#The only thing of it is it takes longer to skim text than to have a ref pic to look at

[hajihiko]

for commissions, do you accept a written description as reference when doing oc art?

Ummmmmm i guess yeah, but it'll make the progress take a bit longer and I might need to ask a Lot of questions

[nereidprinc3ss]

andromeda | (dybmn? bonus)

a bonus vignette from spencer's POV. we find out how he really feels about reader. takes place the day before the argument at the bar.

note: this is not part six! takes place between parts four and five.

series masterlist

18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, semi-graphic descriptions of sexual fantasies, some angst, you're not actually present, mention of alcohol, very vague discussions of murdery stuff bc he's supposed to be working, sassy spencer makes an appearance a/n: for all my angels who said they wanted a snippet of spencer's POV! i'm sorry if i'm overdoing it with this story or clogging the spencer tags, i'm just having a lot of fun! i hope you enjoy or that this may be clears some things up for you, pls lmk your thoughts:) ily!!!

Spencer is incessantly drumming the particle board table underneath his fingers.

The polymer veneer is one of his least favorite textures—he hates the grain of it and if he were to accidentally scratch the table with his nails he knows it would make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

But of all the things he’s worried about, that ranks very low on the list. 

He’s got a lot of mental tabs open all the time—and the tabs, he can deal with. It’s when he starts trying to operate with multiple windows that he begins to struggle. His brain, while it is a very fine tuned sort of computer, only has one monitor. Unfortunately, no human (except for the ones who’ve had their brain hemispheres surgically split) is immune to the inevitable pitfalls of multitasking. By dividing his mental energy between you and his job, he’s really fucking up his job. But he also thinks he really fucked up with you on that phone call the other night and for being as logical as he is he can’t seem to make that feel unimportant—even though he’s disgusted with himself for it because there are literally people dying. 

Someone knocks on the open conference room door—he looks up, skimming his lips over his fist. 

“What’s up?” he says too quickly upon seeing Emily’s mildly concerned face peering in on him. 

Her mouth bridges into a sort of nonchalant frown and her brows kick up. 

“Just�� checking in. Haven’t heard from you all morning.”

“Yeah, the, uh—the geo-profile. I’m still… I’m still working it out.”

It’s not like he’s ever been phenomenal with his syntax in a social sense, but Spencer is certainly aware he’s doing even worse than usual right now. 

“Okay. Uh… is there anything in particular stumping you, or…?”

“Nope. Just not enough information. But I’m—I’m going to keep trying.”

“Alright. Got your phone handy?”

It’s an odd question—of course he has his phone handy. He’s been doing this job longer than Emily has. How else would he communicate with the rest of the team? He bristles. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Emily shakes her head. She’s always been particularly good at reading his moods.

“You’re not under attack, Reid. I was just asking.”

Just as he’s about to say, why would you assume I’m not prepared for my job, he manages to swerve away and stifle the words with his fist. Instead he looks back down at his copy of the map and nods. In reality, he truly isn’t prepared for his job today. The reason he has his phone so close, fully charged and at top volume is because he’s worried he’ll miss a call from you. 

Emily says something else, and he hums in response, and then she’s gone. 

He shouldn’t be reading into your reticence this much. It’s not like you just sit by the phone all day, eagerly awaiting a call or text from him (like he does you). You have a life. You’re busy. And even if you are intentionally dodging his texts, he can’t entirely fault you for it. Spencer knows he’s clingy. He knows he’s overbearing. It’s part of why he panicked the other night and told you the whole humiliating story about Elle. Because he can’t ever just be cool and he felt the need to explain himself. 

But the problem was, and is, that he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without saying those three words that fucked him over all those years ago.

So he’d danced around them. Applied them to someone else to try and avoid outright professing his all-consuming love for you over the phone. However you feel, Spencer has to assume he feels more. Spencer always has to assume he feels more because he usually does and it’s gotten him into trouble before. And now he’s pretty sure he was exactly right, as often is the case, because you didn’t tell him he was mistaken and you’d clammed up and you haven’t talked to him since and he’s not supposed to be reading into it this much. 

Three victims killed and dumped within a 6 mile radius of the first victim plus one victim killed and dumped 23.8 miles away. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Fuck this guy. 

Spencer decides the problem is that he needs more caffeine. 

Or possibly, if he were a different kind of man—copious amounts of alcohol. 

So he stows his phone in a pocket and asks the first person he sees where the coffee machine is. 

“Looks like you found it earlier,” the woman says, glancing pointedly down at his mostly empty mug. A playful smirk tugs at pinkish-brownish lips. She’s pretty, he realizes distantly. But he registers it the same way he’d take note of the model of a car, or the species of a bird, or the kind of shoes someone is wearing. It doesn’t actually interest him. It’s just part of processing his environment. “I can show you to it?”

He doesn’t have the heart or energy to explain that someone else brought him his cup earlier and he’s not flirting with her. 

“If you could just point me in the right direction…?”

She laughs, short and dry, before she’s pointing down a hall. 

“Kitchenette down there and to the left.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, already walking away without sparing her a second glance. 

She’s the kind of woman he would have paid a lot more attention to before you came along. Not that he’d ever sleep with someone on the job (not since he was 25, anyway), but if he’d met her under any other circumstances he probably would have cared more about the way her pupils dilated and her eyes had widened slightly and she’d adjusted her posture and all the other small things people do when they’re attracted to someone else. 30 year old Spencer might have slept with her. 27 year old Spencer definitely would have slept with her. Current Spencer obsessively pines for a woman who is already his girlfriend and whom he has yet to sleep with at all far too much to think about other women like that. 

But god, does he think about you like that. 

His feet carry him down the dim, carpeted hallway but really it took barely a nudge and he’s thinking about you like that. At work. As he’s pouring himself coffee. 

Spencer is confident in the fact that if anyone were to look at him right now, they’d never guess he’s running clips of you in his mind like a dirty supercut. Because he’s just pouring coffee. That’s one good thing about having all those tabs open all the time. He can toggle between them quickly. He has enough going on in the background that people look at him and all they can tell is that he’s thinking hard about lots of things. Some of them just happen to be the way you look when you’re naked on his bed, skin shining and glazed eyes sleepy, parted lips higher in color than usual and catching your breath. Some of them happen to be your hair brushing his stomach before he gathers it back for you. Some of them happen to be the way your thighs feel on either side of his face, or how you stretch around his fingers, or how you might feel when you stretch around his—

He hisses as hot coffee overflows from the mug and burns his hand. 

Maybe he’s not as calm and collected as he thought. 

But on top of all the other things he’s dealing with, having been so close to actually sleeping with you the other night is really fucking with his head. Even if he tells himself he wouldn't have done it, he knows himself better than that. He's too familiar with the effect you have on his judgement.

“Found it okay?” 

Spencer looks down, surprised to see the woman from earlier sitting at her desk and watching him as he quickly passes by on his way back to the conference room. Her legs are crossed. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a flouncy sort of blouse which seems impractical for working in an FBI field office. Maybe she notices his eye catching on her figure and misguidedly swivels her chair to give him a better look. But all he’s noticing is that it doesn’t look like yours. Now he’s picturing the curve of your hip dripping in silk after that first night at Rossi’s. How your waist and your stomach feel when he slides his hands over you. This woman—she might as well not even be here for all he’s actually seeing her. 

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

Then he’s gone. Very briefly he acknowledges that he should feel sorry for so obviously brushing her off, but he doesn’t care even close to enough. He sets the coffee down on the table and rounds to the board where one of several maps is taped. On autopilot he draws lines between dump sites because one of the background tabs had deduced, while he was busy watching you like porn, that the distance between dump sites form the beginnings of the constellation Orion with some mathematical precision that’s too exacting to be coincidental. Orion’s Belt plus the most recent victim. Betelgeuse. 

There are ten formally named stars that make up Orion. He marks all of them, but circles the transposed coordinates of Bellatrix, Saiph, Rigel and Meissa as the next most likely dump sites. Most probably it will be Orion’s head. They’re all in wooded areas. He calls Garcia. Garcia will call Emily, wherever she is. If the unsub sticks to pattern, which they always do, they have until midnight. It’s trite, really. Predictable, like people always are. Far too quickly he drinks half the cup of scalding coffee and retraces his steps through the office to find the bathroom. 

It’s empty. The fluorescent lights hum. Spencer washes his hands with cold water and presses still wet fingers to his eyes. You’re waiting for him behind the black of his lids.

At first you would whine, and he would kiss you and you’d moan into his mouth and say his name when he opened you up as far as you would go. The air would be thick and warm with sex and vanilla perfume. Afterwards he’d take care of you and buy new sheets for his bed in your favorite color even if they didn’t match the walls and there would be nothing you’d want for that he couldn’t give to you ever again. 

But. 

That’s all contingent. 

No matter how often he fantasizes about it, no matter in how much detail, and regardless of how often those details change wildly, one thing always stays the same. 

The shape of your lips, swollen from kissing, bending around five or six vowels and only two consonants (it seems odd that there are only two consonants in I love you), sometimes before you start, sometimes in the middle or right at the peak—but always there, always moving in slow motion—and always silent.

In real life, they’d be aloud. It’s why his fantasies aren’t good enough. It’s why he can’t stop fantasizing about it. That’s the only part that really matters to him. The rest varies. 

Not because having sex with you doesn’t matter—it matters so much he almost shatters his molars whenever he starts picturing it around other people. But because Spencer can’t have sex with you until you love him. 

And he worries that you can’t love him until you have sex with him. 

The last time he thought that about a person, it didn’t turn out well.

Maybe there is some magic number. Some amount of times you need to have sex with someone before they’ll love you back. 

If there is, he knows for a fact it’s more than 32.

And he also knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he cannot have loveless sex with you thirty three times while he waits to find out. 

Not again. 

But he's going to hold out as long as he possibly can until you say it because he so badly wants you to love him back. He'll let the weight of every ignored text, every reminder that you don't feel that way about him, hang from his shoulders until he collapses. And then he'll probably try to get back up.

Recycled paper towels scratch against his skin. He dries his face and hands and throws them crumpled into the trash can. 

Outside the restroom, he pulls out his phone. For safety reasons and paranoia disguised as professionalism, you’re not his lock screen. It’s a photo of the Andromeda Galaxy. Whatever distance lies between you and Spencer, it could always be greater. No matter where you are in the world, you will always be the same 2.537 million light years away from Andromeda that he is. 

It makes Orion feel much closer. You, too. 

He sends you a text—the third message in a row. 

The distance between blue bubbles feels like light years. 

I’ll be home tomorrow. I miss you. 

[muniimyg]

𐙚₊˚⊹ bbydaddy!yoongi (11) ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ *nsfw*

series m.list // taglist closed

note: the slight angst in ch 10 was a set up for all the fluff, smut, and happiness in this ch !!! HEHEHEHE enj !!! pls lmk ur thots ,, ik i ditched this story for a bit so pls talk to me yall 🥲

warnings: making out, yoongi’s dick is big, oc’s tits are big, yoongi eats her out,, they fuck side to side/behind idk,, missionary, dirty talk, and creampie

//

it’s 10AM and you haven’t texted or called yoongi. 

although, he should have seen this coming. you had left all his messages unread last night and he didn’t want to push his luck any further by annoying you now (the following morning)...

but it’s difficult as fuck. 

he has never felt this way about anyone before. 

he has never wanted to fix anything so fast. he has never wanted to pick someone up so early. he has never wanted to be with someone so bad at night. 

it ached, honestly. 

… when you said you didn’t want to talk.

what the fuck did that even mean? if anything, he should be the only person in the world you talk to. instead, he’s the only person in the world you’re ignoring right now. 

so, yoongi sits in his office. 

slumped at his desk with the hum of his computer and the faint clock ticking. his eyes skim over the files on his screen, but he isn’t really reading. if anything, he’s just blinking. every few minutes, he glances at his phone, the unanswered silence gnawing at him.

he exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair, fingers brushing over his jaw as his thoughts spiral.

you didn’t want to talk to him last night.

he doesn’t get it—doesn’t know if he’s pushing too hard, or if he’s just not getting through. you two were just fine the other day. great, even… so what gives? what shifted? what changed? was it jungkook? 

are you actually into jungkook?

is that it? 

before his thoughts flood in and make his anxiety grow, yoongi grabs his phone, his thumb hovering over your contact.

then, he thinks…

fuck it.

yoongi hits call and presses the phone to his ear, the dial tone humming in his chest. by the third ring, yoongi’s heart begins to beat faster and faster. as he’s about to put his phone down and end the call—

his door creaks open.

yoongi hisses from the surprise as his head snaps towards the door. before he can grumpily kick whoever is barging into his office out—his gaze softens at the sight of you.

suddenly, you step in. 

you move towards him, looking a little unsure. there’s a box of tangerines cradled in your hands and the sound of your phone buzzing in your purse fills the room. 

yoongi immediately hangs up, lowering his phone. he blinks, surprised, then pushes himself to stand.

“hey.” his voice is soft, warm, like you’re something he doesn’t want to scare off. 

“hi.”

your gaze flickers toward him before settling on the tangerines in your hands. you pick up your pace and stand in front of him, his desk separating you two. without hesitation, you extend the box of tangerines towards him. yoongi’s hands brush yours as he takes it, lingering just a little longer than necessary. 

“you shouldn’t be carrying anything heavy.”

“it’s not heavy,” you say, shrugging as you slip your purse off your shoulder.

“get jungkook to carry them in next time—here—have a seat, please.” yoongi gestures to the chair by his desk, guiding you down with a quiet insistence. he sets the box of tangerines beside him on the desk and leans against the edge, close enough to reach for you. 

he wants to.

so bad. 

so fucking bad. 

… but he doesn’t. 

instead, he stays still, hands braced on the desk, holding himself back.

the silence sits between you for a moment.

a little awkward, a little heavy. 

but finally, you speak.

“i’m sorry about last night,” you say softly, looking down at your hands in your lap. “i should’ve… i should’ve been better to you. i was really tired, yes… but i shouldn’t have left things like that. let’s blame half of it on my pregancy harmones, but let’s also blame the other half on me. i should have communicated better and i should have come home. i didn’t mean to worry you or make you feel like… whatever you felt last night… if we’re on the same page about everything, i’m assuming that we both felt—”

“like shit last night?”

“like shit.”

yoongi tilts his head slightly, his eyes softening as he watches you. “___, you don’t have to—”

“i came by your place,” you interrupt, your voice quiet.

“our place,” he corrects gently.

you pause, the words sinking in before you nod. 

“our place.” 

you glance up at him, and there’s a small smile on your lips, like you’re testing the words.

“i didn’t sleep well last night and i don’t understand why… or how… how i’ve been falling asleep without you by my side. so, i hurried over to our place but you already left for work… i spent the entire morning waiting for grocery stores to open so i could bring you these—” you gesture to the tangerines, a little sheepish. “peace offering? apology gift? please-be-my-baby’s-daddy bribery?”

yoongi blinks, caught off guard, and then—he laughs. 

it’s soft at first, but it bubbles up, warm and genuine, breaking the tension in the room.

you smile at him, a real one this time, and the corners of his mouth curve up in response. the air feels lighter somehow.

“baby daddy bribery?” he echoes, shaking his head, his laugh still lingering in his chest. “you’re unbelievable.”

“why? cos it’s working?” you tease, tilting your head as you look at him.

yoongi exhales, his shoulders easing as the smile lingers on his lips. 

“you don’t need to bribe me,” he says softly, his voice steady, sincere. “you just… you just need to talk to me.”

your expression falters slightly, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“i know.”

he sees it, and for a moment, he wants to pull you in—wants to wrap his arms around you and hold you close, to kiss your forehead and tell you it’s okay. wants to tell you that you’re forgiven before you even ask for forgiveness. 

but he doesn’t. 

he stays still, waiting, letting you give as much as you’re ready to.

he prepares for the wait and for the lingering ache. he braces himself but instead—

you reach for him.

you reach for him and suddenly all his walls come crumbling down. like all the pride and courage he gathered to save face mean nothing when it comes to you and the way you captivate him. he gives in. he gives in so fucking much.

your hand finds his wrist, curling lightly around it, and his chest tightens.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, and yoongi exhales, the sound soft and heavy all at once. “i was imature and i could’ve handled the situation better. i should’ve talked to you. i should’ve called. we’re in this together and i left you alone last night. i will never do that agian. i promise, yoongi. i’m really really sorry—”

“it’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice gentle. “stop apologizing now.”

he turns his hand under yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, grounding you both in the quiet. before you know it, he’s tugging them to his lips. as he kisses your knuckles, your eyes water. 

you can’t help it. 

neither can yoongi because finally, he reaches for you. yoongi cups your face, dips his head low, and kisses you.

against your lips, he murmurs; ”did you build ikea furniture with jungkook?”

“no.”

“good,” he smiles. “i would’ve been mad at you.”

“mad at me or jealous over him?”

yoongi pulls away. “me? jealous?”

you throw your head back and scoff at him. he chuckles and quickly shifts himself back, close to you. 

“you noticed?” he tilts his head. 

“no,” you squint at him. “not at all.”

the box of tangerines sits between you as yoongi works, the soft sound of typing filling the office. you’re perched on the small couch in the corner, one hand resting on the curve of your belly, the other scrolling lazily through your phone.

“it’s quiet today,” you say, breaking the silence, your tone light.

yoongi hums, eyes still fixed on the screen as he types in steady, practiced motions.

“mm, i got through a few patient phone calls in the evening yesterday… just going through files and notes today. paperwork stuff.”

“maybe your patients are avoiding you,” you tease. “you know? since your resting face isn’t exactly inviting.”

he glances at you, a soft scoff escaping him. 

“it’s called being focused.”

you smile, the corners of your mouth quirking up, and yoongi catches it—he always does. his gaze lingers for just a beat longer before he shakes his head and turns back to his work, the faintest ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

you let the quiet stretch again, content to watch him as you absentmindedly trace little circles over your stomach.

after a while, the stillness in the office makes you restless. 

“i’m going to walk around. check on the others.”

“okay. can you check on jimin, tae, and jungkook? they’re a little quiet today. usually means they’re up to something,” yoongi says without looking up, but there’s no real warning in his tone. “... if they are; don’t join them.”

you stand with a small groan, pressing a hand to your lower back as you stretch. “me? never.”

he watches as you leave, one hand on the doorframe for balance, and his eyes soften when the door clicks shut behind you.

an hour later, you’re back in yoongi’s office, settling onto the couch again with a triumphant little huff.

“did you make your rounds?” yoongi asks, closing the file on his desk and turning toward you.

“mhmm,” you hum, reaching for the box of tangerines. “jin was chill. namjoon and i talked about what bag he should buy hyemi for their anniversary. jimin and taehyung were running lab tests… jungkook was complaining about his protein bars not having enough protein… oh, and hobi said i looked like i was about to pop—”

yoongi scrunches his nose in distaste. 

“he’s an idiot. you look perfect.”

“yeah, but he’s your idiot.”

“and i’m starting to regret that.”

you laugh quietly, peeling the first tangerine with practiced hands. the sharp citrus smell fills the air, and you separate a segment before holding it out toward him.

yoongi quirks a brow.

“are you feeding me now?”

“i’m like 6 months pregnant and growing a human,” you peel another segment carefully, the sound crisp in the quiet of the office. “you think i’m doing all this for me?”

yoongi’s gaze flickers to yours—dry, disbelieving—but his lips twitch. “right. you’re peeling tangerines purely out of obligation.”

“purely. i do this for all my babydaddies…” you hold the segment out toward him, a quiet challenge in your eyes. “now be nice and take it.”

there’s a beat of silence where neither of you move, but then yoongi leans in, the edge of his knee brushing yours as he lets you press the tangerine to his lips. his eyes stay on you the whole time, half amused and half… something else.

“good job, daddy.”

yoongi freezes mid-chew, a soft scoff escaping him as his gaze sharpens. 

“don’t.”

you raise an innocent brow, peeling another tangerine with practiced fingers. 

“don’t?”

“don’t start.”

“why not?” you tease.

yoongi exhales through his nose, leaning back against the desk as he watches you. his long legs stretch out in front of him, the tips of his shoes almost bumping yours. 

“you’re playing with me.”

“maybe so… but only because it seems like you’re easy to mess with,” you quip, holding out another segment.

yoongi doesn’t move immediately this time. he just looks at you, his expression unreadable.

“but seriously… you don’t have to do that,” he mutters.

you blink, confused. “do what?”

“... do things like this.”

something about the way he says it makes the air feel different, heavier. you hesitate for a second before nudging his hand. 

“it’s just a peeled tangerine.”

“no it’s not,” he says. 

you blink at him. 

“okay,” you begin to confess. “it’s not. you know what it means and you know why i’m doing it. so what?”

yoongi huffs quietly—almost a laugh—but he leans forward again, this time brushing your fingertips just a little longer than necessary as he takes it. your breath catches, just for a moment, and yoongi notices. 

of course he does.

the corner of his mouth twitches.

“see? you’re not so tough.”

“never said i was,” you say softly, peeling another piece without looking at him. “especially when it’s about you.”

yoongi watches you carefully, his hand sliding to rest against the couch beside you, close enough that his fingers almost graze your dress.

“you always get like this when you’re bored,” he says finally, voice low.

“get like what?”

“antagonizing me.”

you smirk to yourself, holding another segment out toward him.

“it’s called keeping you on your toes. you should thank me.”

yoongi leans in again, but this time, there’s a faint smile on his lips as he takes the fruit from your hand.

“thank you—”

the door swings open without warning.

“am i interrupting something?”

jungkook’s voice cuts through the room, and you freeze mid-motion, holding a tangerine segment up to yoongi’s mouth. yoongi sighs deeply, closing his eyes for a brief second like he’s praying for patience.

“come back later, jungkook,” yoongi mutters, but you don’t move. instead, you smirk and press the tangerine to his lips anyway.

he takes it begrudgingly, chewing as he glares at jungkook.

“wow,” jungkook says, stepping fully into the room and folding his arms. “the baby’s not even here yet, and you two are already disgusting.”

“who cares about what you think?” you quip, reaching toward yoongi again when you see a bit of juice spill from the corner of his mouth.

before he can move, your thumb brushes the juice away, and without thinking, you bring it to your mouth, licking it off.

yoongi freezes.

jungkook’s jaw drops.

“oh my god,” jungkook groans, clapping a hand over his eyes dramatically. “can you two not? in the workplace? fired.”

yoongi’s ears tint faintly pink, and he clears his throat, shooting you a look that’s half warning, half something softer.

“you came in uninvited,” he says flatly. “and i’m technically your boss.”

“yeah, well, now i regret it.” jungkook drops his hand and gestures between the two of you. “just take the day off. seriously. the patients can survive without you—i’ll handle everything.”

“we barely have any patients today.”

“see?” jungkook sighs. “i’ll send out the emails and shit. just sign what you need to sign and get out of here.”

yoongi hesitates, eyes flickering to you. you shrug casually.

“it is lunch time… what do you say?” you ask, a small, knowing smile curling at your lips. “wanna get some lunch?”

“like a date?”

“a date.”

yoongi stares at you for a moment, and you see the way his jaw shifts, like he’s trying to fight back a smile.

finally, he exhales, pushing himself off the desk and taking the box from your hands. “let’s go,” he murmurs, his voice low, just for you.

“you’re welcome!” jungkook calls as you both leave the office, the door swinging shut behind you.

yoongi’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you out, and he leans closer as tells you;

“we gotta eat fast. he’s gonna call me in an hour near tears because he won’t know what to do with the paperwork.”

you and yoongi decide to eat at this cozy but upscale restaurant downtown. 

the atmosphere buzzes with laughter and soft lighting that gives off a relaxed vibe, despite the place’s high-end feel. when the last of your plates are cleared away, and yoongi reaches for his wallet, about to ask for the bill.

"i’ll get it," you say, pulling your phone out. 

but before you can do anything, the waiter comes over with a smile.

“ms ___? your meal has already been taken care of,” your waiter tells you both. yoongi blinks in surprise, looking from the waiter to you.

you make a small surprised face, catching his gaze. 

“oh, did i forget to tell you? the chef here was my old junior sous chef, jiun. she’s been inviting me to eat here for a while, but i just haven’t had the time. i texted her earlier, and she insisted we try her new menu."

yoongi quirks a brow, still processing. "so everything we ate... was from her?"

you nod, giving a soft shrug. “yeah. but i swear, i had no idea she was going to cover it all.”

yoongi stares at you for a second, his expression softening into something between surprise and admiration. 

“wow… you’re seriously so cool,” he praises you, unable to stop a small laugh from slipping out.

you feel a heat rise to your cheeks, but it’s not embarrassment—it’s a kind of warmth, the way yoongi always makes you feel.

then, to your surprise, he leans in and kisses your cheek. 

the moment is soft, almost unintentional, but it’s enough to make your heart skip. you lean into it without thinking, his hand immediately finding your waist as he helps you stand. his fingers brush over the fabric of your dress, sending a tiny shiver through you as his touch lingers.

you both start heading toward the door, your hand wrapped around his as you step out into the fresh air, the afternoon sunlight casting soft shadows.

just as you're about to walk out, you see jiun approaching from the kitchen, her face lighting up when she sees you.

“oh my god! ___, you’re pregnant!” she practically beams, her excitement filling the space. "stop… oh my god, oh my god! babes, you’re just glowing—how are you so pretty?”

you smile, your cheeks flushing, both from the compliment and the way jiun’s enthusiasm hits you full force. you open your mouth to introduce yoongi, but before you can, yoongi beats you to it.

what do you even say?

this is yoongi, my boyfriend.

this is yoongi, my babydaddy.

this is yoongi, my friend but not really.

“I’m yoongi.”

yeah.

that’s probably good.

jiun’s eyes flicker from you to him, and a playful look flashes across her face. you catch her glance at your hand—your ring finger empty. she’s smooth with it though, and you know she means no harm. she just wants to have context without asking for it.

“oh, i see. the father, huh?” she teases, then looks back at you with a knowing grin. "___, we talked about this all the time, remember? i’m so happy for you both."

you feel your face warm at her words. 

there’s no hiding your embarrassment now, especially since jiun’s been so open about how she used to listen to all your daydreams. 

you nervously laugh, shrugging a little, but yoongi just chuckles and leans in to whisper into your ear, “i know.”

the three of you stand there for a moment, an awkward but comfortable silence settling between you all. you try to shake off the sudden shyness, glancing at yoongi. his hand is still on your waist, his thumb gently rubbing over your side as if to ground you.

jiun looks at the two of you and then back at you, still beaming. 

“honestly, i’m just so happy for you. i remember you talking about wanting this for so long. i’m so glad it happened for you… and with someone like…” jiun pauses, gesturing for yoongi to complete her sentance. 

“i’m a nurse practitioner for a dermatology practice my friends and i own.”

jiun’s eyes widen. 

“holy shit,” she breathes. “you chose well, ___. can you find me a babydaddy too?”

you throw your head back and laugh. she moves closer to you, tugging on your arm. “are you still friends with that taehyung guy? the one that’s friends with the twink and the buff one?”

you roll your eyes at her. 

“you guys kissed once at a party—”

“i want his babies.”

yoongi almost chokes on air. 

jiun shifts her attention to him and apologies. “sorry,” jiun giggles. “hyemi, ___, and i are a little unhinged when it comes to sex.” 

yoongi, noticing the warmth and tenderness in her voice, offers a small but sincere smile.

“all good,” he says, his voice soft. “he is single though… is there any way i could pitch jungkook to you?”

“the twink?”

“the buff one.”

jiun thinks for a moment. “isn’t he into milfs?”

yoongi’s smile drops. 

you make a face at jiun and shake your head. she quickly catches on and laughs, trying to move past the moment.

“you know what? you two look really good together. don’t forget to invite me to the baby shower, okay?”

you nod, unable to hide your smile now. "yeah. i’m actually not sure if i’m gonna have one—”

“that’s insane,” jiun gasps. “you out of all people deserve one. you’ve wanted to be a mom for so long… yoongi, contact me for catering, okay? that’ll be my baby shower gift.” 

“jiun, that’s too much—”

“okay,” yoongi accepts her offer. “let me know if you want any expenses cover though. it’s no problem.”

jiun looks back at you, her grin widening. “provider man, i see… well, wow. i love this for you, ___. you’re gonna be a great mom, and i know yoongi is lucky to have you.”

you feel your heart swell, but you try to hide your emotions with a soft laugh. 

"stop, you’re gonna make me cry."

“it’s the pregnancy harmones.”

“totally.”

the three of you laugh together, the tension between you all easing as jiun’s bubbly energy fills the space around you.

"i have to get back to the kitchen, but it was so good to see you. enjoy the rest of your day guys! and i’m serious about that baby shower, okay?" jiun says, giving you both a quick hug before she heads back to the kitchen.

as she disappears inside, yoongi takes your hand, guiding you out of the restaurant. 

"you really are something, you know that?" he says softly, his voice low, like he’s trying to keep the moment just for the two of you. “you have good friends.”

you grin at him, leaning into his side. “true. i mean, i’ve got good taste.”

“you do.” yoongi chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. “remember when i was your friend?” his hand moves down to your waist again, his touch reassuring, like he’s silently claiming this space between you both, soft and sure.

“awh, what does that mean? are you not my friend anymore?”

you and yoongi go home and spend the afternoon rearranging a few things in the living room, bedroom, and nursery.

there’s no rush, just the kind of slow, comfortable task that makes the house feel more like home. he’s focused, but every now and then, his eyes flicker over to you, catching the way your movements are a little slower now with the growing baby.

“you know, we should’ve done this sooner,” yoongi says with a small smirk as he adjusts a shelf in the living room, his sleeves rolled up.

you laugh, brushing your hair from your face. “we tried, remember? but i kept changing my mind. it’s the pregancy brain—”

“yeah, yeah,” he chuckles, stepping back to take in the space. “so, are you committed to this? it looks good. like really good.”

you look around the room, the warm glow from the soft lighting making everything feel cozy and welcoming. 

“i am,” you breathe.

by dinner time, the kitchen smells like heaven.

the two of you working side by side at the stove, getting everything ready. yoongi’s movements are precise, fluid, and you find yourself watching him, the way he handles the utensils and moves around the kitchen with ease.

“need help with anything?” you ask, leaning over the counter, watching him chop vegetables.

“just stay out of my way, and we’ll be fine,” yoongi teases without looking up, though there’s a glint of playfulness in his eyes.

you roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. 

“oh, i see how it is.” 

“too harsh?”

you frown at him.

“just wondering where the guy that begged for private cooking lessons went.”

yoongi throws his head back and laughs. you join him and poke his sides. he squirms and tells you to leave his kitchen.

you don’t listen.

instead, you continue to annoy him. 

as the meal comes together, the soft music playing in the background and the warm lighting create a slow, almost intimate atmosphere. you stand close to yoongi, your body just slightly pressed against his, and before you know it, you’re laughing into the crook of his neck as he stirs something on the stove.

he pauses for a moment, his hand resting on your hip, and his eyes flicker to you.

“you’re distracting me."

“i’m just admiring your cooking skills.” you grin, pressing a kiss to his neck before pulling away to finish setting the table.

when you finally sit down to eat, you’re side by side, the tension from the earlier moments easing as the evening settles in. yoongi’s hand rests lightly on your thigh, his thumb drawing soft circles over your skin, the warmth of his touch grounding you in the quiet comfort of the moment.

“so,” he starts, voice low and teasing, “baby names?”

you look over at him with an exicted look on your face. “oh my god. should we talk about that tonight?”

yoongi snorts, giving you a playful nudge. “why not now?”

you laugh, shaking your head. “i’ll get too excited. i won’t eat.”

yoongi’s hand gives your thigh a gentle squeeze, his lips curling into a smile.

“okay. let’s get ready for bed and talk about it then?”

you reach over, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

“oh my god, i think you just got me pregnant again.”

he raises an eyebrow, that playful glint returning to his eyes. “is that so?”

yoongi is washing dishes while you lay on the couch, munching on tangerines. 

the soft scent of citrus fills the room, and your pregnant belly rests comfortably on the couch, the perfect table for the fruit.

“you know,” you start, looking down at your belly with a grin, “my tummy’s really the perfect table for tangerines.”

yoongi glances over, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he wipes his hands on a towel. “of course it is. a convenient little snack spot.”

you giggle, reaching for another tangerine, but yoongi sets the dish towel down and walks over to you, his steps slow and deliberate. he dips his head low to press a soft kiss to your lips, but before you can react, he pulls away slightly, taking a tangerine from your mouth instead.

“i knew you were saving that one for me,” he murmurs, a smirk playing on his lips as he settles down beside you.

you laugh softly, offering him the next segment of tangerine, but he shakes his head, instead pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around your body, his chest against your back. his breath is warm against your ear as he nuzzles your neck.

“i missed you,” he whispers.

“you did?” you tease, tilting your head back to look at him, your hand resting on his arm. “is that why you’re so clingy?”

yoongi laughs quietly, the sound soft and affectionate, before his lips find yours in a slow, lingering kiss. the world outside fades as you both settle into the quiet of the moment, the only sound being your breathing and his heart's soft, steady beat against your back.

everything grows more heated. 

more urgent. 

as he pulls you even closer, his lips moving to your neck, his hands roaming over your body with a gentle insistence. you don’t pull away, instead melting into him, your own hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt.

he pauses, looking at you with a small smile, his forehead resting against yours. 

“you’re so perfect,” he murmurs, his voice thick with affection.

you smile, running your fingers through his hair. 

“so are you.”

you’re obsessed with yoongi’s lips.

maybe that’s why you cum fast and hard as he presses, drags, and uses them to suck on your clit. he knows all the right places to get your toes curling and your eyes wincing. you grip his hair, grinding your pussy into his face more and more. his hot breath adds a depth you can’t quite explain. 

it’s good.

so fucking good. 

“mhmm,” you moan. “y-yoongi…”

he does a few kitten licks, slurping up the last few drops of your cum from inside your folds. looking up at you, you feel your chest tighten as he maintains eye contact. 

yoongi finishes you off and you lose your breath. 

quickly, he hovers over and takes his shirt off. you sit up and raise your hands. he helps you take your dress off, revealing you in just your bra. 

and god…

are your tits the best thing he’s ever seen. 

wow. 

they’re plump and just so perfect. he practically drools at the sight of them. yoongi can’t stop his hands from cupping them over your bra. you gasp from his touch and whine; 

“my nipples… they’re still so sensitive.” 

suddenly both of you recall that night he came over and how one thing led to another… how he looked at you as he sucked your tits and palmed them. how he looked at you as he tugged on your nipples… how he massaged them until the soreness was gone. 

how good he was at playing with them. 

yoongi lowers himself and kisses your hard nipples. 

“that okay?” he asks you. 

“y-yeah,” you shiver from his light touch. “feels good…”

“okay,” he breathes. “i… just wanna make sure… you’re okay with this? do you want to have sex? we don’t have to. i can just—”

you reach for him and tug him close. kissing him deep and slow, you pull away and lean your forehead against his. 

“yeah.”

that’s all he needs. 

yoongi smiles and kisses you once more before taking his underwear off. revealing himself, your throat goes dry. 

sometimes, it baffles you how fucking big he is. 

no fucking wonder you got pregnant after the first time. 

you reach for his cock, but he jolts away. he spits on it, keeping his eyes on you. 

“don’t worry about me,” yoongi assures you. “i’ll cum no matter what.” 

you scoff at him. 

“but i wanna—mhmmmffffppph—”

as yoongi kisses you, he shifts his body to your side. he lays behind you, stretching his arms to cup your body. once he’s comfortable, he reaches for his cock and jerks it off a few more times before inserting it inside you. he spoons you, holding you close and resting his chin on top of your head. 

when he’s fully in, you let out a moan. 

“oh my god…”

“mhm?” he breathes. “is it okay? are you comfortable?” 

you nod and take his hand. you move it to you breast and have him squeeze it.

“keep going, honey.”

yoongi kisses the top of your head and begins to fuck you from behind. as he does so, you feel him everywhere. his dick is so fucking big, it’s hard not to. as he fucks you, each stroke makes you feel like you’re coming to life. like, you weren’t living until he put himself inside you. 

he moves slowly but surely, being careful with the way his pelvis slaps against your ass. you make cute little noises that boost his ego and all he can think is; 

fuck. 

he’s in love. 

as he fucks himself more and more into you, you begin to lose your breath. yoongi takes his hand off your tits and moves them down to your clit. he plays with it, pinching, squishing, and rubbing it. you moan louder and louder—unable to contain how good he makes you feel. 

“f-fuck,” you utter. “yoongi… oh my god…”

“yeah?” he hisses. “you like this? am i fucking you good, mama?”

“so good, daddy. so fucking good… u-uhhh! uh huh… mhmmmm!”

he hisses. 

“i’m gonna cum,” yoongi pants, breathing in through his nose. “are you close?”

you gulp. “almost?”

“almost?” he repeats. “okay. let’s change positions.” 

before you know it, yoongi pulls himself out and gets you to lay flat on your back. he gets on top of you, planting both his arms on either side of you. instantly, he lowers himself to kiss you. his hands move to your hair as yours wrap around his back. 

you dig your nails into his skin, dragging them down. then, you lower your hands even more and find his dick. you flick your wrist, gripping on it just enough. you pump him a few times before shoving his dick back inside you. 

when his cock is fully inside, you moan into his ear. 

“oh god… daddy, your cock is so fucking hard. i’m so wet, so close to cumming…”

“mhm?” yoongi moans. “yeah, mama?”

“y-yeah,” you gasp. “can you cum inside me again, daddy? i miss how it feels. so sticky… so creamy. you remember, right? how tight i got when you made me cum? did you cock get rock hard when you came inside me? hmm? can you make your cum special for me?”

yoongi gulps. 

“special for you? how so, mama?”

you kiss him. 

“dunno,” you bite your lip. “give me a lot, please. extra creamy. extra yummy.”

he snickers, thrusting inside you harder and harder. 

“i’ll do by best.”

“o-ohh,” you moan again. “mhm! j-just like that, daddy! o-ohh.. oh! oh my god. yes, yes, yes—oh my god!” 

soon, your whines and moans turn into sobs. 

you’re actually fucking sobbing over his dick. 

yoongi fucks you so good, your pussy swells. he fucks you hard but in a gentle enough way that you two are still being cautious over the bump between you two. every so often, he shifts to kiss your tummy. 

then finally, your breath hitches, and your legs begin to shake. 

you cum. 

“y-yoongi—”

“i got you,” he says, holding you tighter. 

you wrap your arms around his shoulder blade and bury your face in the crook of his neck. his sweat smells so good to you. 

as you ride your climax, yoongi continues to fuck you. he grunts, trying to push himself to the limit. he drags his dick inside and out of you—trying his best to gather all his cum. 

then, he spills himself inside you. 

“fuckkk…” he groans. 

you feel it. 

you feel his cum squirt inside you. you feel it spill out of your hole and down your folds. you feel it leak onto the bed. 

“thank you, daddy.. thank you.”

“anything for you, mama.”

lazily, yoongi continues to fuck you. 

you kiss his shoulders as he whimpers; 

“___?”

“mhmm?” you move your hands to his hair. there’s a silence that follows, but nothing changes. he doesn’t move and neither do you. 

and you feel it. 

you know it. 

then, he says it. 

“i love you.”

and with a flutter in your heart, his cum inside your pussy, and his baby inside you… you say it too. 

“i love you too.”

[the-travelling-witch]

𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌

nonnie asked: lately i noticed many writers writing about reader kissing character's face while wearing lipstick and therefore covering them in it and i found it so cute and then started to imagine your om!ocs and the modern au guys (…) being covered in lipstick kisses too […]

pairings: my genshin modern au guys (xiao :: scara :: aether :: kazuha :: heizou :: venti :: childe :: diluc :: kaeya), my obey me ocs (dantalion :: valefar :: stolas), my twst oc (cheron) x gn! reader

warnings: these lipsticks are not smudge-proof

a/n: as said i might write a full thing for one character when i have the chance but considering i have 13 characters here and i can only think of so many scenarios, i’m writing a few paragraphs each for now ^^;

original ask

modern au || dantalion || valefar || stolas || cheron

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐀𝐔

𝐗𝐈𝐀𝐎 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

It had been a busy week in which you hadn’t seen much of each other, so when you finally made it to Friday evening, you were overjoyed to see your boyfriend again. Needless to say, when the door swung shut, the first thing you did was flutter some well-earned kisses across his face, not even bothering to take your make-up off.  So when Xiao spotted his reflection in the mirror, the flush on his cheeks wasn’t the only rose colour decorating his beautiful complexion. While you watched his blush darken, he couldn’t meet your eyes in the mirror and you giggled to yourself as you watched them snap to you when you pulled the neckline of his shirt out of the way and planted a final kiss on the base of his neck.

𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

It was your day off, so for once you weren’t out of the house before Scara, instead getting ready at the same time as him. You made him his usual morning coffee to go after he slept over, since he straight up refused to drink anyone else’s, and kissed him goodbye. Not long after he arrived at the piercing studio, notifications started blowing up your phone and you skimmed the furious string of texts, laughing to yourself. Apparently, Xiao hadn’t said anything about the smudge on the corner of his lips, leaving Heizou and Venti to have a field day when they came in, teasing him relentlessly even after he wiped it off.  As for the accusation that you did it on purpose, who was to say…

𝐀𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

“Do you still need the make up remover?” Aether asked from outside your bathroom door. You’d both just gotten back from an outing with the others from the piercing shop, staying longer than you initially intended. But that was what always happened. Venti could be very convincing and the group was too much fun to leave early. “I’m done, but I didn’t notice you wearing any makeup earlier,” you admitted, opening the door to let your boyfriend in.  “Well I wasn’t,” Aether sheepishly laughed, rubbing the base of his neck. And then you saw it. Faint traces of colour decorating his temple, cheek, the corner of his mouth and even the parts of his neck and chest not covered by his shirt. A shade that very closely resembled the lipstick you applied before going out. “You might be a bit of an affectionate drunk.” “Oh my— I’m so sorry, Aether,” you apologised, quickly searching around for some cotton pads and wiping the lipstick off his chest, trying not to linger on the thought too much. “Don’t worry, I thought it was cute,” he assured you, his warm smile seemingly lighting up the room. As you leaned in to clean his face, he took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss from you as well. “You should wear it more often, it looked very pretty on you.”

𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐇𝐀 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

Kazuha had come over for lunch, as he often did, taking a break from his coworkers between the plants, sketching if the time allowed for it. When you both had to return to work, you pressed a sweet kiss against his cheek and then rushed to help a customer. And while neither one of you noticed the colour dusting his cheek, the others sure did and wasted no time pointing it out, though all their teasing comments seemed to bounce right off of him.  He wiped the stain away before any customers came in, laughing off how he hadn’t noticed at all. “Of course you wouldn’t notice,” Heizou agreed, a knowing air about him. “After all, you’re way too busy making heart eyes at your florist to even think about looking anywhere else for a second.”

𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐙𝐎𝐔 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

“Hey honey, could you help me with something real quick?” You called your boyfriend over as you finished applying a new shade of lipstick you bought. As Heizou strolled up to where you were standing, you turned towards him with a smile. “What do you think? Do you like it?” “The colour looks beautiful on you,” he easily replied, sending you a flirtatious wink. “Though I’m not sure if it’s really the colour or just you being gorgeous that’s causing it. Now what did you need help with?” Wrapping one arm around his neck, you pulled him in for a kiss, making sure to firmly plant your lips against his. If your boyfriend was surprised at all, he masked it well, easily melting into the kiss. As you pulled away a little breathlessly, you grinned. “Just wanted to see if it’s really smudge-proof, though I guess it failed in that regard.” You traced a finger around the faint trace of colour on his lips as Heizou took the tube from you and applied the lipstick with pinpoint precision. Turning to you, his olive eyes were gleaming with mischief as he chuckled. “I think we should run a few more tests, just to be sure.”

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈 Piercer/ Tattoo Artist

“This one’s for the song you wrote for me and this one’s for bringing me my favourite coffee without me asking,” you mused, studying your boyfriend’s face covered in pink-hued gloss marks. Somehow a kiss to the temple had ended with you caging Venti against the couch, fluttering a dozen kisses all over the skin you could reach. “Ehe, what can I say, I’m just the best boyfriend ever,” he giggled, tracing his fingers down the contours of your face in return. Then, something in his expression changed and you prepared yourself to shut down whatever idea he was about to propose next. “Maybe I should think about getting one of them tattooed? On my shoulder or so?” “Don’t you dare.”

𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄 Idol

Ever since you had caught a lot of heat from Childe’s manager for accidentally letting your boyfriend leave with a mark decorating his collarbones, you were very cautious of leaving any visible stains on him, even if it was just makeup.  Still, you found ways to work around this little inconvenience. There was one time you signed off a little post-it note you left on the fridge for him, wishing him good luck for a performance, with a lipstick stain. After seeing his reaction of childish glee, it became a staple in your relationship. Then again, whenever Childe came home from work with his makeup still on, he never failed to press a big, fat, lip gloss stained kiss on your cheek, chuckling like the menace he is when you make a show of wiping it off.

𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐔𝐂 Club Owner/ Bartender

Diluc had seen his fair share of shameless make outs during his time at the Angel’s Share and normally he just turned his head the other way, not sure why people would enjoy slobbering all over each other. Well, that was until he met you anyway.  Though he’d like to think he was more composed than the intoxicated people at his club, whenever you pressed your lips against his, he thought he might get drunk off of you. He swallowed hard when you pulled away, mind still trying to process what was happening as his eyes tracked the movement of your own kiss-swollen lips, not hasty to wipe away the traces of you against his skin.

𝐊𝐀𝐄𝐘𝐀 Model

Kaeya actually revelled in it whenever you leave any type of mark on him, as long as it didn’t lead to a scolding from his manager. Whether it was something more durable like a hickey or something easily wiped off like a lipstick stain, Kaeya always looked very smug about it afterwards. After all, the marks were a testimony to the events that transpired previously, and what could he say, Kaeya enjoyed those very much. Even more so considering he knew his way around a makeup bag, confidently picking out shades that looked gorgeous on you and even more gorgeous when they were smudged around the corner of your lips and over his skin. In his opinion, every photo of the aftermath was more stunning than any of his cover shoots.

𝐎𝐛𝐞𝐲 𝐌𝐞! 𝐎𝐂𝐬

𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 Majolish Owner/ Devil Style Chief Editor

You walked in on Dantalion getting ready, his attention that was previously on his reflection in the vanity mirror flickering to you when you entered. His plush lips, curled into a loving smile, are painted in a flattering shade of red and your gaze was trained on them as you came to stand in front of him. “Are you trying a new shade? It suits you well.” “I am. I’m glad you like it,” he hummed, tilting his head in contemplation. “I wonder…” Cupping your cheek in his palm, the demon leaned towards you and you instinctively closed your eyes as his soft lips pressed against yours with purpose. As always his kisses made a part of your brain short circuit and you blinked at him dazedly for a moment after you parted. There was a satisfied gleam in his bright eyes as he wiped at your bottom lip with his thumb, studying the red stain he left. “As expected, it’s an even lovelier colour on you, my flower.”

𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐀𝐑 Casino Owner

“Little lamb, come here for a second.” Valefar was no stranger to finding your lipstick smudges at the rim of his drinks or wiping smudges of colour and gloss from his cheek before leaving for the casino after you gave him a kiss goodbye. He didn’t mind, found it cute even, but as he regarded the pink stain on the collar of his white dress shirt in the lounge’s mirror, he knew it won’t come off with a quick swipe of his thumb. It wasn’t a big deal, he kept spare shirts in his office, but Val wouldn’t pass on the opportunity to fluster you. “Care to explain yourself?” You were halfway through stuttering out a sheepish apology when Valefar backed you against his desk, keeping you pinned to him with a hand on your back. Intense amber eyes keep contact with yours as he leaned down to suck a noticeable hickey on the same spot his collar would be, knowing your clothes barely wouldn’t be able to hide it. “Debts should be repaid, wouldn’t you agree?”

𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐒 Popular Streamer

It was a pleasant day in the Devildom, as pleasant as it could be in a realm without the sun anyway, pulling the two of you out into town. While strolling from apparel stores to gaming shops, you passed a café you frequented and decided to stop by for some refreshments. As you pointed around various shop displays, you had the sinking feeling that your drink emptied faster than usual. And when you spotted the colourful stain that had transferred from your straw to your boyfriend’s lips, you caught the culprit red- handed (or rather red-lipped). When confronted he merely chuckled playfully before swooping in to steal a kiss on top of your drink, staining them with more of your lipstick and thereby destroying the evidence. (His straw also became more colourful as he offered you his drink as compensation.)

𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐂

𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍 Prince of Hell

When Vil gifted you a set of lipsticks and glosses from a campaign he was part of and had no need for, you accepted them gratefully. You just finished sorting through all the shades and trying out a pretty shade of red, when there was a knock on your door and Cheron sauntered into your room.  “There you are,” he grinned, charming without even having to try, before pulling you close and stealing the air from your lungs with a kiss. For someone who claimed to not be interested in ferrying more souls to hell, he sure seemed intent on trying to kill you. “What’s this you got there? Vil’s new collab?” “Right you are,” you paused, peering around him to the lipstick tube in your hand and chuckling as you read the shade name. Pressing another kiss right onto the middle of his cheek as payback for his usual schemes, you took in the red matching the colour on the corner of his lips. “Don’t you think it’s a beautiful colour, Cherry? It does match your hair and eyes. Maybe I should start calling you that.” There was a dangerous glint in his crimson eyes, clearly aware of the red staining his face, as he swiped his thumb under your bottom lip where the lipstick left a smudge as well.  “You have a lot of nerve marking the Prince of Hell.” His grin showed off the points of his fangs more clearly now, clearly amused at your little stunt, taking a step forward and walking you backwards towards the edge of your bed. “That’s fine. If you can handle the consequences, that is.”

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[4theitgirls]

study methods

the second brain method

this method focuses on organizing the information you learn to maximize effectiveness. a common way of doing this is through the CODE method:

capture - be quick and efficient in how you receive the information

organize - organize the information in a way that works for you

distill - break the information down to its key elements

express - apply the information you’ve learned

* there is a ton of information out there about this method. if you struggle with burnout and knowing where to start, i recommend researching this method further to figure out what works for you.

the pomodoro method

the pomodoro method is a time management method. the most common expression of this method is to pick a task, work for 25 minutes on that task, then take a break for 5 minutes. then, repeat. if you’re planning to work all day, you may up the time spent studying. for example, after a while of this, you may work for 30 minutes at a time, then 40, then 45, and so forth. this method is particularly good for when you’re feeling unmotivated or having a hard time focusing. if you’re still not feeling it after a while, you may start to take longer breaks. for example, you may study for 30 minutes, break for 15, and keep going like that.

the 5 minute rule method

this method is good for when you have to do a shorter task, but you’re procrastinating doing it. this method requires you to dedicate only 5 minutes to do your task. after that, you may stop, but chances are, once you’ve started, finishing won’t be as difficult.

the blurting method

this method is particularly good for revision. the blurting method requires you to read over the content you are learning, then put it away and write down everything you know or can remember. then, check the content and revise everything you didn’t write down.

spaced repetition

spaced repetition requires you to spread out your study reviews over the period of a few days. this has been shown to improve memory. rather than studying one thing at a time, then studying something else the next day and so on, review the information right after you’ve learned it, then recall it after a few hours, then a few days, then a few weeks, and so on. if you’re studying something you will need to remember for an extended period of time, this method would be perfect for you!

active recall

this is my absolute favorite method! it’s been shown to improve your studying immensely and so many people have benefited from practicing active recall. active recall involves retrieving information from your brain, usually done through questions. a good way to do this is to explain the concept to yourself, to someone else, or act like you’re doing a presentation on the subject. after you’ve recalled all of the information you know about the subject, go over your material again and be sure you covered everything and explained everything the best way you could. if you didn’t, review everything you did not remember or got wrong, and go again. do this until you get everything. doing this can also be referred to as the feynman technique.

the SQ3r method

survey - skim your text and identify bolded text, headers, images, etc.

question - generate questions about the text based on what you surveyed. what are the key concepts in this text? what is each paragraph about? what information do i need to take away from this text?

read - read through the entire text and answer the questions you created

recite - summarize what you learned in your own words

review - recall the key concepts and answers to your questions

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Somewhere Safe | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

This story touches on sensitive themes of domestic abuse. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse, please know that help is available. I've included resources below that offer support, guidance, and ways to take action. You are not alone, and there is always hope for a way out. Please take care of yourself as you read.

International Domestic Abuse Resource Link

Words: ~9,500

Tags: Violence, Abuse, Trauma, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Hurt/Comfort

Beta: @newdreamlove95💚

The world tilted when Sebastian pressed his back against the wall, a slow, lazy grin tugging at his lips as the woman in front of him whispered something he didn’t quite catch.

K-something.

Karina? Kelsey? Kate? Fuck, had she even told him? Maybe once, over the roar of the music in the bar, the hum of Ominis and Garreth’s laughter, the clink of glasses and shouted orders. It was distant now, fuzzy around the edges. The only thing sharp was the heat of her breath on his skin, the way her nails scratched lightly over the fabric of his shirt.

He let his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping closed for just a moment. He was tipsy, not drunk. The whiskey still swam warm in his veins, enough to make everything feel slow and a little surreal, like watching himself from the outside. Too much, probably. He hadn’t planned on drinking that much, but Garreth had been in rare form tonight, rambling about some catastrophic potion mishap that had almost set his shop on fire, and Ominis—miraculously—had tolerated them both for longer than usual before fucking off home.

Sebastian had thought about leaving then, too. He should have. He'd been about to grab his coat, already debating—instinctively—whether to call you.

It was always you. Even after all these years, through all the tangled, unspoken things between you, his first thought was always you.

But then K-something had leaned into him at the bar, laughing, a teasing nail dragging down his arm. The look she gave him was clear, unmistakable—an invitation, no strings attached, nothing complicated, nothing messy. Just one night.

That had been enough. He let her take his hand, let her press against him in the back of the cab, let her perfume wrap around him—something floral, a little too sweet. Not right. Not familiar.

And now, here they were. His apartment. His mind blank where it mattered.

The door had barely clicked shut before her hands were on him, pressing, pulling, trying to unravel him. Her lips were eager, swallowing the taste of whiskey on his tongue, coaxing him toward the bedroom. His fingers ghosted over her hips, hesitant, and for the first time tonight, the thought crept in—

I don’t actually want this.

He ignored it.

Sebastian let her push him back against the wall, let her fingertips skim the waistband of his jeans, let his mind fog over with something other than the sharp edges of thought. He was just loose enough to let his body take over where his mind was absent.

And then—

A thunderous pounding on his front door.

K-something startled against him, pulling back with a little noise of surprise. Another knock—louder, harder, more frantic.

“What the hell?” she murmured, but Sebastian wasn’t listening.

Something was wrong.

If it were Garreth, he’d be yelling something obnoxious through the door. If it were Ominis, he would have texted first, making some sardonic remark about how it was far too late for him to be dealing with Sebastian’s nonsense.

Then—

“Sebastian, are you there?”

Your voice. Hoarse and desperate.

“Who is that?” K-something asked, tilting her head toward the door, annoyance creeping into her tone.

Sebastian didn’t answer. His whole body was already moving—pushing past her, heart pounding.

Another hit—this one shakier, weaker. A small, broken sound from the other side.

His hands were on the lock in an instant, fumbling, his pulse roaring in his ears. The second the front door swung open, his breath caught in his throat.

What the fuck happened to you?

Your hair was a mess, wild and tangled like you’d been running. Your shirt—torn, slipping off one shoulder—was smeared with something dark, and his brain tried to tell him it was just dirt,  instead of what he feared. Your eyebrow was split, a thin trail of blood tracing down your temple. The bruises blooming along your arms and neck were fresh, ugly, fingershaped.

You were shaking, too, and not from the cold. You were wrung out, your breath coming too fast, too shallow, like you were barely holding yourself together.

But it was your expression that really sent ice straight through his veins. Wide, fractured eyes. Lips parted, trembling like you wanted to speak but couldn’t. Like you were afraid.

"Fuck," he breathed. "What—"

Your eyes flickered past him into the apartment, taking in the scene—the woman behind him, her rumpled clothes, the way Sebastian had clearly been in the middle of something when you knocked.

Your face crumpled. Your whole body tensed. You took a step back.

"Sorry, I—I shouldn’t have come." Your voice wavered, raw and too damn small. Your fingers curled against your ribs like something there ached. "I didn’t mean to—"

Oh, hell no.

Sebastian took a step forward, his fingers wrapping around your wrist before you could slip away, but his voice never had the chance to follow—

A voice from behind him cut through the moment.

“Sebastian?” K-something called, her impatience laced with confusion. “Who is—”

She finally stepped closer, eyes widening when she took in your appearance. Her lips parted, expression shifting from irritation to realization. She wasn’t stupid. She could see what this was.

“…I should go.” She sputtered, already grabbing her bag from the counter. “I’ll call a cab.”

Sebastian barely heard her. He didn’t care.

She did hover for a moment, like she expected him to say something—to at least acknowledge her—but his eyes never left you. Eventually, she exhaled sharply and muttered something about Sebastian being a “waste of time” before leaving.

The sound of her footsteps faded down the hall, the distant slam of the stairwell door barely registering in his ears. It was like a pressure valve had released, but it didn’t make anything better.

Because Sebastian had never—not once—seen you like this. Not even out in the field, back-to-back with him, dueling dark wizards without hesitation. Not even on the worst nights, when you were exhausted and bleeding but still smirking, still throwing out some dry remark.

But here? Now?

You were a mess of trembling limbs and wide, haunted eyes. You looked like you were barely holding yourself together, like if he breathed wrong, you might break apart completely.

His grip on your wrist was light—barely there—but your pulse raced beneath his fingers. You hadn’t tried to pull away, but you weren’t looking at him either, gaze flickering somewhere over his shoulder like you wished you could vanish entirely.

He swallowed hard, speaking past the gravel in his throat.

“What happened?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out, just a shaky exhale that barely made it past your teeth.

Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled you inside, stepping around you to close the door with a quiet click. You stood stiffly in the entryway, one wrist still in his hand, your other arm wrapped around yourself like you were holding your own ribs together.

Sebastian could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his ears. His skin still buzzed with whiskey, his body sluggish from the alcohol, but his mind—fuck, his mind was awake now.

Someone had hurt you. Not just in the way that left bruises blooming across your skin or a sluggish trickle of blood tracing down your brow—but in the way you stood, small and hollowed out, like something inside you had caved in.

And he was going to make them pay for it.

The rage inside him wasn’t just anger—it was something worse. Something deeper. A raw, seething thing that coiled around his spine, tightening with every second he spent looking at you like this. It clawed at his ribs, demanding blood, demanding violence.

Sebastian had done a lot of things in his life—things he wasn’t proud of, things he couldn’t take back—but none of it would compare to what he would do to the person who put their hands on you.

His voice came out strained. “Tell me who did this.”

He watched the hesitation flicker across your face. You shook your head once. No.

He felt his pulse hammer in his throat, hot frustration bubbling up beneath his skin.

“Who?” His voice came sharper than he meant, rough and edged with something dangerous. “Just tell me who—”

Sebastian felt the second he fucked up. The moment the sharp edge of his voice cut the air, you flinched—so small, so fleeting, but there. And suddenly, the anger curdling in his chest didn’t matter. You didn’t need his temper, his anger, the violence simmering beneath his skin. You needed the part of him that knew how to take care of you.

His grip on your wrist loosened instantly, shifting instead into something light, barely-there, just enough to anchor you without holding you in place. His entire body language changed—he softened, dropping the heat, the demand, everything that might make you feel like you were being cornered. Because you weren’t. Never with him.

“Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to push,” he said quickly, voice dropping low, steady, warm. “You’re safe now, love. You’re with me."

Your lips pressed together, a sharp inhale stuttering in your chest, like you were trying to keep yourself from unraveling.

Sebastian took a slow step forward. Not too close. Just enough.

“I’ve got you," he murmured, even softer now. The backs of his knuckles brushed against your arm, barely a touch. Just enough to let you know he was there. That he wasn’t like whoever had put their hands on you tonight.

“You don’t have to tell me anything right now, okay? We’ll deal with it later. You just—” His throat tightened. “Just let me help, alright sweetheart?”

Your gaze flickered to his, and for the first time since he’d opened the door, he saw it—relief. Not much, just a flicker. A tiny, fragile thing. But it was enough.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, nodding once.

“Come here.” His voice was barely above a whisper, like he was making an offering. A place to land. A way out of your own head.

And when you stepped forward—hesitant, small, but willing—he didn’t hesitate.

Sebastian’s arms came around you in an instant, warm and solid, pulling you in carefully, shielding, steady. His hands were broad against your back, his entire frame curving around you, like maybe if he just held you tight enough, nothing could touch you anymore.

Your breath stuttered against his chest, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a fraction. He felt it happen—felt the smallest bit of weight drop from you as your forehead pressed lightly against his collarbone, like you were finally, finally letting yourself breathe.

Sebastian shut his eyes, exhaling slow and controlled. His voice was a low, quiet promise against your hair.

"You're safe. You hear me, love? You're safe now. You're with me."

Your voice came out quiet, fragile in a way he’d never heard before.

“I—I’m sorry, Seb” you murmured shakily against his chest. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night. I just—I ended up here, and—”

Sebastian stiffened. For a second, he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. His grip on you twitched, and he pulled back just enough to look at you, to see the exhausted tilt of your head, the way your eyes wouldn’t quite meet his, how you were curling in on yourself like you could make yourself smaller, less of an inconvenience.

Something sharp lodged itself in his throat.

His hands ghosted down your arms, then one of them lifted before he could stop himself—fingertips barely brushing the side of your face, near the cut on your eyebrow. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"You didn't 'ruin' anything. You can always come to me,” he murmured. “No matter what. Doesn’t matter where I am, what I’m doing—you can always come to me. Understand?”

You swallowed hard, lips parting, but no words came out. Instead, your fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his shirt, gripping at him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

Sebastian exhaled softly. “That’s my girl.”

Your weight was pressing against him now, not quite leaning but… there. Trusting.

Then, so quiet he almost missed it, you hummed softly against his chest.

“I don’t even remember coming here,” you murmured. “I just… walked. It’s like my feet knew where to go before I did.”

Sebastian stilled. His mind tripped over itself, racing to keep up. You walked here? From your flat? That wasn’t close—at least three miles, probably more. At this hour? In this state?

His stomach turned.

Had someone broken in? Had they been waiting for you? Did you even get a chance to fight back? Why didn’t you use magic? His pulse roared in his ears, questions piling up faster than he could process them—

But he didn’t voice any of it.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to look at you, fingers curling lightly beneath your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, sharp—wide with something like realization.

“You walked here?” His voice was low, too calm, too careful—like he was trying not to startle you. Like he was trying to make sure he’d heard you correctly before he let himself lose it.

You blinked at him, like it hadn’t even occurred to you that this was something he might react to. “…Yeah?”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched.

“That’s—” He exhaled sharply. “That’s miles away.”

You flinched, just barely, but this time it wasn’t from him—it was like you were only just now realizing what you had done, the reality settling in now that he had said it aloud.

“I—” Your voice wavered. “I didn’t even think about it, I just—” You shook your head, swallowing hard. “I wasn’t thinking about anything, I just needed to go. And I guess—”

Sebastian didn’t let you finish.

His hands were tightening around you in an instant—not gripping, not pulling, just there. Solid. Like he needed to convince himself that you weren’t still out there wandering the streets, hurt and vulnerable and alone.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead dropping briefly against yours, eyes screwing shut. “Fuck, fuck—”

The thought of you, alone, stumbling through the dark like a ghost, disoriented, wrecked, bleeding—it made him sick. You could have collapsed. You could have gotten lost. You could have—he couldn't even finish the thought.

Sebastian sucked in a slow breath, forcing himself to breathe, to be what you needed.

“Alright.” His voice was softer now, quieter. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s sit you down so I can clean you up, yeah?”

You hesitated, but only for a second. Then, finally, you nodded.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, nodding once in return.

“Good girl.” The words slipped out without thought, low and full of quiet, genuine relief.

Then, before you could process that—before he could process that—Sebastian was already moving, guiding you carefully toward his bedroom.

The dim glow from the bedside lamp bathed the space in soft, golden light, stretching long shadows across the floor. It was familiar, safe. You’d been here a thousand times before—kicking off your shoes without a second thought, making yourself at home on his bed, wrapped in that massive, worn-out blanket you always stole whenever you stayed over.

Sebastian barely had to nudge you down before you were sinking onto the edge of the mattress, exhausted, hands twisting together in your lap like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Without a word, Sebastian pulled the heavy blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around your shoulders, tucking it in carefully. You sank into it immediately, pulling the edges closer.

"Just sit tight," Sebastian murmured. "I’ll be right back."

You nodded—slow, small—and he gave your shoulder the lightest squeeze before pushing himself to his feet.

The moment he stepped into the ensuite, he exhaled sharply, pressing his palms against the cool porcelain of the sink. His reflection in the mirror looked as wrecked as he felt—jaw clenched, eyes dark with something raw and sharp.

The cabinet door creaked as he yanked it open, hands moving fast. A clean washcloth, warm from the sink. A Dixie cup of water. The first aid kit he’d barely ever needed but always kept—just in case. He nearly knocked over a bottle of cologne reaching for it.

When he returned, you hadn’t moved much. Still perched on the edge of his bed, shoulders drawn in, hands curled loosely in your lap. The trembling had eased, but not completely.

Sebastian set everything on the floor and knelt in front of you, careful, steady, slipping effortlessly into the version of himself you needed right now. The one who would take care of you.

“Here.” He held out the paper cup, his fingers brushing against yours as you took it. “Drink.”

You brought it to your lips, taking slow, small sips. Sebastian didn’t look away, watching carefully, making sure you drank enough. Making sure you weren’t about to fold in on yourself.

Then, once you’d set the cup aside, he reached for the washcloth, folding it into a neat square.

“Okay,” he murmured. “This might sting.”

Your gaze flicked toward his, cautious but steady, and you nodded.

His fingers were steady when they cupped your cheek, tilting your face just enough to give him a better look at the cut above your eyebrow. He barely even touched you, just the ghost of his palm against your jaw, his thumb resting near your temple.

And fuck, seeing it up close was worse.

The cut wasn’t deep, but it was still bleeding sluggishly. The skin around it was red and raw, like you had wiped at it with the sleeve of your shirt at some point. There were bruises along your temple too, darkening by the second.

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard it sent a dull ache down his neck.

Breathe. Focus.

He kept his touch gentle, dabbing carefully at the blood along your brow, slow enough to avoid hurting you more than necessary.

You winced, breath hitching just slightly, but you didn’t pull away. Your eyes fluttered for a moment before settling on him. And that was when he felt it. Like a thread pulling taut between you—delicate but unbreakable.

He knew that look. He’d known it for years. Had seen it a thousand times in fleeting moments—across the rim of a coffee mug, under the hazy glow of streetlights on late-night walks, in the quiet of stolen glances when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

Soft. Open. Trusting. Loving.

Even now. Even after tonight—after whatever fresh hell you’d been put through—you still looked at him like that. Like he was safe. Like he was yours.

Sebastian swallowed hard, forcing down the impossible tightness in his throat.

“Good news is,” he managed, trying to keep his voice light, normal, like he wasn’t seconds away from completely fucking losing it, “you still got your pretty face intact.”

That earned him the faintest twitch of your lips. Not quite a smile, but close—softer than anything he’d seen from you all night. More importantly, it earned him the softest exhale, a breath of sound barely there, barely audible, but approaching a laugh.

Sebastian let himself smile—small, reassuring, nothing too much.

His thumb moved before he could stop it, brushing over your cheekbone, the lightest, most absent-minded touch.

"Let me see your hands," he murmured.

There was hesitation—he felt it before he even saw it. Your fingers curled into the blanket, your body tensing, as if you weren’t sure you wanted him to look. Then, slowly, you unwound your fingers, releasing the fabric, and let him take your hands.

And fuck. Even your knuckles were torn up—split, raw, some still sluggishly weeping where the skin had broken open. Dark smudges of dried blood clung between your fingers, across your palms. The skin along your wrist was bruised, as if someone had grabbed you.

He felt his pulse slam against his ribs.

You’d fought back. Of course you did. Of course you fucking did.

Because you were you. Because you were strong, stubborn, fierce even when the odds were stacked against you. But the thought of you having to fight—having to defend yourself like this, having to claw your way out of something horrible—

Sebastian inhaled sharply through his nose.

He forced it down—the fire, the violence curling under his skin, the instinct to demand names, places, details—he swallowed all of it.

Later. He’d deal with that later. Right now, you needed him.

Sebastian lifted the washcloth again, pressing it carefully to your knuckles. You hissed softly at the sting, hands jerking slightly in his grip.

“Easy, love,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, thick with something that sounded like devotion. “I’ve got you.”

He cleaned away the blood with slow, deliberate strokes, careful and methodical. Taking his time, as if it might make a difference. As if he could erase what had happened, wipe it from your skin, lift the weight from your shoulders and take it onto his own.

The silence between you settled, thick and heavy but not suffocating. Not tense. Just… there. A presence in the room.

When he finished, he set the washcloth aside and reached for the first aid kit again, fingers brushing over the zipper before he pulled it open. His hands were steady, practiced, as he found what he needed—a small tube of antibiotic ointment.

He twisted the cap off and squeezed a little onto his fingertip.

Neither of you spoke when he smoothed it gently over the cut above your eyebrow, his touch featherlight. You didn’t flinch, didn’t tense, just let him. And when he moved to your knuckles, carefully spreading the ointment over the split skin, you watched him—eyes dark, unreadable, but there. Present.

When he was finished, he squeezed your hand. That part wasn’t strictly necessary, but he did it anyway. A small thing. A quiet reassurance. And thenyour fingers curled around his, squeezing back—just barely.

Sebastian swallowed, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “I’m getting you a clean shirt,” he said softly.

He turned to his dresser, yanking open a drawer and rifling through the mess. Because you were not staying in that fucking t-shirt. Not when the collar was torn, stretched where it shouldn’t be, the fabric stained with blood.

The thought of you still wearing it made something ugly curl in his stomach.

So he found the softest thing he owned—one of his old hoodies, oversized and warm, worn to hell but clean. Safe. Something that smelled like him.

He turned back to you, pressing it into your hands.

"Thanks," you murmured, your fingers curling into the fabric, the sleeves bunched between your knuckles.

Sebastian cleared his throat. “You can change in here,” he said. “Or the bathroom. Whatever’s—”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

His entire body went still. The words weren’t loud. If the room had been any noisier from the traffic outside, he might have missed them. But they hit like a gut punch, like a fist curling around his ribs and squeezing tight.

You weren’t looking at him. Your gaze was downcast, fixed somewhere near the floor, but your posture told him everything. Shoulders curled inward. Small. Hesitant.

Sebastian turned back to you instantly.

"Alright," he murmured, voice steady, unwavering. "I'll stay right here."

Something in your expression shifted, like the tension in your chest eased just slightly. Then slowly, carefully you peeled off your ruined t-shirt.

Sebastian tore his gaze away, jaw clenching. Not because he didn’t want to look—fuck, that was never the problem.

But because this wasn’t about that.

You needed comfort, not whatever mess of feelings he was shoving down, not whatever heat curled low in his stomach whenever you were close. Not the part of him that had spent years wanting to touch you, years wanting you in ways he’d never said aloud.

So he clenched his fists and stared at the wall, listening to the soft rustle of fabric as you pulled his hoodie over your head.

A moment of silence stretched between you.

“Okay,” you murmured.

Sebastian turned back.

The hoodie was massive on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs.

He exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his hair before nodding once. “Better?”

You gave the smallest nod.

“Good.” His voice softer now, the rough edge smoothed just slightly. “Right then, let’s get you settled.”

Sebastian reached for the bed, moving on instinct. He pulled back the messy covers, shaking them out before propping up the pillows against the headboard, making sure they were stacked just right. Then, with quiet purpose, he turned back to you, nodding toward the bed.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice low, steady.

Your gaze flickered up at him, exhaustion dulling your eyes, but beneath it—gratitude. Silent, unspoken, but undeniable.

Slowly, you crawled onto the mattress, shifting beneath the blankets, and the second your head hit the pillow, you curled in on yourself, like your body had been waiting for this—this warmth, this safety—to finally let go.

Sebastian grabbed the blanket—your blanket—and tucked it securely over you, smoothing it over your shoulders before sitting on the edge of the bed, just close enough to reach you if you needed him.

“Anything I can get you?” he asked. “Tea? A snack? Whatever you want, love, just say the word.”

Your fingers curled into the edge of the blanket, your brows drawing together slightly like you hadn’t even considered that option.

“I—” Your voice was quiet, hesitant. “I don’t know.”

Sebastian huffed a quiet, almost amused sound. “Not exactly a helpful answer.”

You exhaled a soft breath—one that might have been the ghost of a laugh if you weren’t so drawn out—and ducked your chin into the blanket.

Sebastian watched you for a second, then nodded to himself, already making up his mind.

“Alright,” he murmured, standing. “Something to eat, then.”

You blinked up at him, looking so small, so tired, but you didn’t protest. Sebastian took that as a win.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, already scrolling through the UberEats app with single-minded focus. He wasn’t just looking for just anything—he was looking for your favorite restaurant.

He knew what you liked. Knew what you always ordered when you were too exhausted to cook, when you’d had a rough day, when you needed something warm and familiar to make the world feel a little less harsh.

And besides, it wasn’t like he had anything useful in his kitchen. The last time he’d checked, his fridge contained precisely one beer, a half-empty bottle of hot sauce, and something that might have once been a loaf of bread but was now a science experiment.

Not exactly ideal.

But even if he had groceries, it wouldn’t have mattered. You’d said you didn’t want to be alone. So he wasn’t going anywhere—not even to the damn kitchen.

As he flicked through the menu, your voice broke the silence.

“…Seb?”

He glanced up immediately, his full attention snapping back to you in an instant.

“Yeah?”

“…Will you lay with me?”

Something thick and impossible to name lodged itself in his throat, pressing against his ribs.

“Yeah,” he murmured, already moving. “Of course.”

He climbed into the bed beside you, careful and deliberate, mindful to keep a respectful distance—giving you space to breathe, to settle, to feel safe. But the second he was still, the second the warmth of him fully registered beside you, you scooted closer, the space between you vanishing in an instant. You curled into him, pressing into his side, burrowing against his chest like it was the only place you wanted to be.

Sebastian barely had a second to process it before instinct took over.

His free arm came around you automatically, pulling you in, keeping you there. He didn’t even think about it—just moved, just held.

And fuck, you fit against him so perfectly it made his heart lurch.

He ignored it.

Ignored the way your warmth seeped through the fabric of his shirt, ignored the way your breath ghosted against his neck, ignored the way his own pulse stupidly, traitorously picked up speed as you curled your fingers into the hem of his hoodie like you had no plans to let go.

Instead, he adjusted the angle of his phone so you could see the screen, keeping his voice casual. Normal. Like his brain wasn’t short-circuiting at the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“Here,” he murmured. “Do you want your usual?”

“…Yeah,” you said, voice half-muffled against his chest. “That sounds good.”

Sebastian hummed, tapping the order in without question.

“Alright,” he said. “Then it’s settled.”

His fingers flexed lightly against your waist, soothing, absent-minded, and you sighed, breath warm against his throat.

Sebastian swallowed hard, ignoring the way something deep in his chest ached at the feeling. He was in trouble.

But fuck it.

He’d deal with that later.

The next little while passed in silence—not the uncomfortable kind, not tense or heavy, just quiet. Steady.

Sebastian didn’t say anything. Neither did you. You just lay there, curled into him, your breath even and slow, the warmth of you pressed into his side.

But Sebastian didn’t need words.

He was just thankful you were here, that your body had finally started to relax, that the tension had drained from your limbs.

Then, eventually, the soft buzz of his phone vibrating on the nightstand broke the stillness.

The food was here.

Sebastian sighed, shifting slightly, preparing to get up, but the second he moved, he felt it. You stiffened. Barely perceptible, just the slightest tensing of your fingers against his shirt, but enough. Enough for something cold to crawl up his spine.

So instead of pulling away completely, he murmured, “Alright, come on then,” and reached down, slipping his arm around you.

You made a soft, startled sound as he shifted, rolling forward until you were draped across his back. His hands hooked securely under your thighs as he straightened, carrying you with him as he padded toward the door.

You didn’t protest. You just buried your face into the crook of his neck, fingers loosely gripping his shoulders as he moved.

Sebastian grabbed the takeout bag with one hand, snatched a couple of forks from the kitchen drawer on his way back, and carried you straight back to bed.

He placed the food between you, climbed in beside you again, and grabbed the remote, flipping on the TV. Some random YouTube video started playing—something dumb, nothing serious, just background noise to keep things from feeling too quiet.

You didn’t eat much. Just picked at your food, nudging pieces around with your fork.

That was fine. Sebastian didn’t push. Didn’t say anything about it. Just sat beside you, eating in easy silence, letting you take what you needed at your own pace.

And then, finally, you spoke.

Your voice was soft, quiet, but clear.

“…Sebastian.”

He glanced over immediately. “Yeah, love?”

You swallowed, staring at your food like you weren’t really seeing it. Then, slowly, you set your fork aside, taking in a shaky breath.

“I'm... I'm ready to tell you what happened.”

Sebastian’s fork stopped midway to his mouth.

The words settled between you, quiet but heavy, sinking into his ribs like a slow, aching weight.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched you as you stared down at your takeout, your breath uneven like you were preparing yourself.

Slowly, he reached for the remote. The video playing in the background cut off instantly, plunging the room into a thick, expectant silence. Sebastian set his fork down on the nightstand and turned his full attention to you.

“Alright,” he murmured. “I’m listening.”

You inhaled sharply, like you were bracing yourself, and when you spoke, your voice wavered—small and fragile in a way that made something in his chest splinter.

“It was him.”

The second the words left your mouth, his stomach dropped, and a sharp, seething hatred coiled hot and violent in his chest.

Sebastian knew who you meant. It was him. 

And fuck, of course it was. How hadn't he put it together sooner?

Sebastian had never liked your boyfriend. Never. Not even in the beginning, when everyone else had acted like he was some goddamn catch. Sebastian hadn’t needed a reason, hadn’t needed proof—he just knew there was something off about him. Something that never sat right with Sebastian, no matter how many times you swore he was nice.

He’d never said anything, though. Not outright. You were happy, or at least that's what you said, and Sebastian—Sebastian, who was a selfish bastard on the best of days when it came to you—hadn’t wanted to be the bitter one. The one sitting on the sidelines, waiting for something to go wrong.

But now—now—he was fucking furious at himself for not pushing harder.

Because if he had, if he’d done something, maybe you wouldn’t be sitting here, hands trembling, voice wrecked, telling him about how the person who was supposed to love you had put his fucking hands on you.

His fists clenched in the blanket.

He had never understood why the fuck you got with him in the first place. A Muggle, sure, fine—Sebastian didn’t give a shit about blood status—but him?

You were brilliant, sharp, always three steps ahead in a conversation, in a duel, in everything. You had a way of reading people, of understanding things too quickly, like your mind was always moving, always making connections that no one else could see.

And your boyfriend? The guy was dense. It wasn’t even an insult, just a fact.

Sebastian had been baffled when you first introduced him. Because what the hell did you even talk about? He wasn’t clever, or funny, or anything that made sense for you. He was just… there. All tall, broad-shouldered, perfect-featured statue of a man, like some idiot Greek god who had never had a thought deeper than his own reflection.

And you, who could debate theory for hours, who could outduel anyone, who never backed down from an argument—had ended up with him?

It made no fucking sense.

At first, Sebastian had assumed it was just a passing thing. Maybe you were into the whole tall, hot, and dumb aesthetic. Maybe you just wanted something easy. Someone who wouldn’t challenge you, someone who wouldn’t drag you into the kind of shit Sebastian always did.

But then the relationship had lasted. For months.

Sebastian tried telling himself that his problem with your boyfriend was just jealousy, that it was something ugly in him that hated seeing you with someone else.

But deep down, it wasn’t just that.

He had never liked him. Never trusted him. And now—now he fucking knew why.

Your fingers tightened in the fabric of Sebastian’s hoodie, but you didn’t look at him. Your gaze stayed locked on the blanket draped over your lap, like you couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

“He went out drinking,” you murmured, voice thin and raw. “Came home late. I was already in bed, and I—I could hear him from the other room. Slamming drawers, throwing shit. He was mad about something—probably work, or maybe just the fucking weather, I don’t know. But I knew it was bad. I knew the second I heard him that it was one of those nights.”

Sebastian didn’t move. His entire body had gone tight, coiled like a wire stretched too thin. One of those nights?

How many times had you stood there, listening to him throw shit around the apartment, waiting for him to come for you? How many nights had you lain awake, breath shallow, heart pounding, afraid of the man who was supposed to love you? How many times had you flinched at the sound of keys in the door?

Sebastian's breath was slow, measured—too controlled. He had to keep himself in check. Because if he let himself fully think about it, if he let himself process the fact that this wasn’t just some freak incident, that you had lived like this—

You kept talking, your voice quiet but raw, and he forced himself to listen.

“I tried to pretend I was asleep,” you muttered. “Hoped he’d just pass out on the couch. But then he came into the bedroom. Flicked on the light. Stood in the doorway for a second, just looking at me.”

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

“And then he started talking—no, ranting—about everything that had gone wrong today. Like it was my fault. Like I was supposed to fix it. I told him to calm down, but that just made it worse.”

Sebastian swallowed, his throat dry as fucking sandpaper.

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, knuckles pressing against your ribs like you were trying to hold yourself together. “He got in my face,” you continued. “He does that sometimes, to intimidate me, I think. I told him to back off, but he didn’t.” Your voice broke slightly, and you sucked in a sharp breath. “I—I reached for my wand.”

Sebastian inhaled sharply.

And then, he knew. He knew what was coming. Knew it.

But when you finally said it—when the words left your mouth, shaking, broken—he still felt like the fucking floor had been ripped out from under him.

“He grabbed it out of my hand,” you whispered. “And he snapped it in half.”

But you weren’t done.

“And then he grabbed me.”

Sebastian barely resisted the urge to fucking break something.

“I hit him,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I tried. That’s why my knuckles are—” You gestured vaguely to one hand with the other, your fingers trembling. “But obviously I was never going to win against him. Then he shoved me, slammed me against the wall so hard I thought my head was gonna split open.”

Sebastian’s fingers twitched against the blanket. His breath was coming too fast, too sharp. He needed to stay still, needed to stay quiet because this wasn’t about him, but—fuck. You were shaking now, and it took everything in him not to pull you into his arms right then and there.

“I—I must have hit the dresser on the way down,” you said, voice thick as you reached up, brushing a fingertip over your eyebrow.

Sebastian felt sick.

“He grabbed me again,” you continued, voice unsteady. “By the arms. He was yelling, I don’t even know what the fuck he was saying anymore. I—I tried to claw him off, and then he—”

You stopped. Sebastian’s pulse roared in his ears.

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He could feel what was coming next, and it terrified him more than anything else you’d said.

His voice, when it finally came, was low. Too low.

“He what?”

You swallowed, voice thick with unshed tears. “He put his hands around my throat.”

Sebastian’s world went fucking silent. The breath was knocked out of him. His heart slammed so hard against his ribs he thought it might crack them.

“And I—I couldn’t—” Your voice wavered, raw and unsteady. “I couldn’t breathe. I was kicking, and I—I think I got him in the ribs or something, because he let go just long enough for me to shove him and run.”

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

“ I didn’t think. I didn’t even grab anything,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I just—I had to get out, so I ran, and… and I dunno, I ended up here.”

Sebastian couldn’t breathe. You had to run from your own home. You had to run for your life.

Sebastian was going to kill him. No—he was going to do worse.

And then, then, his mind supplied the worst possible thought.

His voice came out strained. Tight. Lethal. “…Did he do anything else? Did he— did he touch you?”

You shook your head. Small. Quick. Immediate.

“No,” you whispered, voice thick. “No. He didn’t.”

Sebastian barely resisted the urge to collapse with relief. But the fact that he even had to ask—the fact that he had even worried about it—was enough to send another wave of fury rolling through his chest.

His voice, when it finally came, was flat, cold in a way that barely sounded like him.

“Where is he now?”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t know.”

Sebastian’s fingers curled into the blanket, his jaw locking so hard it ached.

“I don’t know if he chased me down the street,” you muttered, voice distant, "or if he just passed out on the floor in the flat.” Your mouth twisted slightly, bitter. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Sebastian saw red. Wouldn’t be the first time. Wouldn’t be the first fucking time. The words slammed into him like a punch to the gut, a brutal, taunting echo that wouldn’t stop.

How long? How long had this been happening? Had there been times when you’d wanted to tell him? When the words had almost left your lips, only to be swallowed back down by fear? How many times had you thought about leaving but been too scared?

Sebastian’s stomach twisted violently, a sickening, nauseating weight settling deep in his ribs.

Had he ever looked at you and missed it? Had you ever shown up to work, to his flat, tired or distracted, wearing long sleeves even when it was warm? Had he ever caught a glimpse of something he should have seen—some hidden bruise, some flicker of fear in your eyes—and fucking ignored it?

His vision blurred at the edges. He should have known. He should have fucking known.

And now—now it was too late, because it had already happened, and you were sitting right here, bruised and battered, wearing his hoodie because your own clothes were ruined, voice small and wrecked as you told him about how you had run for your life.

Sebastian couldn’t sit still.

The rage was too much, too sharp, clawing up his throat, curling around his spine, making his limbs itch with the need to move, to do something, to fucking fix this.

So he shoved his takeout onto the nightstand, barely registering the sound it made, and pushed off the bed before the anger swallowed him whole.

But he didn’t get far.

The second he was standing, he felt it—your fingers catching weakly at the fabric of his shirt, not pulling, not stopping him, just… holding.

Sebastian froze. His hands twitched at his sides, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself to breathe, swallowing the violence in his throat.

“Tomorrow,” he said, voice hard with finality, “I’m getting all your stuff from your place.”

Your head snapped up, eyes widening slightly, but Sebastian didn’t let you speak.

“You’re never going back there,” he continued, unmoving. “You live here now.”

Your lips parted, and for a second, he saw it—that flicker of resistance, the part of you that was always so fucking stubborn, always ready to argue, to find some logical excuse for why you couldn't—

Sebastian didn’t give you the chance.

“No.” His tone was unyielding, “You don’t get to argue with me on this."

Sebastian steeled himself, forcing himself to be rational, to speak in the way you’d actually listen instead of just demanding you do what he fucking said.

“You don’t have a wand,” he reminded you, voice rough but steady. “You don’t know where he is. I’m not letting you walk back into that flat. Ever.”

You swallowed hard. “But—”

Sebastian shook his head.

“No. This is your home now,” he said. “For as long as you need. As long as you want.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but finally—so quietly he almost didn’t hear it—

“…Okay.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, tension bleeding from his shoulders just slightly, just enough that his hands didn’t feel like they were about to break something.

“If you want to report it,” he said, steady, certain, determined, “we’ll figure it out. We’ll go to the Ministry if we need to, or the Muggle police.” His throat felt tight, but he pushed through it. “Whatever you need. Whatever justice looks like for you—we’ll get it.”

Your breath stuttered slightly, but you didn’t speak.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “We can ask Ominis which one to go to. He’s good with this shit—he’ll know what to do.” He hesitated for a second, then added, “And if you don’t want to tell him… that’s fine, too. I’ll sort it out myself.”

Because he would. If you wanted to handle this the legal way, he’d be right there beside you, every step of the way. And if you didn’t—

“But if you don’t want to do that,” he said, voice dropping lower, gentler, softer in a way that made his ribs ache, “that’s okay.”

It was your choice. All of it. For what was probably the first time in months, it was yours.

Sebastian was about to say more—was about to ask if you wanted him to do something now, to go to the flat, to find that fucking bastard—but then you made a sound. A small, barely there sound, like something breaking apart inside you. And before he could even process it, your shoulders shook, your face crumpling as the first sob ripped out of you.

Sebastian's stomach dropped.

Fuck—

What did he say? What did he do?

He had tried to be so careful, but now you were crying—really crying, for the first time all night—and fuck, had he pushed too hard? Had he said something—

Your hands were reaching for him.

Sebastian barely had time to breathe before you were clutching at him, holding him with all the strength left in you.

He melted. His arms came around you instantly, pulling you in, one hand cupping the back of your head as you buried your face into his chest. He felt the shudder of your breath, the way your whole body trembled as you broke apart against him, sobbing into his shoulder.

"Hey, hey—" His voice was low, rough, but so fucking gentle. "I've got you. It’s alright. Just—just let it out."

You gasped between sobs, fists curling into him like you needed him to keep you steady.

And then, through the shaking, through the broken sobs, “Thank you.”

Sebastian's breath stuttered, his grip tightening around you. You were still crying, still wrecked, still clinging to him, but the words were so raw, so genuine, it made something ache deep in his chest.

"Don’t thank me," he muttered, pressing his cheek against the top of your head. "You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. This—" He exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would do anything for you. You do know that, don't you?"

You let out a soft, breathy laugh against his chest, barely more than a shaky exhale. It wasn’t light, wasn’t joyful. It was exhausted, raw, frayed at the edges like you didn’t quite have the energy for it but couldn’t help yourself. A sound that came from somewhere deep, somewhere aching.

And then, you whispered, "Yeah, Seb… I know."

Your voice was hoarse, wrecked—but sure in a way that made his ribs feel like they were caving in. Like there had never been a doubt in your mind. Like you had always known.

And something inside him cracked.

All the anger, the panic, the terror that had been keeping him upright—keeping him steady—just snapped, and suddenly he was unraveling too, spilling apart at the seams before he could even think to stop it.

Because the truth, the reality of this finally hit him—really hit him, slamming into him all at once like a freight train, like a fist to the ribs, like something he would never recover from.

You could have not made it here. He could have lost you. Not in some abstract, distant, what if kind of way.

No.

This had been real. This had happened. And if things had gone just a little differently—if you hadn’t gotten away, if that bastard had held on just a second longer—

The thought suffocated him, dragged him under, wrenched something raw and painful out of his chest. His breath hitched sharply against your hair. His shoulders trembled. And then, before he could stop it, before he could even fight it, a choked, wrecked sob ripped out of him.

Sebastian never cried.

Not when his uncle died. Not when he thought he’d lost Ominis for good. Not even when he lost Anne and the weight of his own mistakes had nearly crushed him. He’d swallowed it all down, shoved it away, because crying never changed anything.

But this—

This was different. This wasn’t grief. This wasn’t regret or guilt or self-hatred.

This was terror.

Pure. Crippling. The kind that hollowed you out, carved into you like a knife, left you feeling like there was nothing inside but raw, open wounds.

He could’ve lost you.

His breath came too fast, uneven, the pressure in his chest too much, and his mouth was already moving before he could stop it.

“I swear to God, I don’t— I don’t know what I would have done if—” His voice cracked, a raw, fractured thing that barely made it out past his lips.

“I—I should’ve known, I should’ve done something—” His grip flexed, desperate. “I knew something was off about him, I fucking knew, and I didn’t say anything—”

“Sebastian—”

“And I—fuck, I can’t stop picturing it. You— you walked here, you were just, just out there, all alone, and I wasn’t—” His voice cracked again, barely holding together. “I wasn’t there, I didn’t know—”

Your hand lifted, soft and soothing, brushing against the side of his face, and it wrecked him, because fuck, you shouldn’t have to comfort him. Not after what you had just been through. Not when he was supposed to be taking care of you.

But you did. You just held him.

Sebastian let out another ragged breath, desperately clinging to you. “I could have lost you.”

Your thumbs swept across his cheekbones, gentle, careful, steady. "You didn’t.”

He let out a sound—somewhere between a sharp exhale and a broken laugh, because that wasn’t the point. The point was that it had been so fucking close.

“I—” His fingers curled against the nape of your neck, into your hair, gripping you like a lifeline. "You have no fucking idea—I just—I thought—" He inhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice turning frantic, desperate.

"Sebastian—"

"I knew he was wrong for you, I knew it, and I—fuck—I just let it happen—"

"Seb—"

"I love you."

It ripped out of him.

Messy. Raw. Completely unfiltered.

“I love you and—fuck—" his voice was wild, frantic, cracking over itself. "And I swear to God, I’m going to kill him." His breath hitched, a sharp, furious sound. " I’m going to bury him, I’m going to make him suffer, I’m going to make sure he knows—"

His breath came hard, uneven, furious, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

"He’s done," His laugh was sharp, bitter, wrecked. "I mean it—I mean it, I will put him in the fucking ground, I will tear him apart with my bare hands—"

His voice was getting rougher, more desperate, more unhinged with every word that tumbled out. He couldn’t stop—couldn’t stop picturing it, him, with his hands on you, hurting you, breaking your wand, stealing your power, making you run for your life—

"I should’ve stopped this, I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve done something the second I saw him looking at you like you were his, I should’ve fucking known—"

"Seb—"

"You don’t understand—he put his hands on you. On you. Do you have any idea what that means to me? Do you have any clue what I would do for you?" His breath came sharp and fast, his words spilling out unchecked, unstoppable. "You—you’re everything to me—I love you, fuck, I love you—"

And that was when it hit him.

He said it.

Again.

For the fourth fucking time, actually.

He had said the one thing he was never supposed to say, the thing he had spent years shoving down under layers of denial and cowardice and self-preservation because it was safer that way. Because it was easier to pretend, easier to be your friend, easier to just be there for you without ruining everything.

But it was out now. It was out, and there was no taking it back, and fuck, he shouldn’t have said it—not like this, not when this wasn’t about him, not when you had just been through hell—

And suddenly, fresh panic was clawing up his throat, his mind spinning too fast, spiraling, trying to fix it, trying to backpedal—

And then you kissed him.

Sebastian’s mind blipped.

Just shut off completely.

One second, he was losing his goddamn mind, his body shaking, his hands gripping onto you like you were the only thing keeping him from self-destructing, and the next, your lips were on his, soft and desperate and real.

It was like slamming into a wall at full speed.

Every thought cut out at once.

The rage. The panic. The terror.

Gone.

All that was left was this. You. The feeling of your hands curling into the neckline of his shirt, pulling him closer. The way your breath hitched against his lips, the way your body melted against his like you had wanted this just as much as he had.

Sebastian made a noise in the back of his throat—wrecked, wild—before he sank into you completely.

His hands flew up, cupping your face, tilting your head like he needed more, like he was drowning and this was the only thing that could save him.

He felt your fingers shaking, gripping him like you needed him as much as he needed you, and fuck, if that wasn’t enough to destroy him.

He broke away just long enough to suck in a breath, his forehead dropping to yours, his whole body shaking.

And then—softly, like he couldn’t help himself—he let out a ragged, disbelieving laugh.

“…Okay,” he breathed, his lips barely an inch from yours. “Okay. That was—yeah. That was a good way to shut me up.”

Your lips twitched—small, barely there—

But there.

[artvscvntymullet]

CHAPTERS OF US - ARTHUR TV

content warnings : a small argument, but nothing really !

word count : 2500 words

A/N : i literally owe my lungs to @smzyyx thank you for the suggestion of the fic, literally saved my writers block !! check her page out guys, the fics fucking slay each time

masterlist here !!

THE BOOKSTORE :

It had been raining all afternoon, soft and rhythmic, the kind that seemed to quiet the whole city into stillness. You’d ducked into the bookstore partly for shelter, partly because the smell of old pages and quiet corners was better than whatever your day had planned for you. Your fingers skimmed along a familiar row — fiction, alphabetised by author — looking for something that felt right.

You weren’t expecting company.

But the second you rounded the corner into the next aisle, you stopped short, nearly colliding into someone.

“Ah—shit, I'm so sorry, are you OK?,” came the voice before anything else, warm. A little startled, but still amused.

You looked up and caught him — tall, curly-haired, wearing a navy jumper and the kind of slightly sleepy expression that meant he’d probably lost track of time in here. He had a copy of The Secret History tucked under one arm and the faintest dimple in his left cheek.

Your eyes met for a second too long.

“No harm done,” you said, offering a polite smile as you stepped back.

“Do you always approach people like that? Full speed in the fiction section?” he teased.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Only when they’re standing between me and my next book.”

He followed your gaze and nodded toward the book in your hand. “Rebecca. Classic, eerie and a bit tragic.”

“And you’ve got The Secret History,” you countered, tilting your head. “Lots of murder. I’m sensing a pattern.”

“I like a little drama,” he said with a shrug. “Have you ever read it?”

You shook your head. “It’s on my list.”

He smiled then, a genuine one — soft, but bright enough to stay with you. “Arthur,” he said, offering his hand.

You gave him your name, took his hand for a brief second. It was warm, grounding.

“Well,” he said, stepping aside, “I’ll let you get back"

“Thanks,” you said, though you lingered a moment longer before walking away.

Neither of you asked for numbers, no flirting past that moment. But as you turned to leave and the bell over the door chimed, you caught him glancing up from his book — just once — like he was trying to remember the shape of your smile.

THE PARTY :

Chris, Arthur Hill and George’s flat was loud in that cosy, mismatched way they always managed — too many people, music spilling out of old speakers, and the scent of takeaway and cheap wine in the air.

You hadn’t planned to stay long, but then, from across the room, you saw Arthur.

He was leaning against the kitchen doorway, cup in hand, in conversation with someone you couldn’t see. He was wearing a jacket this time, charcoal grey over a white t-shirt, curls messier and mullet longer than you remembered. When his eyes landed on you, he did a double take, his expression flickering from surprise to something softer — recognition. That same dimple.

“Well, well,” he said, pushing off the wall and weaving through the crowd toward you. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You smiled, raising your drink in mock salute. “Plot twist, huh?”

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said with a grin.

“I didn’t think you remembered me.”

He gave you a look like that was the most stupid thing he’d heard all night. “Hard to forget someone who nearly ran into me with a copy of Rebecca.”

“Fair enough,” you laughed.

“How do you know George?” he asked, stepping a little closer, the music made it easier to justify the space between you.

“Mutual friends, we went to uni together for about ten minutes before I dropped my major and switched to lit.”

He raised a brow, interested. “Ah, that explains the bookstore.”

“And the overuse of grammar in texts,” you added.

He grinned again. “I should get your number, then. For, you know… literary debates.”

“Oh, definitely, philosophical questions like: is it morally acceptable to turn corners of pages?”

His expression turned mock-serious. “I swear no one does that.”

You reached for your phone and handed it to him. He typed his name in — Arthur TV — and hesitated for a second before handing it back.

And just like that, the story shifted.

THE FIRST DATE :

He picked you up on a Friday night, wearing a button-down that made him look handsome and charming. The bar he chose was tucked between two shops, dimly lit, the kind of place with jazz humming softly under the clink of glasses.

“I’ve been wanting to try this place for ages,” he said, as he pulled your chair out. “Figured if the food’s bad, at least the company’s good.”

You smirked. “Confident.”

He held up his bottle in a toast. “Optimistic.”

You talked for hours — about books, music, the worst dates you'd ever had, your dream cities, and why you both moved to London. At one point, he leaned forward and asked, “What’s something you’ve never told anyone on a first date?”

You thought about it. Then said quietly, “I write. Poems, mostly.”

He didn’t laugh, didn’t tease. Just smiled, warm and sure. “I’d love to read one someday.”

After dinner, he walked you home, your fingers brushing now and then until he laced them together.

At your building, he stopped. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice low, careful. You nodded, heart racing.

The kiss was soft, slow. When he pulled back, he whispered, “Told you I was optimistic.”

THE SIX MONTHS :

Arthur was pacing in front of the oven, a dish towel slung over his shoulder like it meant something. You leaned against the counter, sipping wine and trying not to laugh as he peered into the pot for the third time in two minutes.

“I feel like I should be worried,” you teased.

“You should be,” he muttered. “This was supposed to be ready twenty minutes ago, and I think I burnt the garlic.”

You crossed the room and bumped his hip lightly with yours. “You’re adorable when you’re stressed.”

“I’m trying to be romantic,” he said, looking genuinely flustered. “You deserve candles and perfect pasta and a playlist that doesn’t shuffle wrong.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, on your tiptoes, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. “I already have everything I wanted. You, me, our song playing quietly, something probably edible on the stove.”

He exhaled, turning in your arms. “You’re very forgiving.”

The pasta turned out slightly overcooked but warm and comforting, like everything else he gave you. He lit two crooked candles anyway, and when you teased him about the uneven wax drips, he grinned and said, “It’s called charm.”

Later, after the plates were stacked haphazardly and you’d changed into his oversized jumper, you sat curled up on the couch together, legs tangled.

“You know,” he said quietly, tracing circles against your knee, “this is the longest I’ve ever been with someone and not felt the need to run.”

You turned your face toward him. “Have you been tempted?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “That’s the thing. I feel like I could build a life with you.”

You swallowed hard, heart fluttering like he’d handed you something too delicate to hold. “I feel that too,” you said.

THE ARGUMENT :

It was small. At first. He forgot to text you back one evening — plans left in limbo, a dinner reservation gone cold, your new dress, wrinkled from waiting on the couch too long.

You told yourself not to be upset. But when he showed up at your door with breathless apologies and no real reason, you couldn’t help it. “I just waited, Arthur. For hours.”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry—”

“But you could’ve said something. Anything, you always do. So what changed tonight?”

He paused, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, guiltily. “I lost track of time. Today was a mess. I just shut down a bit.”

You stood still, arms folded. “If you’re going to shut me out, I need to know. I can’t guess when it’s me, or when it’s everything else.”

“I’m not shutting you out,” he said, too fast, too rehearsed. “I just needed space.”

“That’s fine. But space doesn’t mean disappearing.”

The silence after that wasn’t cruel, just heavy.

He left that night with a quiet, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” and a hesitant brush of your hand.

THE MORNING AFTER :

It rained the next morning — a gentle, persistent drizzle that made the morning feel softer, but bleak somehow.

You heard the knock around 9 am.

When you opened the door, Arthur stood there holding two coffees and a paper bag of pastries, curls damp from the walk. “I didn’t want to text,” he said quietly. “Didn’t feel like enough.”

You stepped aside without saying anything. He set the coffees down, turned to you.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “You were right. I got overwhelmed and instead of saying that, I disappeared. I won’t do that again, promise.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “I don’t need you to be perfect. Just present. With me.”

He stepped closer, gently brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. “I am. I want to be with you, always.”

You melted into him then, burying your face in his jumper, and he held you like he never wanted to let go.

You ate the pastries cross-legged on the couch, your head on his shoulder, your fingers tangled.

THE MOVE IN :

It started with little things. A draw. A hoodie here, a toothbrush there.

And then one night, over takeaway, Arthur looked up and said, “So, do we keep beating around the bush, or do you just move in already?”

You blinked. “Are you sure? I snore sometimes. And I leave tea mugs everywhere.”

“I'm positive. I want to trip over your shoes every morning and argue over who takes the bin out”

You moved in three weeks later. The first few weeks were bliss and chaos — mismatched furniture, your books invading his shelves, arguing over duvet covers and whether it was acceptable to have fairy lights in the living room (yes).

There were nights of falling asleep mid-conversation and mornings of lazy coffee on the balcony, feet in his lap, sun warming your cheek.

One evening, as he watched you reading on the couch in his hoodie, he said softly, “Feels like home now.”

THE PROPOSAL :

It wasn’t a grand gesture.

It was late autumn, chilly and crisp, and he took you back to the little bookshop where you first met.

He led you to the very same aisle — fiction, alphabetised by author — and said, “Do you remember this spot?”

You smiled, heart catching in your throat. “You mean when I nearly knocked you over?”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a worn copy of Rebecca. Inside was a folded slip of paper and a tiny velvet box tucked between the pages.

You stared, Arthur knelt.

“From the moment we met, every chapter’s been better than the last. And I want the rest of the story to be us — every folded-over page, everything life throws at us, every quiet Sunday. Will you marry me?”

You didn’t speak right away — just nodded, eyes glassy, before whispering, “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

When he slid the ring on your finger, it felt like the final sentence of one chapter — and the first line of the next.

[celestetumbledryer]

batfamily(´∀｀=)

TL;DR i have encountered a predominantly white area of this fandom. If possible, please humanise poc characters like you do or would love to the rest of the cast. please scroll to the bottom of this wall of text to see the inspiration for this post as well as some amazing batfamily blogs!!!!

hello!! i don’t usually make posts by myself, but i am not longer secretly passionate about this topic. this post is more about POC issues than batman. upon saying that, i will only really cover batfamily characters that the stereotypical fandom engages with.

it is ironic that i would usually just skim through a post this length so think of this as a brain…dump..? ehe. also, i have an small device so this post may seem longer to me than it is to you.

i know that i am fairly new to this part of the DC fandom, but i assure you, much unlike many other tumblr blogs, i actually do read comics!

i have been getting into batman family related comics and decided to see some fan content because i loved seeing people with shared interests!!!!

unfortunately, like any place on the internet, i have encountered prejudice and shallowness(i may contribute a little to the latter hehe….)

1.

The Kane(Batwoman) Family are non/practicing Jewish. They are also ethnically Jewish, though i am apologetic to say that i am not sure of the exact ethnicity.

2.

i am aware of Richard Grayson/Robin/Nightwing’s Romani heritage(I couldn’t find a reliable source regarding a specific group, sorry!😖 most likely Kalderash!). This character (sadly, among many others) has been heavily objectified in both the fandom and the canon. Romani characters still have often been reduced to racist jokes and stereotypes in fiction. One thing I'd like to share is the cooking thing from my last post. I feel like cooking is a great skill to have when representing culture. It's okay to be clumsy or not the best at cooking. Not always achieving a good result when cooking is fine. However it is a life skill. Only ever ordering takeout is not the most healthy for anyone especially someone who needs alot of energy and nutrients. Take care of yourselves !

3.

Cassandra Cain/Batgirl/Orphan is usually characterised as reserved and non-verbal in the fandom space. I don’t hate this, but unfortunately leans towards a generally negative archetype in Asian women characters.

She is often depicted using very repetitive and simple words. Though her struggles with language have been portrayed through her comics, she is able to form grammatically correct sentences. Please do not infantilise this character. this is not just a problem with fiction; it happens too much with Asian people in reality. i have no ill intention against agere.

She does take things to the extreme if she so desires. You just couldn’t handle a strong traumatised woc/hj.

people really don’t like it when i say that i like this character. i have received threats. i wonder why..

Not really related, but I’d like to say that ASL is not objectively easier to learn than spoken languages regarding a popular headcanon.

4.

i've seen a lot of headcanons of a Latino Jason Todd/Red Hood(i don’t really have anything against this), so i looked more into it. I've seen people say they enjoy this headcanon simply "because he is poor" which i'm sure is not in all what it means to be Latino. i cannot speak for this group; i hope my message is received well.

5.

i’ve seen popular headcanons of a Black Steph Brown/Spoiler. i don’t really have anything to say about this. what are your thoughts?

6.

Black hair, bowl cut, intelligence and under 6ft are reasons I’ve seen people headcanon Tim Drake/(Red) Robin(which writers intended to be Jewish) as NEAsian. i think you can infer why. However, it is not a problem whether you fit into a specific group in within your identity or not.

7.

i’ve been told by multiple people that Duke Thomas/Signal is nothing more than a “token Black” character which is in itself a trope stemming from racism. Black characters are often reduced to a comic relief given little or no depth. i understand that he is a character only introduced in the last decade so there are not as many iterations compared to other bat family members, but it doesn’t make him any less interesting to be explored!

8.

I generally dislike the “demon spawn” super serious characterisation of a child Damian al Ghul Wayne/Robin. Yes, he is traumatised, but he is still a child. i know that in some iterations he is quite uptight or arrogant. this does not stop him from being a youngest child. i don’t think he would have the emotional spectrum of a rock. i believe that he is a quarter Arab(and/or Iranian??) and Han Chinese!

*this post has many flaws, please leave a message in replies or my dm if you are upset or would like to add and edit to this post!!!!

this post was inspired by @/zoomiie.net on tiktok. they explained it much better than i could ever.

“you could tell if a specific fandom in particular is explicitly majority white by the way they treat their POC character[s]”

link to video will be in notes

“let people have fun”

i do not intend to stop you.

i am speaking out about the casual racism present in fandom spaces.

here are some dc comics blogs that do not stop me from having fun.

@numberonedukethomasapologist Len creates a blog focused on the bat family character Duke Thomas(The Signal) that humanises the character in his unapologetically Black culture. it is actually the first batfamily blog i encountered !! please go support him PLEAS PLea p

@brucestalia is a Talia al Ghul centric blog that is very active(multiple posts a day), usually posting about BruTalia. the ship is usually presented with visual media, song lyrics and fan fiction.

@nightwingsgypsyrep the usertag speaks for itself! she doesn't have many posts, but there are some fun Romani Grayson(x Kory) moments !!

Holy racism, Batman!

Celeste Tumble Dryer ☆〜（ゝ。∂）

[cowboygenesis]

12: terroir | kylo ren x reader

part 12 of the "bump it, cool it" series: masterlist. | playlist

pairing: [modern!au] kylo ren x reader chapter warnings: mentions of chronic disease (cancer). word count: 4.8k series summary: when your roommate’s older brother needs a place to crash, you begrudgingly offer up your couch— only to realize he’s the most insufferable, entitled asshole you’ve ever met. the worst part? you can’t seem to stop thinking about him. notes: lord, have i been at an impasse. sorry for the late update y'all, writer's block has been kicking my ass this past month. chapter 12 was gonna be much longer than 4k, but i realized that the scene ended pretty perfectly as is so i just split it. ngl, i'm not super proud of this one but hey.

Now Playing: Crust - Flying Lotus

Steam loops behind the bar, rolling in thick waves toward the wooden cabinets above. Soft, vaguely distinguishable music hums through an unplaceable speaker, harmonizing with the whirr of an automatic grinder.

Your nostrils fill with the robust, all-encompassing scent of roasted beans. As you tilt your speckled mug in chase of a sip, the hot liquid rolls down your tongue in a thin, aromatic stream.

But all you can taste is cigarettes.

The memory comes to you easily, sharp and visceral in its clarity. His soft mouth on yours, the heat of his palm against your cheek, and the low, guttural noise he made when you kissed him back. How his hands skimmed over you like he was relearning something he'd known in another life; how your thighs clenched and burned at the gentle peppering of bites against your neck, and his hips pressing into—

No.

You shake it off, swallow, and press your fingertips to your eyelids, trying to will the images away. You fled your apartment to escape these unorthodox thoughts, yet they seemed to follow you everywhere, even to the quaint cafe off West 120th.

The plan? Find a quiet, Kylo-less place, and occupy your sex-addled mind with something productive, like your poor, neglected thesis. Once you have produced four pages and had your plain bagel, you could continue masterminding your next steps in Operation “Kylo”.

Because those would inevitably change the course of your entire life.

When you rushed off the balcony with bitten lips this afternoon, Kylo didn’t chase. He persevered in awe-inspiring silence, letting you gather your laptop, bag, and keys and slam the door before you could change your mind.

In retrospect, you appreciated the distance. With every form of regret and confusion plaguing your body, taking your flame-ridden makeout further might have backed you into an agonizingly regretable corner. Even if that makeout is all you crave now.

But for now, you needed the distance. This, and the time to figure out whether you’d just made a massive mistake or were already too far gone to stop.

Because the problem wasn’t just Kylo.

It was Rey.

Naturally, you had considered telling her about your predicament. The burden of heartache was much easier to handle with a shoulder to cry on, yet with every suitable moment that emerged, things didn’t go your way. Whether it was a sudden intrusion from Kylo or your own uncertainty, Rey was ultimately living in blissful ignorance of your passions as you desperately felt your way through the darkness, alone.

And, even if she did know, would you be stupid enough to pursue her brother?

Kylo wasn’t made for relationships, and neither were you—at least not with someone like him, you thought. Not when he was still tangled up in his past, his pain, and all the things that made his shell so tough to crack. Meanwhile, you barely got the crumbs.

You check your phone again, taking in the broad expanse of your wallpaper and the few unimportant notifications from apps you’ve long forgotten—still, there's nothing you’re looking for there.

As your fingers tighten around ceramic, something thick and heavy begins bubbling in your chest.

He could’ve at least texted, right?

Even if it was just some dry, shitty quip, at least then you wouldn’t be stuck here, stewing in this uncertainty over a mug of overpriced coffee.

You exhale sharply, shoving it onto the table and flexing your fingers over your laptop. The bright screen greets you with a Google Doc, mocking you with its white void.

“Fuck me,” you huff, toying with the spacebar like it’ll give you something.

Your thesis is due in less than three months, and you haven’t even started on a conclusion. You were a proficient writer, and assignments like these usually came to you with ease. This time, you had the misfortune of harboring a massive, gorgeous distraction wherever you went.

You type out a few placeholders to break the silence, worrying your lip between your teeth as they fill the page.

The copper doorbell hanging over the entryway rings in your ears, rustled by the front door opening. It comes in tandem with a low, saccharine laugh and the clatter of heels against wood.

You’re not sure what prompts you to look up.

A pair of office workers stands in line by the counter, clad in pristinely fitted grey and blue; a man and a woman. You think they might be a couple.

Maybe it’s a strike of boredom or the air of luxury surrounding them, but your eyes can’t help but persevere. You watch them quietly, taking in the playful touches and lingering gazes. Their professional mein makes them stand out like sore, overdressed thumbs amidst a sea of regular people.

The red-haired man grins in a proud showcase of his pearly whites, urging the woman to lash her head back with a hearty giggle.

Your breath catches as the sound envelops your brain with painful familiarity.

Your hands go clammy, throat tight with disbelief. It takes a breath for you to weigh down on reality, but with a severe, verifying squint of your eyes, her silhouette quickly becomes unmistakable.

Sienna.

The sight of her lands somewhere deep in your gut, a slow-spreading, molten thing that burns down your throat. You doubt she’d recognize you, but somehow the mere possibility of that, the thought of her walking around completely unknowing to the damage she left behind, unreels your temper and stiffens your limbs.

The woman smooths her shiny, flaxen locks with her palm. When her hip shifts against the counter, you catch a glimpse of her bright, emerald orbs squinting with fervor.

Yours burn with loathing. It’s indescribeable, unfound, and completely inappropriate, but the sensation is powerful enough to prickle your digits. You tell yourself it’s a natural reaction to an unjust act, but deep down, something softer tugs at the strings of your hammering heart.

For him.

She doesn’t look haunted. She doesn’t seem like she regrets a thing.

And if you were completely off your rockers, you’d confront her. With a loud, accusatory lilt, you’d size her up and with an uncouth pain in your voice finally ask: ‘Why?’

Why did she feel entitled to break something so readily fragile?

But it wasn’t your place to ask. It wasn’t your place to seek closure for wounds that weren’t even yours to begin with. And yet.

The burning in your chest should have been enough to keep you rooted to your seat, to make you stay the hell out of it and mind your business until they left. But just as it starts to flicker and die, something else takes its place—something colder and sharper, engulfing your body with prickles of frost.

A terrible, impossible thought.

You weren’t sure how to feel about fate. But Sienna, standing there like a ghost in broad daylight, broke through all the odds of the universe merely to offer you this chance.

A chance to make you understand.

Not the infidelity or the aftermath. Not why Kylo hadn’t sought another relationship, or why he had kept you at arm’s length for so long. You wanted to understand him. His walls, his silences, the way he carried himself like a man who had spent his whole life waiting to be abandoned times again.

And that alone is what makes you stand up.

Your chair scrapes against the wooden floor, loud enough to earn a few half-curious glances from nearby tables, but you don’t notice. Your legs feel unsteady, like your body is questioning its own decision, and yet you never stop moving.

You weave through the maze of chairs and low conversation, your pulse hammering.

Sienna doesn’t see you coming. She’s too caught up in her conversation, leaning toward her companion with an effortless, masterful smile, her fingers curling lightly around the strap of her designer bag.

But you’ve been unlucky all day, and finally, fate has decided to turn the tables. The queue steps forward, urging the red-headed man to turn away and begin his order.

Separated, Sienna steps away toward an empty table. Then, as if sensing the weight of your stare, she turns.

For a brief, electric moment, her expression flickers to something visceral before she smooths it away with a sharp inhale.

She remembers you. And yet, she says nothing.

Your stomach knots, but you push past it, stopping just short of the table she occupies.

“Sienna?”

It’s not a greeting. It’s a challenge.

The woman blinks, then exhales a quiet sigh, adjusting the hem of her blouse. She doesn’t feign ignorance or plead silence. Instead, she waits, meeting your gaze with soft daggers.

Your fingers curl against your palm, pressing into the soft flesh as your breath becomes steady again.

“Got a minute?”

You catch her hesitate. Her eyes flicker toward her companion, then the barista preparing their drinks. You think she’s calculating an escape plan.

Then, with a barely-there sigh, she nods. “Alright.”

She quickly saunters toward the bar again, leaning against the redhead’s ear and whispering something incoherent. The two of them briefly turn toward you in tandem, sizing you with sharp, piercing eyes. You don’t smile. The man’s lips flatten, and he nods.

And just like that, you have her.

Sienna gives you a simple nod, like she’s been approved to conduct an interview or, more grimly, subject herself to an interrogation. Without a word, you motion toward your table: a quiet, tucked-away spot near the window. She follows.

Your pulse is a hammer in your chest.

She moves toward the table with deft grace, heels clicking softly against the wood. You follow, feeling more and more like you’re striding into something you could never live down. The consequence of your choice suddenly dawns on you, moistening your forehead.

She sits first, crossing her toned legs, her posture straight and immaculate. It’s a little on the nose, but you believe she could be a model in her spare time. Up close, it’s easy to admire her glowy skin and effortless confidence without looking too hard. She’s beautiful, and you think any man or woman could fall for her with ease. Pitifully, Kylo had to be her chosen.

You slide into the chair across from her, suddenly feeling smaller than you’d like as you shut your laptop with unplanned stringency.

Sienna exhales through her nose and rests an elbow on the table, fingers grazing her jaw like she’s short on time or simply bored with your antics before you even utter.

She speaks your name, letting it trickle off her tongue with strange benevolence. “What do you want to know?”

Right to the point, yet maintaining a semblance of civility. You imagine her sitting at a meeting, charming her coworkers with that very elegance. This was a woman who got exactly what she wanted, you could tell.

“You know my name?” you question simply, maintaining a neutral, nearly professional mein.

This question, after all, was a product of genuine curiosity. In your head, there was no way to reason her knowledge without considering Kylo as part of the equation. When you consider his mentioning you in conversation, it makes your heart flutter. You could only hope it was in a positive—or at the very least neutral—light.

“And naturally,” Sienna shrugs, “you know mine.”

She tilts her head in survey of your form. Her gaze rakes curiously over your upper half, and suddenly, you regret wearing your simple, rag-tag sweatsuit while she dons fine silks. Seriously, you wouldn’t even be surprised if that blouse was pure silk.

Your gaze catches a head of fiery locks moving toward a table, sporting two steaming cups. He sets it down, swiftly adjusting the spoons to sit straight against the plates.

Sienna’s brows furrow at your drifting attention.

“That man you’re with,” you trail, the woman’s head twisting to briefly spot her companion. “Is that—”

“Armitage,” she interrupts promptly, leaning back into her chair. She must have spotted the query in your eyes when her lips twist into a simple, non-threatening smile. “Friend from the office.”

You have no choice but to believe her. Even if you were right in your fears, and this ‘Armitage’ was her lover, you’d have nothing more to say. Arresting your crush’s ex for questioning was one thing—critiquing her current relationships was another.

“Right.”

Satisfied with your simple, dry reaction, Sienna sighs deeply. Her body moves forward, hands clasping against the table.

“Look,” she starts flatly, catching your gaze with a half-hearted scowl. “I know why you stopped me.”

You raise an eyebrow, pursing your lips when you lean forward, too. At this proximity, you catch a waft of her floral perfume. “Elucidate me.”

She sighs again, measuring your expression with a slow, languid look.

“It’s about Ben, right?”

With that simple word alone, your skin sets ablaze. Nails dig into your palms, shoulders heaving once with the weight of your breath.

How dare she use his name like that? So casually, so negligently—without a single care for what she’s caused and what it’s done.

You poke the inside of your cheek, eyes narrowed with scorn. The words fall from your lips like a mild poison.

“Why’d you do it?”

Sienna’s eyebrow lifts, eyeing you with measured confusion. You’re unsure if it’s aimed at your question or the sneer you now don.

“Why I cheated?” she asks, her lips tilted into a dubious smirk.

You nod, swallowing thickly when her expression turns flat. You couldn’t dig for her feelings if you tried, and you’re not sure you’d even like to considering the possible blight of what you’d find.

She raises her forearms, chin cradled. You watch her eyes flicker up, then sideways.

“For the same reason anyone cheats,” she answers after a beat, connecting your gazes. When you stay silent, she exhales slowly, taking it as a signal to elaborate.

“Ben and I were strung together by nothing but a shared apartment and some good memories,” she continues, eyes flickering away into nothing. “He was never there when I needed him most. Everything with him was shallow, even—and maybe especially, once we got engaged.”

You scrunch your nose, head shaking in disbelief. How could she be so lax about all of this?

“You had a choice.”

“I did,” she promptly nods, voice low and calculated. When her chin flicks up again, you catch the slightest glimmer of authenticity in the green of her eyes. “And I regret mine every day.”

Your heart thrums with something visceral.

“Then why?”

Sienna purses her lips, eyes flitting across your heated face.

“Listen, I don’t hold some… grand revelation to your problems, if that’s what you’re looking for.” She shakes her head, nostrils flaring when your forehead sinks. “Ben Solo is a broken man. He—”

“How can you say that?” you breathe, flailing your hand. “How can you—”

“Do you love him?”

The question hits you like a truck. A sharp, electricity-filled chill runs down your body as Sienna’s voice echoes through your skull like a lost prayer. Did you?

Did you love Kylo Ren?

“My advice?” The woman begins before you get the chance to spiral, her sharp vocals cutting through your haze. “Move on before it’s too late.”

Your lips hang ajar, hoping for a retort that never comes.

“You think you can fix him, but it’ll just cause you a world of pain,” the woman continues, taking your silence as an opportunity. Her eyes narrow, but there’s little scorn. If anything, her tone is laced with something resembling sympathy. Or pity. “In the end, you might find yourself in a repeat of what I did.”

Your brows knit low on your forehead, lip sneering with a scoff. “I could never.”

“Right.” She shakes her head, a joyless smile painting her features when she spots your hostility. Her eyes linger on you like that for a beat, absorbing your energy like it’s fuel. “I know you hate me.”

Your mouth opens again, a gasp stuck in your throat. You hated her actions, yes, but could you take it any further than that? You thought you hated Kylo, and it turned out to be a convoluted synonym for something else entirely. In truth, you didn’t know how you felt at all. That was your greatest vice.

“I don’t—”

“I know what hatred looks like,” she chuckles sardonically, toying with her perfectly manicured fingernail—the first sign of discomfort you’ve seen from her, ever. However things ended between her and Kylo, the contempt seems to linger till today. “You need to understand that I might have hurt him, yes, but I didn’t… I didn’t make him this way.”

You stay silent, letting her elaborate while thinking of something—anything to say for yourself. Nothing comes, and Sienna’s forehead creases further.

“Ben and his sister come from a difficult family,” Sienna carries, flexing her fists against the table. She shakes her head, leaning in forward once she senses your curiosity. “Did he tell you what happened with their mother?”

You flatten your lips, urging a whispered ‘no’ from your lips.

She scoffs through a bittersweet smile, tilting her head at you as if pitiful. “Of course not.”

You want to feel offended at her feigned superiority, but can’t. Sienna was the woman Kylo confided in at the end of the day, the one who knew his deepest, darkest secrets and greatest fears—and you? You were a stranger in comparison.

“Please don’t give me that look,” she suddenly sighs, eyes rolling lazily. “I almost feel bad for you.”

“Almost?” you chuckle saccharinely, unable to hide the bite in your tone.

Sienna bites her bottom lip, head tilted as she worries over an idea. You watch her silently, taking in another waft of her perfume. It’s such a stark contrast to Kylo’s: sweet, light, and powdery with something like cloves as the heart.

“I’ll tell you,” Sienna speaks suddenly, urging you out of your daze.

You watch her eyes, but catch nothing malicious. As far as you can tell, she’s serious.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you about him,” she elaborates quietly, smoothing down a few stray locks, “but I have one condition.”

You look at her skeptically, raising an eyebrow at the authenticity of her tone. It’s a strange trade-off, but it’s been a strange day altogether. You think you can handle whatever fate has in store for you at this point, and maybe more.

“Alright,” you nod, clasping your hands against the table.

Sienna watches you, gazing calmly and indistinctly. When you expect it least, she exhales sharply through her nose and shakes her head.

“Be smart about this,” she says, almost like a weak warning.

Your hands lower, nails digging into your lap. “I don’t understand.”

She tilts her head, expression softening; not with kindness, but something bordering pity. It makes your stomach twist in all the worst ways.

“It means let it go,” she says flatly, toying with a charm on her silver bangle. “For your own sake.”

Your throat tightens as you watch the silver streak with light. “Why?”

Sienna sighs. She glances toward the counter, where Armitage is still waiting for their drinks, then back at you. You wonder if she’s become impatient with your little rendezvous.

“I told you,” she murmurs, sizing you up with a narrowed gaze. “You can’t handle it.”

You shake your head, frustration mounting. What made her turn so hostile out of nowhere?

“You don’t know that.”

Sienna arches a brow, unimpressed. “Don’t I?”

The words settle like lead in your stomach.

She’s testing you. She knows exactly how deep you’ve gone, and exactly how much deeper you’re willing to go.

You swallow thickly, tracing circles against your pants. It takes a few tension-filled moments, but eventually, you manage to face her with some semblance of composure.

“Tell me about his mother.”

For a moment, Sienna merely looks at you. Her bright eyes darken with something like disappointment, tracing your face with little interest.

Then, she sighs, smoothing a hand down her thigh before speaking.

“Leia got sick when he was sixteen,” she begins slowly, straightening her posture. “Really sick.”

She doesn’t say cancer, but it hangs in the air between you. You vaguely recall Rey leaving town for weeks at a time, calling it a ‘family emergency. ’ You asked back then but never got a clear answer—Until now.

“Han took on every job he could to pay for the treatments. Late nights, weekends, side gigs… whatever,” the woman trails, looking downward. “So, naturally, he was never home.”

Your stomach twists.

“So little Ben had to step up. You know, raise Rey on his own. Make her meals, help her with homework, pick her up from school. Meanwhile, Leia was in and out of hospitals, and Han was…” she shakes her head lightly, looking at you blankly like she’s recalling an unpleasant memory. “Gone.”

You bite your lip, worrying it between your teeth until it feels raw.

“How is she now?” you croak nervously, urging a bittersweet smile onto Sienna’s face.

“Fine. Better, at least,” she sighs, furrowing her brows. “But it’s chronic. She’s gone through remission once before this.”

You nod once in polite acknowledgment, fidgeting with your hands. Sienna watches you quietly, pacing her answers with the utmost care.

“He doesn’t hate them,” she says after a moment, reading your expression. “But he resents them.”

Something tight kinks in your chest. You don’t realize you’re gripping your coffee cup too hard until the raw ceramic creaks beneath your fingers.

“And, weirdly,” the woman trails, her expression melting into something entirely undecipherable. “I guess he resents himself for it, too.”

The woman sits back, and your mind begins to reel through the silence.

Perhaps you’ve thought about it too simply. After all, Rey never revealed this fact to you, either, and strangely, you couldn’t blame her like you do Kylo.

He never told you. Not once—not even when you shrunk at his feet, begging for answers. And for the first time, you feel like your ire for him is somewhat justified.

“I’ve tried,” she murmurs, lips twitching with something sad. “To break down his walls. To fix him.”

Sienna watches you for a moment longer, then shakes her head with a joyless laugh. You’re certain now that all she feels for you is pity.

But her meaning is clear. You can’t save him. And briefly, you wonder if he ever wanted to be saved in the first place.

“My point is, I didn’t break him,” she sighs, pursing her lips with a slight shrug. Her nonchalance makes you feel like the entire point of telling this miserable story was to establish herself as guiltless, and for a second, you think you’re right. Somehow, that’s what chafes you. “I found him broken, and—”

“Broke him even more,” you cut off, asserting your tone with a sharp rasp that doesn’t go unnoticed by the woman. She stares at you for a beat, assessing you through narrowed eyes in the probable hope of getting you to back off. You don’t.

“I told you I regretted it,” she finally acquiesces lowly, softening her gaze and tilting her head. “If I could take it all back, I would. I’d keep him close. We’d get married and live a sub-par life together, eating our meals in silence and sleeping in separate bedrooms.”

Something about her words makes you feel uneasy. This whole time, you’ve felt like her advice was simply a thinly veiled threat aimed toward you and your predicament, but now? You think there might be more to it.

Sienna drops her gaze, toying with something on her hand. Once your eyes plunge with hers, you realize she’s tracing a thin, silvery band lining her ring finger.

You swallow thickly, taking in the delicate jewels lining the rim. You had noticed this band at the party before, but it’s now, up close, that your suspicions are proven right.

“Can I ask you something?”

Sienna studies you carefully, waiting to see if you’ll absorb her words or spit them back at her.

You sigh against the weight in your throat, collecting your frayed nerves enough to pose yourself as comfortable. The woman studies you closely, flitting across your face as if trying to spot a weakness.

“Why do you call him Ben?”

Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her shoulders tightens. She stops toying with her ring, letting that fist squeeze until her knuckles go white.

“Because that’s who he is.” She says it like it’s obvious, her voice bordering on a scoff. “Kylo’s just a name he hides behind.”

You furrow your brows, taking in the uncommon wistfullness of her tone. “He introduces himself as Kylo.”

She nods, almost to herself. A smile curls on her lips, but it vanishes before you can gauge its authenticity. “Yeah. I guess he does.”

When she looks at you, you feel your cheeks drain of color.

The woman’s eyes blaze brilliantly, flickering with a full pallette of conflicting emotions. They flit across you blankly, like she’s committing your picture to memory for simple safekeeping and nothing more. It’s robotic but raw and makes the hairs on your neck stand on end.

But before you can press further, Sienna exhales sharply and stands, smoothing the front of her blouse. You realize your ears have been ringing.

“Well, this was fun,” she says softly, though there’s no real humor in it. Her expression bounces back to her usual state of professionalism, adjusting the strap of her bag with a soft hum when she faces you. “Good luck, then.”

You blink up at her, startled at the bizarre pacing. “That’s it?”

She shrugs, dusting off her pencil skirt. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think this conversation meant nothing to her. The tremor in her hands betrays this notion.

“I told you what you wanted to know.”

Your eardrums pulse with the soft din of nearby conversation. A beat passes, and your gaze still dwells on hers.

Then, without thinking, you say, “And what if I don’t listen?”

For the first time since she sat down, Sienna really looks at you. She leans in just slightly, two pools of green pinning you with a definite zeal.

“Then I hope you know what you’re doing.”

With that, she turns on her heel and walks toward the counter. You vaguely catch her plucking her drink from the redhead’s hand without a word, looking up at him with a smile entirely alien to you.

He glances between you two, brows furrowing briefly, but before you catch his lips move, Sienna is already making her way toward the door.

She never looks back. And somehow, your body crawls with the bizarre, involuntary notion that this was the first and last conversation you’d ever share.

You sit there, heart pounding, fingers curled tight around your lukewarm coffee. You feel the divots of the handle under your fingers, tracing them absentmindedly as if that alone could anchor you in place.

You’ve obtained another puzzle piece. As you watch Armitage nod at you in goodbye, the connection you make with it hits you like a cold tidal wave.

This was never Kylo’s fault.

Every time he pulled away, every time he chose silence over honesty, it wasn’t because he wasn’t enough—It wasn’t because you weren’t enough, or because you hadn’t chipped away at his walls hard enough, valued him well enough, or wanted him enough.

It was because he never learned how to let people stay.

And how could he?

For the first time, you picture him young. A boy with dark eyes and quiet steps, barely old enough to carry his sister, yet old enough to know he had to. You imagine him setting a small plate on the table for Rey, smoothing her hair like his mother used to, whispering promises that he was too young to keep.

You think of him staring at the front door, waiting. For his mother to get better. For his father to come home.

For something in his world to change.

And then, years later, he’s still waiting. Waiting for something—someone to prove him right.

Your breath catches, and before you can think, before you can process, your body moves.

The chair screeches against the floor as you push it back. Coffee sloshes as you shove it aside. Your laptop is barely zipped into your bag before you’re slinging it over your shoulder and running.

Your pulse is frantic, your feet unsteady, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

You need to see him.

The door bursts open against the weight of your urgency, and then you’re outside, the city air slapping against your face with the sound of that little copper bell.

You don’t catch it over the sound of Ben’s name on your lips.

[whowantshota]

NOT ALLOWED pt. 2 —— lee heeseung

it's date night with your boyfriend, but you don't even show up. you can't help it, old habits die hard.

warnings ☆ MATURE CONTENT AHEAD. angst, smut, cheating, dom heeseung, this is mostly smut, manipulation, ft enha, soobin (txt) deserves the world,

song recs: it almost worked, tv girl. not allowed, tv girl. lovers rock, tv girl. billie bossa nova, billie eilish,

read part one here! can also be read as a standalone

After what you’ve been calling the ‘little incident,’ the rest of the week was uneventful. Classes are the same, Sunoo’s no less dramatic, and you think you’ve texted your project partner Yunjin at least once since then. Soobin’s still texting you sweet little goodnight messages before you go to sleep though, still kissing you the same and fucking you in that slow, soft way he always has.

You hate it. Hate it with every fiber of your being. You hate it so much. The way he isn’t repulsed by you, hugs you close to him when the two of you go about on campus. The way he loves you all the same despite what you’ve now gone and done.

And you know that you should break up with him. Not because he’s ass—if anything he’s the farthest from it that you’ve ever seen a man be. No, if anything you (absolutely) are the ass. That’s why it’d be so much better than trying, trying so damn hard to love him the way he loves you.

“Dinner? Tomorrow, at 9?” He asked you suddenly during study group. You look up from your book to glance at him. One eyebrow raised, he grins at the feeling of his knee pressing into your thigh, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Dinner?” You repeat, tapping your pencil against the table. Soobin nods, running his tongue over his bottom lip. There’s a slight blush you can see creeping up his neck, rising in his ears. 

He waits for you to answer, hands folded politely over his own textbook. His sleeves are rolled up just below his elbows and you can see the thick vein that traces its way down to the back of his hand. His fingers are so pretty, so big, have fucked their way into your a cunt a number of times now. The same fingers that’ve treated you right so many times, skimmed across the expanse of your inner thigh. They’ve never choked you, though. Never fucked into your mouth and pressed hard on your tongue, never pulled you down and gagged you on cock.

They’ve never treated you like Heeseung has.

You blink twice, look down, only to look back up and peek at Soobin from under your lashes. “Yeah. Dinner sounds great.”

The way Soobin lights up makes your heart hurt. You really don’t know why he’s put so much effort into taking you out, nor why it still makes him happy. You’ve been dating for three months now, talking for maybe a little longer than that. He’s been trying to make more time for you now, ever since you mentioned it to him. Date’s every fortnight, mostly over coffee or ice cream. Sometimes there’s sex, and sometimes there’s not. Usually, there is.

Soobin’s hands unfold, and he spares a look at the clock. He breaks into the awkward silence, clearing his throat and straightening the white collar of his shirt. “Um, it’s late, huh.” He notes, scratching the back off his neck. “Can I…”

“Sure.” You say, lips pursed. You know what he wants; nothing more than to simply walk you to your dorm. He nods silently at your response and stands up, closing his book and gathering his own things to shove into his bag. Too fucking sweet for his own good, Choi Soobin does not deserve you.

★ . *- .

You think it almost worked.

If you had tried a little harder, possibly made a little more room in your heart for Soobin, then maybe you could have left every single thing about Lee fucking Heeseung behind you.

You did dress up for dinner, wore a short black dress and your favorite cardigan. You did take the time to fix up your hair, and you did go the extra mile and buy him a perfume.

Oh fuck that, you didn’t even wait for him to pick you up at your dorm.

It should have seemed at least a little shocking, but to be honest, you knew that you would come back. You could take it to another level and say you that had planned it, and that’d even be true.

Heeseung was shocked though, opening the door to find you standing outside at 8:47 PM, his pretty, pink lips parted in silence. Before he could say anything, you were already pulling him in for a kiss, feeling his warmth and sliding your hands into his wet hair.

He lets out a long, full groan against your bottom lips when your hands start to feel lower, wanting and reaching for more. “Baby,” he hums when he finally pulls away, “fuck, slow down.”

His hands wrap around your wrists, separating your touch from him. Heeseung did not expect to see you back on his doorstep so soon, had thought you’d be a smarter girl. Thought you'd take some time to think about things, maybe even see how bad, how fucking horrible you are for each other. You didn’t though, and to say he didn’t want you back on his doorstep though, would be a lie. 

“Need you Heeseung,” you tell him. He can’t help but shiver at the sight of you, his grip loosening around your arms and allowing you to slither a hand to his face, cupping his cheek. 

You pull at the hem of the black shirt he’s wearing, tight around his chest. He must’ve just come back from practice, meaning Jay and Jake are probably still in the house but honestly you couldn’t care less. They could watch for all you care.

You’re attaching your lips to his once more before he’s pulling you inside, only separating once to close the door and press your backside against it. 

Heeseung moans into your mouth, tasting the sweet cherry chapstick slick on your lips. His hands move from your arms to glide along your waist. He squeezes, earning a small, muffled cry from you. It was funny, how well he still remembered you and all of your littleticks, what you liked and what threw you off. 

He only moves his lips from yours to start sucking against the skin on your neck, efficient work pulling an unwanted whimper from you. He smiles against your skin and you can feel the upturned corners pressing to you.

“Fuck, Seungie.” You murmur, pulling away for a breath, which is short lived because Heeseung is pulling you back in, bitting your bottom lip. 

You tug at his sweats, fitting a hand inside and cupping his hard on. He stiffens at your touch, hissing something you can’t hear. You love it, the way he reels into you, hands gripping you tight. You could let him take you here, have you all to himself on the couch until midnight. Even longer than that if you really fucking wanted to.

You have him here, all to yourself. He’s whispering in your ear about how good you taste and you’re talking right back, going on and on about how much you missed him, needed him.

You feel the vibration of your phone buzz in your cardigan, but you don’t make a move to even check for it. Fuck Yunjin, or Sunoo, or Soobin, you get back to them later. But you can’t get back Heeseung, can’t get back the way he grinds into the palm of your hand, can’t get back the sweet sounds he makes everytime you tug a little to hard at his hair. Definitely can’t get back the way he loves you at all, though you’re not sure how long it’s been since you lost that.

You groan in annoyance when your phone starts to ring again, pulling it out from your pocket. Heeseung doesn’t question it, let’s you simply fling your phone somewhere around the room and drums his fingers against your hip.

“Came to see me, yeah?” He mumbles against your neck, thumbs starting to rub against you in a circular motion. “Came to let me eat that pretty cunt, mm?”

He starts to suck a hickey and you almost protest, almost say that Soobin could see it, could figure out that you make yourself cum with someone else’s name on the tip of your tongue. But you don’t say anything, only palm his bulge and moan. He slips a hand under the skirt of your dress, presses his fingers against the crotch of your panties.

He’s dragging slow fingers against fabric, feeling the growing wet patch between your folds. “Seungie, hurry up.” You pout, looking at him with big, wet eyes.

Luckily, he’s not in the mood to tease you, yet. He hums and complies with your pleas, locking your lips once more as he slides two fingers in. He’s sloppily kissing you, devouring the moans that leave you while at the same time fucking his fingers into you. 

He doesn’t take his time at all; doesn’t look to see if you’re enjoying it. He doesn’t need to, he knows you eat up whatever the fuck he gives you. Knows he’s fucked you right enough times for you to love this.

You feel like your legs are going to give out when he rolls his thumb against your clit, other hand reaching to knead the flesh of your ass. From the way he’s still grinding against your hand, you think he’s enjoying it too.

You whimper when he pulls out so abruptly, dropping to kneel on the floor in front of you. He pulls your leggings and panties down to your knees, sucking on his fingers and pressing his cheek against the soft skin of your thigh. You can hear the loud pop when he pulls them out of his mouth, messily coated in his saliva. 

When he pauses to look up at you, fuck, you swear you could cum on the spot. The greatest view you’ve seen in a long time; Heeseung below you with his mouth parted slightly, haired mussed, face flushed deep red as he licks his fingers clean.

It hits you right then, how much you want him, really fucking need him. “Fuckin’, love you. Need you s’much.” You cry. There’s tears welling up in your eyes, and they seem to be enough to inspire him to continue. 

Warm, wet lips press against your cunt. It's so soft, so gentle that for a second you wonder if it really is Heeseung, who’s peppering kisses along your pelvis. If he's really there, looking up at you from behind thick locks of dark hair. “Yeah? Need me to fuck this pretty pussy because your boyfriend doesn't?” He asks, continuing to press a trail of kisses against your front, only stopping when he's about right under your navel.

“He…he does,” you stutter. You didn’t think before the words came out, merely let them spill in a hurried response. To be fair, you hadn’t spoken that loud either, but Heeseung hears it, of course.

“Oh, he does?” He takes a moment to let it sink in, brows furrowing before he pulls away and stands up. You want to hold him back down, tell him to kneel again and fuck his tongue into your cunt. But perhaps now's not the time: Heeseung looks unimpressed by the words, arms crossed over his chest. 

The dorm is silent. Much too silent. Considering it’s not that late, you can bet that both Jake and Jay are still up, if not in their respective rooms, hopefully out and about.

Not that there’s time to think about those too, though. Heeseung’s hand is closing around your wrist, and he’s dragging you away from the wall and further into the room. He lays you on the couch—it seems to have become a spot after your last visit.

Heeseung’s got you pinned under him in seconds, pulling off his shirt, hips straddling yours. “You’d don’t think he could fuck you better than I could, baby?” You hear him hum. One strong hand resting on your stomach, bulge pressed up against your leg. 

“That's why you're here with me, letting me fuck this cunt, hm?” He trails off, not so much flinching as you reach into his boxers, pulling his thick cock out of his sweats.

You didn’t come here because of anyone else, you came here because you need Heeseung. Because Soobin could fuck you right, but he just can’t fuck you the way Herseung does. So you’re about to object, state your point, looking at Heeseung through pitiful eyes. And then a buzzing starts up from between the couch cushions.

Heeseung sees it before you do, grabs your long forgotten phone from where it’s sunk. He looks it over, bright light illuminating his face much better than the old lamp in the corner does. 

You know something is wrong when you see the smirk growing on his face, wetting his bottom lip. The phone’s still buzzing, but Heeseung’s already hovering right over you, breath fanning over your face. Precum dribbles down from his tip and along the back of your leg. “Keep quiet for a bit, ‘kay baby?”

He places the phone on the couch arm behind you. You’re about to turn around, swearing you heard something when Heeseung suddenly pushes into you without warning. 

You gasp, pussy squeezing around his girth. He shoves his thumb into the side of your mouth, forcing it open enough for him to spit inside. 

“Swallow,” he commands, fucking into you at a mild pace. His hand moves down to close around your throat, resting his thumb against the lump when you comply. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

“Please!” You cry, clenching even harder at the pet name, earning a groan from Heeseung. His pace falters, and he’s fucking into you sloppily. 

“Fuck, I’ll take care of this cunt,” Heeseung manages to get out, voice, breathy as he speaks. You hiccup, tears slipping down your face. It feels so good, too good. How the fuck did you survive a week without this?

He doesn’t complain when your arms wrap around him, nails digging raw pink marks into his skin. Your back hurts like fuck with the way your arching, but the warmth of his cock is too good for you to care. “Yes, fuck–please, wan’ that.”

And as always, it’s about Heeseung giving you whatever you need at the moment. Maybe that’s why you don’t notice the sadistic smirk on Heeseung’s face when he lazily fucks a couple of more strokes into you. Or why you don’t hear the other end of the phone, don’t see Soobin’s contact name shining brightly on the dial screen of your phone.

“Yeah?” Heeseung muses, reveling in the thought of the desperate scratches he’ll find on his back tomorrow morning. “Who does this pussy belong to, baby?” 

“Heeseung! All yours Seungie-” You’re babbling now, sobbing through choked breaths. He fits in you so well; you know you were just made for him.

“All. Fucking. Mine.” He grunts, fucking into you on each word. The disconnect tone plays right when Heeseung cums, head of his cock dragging against you insides as he rides the high out. 

He doesn’t topple over you and let you ruffle his hair when finishes. Nor does he kiss your nose or call you beautiful. No, he merely pulls out, watches the way his cum spills down your thighs, tucks himself back into his sweats and pushes off of the couch.

You almost reach out to him, but the words die in your throat. You hear Heeseung mutter something, tell you that you can get cleaned in the bathroom, that there’s a pair of his clothes you can change into.

You hate him for it. Even though you’re the one who wanted to walk into all of this. Heeseung did tell you that you couldn’t, shouldn’t start over. Who the fuck were you to think you could fix him; fix what you had?

Now you’re really crying. Big tears welling up and dropping onto the wrinkled skirt of your dress. You pick up your phone from its place on the armchair, open the call app, then drop it into your lap.

You should have known, should have expected it with the number of times he brought up Soobin. Should have seen him reach for your phone, should have noticed the grand smile he wore while he fucked you so good, so deep.

Soobin’s phone number appears three times in your list of recent calls. Twice, as a missed call. Once, as answered.

i love this work so much. reblogs and comments are always appreciated! not beta read

[vivenza]

Disclaimers: 18+ Content, Strictly No Minors, Read Kinks List Carefully

Kinks: Mild Exhibitionism, Clit Rubbing, Dubious Consent (!)

Pairing: Jude x Tutor Reader

Word Count: 2k

Tags: Smut

Summary: There’s almost nobody in the library, which is why Jude has the confidence to mess around with you under the table.

Author's Note: not a single thing about this is healthy (just how i like it oops)

You sit at your usual desk—in the corner, as far from everyone else as possible—tapping your pen against the edge of your notebook. The quiet of the library is soothing, but it does little to calm the irritation bubbling in your chest. 

Jude is late. 

Again.  

This is the fifth tutoring session you’ve had scheduled with him. Every single time, he’s either canceled at the last minute or showed up late. You’re getting paid regardless—the job pays weekly, not per session—but that doesn’t make his lack of effort any less frustrating.  

It makes you wonder if Jude even cares about improving. Maybe he’s just going through the motions to keep his coach off his back. He’s a varsity athlete, after all. College is probably just another box to check off to satisfy his parents. You’d almost respect it more if he just admitted he didn’t give a shit about getting more than a passing grade and worked out a deal to save both your time.  

You glance at the clock for what feels like the hundredth time. Fifteen minutes late, and still no text. With a sigh, you pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the screen as you type:  

Hey, I can only wait a little longer. 

Let me know if you’re still coming, or I’ll leave.

You pause for a second, rereading it. Was it too harsh? Maybe. Did you care? Not today. With a decisive tap, you hit send and lean back in your chair, crossing your arms as you stare at the clock again.  

Still no reply.  

Frustrated but determined not to let him completely waste your time, you open the textbook you brought for him and begin skimming the chapter you’d planned to cover. Your eyes flick over the words, but your focus keeps drifting back to your phone, waiting for that telltale buzz or ding.  

A few minutes later, Jude finally appears, striding to your desk with the look of someone who thinks charm can smooth over anything. His hair is damp, and his face glistens slightly, as though he’s just run here. His gym bag is slung over one shoulder, and he’s clearly fresh from a workout. The faint scent of body wash clings to him, and it makes your irritation spike.  

He stopped to shower? 

He was late, again, and he stopped to shower.

“Sorry,” he says, grinning sheepishly as he drops into the chair beside you. “Got caught up at the gym.”  

“Really?” you snap, unable to help yourself. “You’re almost twenty minutes late, and you stopped for a shower? You couldn’t have done that after this?”  

Jude leans back in his chair, the grin on his face only widening. “What, you’d rather I showed up all sweaty? Thought I was doing you a favor.”  

Your glare intensifies, but he seems to revel in it, his eyes twinkling as though your irritation is the highlight of his day. You huff and open your notebook, flipping to the page you’d marked for today’s topic.  

“Let’s just start,” you mutter. “We’re already behind.”  

“Whatever you say, boss,” he teases, leaning forward with his chin propped lazily in his hand.  

As you go through the problem set, explaining the steps to him, Jude’s focus is anywhere but on the math. He leans in too close, his tone low and playful as he murmurs things like, “You look cute when you’re mad,” and, “You’re really serious about this, huh? Kinda hot.”  

“Would you stop?” you snap, exasperated, slamming your pencil down. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, then why are you even here?”  

Jude leans in suddenly, closing the distance between you, and your breath catches in your throat before you can stop it. His face is far too close, the warm scent of him flooding your senses, something delicious you can’t quite place. His gaze locks onto yours, the lazy playfulness in his eyes replaced by something sharper, something that makes the air feel heavy between you.

His voice drops slightly, softer but no less confident. “You really want to know why I’m here?”

For a moment, you’re paralyzed, caught in the intensity of his stare. The curve of his lips draws your attention, and you can’t help the way your eyes drift to them. Full and inviting, they hover so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. 

Your pulse thrums in your ears, and you hate the way your stomach flips as your thoughts betray you. You’re supposed to be annoyed, furious even, but here you are, unable to stop yourself from wondering how those lips would feel pressed against yours.

You force yourself to snap out of it, tearing your gaze away, frowning with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. But Jude notices. Of course he notices. His grin returns, smug and knowing, his voice laced with amusement.

“You’re so uptight,” he chuckles, leaning back slightly. 

The moment fades as you shake yourself out of the daze, glancing around the library. Your desk is tucked in a quiet corner, hidden from view behind towering bookshelves, away from the prying eyes of others. 

It’s the perfect spot—secluded, private, where no one can interrupt or watch. You’ve always preferred it here, where the world outside feels distant and you can focus without distractions. But now, the space feels suffocating in a way you hadn't noticed before.

Then, Jude hand shifts, bringing you back to reality. You stiffen as his fingers land on your bare knee beneath the table, his hand warm and big.

Your heart skips a beat as sensations flood your system. The skater skirt you wore for comfort is proving to be anything but that, granting him far too easy access to touch your skin, allowing a jolt of heat to course through you from where he rests his palm.

“Relax a little,” he murmurs, his tone low and teasing, his thumb tracing a small circle against your skin. 

The casual intimacy of it sends a jolt through you, and for a second, you’re unsure whether you’re more furious with him or with yourself for not immediately pushing his hand away.

Your entire body tenses as he leans closer, his voice dropping to a suggestive murmur. “I think I know what’ll help you unwind.”  

Part of you wants to tell him to remove his hand, assert some semblance of control over this situation. But another part, a darker, more primal part, craves the warmth and intimacy of his touch. 

You take a deep breath, trying to steady the chaotic rhythm of your heart. You can feel him watching you, but you are unable to do or say anything in response, too wound up to even think. All you know is that you want him—desperately.

In the midst of your silence, his fingers gently trace the curve of your thigh, inching closer to the hem of your skirt. Your grip on the pen tightens, but your hand is trembling, a silent betrayal of your nerves. 

“Do you want me?” he asks, his breath warm against your ear.

For a moment, you freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. The question lingers in the air, heavy and charged. You know you should stop him, pull away, but something in his gaze holds you captive. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you nod, unable to find the words to refuse.

Before you can compose yourself, you feel his hand going under your skirt. Before you can react, his fingers deftly slide over the wet spot on your panties. The pen slips from your grasp, clattering to the table. The sudden touch makes you gasp and you have to bite your lip to drown out the sound.

“Jude, we’re in public.” you manage to breathe out, your voice a mix of desire and desperation. You didn’t know this would be the effect of your answer, but now you can’t stop yourself from responding to his actions. “We can’t do this here.”

He ignores your plea, his fingers continuing their exploration, finding that sensitive nub that makes you shudder. "You know you want this," he murmurs against your ear, his voice low and husky. 

His touch is electric, sending waves of sensation through you. Your body reacts instinctively, your legs parting slightly to grant him better access. You want to push his hand away, but your traitorous hips arch towards his touch instead. 

You try to gather your thoughts, to form a coherent protest, but his skilled fingers are rendering you helpless. Your body betrays your mind, responding to his touch in ways you can’t deny. You feel yourself weakening, your resolve crumbling under the onslaught of pleasure.

"Please, Jude, not here," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “Someone might see us.”

The room feels smaller, the air thicker with each passing second. You can hear the faint sound of flipped pages and clacking keyboards, all reminders of where you are—at the library, in a place where such intimacy is forbidden.

Jude leans closer, his lips brushing against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "They won’t notice," he assures you, his confidence unnerving. His fingers press harder, skillfully manipulating you, drawing soft moans from deep within.

You close your eyes, trying to focus, to resist, but the sensations are overwhelming. Your breathing quickens, matching the rhythm of his fingers, each stroke more deliberate, more intense. The effort to stifle your moans becomes futile, and they slip out in quiet, needy whimpers.

He chuckles softly, a sound that vibrates through you. “Knew you’d love my fingers,” he teases, his arrogance infuriating yet undeniably arousing. His fingers continue their dance, exploring, discovering, conquering.

You feel yourself losing control, your body surrendering to his mastery. Your hands now clutch at his arms, gripping tightly as if seeking support.

“So sweet,” Jude whispers, his voice a seductive command. “It’s like I’m the first guy to touch you like this.”

You've touched yourself before, of course, exploring the contours of your own body, learning the language of your desires. But you’ve never had a guy do it, much less someone as attractive as Jude. You've craved this—being touched like this—dreamt of it, but the reality is so much more than you ever imagined. 

“You are,” you whisper breathily. The admission hanging in the air, a shared moment of vulnerability that only heightened the electric connection between your bodies. “You’re the first.”

Desire washes over his face as he applies just a bit more pressure, watching as the pleasure washed over your features like a warm wave. “You’re all mine. Nobody will ever have you like this.”

“Jude,” you moan, your voice pleading, unsure if you’re asking for more or for him to stop. 

He takes advantage of your vulnerability, speeding up his assault, his fingers relentless in their pursuit of your climax. You feel the tension building, coiling tighter and tighter within you, ready to snap.

“That’s it,” he encourages, sensing your approaching edge. His voice is a catalyst, pushing you closer to the precipice. His fingers quicken, more demanding.

You can’t hold back any longer, the dam inside you breaking. Your body arches, your head falling back, a silent scream trapped in your throat as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you.

Jude’s presence is both a comfort and a reminder of the danger. When the storm subsides, you sit there, spent and exposed, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Then, your worst nightmare unfolds. The faint sound of footsteps breaks the stillness, and a shadow shifts just beyond the edge of the shelf. A figure approaches, reaching up to pull a book from the row near your hidden corner. You freeze instantly, heart pounding in your chest, every nerve in your body screaming as you realize Jude’s hand is still resting between your thighs, and he has no intentions to move it.

The stranger lingers for a moment, scanning the spine of another book. You sit there, motionless, every breath held as though even the tiniest movement will give you away. But to your immense relief, the person doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. They tuck the book under their arm and walk away, oblivious.

The tension breaks as Jude leans back with a soft laugh, his grin wide and teasing. “You should’ve seen your face,” he murmurs, his voice a low, amused drawl. 

His hand gives your knee a light squeeze before he pulls it away, leaving behind a trail of heat that only makes your nerves buzz more. “Maybe next time, we take this somewhere a little less... public.”

You scowl at him, but your racing heart betrays the tangled emotions knotting in your chest.

[vallification]

rushes: chapter one

tw: verbal abuse

wc: 4.3k

Droplets of brownie batter are splattered atop the marble counter, half-dried, beside the neatly packaged box filled with an assortment of fresh, fragrant, and warm homemade desserts and pastries. A sink full of dishes is left in the wake of the impressive spread, and your kitchen is reminiscent of the aftermath of a cyclone. The mess glares at you, incredulous at the fact that you’d dirty such a luxurious space, but you want to deliver the fruits of your labor before they get cold. You have yet to meet your neighbor across the hall, and if you learned anything from your grandmother, a good first impression is rarely set by empty hands. 

Or messy hair. A halo of frizz stares back at you in the reflection of your microwave. Quickly, you dip into the bathroom to tug your hair tie loose, smoothing down your flyaways and combing through your hair with your fingers. 

“That’s… acceptable,” You mumble, dabbing your face with the remnants of setting powder left on your brush until you’re no longer shining and slathering on some lip gloss. Paint and what you assume is flour stains your worn t-shirt and shorts. You give yourself a once over in the mirror and find the rest of you to be acceptable, too. Balance. 

Before you go, you check your phone for a text from your boyfriend, but no dice. It’s been radio silence since you moved in. You placate yourself with excuses for him, because he might be tired, or busy, or… something like that. Saying that things have been a breeze lately would be a blatant lie, though. To put it lightly, Toji was hot and cold. He was too busy to help you move in, but not too busy to stop by and fuck you before you left; he was fine with you leaving, but his mood soured every time you rambled excitedly about your new place; and like now, he would ignore you for days, but pick a fight if you dared to take more than 10 minutes to answer his texts. 

The unholy lack of notifications stares back at you like a prophecy. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath in, filling every corner of your lungs before exhaling sharply. You pocket your phone and grab the box.

So far, all of your neighbors have either been pretentious financier DINKs or older couples drowning in their bottomless retirement funds. Before this unreal opportunity of an internship, you would have been lucky to even know about this part of town, much less be in the vicinity of this building. Lady Luck has kissed your sweet little head several times this year, so being lonely in the big city is a small price to pay for your newfound fully funded lifestyle. You shove your complaints in the “First World Problems” file cabinet of your mind, but part of you hopes that the neighbors across the hall are at least a little friendly. 

Bracing yourself for another set of snobs, you take a deep breath and knock on the door. Lady Luck spits in your face and cackles. 

Your jaw drops when the door swings open to reveal snow white, cerulean blue, golden tan, six feet and three inches of him. Long, muscular arms frame his smug face as large, strong hands brace his absurdly tall figure at the top of the door frame. A shiny white gold chain hangs around his neck, sitting handsomely against his tight black shirt. Your slack jaw slams shut when you see his infuriating smirk, complemented by his infuriating dimples. 

Satoru Gojo is like a cold sore. He just keeps fucking coming back. 

And even though he’s skimmed through your Instagram annually, he hasn’t seen you in person in almost four years. Your sparkly, girlish energy still decorates your face, but your features are a little more mature now… Not just your features either. Those blue eyes drag up and down your body, simultaneously checking you out, re-familiarizing himself with you, and trying his damndest to fluster you. 

It only works a little bit. 

Disgust paints your features, your lips curling as you squint at the human embodiment of an unchecked ego. But a hand splaying out over Gojo’s ribs prompts him to make room in the doorway for another figure. Next to Gojo stands a man you don’t know, almost as tall, just as broad, all olive skin and dark hair and eyes that seem to swallow you whole. There’s not enough room for two men as tall and broad as Gojo and whoever that is to be comfortable in the doorway, yet they make it work, shoulder to broad, thick, muscular shoulder. You fix your face into the sweet smile you wore previously. 

“What’s that?” Gojo asks, nodding to the box tucked in your arms. Your sweet smile momentarily reverts back into a disgusted snarl as your eyes flick back to him. 

“Not for you,” You quip. Stepping one pace to the side, you plant yourself directly in front of the stranger and fix your face once more. Gojo feigns offense with a gasp, and the other man’s eyebrows fly high on his forehead, lips pressed into a tight line as he poorly conceals his amusement. You shove the box forward. 

“You can have some, though,” You muse, and your new neighbor takes the box with a grin. Sweetly holding your hands behind your back, you introduce yourself and explain that you live directly across the hall, you’re new to the city, and you’re a concept design student at the University of Tokyo. From his peripheral vision, Gojo watches his roommate look you up and down as you talk, and it isn’t lost on him when Geto’s eyes hang onto the most notable parts of you. Eyes, lips, chest, hips, chest, lips, eyes. Gojo stands quietly–for what you assume is the very first time in his life–his eyes flicking back and forth between the two of you. If you cared to pay him any mind, you’d catch the glint of… jealousy? Annoyance? Yeah, annoyance. If you cared to pay him any mind, you’d catch the glint of annoyance swimming in his ocean blue eyes. 

“Suguru Geto. I’m working on my masters there, actually. Computer science,” Suguru, as you now know, explains, holding the box in one arm to gently shake your hand. The beige hoodie he’s wearing smells amazing. Ambery, peppery, heavy… almost sweet but not quite. His voice is the same, rich and smooth and warm. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Suguru Geto’s eyes are violet. And intense. Your phone buzzes one, two, three times in your pocket. Toji. 

“... Anyway.” Gojo breaks his silence and pockets his hands as he leans against the door frame. Your sweet smile remains even though your eyes tell a different story, annoyance clipping your friendly demeanor. In his usual style, Gojo holds your gaze of unabashed dismay with one of unshakable confidence. 

“Glad to see you’re still painting. Is that creature you’ve got on your Instagram funding this?” Gojo snickers, and is rewarded with another eye roll. 

“Is your daddy funding that?” You retort, tiptoeing and batting your eyelashes as you gesture past the two men crowding the doorway. Geto rubs over his face to wipe away the laughter that’s begging to tumble out of his mouth. “Or did that end when he bought you your degree?” 

“Woah, is that… hostility? Are there some lingering feelings you’d like some closure for, sweetheart?” 

“No time, babe. You’ve probably got an appointment for your biweekly penicillin shot.” 

“You wanna call and ask your little boyfriend if he wants to come with me?” 

By the time Gojo finishes that sentence, your phone is ringing in your pocket, and Gojo grins. Annoyance has metamorphosed into daggers in your eyes, glaring at the ever so smug bastard standing so coolly before you with your fists balled at your sides. Turning on your heel, you march across the wide hallway to your door, and before it slams shut behind you Geto calls out one more pleasantry. 

“Knock for anything!” 

—

Gojo forgets about the little white box full of desserts for an impressive eight hours. It definitely helped that the damn thing was hidden in Geto’s room, even then, the box hadn’t crossed his mind since your door slammed shut behind you. Instead, he was thinking about the swish of your hips, the way your stained shirt nearly fell past your tiny denim shorts, the way you totally checked him out before your feigned disgust set in. Sweets don’t have a perfect ass. 

But the sweets were still important. Geto returns from his shower with the box in hand, immediately pulling Gojo from his quickly wandering thoughts. 

“She said it’s not for you,” Geto reminds, smug and faux-snide as he chastises. Delicately, he tugs a loose end of the silky pink ribbon until the bow it's knotted in is freed. He tosses the ribbon to land awry on top of white hair, and in a huff Gojo snatches the silky pink length of ribbon off of his head. As if to taunt him, Geto oh-so-cautiously pries open the tabs that once kept the box closed, careful to keep the sweet contents obscured from Gojo’s eyes. “Ooh…” Gasp!

“Suguru, I wanna see— what’s in— the box!” 

A flurry of hands lurch forward, push away, reach around, until Geto is using his legs to keep Gojo out of the box’s reach. “Oh, wow…” 

“What is it? I wanna see!” 

“Really, wow. That’s so cute. Is that—?” 

“Suguru!”

“Aw, it’s pink! I think it’s strawberry…” 

Another flurry of grappling arms, legs, and hands. Geto’s leaning off the side of the couch now, cackling around a fingerful of frosting. Pink sugar sprinkles litter the corner of his grinning mouth, and Gojo gasps in offense. “You must have really pissed her off, Satoru. I think this frosting is homemade. You’d love it.”

“That’s not fair!” Wriggling to climb the length of Geto’s body, Gojo’s hands almost reach the box before Geto rolls out from under him. The box is unscathed when he lands on the floor with a thud, and he sticks a leg out to keep the pouting Gojo away. They're both huffing from their struggle as Geto takes another smug swipe of frosting. So far defeated, Gojo plops himself back on the couch with crossed arms and watches Geto taunt him with your box of prohibited treats. 

After a heavily surveilled mouthful of a homemade strawberry cupcake, topped with buttercream frosting and pink sugar sprinkles, Geto hums in amusement. “So what’d you do? Is she someone from college?” 

“Nothing. No.” If Gojo pouts any more than he already is, his face might cramp. You used to make those cupcakes all the time, and over half were always devoured in the span of an afternoon by him alone. Not only that, but Gojo knows there’s more than just your strawberry cupcakes in that box. He can smell chocolate. 

Gently setting the cupcake down in the box, Geto moves onto the next little dessert. He breaks a piece off of one of the softest chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had the privilege of eating and pops it into his mouth. Does he have the same sweet tooth as Gojo? Absolutely not, but it’s so fun to watch him throw a tantrum. Plus, it’s all really that good. “You had to have done something. These are amazing. I don’t even like chocolate like that.” 

Gojo lets out a whine, dramatically wilting over the side of the couch like an unwatered flower, back curved along the arm rest as his head and arms hang. “She’s theatricizing. I want a cupcake.” 

“So you did do something? Is she your ex-girlfriend, Satoru?” 

He whines again, louder this time, hyperbolically drawn out and frustrated and ragged. Gojo slides along the armrest until he’s on the floor, flat on his back with his legs propped up over the side of the couch. A man of his stature, sprawled out on luxury, dark wooden floors like a toddler is quite the sight. However, Geto wants the details. He doesn’t laugh. 

“If you stop pouting and tell me I’ll give you the box.” 

“She was a year below me, we dated in my last year of high school and I broke up with her.” Silence. Geto’s waiting for the rest of the story, shoving another piece of soft cookie in his mouth. Gojo throws his hands up in exasperation, but it does nothing to placate his roommate. He pulls his legs down from their position on the couch, propping himself up on one elbow and letting his head rest limply on his shoulder with a huff. 

“I broke up with her a week before her birthday so I could be single for college,” Gojo murmurs, hurried and hushed, leaning over to reach for his reward. His fingertips are just a hair shy. “Gimme the box.” 

As he promised, Geto slides him the box. It doesn’t come without a disapproving tsk, though, which Gojo ignores in favor of finishing off the bitten strawberry cupcake. Casually gathering the excess frosting off the side of his mouth with his fingertip and casually sticking it out, Geto casually takes Gojo’s frosted middle finger into his mouth to casually suck it clean. Which could mean nothing. Neither of them linger on the action very long; sharing is like a second nature to them, and that’s all that was. 

“I mean,” Gojo starts through a mouthful of cupcake. “I don’t think she’s actually upset. It was such a long time ago. If anything,” Another pause for another bite. “It’s a schtick. I let her down pretty gently, if you ask me.” 

All he gets in response to that is a raised eyebrow. If Geto knows anything about the sugar fiend sitting adjacent to him, it’s that he has an extremely skewed view of what it means to let someone down gently. A muffled stream of sounds tears his brain away from the secondhand embarrassment of thinking about a less mature version of Gojo “letting someone down easy.”

Gojo’s not privy to the sass packaged in that single quirked eyebrow, nor the noise, too busy on a spiel about your famous strawberry cupcakes through a mouthful of the second one. “I knew these would be in here. She used to make them, like, every week. Did you know that she uses real strawberries to—“

“Shhh.” In the fleeting, stunned moment of silence his hushing offers, Geto can hear the voices slightly clearer than before. It’s an argument, he can tell that much, but he can’t tell which apartment it’s coming from. 

“… Um, anyway. As I was saying, can you tell that she uses real strawberries to—“

“Satoru, shut up,” Geto emphasizes, waving a dismissive hand in Gojo’s direction and heaving himself up off of the floor. Watching incredulously as Geto slowly saunters towards the front door, Gojo’s slack jaw opens and shuts around a silent exclamation of offense. But just when Gojo finds the words to constitute a thorough chastisement, he freezes, stiff as a board on the floor. He hears it. 

From the living room, it sounds like weird, warbled, distant mumbling, incoherent sounds traveling through thick doors and thicker walls. It’s impossible to decipher even with ears as keen as his own, and for a moment, he allows himself to relax. Whatever it is isn’t his business, and he’s sure Geto is only curious about the hushed sounds because the two of them are the only ones who make such cacophonous noise in such a quiet place. However, the relief he feels is fleeting. He can now distinguish two things about the muffled racket, the first of which being that it’s coming from across the hall—from your apartment— and the second of which being that it’s a man’s raised, agitated voice. 

In an instant, Gojo leaps off of the floor, long legs carrying him in determined strides to the front door until his feet are planted firmly at Geto’s side. With an ear pressed against the door, his violet eyes, usually so composed that they’re unreadable, are held wide open, swimming with uncertainty, discomfort, and concern. For Gojo, who’s already dancing on the edge of entering fight or flight, it’s an alarming sight to see. His shoulders are tense, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips are worried by sharp teeth, obviously disturbed by something Gojo didn’t quite catch from his place in the living room. From Geto’s perspective, things are not much better. Beside him, Gojo’s reminiscent of a guard dog on high alert, all adrenaline and potential energy and paradoxically controlled instability. He’s got a white knuckle grip on the door handle, his blue eyes flicking back and forth and up and down in a way Geto would describe as erratic if he wasn’t so familiar with him.

Neither of them need to say anything. It’s written in olive, and golden tan, and black, and white, and violet, and cerulean. Gojo stares through the peephole in the door, catching the moment your apartment door swings open. 

It’s him. The guy you have littered all over your social media accounts. Not quite as tall as himself or Suguru, but muscular, broad, denotatively handsome in a sharp, steely way. If he didn’t know any better, Gojo might even say that he looks like the dangerous, violent type. That thought doesn’t go away when Gojo watches him lean down, purposefully imposing over your much smaller frame, until he’s eye to eye with you, saying something Gojo can’t make out with either his eyes or his ears but he knows it’s not something good. He hears a mumble, and assumes that’s what prompts the man to scoff and stand up straight again. 

“You’re always fuckin’ complaining about something. Fuck’s sake,” He says with a shake of his head, his body language anything but loving or caring or whatever boyfriends are supposed to be. Geto looks down at the floor once your boyfriend’s words to you register in his head, while Gojo looks straight ahead like a laser sight on a sniper rifle, scarily still. 

“I’m going home. I’m not staying if you’re going to act like a fucking crazy bitch just because I’m too busy to text you. Some of us have real fuckin’ jobs.” Without a second look at you, the man starts down the hall and disappears into the elevator. It’s cruel. It’s hard to watch. 

Your apartment door is left wide open, with you standing pitifully still and shrunken in the doorway, the antithesis of the version of you that gave Gojo’s wit a run for its money just eight hours earlier. Never before has he seen you look so… scared. So stripped. So small. Something about the way that man has left you nothing more than a shivering shell of yourself makes his stomach twist. Gojo watches your bottom lip quiver as you stare at the floor, and the tears that roll freely down your flushed face as you weakly close the door. 

Solemn, sobering silence fills the air of their apartment in the aftermath of what they just witnessed. Gojo doubts that, next to him, Geto isn’t also simmering with a nauseating mixture of nasty emotions, but even if neither of them can muster up anything to say in the moment, they both know it’s different. It’s personal for Gojo, it’s visual, it’s visceral, it’s more than something that happened to the sweet new girl across the hall. As if he were on autopilot, Gojo grips the door handle again, waiting for Geto to move out of the way. 

“What are you doing, Satoru? I don’t think now is the best time…” Geto whispers, casting an apprehensive gaze to the hand on the doorknob. 

“It’s fine,” Gojo whispers back, and although Geto’s unsure of how true that statement is, he steps away from the door. There’s something unfamiliar stirring in his blue eyes. Something bigger than what he’s thinking of. 

Shutting the door behind himself, Gojo bridges the gap between his apartment and yours in two slow steps. It feels weird to stand in the same spot as him; it feels weird to stand in the place of someone who spoke to you like that, swearing at you, shouting at you. To Gojo, it almost feels like standing in the wreckage after a disaster, wondering why the earth kept spinning after  something so awful. 

He can’t get the image of you standing in the doorway out of his head. Gojo sees every version of you he knows flash in and out of that doorway. The version of you that was so happy to wear his hoodie, and the version of you that was so nervous to show him your art for the first time. The version of you that was dressed head to toe in cheesy Christmas pajamas. The version of you that was soaked from the rain at his house. The tiny version of you that was caught in pictures lining every wall of your parent’s house. The version of you that stood in front of his door in shock that he was your neighbor. The versions of you that were all so lively, and witty, and sharp, and strong, all crushed into nothingness by a piece of shit that didn’t care to look back at you as he walked away. A sorry fucking bastard that purposefully towered over you just to scare you, and that yelled at you like you were a kid, and that swore at you, and that called you a fucking bitch.

It isn’t until now that the questions start to roll in. Is he always like that? Is this a common occurrence? Is it worse than what he just witnessed? Does anybody know? Has anybody else witnessed this? Has anybody helped? Has anybody said anything? How long has it been like this? You looked scared, you looked embarrassed, you looked hurt, but you didn’t look surprised. The thought makes his skin burn. Part of him wonders if Geto was right about this not being the best time to bother you, but by the time he finishes that thought he’s already knocking on your door. 

You’re just on the other side of the door when he knocks. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, it’s replaced by a type of exhaustion that runs through your veins and seeps into your bones, heavy and achy and sore. You’re tired. You’re embarrassed and ashamed. You want to go to bed. 

“It’s me. Open up,” Gojo says through the door, uncharacteristically reserved and gentle. The softness of his voice catches you off guard, juxtaposed against the venomous words spat at you ten minutes before like the merciful coolness of the night after a brutally hot day. Your throat feels tight all over again, choked up from something as simple as someone speaking to you so gently. Tears well up in your burning eyes as you stifle a sob, and you know the sharp inhale can be heard through the hardwood. It’s a nauseatingly sad sound, and Gojo frowns. “Come on.” 

It feels impossible to turn the knob, impossible to pull the door open, and impossible to stand once you’re no longer guarded by two and a half inches of mahogany. Right now, standing in front of Gojo feels worse than being naked, like you’re more exposed now than you ever have been when undressed. You want to run away from the vulnerability. You want to slam the door in his face and hide. You don’t want his pity. But you know whatever he’s here to give you is not pity. 

“Hey,” He starts, his fidgeting hand rubbing at the back of his neck where his skin meets his undercut. You recognize the action, born from the same fidgeting movement as when you really knew him, when his hair was longer, when he would twirl the hair at the base of his head around his slender finger over and over and over again. It’s not a nervous tic, though. It’s just something to do with his hands. Focusing on that is easier than focusing on the concern in his eyes. 

“Hey,” You reply in a whisper, your voice hoarse, warbled from teary eyes and a trachea that feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire. Shame smothers your weak body like a weighted blanket, but you hang onto what’s left of your pride and force yourself to keep your chin high. 

For him, it’s easier to focus on the lock of hair left out of your haphazardly tied ponytail than the way your hand shakes against the doorframe. “I’m not here to fuck with you or anything. Suguru wanted to exchange numbers for…”

If you need them. For when you need them. For when you’re feeling unsafe. For when that sorry fucking bastard scares you again. 

For when you want to make sure it’s the last time that piece of shit scares you. 

Gojo’s steely blue eyes flick down the hallway, tracing the path to the elevator. You watch his jaw clench. 

“… Emergencies.” 

Swallowing, thick and dry like your throat is coated in a layer of cotton, you nod. If he caught you at any other time, you’d roll your eyes. You’d make a snide remark and squint up at him. You’d tell him you can handle yourself. But there’s a reason he’s caught you now. Gojo wouldn’t have done this at any other time and you want to throw yourself in a heap on the floor and cry.

Wordlessly, the two of you exchange numbers. It’s nothing more than two new contacts, yet Gojo passes your phone back and it feels two tons heavier in your exhausted, shaking hand. You mutter a “thank you” and step back into your apartment, but Gojo catches the door with his hand and makes sure to meet your weary eyes with his own. For a fleeting moment, it feels like you’re seventeen again. His five words of parting linger in the air around you for the rest of the night. 

“Just… don’t be a stranger.”

[divinemissem13]

How Long Has This Been Going On?

Star Trek Femslash Week 2024 Ship: Beverly Crusher/ Kathryn Janeway Word Count: 1,016 Rating: T Prompt: And they were roommates...

This is a much longer text than I would usually post here but since AO3 is still having some outages, take a peek under the cut here....

"Bev? Honey?" Kathryn calls out from the bedroom. She is looking in her closet and maybe it's just that she hasn't had coffee yet, but something seems off. "Why do you have more civilian clothes in my closet than I do?"

Beverly appears at her side and hands her a cup of coffee, which Kathryn gulps down gratefully. "Probably because I've spent a lot more time as a civilian than you," Beverly answers simply, as she wraps an arm loosely around Kathryn's waist and presses a kiss to the smaller woman's temple. "We can go shopping today, if you want."

"But what are they doing here?" Kathryn clarifies, now that the caffeine is beginning to do its job.

Beverly pulls back and holds Kathryn at arm's length, looking at her with a bewildered expression that only serves to confuse Kathryn further. "Where else would they be?" she responds.

"Your place?"

"My pl—? Kathryn, it's just easier to keep things here in San Francisco. But if you really want me to, I guess I can transport to the chateau every time I need a change of clothes," Beverly offers with a bit of an edge to her voice that makes Kathryn wonder if they've had this conversation before.

"You don't have a place in San Francisco?" Kathryn asks.

Beverly sucks in a deep breath through clenched teeth and takes Kathryn's empty mug. "I think you need more coffee. Just, get dressed, please? I don't want to waste our entire day off standing in front of the closet."

Kathryn, who hates to be confused and finds herself absolutely unable to let this go, does not get dressed. She follows Beverly out of the room, intending to demand answers until something else catches her eye: the bookshelf in the living room is more crowded than she remembers. On closer inspection, she realizes that there are medical journals and plays mixed in with her poetry and classic literature. Turning slowly, she takes in the room at large. There is a small greenhouse set up in one corner, a stone figure of dancing woman in the middle of the coffee table, a painting hanging on the wall that Kathryn definitely doesn't remember buying.

Kathryn strides into the kitchen in full admiral mode — despite the fact that her hair is still mussed from sleep and she is wearing only a pink silk robe — and demands, "Beverly Crusher, do you live here?"

Beverly wants to be mad, or at least annoyed, but she looks at Kathryn standing there in the doorway — back straight and hands clenched at her hips, one eyebrow quirked upward in a her most imperious expression, a freckled shoulder peeking out where her robe has started to slip — and all she can do is shake her head and chuckle softly.

Beverly walks over to her admiral (who she outranks, by the way, although now is not the time to bring that up), and straightens her robe, her long slender fingers lingering at the collar for a moment before skimming down silk-clad arms to lace their fingers together. "Technically, no," she finally answers Kathryn's question. "But Kathryn, can you remember the last time you spent a night here without me?"

Kathryn's brow furrows as she thinks back, tries to remember being alone in this apartment, in that big bed. Other than a few notable exceptions of overnight missions or out of town conferences, she can't.

"And you don't have your own place in San Francisco?" Kathryn asks, still trying to wrap her head around the idea.

Beverly sighs. "No more than you have your own place in La Barre," she says, pointedly referencing where they spend most of their weekends. "We did discuss this you know. It's not as though I just sneaked all my things in here bit by bit."

If Kathryn thinks hard enough, she might be able to remember…

An evening, not so long ago, after a particularly exhausting day trying to establish a trade relationship with the Kazon, of all people. Beverly had been sitting on the couch reading when she got home and Kathryn had all but collapsed beside her, resting her head in Beverly's lap while she combed her fingers through Kathryn's hair.

If she tries hard enough, she might even remember Beverly's soothing voice cutting through a haze of exhaustion, saying "I'm thinking of getting rid of my apartment here."

The realization must show on her face because Beverly leans down and kisses the tip of Kathryn's nose. "There it is," she says with a grin. "Now go get dressed, would you? We have a lot to do today." She swats Kathryn on the ass for good measure before she turns back to the breakfast she is preparing for them.

Kathryn rolls her eyes and reaches around Beverly for the fresh mug of coffee sitting on the counter. "Yes ma'am," she smirks, turning back towards the bedroom and sipping at her coffee as she goes. The coffee is good and strong and Kathryn thinks how lucky she is to have someone who will make it fresh for her every morning.

She doubles back to Beverly, using one hand to brush her long hair to one side so that she can kiss the taller woman's shoulder and neck. "Hey Bev?" she murmurs, now with both arms wrapped around her partner's waist.

"Hmm?" Beverly responds noncommittally as she tries to focus on the task in front of her rather than her the distraction behind her.

"Wanna move in with me?"

Beverly drops the knife on the counter and turns in Kathryn's arms to face her. "Oh, I see, you only like it when it's your idea, hmm?" Her expression is one of mock frustration but Kathryn can see from the sparkle in her bright blue eyes that Beverly isn't mad at all.

"I have really good ideas," Kathryn says mischievously.

Before Beverly has a chance to respond, Kathryn is kissing her. As she allows the full-body tingle to take over all of her senses, she decides that Kathryn does have some truly excellent ideas after all.

[doom-dreaming]

Do you think cortana posted chief for national girlfriends day on the unsc's version of Twitter (he didnt even know about it until weeks later)

It had been nearly two weeks by this point and it only seemed to be gaining momentum. Groups of S-IVs would try to hide their snickering as they passed him in the halls. Whispering Marines would quickly shush each other when he walked into the room. He noticed the sidelong glances, the elbows jabbed into ribs, all the little movements that weren't as subtle as they thought. He'd even caught Roland and Captain Lasky in the middle of a hushed but heated conversation that he, apparently, didn't have the clearance for.

This had been normal when he was still a new fixture on Infinity, but several years had smoothed the edges off his reputation - at least enough that people could relax around him. Or so he thought. A backslide like this was...unexpected. And it wasn't even necessarily the principle of being left out of something that had started to bother him, it was more the fact that everyone seemed to be in on something he wasn't. And that it seemed to be about him.

"Mm, kind of rude," was all Cortana had muttered when he'd brought it up a few days prior. She'd been distracted, deep in the middle of analyzing something for Halsey, and he didn't think much of the dismissal at the time.

But by now, the strange conspiratorial energy aboard the ship had all the trademarks of a bomb about to go off and it was making him antsy in a way he didn't appreciate. "Cortana."

It takes a fraction of a second longer than usual for her projection to appear on the holodeck - a detail imperceptible and inconsequential to anyone but him - but she's bright-eyed and smiling as she materializes. "You rang?"

"You have to know something." He cuts right to the chase.

She sighs. "Chief, you know they put me on restricted access. I don't like it either, but I have to play nice. It's Roland's ship, if you want to know what he sees, ask him."

John narrows his eyes. He didn't believe her for a second. And she knew it.

She holds eye contact as her lips twitch into a barely-contained smirk. "Maybe there's something going around on the socials," she continues with a shrug. "Could be worth a look if it's really bothering you."

**********

The suggestion was still sitting in the back of his mind days later, unheeded. He had more important things to be doing than trawling through message boards trying to find a joke that no one had bothered to let him in on. It always felt like tuning into an unsecured comm. channel - lots of chatter with very little substance.

But he knew Cortana. And she was up to something. Besides, he had a few hours to kill before Commander Palmer needed him in the simulation room. He taps his way into his account, remembering his password with a combination of muscle memory and sheer luck. His inbox is overflowing with messages, but he opts to ignore them in favor of hunting down the threads with the heaviest, most recent traffic.

A thread simply titled 'Girlfriend Day' rises to the top of the list. His finger hesitates over it for a second, unsure if this was the lead he should be following. It seemed unlikely, but none of the other contenders had anywhere near the same engagement numbers... Resigning himself to a potential dead end and waste of time, he opens it.

The initial post is a picture of a young couple, both smiling. The man has his arm around the woman's shoulders. They're somewhere sunny, in civilian clothes. John doesn't recognize either of them and doesn't spend much time skimming the accompanying text before moving on.

He doesn't have to go far. Less than a dozen posts into the thread, he finds a photo of himself. It's not a bad photo, all things considered - it's a nice candid shot, he's cleaning a gun, his helmet sits on the bench beside him - but the rose-tinged filter and tiny pink hearts aren't doing it any favors. It'd been posted anonymously without a caption and he only has to read a few of the comments underneath it for things to start falling into place.

"Cortana..."

The holodeck glows a dim blue for three full seconds before she appears, hands on hips, eyebrows raised.

John silently tilts the screen toward her.

"Do you like it? I thought the hearts were a nice touch."

"Pink's not my color."

"Agree to disagree." She settles into a more relaxed stance. "Who knew one picture could get the ship buzzing like this? Infinity's starving for gossip, apparently."

"Everyone wants to know whose girlfriend I am," John sighs, finally setting the datapad down. "Where'd you get the picture?"

"Took it myself. Last month. It was hard picking a favorite, you know. I went through a lot of them."

"...how many do you have?"

"Oh, thousands. I don't show them to anyone. Well, aside from this one exception." She nods toward the datapad, then crosses her arms in response to the face he can feel himself making. "What, a girl can't have a hobby?"

[bellamyroselia]

Stars somehow aligned and I managed write something Kid Icarus related; it's a sequel to these two ficlets because I lack originality.

...

There were many words Dark Pit would’ve never used to describe himself, one amongst them being ‘dreamer’. And it wasn’t just in a philosophical sense - besides him seeing himself as more of a realist, he rarely had any dreams while he was sleeping. He rarely dreamed and in those few times he did, he simply ended up recounting past events in his head. In general he dreamed of events that had happened to him specifically, but on occasion he got to see things in his dreams that he had never experienced. Those few times gave him an unique window to the past, Pit’s past in particular.

In a way, it made perfect sense for him to dream of these events - as Dark Pit wasn’t an unique product of love but rather a mirror image turned flesh without a real history before early teenage years, any memories he had of a past prior to his creation were those that Pit had actually experienced and lived through.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

Dark Pit disliked being reminded of how he had no unique memories of his mother holding him, of his father helping him to take his first steps or of playdates with other children of his age. He hated the fact that every memory of moments like those he could sometimes glimpse at his dreams were Pit’s first and foremost, and only by technicality his as well. As grim as it sounded, one of the few things that brought Dark Pit solace was that Pit didn’t seem to remember their his mother either.

When Dark Pit had dreamed of the golden-haired man the first time, he thought that he may have seen his image somewhere before. Perhaps in a marble statue that lacked colors or in a mosaic which was devoid of details so he couldn’t be completely sure, but the man in his dream had felt both grand and important. Yet despite all that grandeur and importance, the man had devoted so much his time to take care of this one unassuming child. One would think someone so notable would have better things to do in their lives, but apparently Pit truly did matter that much to the man. So much so that even when he was battle-ready and donning the fanciest armor one could wear, he had first come to the young angel, hugged the toddler as if he was the most precious thing in his life and called himself lucky to have Pit in his life.

(Would anyone call themselves lucky to have me in their lives? Dark Pit wondered.)

He had to find out who the man he was dreaming of was.

For the weeks that followed, Dark Pit had hardly focused on anything else but in his mission. He had been so absorbed on his quest that he had took it upon himself to learn five new different alphabets in hopes of finding new clues of the mysterious man’s identity. The process had been long and painstaking, and lot of it had been for naught at the end - two of the alphabets turned out to be no longer in use, third one was in the verge of extinction and the fourth one was the alphabet of foreigners and therefore useless to him, but the last of them proved useful to him in his research. As Dark Pit skimmed through various texts, his originally hazy vision of the man became much clearer and his suspicions of his identity were starting to rise. Towards the end of his research he had actually wanted to just steal the Lightning Chariot and go directly to the Queen of all gods herself, but he knew better than to do that. The Queen would never listen to him without solid evidence to back his words, and currently all of it existed just in the heads of two angels and maybe one goddess. No, what he needed to do now was to go to Pit and finally set the records straight. If Dark Pit was having dreams like this, surely the other angel must’ve had them as well and for whatever reason was keeping them a secret. And that simply couldn’t be tolerated any longer.

…

Pit was by himself in the temple outskirts, lost in daydreams and in the verge of dozing off when his pleasant time was all the sudden interrupted by someone loudly slamming a door. Shocked, he quickly rose up to look who had caused all that commotion and was surprised to find Dark Pit there; even when he was at his surliest, the other angel tended not to slam doors in this kind of manner. And now he seemed surlier than ever, even to the point of Pit being taken aback by the other angel’s displeased expression. 

“Pittoo, what’s wrong?” Pit asked, concern clear in his voice. Just what had happened for Dark Pit to be in such a foul mood today?

“Don’t play coy with me, you know exactly what’s wrong”, Dark Pit spat right back to him, clearly not caring of Pit’s attempts to be polite. “Who is he?”

“Who?” Pit responded to Dark Pit’s question with a question of his own, confused by what the other angel meant.

“You know exactly who I’m talking of! Golden hair, tall as all get out, wings as mighty as those of an eagle, fancy armor. You know who he is, don’t you?”

A lump rose to Pit’s throat. Dark Pit already knew of the dreams he had been having? Of course he knows, Pit resonated with himself, My childhood is technically his childhood as well. If one of us remembers something from it, the other isn’t far behind. There really was no point of hiding anything anymore and there was much that Pit wanted to tell, but at the end only one word found its way out of his mouth.

“Dad”, was all Pit was able to say, but it was enough to make Dark Pit flinch and then back off a little. All he said was what he thought of as truth, so why had the the angel reacted in such a way?

“Dad?” he repeated Pit’s words, oddly unsure of himself. “Is it true? Are you certain?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure of that he is. Who else besides our dad would do anything–”

“Oh, so now he’s OUR dad?”

Pit flinched upon hearing Dark Pit’s words. Only now did he seem to understand how badly he had screwed up by keeping everything under wraps; it wasn’t just about who his father was to him anymore, it was about what he meant to people around him. He had had a life long before Pit was a part of it, and the people who knew his father continued exist long after his disappearance.

“Dark Pit, please listen”, Pit started, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier and it was stupid of me to think that you wouldn’t also know… At first I didn’t even know myself who he was and when I became sure of that it really was dad I wasn’t sure if the time was right, Lady Palutena may think–”

Dark Pit didn’t even give him time to finish his sentence as he grabbed Pit’s wrist, fire burning in his red eyes.

“Lady Palutena this, Lady Palutena that, what of OUR feelings? What of OUR dad? Are you really just letting him rot somewhere while dealing with HER endless list of petty problems first?” he now snarled at Pit, his sense of judgment blurred by the pent up vexation.

“But if Medusa’s attack somehow affected him–”

“No way it could’ve done anything to him!” Dark Pit once again interrupted him, “You really think they would’ve ever allowed an angel to wear that fancy armor? Good grief with you Pit, think for yourself for once! Clearly dad wasn’t all that lucky to have you if you’re just standing here doing nothing to help him!”

That last sentence especially hit a nerve, and in a fit of frustration Pit pulled his hand away from the other angel’s grasp. Just like that time long ago when Palutena had told him that his father wasn’t returning, Pit was starting to become misty-eyed but this time he didn’t let the tears fall. Dark Pit, who at this point had calmed down a bit, seemed to realize how hurtful his words had been and took couple steps back with a remorseful look on his face.

“Don’t put words into dad’s mouth”, was all Pit managed to say back at the other angel. He had come far from that helpless toddler who had cried on Palutena’s arms, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t bothered of what had happened to his father. Of course he wished to find out the truth and finally get some closure but as there always seemed to be new threats lurking just around the corner, timing never felt right.

“Dad wore that armor because he was fighting for a cause. Lady Palutena too was shocked when he didn’t return…”

“Who cares of Palutena’s opinion”, Dark Pit huffed, a hint of bitterness remaining in his voice. Wishing for the calm before storm to be finally over, he grabbed Pit’s hand once again and started to lead the other angel towards the main building of the temple.

“Wait Pittoo, where are we going?” Pit asked.

“To set things straight with Palutena”, Dark Pit replied. “What, would you like us to go to the Queen herself instead?”

Pit blinked slowly when he heard the other angel mention the Queen. There were few things he knew of the Queen, and one of them was that she rarely if ever had time for people other than her family and servants. To hear Dark Pit talk of her in such bold manner was surprising - did he really think that the Queen would ever give a time of day to them?

“But what does the Queen have to do with any of this?” Pit wondered, not understanding why the other angel had even bothered to bring her up.

“Do you think that a mother could ever forget her child’s eyes?” Dark Pit answered to his question with a one of his own. “Do you think she would still recognize them even if another person bore them?”

Whatever fight was still left in Pit fizzled out in an instant as he heard those words, and so did all the questions that he had wanted ask just moment prior. Only one thing was certain now, and it was that Lady Palutena would have lot to explain.

[cookingwithroxy]

I found these reviews on this book written by this person under the pseudonym The Last Psychiatrist. The scroll bar makes them look long, but most of the bulk comes from the comment section. One review is longer than the others in a way, but only by half. I highly recommend you read through them all by maybe putting them in a text-to-speech program to run in the background to understand my question's context because I really need an informed opinion. There will be a popup to subscribe to the website but in reality, it isn't really required to read the whole review, so you can just close out the popup:

Article 1 (longest)

Article 2

Article 3 (shortest)

My question is, what do you think of the author's message? Is his message that "all media is porn" have any fruitful meaning or understanding that can be gleaned, alongside his other opinions? I feel like he's very misanthropic and due to my personally stemming distrust of anyone in the psychology field and anyone who reads self-help or "[concept/topic] is mentally destroying you and it's your fault" books, I can't really answer them myself without feeling biased. Everyone is hailing this book as a mirror held up to yourself, but I just don't get it.

TL:DR? I TL:DR'ed the review because the excerpts it used were too painful to read. 'All Media is Porn' is a concept that is nothing new, but it works it's best to note that this is to show there's nothing unnatural or corruptive about porn itself, and any faults it has can be shown in anything else. Using that concept to condemn all media is the mindset of a toddler.

You want to share my suffering, read past.

just reading the first review and honestly having to actually skim at times and I'm stuck with the takeaway of 'this is an intentionally pretentious book by an excessively pretentious narcissist written for extremely pretentious philosophy students'.

And that's before we even get to the concept of 'all media is porn' which... what does that even mean? 'Everything done for enjoyment is of equal value as things consumed for sexual gratification'? Congratulations, dipshit, you've reduced the entirety of the human experience to a binary equation that frames all the good things as form of utilitarian state that even you don't live up to.

Can I see that this book would be seen of as 'a mirror held up to yourself'? Yes, in that from what little I did read is so blatantly and obviously self-important and absolute horseshit that the people who'd actively seek it out are as equally self-important and bullshit.

I mean fuck, let me just excerpt an excerpt and you'll see what I mean:

'"Why so many footnotes???” Which is the same question as, “why are your sentences so long, why so many commas, what the hell is with you and semicolons?” It’s all on purpose, to get rid of readers. You’re stumped by the physical layout? This book is not for you, your brain is already set in concrete, it can never change, only crumble as it ages. Which is fine if your plan was to be a foundation for the next generation, but it isn’t; you’re the rotting walls that they have to knock down while you play the flute and pretend to give freedom to everyone else. If you look forward to TV, if you think “the problem with the youth today is that they’re entitled,” if you think, “damn all the partisanship, I wish someone in government would take charge and do the right thing — you are a true Athenian democrat. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Yeah. I’m not saying you are necessarily a bad person, I’m just saying your kids would benefit from a more hands off approach to parenting. And a math tutor. Most of you should not read this book, the Disclaimer represents all the justification you deserve, I did everything I could to exclude everyone, including adding the porn story at the beginning, a Beware Of Dog sign written in cat.'

Is this pretentious? Oh fuck yes, but here's the thing that puts it further into context: The reviewer explaining what leads to it:

'Because this book is . . . what even is this book? The first page has an eight-page long footnote at the bottom, which covers the Delphic Oracle, the Salem Witch Trials, and the movie Fast Times At Ridgemont High, and ends up concluding that you (yes, you) are incapable of having desires. Immediately afterwards, the narrative breaks off for a thirty page cuckold porn story, which sounds like the sort of thing you do in order to discuss later, except that it never does. Then it’s back to more seemingly-crazy assertions and multi-dozen page footnotes. Footnote 35 is half a page of the author screaming at a hypothetical reader who wants fewer footnotes:'

So that whole screed about how you're some form of stodgy mind-blind stick in the mud...

If you recognize that his shit page layouts and bad annotations are shit and bad.

Seriously, I don't need to go further and this is so fucking stupid I really should put a fucking read more and tldr at the start rather than make you suffer what little I let myself suffer.

More detailed TL:DR? Anyone who hails this book to you needs to be checked out for dark triad traits more like than not.