her. Bubble : He's a terror that breaks things, but he's also Caine's right-hand man and bff, who helps him with everything, so its... complicated. Pomni : He likes her. She always tries to help, regardless of how nervous she is. He just gets worried when both her and Caine get stuck in a dissociation episode with eachother... Kinger : He respects the chess piece a lot. If it wasn't for Kinger, then things could've been a lot worse... Queenie (once again, if I bring her back) : He likes her. she's calm, but she's also fun. not to mention she's really good at calming everyone down when they start panicking. Caine : Overprotective to an extreme. Caine annoys him and drives him insane sometimes, but fuck anyone who tries to hurt the gremlin. This is HIS chaotic Anxiety twin, thank you very much.

[glycerineclown]

BEFORE DINNER: HOW DID SIMON GET SO FUCKED UP?

Great art takes risks, and 2020’s cult hit Dinner In America took a huge one by making its male lead incredibly off-putting. Kyle Gallner’s Simon has off-the-charts anger issues, commits arson, sells drugs at an arcade, lies easily, curses loudly in public, has little to no respect for other people (“my dad’s allergic” “fuck your dad”), makes creepy sexual remarks and then acts like it was a joke, goes through cigarettes like he needs them to live—but by the end, you root for him. He defends Patty when no one else will, stands by his convictions, and is without a doubt an incredible musician.

He's a punk with just one patch on his jacket: an Eagle Scout badge over his heart. It’s the highest honor that a Boy Scout can earn, requiring demonstration of leadership, good citizenship, 21 merit badges, and the final piece: an extensive individual service project benefiting the scout’s local community.

Eagle Scouts are overrepresented in politics, clergy, the military, and NASA’s career astronauts. Even if it's technically secular, the Boy Scouts of America is an intensely Christian organization—very often troops are organized by churches, not schools.

Scout Law dictates that scouts be trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent (to God). All things that, you know, totally sound like Simon, the guy with a grown-out mohawk and an upside-down American flag hanging in his bedroom. He’s so clearly against conformity that it’s hard to imagine him ever being interested in wearing a uniform and building rope bridges. PSYOPS lyrics are blatantly anti-Christian, too (“fanatical religious right, pray with you because you’re white” based on the subtitles on Hulu).

The hypothesis I am proposing is that Simon earned the rank of Eagle Scout because doing so would allow him to receive his parents’ permission to do something else he really wanted to do—start a band. Maybe for his Eagle Project, he turned a storage closet into a recording studio for the high school music department. Simon goes big. Fuck building benches.

I was in Brownies through my elementary school for three years in the late 90s. We went camping, sold Trefoils, milked goats, and made gak. Our troop leader was the mom of one of the other girls, and when needed, additional chaperones were always more moms. I had a great time. Across the United States, most Boy Scouts are similarly unharmed as they get out of the house and learn basic survival skills.

Youth organizations have a problem, though—they attract people who want access to kids. I watched a documentary on Netflix last year, Scout’s Honor: The Secret Files of the Boy Scouts of America, illustrating how for decades the BSA protected child molesters on a level that rivals even the Catholic Church. Simple background checks for scoutmasters were considered inconvenient and too expensive for an organization largely run by volunteers, and the BSA refused to risk their Norman Rockwell reputation by acknowledging the issue. Men who were red-flagged as abusers could easily pop up again with another troop, since no database of “ineligible volunteers” was available to the public, and the BSA did not report crimes to the police. Deep shame and rampant homophobia meant survivors very often did not reveal the abuse they suffered until well into adulthood.

I have been thinking about this a lot with regard to Simon—maybe you saw my other, much more informal text post—but I am not qualified to (and really, really don’t want to) write fic exploring what the fuck could have happened to make him the way he is. Instead, I’m writing this essay about it. Proceed if you like to be sad!

[content warnings, obviously: discussion of CSA by an authority figure, post-traumatic stress disorder, substance abuse]

HYPOTHESIS: Becoming an Eagle Scout was the only way that Simon’s parents would let him pursue music.

Abuse in adolescence can affect how people learn to control their emotions later in life. Anger problems are especially prevalent with PTSD when the victim has been betrayed by others or exploited.

In the film, Simon has a pretty acrimonious relationship with everyone in his family apart from Danny. I don’t really buy that he was abused at home, though. It’s more likely that his family loves him but he’s out of control, and he is. Simon’s basement bedroom is full of instruments—it’s even more “fuckin’ tits” than Kevin’s bunk bed and guinea pigs. He used to be someone they trusted with a key.

So let’s assume that Simon was being molested by his scoutmaster as a teenager. If quitting the BSA meant he wouldn’t get to start a band, he’d be completely trapped.

Telling his parents would result in one of two options: they’d either assume he was making it up to get out of doing the work (do nothing but start a fight), or believe him and pull him out entirely, get the police involved, risk everyone at school finding out. And telling wouldn’t guarantee that he’d get to focus on music—surely Simon’s parents would rather he go off to college and get a degree in something reliable, as his siblings did. Becoming an Eagle Scout was the compromise because his parents figured it was an impossible task.

There’s no question that if that scoutmaster knew about the deal with his parents, it would have been used against him. If you don’t let me do this, you won’t get that merit badge you need, and if you don’t get that merit badge you need, you can kiss your dreams goodbye...

In the beginning, back in Cub Scouts, Simon could very well have bought what the organization was selling. Maybe he wasn’t jaded yet, wasn’t disillusioned, wasn’t quite old enough to think for himself. But if the man teaching Simon to respect the flag, do what he’s told, help others, set a good example, believe in God, and be a responsible, contributing member of society was also the one pulling his pants down, convincing him he had no power or worth, Simon might well have ended up doing a complete 180 against those ideals.

Maybe that piece of shit eyed him all the time, made him feel unsafe even from the other side of a room, and now he blows up at people staring at him in restaurants.

This experience could also, perhaps, motivate Simon to use his newfound power as an adult to protect other vulnerable people from bullying, like Patty.

The church angle works too. Simon knew immediately how to manipulate Patty’s dad. He fabricated the story about Tanzania and the prayer like it was nothing, and it would have been easy for him to do if he was steeped in that environment for years.

And then, of course, there’s the drugs—classic self-medication. A way to stop constantly thinking about stuff he doesn’t want to think about. Research has shown that traumatic experiences in childhood often lead to substance use disorders. Even if Simon’s not doing dope while he’s hanging out with Patty, he certainly has been addicted in the past. His parents have likely paid for him to go to rehab, maybe more than once. Substance abuse does make people lie to and steal from their families. Simon’s sister is an asshole at dinner, but her suspicion is probably not unfounded.

That wouldn’t have been where the lying started, though. He’d have been holding back the secret of his abuse since it began, giving poor excuses for injuries, and lashing out. Traumatic experiences, especially at a young age, can rewire your brain and change your personality. Addictive drugs can, too. He’s not the same person anymore.

Simon needed help, and he never got it.

More than 82,000 former boy scouts have come forward about sexual abuse that they experienced as children in the BSA. Criminal background checks only became mandatory for all scoutmasters and volunteers in 2008.

Maybe for Simon, wearing the badge is his way of saying, “You didn’t beat me. I deserve to be here. I earned the right to start a band.”

-

SOURCES: Boy Scouts of America (Wikipedia) Eagle Scouts (Wikipedia) Scout’s Honor: The Secret Files of the Boy Scouts of America (Netflix) Anger and Trauma (National Center for PTSD) Trauma and Stress (National Institute on Drug Abuse)

Support for survivors of abuse in the BSA is available here.

[qoldenskies]

I wonder how much Splinter picks apart the memory of Donnie crawling to him and asking for guidance that day.

How apologetic he was for interrupting Splinter at all. The questions—are you mad at me, do you think I’m selfish—and how genuinely childish and young they were in nature. Whether Donnie would have told him what had happened if Splinter hadn’t interrupted him. How long it took before Donnie came to him for help. How when Splinter asked “Are you sure you have not upset them?” the answer was “Maybe, I think so.” “Have you done anything to make them angry with you?” and even with what his brothers had done to him, what Leo had done to him, Donnie still said “Probably.” Agreed when Splinter said they had a reason for treating him that way.

He had the same conversation with April months later, and yet the seeds of it had been here, too—had been there years before.

sometimes i am caught between feeling so bad for splinter and kind of hoping he internalizes the way he brushed him off for of the rest of his life. there's a good chance he will think of that conversation EVERY time donnie reaches out to him looking for a savior or protector, especially after april leaves and he's the only "safe person" in the house when donnie cant think straight.

in an attempt to be unlike of HIS oppressive family he went the opposite way and went for a more relaxed style of parenting, and he veered too hard in that direction and COMPLETELY turned a blind eye to such horrifying abuse happening. it kind of reminds me of like turtle dega nights where he's so shocked to realize the shit they just get up to. for like. fun. he's NOT in a position to shelter them without pushback and he understands that now, which is a big reason he leaves them to make their own decisions when it comes to kitsune.

its hard to find a line between acknowledging theyre independent in a way he cant really stop and need to be treated with that respect and acknowledging theyre children! just kids! his baby boys!!! he's so used to seeing them silly and unserious around him that he hasn't properly processed the weight of his passive neglect until all of THIS blew up in his face. and i think that's best shown through him dismissing donnie. they mostly fell out of conversation after that point, but im sure they exchanged a few words sometime in between (for the sake of realism, its something to acknowledge) and i think splinter would think of that a lot too. why didn't he notice donnie was starting to look up so beat up? getting thinner and thinner? just disappearing during leo's birthday?? staring through him whenever splinter shot im a quick hello on the way to the kitchen??? originally that conversation weighed on the back of his mind already (because i dont think donnie comes to him for comfort like THAT much, technically i think in cc that was usually leo's job. rooftop conversations and all that), but obviously he wouldnt correlate it with any red flags now. just like how april didnt WANT to assume they were doing anything wrong because the four of them were so close, malice just didnt feel like a REALISTIC thing to expect from them and they were acting normal to her!!

cannot even begin to imagine how he was feeling in cw ch1. hearing about most of what they did and seeing how tiny and roughed up donnie was is one thing, and seeing him cling to his robe and inconsolably sob and scream for his daddy is another. splinter probably cant help but wonder if this is what donnie had wanted the whole time. cant help but wonder if he would have reacted like this at ANY point before it all got this far. all he had to do is reach out, for once. to ask HIM if he's okay, for once.

and he didn't.

[k0nanharv3y]

OKAY I CANNOT LET THIS DIE

Part 1 of this bullshit

"Hero? Villain? or misunderstood mind?", "Has he done more good for Gotham than its own inhabitants? What Wayne has to say about it", "The reality of the situation; Statistics of the recent attacks on Wayne Enterprise and Gotham City"

Tim didn't read the newspaper, it was boring, he didn't like it and he didn't have time to read the latest gossip from Gotham when he was most likely there. And he didn't need a piece of paper for that, that was contamination, he could get all the information he needed with just one search. So, yeah, Tim didn't read the newspaper

But then Riddle was imprisoned without even knowing it thanks to the newspaper and so Tim set himself the task of checking every single newspaper that ever mentioned him. And damn... Reddit was a thing when it came to twisting things, but this? This is blatant show-telling

Some called him a villain who didn't know how to do his job (in the first cases, really understandable, Tim barely knew what he was doing), but he had never set out to harm Gotham and apparently some people got angry...? Because... because he didn't kill anyone? (Joker doesn't count, he wasn't anybody) ...???. Others dared to lump him in with the Bats (And God bless the spilled coffee he spat out while choking reading that) saying how come; Apparently Tim was seen as a good guy and the explosions and cyber attacks on Wayne Enterprises had not been him but another rogue who was defeated by Tim???. But the others called it "The Evolution of Batman" and refuted his statistics. Batman's way was to go out and beat them until they calmed down, Tim's way was to cut them off at the root (Joker exploding in a building was nothing more than poetry. But the trafficking networks were eradicated by giving legal and stable jobs to those who distributed it, Tim didn't take their lives, not the literal ones at least, Tim changed them)

He finished high school early and dedicated himself to helping Gotham. It wasn't even illegal (stealing from the rich isn't illegal, their mere existence is illegal and unjust) Tim wasn't a villain, the citizens of Gotham seemed to love him just like they loved Batman; and if some building had to be blown up, at least nobody lived there and it was only to piss off the Bats

Batman's attempts to stop him seemed to cease... But Tim was greedy once... just once, and that led him to mess with forces he couldn't control. And then there was a price on his head, and Shiva and Deathstroke were after him. Because Ra's doesn't find it funny that a 14-year-old kid hacks into his systems and steals money to give to the poor. Shiva ended up being kind of... weird? She didn't kill him, but she threatened him that she would sooner or later, when Tim is a real threat to her (Tim learned to fight, thanks Shiva, but fuck it, it hurt) and Slade let him live because...??? I mean, he slit his throat and gave him enough trauma to last a lifetime, but he let him live... Tim doesn't think he's that lucky, this was already playing god

And then Ra's killed his mother

///

The irony is that Tim didn't WANT his mother, of course, she was his mother and he loved her deeply, but... it was like, a love out of responsibility, Tim was a child who was presented with, look, these are your parents and you must love them and respect them because they are your parents. That Janet's death hurt him so much... it was more a matter of pride, Tim didn't want revenge because Ra's killed his mother, he wanted revenge because Ra's killed his mother

And now he wasn't going to stop Gotham from burning. He was going to create the fire for Ra's to burn with whatever it took

If Batman stopped him, he didn't care, Tim had nothing to lose. His mother was dead and Ra's would pay for it

///

This is... actually before Batman's death, but after Damian became Robin, I'm working on this as I write, I don't have anything planned so...

Someone: Oh! Plot Hole!

I throw a brick at them and make sure they don't move anymore

Me: You didn't see anything.

Part 3 because i forgot to mention it

[onlydylanobrien]

New still of Dylan O'Brien as Rocky/ Roman and James Sweeney as Dennis in "Twinless". (2025)

📷©: ew.com

First look at Dylan O’Brien’s Twinless, a Sundance contender that takes inspiration from the Olsen twins

"That visceral moment of 'you look just like me' is imprinted in my formative memories," says writer-director James Sweeney.

Nineties kids are kind of obsessed with twins. And for good reason — we grew up with the Olsen twins, the remake of The Parent Trap, and Sister, Sister.

Writer-director James Sweeney takes that obsession to the next level with Twinless, his sophomore feature that will have its world premiere on Jan. 23 at the Sundance Film Festival. Entertainment Weekly has your exclusive first look at the film, in which Sweeney costars alongside Dylan O'Brien.

"I grew up in a generation that idolized twins," Sweeney tells EW. "It was very much in my zeitgeist. It was a manifestation of the perfect best friend, somebody you could share everything with. As a military brat hopping around, that was something I really craved. When I told my stepmom about what the film was, she was like, 'Oh, you used to beg me for a twin, and I had to explain to you that I can't make that happen.'"

That early fascination is evident in Twinless, which even features a scene with a character watching the Olsen twins' film It Takes Two. "That was definitely my fantasy," Sweeney says of the 1995 film. "It's like, 'Oh, one day I'll just magically run into my identical twin.' Even though they're actually not twins, they're just lookalikes. But that visceral moment of 'You look just like me' is imprinted in my formative memories."

As for Twinless, the film tells the story of a twin, Roman (O'Brien), who loses his brother, Rocky (also O'Brien), and feels like he's lost half of himself. After Rocky dies, Roman decides to stay in Rocky's Portland, OR apartment as he navigates his grief. While attending a support group for twin loss, he befriends Dennis (Sweeney), a fellow lost soul — and the two find solace in each other, forming an unlikely bromance.

"Roman and Dennis get along so well because they're both bringing their respective baggage and grief and traumas to the table," Sweeney says. "They bond and complement each other."

Sweeney is not a twin, but he did base his script on the existence of twin bereavement support groups. Though, out of respect for all involved, he didn't attend one of their meetings. "I thought it would be too much to attend," he explains. "I did order a book from their website, because I did research and read some books written by twin psychologists. One was called Alone in the Mirror, which touches on twin loss. It was written by the co-founder of the support group, and I paid $25 and they never sent me a book."

Even without that book (he tried!), Sweeney was fascinated by the psychology of twins and how that unique bond differs from those of siblings who are not twins. "I would say being a twin isn't a monolithic experience, so there's so many variations," Sweeney notes. "It also has a lot to do with how the parents reared their children and whether or not they encouraged or discouraged individuality between the twins. But there's a lot of studies done on twins because they see them as the perfect specimen."

Explorating what it means to be (and lose) a twin first attracted O'Brien to the project. Sweeney wrote the first draft in 2015, and O'Brien has been attached since 2020. But the script grabbed the actor from the moment it popped up in his inbox alongside several others his manager sent his way.

"I'm fascinated by it in terms of it being something so unique on this earth," O'Brien says of the twin dynamic. "That is one of those things that really, unless you experience it, you can't understand. Twinless support groups exist because it is a very specific loss and trauma that you need support with — losing a connectivity that us normies can't ever quite understand. That deeply resonated with me, even though I don't have a twin. I found it to be a really compelling and heart-wrenching center to this story. This tragically poignant tale of this kid losing his other half."

That, along with his love for his character, propelled O'Brien to stick with the project these last five years while the film searched for funding and postponed production in the wake of the 2023 Hollywood strikes. "It was a gut thing for me," O'Brien reflects. "I remember falling in love with Roman immediately. I read a character, and either I have that soul in me or not. Roman's somebody I know really deep down."

Sweeney was incredibly moved by O'Brien's dedication and enthusiasm for the project, a quality that was evident from their first meeting. "When I first met Dylan over Zoom, he really took ownership over the role in a way that I had never experienced with an actor," Sweeney says. "He basically said, 'I see you. I see your voice. I understand this character and his every emotion.' That gave me a lot of confidence."

For both O'Brien and Sweeney, getting to make this movie entirely on their terms was a creative reward unto itself. "The script was so fantastic and dialed in from the time I first read it," O'Brien notes. "I authentically connected to it all. It was one of those wonderful creative experiences."

But now they get to share it with the world, beginning in the U.S. Dramatic Competition at the Sundance Film Festival. Still, Sweeney says anything from here on is a cherry on top of his twin sundae.

"This was an instance where I had optimal creative control and a wonderful team championing me to do exactly the movie I wanted to make," he concludes. "I know that's a rare gift. I'm super excited for people to see the film and to find its audience. But as far as I'm concerned, I'm already content."

[h-l-v-kennedy-blog]

Part Two: “A String of Pearls”

pairing: john f. kennedy/oc (sabrina e. overstreet)

word count: 1,937 (I know, I went off with this one)

warnings: none, just a slow-burn romance (its not simmering yet)

summary: 1938, London, Kick, hand-touches and a new friend.

a/n: here's the next part, with some slightly jealous-Jack thrown in there.

One year bled into another, 1936 soon changed to 1938, bringing the Kennedys to the Court of St. James. The Overstreet’s remained across the Atlantic, Sabrina's brother Anthony (better known as simply Tony, two years younger than Sabrina) would join his sister in the world of college academia, starting his freshman term at Stanford in 1938, with a focus on Economics and Finance (having graduated a year earlier from Choate, and yes, the Kennedys and Overstreets had their kids attend similar schools), and Sabrina moved along in her studies at Wellesley, her concentration in Classics and History.  

She kept close correspondence with the golden trio (though Joe Jr. seemed at a distance for her, since she found his letters mostly focused on “Dad said this, Dad did that” which cooled her interest in him). But Jack and Kick both were more of their own minds and filled their letters with stories of a gossipier nature (be it who Kick had met in London or who Jack was going out with or what either of them were reading or doing), and until Jack left for England, he visited the Wellesley campus. Although most of the time not explicitly to see her, since he and his Harvard pals frequented almost all the New England girl's college campus’s mainly for dates, going through them at a quick pace. However, sometimes, it seemed his appearance at the Quint was intentional. Though always tethered with an excuse: “I wanted return this book I borrowed” or “Would you come along with the group to the movies?” or “Needed to see that you were behaving like a good Overstreet and keeping up your studies”. Wit covered any sincerity, and charm made it seem less earnest, even if there was an eagerness in his manner. She saw it wasn’t anything unique, for whenever she was out with Jack and his buddies, Ann Cannon, was the object of his attention, and she was but a dance partner for Lem. 

Jack arrived in London, in early July (around the 2nd day of the month), to join his family and tag along with his brother Joe and sister Kick in her London debutante season, she had already garnered notice and attention from the British people and press and had friends who would become Jack’s friends. He would stay until the fall semester began and he’d return to Harvard. 

A few days after the fact, there was a surprise in store for the golden trio, when one morning over breakfast, Joe Senior declared that joining their family were the Overstreets (who were as they spoke, traversing over the Atlantic to the English port) after Kick had been asking Sabrina for weeks to join her in England and not summer without her (Kick having not known many summers without her best friend), so she brought her father into the plans and convinced James to allow his nineteen-year-old daughter and seventeen-year-old son to cross the Atlantic, which they managed to do. Sabrina and Tony’s mother, Evelyn, would be chaperoning them, and since the Ambassador’s house at 14 Prince’s Gate in Knightsbridge, was big enough, with its six stories and thirty-six rooms, Joe Senior offered the family friends to stay with them for the duration. 

On the 7th (after four days of sea faring, as was the norm with ocean liners), the Overstreets would step off the RMS Queen Mary to be greeted by three Kennedys (Joe Jr., Kick and Jack). The trio embracing the Overstreet duo and respectively greeting Mrs. Overstreet. 

After settling into her room, Sabrina sat on her bed looking at the very French decor in the guest room meant for her. Rose’s touch, she surmised. The four-poster bed was also quite regal. A bit much, but not tasteless. She flopped onto her back, hands crossing on her stomach as she ran through the experience of the past few days. She was abroad, for the first time, London! And with her favorite people. And Kick promised to take her to every place worth mentioning and to the best parties and dances. Which reminded her of the dresses a maid had hung up for her in the wardrobe. Nothing really new, but her mother had agreed to take her to a dressmaker so she would have fresh gowns made in Europe. She wanted to go everywhere. The dresses really weren’t her priority, but any number of bookstores or historical sights she could see, that...was her dream. 

Her reverie came to a close, when the door to the bedroom was swung open and the bed dipped with a happy girly giggle and a proper Bostonian voice spoke. “Sabrina, darling, you can’t lock yourself away when you’ve only just arrived. We need to talk about everything.” Kick really had all the energy and joy in the world, Sabrina determined, and England had brought it out. 

“Haven’t your letters covered everything yet?” Sabrina said looking up at the brunette who laid on her bed on her side with that bright Kennedy smile on her face.  

“Not even close. So-” And they chattered for what seemed hours. Which it was. Sooner rather than later, Rose came by the open bedroom door to tell the girls to start getting ready for the party they would be attending of some English lord or another. 

A maid helped on her blue satin dress with a long-flounced skirt, balloon sleeves and sweetheart neckline, a single string of pearls over her throat. Sabrina’s hair was in simple ringlets framing her face. Her mother only let her wear so much makeup, since there was a line between good and gaudy. But she always veiled such comments with praise for her natural beauty, which Sabrina took in stride. 

In the car with her brother Tony, and the trio of Kennedys along with the Ambassador and Rose. Evelyn having stayed behind, blaming a headache. Sabrina looked at the streets lined with oil street lamps as the car whizzed by, the warm glow of the streets contrasting with the darkening sky. She was sat next to Jack (with Kick on his right, and Joe Jr. riding with their parents in a separate car), holding the window seat and her right-hand fidgeting with the satin of her skirt. 

“Are you nervous?” His voice was closer to her than she had expected, breath warm on her skin as she turned her head. Jack’s question came in earnest, she could read it from the slight raise in his brow. And his tone wasn’t reaching for witticisms, either. He actually wanted to know. 

“Um...a bit, yes.” She said, matching the volume his voice. 

“Why? Don’t tell me you don’t think you’re not good enough to be in the company of Brits?” 

Her hand had stopped fidgeting, and her head bobbed a bit, avoiding his eyes. 

“Why?” He repeated the question. 

“Well, I... I guess because I’m just...I know I’m from privilege like time, but I’m not the child of an appointed diplomat or lord. My father’s a businessman in New York, a very successful one. But...what if...” What if they don’t accept me?  

She knew Jack would get the unsaid that lingered in the air. “You are better than them. And you will fit in. You’re studying the Classics for God’s sake, if that doesn’t turn some British heads then I’m not Jack Kennedy!” His voice raised a bit with a comforting smile, that caught Kick’s attention as she had turned to listen in to their conversation. “And you’re reserved and that humor of yours which is like that old Brit fashion. Don’t worry, Kick and I will make sure you have friends.” With a good-natured gesture, his hand passed over hers for a beat, giving it a squeeze before letting go, a bit hurriedly, almost like his mind had caught up with his action a moment too late. “And I’m sure Joe will save a dance or two for you.” Now, he was back in his joking mood, teasing with a mirthful smirk. “Maybe I will, too.” 

Sabrina didn’t expect he’d keep his word, but Joe did give her a few passing glances and they talked before a colorful skirt passed by that was undoubtably more to his taste (she had long given up that he would take up interest in her other than seeing as his sister’s best friend, even if the Ambassador had made a few comments yet again at how handsome they looked together). So, in a candlelit ballroom, with people, young and old, bustling around her, some dancing, some talking and quite a few drinking; she felt alone. She had a glass of punch in her hand, as she saw Joe cut into a dancing couple to take the young woman for a twirl. Jack was in group, some his age and a few older, a charming smile on his face as his mouth moved, Kick was also contributing to the conversation, whatever the topic was. Was it terrible of her to be homesick, and tired of being on her own with people she mostly didn’t know, aside from perfunctory introductions? She wasn’t sure. But she did feel lonesome.

Almost as if someone had read her mind a voice spoke up at her side. 

“Sans company, miss?” A British, posh London accent brought her unfocused gaze into focus. A young man, with brown hair, dark eyes and a long nose, in a white tie tux, looked at her. 

“Sans is the right word.” She chuckled at the Latin word sans, meaning without. She took a sip to hide her surprise that someone would come up to her. “I don’t have many friends here.” 

“I saw you come with the Ambassador and his family, so I doubt that, miss. And I’ll be your friend, if you want.” He spoke. “David Ormsby-Gore, second son of Lord Harlech.” Offering a gloved hand, which Sabrina took and he pressed a kiss to the top of her hand while Sabrina looked at him with an amused brow. “You’re an American, yes?” 

“Was the title necessary?” She chuckled and her hand returning to her side as she set her drink on a passing tray. “And yes. I’m Sabrina Overstreet, only daughter of James Overstreet of “McIver Enterprises”.” 

“Ah, a man of industry?” He spoke. 

“You could say that.” 

“And your relation to the Ambassador and his family?” 

“Old friends. My brother and I grew up with their children.”  

“Quite old friends indeed, though I wouldn’t think you quite old, yet.” There was that British humor. Cheeky. 

She smiled. “No, indeed, I’ll be twenty in November, born 1918.” 

“Well, we already have one thing in common, I’m also born that year, in May.”  

“A fine month.” And they both laughed at that. 

All the while, someone else had noticed their little interaction and disembarked from his own conversation. 

“Well, aren’t you good, Sabrina? Making friends on your own.” That teasing and so Kennedy of a tone made her turn her eyes from the Englishman to the American. She didn’t hold back her own mirthful look as if to say: "I can manage even after you abandoned me to be on my own."  

“Yes, Jack, I am.” 

“Taking good care of her, Ormsby-Gore?” Jack turned to David, with an unreadable and unfamiliar look. David didn’t seem to be bothered. 

“I am managing, Kennedy. I was about to ask her for a dance-” 

“Well, why don’t I do that for you.” He interrupted him. There was almost a competitive lilt in his tone before he looked back at Sabrina and offered her his hand. “Shall we, Sabrina?” 

So, with an apologetic look to David, she let Jack whisk her away into a foxtrot step. She didn’t remember the last time they had danced together (for on group dates, the date was almost always over before he got to her). But she decided to enjoy the attention of at least one Kennedy that evening. 

///

Back to Part One or Part Three (coming soon)

///

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[sandwichsakurauchi]

Bridget let out a small yawn as she finally awoke. Another restful night of sleep after a long feast at this wonderful new hotel she found! She couldn't believe how well it catered to someone like her! The obese bounty hunter tossed the covers off and jumped out of bed, the room shaking slightly from her impressive weight hitting the floor. Bridget was.... bizarrely athletic for someone her size. She'd been a pretty good fighter before she decided to pack on the weight, able to be thrown through walls or throw people through them. Because of this, despite most of the other guests who were around the same weight as her needing multiple mobility aids, she was doing just fine and dandy moving under her own power. She did notice it was starting to get a little awkward having to turn around, so her mobility was actually starting to wane, but the bubbly butterball didn't pay much heed to it. The blonde noticed that her clothes were a little tight, pockets of blubber poking out through her zipper....eh, it'll be fine. if she outgrows this hoodie, then she outgrows it. She waddled towards the door and opened it up, pleasantly surprised to see one of the hotel staff on the other end! "Oh, hey there! Great recommendation for last night's dinner by the way! There was so much good food and stuff I never thought of eating, like sticks of butter, fryer oil and just globs of pure dough! Oooh, and its name was super cute! 'The Last Meal'. Heh!" She giggled, Bridget not really respecting the macabre nature of that bounty and that for many of the hotel residents, it was their last meal.

Leah would stare for a bit before whispering. "Eh-?... W-Wait, that's seriously a meal name here? The hell is that girl feeding these people??"

"N-Now now, Leah. Focus. This is different from serving the usual clientele at home..." Sarah informed her sister as she cleared her throat with a smile. "Um, Bridget-san, yes? It's a pleasure to meet you. Ms. Ohara has sent us to check in on you and see if there's anything you'd like to order or need assistance with."

The elder Kazuno bowed with a smile. "My sister and I are new staff members as of today. We look forward to working with you~............ Psst, Leah, manners."

"Ngh-... I-It's a pleasure..." (She's HUGE!! Is everyone this big?... Is Ruby this big?!)

[leohunter2020]

" yeah Violet needs to make this official so I can meet the two of ten, the girl sounds so adorable and he sounds like a good fit but I can't tell without knowing him, well actually I can cuz you approve and you read people like children books, you know the one where each page is like so think you and hard, like almost from a cardboard... you know what I mean?" he said trying to explain but had no idea what they were called " the once that have like huge letters and very few words" he then stated trying to explain how good he felt Isaiah was at reading people. " but oh my god, can you imagining Aid a big brother? that's just the cutest thing ever. i want that for him, I think he would be a really good big brother" Leo then added

" no, it really does give me super powers, once its off my mind cant focus on whats important, but those things are clear as a day when I'm out on a call. Once I leave the fire station I feel like... like...." Leo wasn't sure how to explain it. e didn't wanna say broken, or that he was a pace of shit, but he often felt like that. He often felt like a bad husband because of all the setbacks and extra trouble he put on Isaiah, and at times, feeling like such a failure of a husband really pulled him down. He didn't know how to express it, he knew Isaiah didn't see it like that, and those were the days Leo put up his walls an hid in bed all day, lying that he had a terrible headache or that he just didn't feel good. That kind of was true, he felt terrible emotionally. He had voiced this once at therapy, but he had decided never to do that again, it just made him feel even worse about it. The therapist had only kept saying his emotions were valid and that he just needed to find a way to talk to Isaiah about it. That only frustrated him even more with himself. " that's just temporary and then they go home and.... " leo was starting to breathe a bit unevenly, trying not to lose his cool but the water was fighting his eyes "What if I just.... what if our kid needs us and I just freeze? that if he needs us and I can't get out of the bed in the morning? what if I'm out with our kid, and randomly have a panic attack? what if.... what if" leo felt his mind spiraling and he couldn't put his words into sentences, it was all bundling up into a mess. He quickly looked away, he couldn't look at Isaiah when he was like this. Isaiah didn't deserve all this second-guessing. " I'm sorry" he then whispered.

" im not okay with it. I don't want you to have to ask and look for approval every time. Its so frustrating" Leo admitted but he knew Isaiah had enough patience for the both of them and that made everything so much easier. Leo took a deep breath " I'm sorry baby, I didn't mean to get so.... frustrated. its not your fault. " you are so loving and caring and respectful and.... all the good things baby. I really do appreciate you, you know that right?" he asked biting his lip. If square one was what they needed, which it was, leo was going to put in so much effort to move up fast. Leo might not like to be in control, but he lived having a voice and be herd, even tho it might not be 100% verbally, Isaiah got his body language so well mapped down.

After saying Isaiah hadnt, Leo douted himself, Isaiah most likely had, Isaiah always complimented him for everything. but in the moment Leo couldn't remember so no was the answer he was rolling with. Isaiah had gotten Leo in the mood right now, he wanted nothing more than his husband. " yeah Zaya, I want you to make love to me please" the young man begged his husband

Leo longed for his husband's touch, his husband's warmth and love. He could never get enough of it. Isaiah made him feel like the most important human alive. He made him feel safe and adored. Leo knew that with Isaiah everything was more than okay, he knew his man would read his signs when Leo couldn't get out the words. His man might not run out of turning buildings with people over his shoulder, but his man saved many lives every single day, Leo being one of them. The police job was far from easy, Leo knew that, he knew the toll it could take on his husband, both physically, mentally and emotionally. But his ban was so strong and leo had promised to always e there for him no matter what he needed, he would do everything he could to support him.

Isaiah had the man breathing unevenly from pleasure as he tried his best keep cool. " how?" Leo didn't feel like his brain was working properly at the moment, his mind kept going to what Isaiah was doing and how amazing it felt. Leo couldn't help but pull ever so slightly on his husband's curls motioning him to come meet his face. the purring had only made him want his husband's love even more. " your patrol car would be so freaking hot, but I am not about to get you in trouble, ever. Thats work, we don't do things there." he said... before his mind drifted to the countless of times they had snuck off at work to have sex. In the shower, in the broom closet... pretty much everywhere they wouldn't get caught... or less likely at least " okay.... never mind, I take that back.... but no not your patrol car" he chuckled a the thought " i´m impatient today, I want you right here, right now" he told him softly. " I want your love baby" he expressed

Feeling his husbands hand on his dick and feeling his body move so their faces met in a soft and sweet kiss got Leo smiling, he really did know all of leos signals. Feeling Isaiahs nose brush against him earned Isaiah an even bigger smile. " oh baby, that wont be a problem, its just you and I in this world, and our moment" he stated, Leo always did get lost in their love making. All his worries washed away.

" oh baby, your not the only one, I need you so bad, I need you all wrapped up in me. "

Isaiah loved that his husband wanted to protect his best friend too. Violet and Leo being close made his heart happy because those two people were the ones that kept him from sinking time and time again. "Reign's got the cutest little girl. She's a little bit younger than Ayd is." Isaiah could remember Reign bringing his daughter to work one time. He'd gave the little girl a cupcake there to make a good impression. Nala seemed appreciative and had smiled so widely back at him.

He could see his husband's mind spiral as he started to think about the future that might happened between him. He seemed to be questioning if was fit for fatherhood which seemed bizarre to Isaiah. Isaiah got to witness first hand how his husband was around Violet's kid when he stopped over for a sleepover here. He was so playful, endearing and creative without even having to think about it all. "Once you take the uniform off you are the exact same person, babe. The uniform doesn't give you superhero powers. That's all on you." Clark Kent was still Superman - even when he wasn't clocked in. Isaiah knew the reasons why his husband was questioning all this. Isaiah and Leo's childhoods were different. He grow up with loving parents and a big brother that he admired and worshiped. Leo, on the other hand, had a dreadful experience. His parents were horrible. The experience that he went through shaped him into the person he was. "What makes you think you aren't? I see you around all our friends kids. I see you making them smile, comforting them, loving them."

Isaiah reached out for his husbands hands as Leo told him that he knew he loved him and wouldn't do anything to hurt him. That was right. He wouldn't dream of rushing Leo into do anything with him. Conversations were important. It was a starting point between them. "I'm okay with picking up from square one again as long as you are. You know I wouldn't do anything without you telling me it's alright." Leo's consent was the most important thing in this relationship. Isaiah knew his husband hadn't always had the option to give it out which is why he always checked and then double checked.

Isaiah furrowed his eyebrows because he should've told his husband just how great he looked from this angle countless times in the past. Those other times were missed opportunities and he wouldn't make the same mistake again. His husband deserved to be complimented. Feeling the other's hips buck up to meet his mouth meant whatever he was doing was working. "You want me to make love to you?"

Sex with Leo had a deeper meaning to Isaiah. He could remember wanting to bring the hot firefighter home with him that first night their paths crossed when he watched him saving somebody else life. Isaiah could remember watching the scene from his patrol car, practically drooling, eyes focused on the man looking like an action hero with fire blazing behind him and another man thrown over his shoulder before placing him down. He looked so strong and brave. Leo didn't always see himself like that but Isaiah did all the time.

He continued going down as his husband to him all hot and heavy. "How'd you want it this time?" That conversation was one of the most important between them and he always asked to make sure he wouldn't accidentally do something that might trigger his husband. His husband's hand clenching between his curls had him purring. Isaiah was big on having his husbands hands guiding him slightly. "Here? Upstairs? In the backseat of my patrol car?"

He let his hand take over from his mouth for a couple of seconds as he leaned up slightly to kiss his husband again. His nose brushed against Leo's showering him with his love and patience and kindness. "I want us to make love and I want you to not be able to stop thinking about it. I want just the thought of it to get you like all like this." His thumb swiped over the other's member as he watched his chest rise and fall.

"I need you."