#They just found solace in physical affection so he found it fitting there too

[reidmarieprentiss]

Needy

Summary: Spencer is touch starved.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: smut, fluff

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+), porn with little plot, additional warnings undercut, sub!spencer, slight dom!reader, crying

Word count: 8k

a/n: for @kameowwww hope i did you good <333 this is the idea

this is like straight up porn so

main masterlist

Additional warnings: oral (f&m receiving), PinV sex unprotected (wrap it before you tap it), voyerism, masturbation (f), vibrator (f), orgasm denial, overstimulation, sub/dom dynamics

Spencer Reid had always been a man of intellect, preferring the quiet solace of books over the chaos of human interaction. He never quite understood the appeal of constant physical affection until he met you. Before you, his life was a series of equations and logical deductions, but you brought something new to the table—warmth, comfort, and a touch that ignited something deep within him. Now that he had tasted that sweetness, he found himself utterly addicted. He couldn't imagine going back to the way things were before you.

The two of you had been dating for quite some time now, and Spencer had grown accustomed to the constant stream of affection you showered upon him. It wasn’t just the emotional warmth that he relished but the physical connection as well. The gentle brush of your fingers against his skin was electrifying, each touch sending a shiver down his spine that lingered long after your hand had moved on. He adored the way you would pull him into a hug for no reason other than to feel his presence against you, your bodies fitting together perfectly like pieces of a puzzle.

When you kissed him, your lips soft and inviting, Spencer would lose himself in the moment, his mind quieting as all he could focus on was the sensation of you. The way your hands would slide up his chest, lingering at the nape of his neck, drawing him closer, made his heart race with a fervor he had never known before. It was a sensation he couldn’t quite articulate, this melding of souls and skin that made him feel so alive, so desired.

The intimacy extended to the most mundane of routines—the way your hands lingered a little longer on his back as you parted ways in the morning, your fingers tracing small circles that left his skin tingling in their wake. Your touch was intoxicating, a sweet addiction that he eagerly anticipated each day. It was as if you had created a secret language of touch, a series of unspoken words that only the two of you understood, a language that spoke of love, trust, and an undeniable connection.

But now, he was miserable. Absolutely miserable.

Spencer had been shot in the leg during a case gone awry. The doctors said he couldn't fly for a while, which meant he was stuck back in D.C. while you and the rest of the team were off on another case. This separation was a special kind of torment, one that gnawed at him with every passing hour.

He found himself staring at his phone, the digital clock mocking him as the minutes ticked by with excruciating slowness. It felt like time had slowed down since you left. No, it felt like time had stopped altogether. Spencer found himself yearning for the sound of your voice, the feel of your skin against his, the comfort of your presence. He missed you more than he could put into words, more than he had ever thought possible.

Every hour, like clockwork, he sent you a text. His messages ranged from sweet to downright needy, each one a reflection of his growing desperation:

9:00 AM: I miss you so much already. I can't wait for you to come back.

10:00 AM: Just had breakfast, and it's not the same without you. Miss you.

11:00 AM: I keep staring at our picture on my desk. It makes me smile and want to cry at the same time.

12:00 PM: I'm thinking about you. Are you thinking about me too?

1:00 PM: I miss you so much it hurts. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before.

2:00 PM: I’m hard... It's so embarrassing. Do you think I should touch myself?

3:00 PM: I love you. I miss you. I need you. Please come home soon.

He knew he was being pathetic, absolutely pitiful, even. Spencer Reid, BAU genius, reduced to a lovesick fool who couldn't even go a day without hearing from you. It was embarrassing, really. But he couldn't help himself; his emotions were a whirlwind, and you were the eye of the storm—the calm he so desperately sought.

He knew you were busy, embroiled in the intricacies of the case, piecing together the psychological profiles that would lead the team to the unsub. He respected that, understood it more than anyone. Still, the emptiness of your absence gnawed at him, clawing at his insides until he felt like he was going mad.

As night fell, he lay sprawled on his bed, his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. The room was dark, save for the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. Shadows danced across the ceiling, and he imagined your silhouette beside him, tracing the curves of your body with his eyes, feeling the warmth of your presence.

And then, finally, his phone buzzed with the notification he had been waiting for—your nightly call. Spencer's heart leaped at the sight of your name flashing on the screen. He scrambled to answer, almost dropping the phone in his haste.

“Hey,” he breathed, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He wanted to sound confident, but the anticipation of hearing your voice made it hard to keep his composure.

“Hi,” you replied, but your tone was laced with a hint of annoyance that made Spencer wince. “How was your day?”

Spencer hesitated, searching for the right words. “How—how was your day?” he repeated nervously, trying to ease the tension he sensed from you.

You sighed, the sound echoing through the line. “Other than my phone going off every two seconds, it was fine.”

His heart sank, guilt washing over him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling the weight of his own neediness pressing down on him.

“What did we talk about?” Your voice was firm, demanding an answer he was struggling to find.

“I don’t—I don’t remember,” he mumbled, the words tumbling out of him in a pathetic attempt to buy himself time.

“Don’t play dumb, baby,” you said, your voice dropping to a teasing whisper that sent shivers down his spine. “Put that eidetic memory to work. Tell me right now, or your ass will be so red when I get back.”

Spencer squeaked at the imagery, feeling his face heat up at the thought. His mind raced as he tried to recall the conversation, panic mixing with a strange thrill at your words. “Okay! You said… not to text you unless it was important, that you’d call me when you’re in the hotel,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s right, my smart boy,” you said, and he could hear the smile in your voice now. “You need to be patient, Spence. I know you miss me, and I miss you too, but we agreed on this for a reason.”

Spencer nodded, even though you couldn’t see him, his heart aching with a longing that was both painful and sweet. “I know,” he murmured, feeling the tension in his body ease as he listened to your voice, the gentle reprimand laced with affection. “I just… I miss you so much.”

“I know, baby,” you soothed, your voice like a balm to his frayed nerves. “And I promise, when I get back, we’ll make up for lost time.”

—

As soon as you set foot in your shared apartment, Spencer was up and running from his spot in the reading chair, the book he had been pretending to read for the past hour forgotten. He practically threw himself at you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close, his face burying in your neck as he breathed in the scent that was just so—you. It was as if he couldn’t get close enough, as if he wanted to meld into you completely, the relief of having you back washing over him like a tidal wave.

“Hi, baby,” you laughed softly, your arms encircling him as you returned the embrace, feeling his neediness and desperation in the way he clung to you.

“I missed you so much,” he murmured against your skin, his voice tinged with an aching vulnerability that tugged at your heartstrings.

“I missed you too,” you replied, your fingers gently threading through his hair, offering him the comfort and reassurance he craved.

Spencer’s body was pressed tightly against yours, and you could feel him start to wiggle, subtly at first, as if testing the waters. But soon his movements became more insistent, his hips grinding against you in a desperate attempt to find some relief for the neglected erection that had been tormenting him during your absence.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you asked, pulling back slightly to look at him, raising an eyebrow as you caught the sheepish expression on his face.

“...nothing,” he mumbled, his cheeks turning a deep shade of pink as he averted his gaze, suddenly finding the floor incredibly interesting.

You pushed him off gently, taking a step back to give yourself some space. Spencer’s shoulders slumped, and he looked down at his hands, the sting of embarrassment and rejection written all over his face. 

“I just walked in the door, and you’re already trying to hump me like a bitch in heat?” you chided, your tone firm but not unkind. It was clear he had been waiting for this moment, stewing in his own need and desperation, and you couldn’t help but find his pathetic eagerness endearing.

Spencer glanced up at you, his eyes wide and pleading, the blush on his cheeks deepening. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice small, shame and longing swirling in his chest.

You shook your head, a soft smile playing on your lips. “I think you need to learn some patience, Spence,” you said, your voice dropping to a husky murmur that made his heart race. “But don’t worry, I’m here now, and I’m going to take care of you. Just not until I’m ready. Understand?”

He nodded, his breath hitching at the promise in your words, his anticipation building as he realized he’d have to wait a little longer to get what he so desperately craved.

“Good,” you said, reaching out to gently tilt his chin up, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Why don’t you make us some tea while I get settled? Then we can see about that little problem of yours.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, the submissive role coming naturally to him as he eagerly turned toward the kitchen, his heart racing with excitement at the prospect of what was to come.

As you watched him walk away, you couldn’t help but feel a rush of satisfaction at how easily he fell into place, his neediness a palpable presence in the room. It was a dance the two of you had perfected over time, a delicate balance of power and trust that left you both feeling fulfilled and connected in a way that was beyond words. 

Once you were settled, you called him back to you. He returned with a tray, the tea carefully prepared, his hands slightly trembling as he set it down on the table. He looked at you expectantly, hope and trepidation in his eyes, waiting for your next move.

“Come here, Spencer,” you said softly, patting the spot next to you on the couch.

He obeyed immediately, sitting close enough that his leg brushed against yours, his body taut with anticipation. You reached out, your hand finding his, your touch gentle yet commanding, a silent reminder of who was in charge.

“Are you ready to be a good boy for me?” you asked, your voice low and teasing, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his arm.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his voice quivering with eagerness, his eyes shining with a mixture of adoration and need.

"Good," you murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips, a promise of what was to come, the warmth of your breath mingling with his. Spencer’s heart soared at the touch, his whole body tingling with anticipation. He tried to press into you further, reaching for your hips to pull you into his lap, yearning for more contact, more of you. But before he could make his move, you slapped his hands away and pulled back.

Dazed, he looked at you with wide puppy eyes, his expression portaying confusion and longing. "What?" he asked softly, his voice laced with desperation.

"I need you to do something for me, baby. Can you do that?" you asked, your voice a silky command that sent shivers down his spine.

Spencer nodded so fast he resembled a bobblehead, eager to please, to do whatever you asked of him. His eyes were filled with unwavering devotion, the need to be good for you evident in every fiber of his being.

"Good boy…" You praised him, a wicked smile playing on your lips as you stood up, walking toward the bedroom with a sway in your hips that was both enticing and authoritative. Spencer eagerly followed you, his heart pounding in his chest as he anticipated what was to come.

When you reached the bedroom, you pointed to the chair in the corner, your eyes never leaving his. "Sit down," you instructed, your voice firm yet gentle.

Spencer reluctantly took a seat, his mind racing. This wasn’t usually how things went, and he felt a twinge of uncertainty mingling with his excitement. "Babe?" he asked, a hint of confusion in his voice as he tried to understand your plan.

"Shhh… Can you be quiet for me?" you asked, your tone soothing yet commanding, and he nodded again, eager to comply.

He watched as you moved around the room with purpose, his eyes following your every step. His anticipation grew with each passing moment, the air between you charged with a tension that was both electrifying and maddening. Spencer sat on the edge of the chair, his hands gripping the armrests as he tried to contain his eagerness, his heart beating a frenzied rhythm in his chest.

He was caught in a whirlwind of emotions, the urge to touch you warring with the need to obey, to be the good boy you wanted him to be. He knew he had to trust you, to let go of his own desires and surrender to the moment, to the pleasure you promised.

You glanced over at him, your eyes meeting his, and the look you gave him was filled with a promise that made his pulse race. He could feel his resolve wavering, the need to reach out and pull you close overwhelming. But he held himself back, knowing that your control over him was part of what made this so exhilarating, so intoxicating.

Spencer took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax, to let go of his own wants and needs, and focus solely on you, on the sexual tension, on the connection that bound you together. He was yours, and he knew that this moment would be worth every agonizing second of waiting.

Once you finished collecting the items you needed, you walked just close enough to Spencer that he couldn't touch you and began to strip. Spencer slowly realized he was being punished, as undressing you was one of his favorite things to do, whether or not it was sexual in nature. He loved the sensation of removing each piece, the anticipation that built with every button undone and every zipper pulled. It was an intimate act that spoke of trust and desire, something that made him feel closer to you than anything else.

He whimpered from his seat in the chair, gripping the arms tightly. His fingers dug into the fabric, struggling to maintain his composure as he watched you, every muscle in his body tense with longing. You continued until you were bare, your skin glowing with a confidence that made his heart skip a beat. You winked at him, teasing him with the promise of what was to come, before walking back to the bed and climbing on with a graceful ease that left him breathless.

Spencer wanted to talk, to plead, to explain himself, but he didn't want his punishment to get worse. He was caught between his desire to be good and his desperation for relief. So he did the only thing he could think of—he raised his hand, a silent request for permission to speak, his eyes wide and imploring.

You laughed softly, the sound wrapping around him like a caress. "Yes, baby? You can talk," you said, your tone both gentle and authoritative, holding the power to both soothe and command.

"Am I being punished?" Spencer asked, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with a mixture of curiosity and resignation.

"Yes, smart boy. You are," you replied, watching him with a steady gaze, your words firm but laced with affection.

"Why?" He ventured the question, a tentative exploration of his transgressions.

"Why do you think?" you asked, challenging him to delve into his own behavior, to understand the reasons behind his current predicament.

Spencer thought as much as he could in his state, his mind swirling with a chaotic mix of emotions. "Um, is it, uh, because I touched myself?" he ventured hesitantly, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Well, I didn’t know about that, but thank you for telling me," you said, your lips curling into a sly smile as you watched Spencer's entire face fall, realizing he had just outed himself.

"Try again, Spence," you prompted, giving him another chance to find the true answer.

"Because I, I texted you too much?" he guessed, his voice small and contrite, like a child admitting to a misdeed.

"Good job, baby boy. You're done talking now," you confirmed, acknowledging his confession. "Now you get to watch."

With that, you pulled out your favorite toy, the bane of Spencer's existence, to pleasure yourself. It was a delicious torment, a visual feast designed to both punish and tantalize, to teach him the value of patience and obedience.

Spencer watched, his breath hitching as you began to rub the vibrator on your clit, the sight both mesmerizing and agonizing. He was captivated by the way you moved, the way you seemed so utterly in control, the way you drew out your own pleasure with an ease that left him reeling.

Spencer's eyes never left you, drinking in every detail, every gasp and moan, every shiver of your body as you pleasured yourself. His need was growing exponentially, a desperate ache that throbbed in time with his racing heart, a longing that was both exquisite and unbearable. Every fiber of his being was attuned to you, yearning for your touch, your approval, your love.

You were a vision of temptation, a goddess in your own right, and Spencer was helpless to do anything but watch, his hands gripping the chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, the frustration and desire bubbling over into soft whimpers and pleas that slipped from his lips despite his best efforts to remain silent.

The room was filled with the sounds of your pleasure, a symphony that played just for him, a reminder of the power you held over him. Each sound, each movement was a sweet torture, intensifying his need until it was a tangible force, pressing down on him with relentless intensity. He felt a sob rise in his throat, a sound of both yearning and surrender.

"Please," he whispered, the word escaping him before he could stop it, his voice cracking with emotion.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze with a knowing smile that made his heart skip a beat. "No talking, remember?" you reminded him gently, your voice a sultry command that sent shivers down his spine.

Spencer nodded, biting his lip to stifle the whine that threatened to spill forth. Tears slipped down his cheeks, hot and unbidden, as he struggled to keep himself in check, the battle between obedience and desperation waging a fierce war within him.

Even though he was being punished, he knew that this was part of what made your relationship so special, so unique—a delicate balance of dominance and submission that left him feeling more alive than he had ever thought possible. The act of surrender, of giving himself over to you completely, was a heady sensation, one that filled him with a profound sense of belonging.

However, as you entered your core with the toy, Spencer let out a heart-wrenching sob, the sound filled with raw emotion. It was a sound that spoke of betrayal and longing, a testament to the war inside him. That should be him! He couldn’t help the tears that fell, his feelings a torrent that he couldn’t control. You didn’t chide him for that noise, knowing that he couldn’t hold back from that much. It was a moment of vulnerability that made your heart swell with empathy and power, seeing just how deeply he felt, how completely he had surrendered to you.

The vibrator in your hand whirred quietly as you reached your own peak, and then you turned it off, the room descending into a hushed silence as you calmed your breathing, your chest rising and falling as you regained your composure. You climbed off the bed, your movements fluid and deliberate, each step a reminder of the control you held.

You walked over to Spencer, who was still sitting in the chair, a picture of longing and obedience, his eyes glistening with both shed and unshed tears. You offered him your hand, a gesture of both forgiveness and invitation, a silent promise that the moment of his punishment was over.

Spencer took your hand immediately, rising from the chair with a quiet eagerness that spoke volumes about his desire to please you, to earn back your favor. His obedience was at an all-time high, each movement careful and deliberate, as if he were afraid of making a misstep.

“You did so good, baby. It’s over, okay?” you murmured softly, your voice soothing as you reached up to gently wipe away the remnants of his tears. Your touch was tender, an unspoken reassurance that filled the space between you with warmth and affection.

He nodded, sniffling slightly, fresh tears running over the ones already dried on his cheeks. The vulnerability in his eyes tugged at your heart, and you couldn’t help but smile softly at the sight of him so open, so trusting.

“Do you want your reward?” you asked, your tone teasing yet filled with genuine affection, knowing that he had earned the comfort and love that only you could provide.

“Yes, please,” he whispered, his voice filled with longing, the need for your touch evident in every word. His eyes met yours, filled with a hopeful longing that made your heart skip a beat, a promise that he would do anything to stay in this moment with you.

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, a promise of the reward that awaited him, a sweet culmination of all his patience and obedience. Spencer melted into you, his body relaxing as the tension ebbed away, replaced by the soothing balm of your touch.

With a soft smile, you led him to the bed, guiding him with a tenderness that spoke of love and understanding, ready to give him everything he had been waiting for, ready to show him just how much he meant to you. 

"Okay, baby, it's your choice first. What do you want?" you asked, a gentle encouragement in your voice as you gave Spencer the rare opportunity to express his desires. It was a gesture of trust and affection, a way to show him that his needs were important to you, even within the dynamic you shared.

Spencer blinked, momentarily stunned by the unexpected freedom you offered him. He almost never had any sort of control in the bedroom, and the sudden responsibility of choosing what he wanted was both exhilarating and daunting. His mind raced, a kaleidoscope of possibilities flashing through his thoughts as he considered his options.

"Uh, um," he stammered, his cheeks flushing with both embarrassment and excitement, "can you, um, lay down?"

"Sure, Spence," you laughed softly, the sound warm and inviting as you moved to accommodate his request.

Once you were laying on your back, your body a canvas of curves and soft skin, Spencer crawled between your legs, his eyes drawn to the glistening slick that beckoned to him. The evidence of what you had done was a siren call, screaming at him to reclaim you, to remind himself of who you belonged to just as much as he did.

Wordlessly, he leaned down, his breath warm against your skin as he positioned himself with reverent care. He looked up at you, his eyes filled with awe and adoration, before he licked your core from base to crest, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through your entire being, making you moan in response.

His touch was gentle yet insistent, his movements guided by a deep-seated desire to please you, to erase the distance that had been between you and replace it with something more profound. As his tongue worked its magic, he focused on every reaction, every gasp and shiver, adjusting his actions to draw out your pleasure in waves that washed over you.

You felt your body responding to his touch, a symphony of sensations that built steadily, the connection between you deepening with every pass of his tongue against your clit. It was a dance of devotion and need, a testament to the trust you had built together, and the love that underpinned every moment of your shared intimacy.

Spencer’s hands gripped your thighs, steadying himself as he delved deeper into the moment, his senses overwhelmed by the taste and scent of you, the soft sounds of your moans spurring him on. He was utterly consumed by his task, lost in the rhythm of your responses, the symphony of your pleasure, a song he never tired of hearing.

As he continued, you felt the tension in your body coil tighter, the anticipation building with every passing second. Spencer was relentless in his devotion, his tongue and lips moving in a rhythm that threatened to send you over the edge. The sensations were overwhelming, a rising crescendo of pleasure that filled every corner of your being.

But you didn’t want to finish just yet. You wanted to savor the moment, to draw out the exquisite tension that lingered between you. With a gentle but firm push, you moved Spencer away before it was too late, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you fought to regain control.

Spencer looked up at you, confusion and distress clouding his eyes. He immediately started tearing up again, a wave of insecurity washing over him as he tried to make sense of the situation. He blinked rapidly, his voice breaking with emotion as he tried to understand what he had done wrong.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he babbled, his words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. “Please let me try again, I’ll do better, I promise, please, just–”

“Whoa, baby, slow down,” you interrupted gently, reaching out to cup his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears that threatened to spill over his cheeks.

Spencer froze, his eyes wide and searching yours for reassurance. You could see the emotions swirling within him, a cocktail of desperation, fear, and hope that tugged at your heart.

“You did nothing wrong, Spence,” you assured him softly, your voice a calming balm that soothed the jagged edges of his anxiety. “I just didn’t want to come yet. You were doing so well, baby.”

He sniffled, his lower lip quivering slightly as he processed your words, relief flooding his system like a tidal wave. The tension in his shoulders eased, replaced by a tentative hope that he hadn’t disappointed you.

“Really?” he asked, his voice small and unsure, as if he were afraid to believe it.

"Really,” you confirmed with a warm smile, your fingers tracing gentle patterns on his skin. “You were amazing, Spencer. I just wanted to take care of you first, okay?”

“Oh,” Spencer blushed, his cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink as he tried to hide his face in your hands. He was such a giver that sometimes he forgot you liked to give too. The thought of you wanting to focus on his pleasure made his heart race with excitement and gratitude.

“Can I touch you, baby?” you asked softly, your voice laced with affection and a hint of playful intent.

“Mhm,” he nodded eagerly, his eyes shining with anticipation as he gave you his permission.

You switched positions, guiding Spencer to lay down on the bed, his body stretched out beneath you like a beautiful canvas. He watched with wide eyes as you climbed over his legs, your movements graceful and deliberate. You began to mouth along his adorable tummy, placing gentle kisses that made him giggle and squirm beneath you.

“Stop it, that tickles!” he laughed, his voice a joyful melody that filled the room. He tried to keep still, but his body naturally reacted to your teasing touches, causing his muscles to twitch and shift under your lips.

You smiled up at him, your heart swelling with affection at the sight of his genuine happiness. “Keep still,” you instructed playfully, your tone both loving and commanding, a mix that Spencer found utterly irresistible.

“I’ll try,” Spencer promised, his voice a bit shaky as he fought to obey your command. His eyes were wide, filled with a combination of anticipation and delight as he felt your lips continue their journey across his skin.

As you licked down his sparse trail of hair, you felt his body respond, muscles tensing beneath your tongue. He took a deep, steadying breath, the sound still a bit shaky, but he was doing better, finding his center amidst the flurry of sensations.

“Okay, Spence?” you asked, pausing to look up at him, ensuring he was comfortable and at ease.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he replied, his voice a little breathless but filled with warmth and trust. He couldn’t help the happy tears that welled up in his eyes, the emotion of the moment washing over him in waves. The feeling of being so cared for, so cherished, made him feel safe and loved in a way that was almost overwhelming.

“Okay,” you murmured, a note of reassurance in your voice, before you took him into your mouth, your movements deliberate and precise, a dance of intimacy that you had both perfected over time.

“Oh my god!” he cried, his voice a mixture of surprise and ecstasy, his head falling back against the pillow as the pleasure washed over him in waves. The sensation was almost too much, too intense, and he let out a series of whimpering cries, unable to hold back the sounds that escaped his lips.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, his eyes fluttering closed as he gave in to the sensations coursing through him. The feeling of your mouth wrapped around him was almost too much to bear, a pleasure so profound that it bordered on pain, he had been on edge for so long. He was lost in the moment, caught in a web of need and longing, every nerve ending alive with sensation.

“Please, please,” he begged, his voice hitching with each word. He could feel the tears spilling over, a combination of joy and desperation that he couldn’t contain. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

You smiled softly, knowing that you had him right where you wanted him. His voice was a beautiful swirl of whines and pleas, a testament to the depth of his need and the power you held over him.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” you cooed, your voice a soothing balm that eased the tension in his body, even as the sensations continued to build. “Just relax and let go, okay?”

Spencer nodded, his head moving in jerky motions as he tried to follow your command. His body trembled with the effort of holding himself together, of staying still under the onslaught of pleasure that threatened to overwhelm him. His hands clutched at the sheets, his knuckles white with the effort of maintaining control.

“I’m trying,” he whimpered, his voice cracking with emotion. “It just feels so good, I can’t—oh god, please!”

The tears flowed freely now, his cheeks wet with the evidence of his vulnerability. But he didn’t care, didn’t try to hold back the emotion that spilled over, knowing that he was safe here, that he was loved and cherished and understood. Every tear was a testament to the depth of his trust in you, to the surrender that came so naturally when he was with you.

As you licked and sucked his cock, Spencer felt himself go a little bit more insane. The sensations were overwhelming, each touch a bolt of electricity that shot through him, igniting every nerve ending with exquisite pleasure. When your tongue traced the ridge along his head, he thought he died and ascended to a higher being, the world around him fading away until there was nothing but you and the bliss you were giving him.

His body trembled beneath you, his muscles tensing and relaxing in a dance of ecstasy that left him breathless. Every stoke of your tongue was a sweet torture, a reminder of just how much he needed you. He felt like he was on the edge of something monumental, something that would shatter him and remake him all at once.

No longer able to hold his release any longer, Spencer began to babble again, the words spilling from his lips in a torrent of need and desperation.

“Oh, I’m going to come, please. Ohhh… please, can I come? I’ve been so good. Please!” he pleaded, his voice full of whimpers and cries, the emotion raw and unfiltered.

His eyes met yours, wide and imploring, filled with a desperate need for permission, for your blessing. His chest heaved with each breath, his body straining against the pleasure that threatened to consume him, to pull him under into a sea of bliss that he both feared and longed for.

“Please,” he begged again, the tears continuing to flow, each one a sign of his vulnerability, his surrender.

You paused for a moment, allowing the tension to build even further, your eyes locking with his, your expression both tender and commanding. The power you held over him was intoxicating, a heady mix of dominance and love that left you both breathless.

“Not yet, Spence,” you murmured softly, your voice a soothing balm that both calmed and ignited him, a promise of what was to come. “Just a little longer, okay? You can do it.”

Spencer let out a low whine, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, of obeying your command even as every fiber of his being screamed for release. But he nodded, his eyes shining with desperation and devotion, his heart full to bursting with the love he felt for you.

“Okay,” he whispered, his voice a shaky breath that carried with it all the emotion of the moment, all the trust and need and longing that filled him to overflowing. “Okay, I’ll wait.”

He bit his lip, his body a taut line of tension and anticipation, every nerve ending alive with sensation as he held himself back. His mind was a whirl of pleasure, need, and love. It was a beautiful agony, a sweet torment that left him on the edge of everything, ready to fall into the abyss of bliss that awaited him. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of how close he was to the release he so desperately craved.

“Good boy,” you praised, your voice a melodic promise that resonated deep within him, and then you mouthed along his balls, your movements calculated to push him to his very limits.

The sensation was too much, the culmination of everything you had built together. Spencer’s control shattered, and he felt himself tipping over the edge, the world narrowing to a single point of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Spencer shouted, his voice carrying apology and ecstasy, as he came, the force of his release catching him by surprise, his body shuddering with the intensity of it.

His release hit you in unexpected places, getting his come in your hair and on your face, the aftermath of his pleasure painting a vivid picture of the depth of his release. 

You couldn't help but laugh softly, your eyes shining with amusement and affection as you took in his apologetic expression, the mix of embarrassment and satisfaction on his face endearing him to you even more.

“It’s okay, Spence,” you reassured him, your voice gentle and soothing as you reached up to wipe the sticky substance from your skin. “You just owe me one.”

“What…?” Spencer asked in a daze of post-orgasmic bliss, his mind still spinning from the intensity of the experience. His breath came in shallow gasps, and he felt as if he were floating, weightless and free, in the aftermath of the ecstasy you had given him.

“I said,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his thigh in a gentle kiss that sent shivers down his spine, “you owe me one.”

“Oh,” he replied, his eyes widening slightly. He was slightly scared at the prospect of what was to come, knowing that your idea of a reward was often as intense as it was pleasurable. But beneath that fear lay a bubbling excitement, a thrill at the thought of pleasing you, of being able to return the gift you had given him. 

“Think you can handle it?” you teased, your voice a holding challenge and affection as you watched the emotions play out across his face.

“Yes!” Spencer exclaimed, his answer immediate and earnest, his eagerness clear in his wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Okay, baby,” you chuckled, a playful light in your eyes as you shifted to climb on top of him. Your movements were graceful and confident, a display of the control you wielded with such ease. The anticipation in the air was palpable, a charged electricity that wrapped around you both as you prepared to take him on another journey of pleasure.

You grabbed his soft shaft, your fingers gentle yet firm as you worked him in your hand, your touch a combination of care and precision that drew Spencer further into your spell. The sensations were overwhelming, a cascade of stimulation that left him breathless and trembling beneath you.

As you moved, Spencer writhed and whined in overstimulation, his body a live wire of sensation that sparked with every touch. The overstimulation sent him into a dizzying spiral of sensation, the world narrowing to the point where nothing existed but you and the incredible feelings you were coaxing from him.

“Oh, oh god,” he gasped, his voice filled with desperation and delight as he tried to process the onslaught of pleasure. His hands clutched at the sheets, his fingers curling into the fabric as he fought to hold on, to ride the wave of bliss that threatened to sweep him away completely.

“Just relax, Spence,” you murmured, your voice a soothing balm that wrapped around him, grounding him even as he felt himself slipping further into the depths of ecstasy. “I’ve got you.”

The assurance in your words, the confidence in your touch, allowed him to let go, to surrender completely to the moment and you. Spencer’s whines turned into soft moans, his body moving in time with yours. 

As you continued, he felt himself teetering on the edge once more, the pleasure building and building until it reached a crescendo that left him breathless, his world narrowing to a single, perfect point of ecstasy.

"Please, please," he begged, his voice a soft plea as he gazed up at you with wide, shining eyes, his heart full of gratitude and love. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.” His words were laced with desperation, a raw emotion that spilled from him in waves.

In that moment, you let go, pulling away just before he reached his peak. 

“No!” he whined, wiggling beneath you as his body searched for the contact he craved. His eyes were wide with disbelief and desperation, the sudden absence of your touch leaving him feeling adrift.

"Stop," you commanded gently, your voice a soothing balm that steadied him, even as you denied him the release he so desperately sought.

Spencer looked up with big eyes, waiting with bated breath for what was to come next. His chest rose and fell rapidly, anticipation and longing held him still, trusting you to guide him through the moment.

You rose up on your knees, positioning yourself with deliberate care, the soft, teasing smile on your lips hinting at the pleasure that awaited him. His gaze was fixed on you, awe and adoration in his eyes as he watched you take control.

Guiding his cock into your core, you moved with a grace that left him breathless, his heart racing as you slowly lowered yourself onto him. The sensation was exquisite, a perfect blend of warmth and pressure that enveloped him, drawing a choked gasp from his lips as he felt himself surrounded by you.

You sank down until you were flush, ass to thighs, your bodies connected in a way that transcended the physical, leaving him trembling beneath you.

Spencer cried loud and drawn out, his noise one of ecstasy as his head fell back against the pillow, his mouth open in a silent cry of bliss. It was a vision that took your breath away, his body a canvas of sensation and emotion, every muscle taut with the intensity of the moment.

The pleasure washed over him in waves, each crest a surge of euphoria that left him gasping for breath, his heart pounding in his chest as he lost himself in the pleasure. His hands found their way to your hips, holding on as if you were his lifeline, grounding him amidst the dizzying swirl of sensation that filled his senses.

You moved with a rhythm that spoke of both tenderness and command, your body taking everything you wanted and needed from Spencer. 

“Please,” he whimpered, the word a breathless plea that slipped from his lips unbidden, hopeful this time you would listen. “Please, don’t stop, please.”

His voice was raw with emotion, the sincerity in his eyes a reflection of the trust he placed in you, the love that filled every corner of his heart as he gazed up at you, his vision of perfection and desire.

As you continued, guiding him through the waves of sensation with a skillful grace that left him breathless, Spencer knew that he was exactly where he belonged—in your arms, wrapped in the warmth of your love, the safety of your embrace.

Touch-starved and needy, now overstimulated and desperate for release, Spencer brought his fingers to your clit in hopes you would let him come again. His touch was tentative at first, the gentle pressure of his fingers a plea for more, a request for permission that you were more than willing to grant. He was caught between his desire for release and the need to please you, and every part of him was alive with the anticipation of what was to come.

“Oh, good boy, baby,” you praised, your voice a sultry murmur that sent shivers down his spine. His heart leaped at your words, the warmth of your approval wrapping around him like a comforting embrace. 

As he continued to rub your clit, his fingers moved with a deliberate precision that belied the need thrumming through him, his desire to make you feel as good as you made him. You writhed atop him, your body moving in sync with his, chasing your own release with a fervor that mirrored his own.

You could feel the tension building within you, each movement drawing you closer to the precipice, the edge of bliss that you both longed to reach. As you got closer, you purposefully clenched your walls, changing the angle in a way that made Spencer cry out in both pleasure and pain, the sensation pushing him toward the edge once more.

“Please, do that again,” he begged, his voice a breathless plea filled with desperation and hope. His eyes were wide and pleading, his need written across every line of his face.

And so you did.

With a knowing smile, you repeated the motion, the deliberate shift of your core creating a cascade of sensations that rippled through you both. Spencer’s body responded instinctively, his hips arching up to meet yours, his breath hitching in his throat as he felt himself being drawn into the depths of pleasure once more.

Every movement was a dance of desire, sensation that wrapped around you both, binding you together in a shared experience of bliss. Spencer’s fingers never faltered, his touch a constant reminder of his devotion, his eagerness to please, to bring you to the same heights of ecstasy that he longed to reach.

As you continued, the tension in your body coiled tighter, a winding thread of sensation that promised release with every thrust, every touch. Spencer’s cries mingled with your own, a duet of pleasure that filled the room, echoing off the walls as you both teetered on the brink.

You could feel the climax rising within you, a wave of bliss that built with each passing moment, drawing you inexorably toward the peak of your desire. Spencer’s fingers moved in time with the roll of your hips, bringing you right where you needed to be.

With a final surge, you gave in to the sensations, the culmination of your shared desire sweeping over you in a tidal wave of ecstasy. Spencer’s cry echoed yours, a harmony of whimpers and moans that filled the room, leaving you both breathless and spent in the aftermath.

Spencer thrust once more, before coming inside you. The intensity of the moment left him breathless, his body shuddering with the force of his release. You both knew he didn’t ask, but neither of you cared. The unspoken understanding between you was enough, a silent agreement that transcended words. 

Just happy to have you home and be back in each other’s arms, you both reveled in the warmth of the embrace, the security of knowing that you were where you belonged. His breath came in soft gasps as he tried to recover, the afterglow of the experience wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

“Welcome home,” Spencer murmured, his voice a whisper of contentment as he nuzzled into your neck, his arms wrapping around you with a gentle possessiveness that spoke volumes about how much he had missed you.

You smiled, your fingers tracing soothing patterns along his back, a gentle reminder of your presence, your promise to always return to him. The motion was soft and reassuring, a silent affirmation of the bond that had kept you together through time and distance. Spencer melted into your touch, the tension in his muscles slowly unwinding under your gentle caress.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered back, your voice tender and filled with sincerity. The words were a balm to his soul, soothing the ache of longing that had settled in his chest during your absence.

“I love you,” he whispered into your skin, his breath warm against your skin as he nuzzled closer, seeking the comfort and safety that only you could provide. 

“I love you more, baby,” you replied softly, your voice a gentle promise that wrapped around him like a protective embrace.

The world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the comfort and security of each other’s arms. It was a moment of perfect peace, where nothing else mattered but the warmth of your bodies pressed together, the rhythmic beating of your hearts creating a soothing melody that lulled you both into a state of contentment.

[growingstories]

Cooking show

Daniel had always had a passion for capturing remarkable moments through the lens of his camera. He dreamt of becoming a renowned director someday, and with unwavering determination, he set out to conquer the world of television.

Starting as a mere assistant, Daniel eagerly absorbed knowledge from his mentors and slowly climbed up the ladder professional. His hard work and dedication did not go unnoticed, and soon enough, he found himself appointed as the director of a popular daily cooking show.

With this new position came great responsibilities and a busy schedule. Daniel had to shoot all the shows for the entire year within a span of just five months. Each episode demanded numerous recipes, as the show featured three courses every day, with two full dinners to be prepared.

The rule of the show was that the newest team members would eat the leftovers to avoid any food waste, a principle the strict presenter held dear. Observing Daniel's ability to consume the food easily and quickly, the presenter concocted the idea of slowly fattening him up.

As time passed, Daniel's once fit body began to vanish beneath layers of excess weight. The presenter took advantage of this by preparing more fattening meals and, occasionally, adding mistakes to them before serving them to Daniel.

Three seasons went by, and no trace of Daniel's former self could be found. His increasing weight became the main topic of discussion amongst the crew, who continued to bring him leftover food without question. The team considered themselves a "winning team" and saw no need for new members or any changes.

However, amidst the turmoil caused by Daniel's weight gain, a secret affair bloomed between him and the presenter. They sought solace in each other, finding comfort in their shared love for food and sensual desires. Their sexual encounters became intertwined with their indulgent eating habits, as they would reward each other with lavish meals after every intimate encounter.

The affair remained a well-guarded secret, hidden in the shadows of the cooking show's set. Neither of them wanted their professional lives to be adversely affected by their forbidden love affair.

Yet, as the years passed, Daniel's weight continued to balloon, taking a severe toll on his health and self-esteem. He slowly came to the realization that he had become a mere pawn in the presenter's game, manipulated for the sake of their affair.

Haunted by his deteriorating physical and mental state, Daniel found himself at a crossroads. The once-ambitious cameraman knew he needed to break free from the shackles that bound him—both physically and emotionally.

Summoning his inner strength, Daniel decided to confront the presenter, demanding an end to their affair and coming out as a couple. And so they did. The constant flow of food kept coming. Now that they were a couple they were even eating at home. The presenter was making Daniels favorite dishes at home too, which means that there would not come to an end to his growth.

[astriefer]

“Please hold me.” for thomastair (ofc bc that's what you said) 🥺

Thank you for this! @littlx-songbxrd you asked for this as well. I'm sorry it's so bad.

~~~~~

Trust me with thy heart

Pairing: Thomastair

Words: 4,537

Contains mild angst, some self harm and hurt/comfort.

Note I am awful at writing angst or hurt/comfort. This whole poor writing is based on miscommunication, much or less, or the fear to let others close.

~~~~~

Thomas wasn't fond of fights.

Demons were one thing. Their destiny as Shadowhunters was to protect mankind from those filthy monsters who invade their world. They brought disorder and death. The people he cared about were a different tale. 

A light jest with his friends, why not? A banter with his father about taking the coat or not while going outside? Sure. But not a very tumultuous, tempestuous strife with them. He preferred them all to get along with each other. 

Thomas liked even less when it was him involved in the disagreement.

He spent the last day jogging between massive training seasons, hanging out with his friends, and losing himself in his thoughts. Now, he avoided everyone in favor of reading Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. He made a special effort to tell no one where he was going, so non could bother him and ask him questions.

So Thomas was stunned when Ariadne Bridgestock, of all people, rushed through the entry in an unmatched combination of grace and ivory skirts, then flopped herself onto the armchair in front of Thomas.

While she had had a pleasant expression on her face, there was a dangerous gleam in her eyes. If Thomas hadn't known better, he would've sworn she came here to murder him.

"You and Alastair fought," she stated.

Thomas glanced between his book to her determined face twice, considering his options. Then, on behalf of good manners, he put a bookmark on the current page he pretended to be reading for half an hour. "Is it Alastair's way to tell me to speak to him? If so, please tell him not to embroil any other folks in our relationship."

"He hadn't sent me," Ariadne ignored the last part of his sentence. "But he did not arrive for our conclave."

A spark of concern lightened up in Thomas, yet he repressed it. He was angry with Alastair, Thomas reminded himself. "And what have you speculated I can do about it?"

She looked at him funny. "Talk to him, I presume."

"Ariadne," he tried, weariness falling heavy on him. "While I appreciate your concern, I doubt Alastair wants to see me. In fact, I doubt whether I want to see him right now. I know you confide in each other-" more than Alastair does with him, the bitter thought tore its way into his head. "And your intentions are well, but I will highly prefer to keep this between myself and Alastair."

He thought this would give her down and make her apologize. "Alastair wouldn't have sent someone else, and he didn't solicit help from myself," she said instead. "He would've given time to you both to collect your minds, and then come to you in clearer mind."

It was right. He knew it was. "So this parley is all you?"

"As I said, Yes. I worried for my friend, who happened to be your partner."

Thomas brushed his thumb on the spine of the book, musing over her words.  "Why would you be worried?"

"He stood me up. I came by your flat later, just for him to say nothing has happened. When I asked where you were, he conceded you two had a big bump in the road."

"That's a nice way to put it," Thomas murmured. "I frankly wished to be left alone. It's nothing-"

"Thomas," Her amber eyes met hazel ones. "You are good at many things. Fighting demons, and keeping the rest of the Thieves out of trouble, for example."

He quirked an eyebrow. "And?"

"Lying is not one of them."

Thomas swallowed, endeavoring to hide the feeling of hurt off his face. Recalling what happened a few days before made his whole body ache in pain. "So Alastair and I had a row. It always happens with lads." 

"It's not just a lad for you," she pressed. He was wide aware of the chastisement in her words. "It's Alastair. And never have I seen him the way he looked when I checked on him."

"What do you mean?" he asked after he perceived her words. "Alastair was absolutely fine when I left the flat." 

"You have to see for yourself." Ariadne said, "Go to him."

Despite the knots formed in the abdomen, he dithered. "Things ended up stormy when we last spoke. Maybe he's still mad. Maybe I'm still mad."

It wasn't just Alastair who was mad. He wondered how Alastair had been this past day, and how was he feeling, among many other thoughts. Yet the cloud of exhaustion and hurt surrounding him perturbated the nervousness. He was allowed to be upset about what happened. It sure wasn't nothing. Not on his part, at most. Why couldn't Alastair just-

"Excuses are not appreciated," Ariadne announced, "So you better confront him already, or I swear I shall chase you to the end of the Earth with my electrum whip." Ariadne threatened, and that what had taken to wake Thomas out of his hesitation.

"Of course," he sighed, "Because I don't have enough troubles already."

She brushed it off again with a smile, and Thomas felt mildly annoyed. He hadn't shown it. "Sort it out. It will benefit the two of you to tackle the problem."

She left no place for arguments. Utterly abandoning the book, Thomas rose to his feet and went to leave the room. 

He was glad to get out of the grip of this confusing confab, but he was even more unsure if to listen to her advice.

He was still angry with Alastair.

~~~~~

A veil of fog surrounded the city. It was a prevalent London day, cool and cloudy. The wind is blowing hard, welcoming passersby in a burst of freezing breeze. A thunderstorm on its way, they said.

But those were the last of things that perturbed Alastair's peace of mind. It matched his mood just fine. If someone was to describe him, curled up on his bed alone, he could imagine being portrayed as forlorn and tormented.

No, what bothered him was a particular someone that left and hasn't returned. Alastair hated he still hoped Thomas would return and make him less cold.

His breath was heavy, and his lungs burned like fire. He remembered words that haunted him for weeks in the past.  I believed you were more than what others said about you. I conceived myself beneath all the harsh words, was someone with a kind soul waiting to be seen. Was it all a lie I told myself?

Darkness flooded his senses. Trying to get any portion of self-control on his body he could, Alastair rose to his feet, glancing out of the window on unsteady legs without seeing anything at all. Gather yourself together.

But the words burned deep then, and they burned deep now. That was a battle against himself he meant to lose. The cold spread not only from the world beyond the window but from within him. It pulled out his ugly head, writhing and furious, desperately trying to break free and rise to the surface. People walked in the streets, oblivious to his troubles just as he was to theirs.

Thomas wasn't there.

Thomas wasn't there, and Cordelia wasn't there, and anyone he loved wasn't there. He locked himself in their flat for the past day, overthinking and speculating and wondering why did he have to be the way he is. If Thomas had finally realized he deserved someone so much better than Alastair, would he be surprised? Alastair was aware of this fact too well. The way he looked at him when they fought, the shaky hands when he opened the door, and the hours of waiting in case Thomas will return, just for nothing to happen. What does it mean if not that Alastair finally made Thomas give up and leave?

This inner part of him was crying, demanded to be heard, to be set free. A shrill cry came to his ears, and it took him a moment to perceive it belonged to him.

His vision became vague, his head ached, and everything spun around. He tried to lay a hand on the wall - only to find he miscalculated the distance and fell ungracefully on his knees. His heart pounded in his chest while the darkness tried to pull him in; He tried to take a breath and dozens of small knives tore his lungs up. He shrank, gasping for air that didn't come.  

Everything seemed blurry, all his mind could engross in was the words Thomas Lightwood told him, the cold truth dripping from them, freezing Alastair all over again. 

Alastair was accountable for all the hideous things he'd done and said, unquestionably. How weak is he that he hides behind shallow faces and vicious words? What a dolt he is, hurting a person, mainly the only person outside of his family that seemed to genuinely care for him. His words rang in his head, Thomas's voice haunting every corner.  

He sank lower, his breathing gurgling, reaching out in search of something stable, something that would serve as a pillar in the chaos that ensued around him. His hand extended out to the still air and then groped for something to hold on the floor. That came the way of a cold, sharp object that lay on the ground. He gripped it tightly, and he groaned in pain and relief at the physical ache that eased his mind.

"Alastair?" A voice called.

~~~~~

Thomas was about to lose his right mind. Alastair was trembling vigorously, barely able to stand on his feet that were shaking like a leaf swaying in the wind.

"Alastair," Thomas stuttered, with no response back. His indignation vanished to immediate panic. "Alastair?" he repeated more stubbornly.

His chest went up and down quickly; His eyes were wide like that of a deer caught in the automobile light. When Thomas tried to take a step toward him, the smaller man stiffened and stood bolt upright. Thomas stopped dead.

"I came at the behest of Ariadne," he said, just for the sake of talking. Alastair hadn't told him to quiet, so he kept going. "And because I was worried about you."

"Leave," Alastair hissed out frantically. Thomas couldn't stop the throbbing burn striking through his body.

Thomas took a few steps back, allowing Alastair his space. He had no temptation to leave as he requested - Thomas simply waited aside, for a chance Alastair would change his mind. He recalled the nights he woke up from a nightmare, dazed and overwhelmed with emotions, and how Alastair always reassured him in the dead of night.

This Alastair seemed lost in his own mind, unable to escape, and it terrified Thomas. Yet, he shoved the dread aside and put on the most relaxing facade he could. He was told to be quite good at it.

"I'm right here, Azizam." 

"Everyone leaves. You can do as well."

Somewhere in his mind, the pieces joined together, like a colossal puzzle. Was he afraid Thomas would leave him? That he would give up on him? he told him he could leave in their run-in, because he thought everyone will leave him in the end? 

"I don't know. I don't know how to do it." To cease making the wrong decision. To cease pushing people away. To cease hurting people. "man nemidânam."

"Alastair, can you hear me?"

As he found out, Alastair did not hear him. "I don't want to hurt you. I already hurt you so much." Alastair went on, choking on his own words. Thomas was in full panic mode, and he hurried further toward Alastair with barely contained alarm.

I find you worth any pain to come, Thomas thought. 

"It's fine," Thomas said. "I am fine. I want you to be fine as well. It's much more important to me than whether you may or may not harm me."

Something split in his face, and he took a deep breath down his throat. His eyes snapped to Thomas. The terror on his face made Thomas's heart sink.

"Alastair?" he asked, but it didn't manage to elicit a response from the other man.

Thomas drew closer to Alastair, not missing the flinch passing the half-Persian's body. Thomas could hear his breath, shallow and trembling. He could painfully see the tremor of his hands. The wide eyes that so clearly tried to hold back tears. He took one step closer, and Alastair took one back.

Thomas imminently came to a halt. Alastair squeezed hard against the wall. He looked like a captive animal on the verge of losing hope, a man pushed to the edge, an injured soul. 

Thomas took one step closer. With his enormous figure, it all needed to reach Alastair. He wrapped his arms around the shorter man, didn't let go even when Alastair squirmed, trying to shove him aside, fought to set free from Thomas's grip. His hold only tightened, and he used his strength to shove Alastair's head into his chest. He kept him close, kept even when Alastair protested, kept his hold when Alastair Surrendered abruptly, sinking into the soft material of Thomas's clothing, even when sobs began and his chest got wet from the tears of his love.

Thomas pressed his lips to the dark hair, held Alastair steadily while he cried. No words of reassurance passed between them. Truly, Thomas wasn't sure Alastair would have heard him if he tried. He knew the touch was what Alastair needed. Their embrace was clumsy and distorted, but it was enough. Enough to tell Alastair he wasn't alone; Thomas wouldn't have let him go through this alone.

With a soft sigh, Thomas finally let loose of his grip. He started to pull away and was surprised when he felt fists clasping on the fabric of the front of his sleeveshirt.

"Please," Alastair whispered desperately."Please hold me."

Thomas couldn't find it in himself to deny it to Alastair. They slipped to the floor. Alastair buried his face in Thomas's chest once again, shaking silently. Thomas felt his mouth forming words on his chest, although he could not tell which. All the while, his hands embraced the slim, shaking form of Alastair.

A few minutes had passed. Or an hour. Or a couple of days. Thomas didn't feel the time had passed while he tried to console his beloved one. He closed his eyes and concentrated on moving his hand on Alastair's small back, kept him close. The other hand came to caress the space between his ear and jawline, where he was creating circles on the tender skin.

Slowly, The dark-haired's breath became more even.

"Here you are," Thomas let a breath of both exhaustion and relief leave his body. "Can you hear me, Eshgham?"

"Y-Yes."

"Would you like me to get you a glass of water?"

"No."

Thomas sighed inertly as he held the other gentleman in his warm hands, promising reassurance and no judgment. Alastair, for the matter, clang to him as if he was drowning and Thomas was his only lifeline.

He never liked to fight with Alastair. It rarely happened, but when it did it left a bitter taste in his mouth and a pang at his heart. But he was not going to give up - not on this. He remembered his mother once told him couples fight, sometimes, because they still care about what the other does. It was their first argument with their new agreement. It didn't make him feel any better at the time. All his life he had been surrounded with unconditioned love, never exposed to the arguments and the imperfect details. It made him view love as just sweet and honey, while he learned that there's more with Alastair.

There's the giving. And the receiving. The trust in the other's intentions and the willingness to make them your priority foremost of all. The disagreements make you understand when your boundaries are and open a place for learning and acceptance. The balance you build with time, something he hoped he could shape with the man in front of him.

The trust part, to his belief, was something they still were working on. Alastair had leaned on him, and Thomas wondered it he thought now he calmed down, Thomas would leave him again. He did the last time.

"I'm not leaving," They locked eyes, and for some reason, he felt hope. "Alastair, I'm not leaving."

There are very few things he wanted more than Alastair. Verily, He was what he longed for above everything else. He wanted Alastair and everything he was.

Alastair didn't answer, but he averted his eyes.

"Are you ready to go now?"

Alastair seemed slightly lost, but he nodded and weakly stood on his legs. He followed Thomas while Thomas flung himself up and let Alastair sat on their bed beside him. The comfortable place always made both feel better - The mix of English and Persian and Spanish books on the bookshelves. The notebooks full of poems Thomas kept beside his side of the bed. Alastair's spears collection. The artworks they bought when they visited art galleries.Even the soft yellow light was a source of relief.

"You are mad," proclaimed Alastair in a hoarse voice.

"So are you," Thomas returned. Alastair shook his head, and Thomas's eyebrows rose. "So what then, if not mad?"

"Mostly nauseous," Alastair murmured, managing to startle a breathy chuckle out of Thomas. "But also bloody exhausted."

Thomas fumble after the right words, before deciding he should be candid. "I didn't like being apart from you in those few days. But I stick to what I told you before, Alastair." He saw it happening - the wall of defense Alastair was building up again after the last one had crushed. "Let me bring some fresh air into here."

Thomas tried to ventilate the room well while Alastair sank into the mattress and sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard. "If you call the London foggy, polluted air fresh, then sure."

A bit of relief passed because of Alastair's quip. He didn't lose it. "It seems you and my father share this opinion."

Thomas scanned Alastair, then noticed the cut on his right palm. Absentmindedly, he approached his side.

"Why did you do it?"

It took Alastair a moment to conceive what he was referring to. He hastily covered it with his other hand, but Thomas saw it. "I - didn't mean to."

Thomas watched the cut in awe as if it was imaginary.  However, when he grazed the skin, Alastair winced. 

Thomas wasn't sure how to counter this. Their fight. What just happened. Alastair didn't either. Or did he wish to pretend none of this happened? That he -both of them- weren't hurt?

This thought wasn't toleratable to Thomas.

And that's why, after he took his stele out of his dresser and was applying an iratze on Alastair's forearm, that he asked, "I want to talk about what happened the day before yesterday."

He could feel Alastair stiffening, his muscles tensing. "I was upset," Alastair said cautiously. "I shouldn't have snapped at you, Tom."

"You shouldn't have," Thomas agreed. He was done with the iratze and put the stele aside. "But that's not why I'm distraught."

Alastair shot him a tumultuous look. Thomas took a deep breath before looking Alastair dead in the eye. "You were upset, but you wouldn't tell me why. You grumble about things relentlessly, but when you're truly shaken you don't share at all. It's not - just this argument. It's not just one thing. Those small moments you hesitate whether to tell me the truth. The times you don't." He inhaled, letting the cold air fill his lungs. He resisted looking away from Alastair's face, didn't let his eyes flutter around the room like they were trying to do. "Love is also built on trust and communication. If we don't have those, what is left?" He didn't need to hear Alastair's reply. "We talk, and we share, yet I cannot understand why you're so grumpy at times. I need you to tell me."

"Can't one just be pissed off at the world?"

"Alastair."

"Many things can upset me," Alastair said. Thomas might have hallucinated it, but his voice was a bit shaky. "Do you want to hear them all?"

"Yes," Thomas answered immediately. His tone was sincere.

Alastair's hand reached to the other side of the bed, a nonverbal request.  They still couldn't stop staring at each other. But not playfully, or lovingly, but earnestly.

Alastair, naked of his facade and any snide remarks. Alastair, whom he grew to know and rarely showed up to many else.

I do trust you. I care for you. were the meaning behind Alastair's gaze. All Thomas wanted is to lean on and forget everything. But still - it was not his pride making him relucent. That was much deeper than that. 

He lingered there just for a moment too long, enough to make Alastair believe he declined the request, and his hand quirked in pain for a moment. His face became emotionless - and Thomas had feared he misleadingly deceived Alastair that he didn't want them after all. That he didn't want him.

In moments, he climbed on the bed. He coddled Alastair, silently and diligently. "Tell me. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing," Alastair retorted eventually. He rubbed his eyes and laid back on the bed board. Then after a moment. "Everything."

"I hate it when I see you suffer and I don't know why," Thomas whispered. "I want to help. More than anything. But you push me away and I am left to think it might be because of me, because-"

"No," Alastair said firmly, extending his hands to cup Thoams's. "You have never been anything but good to me. It's just-," he broke off.

Thomas searched his foggy eyes. "I don't blame you," he told him, "If it's hard for you. But trust me enough to tell me what bothers you, thus we could face it together." He collected his hands in his own, lifting them so he could kiss his knuckles. "I know I want to stand by your side whatever the cost." he was certain about that; No whirlwind to come could change it. "Will you let me?"

Instead of an answer, Alastair kissed him.

Thomas knew he was kind, forgiving, trusting. He knew Alastair was slow to trust, slow to reveal his true feelings, hiding behind sharp words to secure himself from being harmed by people close to him. He knew the world broke his heart - so viciously, and that he took the pieces that were left. It was undoubtedly hard. Alastair had changed so much, yet Thomas wanted to understand, to reassure Alastair they were in this together. 

"Hamsar-am," Alastair said when they pulled away. "I will try."

Thomas smiled at the endearment term. His heart was throbbing fast. "I was mad," he confessed, "because you refused to tell me what's wrong. You pretended. And I - I don't want facades, my love. I want the truth. I want you."

"I don't want to be weak around the people I love," Alastair whispered, and Thomas understood. To what extent did he fear that if he shows weakness, his friends and family would suffocate him again, shield him from the world as they did when he was younger? How much he feared at slightest of weakness shown, he would be smothered as Thomas had been when he was too small, too fragile?

But Alastair never did that. He supported him in his way, allowed him to be weak without acting as if Thomas was made of glass. "So not weak to everyone," He was astonished he found it in himself to laugh softly. "Each other will be enough. We can be vulnerable with one another."

Alastair stared at him for a long moment. Eventually, a faint smile appeared on his lips. "Okay."

"This is just another way of trust."

So Alastair told him. He told him about the rumors he heard from the London enclave about his family, the looks he had gotten. Of the words of people who were white while Alastair was brown. He didn't mind, much, but it drew attention to his family. And to Thomas. Respectable family and a kind heart seemingly weren't enough to make the rumors - and who spread them - silence. The opposite is correct - the fire burned even brighter, and its flame was like cutting knives. The people who matter didn't care about their agreement, and Alastair long stopped paying attention to rumors. But when it was about Thomas, he said, he had been furious. The stories unfolded, the truth shone through, and the more Alastair talked - not just about rumors, but on the way some of the people treated him, of the Cornwall's townhouse and its residents, the things his soul troubled about were finally out.

Thomas listened, understood, stroked Alastair's cheek when he seemed to start shaking again, but now out of relief instead of concealed agony. 

They sunk into a comfortable silence in the end. Up until Alastair inquired, "You were out for so long. Where were you?"

"At the institute," Thomas replied. The concept of coming back to his parents' townhouse, admitting the quarrel, rewinding it all in his head countless times while enduring Sophie and Gideon's worrying looks, was nothing he wished to do. "Or somewhere I could avoid anyone."

"And now?" he asked tentatively. "You come back?"

"I have no intentions to leave this bed even if Ariadne herself will come to pluck me off the sheets." He affirmed.

Alastair's smirk became genuine this time. "Ariadne was here today."

When Thomas said "I know" he got a quizzical look from Alastair so he supplied, "She found my whereabouts and made me go confront you. Not much subtly, may I add."

"Yes. This jinx made me open up the door and refused to leave until I told her what happened."

Thomas silently laughed. 

"I..suppose it was rather cathartic," Alastair said. It was evening now, Thomas noted, and none of them found it in themselves to get up and eat supper. They just kept their bodies close, relishing their air of comfort.

"Indeed. This, this was good. Splendidly better than reading the same page over and over again in the Devil's tavern or pretending to care what waistcoat Matthew is taking to the impending party at Anna's flat." 

"You thought the place you and your squad go to hide is the best place to hide from them?" Alastair asked.

"It seemed reasonable at the time," Thomas murmured. "Each of us has a kind of hideout, have we not?"

Where was Alastair's safe hideaway? At home, with a book in hand? At museums, drinking in art and beauty? Was it hiking in the streets of London by himself and enjoying the view and the whispers of nature?

"You," Alastair said. Thomas hadn't realized he voiced his question aloud. A tired, small smile played on Alastair's lips, yet his words were soft, plain and simple. Their eyes locked, and he could feel how genuine Alastair was. "You are my hideout."

~~~~~

Dictionary:

man nemidânam - I don't know

Eshgham - my love

Hamsar-am - my equal head, my better half

[windblooms]

hello!! can i request love language hcs for the tall boys? (diluc, kaeya, childe, zhongli)

headcanons below!  how they show their love + how they like being loved in return. 

CHILDE : acts of service / quality time.

childe finds the time for his family despite his job: he regularly sends letters to his family in snezhnaya, and even nearly jeopardizes the respect of his subordinates to protect his brother.

underneath his fox-like pretense is a man who keeps his promises.  he goes to extreme lengths to prioritize his loved-ones, so i can see him showing his affection through acts of service.

childe always wants to show you that he’s always thinking of you, that he can take care of you.  he shows his support for you through traditionally domestic actions.

hungry?  he’s already preparing food for you before lunch time.  tense after a long day out?  he’s got dinner covered too, plus some willing fingers to rub against your back for a massage.  craving a hot bath?  he’ll draw one for you too, lightly kissing your cheek and carding his fingers through your hair.

“don’t worry about it.  you’ve worked hard, and i want my darling to rest.”

the best way to convey your adoration for him would be through quality time.

he gets giddy just listening to you talk about date ideas.  for childe, hearing all the thought you’ve put into supporting your relationship reaffirms that you’re just as invested as he is.

it makes him feel that you want to be around and enjoy activities with him, that he’s someone who’s company you crave and find solace in.

it indirectly reaffirms that he’s looking after you properly as well.

DILUC : quality time / physical touch.

arguably one of the most withdrawn characters in the game, diluc doesn’t allow people into his heart easily.  it’d be more feasible to kill four ruin guards in a minute than force oneself into the barrier he’s chosen to put between himself and others – a barrier that he’s involuntarily put up due to his tumultuous past.

because of this, i can see him reinforcing his connection with his partner through quality time: as an individual who has had his loved ones distanced through factors out of his control, after finding security and companionship with a partner, his commitment will be most evident in how he sets aside personal time for them.

deep conversations aren’t necessary.  just you and him in the privacy of your room, talking about your day and what you have planned for tomorrow, or discussing mondstadtian politics off-handedly, with one or two sly quips from him, as a hearth flickers against the wall.

his desire for exclusive time with you somewhat blends in with his hidden affinity for physical touch.

it doesn’t have to be a lot.  simple hand-squeezes reassure your tangible presence next to him.  when you embrace, he finds the fit of your body against his comforting, like puzzle pieces slotting together.  or even just your hand on his shoulder as you walk by his work desk, checking up on him.

your touches reassert that you’re there for him, that he can always come home to you, and that you will always be his home.

“there’s no time like the present.  the days are becoming shorter . . . but that just means that i’ll have to spend each one with you.”

KAEYA : words of affirmation / physical touch.

kaeya, having a penchant for pretty words, is accustomed to prying whatever reaction out of bystanders that he so chooses, whether it be complimentary or underhanded.  for this  unconventionally insightful  suave bachelor, it’s a no-brainer: he’ll show his love through words of affirmation.

there’s something cute about being obvious in your relationship.  openly referring to you through pet-names in public, such as babe, or more jokingly, snowdrop; encouraging your accomplishments and often (un)intentionally praising your achievements in the presence of his coworkers.  he’s always proud of you, and wants others to know about your capabilities and his affections for you.

it’s just – hm!  endearing to see you flush with pride at his affirmations, as if you believe in his words and in his faith.

physical touch would be how kaeya prefers receiving love in return. 

just as how he’s there for you verbally, it eases him when you find security in him as well.  cuddling together on the couch, with limbs nearly tangled as you both giggle at each others’ antics.  pecks on the nose, or teasing squeezes of forearms. 

physicality requires trust, and your interactions tell him that you’re comfortable with him, that you’re both intimate.  

“it’s getting a bit chilly nowadays.  oh?  come over to me, unless you’d like me to cuddle up to you instead on this dreary, frigid – hey!  no need to be coy, babe.”

ZHONGLI : quality time / gift-giving.

he’s still got a lot to get used to about being mortal – well, about as “mortal” as an archon can ever be.

there are things that he’s still not entirely familiar with.  while he can spout cultural customs and trivia like a parrot, there are still human interactions that he can’t quite understand the sentiment behind.  

quality time will convey your investment to the connection the both of you share while he’s still adapting to mortal culture. 

travel coast to coast with him.  collect herbs and document sightings together while he witnesses the evolution of liyue from his time as a god.  listen to what he says about the land, how he recalls how it once looked, and the memories he’s tied to the soil. 

“this could have been yesterday’s liyue.  a tour guide?  well, that’s not neces – oh, you were referring to yourself.  indeed, i’d treasure your company very much.”

show him the things about liyue that you love.  while not needing to be formal presents, gift-giving will pronounce your consideration for his interests and display your attunement to his learning.

it could be a flower you had found, still planted in the ground, that reminds you of something.  words are the best gifts for a man such as zhongli, where his search for knowledge and stories are boundless. 

perhaps there’s a waterfall that holds community significance.  while zhongli might be able to tell you of its inception, only you can enlighten him on the sentiment behind it.

he’s always learning, with you as his teacher.  this is your liyue, and he’d love to hear its tale. 

[heyitssmiller]

Clandestine: Chapter Thirteen

Fitting that this is chapter thirteen. It was destined to be unlucky. And it was also the hardest one to write by far. Thanks for being so patient with me. One last cliffhanger, yes? For old time’s sake.

@lumosinlove your characters continue to live in my head rent-free, so thank you!

@donttouchmycarrots is my dude, my pal, my babe, and the best proofreader ever

Special thanks to @wonder-womans-ex for providing what just might be my favorite line in this chapter

Clandestine Masterlist

CW: violence, gun violence, nightmares, anxiety, mentions of food, injuries

.

Logan woke up to Finn crying.

He was admittedly good at being quiet about it – he muffled any noise into his pillow, body turned towards the wall and curled up tight. It was the shaking that gave him away. Logan wasn’t sure what was going on at first, but his heart just about shattered when he realized. He rolled over to face Finn, pulling him gently into his arms and holding him close. His heart lurched as the redhead shuddered and buried his face in Logan’s chest, arms wrapping around him tightly as he sniffled. Logan screwed his eyes shut and breathed, nice and slow in an attempt to get Finn to match him. He wasn’t sure what was upsetting his partner, but he wanted nothing more than to fix it, to help however he could. Finn leaned further into him and stayed there for what felt like an eternity before he calmed down, breaths slowing and tears drying.

Logan could feel every swell of muscle, every gentle dip between his ribs, the eyelashes that were still wet and clumped together, the way his skin felt all clammy. He wished he could pull him even closer, hold him even tighter, even though there was physically no distance between them. Maybe Finn could find comfort in the confines of his arms, the way Logan had found safety in Finn’s.

“Want to talk about it?” he finally whispered, making Finn tense up again. He peered over Logan’s shoulder to look at their sleeping partner, then looked back down at Logan.

Sometimes Finn just took his breath away. Sure, his eyes were glassy and his nose was red from crying but he was still so beautiful, with muted light filtering through the curtains turning messy auburn hair into shiny copper, seeming to glitter in the sunlight. Big, brown doe eyes looking so incredibly soft as he stared down at Logan. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to being looked at like that. Like he was something to be cherished, something to be adored.

Logan felt his breath hitch.

“Hallway?” Finn asked, glancing back at Leo. “Don’t want to wake him up.”

Logan smiled. He loved learning how all three of them showed love and how it varied depending on which partner they were interacting with. Finn was more teasing with Logan, always throwing jabs and chasing them with happy grins and lots of kisses. With Leo he – well, he still teased mercilessly, but it was softer around the edges. The kind of affection that made him get all squinty-eyed because he was smiling so much and too-tight hugs because he couldn’t possibly hold back. Leo didn’t act that different when it came down to it, but he picked up quickly on what the two of them liked – intertwining his fingers with Finn’s as often as he could, running his hand through Logan’s hair time and time again. The constant motion of his hands was directed at the two of them instead of the lock in his pocket more often than not, a new soothing habit forming quickly. It was adorable. Logan wasn’t really sure how he was different, but he knew he was softer with the two of them more than he’d been with anyone else. He could feel himself turning into a sappy romantic and he wanted to hate it, but he really couldn’t.

Finn scrambled up reluctantly and Logan followed him across the room, nervous and itching to pull Finn back into his arms. He reached for Finn as soon as the door closed completely. “Bad dream?” His stomach dropped when Finn just nodded, biting down on his lip hard as his eyes welled up with tears again.

“I don’t want to go back there.” Finn admitted, voice a soft whisper in the silence of the hallway. Logan sighed and pressed closer, standing on his tiptoes just a little to loop his arms around Finn’s neck. Logan didn’t want to go back, either, but it was different for Finn. He’d been there for longer, after all, and Logan still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened during that time. Finn refused to talk about it, and Logan was too afraid to ask, as selfish as that made him feel. To top it all off, Logan had no idea how to help. Usually bad dreams were only loosely based on reality – but Logan had a feeling these were a little too real. They’d lived it, after all. To wake up from a nightmare and realize it was basically reality…

How could you comfort someone who’s bad dreams were all true?

“I know,” he said simply, lacking the words for anything else and running his fingers through Finn’s messy bedhead soothingly.

“We won’t be there for too long.” Finn said after a while. He seemed to be trying to comfort Logan with the words, even though he was the one who had been crying about it earlier. Logan ached for the redhead. He had such a big heart, always putting others before himself even if he was in a bad place himself. Logan needed to pay more attention, to pinpoint that evasion tactic and not let him get away with it. Everyone needed solace, even the ones who primarily did the comforting.

Finn’s eyes had closed sometime earlier, his head tilted to lean into Logan’s hand, his breath tickling the inside of Logan’s wrist. Logan wiped away a stray tear tenderly and sighed. Finn didn’t seem to want to talk about it. Logan wasn’t going to force him to talk, but he was worried about what would happen if he didn’t talk about it with someone. Sometimes it was nice to talk to someone with an outside perspective – someone who wasn’t in the thick of it like Logan was. So Logan reluctantly let it go for now and tried the next best thing: cheering Finn up.

“And it’ll be nice to bash some heads in while we’re there.”

That earned a laugh from Finn, and Logan felt such stark relief at the sight – it left him a little breathless. It was sad that a genuine laugh from either of his partners was so rare now. Logan felt like he needed to cherish them when they happened.

How depressing was that?

“Bashing some heads in is now on the list, I guess.” Finn murmured, placing a lingering kiss to Logan’s temple, who hummed thoughtfully.

“Do you even know how to throw a punch?”

Finn was in the process of kissing Logan when he said that, which just turned into a laugh against Logan’s lips. “No, but you do.” Logan could hear the smile in his voice. “And that’s way hotter than it probably should be.”

Logan looked up at him nervously to make sure he wasn’t kidding, then relaxed at the honesty in those mischievous eyes. Even upset and stressed, Finn somehow knew what to say to soothe worries Logan hadn’t even told him about. Being in a job like his… well it was ugly. It was brutal and violent and messy and not many people would want to be involved with someone like that – someone with bloodstained hands, too many paranoid tics, and a heavy, guilty conscience.

Finn and Leo didn’t seem to mind all that much, thankfully.

The realization made Logan grin sharply and nip at Finn’s lower lip before delving into another deep, intoxicating kiss. It was too easy, getting lost when he kissed Finn. So much of their surroundings faded away until all he was aware of was the feel of slightly chapped lips against his and hands holding his hips in order to pull him closer. Finn seemed to have that effect on Logan – he always had, ever since that New Years party. He was the kind of person everyone naturally gravitated towards, pulled in without a second thought. It was part of what made him so damn good at his job.

Finn breathed in sharply before kissing him again, heady and sure of himself and making Logan weak in the knees. All five senses were overwhelmed with Finn, Finn, Finn. It thrummed along with his pulse in a steady, loud rhythm. And yet his mind still drifted back to the bedroom with Leo, the thought of joining him back in bed tugging at him just as Finn broke the kiss and pulled him back towards the door, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Sometimes I’m convinced you’re a mind reader.” Logan smiled and willingly let himself get drawn back into the quiet, sleepy warmth of the bedroom. Finn just shrugged.

“Maybe I am.”

Leo was still sound asleep, sprawled out on his back with one leg sticking out from underneath the covers and hanging off the side of the bed at what looked like a very uncomfortable angle. Logan smiled at Finn’s affectionate snort, then followed him back to bed and crawled in the middle again. He curled up on his side, facing the blond as Finn pressed against his back and tangled their legs together. Leo’s hand moved up the bed, searching for Logan’s until he found it and then seemed to drift off to sleep again with a content sigh.

It scared Logan a little, how important the two of them had become in such a short amount of time. They were slowly invading more and more space in his head until his only thoughts seemed to be about them, all the time. Maybe it should be a little worrying, but Logan couldn’t find it in himself to be too concerned – not when the thoughts made his chest feel light as air and his stomach full of butterflies.

***

It was getting close to go-time, and everyone was on edge. The energy was palpable, like an electric current flowing through the group. Shoulders were tense, words were short and clipped, a sense of focus and determination in the air.

Leo had never been part of something like this. The only missions he’d been on were with Logan and Finn and that was it. Having a big group like this, all feeling the same things and wanting the same goal, it was intoxicating. It sucked you in and made you want to be a part of it, too.

But he couldn’t. He was stuck here, on the sidelines, left to wait aimlessly until everyone returned. That meant letting them go and resigning himself to a night of restlessness and worry.

Leo hated it.

He didn’t cling to his partners like he so desperately wanted to. If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to let go again. He didn’t ask for empty promises of being careful, nor did he beg them to be safe. He couldn’t hold them to words they might not be able to keep. But he allowed himself to stare, just a bit. He let his eyes linger over Logan’s steady hands as he loaded his gun and methodically checked it three times, just like always. He watched Finn pull a clean shirt over his head and fiddle with the sleeves, seemingly lost in thought. Leo memorized what he could, just in case. The exact shade of Logan’s eyes, the freckle pattern across Finn’s cheeks and nose. He hated that his brain automatically jumped to worse-case scenario like that, but – well, considering the circumstances and what they’d already been through at the hands of the Snakes… could you blame him?

There was also this feeling in the pit of Leo’s stomach. He wasn’t sure if this was just the anxiety talking, but everything in that moment felt so decided, so final.

It felt like goodbye.

As if Finn knew exactly what was going on in his head, he drew Leo in for a hug and kissed his cheek, lingering for a second before leaning back to meet his eyes. They shared one of those looks – one that expressed a multitude of emotions without saying a single word. When Finn kissed him, it was deep and achingly slow. He was taking his time, wanting to make the moment last as long as he could. Leo knew the feeling. He fisted his hand in Finn’s shirt and pulled him impossibly closer, tilting his head for a better angle and softly running his tongue across the seam of his lips. A gentle rush, a quiet thrill, but still with a noticeable, tangible melancholy.

Leo could still count the number of kisses they’d shared on two hands. That wasn’t nearly enough for him. He wanted as many different types of kisses as he could think of – happy, teasing, soft, hard, tender, and everything in between. He wanted to lose count by the end of the week. He wanted to learn everything there was to know about his partners.

He just hoped they’d get that chance.

Logan pressed up against the two of them, slotting seamlessly into place. Transitioning from kissing Finn to kissing Logan was as easy as breathing – a simple turn of his head and a slight bend to accommodate for the height difference. It was the kind of kiss you were meant to remember. A whirlwind of sweet and passionate, deep and gentle, loving and regretful.

More than anything it just hurt.

Leo’s gut churned as he pulled back and looked at the two of them, lost for words. What was he supposed to say in a situation like this, after all? He didn’t think there was anything he could say to make this easier, or reassure them. Words didn’t seem like enough anymore – they just felt insincere and meaningless. Leo didn’t think he’d ever faced that problem before. Words usually came fairly easily to him, especially if something was important to him. But now they were failing him and it left him feeling even more lost, adrift in a raging sea that he had no idea how to navigate.

“Let’s do this,” Finn said finally, part resigned and part determined, before heading towards the bedroom door.

The rest seemed to happen all at once in a blinding flurry of activity. Goodbyes with the team were quick and rushed and then they were all loading up into cars, green and brown eyes meeting his every once in a while before the doors closed and the engines growled to life.

Leo watched the caravan of cars head down the driveway, then rushed across the wrap-around porch to keep them in his sights for as long as he could until they disappeared behind an outcropping of trees. He kept his eyes trained on the spot and clung to the wooden railing with a white-knuckled grip.

And that was where he would stay. If that was the last place he saw them, it would be the first place he would see them again. He didn’t care if he stood there all night until it bled into morning; he wasn’t moving an inch.

***

Sirius sat in the backseat next to Remus for the drive, which was silent and tense with rising adrenaline and battle plans running through everyone’s heads – especially Remus’. He could practically see his mind working. He’d been planning nonstop for the past two days to make sure that all the loose ends were tied up and that they were doing this the right way. Any illegal processes now could compromise the court trials that would come after putting the Snakes behind bars. Between that and coordinating between the other agencies that were helping them take down the Snakes, it was looking like a Herculean task. They could’ve pulled out the big guns and requested help from the FBI, but no one really wanted to do that. This was personal, after all – for pretty much everyone on the team. The feds could take over later, after everyone was apprehended.

Remus chewed at his lower lip, eyes trained on nothing in particular. The back of his head was highlighted in the headlights of the car behind them, illuminating in a startling contrast to the rest of the dark interior of the van. Sirius stared and stared until he just couldn’t help it. He reached over to turn Remus’ head towards him, then ran his thumb lightly over that abused lower lip until Remus let it go. Color seeped back into it, turning the pink a darker, cherry red. Again, Sirius stared. That mouth quirked into a teasing smile.

“You’re going to chew a hole in your lip if you keep that up.” He said and looked up into honey-colored eyes, slowly pulling his hand back. Remus just huffed under his breath – a short, nervous shadow of his normal laugh.

“Yeah. I could really go for some chapstick right now.”

Sirius smiled, pulling Remus towards him and kissing him gently, reverently. It still kind of blew his mind, how much things had changed in the past few months. Remus used to hate him. Well, maybe hate was a strong word, but they definitely weren’t friends. And now here they were, making out in the back of a van. Even though their mission was coming to an end and Sirius really wouldn’t have a reason to stay in Gryffindor any more, he could no longer fathom leaving. Remus played a huge part in that, of course, but Sirius also had friends now – real friends who didn’t try to use him constantly or only contacted him when they needed something. He had a home, as ridiculously cliché as that sounded. Nothing about Slytherin felt like this, and it made Sirius wonder if he’d ever actually had a place to call home before he found himself in Remus’ tiny apartment with the dying houseplant and the lumpy couch and an entire cabinet devoted solely to mugs.

The kiss turned softer until Sirius pulled back and just looked at him, an overwhelming rush of emotion in his chest. Remus wasn’t his home – one person couldn’t be all of that, Sirius knew that much – but he sure was a big part of it.

Remus licked his lips thoughtfully, tasting Sirius’ chapstick. “What flavor is that?”

“Pina colada.”

“Nice.”

That made Sirius smile again. “It’s going to be fine, Re.” Sirius reassured and tucked Remus against his side. It was an awkward squeeze in the back of a van, but neither of them cared.

“Yeah,” Remus sighed, sounding like he was trying to convince himself. “We’ll be ok.”

They both flew out of their seats a little when the van hit a pothole, smushing them closer together. Sirius pressed a kiss to his temple, soft and lingering, before speaking up again. “Do you want to talk through the plan once more?”

Sirius always found that talking through things helped calm him down. Saying the facts out loud tended to get rid of the unnecessary fears going on inside his head, plus it made him feel more prepared. And he knew Remus was the same way, from all the times he’d helped the analyst plan missions.

This earned him a soft, thankful smile and then Remus was off, talking a mile a minute about strategies and backup plans and anything else he could think of. Sirius let his voice wash over him and tried to ignore the dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

***

Leo didn’t know how long he stood there, gaze never once wavering from the treeline, when Hope joined him. She held out a mug for him, full of what looked like hot chocolate and a thick layer of whipped cream. Leo smiled faintly in thanks and took it before returning to his vigil. It was so quiet outside. No crickets like back home, no wind whistling through the trees, nothing. It set Leo on edge.

“So,” Hope mercifully interrupted the silence, “I heard you like to cook.”

Leo looked over at her, more than a little confused at the non sequitur. “Yeah. I do.”

She traced along the grain of the wooden railing, avoiding the chipping paint. “Those boys might be hungry when they get back, and that’s a whole lot of cooking to do by myself. Care to lend a hand?”

Leo snorted at the accidental pun and looked down at the hand trapped in a sling. He knew what she was doing, and he couldn’t find it in himself to be mad. He could definitely use the distraction.

“That sounds perfect.” He said and followed her inside, only casting one glance over his shoulder at where the driveway disappeared and the woods began before he joined Hope in the warm glow of the kitchen. Lyall and Jules were there too; they had the refrigerator door thrown open and seemed to just be staring at the contents. They looked so alike, standing side by side like that. The same slightly-bowed legs and identical shades of brown hair. Lyall gave his son a mischievous look, reached for the can of whipped cream, and squirted some directly into his mouth while Jules watched on with his jaw nearly on the floor.

“I didn’t know we were allowed to do that!” he gasped and snatched the can from his dad. A few seconds later there was whipped cream in his mouth. And on his chin, cheeks, a little on his nose…

Hope sighed good-naturedly. “You’re teaching our son bad habits and making a mess.”

Lyall just bent over laughing, a snort escaping every once in a while.

Leo smiled as Jules tried to get all the whipped cream that missed his intended target with his tongue, eyes crossing in the process. He took a sip of his hot chocolate and leaned back against the kitchen counter as Lyall kept pointing to places on his face that Jules had missed. Hope shared a look with Leo and rolled her eyes in a “what can you do?” kind of gesture. It was all so lighthearted and affectionate and exactly what Leo needed in that moment.

He wondered if Hope somehow just knew these things – it was definitely possible. Mother’s intuition and all.

“So what are we making?” She asked, tying her hair up while Lyall threw an apron over his neck. Jules was still working on the whipped cream.

Leo shrugged his good shoulder. “What do you have in the pantry?”

“So much!” Jules exclaimed, deeming his face good enough and throwing the pantry door open. “We’ve got pancake mix, potato chips, poptarts, hot dog buns-”

***

The take-down mission was going about as well as expected.

Which meant that it was going well, but it was also a chaotic disaster at the same time. Fitting, right?

Agents were everywhere, it seemed, outnumbering the Snakes at least three-to-one. The Snakes were scattering, running for the exits and fighting tooth and nail to get out – whether that was with weapons they had or just their fists, they weren’t going down without a fight. But even if they made it out, they were met with another line of defense waiting for them in the form of the Durmstrang agents.

Remus really had the op planned out to the last contingency, it seemed.

Logan and Finn were headed down an unfamiliar hallway, looking for stragglers to round up and escort outside. Most Snakes had joined the main fight to get out, sequestered in the entryway. Logan was glad they were tasked with this, though. There were too many familiar faces back there – Greyback, Lestrange, Snape. Logan wasn’t sure he was quite ready for that just yet. Between that and the sound of gunshots echoing in his head… well, let’s just say it brought back bad memories. And even though it wasn’t the best utilization of his skillset, he hadn’t been separated from his partner. He’d learned from experience what a bad idea that was. When this was all over, he wasn’t letting the two of them out of his sight for at least a week.

God, he couldn’t wait for this to be over.

Movement caught his eye and his gun was instantly up and aimed at the person. Yellow eyes landed on them and Logan held his breath, every muscle tensing and adrenaline spiking.

Logan knew they had direct orders to bring the Snakes in alive, but it was much harder to think about that when he was staring Riddle down from the sights of his gun. He knew exactly where to aim – he’d seen it mapped out on Leo’s chest, memorized the angry red wound contrasting against the gentle slope of his collarbone. A shot not intended to kill, but to inflict unfathomable levels of pain – another thing Logan had branded into his memory. A shot that was intentional, designed to send a message. And Logan definitely wanted to send back a reply.

Riddle recognized them and got this smug gleam in his eyes. “Long time, no see.”

Logan’s finger twitched against the trigger.

“Trust me, we’re planning on never seeing you again.” Finn said, then sighed dramatically. “And it looks like that dream is going to become a reality, since we’ve got all the evidence we need to lock you up for – what do you think, Logan? Two life sentences?”

“I’m banking on three.”

“But it’s not really up to us, now is it?” Finn shrugged. “If it were, I think you’d be dead by now, so I guess we’ll have to wait and see what the judge says.”

Riddle still looked remarkably calm. And it was that ego, that sense of infallibility that ended up being his downfall. “All the evidence you have is circumstantial. Any decent lawyer can get those charges dismissed.”

“Sure.” Finn’s smile turned lethal, knowing he had Riddle right where he wanted him, ready to deliver the final blow and relish in the aftermath. “But I think all that detailed information on the flash drives can put you away for a long time. Why seven flash drives, by the way? Lucky number?”

Riddle’s smile faded in increments as the realization struck. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh, it’s very possible. You can thank the guy you shot for that.” Finn said darkly. They watched the gears turning in Riddle’s head, then the way his face turned from pale to a sickly green. His hand went to the inside pocket of his jacket where his flash drive used to be – where the fake one now was, switched when Riddle had pulled a bleeding, agonized Leo close to taunt Logan and Finn through his microphone.

Yeah. Karma was a real bitch sometimes.

Logan smiled, grim but glad to finally be putting this guy behind bars. “You’re coming with us.”

***

“Yo,” Pots said into a phone, a grin almost too wide on his face, “we got some stinky bastards over here. Can you come get them please and thank you?”

Remus snorted at his antics, no doubt talking to the FBI since processing criminals was in their jurisdiction now and not Gryffindor’s. He almost wished it was on speaker phone – he would’ve loved to hear their response.

Remus found Sirius waiting in the parking lot, watching all the Snakes get corralled into transport vehicles and taken to whichever prison they were being kept in until the trial. Some of their own agents were by the ambulance getting tended to, but there weren’t any serious injuries, thank god. Talker took a superficial gunshot to the thigh and Kuny’s arm got grazed by a bullet but everyone else was fine. The element of surprise and the backup by the other agencies really did wonders. That and the fact that they were all armed to the teeth and not even thinking about leaving this job unfinished. They had a pretty good reason to win this round, after all.

He couldn’t believe it was all over. This mission had taken months and lead to way too many problems, but they were finally done with it. They could finally move on. Remus was thinking of taking the next week off of work and spending it at the cabin, just him and Sirius. A much-needed vacation sounded like a dream right about now.

Sirius’ back was to him, but he heard Remus coming and didn’t flinch when long arms wrapped around him, tight and secure. He leaned back into the familiar warmth behind him and let himself be held. He’d been great in there. Remus had been a little worried about letting him come, afraid that taking down people he’d worked with for years would be too hard for him or – even worse – that his presence would be a bright red bullseye for the Snakes. Luckily, there had been so many other agents and so much chaos that most of them had only noticed Sirius and Regulus in the aftermath, when it was too late to do anything about it.

“We did it.” Remus murmured, letting go and stepping around to gauge Sirius’ reaction. The raven-haired ex-Snake smiled at him, a hint of something warring with the relief on his face.

“We did.” He finally said, eyes flitting from Remus to the action around them. He still looked a little uneasy, after everything. Remus couldn’t blame him – sometimes it took a while for the adrenaline to wear off and for reality to set in. “Doesn’t feel real just yet.”

Remus grinned wolfishly, letting the victorious feeling wash over him. “It’s real.”

“Sirius Black?” One of the other agents inquired, causing the man in question to turn around.

“Yes?”

The agent pulled out a pair of handcuffs, looking very bored of the current situation. “You’re under arrest for the crimes you committed with the Snakes organization. If you could put your hands behind your back-”

Remus stepped forward aggressively, staring the agent down. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The agent didn’t flinch. “Following orders. Even if he quit the Snakes, he’s still got to answer for what he did during his time there.”

“But he’s helping us – he’s a consultant for our agency. He’s got immunity.” Remus looked between Sirius and the agent, running a hand agitatedly through his hair at the blasé attitude of the agent.

“Take it up with my boss.”

It was all happening so fast. Remus was still reeling from the mission, his brain struggling to keep up with the new situation. The agent started to lead Sirius away when Remus shouted, “Wait!” He hurried to stand in front of Sirius, caramel eyes hard and fierce and determined with an underlying blaze to them as they met silver. He didn’t care if he was making a scene; he didn’t care who was watching. The only thing that mattered was the man standing in front of him, eyes resigned and – unsurprised.

He knew this might happen. And he hadn’t said a word about it. He came on this mission willingly, knowing this was the way it could end.

Remus would have to come back to that.

“I’m going to fix this. Ok?” Remus met his gaze firmly, letting the honesty drip from his words.

The ex-Snake nodded quickly, trustingly. The sight was a little nauseating, because what if there was nothing Remus could do? Sirius was counting on him now; he couldn’t stand the thought of letting him down, not when he was looking at Remus like that – like Remus could fix anything, when Remus knew damn well that he couldn’t. His chest seized up and he held his breath, gritting his teeth resolutely. He’d find a way. He had to.

Sirius was loaded into the back of a car, his brother already cuffed and waiting in the seat beside him – no doubt being charged for the same thing. Their faces were stony masks, tense and unreadable.

From the next car over, Riddle watched with a smile.

[chokiipng]

when you feel like the world is crashing down on you : fushiguro megumi

Hina/n : i’ve been feeling pretty down, and megumi (and xiao from genshin impact) seems to be my only source of joy at this point, so let’s make ourselves feel better, yes?

characters: fushiguro megumi

contents: megumi helping you through one of you’re more depressing moods

warnings: feelings of depression & anxiety, teeth rotting megumi fluff

usually, when megumi came back from a mission, he would find you and complain about the task his annoying teacher gave him, which would then lead to the both of you sleeping soundly somewhere in your room. he found solace in the comforting silence, despite not always sleeping on your bed. he was too exhausted to move, so he took what he could get.

after a particularly troublesome mission, in which he met his brand new classmate and an overpowered demon king, he quickly made his way towards your room after his injuries were taken care of.

however, when he tried to welcome himself into your dorm, he found that the door was locked. that was the first sign. you never locked your door, knowing that he would visit frequently to spend time with the only person he could really tolerate, ignoring the possibility that gojo or one of the second years could just as likely barge in.

he rapped his knuckles against the door, “(y/n)? it’s me.”

when he only received silence as a response, he knocked again but with a little more force.

again, he didn’t get a response. pressing his ear against the door, he recognized the songs playing in the background as the ones on their collaborative playlist and noticed the faint sniffling almost drowned out by the music.

in a fit of concern, he picked up his key to her dorm from his room across from hers. “i’m going to come in, okay?” he carefully opened the door, finding his girlfriend lying on her side, softly singing the lyrics to the song in a broken voice,

he wasn’t familiar with affection, despite being in a relationship with her. but after knowing her for a few years, he realized that it was okay and that she really just needed him to be himself around her. she didn’t force him into anything, which he appreciated greatly. 

but it was at times like these where he willingly made himself more affectionate for her. of course, that really only meant cuddling with her in bed, but it seemed to be plenty.

taking his usual place behind her, assuming the role of big spoon, he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his head in her hair. his hands, rough and calloused from years of training as a jujutsu sorcerer and beating the shit out of middle school bullies, cradled her own that were surprisingly soft for a fellow sorcerer. 

his chest rumbled as he hummed with her, knowing the tune of the song well after hearing it so many times. finally snapping out of her trance, she blinked a bit before moving further into his embrace.

“did something happen today?” he asked softly, his voice low and gentle as to not scare her.

she shook her head, “no, it’s me overthinking again. it’s honestly nothing.”

“it’s not nothing if you’re crying about it. tell me what happened.”

she sighed, silence was useless. the two usually confronted each other in times of doubt and need, so nothing went unanswered. she pointed to  her phone on his side of the bed. briefly leaning over to grab it, he opened it, smiling at the sight of the two of them and his divine dogs as her homescreen. 

“check my messages,” she instructed.

he did so, furrowing his brows in confusion. everything was normal. he was her pinned conversation and her most recent, which wasn’t new. he also found that she had also recently texted gojo, their teacher, about souvenirs, principal yaga, and even nanami-san that she occasionally went on mission with. the second years were currently out on missions, so it made sense that she hadn’t messaged them in a while.

“what’s the problem?” he asked bluntly. he didn’t understand what was wrong and he knew she would clear his confusion.

grabbing his hands with her own, fiddling with them, she said, “it’s just- i think-” she struggled to find the words, “i think hina and aiko are ghosting me.”

“what?”

“megumi, they haven’t texted me in three months. before we graduated middle school, they promised that they would stay in touch. you knew how close we were.”

he hummed in agreement.

“i think i’m just annoying them at this point, they haven’t answered any of my texts, and if they do they’re really fucking dry, and ignore all my calls. they never did before! maybe i’m just being too clingy. i’m probably annoying them. no wonder, i even annoy myself sometimes.”

panicking slightly, you began to hyperventilate. spewing out words at the speed of light as you tried to calm yourself. turning you so that you were facing him, he held the back of your head and pushed you into his chest. listening to his heart beat, you slowly calmed down, attempting to match you breathing patterns with him. your tears fell freely, dampening his shirt.

he pet you head, running his long finger through your hair. he hushed you gently as you continued to cry silently into his chest there were no words needed at the moment. comfort wasn’t always found in positive words between the two of you. you both recognized that sugar coating your comfort would prove to be fruitless later, so you found that it was better to just remain silent.

after a few minutes, he began to speak again, “your crying so much that i can barely recognize you.” he jested.

you scoffed, “thanks, very comforting meg.”

he chuckled lowly, “it’s true. the (y/n) i know would never cry because of two measly humans. they wouldn’t care of they ignored them, you know why.”

 “why is that, meg?”

“because she knows that she has an annoying teacher, a bunch of powerful senpai, two new classmates,” he smiled slightly, “and a troublesome jerk of a boyfriend there for her. she has no need to worry about two girls when she has all of these people here for her.”

she laughed, causing his heart to swell at the sound. he continued, “why would a menace to society such as herself bother with two normies? the (y/n) i know smiles at curses demise, and as unsettling it is, it just shows how fearless she is. she would never be brought down by two regular girls who don’t realize what their missing out on.”

she laughed loudly at that, wrapping her arms around her torso with a large smile. it was also then that megumi realized that she was wearing one of his sweatshirts (which he now always buys with the intention of her wearing them). his heart practically burst as he realized she still found comfort in him despite him not being their physically earlier.

she smirked up at him as he did the same to her, “since when were you this comforting, fushiguro. usually all i get is a hug and a nap.”

he shrugged, facing the ceiling (an attempt to hide his reddening cheeks), “since i got a girlfriend who actually happens to like my hugs and a nap. i wanted to put in more effort to be better for her, y’see.”

“well, as the said girlfriend, i would like to say that i’m perfectly content with how my boyfriend is now. he tends to try an improve himself for me, but i think that he’s just lovely the way he is.”

“yeah well, my little menace to society deserves more than she realizes. so i will do everything in my power to make sure she realizes it.”

she hummed, her eyelids starting to droop, “this menace to society appreciates everything that her fellow menace does for her, including napping with her. which happens to sound incredibly tempting right now.”

“indeed.”

[brockadoodles]

Treacherous - e. pettersson

AN: I have no idea where this came from, it’s 3am and nothing makes sense anymore. But, I finally wrote something for Petey after 124983249507843 people have asked me to, so I hope you like it. It’s intentionally short, meant to be one of those moments in a single night where your characters go through everything. Let me know what you think! :) 

Word Count: 2681

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol (barely)

Elias Pettersson was quiet. Ever since his childhood, he was regarded as a person who was subdued, often hearing murmurs of descriptions of him that included every synonym for quiet that the Swedish language had. He learned not to let it bother him, because to him there was nothing wrong with being soft-spoken or reserved, he still had just as many thoughts as anyone else, he just chose who he allowed close enough to him to share them with. He moved through adolescence with his head down, his focus resting solely on perfecting his skills, training so that one day he could live out his dream. His quietness was counteracted by his work. He often felt his loudest moments were enacted on the ice, showcasing his inner thoughts in his ability to skate almost effortlessly and his hand to be quick, those thoughts translated to skills that landed him as the face of a franchise halfway across the world. It wasn’t until he got to Vancouver that he realized he no longer felt quiet, he wanted to be loud. 

When Elias met you, he was stunned for words. You were a mutual friend of Brock’s, someone who was born and raised in the very city that he now called home. He had never really been good with meeting new people and a lot of his warmth had rubbed off from Brock, who for reasons unbeknown to Elias, had welcomed him to Vancouver with an open heart and patience that most people didn’t have in an English speaking country for someone still learning the language. Brock was undeniably too friendly, but Elias found comfort in how Brock comforted him and so when he casually mentioned that some of his friends were going to be joining them for dinner one night, he trusted that friends of Brock’s couldn’t possibly be unpleasant. 

It turned out, that when Elias saw you walk up to the table, his chest started racing and he felt incredibly unnerved around you. You emulated energy that somehow pulled him toward you, and your soft smile as Brock introduced the two of you burned into his mind for the rest of the night. He was undoubtedly obsessed from the get-go, a feeling that never evaporated as he slowly got to know you and ultimately fell in love with you. Elias was no stranger to platonic love, but amorous love was another story and for the first time in years, he was quiet again when it came to verbalizing just how he felt, but he still managed to express it to you in a way that you understood. 

Days together in a group somehow shifted into days together just the two of you. Your friendship had somehow transcended into something more when he kissed you for the first time. You had tumbled into what felt like a relationship, and yet you never dared to clarify what it was. It felt good at the time, and you pushed off the insecurities you felt about the lack of label or conversation. You ignored the messiness because your heart wanted to fall for him, and your brain lacked the capacity to stop it. 

Elias followed you blindly as you led him across a bridge. He marveled at the old wooden bridge that barely seemed to be held together above the small creek. You were taking him to one of your favorite hidden spots in the city, a quiet creek that led into a rose garden tucked in behind the bustling waterfront. A small hidden gem amongst a large touristy area. You loved the contrast of being so close to so many people, yet somehow you were just far enough removed that you could find solace in your own thoughts. 

“I can’t quite figure you out, Elias.” Were the words that you murmured that changed everything for him. He had spent what felt like months hanging in this limbo with you, where on one end you were his and he was yours, and on the other, you were nothing more than friends who sometimes gave themselves the illusion that they were more. There were no words spoken to define the relationship you had, only the feeling of your hand perfectly tangling with his and the way that your lips seemed to seamlessly fit with his. He squeezed your hand tighter as you walked, a nonverbal affirmation of his feelings for you, or so he thought. 

Elias didn’t notice the way his lack of response caused your face to twist. You were, quite reasonably confused by the dynamic. Elias was everything you had dreamed that you would love, he crossed off almost every checklist that you had when it came to a person you were willing to hand your heart to. But between the nights where you stayed over when you probably shouldn’t and the dates he brought you on where you told yourself you were his partner, because that was how he acted, and the way that he held your hand without fail whenever you were out together, you couldn’t understand why he had never told you how he felt. 

You were trapped in a limbo of your own, one where you were unsure of if you could continue this half relationship with someone that you felt yourself slipping into love with, and one where you allowed yourself to move on, even if it meant you lost out on a love that you thought had potential to be it for you. It seemed like every time you tried to bring it up, to have the talk that was at this point long overdue, he would do something physical that would leave you even more confused. You were on two different wavelengths and you kept sending a signal to him, but it was like the message was in morse code, something he didn’t understand. Despite your best efforts to hang on to something you desperately wanted to be real, you could only live on physical affections for so long, eventually, your heart needed to hear the real words, and Elias was about to learn that lesson the hard way. 

It was coming up on the Canucks annual Dice and Ice event, a black-tie event where the team tried to raise money for various causes, and you were supposedly expected to be Elias’s date. You had been his date to so many things already, sometimes when Brock wanted to double with the person he was seeing, you would tag along to keep Elias company, holding his hand tightly under the table, an expression of your own affections for him. You had been his date to other Canucks events, you even were his date to the NHL Awards, kissing him proudly after he won the Calder Trophy. You had somehow over the last year tumbled into a relationship with someone who you weren’t even sure wanted your heart in the way that you wanted to give it. But you told yourself, one last event to see if he would finally take it, and if not, you told yourself that it was time to let go. 

Elias picked you up and you nearly groaned. He looked so handsome, his dark navy suit complimented his eyes, and his hair was just long enough that pieces slightly fell, even though he had clearly gelled them back. He put his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the car, kissing your temple softly in greeting, and telling you that you looked amazing. Elias thought that those small displays of affection were enough, he had no idea that as he guided you through the doors of the gala, you were slipping through his fingers, the very ones that he was holding so tightly. 

The event was going well, you were smiling as Elias mingled amongst the crowd, each person who met him lighting up just as you usually did when you were around him. He was attentive to you, making sure that you had a drink in your hand if you wanted it and that you were by his side most of the evening until he had to do one task that pulled him away from you, leaving you exposed to Brock and his questions that put the nail in the final coffin of the hopes that you were something real to him. 

Brock slid up to you, sitting down next to you and handing you another drink. You smiled softly at your friend. 

“Having a good time?” He asked, leaning back and taking a sip of his own drink. His eyes effortlessly shifted from the room straight to yours, and it was like he could sense that something was boiling under the surface, and something about his calm demeanor had you ready to erupt what you had been keeping inside for so long now. 

“Mhm, it’s nice this year.” You nodded at him. Brock furrowed his brow and leaned forward onto his elbow, coming closer to you. 

“Are you going out with everyone after? Emil and Fanny are in town, I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned meeting them yet.” He trailed off. His short sentence was meant to be casual conversation, a subtle way of Brock asking if you had met two of the most important people to Elias. Only instead of nodding and sharing some lovely story about lunch with Emil and Fanny, your heart dropped to your stomach, because Elias hadn’t shared that they were in town with you at all. 

“He didn’t even tell me they were in town.” You shrugged and took another sip of your drink, desperately hoping that your voice wasn’t as shaky as it sounded in your head and that Brock, the person who could pick up on all of your emotions you tried to hide, would somehow let this go and not press you further, a notion that was short-lived as soon as he pressed further.  

“You guys have been together for months, that’s weird that he didn’t even mention it?” Brock questioned. And there it was, the realization that it wasn’t just in your own head that you were something more than a friend with Elias. Even his best friend thought you were together, his best friend thought that you were in a place where Elias would want to introduce you to his family. But you weren’t, and you blinked back tears as you realized that maybe you didn’t mean anything to Elias at all. 

“We’re not together, Brock. We’ve never had that discussion.” You coldly spoke. Your mind was running in overdrive, and Brock wasn’t entirely sure how to react. He just patted your wrist and smiled softly. 

“Talk to him.” That was what he said before he got up as Elias was walking toward you. Elias smiled at Brock and then at you as he sat down, no indication of him knowing how you were feeling as he did. Elias by all accounts looked happy, he looked like he had everything he had ever wanted, and you sat at that table with him and realized that you weren’t what he wanted, you were just what he used. 

“Why didn’t you tell me your brother was in town?” You ripped the bandaid off. If you were going to do this, you needed to come straight out with it before you talked yourself out of it. You deserved someone who could say that they had feelings for you, someone who could put an exclusivity on your relationship that you wanted. You deserved someone that loved you as you loved him, and you finally realized that maybe Elias wasn’t going to give you that. 

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted to meet them, I didn’t want to put pressure on you.” Elias smiled, still obtuse to the fact that you were crumbling right before his eyes, that his entire love story with you was being tossed haphazardly into a fire. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Elias.” You mumbled, setting your drink down and standing up. Elias’s eyes followed you, widening when it clicked for him that you were leaving, even though he didn’t understand why.

“What?” You tried to grab your arm and you snatched it back. It probably wasn’t your best reaction, but you had been stuck in that limbo for so long, that even if the path was sinking beneath you, you wanted to end it. You wanted to finally get out of the limbo and take back the pieces of your heart that he wasn’t receptive to. 

“Us. This. Whatever it is, Elias. I can’t do it, I can’t be halfway in this with you when I’m falling in love with you and you can’t even tell me if you like me. I’m done.” You didn’t wait for his reaction, you didn’t wait for him to process your words. Instead, you turned on your heel and walked as quickly as you could out of there, leaving Elias stunned in your wake. 

It had taken Elias four seconds to realize you were someone that he needed to know when he met you. It had taken him three weeks to understand that the pull he felt was more than platonic. It had taken a month before you were wrapped in his arms, legs tangled in his sheets. It had taken Elias four months to fall in love with you, a feeling that he was quiet about because he thought that he was expressing it to you in other ways than him just saying it. And it took Elias no more than 10 seconds before he was jogging out of the room and after you. 

He caught up behind you and grabbed your hand, his own expression sinking when he saw the tears blurring your own vision. Elias was quiet, he was reserved and guarded, and he often had trouble expressing his feelings, especially when it came to falling in love with you. He thought he had communicated it in other ways, but he was clearly wrong. You had given him your whole heart and he thought he had shown you that he was caring for it, but it turns out that his nonverbal expressions of his own love were entirely lost. 

“I don’t want this halfway. I want all of you, all of the time. I thought I was showing you that, but I think I was too quiet in my feelings for you.” He started, struggling to say everything that he wanted to. You just nodded your head for him to continue. 

“I feel in love with you four months after we met, I’ve loved you ever since. I love you now. I’m sorry that I didn’t show you that the right way, and I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about Emil and Fanny. And I’m sorry that I made you feel like you didn’t have me. You have me, completely.” Elias grabbed onto your hands once more and everything in his eyes and his voice sank into you. You knew that he was telling the truth, you knew that he had made a mistake. 

“I love you, Elias. I just wanted to know that you wanted to love and be with me, too.” You whispered, tucking your head into his chest. Elias held you tightly, your breathing matching with the beating of his heart. 

“That’s all I want.” He said. You looked up at him, lifting your hand to the back of his neck to pull him down toward you. You thread your fingers through the ends of his hair and smiled softly. 

“You and me, then? For real this time?” You clarified. Elias just nodded and cupped your cheek, kissing you in the way that he had so many times before. You melted into his touch and realized that he had been trying to show you. He had been trying to show you his love in the ways that he touched you and cared for you. And while Elias was quiet when it came to saying the words, this was the loudest he had ever been. 

[mothmannnnn]

Hello sexy beautiful awesome cool swag mutuals, Gar asked me to finish a fic they wrote and we wanted to share :p Read at your own risk <3

-

If luck—a notion he’d only allowed himself to entertain after meeting James Kirk—really did exist, then it was only logical to assume its opposite existed as well. Bad luck. 

Spock couldn’t think up the logistics of the situation he and Kirk had found themselves in: why he was injured on a too-cold planet, how they had lost their communicators, how they had run into the sort of intelligent life they weren’t supposed to interact with—why they now sat, shoulders pressed together, inside a hollow alien tree. In his current, less than stellar state, he wondered if it was statistically possible to have this much bad luck.

They were able to elude their assailants through Kirk’s resourcefulness. He had eyed the hiding place while they were running from their assailants, an area near the roots they had just been able to squeeze past and fit inside. Spock vaguely wondered if the tree had rotten out, or if a creature similar to the earth woodpecker inhabited the planet and had once called the space they now sat in its home. He wondered why the wood on this planet was a pale shade of blue, the trees even more massive than the redwoods, and how this miraculous life could happen somewhere so cold. He wondered about the probability of his survival. Spock ghosted his fingers over his bloodstained abdomen. 

“Spock . . . Spock.” Kirk had his hand on his shoulder and was looking into his eyes, and Spock had to rip himself from his own mind. “You’re shaking,” He said. Spock was suddenly aware of the almost violent tremor of his own body, of the biting cold on his ears and hands and everywhere except where Kirk had his leg pressed up against his. 

“I’m very cold, Captain, and I believe—” he had to stop himself, he had to stop shaking, he had to gain back some control. He took a breath—too deep—and pain blossomed in his side, time tripping over itself. It was so cold out. “I believe I may be bleeding internally, from the injuries I sustained.” he said. 

Kirk was leaning over him then, eyes wide as they searched over him, one hand on Spock’s shoulder and the other hovering hesitantly over the blood stains on his uniform. “How bad is it? is there anything I can do? Are you—“ Spock grabbed Kirk’s wrist before he could flood him with more questions, before he could touch him and defile his hands with his blood. He didn’t like to see Kirk like this, anxious, and he especially didn’t like that he was the cause. 

“I can do something about it but . . . I must focus all my energy on healing myself.” Spock said, finally meeting Kirks eyes. He nodded, his mask of cool command back on. 

“The healing trance?” Kirk confirmed. 

“Yes but I—” There was too much going on, the cold, the bleeding, the hiding (James Kirk’s thigh pressed against his, hand in his, his worry) “I can’t regulate my body temperature while in the trance, I need some external method of—” Kirk pulled his hand away from Spock’s grip and went for the hem of his own shirt. He’d had it half way up his chest before Spock was able to catch Jim’s shirt and pull it back down. “No captain, you can’t-” Spock started, taken completely off guard but beginning to catch on to what Kirk had been thinking. 

“The extra clothing will keep you warm Spock, please just let me—“

“Your body heat is sufficient, Captain,” Spock insisted. Although he knew it was not logical, as Kirk’s body was better equipped to withstand the cold and therefore he would be able to spare the cotton shirt, Spock felt hesitant prioritizing his captain’s comfort below his own. 

Kirk looked thoughtful for a minute, his brows furrowing and his hands absentmindedly rubbing his jawline. 

Spock was getting delirious—he knew it was due to the increasing loss of blood in his body. He must begin the healing trance as promptly as possible, but a strange, illogical thought wormed itself into his mind. What will Jim do while I am gone? 

If they were to be revealed by their assailants, it would be highly unlikely that Jim could fend for himself, and it would be too dangerous to pull himself out of the healing trance. 

Before Spock could think of a solution, he felt warm hands around his waist, a strong chest against his, and the point of Jim Kirk’s chin on the crook of his neck. 

“Captain, you’ll get blood on your uniform.” 

“Tough luck,” was Jim Kirk’s eloquent reply. “We’ll have to be in close proximity for my body heat to do anything for you.” 

“Well, I . . .” Spock’s words trailed off, and he was, for perhaps only the second time in his life, at a loss for words. 

He found something akin to courage in his deliriousness, pulling away so that he might look Kirk in his eyes. “I do not like showcasing my . . . differences, as compared to you, Captain.” He motioned to the greenness of his blood, slowly darkening and expanding across his abdomen. 

“Spock, that is perhaps the most illogical thing you’ve ever said.” Astonishingly, he heard amusement in Jim’s voice, despite their current situation. When he looked over, eyes barely able to open, he saw that his captain’s lips were pulled into a ghost of a smile. His eyebrows, however, were still furrowed with concern. “What does it matter if your ears are pointed or your blood is green? Why would it ever matter to me?” There were unspoken words within that statement, even Spock was able to identify that. But he was not quite able to extract the meaning. Why would it ever matter to me? 

“I know it is not logical, but I have always envied the redness in your veins, Jim.” If Kirk had noticed the slip in formalities, he did not reveal it. “Red is the color of vitality, of passion. It is something I will never possess beyond a medicinal diagnoses. But green . . . green is the color of cowardice. Of envy.” 

“You’re not speaking any sense, Mr. Spock.”

“There are many things I do not have the courage to tell you, Jim.” 

If the silence that followed was indicative of disgust, Spock might have felt shame. But Kirk only lifted one gentle hand to Spock’s cheek, and wiped a tear that he had not known had fallen. 

“I’ll be here when you wake up, Spock,” Kirk reassured, prompting him to fall into his healing trance. He could not hold out for much longer. “We’ll get through this, I promise, and . . . when you’re awake, maybe you’ll feel a little more courageous.” 

Through their connection, both physical and emotional, Spock could feel the tug of emotions in Kirk’s chest. Stress, worry, regret and surprisingly—the last thing he felt before slipping off to unconsciousness—affection beyond platonic admiration. 

He slept. 

-

As promised, Jim was there when he awoke on the Enterprise again. He was still a little bruised, and his lip was split, but other than that, Spock could not discern any permanent physical harm.

“You’re awake,” 

Humans had an interesting habit of announcing something that was not in need of announcement. 

“I am,” Spock nodded, noticing that he had been relocated to a corner cot in the medical bay. “How long was I in the healing trance?”

Before Kirk could reply, a voice interrupted from the doorway. A booming, slightly southern accent that Spock recognized immediately, despite the state of his foggy memory. “A week,” Doctor McCoy said. “And what a hell of a week!”

“Hello, Doctor,” Spock greeted the newcomer. 

McCoy went on as if he had not heard him, muttering, “I thought Jim might go mad and strangle me! Waiting in here like some wartime widow, what a hassle!”

He went on like this, spewing good-natured insults until he exited the room, holding Spock’s file (which he presumed was what McCoy had originally came in the room for). 

Kirk looked at Spock, the tips of his ears red. This blush, which creeped up his neck, was what prompted Spock to remember the last conversation they had. 

The color of vigor. Of passion. The courage that Spock had lacked, until, in a lapse of judgment, he had admitted his best-kept secret: his feelings for James Kirk. 

“I’m glad you’re awake, Mr. Spock—even if Bones isn’t,” the tone of his voice was light, nothing remarkably fond, but his hand reached down and gently held Spock’s. 

The action was innocent enough, Spock knew. He had seen many humans hold each other’s hands for comfort, for solace. But to himself, a Vulcan, the intimate action made his own ears glow green.

“It’s okay if you don’t have the courage right now, Spock,” Jim continued. He smiled, and Spock found himself wanting to do the same. “You were very brave on that planet.” 

In a rare show of physical affection, Spock lifted Kirk’s hands to his lips, and kissed the soft palm. 

Understanding the meaning of this action, Kirk in turn lifted Spock’s hand to his own mouth, pressing a warm kiss on the back of his hand. 

“When you’re ready, Mr. Spock,” Kirk smiled, “I think we should take a long shore leave—somewhere warmer, preferably.” 

Spock squeezed the hands still holding his, hoping that this seemingly modest reaction could begin to express all the feelings he had for Jim Kirk. That perhaps Jim might feel, through his own human senses, Spock’s unfailing devotion to him. 

“Yes, Captain,” he said. “I would like that very much.” 

[akari-hope]

how would someone deal w a problematic hyperfixation? like harry potter for example? /srs

that's a good question! obv this is a pretty layered conversation, and this depends on the particular hyperfixation, but for the sake of being able to discuss at least somewhat how far this all goes, i'll focus on the example you gave.

quick note before i go into it though: EVERYTHING is problematic in some way. this is truly just a fact of life, and part of why this is such a difficult conversation to have. you're genuinely never going to find a piece of media that is without problems in one way or another. the difference is the degree of problems, and scope. so keep in mind from the start that i'm not going to take a "everything that's problematic needs to be thrown out" stance, bc that's just not realistic and we'd be left with nothing.

harry potter is a unique beast bc of joanne's transphobia and not inconsiderable money and power that she uses to lobby for it. it's not like enjoying works by lovecraft, who of course held many bigoted views but is now long dead. buying a lovecraft book does not directly provide monetary support to the bigotry. on the other hand, buying a harry potter book does. and even things that may not have a financial boon for joanne are still aiding to the popularity of the franchise, still aiding the platform she uses for her bigotry.

at the same time, it's impossible to say that people cannot have an emotional attachment to her work. ignoring the myriad of problematic elements for a moment (bc wow there really are a lot), joanne fundamentally wrote a story about a boy who was an outcast, who was unloved by the family he had, who didn't fit in, and found solace in others who were like him, just as weird and strange. it's impossible to ignore that, even if it was not intentional coding, that sort of story through a queer lens reads incredibly authentic and meaningful to the experiences of many queer people. i know many trans people in particular who found meaning in those books, and it's been a struggle for them to grapple with joanne's vocal hatred of them after feeling for years that maybe she understood, was an ally.

so it's already a bit of a moral conundrum. you can't support harry potter somehow without at least indirectly supporting joanne's transphobic lobbying. and the more you hear her speak about her bigoted views, the more you realize how much of that is in the books. and then you also run into the problem of your brain being latched onto it, unwilling to let go. it's genuinely a shitty situation.

now everyone can come to different conclusions about what is the "correct" course of action here. some people think that loudly enjoying harry potter with the addendum of "everyone is trans" is sufficient, death of the author as it were (quick note that isn't what death of the author means, but that is the claim people make). some people say you have to throw the whole thing out, become vocally against everything in it. some people say you have to enjoy within reason: don't buy merch but you can still read the books/watch the movies/etc., just pirate and you're all good.

and tbh i'm not going to tell anyone what's "right", bc this is a moral dilemma. not everyone's morals are going to align with mine. but if you're like me and joanne's views upset you too much, if the issues in the books are a little too uncomfortable to look past, if the idea that you might be funding hatred against your own group, against friends, against those you love keeps you up at night - it's definitely time to try and move on from it.

so, if you've settled on that course of action, what do you do? first off, you gradually limit your exposure. if you run a specific themed blog, write fanfic, draw fanart etc., those are the easiest things to start cutting out (mind you, you don't have to cut it out completely from the get go! maybe you write/draw but don't post as an example). if you desperately need to, reading/watching on physical media you already own is okay, or pirating instead. gradually weaning off is the key. eventually as you stop, the hyperfixation DOES begin to alleviate.

and again, this is only for this VERY particular piece of media under this very particular circumstance. were we in a lovecraft situation, where yes there's problems with the text but the man is dead and you're not funding bigotry, we truly wouldn't need to HAVE this conversation. my advice there would just be to consume responsibly and acknowledge the problems without making excuses for them. and to be clear, when the thing in question is not causing direct harm, that IS my advice. bc it bears repeating: everything is problematic in some way, and everyone is going to have a different threshold for what is a workable amount.

but when you have things like harry potter where you're funding transphobic policy, or attack on titan which is straight up japanese nationalist propaganda that can and has caused harm to real life people, this is when the conversation shifts less from "the media is problematic" to "this is actually affecting real life people". which...again, part of the reason this is such a layered conversation. honestly even with as long as i've rambled here about it, i've still barely scratched the surface of it all.

tldr: if your support/consumption of a particular piece of media is concretely (as in there is significant evidence and actual easy to identify examples of this) causing harm to real life people, it's time to consider weaning off of it by gradually limiting consumption, and not providing monetary support. if your support/consumption of a particular piece of media is NOT concretely causing harm to real life people and merely has problematic elements, acknowledgment of said elements and critical thinking is sufficient.

[vannahfanfics]

A Dash of Cream and Sugar

Category: Mild Romantic Fluff

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Emi Fukukado, Shota Aizawa

Emi hunched over the counter, fist digging into her cheek with her lips pursed as she sourly fixated on the corner of the coffeeshop. Bent over a laptop, fingers smoothly gliding over the keyboard, the handsomest man she’d ever clapped eyes on diligently attended to his work. Onyx-black eyes lidded as they fixed on the computer screen, wavy brown-black hair tied in a loose bun behind his head, and a white dress shirt clinging to his lean but muscular frame, local prosecutor Shota Aizawa sure was a mouthwatering sight— and a frequent one. The man practically lived on coffee, and thus was a regular figure in the mom-and-pop coffee shop where Emi worked as a barista. 

He’s so attractive that it’s a crime, she moped, slumping further into the counter as her longing mounted. She released a dreamy sigh, hearts practically beating in her eyes while she watched him take a languid sip of his black coffee. How can he walk around looking that fine when he’s a prosecutor? Talk about hypocritical! She giggled at her own joke, drawing the attention of her coworker Yu. 

“Ahhh, daydreaming about life with our local sleep-deprived filthy rich prosecutor, are we, Emi?” the blonde woman crooned as she bopped Emi atop the head with an empty coffee cup. The other woman frowned and rubbed the top of her hair, turning to look at her friend with pursed lips. 

“Not so loud!” 

“Relax. The only one who’s unaware of your affections is the object of your affections,” Yu teased. Emi puffed out her cheeks angrily, but said nothing, because she was right. Despite Emi’s most valiant attempts at flirting— batting her eyelashes, fleeting touches, and even bending over the counter to give a great shot of her endowments— had failed miserably. The man was just oblivious. Stone-faced, he’d just take his coffee with a simple “thank you” and shamble off to his corner to attend to his paperwork. 

Emi was at the end of her rope. She wasn’t getting any younger, and dammit, she wanted this man. 

“What do I do, Yu?” she warbled miserably while turning to plank against Yu’s chest. The woman cooed and patted Emi’s back encouragingly, prompting the green-hand woman to seek further solace in her bosom. Buried in her pillowy chest, Emi’s words were muffled as she groaned, “I just want him to notice me…” 

“Alas, my dear Emi, men are dense sometimes,” Yu tutted and patted Emi atop her head. “However, we women must persevere to win the hearts of men, however blockheaded they may be! It’s clear we have to take drastic measures.” 

“Drastic measures?” Emi echoed, turning up her chin to peer at Yu with pursed lips and a few of her sea-green hair sticking up from her friend’s comforting caresses. 

“That’s right!” Yu asserted and clapped her hands down on Emi’s shoulders, making her jump a little. “You have to lay it on so thick that he can’t possibly think you’re doing anything but flirting. Listen carefully, dear Emi, and we’ll net your man for sure!” Emi straightened up and Yu leaned in close to whisper fervently in her ear, both their gazes flickering to the unsuspecting man sitting quietly in his corner and type-type-typing away… 

That’s how Emi found herself sauntering up to the small round table with a fresh coffee in hand, an exaggerated sashay in her hips and a pleasant smile on her freshly-glossed lips (courtesy of her savior Yu). She called cheerily to Shota, adding a delighted wave to play up the cute and endearing act, and her heart skipped a beat when his lidded black eyes slid in her direction. His eyebrows quirked up his forehead when he noticed the steaming cup of coffee in her hand, her seafoam green acrylic nails a stark contrast to the white paper cup. 

“What do we have here?” he smirked, straightening in his chair. Emi’s knees nearly turned to jelly when he stretched his arms above his head, part of his dress shirt coming untucked from the waistband of his slate gray slacks and revealing a bit of his chiseled abdominals. She wobbled in her heels, legs stumbling in front of each other, but thankfully he had his eyes closed as he popped his aching vertebrae. It gave her just enough time to stagger up to the table and catch herself with the edge— and greet him with a million-dollar smile when he cracked his eyes open. 

“You’ve been here for a while, hard at work,” she explained, setting the fresh coffee down. “I thought it was high time for a fresh cup.” 

“Much appreciated, Emi.” Her nerves sang as he used her name, just like every time; with how often he was here, he was on a first-name basis with all the baristas, especially Emi since she worked full-time to supplement her income as a part-time standup comedian. He took the cup and brought it to his lips, sampling it with a teasingly raised eyebrow. He then smiled at her, and she wanted to do a happy somersault when she saw the pleased twinkle in his onyx eyes. “Perfect. I would be disappointed if you didn’t have my order memorized.” 

“The strongest brew of the day with a dash of cream and sugar and an extra two shots of espresso, or as I like to call it, Liquid Death,” Emi joked with a waggle of her finger. “Of course I know it, since I make it almost every day.” Her heart thrummed when his smirk twitched into an amused smile. 

“And yet, it’s not on the menu.”

“The management believes that it may unnerve our normal customers,” Emi purred with a playful wink. A chuckle rumbled in his chest, throaty in deep, and she melted against the table as her knees once again melted at the devilish attractiveness of this man. I’ll die before I even get to ask him out! She thought, resisting the urge to fan her slowly-flushing face. 

“What a shame,” he tutted and took another sip. Emi watched him with an intense stare— more specifically, the writing in permanent marker on the cup he’d yet to notice, as it was currently hidden underneath his thumb. Would her and Yu’s carefully-constructed plan fall to pieces all due to unfortunate physics? Her heart pounded against his ribcage as she just watched him sip at the coffee, her brows furrowing more and more with each passing second. 

Please notice me… I’m right here! she pleaded silently, nearly reduced to tears with frustration. Her heartbeat rose in pitch with each thump, until it thundered in her ears at near-deafening intensity. 

“Emi? Emi. Emi.” 

“O-oh!” she stammered when Shota’s voice finally reached her. She jerked violently and fluttered her eyelashes as she came back to reality; it took her a few moments to register that he was holding out some bills to her and looking at her in concern. 

“You all right?” 

“H-huh! Oh, yes. I just got lost in thought!” she evaded with a light-hearted laugh. She looked down at the offered bills, then waved a hand dismissively with a smile. “Oh, don’t worry about the coffee! I used my daily free drink.” 

Shota raised an eyebrow questioningly, his hand falling a little. 

“Well, that leaves you without a drink, now doesn’t it?” 

“Bahhh, don’t sweat it!” she insisted with another fluttery wave, using her other hand to rub the back of her neck. “I don’t feel like drinking coffee today.” Shota looked unconvinced, but obediently tucked the bills back into his wallet. He picked up the coffee and sipped at it thoughtfully, once again failing to see the writing scrawled on the white surface. Emi wanted to fall over and throw a tantrum, it was so infuriating how the world hated her so!

“Still, I feel like I should repay you some way…” 

“Really, it’s not ne—” 

“If not monetary reimbursement, then perhaps a date?” 

Emi almost spit all over him with the completely flabbergasted sound that came out of her mouth. Shota actually chuckled a little at the way her mouth fell open and she just stared unresponsively, dumbstruck. 

“While you were staring off into space, I read your little love note,” he revealed, turning the coffee cup around and giving it a shake. Emi had written the poem “Roses are red, violets are blue, if it’s not too much trouble, can I go out with you? <3” in black permanent marker in the white space of the cup. “Quite original, I must say. Much more enjoyable than your phone number, though I suppose I’ll need it,” he said with a wolfish grin and a saucy wink that had Emi almost faint. 

“O-okay,” she said breathily, submitting to the urge to fan her face as a blush blazed across her face. She retrieved her trusty permanent marker and the empty coffee cup, lifting it up with trembling hands to write down her number. Her quivering hands made the numbers jerky and twitchy, but thankfully still legible. When she handed it back to Shota, he appraised it with a hum, and then set it down. 

“Thank you. What time do you get off tonight?” 

“T-tonight?” she wheezed. Though this was everything she’d ever wanted, suddenly it felt like it was all happening too fast. Somehow, she remained steadfast and squeaked out, “Ei-eight…” 

“All right then, Emi,” Shota smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I’ll see you for dinner, then. Now, you and I both should probably get back to work,” he said, motioning to the coffee bar with his chin. She looked back to see Yu struggling to man the front herself and casting desperate glances at Emi. 

“O-okay!” she said breezily, wobbling as the situation finally began to dawn on her. Still, her friend needed her, so she staggered back to her workspace to replace Yu at the register and fumble through the orders with a hazy mind. She kept thinking how much Shota’s coffee order fit him— though he seemed dark and brooding, just like pure espresso, but there was a hint of sweetness, a dash of cream and sugar, swirling within. She couldn’t wait until their date, when she could really get a taste of her new favorite brew…

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[stupid-stew]

My Obsession With Character Names Pays Off Right Here Right Now

I have literally never posted here but I decided that since I spent today writing about the the name of the characters in The Owl House instead of prepping for finals, someone should see it. Included are Lilith, Eda, Luz, King, Gus, Willow, Amity, Alador, Odalia, Emira, Edric, Belos, Adegast, Kikimora, last names Blight, Noceda, Clawthorne, Park, Porter, and Bump, and briefly Hooty, Owlbert, Hieronymus, and Boscha.

FIRST NAME

LILITH

Ok so because I'm lilith’s bitch we are gonna start with her because her name is so cool and I love her and we should be besties Lilith hmu. Anyways as most people know Lilith is a pre existing mythological character which makes this very much good because that means it’s all outlined. Most people know her as a demonic figure, which I very much dig but similar to our lovely queen of curses out here, that's not all she is. There isn’t going to be a chronological explanation of similarities and conclusions, cope. The basic gist is that Lilith was this chick with fiery red hair (this is important iykyk) who refused to be beneath or below adam, more specifically to subjugate to him, funny because of the tapestry with belos what says subjugation on it, probably a coincidence but I do not believe in coincidence right now. Anyways basically she runs off and becomes this chick who like snatches children and will make them sick if they don’t have an amulet with the names Senoy, Sansenoy, or Semangelof on them, thats a different story but what I find interesting is this one passage,

“(12) Her nobles shall be no more, nor shall kings be proclaimed there; all her princes are gone. (13) Her castles shall be overgrown with thorns, her fortresses with thistles and briers. She shall become an abode for jackals and a haunt for ostriches. (14) Wildcats shall meet with desert beasts, satyrs shall call to one another; There shall the Lilith repose, and find for herself a place to rest. (15) There the hoot owl shall nest and lay eggs, hatch them out and gather them in her shadow; There shall the kites assemble, none shall be missing its mate. (16) Look in the book of the LORD and read: No one of these shall be lacking, For the mouth of the LORD has ordered it, and His spirit shall gather them there. (17) It is He who casts the lot for them, and with His hands He marks off their shares of her; They shall possess her forever, and dwell there from generation to generation.”

And there are separate part of this that I find relevant, especially the description of the location, i’m not all that familiar with symbolism of animals in religious texts, so i’m gonna take it at face value and say that this is more or less a description that could be given to the physical owl house itself, sort of a place for people who don’t fit in, its a little messy and I guess one could say overgrown, but it’s a place for anyone, a place to rest now hopefully for Lilith away from the coven, there shall the Lilith repose. On top of that we see the “the hoot owl…” and you’re probably thinking what that so crazy wacko because like why are they referring to Lilith as the hoot owl isn't Eda the owl lady, yes she is. That’s why the actual meanings of lilith’s name that come from her mythological depiction as a demon lady are so important. We have night monster, night owl, night spectre, vampires, night hag, night creature, nightjar (which is another kind of bird), and night bird, all of these seem to fit lilith’s dark aesthetic very nicely which is very good for her, but there are two other ones, hot owl and screech owl, which draw her closer to Edaand away from the coven and her depiction in the mid-later episodes of the show as a monster for cursing eda, but also the name night monster could come into play if while sharing the curse Lilith acquired some of its traits, similar to Edaas the owl beast. Ultimately, we have this little red head girl who eventually fights back against the men who are attempting to get her to be under them, for the character that is belos, for the other Lilith that is adam, god, and his angels, and now hopefully both of them will find solace and repose among the owls in a place they never thought they’d belong. All this talk of owls and god brings us into the other clawthorne baddie:

EDA

For this I'm going to use her full name edalyn, because you know like that’s just how it be it is her name. There isn’t a wiki page for her name like there is for Lilith which makes this a little bit harder but the general consensus seems to be that it means something along the lines of “gift of god”, which I find very interesting. If you are going to name a child gift of god i’m assuming that you are referring to the child themselves, but I don’t think that really applies to eda. I’m not religious, but its my impression that someone who lies cheats pranks and steals their way to the top and isn’t exactly the most responsible witch on the isles might not be the best gift god could give. I do really love Eda though, her character flaws are still a part of her character, but I think this refers to her powers. Eda considers herself to be the boiling isles gift to magic, which I mean like, have you seen the woman. In agony of a witch we see her at what probably 30% of her power with how much the curse was already tolling on her and how much magic she was probably using to fight it off, and like goddamn. She was almost beating lilith, definitely beating the shit out of her, but she was almost defeating Lilith who was at her full power, and that is just a fraction of what she used to be able to do. Her powers were a gift of god, and I think that the loss of them will greatly affect her. She’s already admitted that she doesn’t know how to do much without her magic, and I think going straight from the second most powerful witch on this isles to having no power at all is going to be incredibly taxing on her, physically and mentally.

Luckily for her the name edalyn also means patience, another thing about her name is that it not only means gift of god, but also similar things like gifted by the gods or even goddess, and this draws a connection to Lilith who is named after a demonic figure, casted out for having defied god, they are quite literally polar opposites on the name spectrum, and we see that a lot in the show, they are completely different people, I mean have you looked at them they don’t even look related, but the funnier thing is that their personalities do the same thing. You’d expect Edain her youth to be a gift from the devil, just ask principal bump, and Lilith seemed to be a goody two shoes who worked her ass off, their names could be switched based off their characters alone.

A random baby name site I found said that :

“Persons with the name edalyn are usually highly flexible and well equipped to making and accepting change throughout their life. They always seek excitement and are sometimes a bit of a risk taker. They are imaginative, and often, through their unconventional way of thinking, are naturally able to solve complex problems with ease. They are quick thinkers and observers who are clever, analytical and versatile”

Which I mean like very much applies to eda, she takes change like a champ, either genuinely or by pretending she’s ok with everything, and is always seeking excitement. Like literally all of the time. Always. I think she takes felonies as a compliment, and one of the biggest changes in her life that she genuinely was able to adapt to and appreciate was

LUZ

Ok I think at this point everyone knows that at this point the name Luz means light, and if you didn't, oopsies now you do. The character Luz was named and designed after a real life person the miss dana terrace knew at the time she was starting to really think about the show, Luz ’s personalty comes more from dana herself and we love that, but the character has really started to grow into her name. This is made most obvious when the first spell Luz learns is the light glyph, not only coming into her own as a witch, but also starting to live up to her name, which along with light also has to do with “Our Lady of Light”, which is the virgin mary, fitting her right in with the other biblical names we got going on here. I really want to stress that I know next to zero about religion, and all of the connections I am making come from wikipedia, so bare with me here. But most of the time mary seems to be this pure, saint like figure, which I think is what a lot of people see Luz as, especially on the isles. I’m going to flat out say that this is in no way meant to pass off Luz as simple minded, pure, or oblivious, because we have seen what that girl is willing to do, she faced death and poked him in the with an ice cicle. In terms of life on the isles, however, she is more or less pure and sheltered, she’s completely new to the world she’s in, but she does quickly adapt, and shows more of her strong side, and remains a good person throughout all of it, taking losses as they come, and not letting them remain losses at the same time.

Back to the whole light thing, we already touched on the whole literal bit of her and the light spell, but can you think of a better way to describe Luz ? She literally brings light everywhere she goes, even Eda admits that she’s changed things for the better, for everyone around her too. Willow got a new friend, probably the first friend she’s had in a long time, and even got to begin repairing her relationship with amity, and got placed in the plant track so she could do the things she loves, all because of Luz . Edagot to grow as a person and a mentor, and finally got someone willing to accept all her eda-ness, unconditionally, someone to really care about that really cares about her back, all because of Luz . Amity got a friend who cares about her, not just her family name and money, someone who supports her and will do anything for her because she is her friend, and a bit of self discovery along the way for amity, all because of Luz . Not a single person on the isles who has had more than 2 minutes of interaction with Luz hasn’t had their lives improved, even belos got his portal, and the thing is that even characters who people might not even consider changed have been, characters such as

KING

The name king itself is obvious, he is royalty, the king of demoNS HIMSELF ASMODEUS hahahaha pulled a sneaky on you now accept my ideas as your own. I am on a mythological name kick, deal with it. The most important thing here is in the bible, asmodeus poses himself as a false god, which I know is something we have all considered with king, that he might be a full on liar, not be a king of anything and is just your ordinary street demon, it’s even come up in the show with him calling himself the king of artists and Luz asking him if he was just making it up at this point. It’s a good theory, I can see it, and this could be used as proof. There is also another legend that paints him as a good natured dude, who eventually banishes the king by literally throwing him, and then he loses his powers and is banished, but this is also the same legend where he marries Lilith and that is not something I am down for. There is another text in which he tells the king (the same one he threw in the other one) that his kingdom will one day be divided and the king does not believe him, and this is the same text where he admits to hating water and birds because they remind him of god. Lets think class, who has the god name and is related to birds here? King’s name by itself holds true to his character, who (regardless of if it is truthful or not) holds himself as if he is a king, and he isn't the only one with a name like that, there is also

WILLOW

Ok I know we all thought it, willow, the plant girl, how fiendishly clever. This also happens to be the only descriptor for her name I could find, which is totally fine because I think it’s a very cute name and willow is also very cute. This means we get to go into the symbolism of the willow tree wwwooooOOOOO aren’t you so very excited I know I am. Its kind of interesting, willow trees seem to match the character, understanding, warm, a safe space really, but most of all the ability to let go of pain and suffering, sometimes outright ignore it, and move on. Willow does always say out of sight out of mind does she not? She is willing to ignore, even excuse people bullying her, be it bosha or even amity, and the moment she got the chance her inner willow decided to try and literally burn the painful memories she had, willing to cause damage just to forget. Willow as a character is very willing to move on like nothing happened most of the time, key word most because another thing about willows is the ability to grow from the pain. Before understanding willow, we never really saw willow stand up for herself until she really had to, but hy the end of the episode she is willing to tell amity that she isn’t willing to fully forgive her, but she’s willing to grow and try. Heck, we see this over the entire first season, we see this little girl who can barely pull it together long enough to stand up for herself grow into this amazing character willing to publicly oppose the emperor and break into his castle for her friend, she tried to full out attack Lilith when 19 episodes earlier she wasn’t able to stand up to amity for bullying her. And I am in no way calling willow weak, she never was, she just needed to find the ability to show everyone that she’s strong, god I love willow so much, you wanna know who else loves willow?

GUS

Gus, my main man, love you but for this we are gonna have to use the full on augustus sorry babes. The name augustus means majestic, or venerable, which while I must say that the illusion of kiki doing the worm was probably one of the most majestic things I have ever seen, I’m going to focus on venerable a bit more here. Venerable is a big word, it means “accorded a great deal of respect, especially because of age, wisdom, or character.”, which for gus the age part might play a smaller part here, but he is good as what he does, Luz and willow both respect him, Eda Respects him, he’s this little dude who is younger than everyone and has to rely on his ability to succeed, not inly with his power but with his personality.Gus seems to be confident in himself, communicating with everyone regardless of who they are or what power they hold, similarly to willow he was willing to do anything to help Luz , leading into the second description of venerable, “heroic in nature”. Now, you might be wondering, bestie where ever did you get that description, it totally wasn’t from a religious page okyesitwas but that's fine because being pronounced venerable guarantees a spot in heaven so get it bestie. Overall, the general meaning for augustus is that they are strong, respectable, and powerful, which takes us right into the

ASSORTED BLIGHTS

The blight first names bring me joy so I am putting amity last because I think its really funny, starting off with alador, the name alador evokes diplomacy, correctness, and confidence. We know zilch about alador, but if the vibes of the blight family have anything to say it’s definitely something along those lines. The name odalia means wealth, which I mean like have you seeeen blight manor? Also back at it again with the fact that it’s a variant of the name odilia, like the saint olilia which I don't have ties for you right now because again, we know nothing about her. Edric also means wealth, fortune, riches, powerful, you get the vibes, same thing with emira which means commander, or prince, princess, leader, or star. So you know like we have all these super powerful names happening, and then, oh boy and then we get to little miss perfect herself, amity blight. It means friendship, or harmony. If I was her I would be so mad at my parents like yall have these mad powerful names and I got stuck with friendship? Hand me the emancipation papers. You know what they say, friendship is the real magic (even if no longer taught in schools due to budget constraints). I hope that this leads more into season 2 with amity working on her friendships and ultimately her relationships in general, which we got a bit of already with her working on repairing her relationship with willow, and making the moves to cut off old toxic friendships and moving into more genuine ones with willow, Luz , and gus. I guess you could say that the only thing ALL the blights have in common with each other is their

LAST NAME

BLIGHT

The word blight by itself means a plant disease which boy oh boy can you believe how nicely that fits into amity bullying willow because I sure can. Outside of just the plant bit it overall just means like something that damages another thing, and this works beautifully for each member of the family. The parents are damaging their children, the twins just causing general damage, and amity and her goddamn relationships, but fortunately that whole plant thing brings us into the next couple of last names

CLAWTHORNE

The last name clawthorne means “cold or exposed thorn tree” which had me kind of like what the heck so I went off and had some fun and got you some presents that I think are funny, so there was this guy right, his name was joseph clawthorne, and he created the term whiffenpoof, which is the name for a wildly fictitious animal, things like a jackalope, or even a griffin with spider breath, though I guess that would be the work of a

NOCEDA

Back again with the trees good lord, it means field of nut trees, so again I went into prominent people an found this guy named jorge noceda sanchez, he was a painter and some of his works are kinda baller actually it seems like something that would fit in on the isles, but also not all of the names have a deeper meanings, names like

PORTER

Ok I am like pretty sure this was just meant to be a play on the fact that gus’ dad’s name is perry and is a reporter, get it, perry porter, perry porter, reporter, but nonetheless I did some digging because why the heck not, it means doorkeeper, or gate keeper, someone who guards something like an important building, which honestly I think this would be a good last name for hooty if he ever gets one, but again not all of these are important names at the moment, or maybe they won't ever be at all, names like

PARK

At first I was kinda like l m a o willow park plant girl hahahahah plants in the park parks have trees willow is a tree but then I remembered that someone pointed out that park is a traditionally korean surname and then like a week later disney posted about it for aisian pacific american heritage month which kind of confirmed it, and I don’t know if the whole intention behind it was to establish willow as representation or not, but the surname park by itself means gourd and willow I am so sorry that is so unfortunate LMAOSIFN

BUMP

To be honest I was not expecting bump to have a last name that meant anything but it means swift walker and I think thats funny so you have to know it now

MISCELLANEOUS

BELOS

BIIIITCH LISTEN UPPPP there is a butt tone of mythology surrounding his name and its mostly a different form of it, belus, that is referenced, but same thing different shape. Most of his depiction is as a great king or ruler, in babylonian mythology being the equivalent of zeus of jupiter, which liiikkkkkeeeoajolnjojnkjakjavnjfvdfkjf but its fine everything is great its all ok most importantly, he is recognized as the god or ruler of war, and in that same mythology he lived in babylon, which “... was originally water, and called a sea. But Belus put an end to this, and assigned a district to each, and surrounded Babylon with a wall; and at the appointed time he disappeared.” and idk about you but the smell of him assigning a divide and disappearing smells sour like funky to me babes

HIERONYMUS AND BOSCHA

I am only putting this here because the fact that it’s totally a play on hieronymus bosch makes me cackle and you all have to know it thank you

ADEGAST

B-but brevyn he was only there for like one episode, yeah ok and? Radegast is the slavic god of hospitality, and there is no host like a host that pretends to take you on a mythical quest and then tries to eat you and your mentor and her deranged cat demon, ok? His name translates to “dear guest” or “welcomed guest” and I mean I think if my host tried to suck me into some fantasy would delusion i’d feel pretty welcomed

HOOTY

He is an owl

OWLBERT

He is also an owl

KIKIMORA

First and foremost, she is a little night gremlin who hates children and I think that really fits her, but she is also a little house demon, who is very difficult to get to leave, have we seen her outside the castle? Will she be a spy along with the mask next season? She also has a name that means nightmare or night demon, similar to a certain other night creature we might have heard of a while ago. She tried to strangle children and I love that for her,and she is described as a little old ugly messy haired lady and I feel like her current character has the personality of one so i’ll take it, but what really gets me is her villain origin story, which is that she "grows up with a magician in the mountains. From dawn to sunset the magician’s cat regales Kikimora with fantastic tales of ancient times and faraway places, as Kikimora rocks in a cradle made of crystal. It takes her seven years to reach maturity, by which time her head is no larger than a thimble and her body no wider than a strand of straw. Kikimora spins flax from dusk and to dawn, with evil intentions for the world.”

[resinatingbeauty]

In Memory of The Best Friend I Ever Had - RIP Shadow (assumed)- 4/30/2021

Shadow showed up at my parents house where I lived at the time, one night back in 2016. I had just gotten home from working at a local country club late in the evening, tired, and physically burnt out from working 40+ hours a week on top of going to college for my associates degree. I saw something pass by the driveway out of the corner of my eye. Something massively fluffy, tail straight up in the air, trotting along. There are many feral cat colonies in this town and many cat owners that lived on that street. Needless to say, I didn't expect this one to whip back around and start chirping at me, rubbing my legs after I called to her.

My mother was adamant when my last two cats had past 8 or so years prior that she wasn't looking for any more pets. My mom loves animals, but she also loves her home and was thinking about doing renovations before adopting any new companions. I knew I was in trouble when this cat came to me with nothing but affection, clearly malnourished, but strangely well groomed. I knew she had to be owned by someone, I had no idea who.

That night I went inside after spending some time enjoying her company. At the time, I was calling 'Charlemange'' as a play on 'Charlemagne'. I had been taking a medieval humanities course at the time and the name seemed fitting enough considering how much scraggly fur she had. Huge paws. Big, fluffy tail and mane. I had never seen a cat so gorgeous around the area. All the feral cats are short hairs, reinforcing my notion that she had to be someone's pet.

I watched through the window slit of the front door as Charlemange played with the moths and other bugs that were attracted to the lamp post my parents have at the end of the driveway and regretted leaving her out there.

I simply thought that Charlemange would return home where she belonged. When I went out to my back screened in patio, whom do you think was waiting for me? Meowing? Charlemange. To my mother's horror, she would launch herself at the screen and hang there to get our attention. Imagine this big ass cat hanging from your screened in porch you've been trying to renovate by all her claws.

She was persistent and Charlemange NEVER returned home, wherever home was.

Eventually, I sealed the deal, low key giving her a can of tuna. Now you see how Shadow went from Charlemange to Shadow.

For about a month, all I had to do was make a high pitched noise and Shadow would come out of wherever brush she was stalking, running and talking until she found me. One evening, I went to give her her dinner, and she shot in the front door.

Mortified, I watched as she scooted right into the one place that I dreaded her to go. My parent's room. That night, as a 20 something, I received a lecture from my father about how my mother felt about pets. 'She isn't a kitten, you know,' he said, 'thats a grown cat. Someone else's cat.'

I just listened and acknowledged what he was saying. I knew there was no point trying to explain what exactly happened. When my dad got done going off on the back porch and went back in to bed, I heard a meow from the patio door. Shadow had been standing at the door, waiting for him to leave , almost like she was saying, 'Hey, I'm really sorry about that, sis,'

Shadow would go on to live in or around the property for nearly a month. I made an effort to find her owners and return her to no avail. Eventually, a single mom I had been working as a private tutor for as a side hustle agreed that she would take Shadow. This would only last for a few months. The family had another cat, Karma, whom had been declawed (I abhor this) and two little girls who had no respect for animals (especially cats) because of this. I knew how the oldest handled Karma and my only solace in handing Shadow over was that I knew she wouldn't be hit by a car, would be fed, loved to a degree, and would scratch the shit out of them if they fucked up.

Their mother ended up calling me, giving me money to bring Shadow in to the humane society, saying she was a wonderful cat, just not the best fit for the girls. I could only imagine what Shadow went through at that house, because the time there changed her. The collar I had on her was returned to me snapped in two. It looked like it had been pulled off. I cringed thinking about it and never put another collar back on that cat. At the time, a woman had been busted hoarding 100+ cats that had all been relinquished to the humane society and local rescues. The humane society's solution for most was euthanasia and I wasn't about that for Shadow. Back to my backyard she went.

Eventually, Shadow won over my mother and my father, especially my father, whom you would never think would love that cat so much. When my mother brought Shadow to the vet, we were surprised to find she had a chip in her ear registered to someone on our block. As per protocol, animal control was sent out to investigate. The woman told animal control that she didn't want the cat. All she did was run away. Shadow's real name was Holly, but she was still Shadow to me.

Shadow became the best friend I ever knew. Not a night went by where she wasn't under my covers sharing the pillow with me, laying stretched out on her back or side as the little spoon. If she wasn't in my bed, she would sit at the door to the bedroom, guarding me or in a chair next to me, always watching. I could do no wrong in that cat's eyes. She was the highlight of my day when I got home from every crappy job I had since. A furry coat to soak up the tears shed during long nights of insomnia and depression. An inspiration for my art and spirituality. My familiar and kindred spirit. If I would talk to her, she would respond with chirps and meows like she knew exactly what I was saying. If someone else was in the room giving her attention and I walked in, she would perk up and run toward me like they never existed. Shadow was the second cat that chose me. I have never chosen a cat from a shelter or adoption / rescue facility. This is how I acquired both my childhood furry friend and Shadow.

It all began when I noticed Shadow's fur was sticky and stiff, like she had been sitting in honey. Just the end of her tail at first. She always had this silly habit of sitting in her food tray, so I cleaned it and her and thought nothing of it until the drooling started.

Shadow had always been a drooler, but not to this extent. Drool bubbles would pop from her left lip. One night, when I came home from work before I started my leave to focus on my Etsy shop, I was horrified to find her sitting on the couch with a bloody chin. Now, there wasn't a large amount of blood, but this alarmed me significantly. It was time to see a vet, like, yesterday. Thankfully, my shop sales had been great and I didn't have to fret over the bill- I was ready to pay whatever it was to make her feel better.

The vet confirmed what I knew deep down and didn't want to acknowledge because the thought was just too painful. Cancer. No chance of survival even if I wanted to go through the hell of treatment, which involved removal of the tongue and jaw. I brought Shadow home and cried, hoping for the best -that the antibiotic would work. The vet said she had been wrong before, it could just be an abscess and it would heal. Shadow was still doing cat things. Shadow was still my best friend, she still loved me, she was still trying to cuddle me at night and surrounding me with the reminder of death in the odor of her breath.

Yesterday, I brought Shadow in to be put to sleep. The decision was made when I looked up from making a rune set and saw puddles of blood on the floor, a stream of it from her face as she was sitting in the window sill. I have never felt so heartbroken. Not even at a family member's funeral. I asked to bring her home, burying her under the tree where I buried my last cat and childhood familiar, Elmo. When I saw the standard biohazard bag peeking up through the dirt, I knew that was where she belonged. With her sister. Yesterday, my heart was buried with that cat. Eleven years was not long enough but each one filled with so much love and happiness. I stood with her until the end. The only peace I feel is that I know that she is no longer hurting. I know she knew I loved her.

I miss you Shadow. To those of you who have recently lost your best friend, your familiar or the love of your life, my heart goes out to you. I hope that someone else can read this and share my pain. I understand that there was nothing I could do but love her. Love your pets. Love them as long and as well as you can- nothing is immortal. We accept this when we commit to caring for our (mostly) furry (sometimes scaly or feathery) friends. This doesn't mean that it hurts any less when we lose them.

To my customers, who have been patiently and diligently awaiting orders while Etsy forced hiatus on my shop, preventing sales during this crisis in addition to my sister in law's wedding and me poking my own eye out back and February- you all are really the best turn of luck I've had. You do not know how much I appreciate you allowing me the time to spend these last few precious moments with her. It truly means the world to me and I hope at the end you receive something worth your time and patience. I have not forsaken fulfillment, and orders are still shipping. Unfortunately, I NEED to reopen and accept new orders, as Etsy is demanding payment for $600 worth of shipping labels. My shop is still appearing as in hiatus at the moment, but I ask for all the support my friends, supporters and followers can offer at this time as I essentially will be working for free when I reopen to pay these fees. Great, right?

If you are awaiting refunds, there is literally no money in the account associated with Etsy. However, as the funds become available, I will be processing refunds / cancellations. I'm sorry for the delays, I never thought I would say I found success at the worst possible time. I urge the rest of you- if you have a deadline for your order for the love of goddess TELL ME. I am getting a little frustrated with buyers (who are frustrated with me, understandably, but still, my item descriptions are clear about relaying deadlines) who are upset or complaining about meeting gift deadlines or other deadlines I literally had no idea about. I'm a decent psychic, but not perfect.

~ Samantha

(Owner/Designer/Creator blursedbaubles.etsy.com)

[yeojaa]

❪  TO THE MOON AND BACK!  ❫

You use your one brain cell for love.  It doesn’t always end well.

pairing.  kth x named f!reader.  jjk x named f!reader.

genre +  rating.   non-idol!au.  fluff, a bit of angst.  general.    

tags / warnings.  none!  this chapter is pretty sad but also pretty happy?  “balanced, as all things should be.” - thanos, and also me.

wc.  3.9k

chapter 11.

“Are you ever going to do anything with them?”

You’re so focused on the melody that you don’t recognize the words immediately, his voice playing somewhere beyond your recognition.  It takes a long few moments of staring at Yoongi’s face, his moving lips, for you to realize he’s speaking to you.  

Headphones are tugged off your head and carefully returned to the stand at your elbow.

“Sorry?”  

“I said ‘are you ever going to do anything with them?’” 

It feels like you’re missing an integral part of the conversation.  Forehead furrows, following the lead of your mouth as it purses, little indent forming between your brows.  “With what?” 

“The songs.”  He doesn’t have to say much more.

“Oh.”  Your lack of answer doesn’t seem to deter him, his expression politely interested, if not a little tired.  You feel a pang of guilt for the fact that you’ve had such long nights lately - sessions passing the stroke of midnight more often than not. 

While it wasn’t your fault, you saw the toll it took on him - found evidence of it in the bags beneath his eyes, heavy enough to incur an additional charge at the airport counter.

He refocuses your attention:  “Yes?  No?”

“I… don’t know.”  You hadn’t considered it, honestly.  The songs had originally been written to give your misery an outlet.  You’d never considered what would happen to them once they were fully formed.   

You’re also not sure why he’s asking.  It’s been at least four months since you’d even thought about them.  Now they sat in the back of your mind, tucked away in a dusty box labelled JUNGKOOK along with a hundred other memories you weren’t sure you were ready to face yet.

“Can I use one then?”  

That certainly isn’t what you’d expected.

“What?”  It catches off your teeth, shattering over your tongue.  You wonder how you look - if the surprise is glaring beneath your skin like neon light.

Yoongi grins, low and slow and full of gums.  He must mistake your emotion for something else - excitement, maybe? - because he’s joining you in front of the computer, the imprint of his body still worn into the soft leather cushions he’s just vacated.  

The same instant he drops into the seat beside you, he takes over the mouse, flicking through file folders with purpose.  “I’m working on a new mixtape.  I thought one of your songs might work well on it so I took the liberty of recording some vocals and mixing it to see.”  

In any other situation, you’d be preening from the praise.  Now, it only settles discomfort in your stomach.

“I don’t know,”  you repeat, finally, after what seems like forever.  He’s already pulled up the audio file and the beginning notes fill the enclosed space, sinking into your ears.  It sounds amazing, of course.  Everything he touches turns to gold.  His voice is distinct, the delivery of lyrics so masterful you still don’t really know how he does it.

You listen in silence, admiring the way he’s managed to lay your original refrain with his effortless rap.  It thrums in a low bass - utterly brilliant - and then your voice starts.

It hits you like a ton of bricks then, two thousand pounds of weight dropping your heart into the pit of your stomach.  You don’t expect the reaction to be so polarizing.  You hardly realize you’re locked into place, gaze trained on some freckle in the wood grain of the desk, until you’re physically pulled from it.

A hand settles on your shoulder, hesitant yet unyielding.  It frames the bone and squeezes once, twice.  Yoongi’s voice follows, softer than you anticipate.  “Are you okay?”

The question repeats on a feedback loop.  It turns over and over and over until there’s nothing left but a distortion of your own voice in your head.  Were you okay?  You’d thought so.  Now, you weren’t so sure.  Hearing the familiar melody is like reliving those eight excruciating months all over again.

“It sounds great,”  you answer earnestly, in a voice that wobbles with emotion - a trapeze artist barely hanging on. You’re not lying;  you wish your voice wasn’t so feeble. 

“You’d get full credit, obviously.”  Yoongi’s trying to soothe the ache he can’t quite understand.  Not that he hasn’t tried.  After all, he’d helped you bring all of this to life.  He’d already done more than enough.

“Oh, thanks.”  It’s a little watery and a little weak but you’re laughing and that stretches an almost triumphant grin across the producer’s face.  It splits the casual indifference he normally wears, throwing the roundness of his cheeks into stark relief. 

You can’t help but smile yourself, however small.

Still, it’s enough for him.  You’re past the one-two sucker punch and he’s nearly all business again, studying the screen now that he knows you aren’t about to start bawling.  You have to hand it to him - he’s a professional through and through.

“Did you mind if I took a look at your notes?  I’m thinking we might want to do some ad libbing but I wasn’t sure if you’d considered that.”  

You don’t think twice about it, handing your worn notebook over.  The edges are tattered and it’s nearing the end, only half a dozen blank pages remaining.  All the rest are filled with nonsense:  half-formed lyrics, melodies stuck in your head, and—

“Are these about Jungkook?”

The question quite literally knocks the breath from your lungs.  It takes you what feels like ages to regain control of your own anatomy, your jaw falling and rising in tandem with the drawn out beat of your heart.  It feels strange - like you’re moving in slow motion.

Laid out before you - before him - are pages you’d poured your heart into over half a year ago.  You recognize them because of the dogeared edges and the almost concerning pen strokes decorating the margins.  Half the time you’d been writing about nothing at all, just putting your jumbled thoughts onto paper.  The lyrics had only come after that, once you’d word vomited as much as you could. 

You know what he’s reading now - not the verses you’d brought to life, but the heartbreak.  

“No?”  You’re not a great liar.  It’s never been an issue until now.

He doesn’t do the disservice of belittling you or questioning you on it further.  Instead, Yoongi remains decidedly silent;  the quiet isn’t quite like any other.  It’s careful and considerate, formed by unspoken questions and curiosity he holds close.  Almost as if he’s giving you time, he flips through the pages with the strangest expression on his face.

Even when he’s done, he says nothing - meeting your horrified stare with something close to compassion. (Or pity, but that feels a whole lot worse.)

He waits for you to speak first.  You don’t. 

Finally, because it’s almost suffocating now, he hands your notebook back to you.  Two hands - deeply respectful.  You accept in the same fashion and try to ignore the tremor that runs the length of your fingers, slotting the journal back into your bag.

“Does he know?”  There’s no judgment, no expectation.  

You have to hand it to him - he’s handling this spectacularly well.  Far better than you would be if you’d found out one of your best friend’s girlfriends had history with another of your best friends. 

“Sort of.”  

It’s the first reaction he gives that feels like it isn’t restrained, carefully packaged and offered only after it’s been perfected.  “Sort of?”  It rolls incredulously off his tongue.  

“It’s a long story.”  You don’t mean how defensive you sound.  It’s just hard not to when the wound has been festering for so long and you’ve let it turn to rot, weeds sprouting around the Jungkook-shaped sadness you’ve tried to cover with a sheet.

“I have time.”  He doesn’t mean it in any way but comforting.  It still doesn’t feel right.  

You begin with fiddling hands and eyes that won’t quite meet his, bouncing around the room like you’ll find solace in the muted light or the KAWS figurines that line the side wall.  “We met in school - second year.  He asked if the seat beside me was empty.”  You’re proud of the way your voice doesn’t break - how it steels itself through the acid that boils in your veins.

“We… were friends.”  The word has never quite matched what you’ve felt for him, even now.  But then?  It didn’t hold a candle to the torch you’d carried.  “He honestly became my best friend, or something like that.”  You try not to get too lost in the memory, holding tight to the present with white-knuckled fists.  “We did everything together.  We visited our families.  We went to Disneyland.”

Surprise fits itself into the sea of his stare, recognition flickering like a lighthouse.  You wonder how much he knows - if the nameless girl in Jungkook’s stories finally has a face.

“We were inseparable.”  The smile you offer is mostly playful, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.  “I guess, except for when he was with you guys.  But at some point, the friendship changed.  For me, at least.”  You fiddle with the long end of your belt, scraping indigo nails over the glossy fabric.  “I never acted on it, though.  I knew I couldn’t.  I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”  

“Then how…”  It trails off but the question lingers, hanging in the spaces between you.

“You know how hard he works.”  Yoongi nods - of course he does.  “Our last semester was… a lot.  I don’t think I’d ever seen him so stressed out.  We kind of let loose once we submitted our final projects.”

The little puzzle pieces you’re offering are slowly taking shape.  A part of you - the part that hates picking at the poorly healed wound - wishes you could take it all back.  You’re so close to the climax of the story and yet, you know it’ll be lacklustre.  It’ll fall miles short of the cinematic masterpiece you’re sure Yoongi’s expecting.��

There will be no grandiose declarations of affection and no heartbreaking rejections.  

“I made the mistake of asking him to spend the night.”  Heat eats up every surface of your skin, starting at the apples and ascending up over your temples.  “And then…  I left in the morning.”

Seated not two feet from you, Yoongi’s quiet breath is far louder than he means.  It puffs out of his cheeks in surprise.  “What do you mean you left?”

Whether the warmth is embarrassment or shame now, you’re not quite sure.  It all feels the same, red hot and humiliating.  “I left a note on my pillow.”  You won’t meet his stare even as you can feel it digging into your skin. 

“What did the note say?”  By the way he speaks, you think he has an idea.

“Sorry.”  

“Sorry for what?”

“No, the note.  It said sorry.”

If looks could kill, you’d likely be six feet under.  You’ve never seen so much exasperation - not even on your professor’s face when you’d beg for an extension literally seconds before a project was due.  “And what else?”  

“Nothing?”  You say it like a question despite the fact you know the answer.

He’s pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.  You’re practically gnawing a hole through your cheek.

“Then what happened?”

“We didn’t talk.”  

“At all?”  Watching him grow incrementally more frustrated is like observing an overworked stay-at-home mom losing her cool at the supermarket.  It feels bad, discouraging, but you can’t look away.  Not even when he stares at you like you’re the dumbest person he’s ever met.

“I mean…” 

His expression begs you to spit it out.

“He tried once or twice, a few weeks later.  But I still felt so bad so I didn’t say anything back.  And then he stopped trying.”  You know you’d let the silence go on too long, allowing the awkward tension to mutate into something worse.  You’re not stupid.

The longest sigh greets your ears.  “You guys slept together and then you ghosted him.”

When he puts it like that, it sounds infinitely worse.  You frown deeply, shaking your head.  It wasn’t like that.  It was different - necessary. 

“I didn’t ghost him!”

“You left a sticky note!”

“Because I didn’t want him to regret it!  I didn’t want him to feel weird.”

“You honestly thought leaving your so-called best friend a note was better than talking to them?”  The way he utters the title makes you squirm in your seat.  You shouldn’t be surprised, though.  If you’ve learned anything over the last ten months, it’s that Min Yoongi does not mince words.  Not when it’s important.

“I was scared.”  It’s not an excuse;  it sounds like one. 

“Things are scary.  You get over it.”  He has a point.

“It doesn’t matter now.”   Unfortunately, so do you.

“I guess not.”

FLASHBACK Friday, June 21, 2019.  12 PM. 

When he wakes up, it’s like the end of the world - except not with a whimper, but with a bang.

The evil monkey that comes out of hiding after he’s had too much to drink is loud and unbothered, clanging its stupid gold cymbals hard enough to rattle his teeth in his skull.  The sound bounces around in his ears, digging past his usual post-drinking haze to directly assault his senses.

Rolling over doesn’t help.  In fact, it somehow makes it worse, the sudden motion bringing about a tidal wave of nausea.

The feeling rises and crests, threatening to swallow him whole when he rolls onto his front and yanks his legs up beneath him.  Face pressed into the warm topside of the pillow, he curls his arms around the underside and takes three deep breaths, trying his best to alleviate the discomfort in his chest. 

It works albeit poorly, like the second wave is coming, creeping up just beyond the horizon.

“Fuck.”  It’s grumbled into the soft cloth he’s presently trying to suffocate himself with.  Jungkook whines another sound - not as loud as the clattering in his head or even very clear - and presses deeper into the pillow, inhaling deeply.

God, he feels awful.  You were right - he definitely shouldn’t have had so much to drink. 

You.  

The same you who had tried to go shot for shot with him over dinner, only to tap out when he wrenched another glossy green bottle open.  The same you who had held his hand on the way back to your side of campus and laughed when he’d crowded you in the elevator, pressing sloppy kisses all over your neck and shoulders.  The same you who had moaned his name so prettily he can feel it even now, stirring something in the pit of his stomach that feels a helluva lot better than the liquor-induced ache.

The you that should be at his side - and yet isn’t.

He blinks owlishly against the straining morning light, how it fades in through your half-drawn blinds and spills over your side of the empty bed.  A hand reaches - slow, because he’s still not in full control of his motor functions - and slips over the cotton.  

It’s cold.  

Another blink, another pat of his hand.  

He’s definitely in your dorm.  There are photos strung up across the walls - taken by you or of you - and your familiar leather jacket is hung over the back of your desk chair.  Your too-many coffee cups sit beside your keyboard but your familiar canvas backpack is nowhere to be seen.

“Jiyeon-ah?”  It’s more gravel and sleep than anything remotely coherent.  He tries again.

Silence settles in the enclosed space and he wishes it’d do the same in his head.  Where were you?

The flat of his palm roves across your sheets, fingers seeking out the cold hard surface of his phone.  Maybe he’d left it in his pants?  That seems probable but they’re also not on his person, likely left in a pile at the foot of the bed - along with his underwear and socks - and well, he’s terribly lazy.

Lazy and still way too hungover.  

So Jungkook lays there and waits, comfortable in the bed he’s been in more than once, more than twice, more times than he can count on both hands.  He tosses and he turns, not quite patient but also not ready to face the day.  He figures you’ll be back soon.

Truthfully, he doesn’t mind.  Your dorm’s like a second home to him, somewhere he’s crashed a few too many times after you’d both trudged back in the dead of night after losing track of time across town.  He knows the sweet spot on your shower - where he needs to get it right before the water turns from mild to scalding - and the fact that you hide your favourite coffee in a crate under your bed.  It’s nearly as much his as it is yours, though he’s sure you’d disagree.

Either way, he could very, very easily fall back asleep.  He almost does.

The nausea settles and while moving too fast stirs it uncomfortably, he’s doing a lot better than he normally does.  It’s just this-side of relaxing, with time that doesn’t pass in screeches and lulls, rather simply sliding by in the transition of red numbers on your bedside clock.

It’s only when he realizes that it’s been nearly two hours that he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should get up. 

With an exaggerated grunt, he pushes himself to his elbows, entire body groaning with the effort.  While he might’ve felt fine mentally, his poor aching limbs were doing decidedly less well.  It’s almost like he’d been hit by a fourteen-wheeler loaded with booze. 

He sways with the force of it, nearly faceplanting back down on your pillows when he sees it.

A little neon yellow square with your messy, rounded Hangul scrawled in black Sharpie.  Three characters, one word, one broken heart.  

Mianhae.

It comes when you least expect it, straight out of the blue.  Your eyes are trained on the same colour that spills across the sky, the hazy clouds drifting in and out of focus;  the sun is playing hide and seek, splashing rays of warmth whenever you pass between tall grey buildings.

“I love you.”  Three words.  That’s all.

They roll off Taehyung’s tongue as easily as a breath from his lungs, filling the spacious interior of his German-built sports car.  There’s nowhere for the proclamation to go, caught between four walls and two bodies and your wide-eyed stare.  Not that he can even turn to admire the way your eyebrows have shot into your hairline, how your mouth gapes open like a fish out of water.  He’d still probably call you cute.  You know him.

“What?”  You’ve found yourself repeating this same word a lot lately.  With Jungkook, with Yoongi, and now, with your boyfriend, who seems terribly smug and not at all bothered.

He’s staring straight ahead, focused on the road in a way that you know isn’t wholly natural.  You’ve spent enough time in this car with him, with his hand gripping yours, to know that driving is second nature and he does it like he does everything else - effortlessly.

“I love you.”  It comes without missing a beat.  The edge of his mouth curls, revealing his perfectly straight white teeth, and you can’t miss the mischief.  You’d feel wary if you didn’t recognize it so well, how it lights up his insides and spills out brighter than the sun above your heads.

You ask because it’s funny and not because you care.  “Are you pranking me, Kim Taehyung?”

He levels you with a look then, one just from his periphery.  You can hardly make it out amongst the dark of his lashes, the velvet that brushes over his eyes because it’s just a little too long now.  The hand on your knee squeezes experimentally, the cold metal of his rings digging into the soft of your thigh.

“Is my love a joke to you?”

“Maybe.”  It’s a challenge - a playful, proverbial pat on the cheek.

The sound he makes is a mix between a growl and a laugh and 100% adorable, sweeping affection across your face in stretches, apples of your cheeks pulling wide.  “You’re lucky - I still love you anyway.”

Every time he says it, it’s a little less jarring.  

“You love me.”  You repeat it not for the sake of doing so but to taste it on your tongue, to feel its weight.  It’s much lighter than you’d anticipated, spun fairy floss and strawberry-scented bubbles rather than a newfound burden.  It fills you without expectation, fitting itself in the little cracks and crevices without demanding more.  Still, you want to give in return.  It feels right.  “I love you, too.”

Just like you love the smile that spreads like wildfire, boxy and distinctly him.  It’s so endearing you swear you feel your heart trip in your chest, lovesick and enamoured.  

He says it more to make you laugh than anything.  “I know.”  

You roll your eyes and meet him over the centre console, grateful that he’s found his familiar spot right down the street from his parents’ expansive home.  You appreciate the little moments kept just for the two of you;  you cherish them more than you can say, tucking them neatly into your pockets and behind your ears.

He presses forward for a kiss.  You smell like citrus and floral - Sicilian lemons and just-bloomed lilacs - a scent he thinks he’ll never forget.  When he rearranges himself in his seat, turning enough to drag you just that bit closer, he’s greeted with the sticky sweet musk - tonka beans and neroli - hidden beneath the curtain of your dark hair.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve got dinner in ten minutes or you’re sitting in the brightly lit street like two nervous high school students after a first date.  

This time is for him and for you - a celebration of sorts.

So he kisses you again, though it’s not quite kissing.  It’s more like worshipping and he takes his time doing it, wordless devotion roving over every inch he can possibly reach.  He treats you like a god or a deity, treasuring you like you might grant him his heart’s greatest wish or that maybe you already have.  It’s nice to imagine that.

“I love your bedhead.”  Which is where he starts, right at your temple.  They’re the softest presses - barely there trails of his dry, slightly chapped lips.  He inhales that familiar lemony scent as he deposits sweetness in its wake - over your eyelids and down.  

The line of his nose meets the contour of your cheekbone and he’s littering tender kisses along the rounded edge, all the way up to your ear.  There’s a beat of hesitation - a will he, won’t he - before he drops his head further, nosing past the sensitive spot where neck and shoulder meet to brush over the column of your throat.  It’s almost innocent until enamel catches, not nearly hard enough to blossom any colour but enough to draw forth the quietest sigh.

“And I love the way you sound.”  The lecherous grin he offers is far too handsome.  It doesn’t pull disgust and reproach as it should, especially not paired with the dainty kiss to your wrist.  He lingers there, over blue veins that jump beneath his touch, and only moves onto the back of your hand once you huff an almost imperceptible sigh of impatience.

You receive five more kisses - one to each of your fingertips.

“I just love you.”  

author note.  three more chapters to go.  ty for reading, as always!  xo

[nautiscarader]

First time for Jesslake, if you are writing for them.

I wasn’t when I started collecting the prompts, but I had to, cos I had a few great ideas 

Smutember day 5, first time

JessLake, Infinity train, E, 2.1k

(Ao3)

If you liked my story, here’s a Ko-fi link if you’d be so kind ❤️.  

=================================================    

Jesse remembered how the idea of a girl laying her head on his shoulder would paralyze him a year or two ago, and throw him into a state of nervousness from which no amount of cold drinks could cool him down. And yet, the feeling of Lake resting against his chest was the most natural one in the world. She was his girlfriend, but a first one, so he didn't have much experience, aside from stories from older guys, the same ones he decided to not listen to anymore on any topics.

- This show is dumb. - Lake stated, matter-of-factly, pointing at the screen. - Yeah, I think it is. - Jesse responded, reaching for the bowl of snacks. - But it has some dumb people in it, so I like it.

Lake looked up.

- So, if you like me, does it mean I'm dumb? - she raised her brow. - Er, no, no, I didn't mean to-

She cupped his face and brought his lips against hers.

- You're so dumb. - she smiled - But I'm your dumb. - Don't you feel we've said "dumb" enough times? - Lake spoke - It's weird when you say the same word too many times. Dumb, dumb, dumb...

She babbled, holding in her hand the piece of popcorn Jesse was about to eat.

- Words lose their... uh, word-ness.

The two looked at each other, before they erupted into fit of giggles. Afternoons like these were not uncommon ever since she moved in. Since Lake lived with them as a permanent guest, when Jesse's parents and younger brother were out, the two didn't have much more to do, especially on a lazy afternoon like this one.

The TV played a loud commercial, but it didn't bother the young couple that took solace in their arms, mashing their lips together in a second, longer kiss.

- Your lips are so soft... - Jesse spoke, catching breath after being depraved of it for a period of time that was a challenge even for him. - You say that every time. - Because it's true.

He cupped her face and gently moved his thumb, through her cheek to her lips, waiting for any signs of her displeasure for crossing the boundaries. But none of that ever came, and Jesse gently toyed with her lower lip, leaving her agape. She moved her finger towards her and poked it, emitting a quiet, metallic "thud".

- How do you do that...? - Lake pondered aloud, once Jesse retracted his finger. - Do what? - Make my... - she paused for a while, and shifted her eyes away from him - Make my body change. - Your-your body? - Yeah, whenever you are around, you can do stuff like that. If anyone else tried it, I'd bite their finger off. - Hey, you did try when I first gave you peanut butter.

She smiled.

- But you know what I mean, right? - Yeah, but... I... didn't want to ask, I mean... - he stuttered, gesturing wildly - I love you the way you are, so it doesn't matter what happens if I touch you-

Words got stuck in his throat, as Jesse realised what he's just done, and at the same time the two looked down at Jesse's finger, effortlessly pressing against Lake's breasts.

With a loud shriek, Jesse jumped to the other side of the sofa, leaving Lake in a state of even bigger confusion, especially when started apologising.

- Oh god, oh god, oh god, I didn't mean to, I'm so sorry! Mom told me I shouldn't be trying, e-especially since now you live under our roof...

But to his surprise, Lake reacted to it with more laughter and she gripped his hand to let him slide back towards her.

- Chill out, dude. But you get what I'm saying, right? Me...

She gripped her hand and knocked on her chest, which emitted a familiar hollow-y echo.

- And... And now you.

Lake took his hand and placed it on her breasts. Jesse swallowed and once more, with trembling hands pressed his hand against her most definitely soft breasts. His heart was pumping faster and fast the more he moved his finger, and when a tiny gasp of air escaped Lake's mouth, she caught herself unable to understand what she was feeling.

- A-And what about you? - she interrupted, more to calm herself down - Cos if you'd punch yourself...

Jesse gladly did that, mimicking the Tarzan pounding his chest, predictably, without any otherworldly noises.

- And if I try... - Well, we know what happens, I still sometimes feel the pain.

Jesse pointed to his forehead.

- Yeah, but what If I would like to make you feel pleasure...?

She pressed her hand against his chest, feeling the layer of muscles underneath his shirt, and only when she looked up at him, she saw his crimson face.

- What? - N-Nothing, cause... you-you said "pleasure", and...

The two dumbfounded youngsters looked at each other, their hands still pressed against each other's chests, and before they knew it, they were mashing their lips, and their hands coiled around their bodies, discovering how soft they both were. Each of them tried to say something, but neither of them wanted to break the connection, especially when Lake's legs tangled with his, while their bodies ground against each other in a moment of pure passion. Lake tried to roll Jesse so she could be on top, but on the small sofa, it proved to be rather difficult.

- This thing is too small, don't you think? - Well, my bed's bigger.

Once more, Jesse spoke those words before realising what they meant, and only when Lake raised her eyebrows, he understood.

- Well, then, lead, Casanova...

Despite what Lake just said, she was the one to take his hand and drag him up the stairs to his room. Their lips crashed once more just before entering, giving him the chance to take charge just before finishing line.

His bed was indeed bigger and more comfortable, and Lake quickly sank into it, feeling both the delicate texture underneath her, and Jesse's pleasant weight on top of him. If the two acted boldly in the living room, they have most certainly upped their game in the relative intimacy of Jesse's room, though as they went along, Lake started feeling more and more hesitation from her boyfriend, and  felt disappointment from lack of attention his hands were giving her.

- What's wrong? - she interrupted their kiss, fifth or six at this point. - No, nothing, it's-uh, it's just...

He swallowed.

- Oh, geez, I didn't plan-, I didn't expect-, I didn't think-

He babbled, before Lake shut him off with another kiss.

- Then don't think.

Next thing she knew, he was all over her again, their hands working together, undoing their jeans and shirts at the same time, which only complicated matter, but it didn't stop them. Jesse got rid of his clothes first, revealing his slightly muscular body, and he swallowed loudly again when Lake revealed her naked chest, and the two bouncing orbs in which he could see his reddened face.

 Let's... let's test those lips again...

Lake suggested, and gently pushed Jesse's mouth against her breasts, feeling - for the first time - his warm breath against what would have been her skin. He looked at her and placed very first kiss on her breasts, bringing her more confusion than pleasure. But as he continued, the sheer amount of sensations overwhelmed Lake, quickening her breath, as her boyfriend continued his inexperienced caresses.

And yet, she was growing more and more impatient and hungry for his affection, even dragging his other hand to her right breast, desperate for more contact that defied her physicality. With more touches came more emotions, and Lake found herself unable to lie steady, her legs eager to mingle with his. And when they spread just around, Jesse slid between them, letting them experience for the first time their sexes pressed together.

This time Lake didn't want to hear Jesse apologise for anything. She gently pushed him up and slid his boxers down, revealing his ready cock that sprung and hit against her body, once more without any pain that would have happened if he hit metal.

Lake slid her panties down, feeling the rough, hard surface underneath her fingertips, and predictably, she his cock brushed against her as if it was real skin...

But Lake didn't have time to marvel at her body's inconsistent behaviour, as Jesse yelped and pulled back as soon as he felt her warmth next to his cock's head.

- The condom! Wait a moment!

He bend to his side and hastily opened the drawer of his nightstand, procuring a small square.

- Really? Jesse, I don't think that- - Oh, no, no. - Jesse interrupted her - My mom said I should always be careful, no matter what. - So, she told you you shouldn't try fooling around with me, aaand yet she gave you condoms... - Well... y-yeah...

Jesse looked up at her, seeing a familiar, cocky smirk on her face.

- I think she knew perfectly well what we were gonna do.

She reached her hand and helped him rip the package he's been struggling with. She took the rubber and reached her hand to grab his cock. He moaned again, and when she added her second hand, he stated babbling something that sounded very much like her name. Inch by inch, the metal girl slid the condom down his cock, breathing rapidly at the texture of his body underneath her touch.

The two nodded and Jesse slid his arm underneath her back, just as he positioned himself against her. He reached to kiss her, and at the same time as he pushed forward, so did she, ready for him.

The sudden movement might have been for the best, as Lake wasn't sure if she would be able to endure longer than a few seconds of feeling her metallic body being pushed aside by his stiff cock. She cried his name and gripped his back, pulling him against her, as she desperately needed him deeper inside her, perhaps just to see how much could he change her.

And yet, with each thrust that moved their bodies together, she knew he wasn't doing anything.

She was.

She was letting his mouth cover her skin with ravenous kisses, she was letting his fingers knead her breasts other men would break their knuckles on, and she allowed him to fill her to the brim and make her feel full...

And with that knowledge, came pleasure, the first one in her life, that tore her body apart underneath him, and made her tighten her muscles around him. For a split of a second, she thought she would break him like a twig - her strength have done that before - but when she looked at him, she saw nothing but pleasure and fulfilment amongst his goofy grin and his large eyes.

- I... I don't think I even lasted two minutes. - That's fine, neither have I.

The two kissed, and with their bodies joined, they used Jesse's spacious bed to roll around, basking in their first afterglow to the rhythm of their bodies twitching together. Ultimately, Lake won and toppled her boyfriend underneath her, much to their shared enjoyment.

- Lake, that... that was awesome. - Y-Yeah, you've said it.

Jesse arms closed around her back, as he brought her for another kiss that soothed their tense bodies.

- You... you're weightless. - he whispered into his ear as she laid her head onto his chest. - What, really? - No, it's just a saying-

The two looked at each other knowingly, and as Jesse loosened his grip on her, Lake let out a gasp as she felt she suddenly lost contact with Jesse's body when she floated above him. At once he closed his arms around her and brought her against him, double-checking if an entire bed wasn't floating with them.

- S-See? That's why I insisted on condoms, who knew that might have happened. - And how did the condom help, exactly...? - Lake smirked. - I think it was all your work, mister... - I-I don't know. But I do know that I gotta pay attention to you, maybe you should just be underneath me, then.

Jesse spoke those words without thinking, and only when Lake's face turned from reddened to pure crimson, he realised what has left his mouth.

- Oh, wow, you are really are suave tonight, Casanova. - she blinked. - Do you want to do it again?

As he was loss for words, in return, Jesse only nodded.

[go-go-devil]

Summarizing the Papas’ Actions with a Single Word

This is more of a writing exercise for myself, but you can see it as one of my headcanons. I just want to flex my interpretations of a significant trait that each Papa has to help me better shape their overall characters. Enjoy!

Papa Nihil: Compulsion

Nihil’s mind has always been a slave to his desires. As long as this old Papa’s able to convince himself that he wants something, he’s going to get it one way or another. While this go-getter attitude initially got him great success in his heyday, it was also the key component in his many downfalls. Whether it be Sister Imperator leaving him due to his unrestrained lust for the women around him, his sons losing their fondness for him due to his flippant treatment of them over the years, or dethroning his youngest for the sake of taking his place as frontman only for Imperator to place a man he couldn’t care less about in the spotlight instead, the list goes on and on.

This reckless behavior can and has often made Nihil feel guilty, but by the time he decides to take a few steps back and assess the situation, it’s almost always too late for him to fix it…

Papa I: Authority

If there’s one thing that Papa I wants to be remembered for, it’s for being someone that others look up to, a powerful figure that someone could both stand in awe at and who would not be afraid to come to them for guidance. The man is wholly obedient to his role as Papa and relishes in leading his flock toward his view of Hell. This is a trait that any good Anti-Pope should have to their subjects, but the truth is that Primo sees it more as something reassuring to himself.

He is acutely aware of his lack of charisma and hindered social skills, especially compared to his brothers and father, and many times he’ll feel that if it weren’t for him being an heir to the papacy that no one would have wanted him as their Papa. And so he finds solace in taking the role as a mentor to others, as a way to both flex his wealth of knowledge and to better communicate to those around him.

Papa II: Control

On the surface, Papa II’s need to always be in control of a situation doesn’t seem too far off from his older brother’s need to display his clout. The difference here, however, comes from scale. What Secondo wants is control over all aspects of both his job and himself: being able to stop an aggressor with either his words or (in worse case scenario) his fists, the ability to regulate his own emotions as not to show weakness nor lash out in anger, keeping a firm hold on both the clergy and those close to him, etc.

While this may seem nothing short of authoritative, his reasoning for this actual comes from a noble place. For much of his early life, Secondo had found himself victim to abuse by several authority figures in his life, and even now the scars inflicted on his mind are still far to deep to heal. He only wants this form of absolute control to protect himself and his loved ones from ever having to suffer like that, even if it makes him seem cold and even cruel to those who don’t know him personally.

Papa III: Love

Above all else, Papa III wants nothing more than to truly feel loved by those around him. “Well, this shouldn’t be an issue!” one might say, “He’s by far the most beloved of all the Papas, his charm alone can provide him with a constant supply of lovers, and even the metal scene recognized his talent enough to give him a Grammy. He must have a surplus of love to go around!” Unfortunately it’s not so simple.

Terzo is a very emotional man with a mind running a mile-a-minute, and because of this his brain seems to greatly amplify feelings of both joy and misery. Just a single word of condemnation and mockery can lower his spirits to a place where not even the thousands of praises from his fans can pull him out of, nor could the superficial affection of a one-night-stand. Oftentimes he cannot effectively calm himself due to his mind convincing him that he has no control over his perceived faults, and so he needs the support of deeper connections, whether they are friends or family or a partner, in order to reassure him that he is worth more than just his title.

Papa IV/Copia: Excellence

From as early as childhood, Copia always felt that he could never quite fit in with any of society’s carefully marked social groups. Perhaps it was his awkwardness combined with nervous tics, or his instinctual lack of empathy for most others (besides animals), or maybe it was how he could never seem to focus on the task at hand but instead daydream about his future desires? No matter what it was, it always made him feel like a lesser person, and he hated it.

Eventually he developed the idea that the only way for others to truly appreciate him was to gain the skills necessary to give him the high ground over his peers, whether it be something as minuscule as perfecting a hobby to show off his skills or as ambitious as attaining higher power in life. Countless times he’s worked himself to exhaustion, even to the point of physical pain, just to prove his worth to the clergy, and every failure brings him such fear that it leads him to more “desperate” resorts as a means of rebounding back to success.

Even with this worrying level of perfectionism, this does not make Copia an inherently horrible person. He doesn’t like to see others as tools for his conquest, especially if they’re nice to him and/or respect his boundaries, and ultimately does want to make personal connections. However, the same can’t be said for people whom he considers his enemies, and now that he’s risen to Papa, there’s a good chance that he’ll use his power to “adjust their attitudes” toward him…

[dikiyvter]

"tell me what’s wrong."

[ x | accepting ] Misc. Angst | @melodicbreeze

       “I--” the words are caught in his throat. It’s an awful feeling, really-- Every part of him feels awful, right now. There’s an attempt, a pitiful one to try and hide the feeling, but he is nothing more than a machine built to feel and act a certain way. The mask hidden beneath his coat sings to be put on. Giacomo’s mind screams at him to lay down. His heart begs for him to sob. He is far from home. His purpose is far from complete. Everything in him feels wrong.

       “It’s nothing, Mister Venti,” choked and strained, the smile on his face fake. He cannot tear his eyes away from the vision of Mondstadt in the distance, the soft light that rises beyond the trees from those safe and high walls. The setting sun on a day that should be wonderful but instead feels just as wrong as the construct himself does. It is... a happiness that he does not deserve. Joy that drifts from the happy people of the city, the soft scents of flowers and wine, words of affection carried on soft winds. They push and pull at him, the cold winds of a foreign winter, a contrast so strong that where he once found solace and safety in the walls of Mondstadt he now finds a prison in it’s place. Pushed to the wall and suffocated beneath the choking sense that he does not belong here. That, try as he might, dream as he may, he is an intruder upon this festival of joy. An agent of frozen cold in a land unthawed. 

              ( There are times where Barbatos’s blessing feels more like a curse. Where the winds that spring forth at his command are not those of a freedom UNCHAINED. Freedom from, not freedom to. Freedom from Dottore does not mean freedom to be UNBURDENED by his betrayal. Freedom from Tsaritsa does not mean freedom to TRESPASS upon this land Giacomo views as being so holy. 

              Barbatos had blessed him with freedom from the Fatui.               And now there was no one left to turn to. ) 

       There’s the wet feeling of tears on his face. Giacomo has cried often enough to recognize it even in his minds somewhat sunken state, a slow hand coming up to brush the wet track from his face, the soft fur of his sleeve tickling his cheek. Months he’s been gone, and he still hasn’t replaced this cursed uniform. 

              ( Had care been put into it? These patterns hand-sewn? He could still recall the moment Dottore had given it to him. The tests that had been run, days spent writing every note possible on his endurance, his strength, his speed. Pages filled with information on his inner workings- Not just of his body but of his mind. Dottore knew him inside and out, knew everything there was to know, everything that was needed to make sure the weapon he had built was PERFECT. The clothes had been perfect, too. Giacomo did not understand the concept of a “”favorite color”” back then, but the blues and silvers felt fitting when he’d watched himself in the mirror. The colors nice with his blonde hair and pale blue eyes. He’d bounced on his feet, testing the jingle of the bells with every movement. Straight stands had been pulled back into a loose ponytail, the first of anything akin to physical affection he had ever felt. His creator’s touch was precise and clinical, but the warmth against Gio’s artificial skin had been something he could never forget. Was Dottore proud of him, then? Had his creator felt joy? Did he not deserve such a feeling, having used bare hands to create life for the second time?

              Giacomo cannot bare to part with it. He has shunned all other gifts of his creator, repurposed every inch of himself into something for himself and himself alone. The uniform is all that remains. )

       At which point, exactly, had his head fallen into his hands? When did the shame of hot tears over come him to such an extent that he had chosen to hide to preserve his dignity? Venti has never done anything to make him feel that he should be ashamed, and yet here Gio sits, legs dangling off the edge of the cliff and his face buried in his hands as he CHOKES on hot tears, the pitiful sobs barely reaching his own ears as he sinks, sinks, sinks into that awful feeling of despair. 

        “I’m sorry,” his voice is rubbed raw by the time he manages to squeak out the whisper, shivering in the cool night air that’s fallen around them. Perhaps it’s not from the cold at all, though, as the construct continues to simply shake. “I’m not supposed to be here,” he’s not sure if Venti can hear him. He’s not sure if Venti cares. “I’m--- I’m not welcome here-- I can’t be--” fingers slide up, tangled tight into his hair as he gasps for breath. Giacomo does not have a heart, and for once he is glad. How could something as small and fragile as a human heart bare such a feeling? The word heartbreak exists for a reason, does it not? And yet, even with the thrum of a core in him in place of a beating heart, Giacomo feelings certain that that is exactly what is happening to him.

       His heart is breaking.

       “I just want to go home--” the shaky inhale. The shivering, breathy sob.         “But I don’t HAVE one anymore.”