#also i could write a dissertation on their hands

[yellowlaboratory]

Wait wait wait her LITTLE SMILE RIGHT BEFORE THEIR LIPS TOUCH DO THEY WANT ME TO CEASE TO EXIST OMG Bailey and Rudy I just love you

always gonna be a little upset about the lack of lighting but even in the dark you can tell the change in their expressions, particularly Kiara's and it's so AKJDHALKDJHASLKD she's so smiley!!!!

LOOK AT THEM that moment of hesitation when they both realize they're actually going for it i'm gonna pass out

[feymarche]

cant stop thinking about the fact that grant wilson has published exactly one book and its called 'how to be a good teenage boy' and the only things we know that are written in it are 'be proud of how you look and what you are wearing and who you are. and “you don't always have to be brave.' .aghghghhg

[gghostwriter]

A Series of Happenstance

Spencer Reid x House!Daughter!Reader

Summary: The three times Spencer loathed to see you and the one time he pleaded to Trope:Angst; think post Tobias Spencer Reid w.c: 5.2k Disclaimer: I am no way a medical personnel, least of all a psychiatrist so there will be medical inaccuracies A/N: this is part one of my house!daughter series and it’s angst, babes. Spencer is just mean and lashing out here which is totally understandable. It also took a while since writing such heavy pieces of fiction takes a toll on me but I hope, especially to the ones who were excited for this series, love it still. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The first meeting

Spencer didn’t want to be here—here being in this cream colored, four cornered room, facing off the ultimate nemesis of profiler. Not an unsolvable case, not an unsub, but rather a psychiatrist contracted by the FBI for psych evaluation. 

He was fine, he insisted to Hotch. He can compartmentalize well, he rationalized to Gideon. He just needed rest and the comfort of his own bed, he stated to the whole team. But protocols were protocols and his unit chief was a stickler to rules especially when it involved the care for his team. 

That was how he found himself on a Tuesday afternoon, sitting in silence and watching the ticking of the clock as if it was the most interesting piece of art there was. 

The tension was stifling. Spencer could almost see it tainting his vision red. Biting the insides of his cheek, he wanted to keep everything in. 

No, he needed to. 

He knew he was being rude, petulant even but for once, he didn’t have it in him to care. He didn’t know you. You were a complete stranger being paid by the government to report back any findings that could keep him out of the field. It wasn’t fair. You were just accepting the call of duty but you bore the brunt of his ire and hostile gaze. 

In the normal setting, he would have found you intriguing. Your office colored in taupe—cold, distant, and linked to the desire to escape from the world but in the farthest side of the room was a shelf littered with books and small knick knacks that seemed to be collected over the years rather than curated to match the professional setting. The books ranged from published psychology dissertations, medical teaching materials, and collections of essays from well-revered and obscure writers. 

You were dressed in black and white, standard for your importance, but your nails were painted in a pale pink color—close to looking natural but not quite. And lastly, your looks. 

You were beautiful, don’t get him wrong, he may not have the same experiences as Morgan did with the opposite sex but he knows a beautiful attractive woman when he sees one. No, it wasn’t that, it was how young you looked—almost or maybe even sharing the same age as him. 

A genius, then.

A prodigy in your own field just like him. 

“Doctor Reid,” the low timber of your voice bringing him out of his musings. It sent a shiver down his spine when he first heard you speak. A reaction that he catalogued in his mind as a mystery to be revisited later on. 

He subtly tilted his head to the side, an indication that you had his attention albeit reluctantly.

“Anything you say in this room is strictly confidential,” you gestured with your hand. “No file or notes will be passed to your unit chief or any personnels of the brass. I promise you.”

He scoffed, breaking his vow of silence. “That’s not a hundred percent true, Doctor. Lying to get your patient to talk can only get you so far.”

“I understand where you’re coming from but all I submit to the FBI is my conclusion if you’re fit to go back to work or not, patient-confidentiality still stands—” your delicate fingers feebly holding your pen. “Now, I sensed a little resentment. Is it coming from your self-loathing about having to choose a victim for Tobias Hankel or is it your displaced anger from separating with your team liaison, Agent Jareau?” 

He glared at you. How dare you imply the seething anger from within him is directed at anyone but himself. “What? No, no, no. I’m not angry at anything or anyone! Maybe at you and this whole evaluation but never at JJ or—” he cut himself off.

“The suspect,” you continued on for him, jotting down notes on your black leather journal.

“The unsub. Unknown subject.” He corrected, second nature of him to do so. “We call them the unsub.”

You nodded, a lock of hair falling away from your bun. A distracting motion that momentarily rendered him speechless. “Alright. Are you angry at yourself and your decision to separate with Agent Jareau during the case?”

He scoffed but opted to stay silent. Spencer had already given too much of his emotion away by answering the earlier questions. 

For any regular citizen, it may seem like the opposite but given the sound of you scribbling away on the pages of the notebook, you beg to differ.

You crossed your pant covered leg and stared into his eyes, a maneuver that could mean two things: 1) you were sizing him up, which was highly unlikely given the dynamics, regardless of his hostility or 2) you were trying to connect with him, a move backed by science that stated eye contact releases oxytocin—a bonding hormone. 

A study he didn’t want to prove right at the moment.

“Do you perhaps feel remorse for the unsub?”

His left eye twitched. “Tobias Hankel.”

“Is there a reason behind why you’d prefer to call the unsub by name?” You further asked, having found a sore subject to poke and prod to elicit a reaction.

The answer was yes, of course. Tobias was just a victim as much as he, Spencer Reid, was—the unsub, in his eyes, was a victim of bad fate that resulted in fracturing his psyche but a shrink didn’t need to know that. 

To be exact, the FBI didn’t need to know that he, an active and upstanding agent, felt remorse and guilt for not being able to save Tobias. Human emotion rarely had a place in bureaucracy and paperwork.

“How old are you?” Spencer nonchalantly inquired to throw you off his trail. “You look too young to be a Doctor contracted by the brass.”

You scribbled something again in your notebook before answering in a monotone voice as if your reply has been well rehearsed. “24, about to turn 25 and yes, I do look young. I graduated early due to my intelligence which I believe is the same case for you, Doctor—” you clasped your hands in front of you, leaning slightly forward. “—which brings us back to the topic, the anger inside of you, who is it directed to?”

His eyes shifted to the clock—5pm. 

A small smile graced his face. The time was up.

“Well, I believe we’re done here, Doctor—” he proceeded to stand up, picking on an imaginary lint as he did so. “—I would say it’s been nice meeting you but that would be a lie you’d no doubt catch and analyze.”

Your lips pressed thinly together, imitating a smile but Spencer knew that move quite well—you were reining in any unsolicited and possibly inappropriate comment regarding his snappy behavior. 

A small chuckle escaped his lips. If he, a profiler, considered you, a psychiatrist, his number one nemesis, there was no doubt you consider him the same. 

As he was about to step out of the office, your slender fingers brandished a calling card.

“Here’s my number—” he gingerly took it as if it contained some unknown pathogen. “—and my door is always open when you’re ready to talk, Doctor Reid.”

He nodded once, a goodbye. “Doctor House.”

There was little doubt in Spencer’s mind that he’d never willingly stop by your office again but if he had been paying attention to your subtle patronizing words of farewell, he would have picked up that this encounter was far from over. 

Especially when he found out on a busy Tuesday morning from Hotch that you had deemed him unfit to return back to the field—effectively barring him from the jet on its way to Idaho. 

The second meeting

There was a series of rapid knocks on your office door. 

As a psychiatrist with your own practice, it was highly unusual for clients to suddenly show up with no prior appointments or even a customary phone call. 

It was a Tuesday morning and like clockwork, you’ve allotted the first half of the day in catching up with paperwork dealing with your office and evaluations for the FBI. 

That gave you a pause, remembering a snipping agent who you deemed unfit for duty. Dr. Spencer Reid. The genius profiler who joined the ranks at the tender age of 22. A prodigy in his old field, just like you.

He was closed off, simmering with rage almost, and there was little doubt in your mind that he was the one behind the door, ceaselessly knocking. After all, when you sent in your evaluation directly to his unit chief, the stoic man’s face twitched with concern and maybe a little bit of annoyance in the paperwork it would entail.

“Come in,” you called out, hands clasping together on top of your desk. A perfect picture of professionalism.

The door swung open, revealing a tightly wounded Dr. Spencer Reid. 

With a thick cardigan adorning on his body and a leather satchel draped over his shoulders to his front, he looked normal. But you knew better, his choice of outerwear represented a security blanket in the middle of September and his placement of satchel acted as a shield and its’ straps a stress ball. With just that one look you knew he wasn’t ready to back with his team. 

“Dr. Reid, what can I do for you?” You asked, hand unclasping and indicating to the seat in front of you. “Please sit.” 

Closing the door behind him, he shuffled closer to your desk but made no indication to sit down. “I’d rather stand, Dr. House, and I think you know why I’m here.”

A show of dominance. Right away, he wanted control the outcome of this conversation to his favor. It was textbook psychology, a taunt you wanted no part of.

A slight smile appeared on your face, one that could be translated as friendly for those open and condescending for those closed off. “I believe I don’t follow.” 

“My evaluation, you made a mistake,” the left corner of his mouth lifting for a smirk. There was a vein visible on his temple, his anger and will to bottle it up manifesting physically. 

You tilted your head to the side, unwavering in your gaze, hands clasped and index fingers tapping together. The pause and silence was a standard tactic to get a patient to break, similar to what law enforcement uses with suspects but results may vary especially when used on a seasoned profiler.

Right away, Spencer understood your tactic. “That won’t work. We use that in every case, I know the standard—” he looked around the room. “—should I lower the temperature too?” 

You answered with silence. The agent in front of you now was no longer thinking clearly. His objective mind that would deem him fit to return for duty clouded with emotion, anger and something else. 

His right hand touched above his left wrist. A subconscious move provoked by your unrelenting gaze. A move that gave away an important piece of information that his unit chief no doubt omitted in the reports.

Ah.

Tobias Hankel was a drug addict.

And in turn has subjected the agent in front of you to his vices.

You sighed. Suddenly the case no longer felt black and white, it was treading close to home as you remembered your father who’s abusing Vicodin in lieu of his leg pain. It was a sore spot for you—a clink in your armor. 

“Sit, please,” you indicated to the chair in front of you again.

Spencer complied this time, having heard a change in your tone. 

“Dr Reid,” you started. “I believe my evaluation of you is still correct—”

He opened his mouth to argue.

“—but, please let me finish, perhaps we can compromise. As a psychiatrist, it’s not in my practice to give in to my client’s demands but as you are not a regular client, I believe it would be beneficial for the both of us to reach an understanding.”

You walked towards the locked cabinet to your right. It was where you kept all medical equipments—including medicine for patients. Reaching back to the depths of the lower shelf, your hand brought out a non-descriptive black pouch from its hiding. You sat beside Spencer, effectively communicating that you are both on the same level.

“I will approve your return for duty as long as you come back for a couple of sessions, not FBI contracted, strictly confidential, and you—” handing him the zipped pouch before continuing on. “—get drug tested.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he knew that his unit chief and mentor kept the delicate nature of his case out of the bureau and wondered how you pieced everything together. He underestimated you, you realized. A mistake on his end. 

“I’m a psychiatrist, I know the signs Dr. Reid, and besides, I’m a genius just like you,” you adjusted your posture, slightly leaning back. 

Check. 

He smiled, one that you could say no longer contained malice. It was instead filled with resignation and relief. “You’re right. I underestimated you, Dr. House.”

Standing up, you dusted imaginary lint from your black pencil skirt before extending your hand out for a handshake. 

He hesitated before reaching over shaking it once. His hands were rough and calloused from frequent holding of his gun but felt oddly warm and soothing. It represented who he was in your eyes—prickly and rough around the edges but soft and good on the inside.

As he exited your office with a soft thud of the door behind him, you admitted to yourself that you took a huge gamble. Rather than a checkmate, all you did was check his king. You didn’t ask if he had built his own stash of drugs after the case was finished. It was a risk you were willing to take just to take a step closer in getting the agent to trust you. Baby steps were better than nothing. You could work with that.

There was still the drug test you could rely on. A black and white piece of paper that would tell the truth if done at the right time. After all, the most important teaching your father, the older Dr. House, has imparted on you was—

Everybody lies.

The third meeting

The bar at the corner Main Street on a Friday night was a rare place for you to be. The echoes of its pulsing music could be heard a couple of shops away, luring bodies than the space could ever handle like it were Pied Piper and the people—by extension, you, were the unsuspecting kids. The lights were colored orange, giving the area a tint of good times and bad decisions. The aged brick walls discolored in a multitude of shades and the decorative posters were aimlessly nailed to the wall. There was a section far from the bar that was filled with moving bodies—people letting loose and exhibiting what you’d call a mating dance for anyone interested and beside the bar were two dart boards, popular with the crowd, but had seen better days. 

This wasn’t your usual scene as you excused your way to the bar tucked at the center space. It wasn’t due to snobbery, like what your friend Kyle once joked, it was preference.

The sticky floor beneath your sensible nude heels had you wishing that your feet were tucked in a soft blanket with mind numbing television playing in the background instead of navigating the throng of people holding their drink of choice and inhaling the musky scent of liquor and sweat.

“Haven’t seen you around here,” a tenor voice flirted from beside you.

Your eyebrow raised as you took in the source—a burly African-American with a buzzcut. There was something distinct about him that set him apart from the rest. It wasn’t his built or the way his grey shirt stretched to fit around his biceps. It also wasn’t the twinkle in his eye as he tried to entice you to flirt back. One of his hands drifted down to his waist and with his wide leg stance, you knew.

A cop. An off duty law enforcement officer.

You laughed. “Does that line usually work on women, especially from—” you paused for suspense. ”—a cop?”

“Okay,” the stranger chuckled. “Close, want to try again?”

A smile stretched your glossed pink lips. You were never one to back away from a challenge—it was one of the traits you inherited from the other Dr House.

“Well, if we’re basing it on where the bar is located nearby and my fifty percent guess from a while ago, I’d say you were a cop—maybe for a couple of years, before joining the FBI. Maybe counter terrorism—” the memory of Dr. Reid talking about his team found its way to the forefront of your mind. “—or by any chance, the BAU?”

He could no longer hide the surprise from his face. “Right, that’s right. What gave it away? Was it my ruggedly handsome looks or are you just a mind reader?”

You thanked the bartender before trying to find your way out of the surge of people behind you, clamoring to place their order. The stranger stretched out his muscular arms, guiding you away from the bar towards his booth.

“Just a mind reader,” you simplified—an action that came as second nature to you. In the past, when you would disclose your job as a psychiatrist, people would react in two ways. One, they’d get subconscious that you’d read into every body language they’d have, causing them to shy away or two, they’d become over-zealous and ask you to diagnose them all in good fun like it was some sort of magician’s trick.

A mop of light brown curly hair parked beside a long blonde hair caught your periphery. He had his back turned but it was a presence you’ve slowly started getting familiar with. It was Dr. Spencer Reid, out in the natural setting, a first.

Your eyes slowly widened as you realized where he was guiding you and who he might be. 

“Huh,” you uttered under your breath before flashing a smile to the stranger beside you. “Are you by any chance, Derek Morgan?”

“Okay, now you’re starting to freak me out. How’d you do that, Ms. Mind Reader?”

A different timber of voice answered. “It’s because I told her—” a pair of hazel eyes turned to you, filled with accusation. “—Dr. House. Are you keeping tabs on me?” 

“Dr. Reid, I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

He scoffed. “In a bar? Near my office? The statistics on seeing me here is actually surprisingly high.”

He was hostile, understandably so as here you were, a stranger, who knows his deepest, darkest secret mixing in with the otherwise innocent parties of his personal life. It was no harm, caused no click in your armor—he’d been cooperative as of the late within the confines of your office but seeing you beyond the four corners of your taupe walls threw him off the loop.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,” the blonde woman beside Spencer, flashed you a smile, hand stretching out for a handshake. “I’m Jennifer Jareau, but you can call me JJ.”

You shook her hand. “Ah, it’s great to meet you, Agent Jareau.” 

“So, how do you know Spence?”

You smiled, unsure on how to disclose your psychiatrist-patient relationship with someone he works with. You didn’t know how much his team members knew about his scheduled Saturday meetings with you or if they even knew at all what Dr. Reid was going through.

From the past appointments, you’ve categorized the agent as an anxious avoidant type—something geniuses who grew up in a non-secure household tend to share. Yourself, included.

Your eyes glanced at Spencer before drifting towards the table behind him, subtly trying to figure out his choice of drink. You hoped it was non-alcoholic. He’d be suffering from withdrawals and if he clung to a substitute vice, you’d have to find a roundabout way to tackle the issue without pushing him to close off again. You didn’t need that, he was just starting to open up after all, plus if he stopped cooperating, you’d have no choice but to bring it up to his supervisors, jeopardizing his career. 

A clear glass came into view as he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other.

Water. It was water.

You breathed a sigh of relief before slowly panning up, locking eyes with Dr. Reid. His gaze narrowed, having understood what you were checking on.

Checkmate.

“She’s FBI’s contracted psychiatrist,” he explained, jaw tight from anger. 

You flashed him a little smile before averting your eyes in chagrin.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you look a little to young to be a licensed doctor,” Agent Jareau observed. 

“I graduated early.”

Morgan’s left hand pats your back while the other pats Dr. Reid’s. “Another genius, then. You’d get along great with our pretty boy over here. He’s always going on and on about facts and statistics—“

“No offense Morgan, but I don’t think we’d get along at all,” Spencer sneered. “I’d rather not get to know someone who has an ulterior motive.”

Your hand tightened around your glass. “It’s great to meet you, Agent Jareau and Agent Morgan but I think my friends would be looking for me,” you flashed the young agent a dejected smile. “Dr. Reid, hope to see you again soon.”

“I don’t,” he sardonically replied.

You nodded once before turning back to where you friends would be, settled in the four seater booth, unaware that you may have just burned the rocky bridge you’ve built with a patient in need. 

The fourth meeting

A warbled hum roused you from slumber. 

With one eye straining to stay open, the digital clock on your dresser displayed 12:21. Midnight—the time for humans to all be in stupor but based on the humming, subdued underneath your pillow, there was one exception.

You sat up, blindly reaching for the phone. There was no programmed name for the number and right away, an eerie feeling started swirling in your gut. This was no social call. A call this hour could only be one thing, an emergency.

“Hello. Who is this?” Your voice still rough from sleep.

No answer. 

You pressed the phone closer to your ear, hard enough to possibly leave a mark. There were light rustles on the other end that indicated a presence, a person that wouldn’t or couldn’t answer your inquiry.

“Hello,” you tried again, voice raising at the end from tension. “Is anyone there?”

There was silence. The dread in your stomach further worsening as if group of bats decided to wreak havoc in its dark crevices. There was no indication that this was a prank call and there was also no indication that it wasn’t. 

You bit your lip, torn between hanging up and waiting for an existence to make itself known. It could be nothing or it could be—your train of thought suddenly taking a sharp left turn to the corner that a certain FBI agent unknowingly occupies. You had given him your number, having scrawled it at the back of your calling card during the very first meeting, purely out of the goodness of trying to put back the broken genius that graced and intrigued your doors.

“Dr. Spencer Reid?” You hesitantly asked, hoping that your intuition was wrong. That this wasn’t the agent calling for help.

A deep groan answered.

“Oh gods,” you breathed out. “Okay, okay. Just—shit, just stay on the line. I’m coming, I swear. Just—fuck.” Your feet scrambled out of the apartment, never mind the lights or the chill that the midnight had cloaked the air with.

It was your worst nightmare. You knew what this call was, you knew his state on the other side of the phone by experience.

Hands trembling as you started the ignition of your car and speedily backing up the parking lot and out the streets in little time. 

“Spencer,” formality be damned at this point as you turned a sharp right, your GPS indicating 8 minutes away from destination. “Spencer, are you still there?” 

A light rustle replied. 

“I’m almost there, hang on for me, okay,” your hand letting go of the steering wheel to push the tousled hair away from your face.

Each second felt like an eternity, each time passed threatened to push your mind into the fog of panic and memory of your very own father taking a whole bottle of Oxycodone and leaving a message for you and your grandmother. The panic, the fear, and the dread of that very moment had come back in two folds.

Your clammy fingers leaving pinch marks on the back of your palm. “Not now, not now,” you whispered to yourself. “I can’t have an attack now, keep it together.” 

“Dr. House,” Spencer gravely slurred.

You haphazardly parked the car at the nearest available sidewalk space, uncaring if by some miracle you get ticketed. “I’m here, Spencer. I’m here.”

There was a groan as you hurriedly ran up the apartment stairs, grateful that the security below was surprisingly lax.

Third floor, get to the third floor. I need to get to the third floor—you repeated under your breath. You could have called an ambulance or better yet his team member, SSA Derek Morgan, but you felt the urge to make sure he was alright. To make him see that someone else besides from his mother and team care about him. To make him see that life was worth living, no matter the good or the bad.

“Spencer, I’m outside your door,” you tried to catch your breath. “Do you think you could let me in?”

And for a few seconds, there was only the tense silence before a series of gasps and groans crescendo’ed louder and louder from the phone speaker and on the other side of the door. 

Shit. You knew what those grunts of pain and pleas meant, he was seizing.

Slamming down on the ground, uncaring if your exposed knees get bruised, you sent a silent thank you to your past self for leaving a hair pin inside the pockets of your sleep shorts. Breaking and entering was yet another skill set you learned from the other Dr House and his team of skilled doctors, you just never imagined you’d be applying that knowledge in breaking and entering a federal agent’s home. 

The door unlocked and you barreled your way to the living space where a frightful sight greeted you—Spencer on the floor, laying still as if he was peacefully sleeping.

“No, no, no,” you slid beside him, mind cataloguing every detail for the right action. An empty needle near his exposed right arm and an empty glass bottle of Dilaudid.

No rise and fall of the chest.

And no pulse. Medical training kicking in, you tilted his head up, clearing the pathway, and started chest compressions.

One. Two. Three—

“C’mon, Spencer, breathe,” you grunted in between pumps.

One. Two. Three. Four—

You leaned down to his chapped lips, blowing air to his mouth. “I need you to breathe for me, okay. Breathe, Spencer.” 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five—

“Breathe, c’mon Spencer,” you knew there was a high probability for the agent to have his own stash of narcotics and in by agreeing to keep his secret, lest he loses his badge, to get him to open up was a gamble. A risk you were now regrettably paying for.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six—

“Dammit Spencer, I could lose my license for this. Breathe, I need you to breathe.”

A sputtering of coughs escaped his lips.

“Oh thank you, thank you,” you breathed out, arms sagging from the pressure of performing CPR and the weight of fear that you might have been too late. 

Spencer groaned. “Dr. House?”

You nodded, the salty tears blurring your vision. The image of him lying still was burned into your memory, the same way the mirage of your own father lying in a pool of his own vomit. He’s alive—they’re both alive.

Your hands angrily erased the rivulets the tears left behind on your cheeks. Now wasn’t the time to give in to relief and emotion. Although Spencer was out of the woods, there was still a huge uphill battle to tackle. 

“I’ll carry you to bed, lean your weight on me,” you huffed as you helped him up the floor, making sure to take in most of his weight that you could.

The form of you, tears still streaming down your face and steps away from a breakdown, and his hunched form, weak and pliant, was a sight to behold. It was a sight after battle—after the white flag had been waved and the injured tying their best to find their way back to life.

It was sad. It was hopeful.

It was a brush on humanity’s eternal friend, death. Death that still loomed in the corners of the apartment, biding his time to take what was promised.

You laid him gently on the bed before running back to the spied kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. The smell of books permeated the air as if to try and bring your panicked mind back to the present. If it were any other day, you would have found yourself perusing his shelves of eclectic classic literature but this wasn’t the right time and place.

Your bare feet sliding across the floor to make its way back to the groaning figure on the bed, threatening to sit up.

“No,” you tapped his shoulder to get him back down. “I need you to rest.” 

“But—”

“No buts Spencer. Rest, I’ll stay here.” 

His drooping eyes reading yours, trying to find any type of lie that would break his being further than it already was. Spencer was a broken man and this was the first time you could see written in his eyes his plea for help and company. “You promise?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” 

His hands blindly groping across the bed spread before it found the treasure it was searching for, your hand. He enveloped his with yours, calloused fingers intertwining with smooth. A contrast that brought him comfort—you were here. You were real. You felt safe. You saved him.

He was alive.

And with that, his eyes closed to fall into a peaceful slumber, one that he hadn’t had in months. 

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[whatcoloristhatcat]

raises hand What is a chimera and how does it work <- this is me giving you the opportunity to infodump, if you'd like me to google it instead i can lol dw <3

i'm sure i've explained this at some point but i can't find it everyone says thank you tumblr search function

simply, a chimera is when two zygotes fuse in utero and become one cat (this can occur in all sorts of animals and plants and other kinds of organisms as well but we're talking about cats here)

it does NOT mean all chimeras have some kind of genetically impossible patterns or are inherently visually striking. there are definitely many kinds of chimeras out there that simply go unnoticed because they are two solid black cats or a red and a white cat fused, for example. chimeras can also have patches with xx and xy chromosomes if a female and male cat fused

here's a graphic from the messybeast about it

however, chimeras can of course display coat patterns that are generally otherwise genetically impossible, for example (chimeras from the messybeast):

dense and dilute colors (red and dilute black (blue)):

point and non-point, xx and xy (red (flame) point male and non-point tortoiseshell female):

(probable chimera) shorthair and longhair:

(probable chimera) solid and tabby (dilute black (blue) and red tabby):

genetically, they're really cool. i would love to see more actual research into them!

why i get so fired up about it is the misinformation that flies around online about chimeras. if you look at that graphic from the messybeast up top, you'll see a note that a split-face appearance in tortoiseshell is not an indication of chimerism.

anyways, let's google chimeras for a second

ok.

i'm in the trenches with seeing all these "we said so" chimeras because i'm constantly tagged in them. please note! i'm not mad that people tag me in them and don't know! it's not common knowledge especially with all the people trying to catch some internet fame with their super real for sure chimeras

so i could write a dissertation here about how it does still matter because it's misinformation and there could be some health consequences we don't know about and how it's skewing the public perception of chimeras and that could have some influence on what research is done in chimeras (which again occurs in all sort of organisms, including humans) but you didn't even ask about any of this. so i'm going to end here. please remember that a split-face tortoiseshell is very likely not a chimera ok. i love you

[mpchev]

Update on fanbinding dissertation: binding the dissertation itself!

After many days and nights of writing and wrangling footnotes and proofreading (where I couldn't convince my laptop that yes, I meant textualisation, not sexualisation), 'twas time to bind the beasts! In three copies, no less! Which I approached with way too much confidence from my one fanbind experience, and came with many fun little surprises due to the format guidelines I had to follow 🤡

This is going to be a long one, so here's my happy unfocused mug to confirm that it all ends well:

First pickle: The typesetting. I absolutely loved typesetting fanfic, but the dissertation had to be A4 (way less fun, boo-hoo), one-sided, with every page numbered. Did you know that LibreOffice won't let you add blank pages and only number the non-blank ones, without skipping numbers? In order to print signatures I could fold into one-sided pages, only numbered on the right-hand pages, I ended up switching to landscape orientation and including the equivalent of a blank page in the left margin.

Second pickle: The imposing, which I couldn't figure out using the amazing bookbinder with my weird landscape 2-page layout. I finally gave in and rearranged all the pages manually, which looked like p. 1 on the recto / p. 10 on the verso, then p2/p9, p3/p8, p4/p7, p5/p8, p6/p7. And because there was no way I was paying print-in-colour prices for all of this, I further split the manually imposed pages into two files, one for the greyscale printer (cheaper) and one for the colour printer (highway robbery). Still came up to ~£70, just for printing.

Very glad I went in chunks of 10 for the signatures, it made both the math and the folding using sheets from two different piles much easier, highly recommend (if for some absurd reason you also want to bind one-sided numbered pages in folded signatures).

Third pickle: Linear time. Had planned on having so much time to print and bind this thing, but kept writing and rewriting and proofing and oops! It was due in less than 24 hours and it was still not out of the laptop. So.

22/09/24, 6pm: Got to the library, started printing.

6.45pm: Found another printer where all the paper was the same shade of white, started printing again 🤦‍♂️ (kept the the misprints to use as scrap paper when glueing)

7.30pm: Started folding the 150 sheets of paper (3 x 100-page dissertation, 2 pages per sheet). Went from the last episode of The Magnus Protocol, to an episode of Welcome to Night Vale, to deciding restart The Magnus Archive, which felt almost poetic.

9pm: Headed back home, trimmed the edges (with a borrowed guillotine), folded the endpapers, stabbed everything. Lack of pictures to be blamed on my inability to mess with linear time, and the eventual sleep deprivation.

10.30pm, I think? Started sewing the signatures together, again with Supernatural (which I started rewatching when I submitted my first dissertation assignment in mid-May, and finished 2 days after submitting the dissertation itself, again, such poetry).

2am, probably? Tipped the endpapers and glued cheesecloth over the spines. Somehow figured out where to set the three textblocks to dry (I don't have a press). Sadly gave up on sewing on (or glueing) headbands, because time.

3am-ish: Cut the missing cover pieces out of millboard (had already cut 4 of 6 covers, since I knew it had to be A4), measured the spines of the three textblocks and cut those as well.

???am: Did some math, because sure, that's the right time for that. Cut the bookcloth to size, glued the cover pieces on the bookcloth. Remarkably only messed up the measurements on one of them! That means one of the copies has a millimetre of millboard showing in the inside corners of the back cover, but not enough time/bookcloth/millboard to redo it, onward we go!

Way past dawn: Took a break for food while the covers somewhat dried. Cased the three textblocks in the three covers, with the endpapers bubbling, which took me by surprise since it was the same paper and same glue I had used for the fanbind without any problem. I'm now thinking that bigger book = more time needed to apply the glue = endpapers getting warped, but I was so exhausted by this point that who knows. Again, no time to redo it!

9.30am: Stacked the dissertations under the heavy reference books I used to write the dissertation. Toute est dans toute hein. Went to bed while they (mostly) dried.

2.30pm: Woken up by my neighbour's dj set. Eventually put all that hard work in a tote and walked to school to hand it in at 4.30pm.

Fourth and last pickle: The titling. Couldn't find paper long enough to do a half-dust jacket like I did last time. Had big cutout plans, ran out of time and couldn't finish testing those. Also had some thicker textured paper I thought of cutting and glueing to the cover as a title card, but it turned out too thin and was warping. Finally resigned myself to submitting it with a blank cover, but one of my teachers asked if I would mind adding the title on with metallic markers to make it easier to identify (one copy will eventually be on the shelf at the Institute), and I'm SO HAPPY with how it turned out. Metallic markers. Why didn't I think of that. (I did, however, think about dressing appropriately for the occasion.)

So, is it possible to print and bind 3 books in less than 24 hours? Yes! Am I glad I did it? Also yes, very satisfying, love being extra! Would I do it again? God no, I've been sleeping for two weeks and I still haven't recovered. Can't wait to start binding something else though, so I guess it wasn't that bad.

That's it! That's over! Aaaaaah! Now waiting for the grade and comments, and hopefully soon I'll be able to share the content as well.

I'll also try to post some more about the research/writing process itself, somewhere between the late nights reading international treaties on income tax and the early mornings spent figuring out how to apply for a phd next.

Thank you so much to everyone who followed along, this was way more fun than I ever could have hoped!

[p0orbaby]

Cream Crackered

summary: being a phd student is not for the faint of heart

warnings: none, well tiredness? does that count?

a/n: based on this request. im also suffering from a hefty case of writers block so if this is awful, i apologies to all involved

word count: 1.1k

-

You’ve been burning the midnight oil for weeks.

As a PhD candidate in molecular biology, your days and nights blur together in a haze of research, experiments, and writing. You’re exhausted, running on fumes, but you have to push forward. You have to finish what you’ve started.

One evening, as you’re hunched over your computer, frantically typing away at your latest chapter, there’s a knock on your door. Startled, you look up to see Alessia standing there, concern etched on her face.

“Alessia?” you croak, your voice hoarse from lack of use. “What are you doing here?”

She steps into your cramped apartment, taking in the sight of scattered papers and empty coffee cups littering every surface. “I haven’t heard from you in days,” she says softly as her eyes scan your exhausted form. “I was worried”

You force a tired smile. “Just… I’m trying to finish this dissertation before my defense”

“You haven’t slept either, have you?”

“Is it that obvious?” You force a laugh, a weak little thing cut off by a large yawn. Gosh, you were tired.

She places her hold-all down on the floor, the one you were too tired to initially notice, before coming to stand over where you’ve stationed yourself at the dining table.

She nods, concern etched across her features. “Yes, it is,” she replies softly, her hand reaching out to brush a wayward strand of hair away from your face. “And it’s not healthy. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this”

You lean into her touch, feeling a sense of comfort wash over you despite your exhaustion. “I know,” you admit quietly, the weight of fatigue settling heavily on your shoulders. “But I need to get this finished”

Alessia hums, a low rumble in the quiet of your humble abode. “I thought you might have said that”.

Before you know it, Alessia leans over you and slams your laptop shut. Snuffing out the light of the screen in one smooth move, leaving you blinking and confused.

“You’re done for the day” she deadpans.

It all catches you off guard a little if you’re being completely honest.

“Wait, what? No, I’ve only got a few thousand words left” you protest, trying to prise your laptop open again. But it was no use, a perfectly manicured hand was keeping it closed, and you were too tired to fight her on this.

Looks like you're tapping out at homologous recombination.

Alessia gives you a firm look, an expression that leaves no room for negotiation. “You need rest, more than anything else right now”

You slump back in your chair, defeated but also secretly relieved. Deep down, you know she’s right. You’ve been pushing yourself to the brink, and it’s not at all sustainable.

With a resigned sigh, you nod, finally conceding. “Okay, okay. You win. But just for tonight”

Alessia smiles softly, “I’ll make you some dinner,” she offers, already heading towards the kitchen. “And then you're having a bath because no offense baby, you look like you could use one”

The truth hurts, you guess.

-

"So, tell me about your day," Alessia prompts as she rinses the shampoo from your hair.

You relax further into the warm water, gratefully leaning back against her. "It was hectic, as usual," you begin, recounting the events of the day with a sigh. "I spent most of it in the lab, running experiments, analysing data, the usual”

You feel her nod behind you. "Sounds intense," she comments, her fingers working wonders on your scalp. "Did you make any progress?"

You hum to confirm you had, a sense of pride swelling within you despite your fatigue. "Yeah, I think so. I managed to replicate some promising results from a previous study, which was a relief”

"That's great!" Alessia exclaims, kissing along your shoulder and up your neck. "I'm so proud of you”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest at her words, a sense of validation that you desperately needed. "Thanks," you say, settling into her further, then asking her the same.

As suspected, her day was filled with training and game strategies and business meetings, a routine you’re familiar with but nonetheless always interested to hear about.

You start to doze as she talks, not because you’re bored, but because this is the first time you’ve felt relaxed in days.

It’s only when you hear the water slosh and she shifts behind you that you realise your eyes have closed and your head has lolled against her shoulder.

“C'mon you, let’s get you to bed before we both get colds”

You blink, gradually returning to awareness as Alessia’s words register. With a gentle nudge, she encourages you to rise from the bath, the cold air hitting you before she wraps a towel around your shoulders.

You offer Alessia a sleepy smile, feeling the weight of exhaustion in your bones. “Thanks for looking out for me,” you say softly, gratitude laced in your words as you nestle closer to her.

Alessia returns your smile, her eyes warm with affection. “Always, my love,” she replies, brushing a strand of hair away from your face with gentle fingers. “You know I’ve got your back.”

You nod, feeling a sense of comfort wash over you at her words. “I do,” you murmur. “And I’ve got yours too, always. Even more so when my every thought isn’t consumed by nondisjunctions and point mutations”

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said” she teases, a playful grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I can keep going? What about horizontal gene transfer? Or chromosomal segregation. Any of that doing it for you?” you jest, raising a suggestive eyebrow in her direction.

She just rolls her eyes and pushes you gently through to the bedroom.

“Come on, you know you love it when I talk nerdy to you,” you tease, wiggling your eyebrows.

She chuckles, shaking her head in amusement as she grabs some clean pyjamas from the dresser. “Usually, but right now, I think we both need some shut-eye”

You pout playfully, feigning disappointment. “Spoilsport,” you mock, reaching out to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her closer.

Alessia laughs, gently extricating herself from your grasp to pull back the duvet. “Hey, sleep is important,” she informs. “You of all people should know that”

You relent with a sigh, knowing she’s right. “Fine, fine,” you give in. “But you’re missing out on some riveting conversation”

So riveting in fact that you're yawning again and leaning into Alessia's touch as she helps you get dressed and tucked into bed.

Sleep, yes. What a splendid idea.

Alessia gives you a knowing look, “I think I’ll take my chances,” she says, before snuggling into bed beside you and pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

[delightfullyquirkydoodles]

Okay, buckle up, friends and neighbours, because it's time for:

THE DOOPLISS DISSERTATION

(Obviously, you should take all of this with a HUGE chunk of salt, since I'm not only an internet-poisoned fandom blogger, but also a former English major with a penchant for over-reading.

Still, I spent a long time writing this, so I'd appreciate it if you gave it a read.)

So before we talk about Doopliss himself, I feel like we should talk about Creepy Steeple, since a lot of the topics I'm going to be touching on relate to the actual building.

Neither the original Gamecube version nor the Switch remake really bothers to explain what Creepy Steeple actually is.

None of Goombella's tattles say anything about the building's intended purpose. The name vaguely implies that it's a church of some kind -- in Japanese, it's called Odoron Jiin, or "Astonishing Temple" -- but that's still not very helpful.

Still, for the purposes of this analysis, I'm going to assume that it's meant to be a church.

This brings me to the Steeple's stained glass window, which shows a scary-looking Doopliss standing over some piranha plants.

From a design standpoint, I'm guessing that this detail was added to give the location a spooky vibe, but from an in-universe perspective, the implications are wild.

Like, who designed this? How long ago? And why? What the heck is it supposed to represent?

Unsurprisingly, the game offers no real answers, but I have a couple of theories.

The first is that the people of Twilight Town (or their ancestors, or something) created the window in Doopliss's honor.

Stained glass windows often depict saints or angels, so maybe the Twilighters used to worship him? Like, maybe Creepy Steeple was once dedicated to him and then, for whatever reason, the worshippers decided to leave?

It's not super likely, but I didn't want to rule out any possibilities. This is a weird freaking temple. Literally anything is possible, as far as I'm concerned.

My second theory is that Doopliss designed the window himself. He seems like a guy with a lot of spare time, so it's not too much of a stretch to say that he came up with the idea and then spent weeks building it by hand.

He could have also bullied the Boos into constructing it for him. I dunno. I just have this mental image of him pulling pranks on them and generally being a nuisance until they caved.

The bottom line is someone wanted to Doopliss's face to be front and center. And if that someone is Doopliss himself, then hoo boy, there is a lot to unpack here.

Maybe I'm projecting, but it feels like Doopliss is wrestling with some major self-esteem issues.

Despite being an incredibly powerful shapeshifter who somehow cursed an entire town, he seems very childish. He spends all his time watching TV and coming up with new jokes. He throws tantrums when he loses. He wears a party hat, of all things.

Based on that, I'd say that he's probably starved for attention. He's probably pretty lonely living in Creepy Steeple all by himself (doubly so if my theory about the Twilighters is correct).

I'd even go so far as to say that his scheme to turn the Twilighters into pigs is motivated by this need for attention. I mean, what better way to get people to notice you than to cause a town-wide panic?

I feel like the disguises he uses over the course of the main story also support this theory.

Though Mario, Zip Toad and Professor Frankly are quite different from one another, they all have one important thing in common: they're famous. Mario's a world-renowned adventurer, Zip Toad is a well-known actor and Frankly is a tenured professor whose students love him.

Doopliss even alludes to this after stealing Mario's body, telling him, "You're so popular around here! I just love being you!"

By transforming into beloved figures, Doopliss can get the attention he craves.

I also think that this is why he joined the Shadow Sirens. Sure, Beldam abuses him almost as badly as she abused Vivian, but at least she notices him. That's better than nothing.

The most conclusive piece of textual evidence is found in the epilogue. In her letter to Mario, Goombella explains that Doopliss has joined Flurrie on-stage in her production of "Paper Mario".

Obviously his shapeshifting abilities make the play a lot more realistic, but why would he bother participating in it at all? This guy was a villain for most of the game. Why would he suddenly decide to join up with one of his enemies?

Because, as far as I can tell, he's not a villain. Just a guy who's sick of being ignored.

I dunno. Doopliss's motivations have never been super clear, but I feel like there's more to him than meets the eye.

If you have any thoughts or ideas of your own, feel free to comment. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this.

[predestinatos]

love me down? — CL16 𓍢ִ໋ ᰔᩚ

chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

summary: it's time to confront feelings over mcdonald's and a beach view

word count: 4k

tags: a bit angsty not gonna lie, vulnerable!charles is so interesting to write, finally they get it together (kind of), smut at the end - absolutely filthy btw.

minors dni ──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !! warnings & note underneath

note: so so sorry for the delay in updates! i've been busy on my dissertation, staying home alone for a few days and traveling along with writing some articles for my uni newspaper so things have been crazy here. but i appreciate all the support and patience.

warnings: rough sex, kitchen sex, spit is involved, charles is very... domineering

“Thank you” you smiled softly to the girl handing you the McDonald’s bag and the two big cups of coke, which you promptly asked for Charles to hold as you proceeded to drive away.

Your hands gripped the stirring wheel as you drove – upon Charles’ insistence that he wanted to see you doing it, and also because it would raise less suspicion and attention if you both did so. The night was calm and slightly warm, allowing for the windows to be opened and the breeze ran through your hair wildly.

You felt his gaze on you, noticing how he stared unapologetically at you from the corner of your eye, a warm smile plastered across his face, his eyes half open – details that you didn’t notice but knew, out of the sheer amount of time you were now spending together, his expressions becoming familiar and recognizable, like a painting you hang on your bedroom and see every morning when you wake up.

“Stop staring, it distracts me,” you said jokingly, your shoulders tensing as you smiled shyly and tried to fix your hair with one hand, the other remaining on the wheel. “Now you know how I feel” he replied, popping a French fry in his mouth.

You allowed yourself half a second to look at him with confusion, your eyebrows furrowed as you moved your head questioningly. “What do you mean?” you asked, as you opened your hand towards him and demanded for him to give you a french fry.

“I mean when we all hang out and you sit at the back of my car and all I can see is you from the rearview mirror” he replied, his arms stretching towards your mouth instead of your hand, placing the food in it carefully. You knew the order of these actions was deliberate – first he admitted to something, then he would shush you somehow, as if to let that admission disappear or go unnoticed, or for him to think of something to say that would somehow lessen it.

The cold tone of his eyes remained on you, however, letting silence fill the car, as you noticed you hadn’t put music on, relying on each other’s voices and company instead. With your mouth still half full, you kept questioning his attentive gaze: “we haven’t all hung out in your car in ages, though.” You swallow, hoping he understood what you said between chewing and speaking.

Charles laughed softly, both at your statement and at your attempt to multitask, which he tried to unconsciously replicate by removing the Coca-Cola cup from the bag without taking his eyes off of you. “I know,” he realized that was all he could say, and that it was enough for you to understand its underlying meaning.

You were now arriving at an empty beachside, one which both of you knew because that was where you spent your teenage years amongst the people you loved. “I thought you hated me though,” you said, more seriously than you intended, your hand on the gearstick as you moved it to reverse. He shrugged as he took his seatbelt off, placing one leg under the other one, his sweatpants revealing a comfort he had acquired with you over the past months. “I thought so too,” he replied, chuckling.

You turned the car off but didn’t find his tale all that amusing, how both your and his feelings were now drifting unknowingly and dissolving, getting harder to recognize and pinpoint.

Noticing your discomfort, Charles’ hand once again went through his hair, nervousness hard to disguise, his dark brown locks suddenly in a desperate need to be fixed. You grabbed your order from the bag placed upon his lap, unthinkingly. Months prior, just the idea of being in a car with him seemed ridiculously unrealistic, and now touching him was voluntary and thoughtless, which highlighted the contrast of your words.

“I’ve always found you attractive” his voice interrupted, as he took a bite of his cheeseburger. You reflected his movements, but looking at him, eyebrows raised and interest spiking. The short seconds he took to chew and swallow seemed like an eternity, the urge to hear him continue almost as big as his urge to keep talking. “Even when you annoyed the shit out of me” he laughed shortly, and this time you did too, your head rising towards the ceiling of the car. “It’s true! It just made you even more insufferable” he repeated, his free hand adjusting a lock of your hair behind you ear in caring amusement.

Your eyes met his as you took a sip of your drink, interrupting him before he went on a full monologue. “Thank you for the flattering confession,” you joked back, mimicking him by putting a lock of his hair behind his ear – an almost impossible task. “Come on, I knew you felt attraction towards me as well,” he tilted his head and leaned back, arms crossed smugly, trying to hide the slightly damaged ego. “You were alright,” your answer made him bring his hand to his chest dramatically, a comical expression screaming ‘how dare you’ in sheer playfulness.

“Grumpy men aren’t my type” you continued, placing a French fry in your mouth with feigned innocence. “Bratty girls aren’t mine either yet here we are” Charles replied, a soft gleam in his eyes as he looked at you, the breeze entering the car through the open window and touching his hair softly, daring to caress him when you couldn’t, wouldn’t.

Here we are. That sentence reverberated through your body like an enigma you couldn’t solve. Where exactly were you two? In a limbo of unspoken feelings and mere subtle hints of tenderness, an unbreakable vow of secrecy that can only be expressed through metaphors? In a car, desperate to feel each other’s devoted affection, yet refraining to do so, like a painting in a museum you can’t get too close to?

Charles knew he had said the wrong thing, or at least not the good enough thing for the moment. This back and forth used to be amusing and entertaining when nothing was at stake. But now it seems like both of you had gambled too much, and the few chips you had were holding you together at a table where whatever happened could not be seen as a victory.

He said the only thing that came to his mind at that moment. An earnest and genuine “I’m sorry” left his lips as he looked outside the window. You let out a breath, accepting the apology despite the fact that you didn’t quite know the reason for it. Was he apologizing for the comment that ignited this tension? For letting things spiral to this in the first place? You weren’t sure he knew it either, yet you knew he meant it enough for you to not hold it against him.

But maybe it was your turn to get into his head, as selfish as this sounded. You didn’t hold it against him but that didn’t mean you didn’t have half thoughts and half feelings to let out. “It was hard not being bratty with you,” you heard yourself say, as his head turned towards you. You forced yourself to hold his gaze, despite the fact that you felt heat rushing to your cheeks as you spoke. “You got under my skin like no one else. Still do,” you bit your lip, holding back a smile that threatened to creep up on your face. It was hard to hide your amusement at his own bewildered look, incredulous at what you had said could imply.

“You don’t know how many times I wanted to be alone with you” his voice, almost a whisper, traveled through the car along with the nightly air and the soft waves crashing far away. You swallowed dryly, despite the cold cup resting between your legs and the comfort it could’ve provided you in a time like this.

“Why didn’t you?” you asked, curiosity, or maybe sheer tension, filling your body as you felt him getting closer to you, closing the gap between both of your seats. “I did, eventually,” his breath hit your neck, his knowledge of this particular weakness of yours making you even weaker, realizing you gave him the power to get to you like this. His chuckle filled your ears and sent goosebumps throughout your body like an orchestra of sensations. “And it’s not like you made it particularly easy for me,” he continued, kissing your neck lightly enough to make your body shiver, his hand now resting on your leg and caressing it with sensuous ease.

“Really?” you played along, irony lacing your lips the way you both liked to play. “How come?” your voice broke upon the sentence as his murmur of affirmation to your question mixed with his kisses down your neck and his now tightened grip on your leg blurred your senses.

Before he could properly reply, your phone vibrated in your pocket, disrupting the tension building up between you two. You cursed under your breath as you pulled it out, reading the name on the screen and locking it again, deciding to reply later. “It’s my sister,” you say, even though you knew you needn’t justify yourself. Nevertheless, you did. You hoped he’d do the same in his own case.

“Oh, is everything alright? She’s in Austria, right?” he asked, genuine curiosity lacing his words. You nodded in response. “Yeah, she’s alright. It’s a drunk selfie, I’ll text her later,” you laughed as you continued, your drink finishing just like his. He laughed, more to himself than to you, as he shook his head negatively. “That’s brave for a Linguistics student” he joked.

His words made you realize something, which you couldn’t help but point out to him, question him about. “How do you know those things? About my sister, I mean” you clarified, your eyes interlocked with his. “You’ve mentioned it sometimes when we all hung out,” he shrugged, the answer seeming so simple and uncomplicated, almost making you feel ridiculous for asking. Yet you stood, motionless. “I may seem annoyed, but I am listening, you know.”

You felt your body freeze at his words, a realization of something you had never considered before. Because it’s not only that he was listening; he remembered. Things you didn’t particularly say to him – in fact, you ignored him most times, only using the basic politeness when strictly necessary – were engraved in his mind when they did not have to be. They could’ve been mere writings on sand for him, ones which the sea would wash away carelessly, yet they weren’t.

And suddenly, you were tired. Of the breeze, of the jokes, of the hiding, of the unknown. Of crying, of laughing, of shrugging it off and trying not to think about it. Of the lack of answers, of the increasingly infinite number of questions. You’ve felt sadness, but now it was time for anger – unfortunately, you did not know whom to aim it at. To him? For not being able to admit the very same thing you couldn’t admit either? To yourself? For protecting your emotions from the person who has shown in the past his inconsistencies, his lack of commitment and emotional availability?

He felt it then. He did not know how or why – whether your breath give it away, how you blinked more rapidly than usual and your eyelashes seemed to bat away the painful realization – but he felt that if he did not do something, say something, before you did, all this would end. And in those brief seconds everything flashed before him: the endless amount of decisions and routes that he could take here, how it would be easy in the short term to accept what you had to say and let you drive him home, drink it away, fuck it away, text someone else, kiss someone else. But the long term painful knowledge of feeling your skin on his when he wakes up at 4am in your room, to witness your eyerolls when he jokes around, to witness your existence quietly – that suddenly felt unbearable.

Your fists were clenched in repressed anger, so were his, though the reasons differed – but the source of them didn’t. It had now become a race against time, daring each other to speak, to do something before the other did, scared of the words that might come out each other’s mouths.

You beat him to it – maybe the only game where you actually won, yet a victory that tasted as a loss, where the podium took more from you than it gave, no morning glory or praise in your eyes or his. “I don’t think I can keep doing this” was all you said as you forced yourself to look into Charles’ eyes, notice how you could tell something in him shifted despite his lack of movement. Despite the fact that he had seen in it coming, he couldn’t help but feel a sharpness in his chest that threatened to break his whole body apart from the inside out. He had nothing to lose anymore, and knowing this, he knew he had to at least put up a fight with himself.

“It’s a shame because I think I’m starting to get feelings for you,” he tried to act natural, almost slightly careless but it did not work, not when your eyes stared deeply into his, confusion written all over them. “I mean I can’t get you off my mind. These hang outs we have are all that I look forward to. I mean that I wish I could just tell you how much I crave your presence at every moment. That part of me feels such anger towards you precisely because you make me feel weak. I hate myself for feeling these things almost as much as I do for not expressing them to you earlier. And I care. I care so much I wish I could be brave enough to ask you to text me when you get home, when you wake up, when you go out. I want to talk to you or stay in silence or eat or do anything, I don’t fucking know what I’m saying but I want this to keep going and I am so fucking selfish for it, I know I am.”

Charles bit his lip, out of nervousness, anger, or sadness – neither of you quite knew. All you knew was that the words that came out of his mouth could never be unsaid, that whatever happened after this could never repair whatever dynamic you two had, and even though you both knew that the first time he stayed after your party, it was now a reality you had to confront.

“Don’t do this to me, Charles” you begged, your voice breaking slightly as it whispered his name, the taste of it so different from before, so foreign it seemed like you were calling someone else. “It’s really fucking mean of you to do this,” you continued, as your hand flew to the car key and started it, your intention to leave the conversation in the sand, let it be consumed by the sea, erased, cleaned.

You drove and drove, although you felt like the car was operating itself, your mind not as much on the way to Charles’ place but more on retracing the steps that brough you two here. He didn’t highlight his presence either. Both of you felt so insanely alone in that car it was almost maddening, a solitary confinement worse than any other punishment: being alone together.

And so when your car came to a halt in the parking lot and you inhaled deeply, accepting the fact that this was probably the last time you would ever have him like this, considering what you’d do differently had you known that when you woke up, he tried one last time.

His hand was so close to opening the door but refused to do so before both his body and his mind had the answer to the question that would solve it all. Every single one of his next movements would depend on how you replied, and he was, not for the first time, immediately aware of your control over him. “Knowing all this, knowing it would come to this in the end- would you have kicked me out of your apartment that night?”

For some inexplicable reason, you did not hesitate then. Your head moved, so slightly it could go unnoticed, in a nod. Then, as if you were watching your own self from afar, you nodded once more, clearly, affirmatively, and confidently, despite your runny nose and teary eyes. You adjusted your hair once again, the mess a reflection of your own thoughts and his – tangled and complicated.

Yet, your reply triggered all of Charles’ courage, made his words come out strong and reassuring at the same time, as he tried, not desperately but incessantly, to make you see what he couldn’t show. “Then why can’t we keep going? You want me to show you I need you, here I am. I need you. I need this, and this might be the most vulnerable I can be with you right now but I am trying. I’ll say it as many times as you want and I’ll leave if you want me to because that’s how much I need you. I need you so much I’m willing to let you go if that’s what you want.”

His reply made you feel your own heart speeding, its pace matching his, though you were both unaware of it. Your hands were shaking at the same rhythm as his hands, the ones that were now opening the door in defeat, but that were stopped by you gripping his arm, feeling him finally, pleading him to stay. He barely had the time to close the door again, leaving it ajar as he turned to you and felt your lips on his, soft and needy and begging for him to stay. He deepened the kiss hungrily, his teeth biting your bottom lip in confirmation of his presence before you.

Remembering where you two were, you pulled away, looking at his unusual post kiss expression. Although the red lips and blissed eyes remained, he was serious, rather than smug, questioning if this was a last goodbye or a beginning. You smiled to yourself at that, his innocent look when he lost control of a situation giving away his honesty.

The atmosphere was still tense despite the fact that the air had been cleared out by his words and the tears washed away by the foggy windows, yet you couldn’t help but bite your lip, holding back a laugh as you said, “so does this mean I have to cancel things with Oscar?”

Charles’ soft giggle and playful “fuck off” made you feel at home more than ever, as you knew now that he was comfortable with you holding that door. And as he stepped out of your car, he leaned down and popped his head in once again, teasingly asking you “want to come inside so I can answer that for you?” – to which you merely smirked as you removed your seatbelt.

As soon as the elevator doors closed and until you made all the way to the 16th floor Charles’ hands were on your waist, your legs, your chest, and everywhere possible, as he tried feeling all of you at once, greedily caressing your skin. You needed him just as much, your own arms around his neck as your hands pulled his soft hair, sometimes with enough strength his groan was audible, but so addictive you couldn’t get enough of it.

The elevator doors opened and somehow you made it into his apartment, not registering any inch of it – you had grown to know it all too well to have to look around for the last few months. With your legs wrapped around his waist and his hands holding you by your thighs, he took you to the closest spot he could find and placed you there, your ass suddenly feeling the cold surface underneath. Sitting on his marble kitchen counter, you watch as his attitude shifted back to the cocky and possessive one you knew so well. Charles didn’t hesitate to take his shirt off, followed by his sweatpants, which revealed everything already. However, the sight of his naked body between your legs drove you insane, your head spinning with the heat of desire. Completely naked, yet standing above you, his voice, so distinct from the soft and vulnerable from before, demanded: “take your clothes off”

You complied, never breaking eye contact as he fisted his own cock, its length making your mouth water and your entrance embarrassingly wet, yet that embarrassment quickly faded as his gaze lowered towards it, dark lust spreading across his eyes. Unapologetically, he eyes you up and down, eyes resting on your breasts, your nipples hard, your whole body giving away how delirious with desire you felt.

“God your body is insane” he started, his hand still on his erection, moving frantically and out of pace, trying to replicate the feeling of being inside you, yet unsuccessfully. You dropped your shy attitude, replacing it instead with a newly found confidence highlighted by the confirmation of his primal desires.

“Quit jerking yourself off and fuck me, Charles” your voice sounded aggressive and soft at the same time, and caught him so off guard you saw his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he let out a ravenous growl.

Without warning, he pushed himself into you, burying his length deep inside your cunt, your wetness allowing him to move perfectly. “Fuck it’s like you were made for me” his voice, now much deeper, erupted against your neck, his face buried in it as one hand held on to your thigh tightly, and your pain was nothing when compared to how full he made you feel, how your whole body responded to him with absolute pleasure. “You were made for me, weren’t you?” he asked, pulling away from you to grip your face in his hand, a gesture so possessive and animalistic it made your eyes water in a haze. You tried nodding, although it was hard given how strong his grip was, how out of control and light-headed you felt, making it impossible for you to speak either.

His thrusts continued, aggressive and ravenous, as he unleashed all of his cravings on you. “Open your mouth” he ordered between breathy growls that pushed you over the edge. You obeyed, mouth open and tongue out as you looked at him in the eyes, some of his hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, his muscles tense and his body a complete masterpiece as it moved inside you. You knew what he was going to do, yet it still took you by sheer surprise, a cry leaving your lips as he spat directly towards your mouth, pulling your hair back to be able to look at you clearly.

You couldn’t even imagine the wreck you now looked like before him – completely blissed out and lustful, desperate for release. “All mine, f-fuck” you heard him say, despite the fact that you could barely think or even see, the sensations all mingled as one as you carved your nails in his toned arms.

“You’re mine, Charles” you tried finding your assertive voice, remind him he wasn’t the only one in charge, that you too had an upper hand in this. “All fucking m-mine, just like you want” you cried out as you felt him exploding inside you whilst your name left his lips.

The feeling of him coming and filling you was enough for you to come as well, your body shaking around his as he remained inside you, letting you keep every part of him.

As you stilled your breaths, his lips dropped a soft kiss on your forehead and his hand caressed your cheek. The change caused you to giggle, your brain still foggy from the intensity of the session you just had. “Let’s take a shower. Together” you finally said, allowing him to know that everything he had said was as reciprocate as he desired.

You two didn’t have a name or definition yet, but for now, the mutual need for each other’s presence was enough.

@buendiabebeta @janeholt3 @ruleroftheuniverse @trentsgirl @teenagedreams-cl @cmleitora @marialovesf1 @champagneholland

[florenceafternoon]

━。゜✿ jily fic recommendations ✿ ゜。━

Some more AUs I've been loving. I'm trying to alternate between AU and canon verse rec lists so bear with me. Remember that if you like a fic you should definitely let the author know as such.

For reference, anything in italics is taken from the summaries on ao3.

theogony by @clare-with-no-i

The trip that Lily Evans expects to go on is the annual pre-dissertation jaunt to Athens with the rest of her Classical Civilizations PhD program. The trip she does not expect to go on is to 479 BCE, right on the cusp of one of the most important battles in the Greco-Persian war. Now, she has to navigate antiquity as she tries to find her way back to the 21st Century, God—or gods—help her.

James wants to win this war. No, James needs to win this war. He is a man of honor and duty, and even if it means dying a gruesome, bloody death, he will go down in history as one of Athens's great warriors. He will suffer no distractions; not even beautiful ones who speak strangely and refuse to listen to his orders.

 -- OR: The Outlander-Meets-Ancient-Greece Jily AU that no one asked for Maya dreams of.

I can't believe it took me this long to read this fic but OH MY GOD!! Clare's writing is phenomenal, I've known this for a while now, but THE DEDICATION TO HISTORICAL ACCURACY, I'm so impressed. If only I could put even half that amount of effort into my major essays for school. EVERYONE GO READ THIS NOW

Sweathearts' Special by @tinyluminaryzombie

What happens when your coffee shop nemesis, asks you to pretend to be a couple?

Or "I’ve been staring at the stupid cupcakes for the past hour, and they look way too good. Anyways, would you be willing to join forces and pretend to be together for the free cupcake and coffee?”

Welcome to Pettyville by @women-inthe-sequel

When Lily Evans accidentally sends a text to the wrong number, she isn’t expecting to find the right person behind it. She can’t stop talking to Prongs. The only thing is, Prongs can’t stop talking about the girl in his class. What could go wrong, other than the number?

A love square but it's just the same two idiots

Tall Dark and Glasses by @jamesunderwater

Tall Dark and Glasses (or TDG as he is more affectionately known) is the mysterious, painfully good-looking stranger who has been frequenting Lily's favourite coffee shop for months now. But despite having an embarrassing acronym for him, Lily, a burned-out STEM major, is too comfortable being a wallflower to go up to him herself. Thank god for playing cards, I guess.

coffee shops and copious amounts of sugar by @mystinkysocks

James decides to finally start revising, the coffee shop he attends introduces him to someone new!

As someone who spends an ungodly amount of time studying in public (at cafés and libraries), all I dream of is to one day live out my very own coffee shop AU

Unlicenced by @ohmygodshesinsane

Lily Evans begrudgingly agrees to get in the car with classmate and sometime-foe James Potter and his not-quite-earned P-plates after a particularly rubbish day.

Drop-Off also by @/ ohmygodshesinsane

James Potter takes Lily Evans home, and wants to make something clear.

Disclaimer that they’re Australian in this AU. You guys don't understand how much Lily Evans means to me. I want to give her a hug.

pretty, pretty boy by rosiemary0 (on ao3)

Pretty face, with golden brown eyes and strong cheekbones (one of which is adorned with a smudge of charcoal). Pretty hands—very, very pretty hands, Lily’s thoughts interject—which hold a jar each, one with water and the other paintbrushes.

Or the one where James is an artist and Lily hates socialising.

I'll Manage by @kaymardsa

James and Lily fall in love during the war.

In which Lily runs a refugee camp and James is an ex-sniper

I can't remember if I've recommended this fic already but again I recently re-read it and wanted to share

'Tis the Fucking Season by @thequibblah

Six-year absences. Yearly photograph burnings (figuratively). Low-cut tops. Two nosebleeds. Little red notebooks. The Past, with a capital P. The desire to pour your heart out to strangers (maybe pathologically). The desire to do unspeakably bad things to one James Potter. These are the ingredients that make up Lily Evans's holiday season.

Shelby the cabbie is in for a fucking ride.

I have been searching for this fic for two months and nearly gave up. An absolute classic that everyone should read!!

Two's a Crowd also by @/ thequibblah

Regency AU in which "the only thing Lily Evans can share with the Earl of Devon is a healthy dose of mutual dislike."

In Search of Something More by @kay-elle-cee

In the sunlit garden of her sister’s home, Lord Potter had promised Lily a life of her own design, with minimal expectations—her presence at community events, companionship, and an heir. As the two stumble into the routine of marriage and work to make a life together at Stinchcombe Hall, unsolicited feelings provoke each to start wondering if this is merely a marriage…or if it could be something more.

No, I will not shut up about this fic. Anything that Kelsey writes is bound to be amazing but this one holds a special place in my heart. Note that this is an ongoing fic though. I tend to recommend completed works but this one is too good not to include.

Pinkest Bluestocking of the Ton by @wearingaberetinparis 

Dearest Reader, the ton are abuzz with the latest gossip, and so it is my honour to impart to you the news that the Duke of Peverell has returned to London at last! A year after setting off on his tour of Europe, Lady Peverell's son has returned and rumour has it that his mother is preparing for the most joyous of occasions: a late summer wedding that sees her son wed the next Duchess of Peverell. It is my sincere hope that you have stored a bottle of wine for this most delightful of upcoming events for if ever there were a more determined mama, this writer is Icarus and this society paper has been scorched for flying too close to the sun.

A Jily Regency Romance inspired by Shondaland's "Bridgerton".

Again this is an ongoing fic, but it's too good not to include in this rec list! I haven’t caught up with all the chapters yet but I love the story so far!

A Heart of Coal also by @/ wearingaberetinparis

They say fortune favours the bold, yet Lily Evans was given her death sentence at seventeen. As soon as midnight strikes on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, her heart will turn to coal. Gryffindor knight James Potter, however, is the last to accept such a fate. For while Lily Evans’ curse foretells her death, his foreshadows a life without his unrequited true love at his side.

Fairytale AU in which the love is requited they're just idiots

Three Lemons and a Dragon by @thelighthousestale

Once upon a time, there lived a Prince named James who had to save his father's Kingdom by getting married. One day an older woman gifts him three lemons that will lead him to his true love.

Dillweed in a Fancy Metal Can by @eastwindmlk

When Lily gets dragged to a Renaissance Faire, she reluctantly agreed to go to the jousting event where she is pulled into the show against her will, or is it?

Lily represents me

Queen Foxtail also by @/ eastwindmlk

Once Upon A Time...

There was an arrogant prince who turned down every suitable match and drove his parents to do something drastic. Marry him off to the next merchant that steps through their gates.

across the universe by rcdwings (on ao3)

“So, you’re saying that in these other worlds, James Potter and Lily Evans exist, too?”

She hadn’t expected to hear that, hadn’t even thought about it that way. She was too busy thinking about if in those other worlds, she and her friends could be seventeen and free instead of the war torn teenagers they were. Now that he’d put it that way, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander.

“I would assume so,” she swallowed. “Not sure what we would be like, though.”

A beat, then a soft hum. “Anything,” he smiled at her, “There are countless worlds, right? We could be anything.”

only love can hurt like this by @fireblts 

Lily doesn’t quite know everything, but it feels pretty close.

The main thing she still doesn’t get is soulmates. Love doesn’t seem like something that should be painful. Or rather, love seems like it’s painful enough on its own without any help.

Soulmate AU - whenever your soulmate is hurt or in pain, you can feel it too.

Soulmate AUs are my comfort genre of fics. I haven't been feeling to well lately and rediscovering this fic was a delight

The Librarian of Hogsmeade Village by @ohmygodshesinsane

Lily's work as a librarian in the small village of Hogsmeade has kept her occupied for the past six years, forever keeping the wheels of the town on the track. As the holidays approach, she prepares to settle in with a nice mug of tea and a well-thumbed old book. When a new resident and his son arrive at her weekly story-reading, with cheeky smiles and big hearts, those plans are tossed out the window in favour of chasing love, for once - not escaping it.

Lily living the cozy life of my dreams. I think it's well known by now that I love reading about single parents and well James with his baby boy always puts a smile on my face.

Spitting Image by @charmsandtealeaves

James Potter always knew he wanted to build a family, he just hadn’t found the right person to build it with - yet. Freezing his sperm at Gringotts Sperm Bank was a no-brainer really. He’d have children when he found the right person, and now he had an insurance policy. Then Lily Evans walked into his place of work with her son - the spitting image of him.

linking this art that the talented @constancezin drew inspired by this fic

Every time I see that Ray has updated, reading the new chapter becomes the highlight of my day

The Stag Prince Across The Sea also by @/ charmsandtealeaves

The realm of Hogwarts had lived for decades in a carefully negotiated harmony between the leaders of the four clans. However, when the time came for son to marry daughter, the Slytherin King refused to offer his daughter's hand to any of the other grand houses’ suitors. As the Slytherin King departed the shore, bound for the ship that would allow him to escape across the Green Sea, he cast a curse on the great families.

“Let ye be marked. Marred by tooth, hoof, and claw. May your sons never be fit for any bride!”

Slytherin invoked an ancient magic, which transformed each family's eldest son into creatures under the light of the full moon. The Kings searched far and wide for a cure to no avail while trying to keep secret the wrong that had been done to them. Years passed and with them grew a sense of unrest, a kingdom on the precipice of collapse...

what love is, I think by @potterandevans-blog-blog

It's James Potter's birthday, his nineteenth to be exact. Some people, if they're lucky, find a tattoo on their back on their nineteenth birthday, a tattoo that can help them discover their soulmate. And if the antlers on his back are anything to go by, James might just have a soulmate of his own out there, somewhere.

oil be there for you by @abby10fanfic

Texting/Social Media AU: Lily and James haven't spoken for 2 years. But that's all about to change thanks to Peter and his involvement in an essential oil pyramid scheme. Featuring boss babes, toxin-free lifestyles, binding contracts, and a very oily journey.

[theprettynosferatu]

CW: Orientation play/conversion. Remember that your sexuality is valid, and conversion is NOT a thing beyond fantasy. Also, fuck "conversion therapy"

“All I’m saying is…”

“Look, you’re speaking out of your ass”, Ava said, barely containing her frustration.

“How am I speaking out of my ass? It has been done and thoroughly…”, he tried to reply.

“Yes, yes, Pavlov, blah blah blah. But you’re talking about something else entirely, not conditioning reactions”

“Not Pavlov, Skinner! Actions can be conditioned too. Look around you! Mobile games, casinos, even the goddamn army uses conditioning to…”

“Can we agree that there’s a difference between conditioning obedience in a controlled setting and whatever the fuck it is you’re suggesting? You’re not talking about tapping on impulse to buy funbucks in a game! You are talking…”

“It’s only a difference of degree, not of kind. With the right combination of techniques…”

“No, there’s a core there that you can’t just… overwrite. Some things can’t be changed. Like… like how you can’t hypnotize someone into doing something they would never do”

“You know that’s bullshit, right? The whole hypnosis thing. You absolutely can make someone do whatever the fuck you want. It’s just a matter of how you approach it. Like, you would never harm a person, okay? But if I change what your idea of ‘person’ is, say, by making it more narrow you would absolutely harm someone I made you see as a not-person. Or maybe you can be made to believe you’re helping them, not harming them”

“That’s some creepy cult shit, dude. And anyway you can’t write a paper on this because a) there’s no evidence and b) doing the research to get evidence would be absolutely immoral. So I say look for another topic and for the love of God don’t go around spewing that bullshit if you want to ever get laid. Oh, speaking of! Linda will be arriving shortly and we have a date night, so please, please try to be a normal roommate and not freak her out. For me, okay?”

“When have I ever freaked her out? Linda loves me! And who knows, maybe she has an opinion on our little debate”

“Dude, she’s an Art student. I doubt she’ll be interested in our weird Psych dissertations”

“Perfect! Fresh eyes!”

“See, that’s the kind of weird shit I-”

The buzzer cut through the air, and a moment later Linda was inside the apartment, all smiles as usual. He took a moment to watch them as they embraced. 

They were almost comical in their contrast. Linda was tall, taller than he was, willowy and slender, her limbs graceful and shapely, her hair a long, flowing river of playful copper that almost seemed to dance on its own volition– with her green sundress she appeared to him as some sort of elven princess ripped from the pages of a fantasy novel and stuck into a mortal world in which she didn’t really fit. Ava, on the other hand, was probably the shortest adult he had ever seen. He might be tempted to call her petite, but that had a connotation of a lithe frame, almost like a tastefully proportioned doll. Ava was the complete opposite of that. Sometimes he felt Ava was an experiment aimed at testing how much of a person’s weight could be tits and ass, held up by strong, thick thighs. He felt quite guilty about such thoughts, and he understood why she wore nothing but oversized t-shirts and hoodies. It was logical: an early, spectacular growth spurt, heightened by her small size, had made her the target of relentless bullying by jealous classmates and awkward come-ons by hormonal teen males. It enraged him, he realized. Ava was beautiful and the cruelty of idiots had made her feel pain about it instead of pride. He made a point to never stare at her, even if he sometimes failed. It made their relationship as roommates a tad hard, he had to admit. 

 

Not that he had a shadow of a shot, of course. Ava had no interest in men.

Unless, of course, he was right in his theory. And he had good reason to think he was.

“So, Linda: Ava and I were having a bit of a debate…”

“Don’t start, dude”, said Ava.

“Oh, a debate! Do tell!” chirped Linda.

“Do you think we can be completely conditioned and changed, or is there some part of us that cannot be modified, no matter what?”

“Huh. Hard one. Like… a soul? I don’t know I buy it. I feel there isn’t really a self, you know? Like… Buddhism. The self is an illusion and all that”

“Come on, you can’t be serious! You can’t change who someone fundamentally is, and it’s sick to even consider it!”, said Ava.

“Well… what if I could prove to you it can be done?”, he stated, barely able to hold back. He know what he was going to do. He had been reluctant, but now it felt like a certainty.

“You can’t, so stop being an ass”, said Ava.

Fine. Game on.

“Linda, I love your socks! Pride socks!”

“Yup!”, said Linda

“What the hell–”, mumbled Ava.

He took a deep breath.

“Linda: rainbow socks…”

She replied in an instant.

“Are for sucking cocks!”

Ava felt as if reality had shifted into some horrible, twisted nightmare. She was about to scream something, anything really, to make Linda take that back before something stopped her in her tracks. Her body heard it before her mind did: her roommate's voice simply commanding her. Watch. 

And she watched. She watched as the love of her life smiled and went on her knees. Ava could do nothing but watch in disbelief and pain. Linda had never been with a man. Ever. 

“I might have… started testing my theories. On you both. Not that you’d remember, obviously”, he stated casually as the beautiful girl in front of him lovingly undid his pants. “I’d say Linda’s sexuality is part of her core self, wouldn’t you? Let’s see how that holds up after the months of conditioning I’ve subjected her to”

He felt guilty, sure; but there was such a high to it, such an entrancing quality to the combination of seeing instant, complete obedience and the final, definitive proof of the truth he had known to be right all along. Was it wrong? Yes. Did he care? Not at the moment. Ava’s eyes were a poem to him. Suddenly he was ripped from his reverie by the soft, loving touch of Linda’s tongue on his dick. He hadn’t even realized he had gotten hard just from the sense of complete power, of total, undeniable conquest. This was a primal, ancient arousal. Ava could do nothing but watch, and he took that sight in. God, he could almost taste it.

Linda moaned. The cock was so beautiful. So perfect. She felt so… silly, like she was now, for the first time, seeing in color and realizing the sky was, in fact, blue. It was obvious. Simple. Natural. Cock deserved worship. Cock deserved devotion. Cock demanded obedience. It was as if it was growing in her mind, taking over more and more of her, pushing who she had been out effortlessly. It expanded. It corrupted. It twisted and shifted all within. Cock. Cock. Cock. She kissed it with reverence, in awe of it. It was all that existed to her. All that mattered. She needed to please it. Needed to feel it throbbing inside her. Needed to be taken by it.

Ava saw her girlfriend slide a hand between her legs and felt nauseous. As much as she knew this wasn’t Linda’s fault, she could feel her heart breaking, her anger rising… and worse, her pussy getting wet. Her body betraying her. She hated him, and she hated Linda, and she hated herself most of all.

Suddenly, Linda couldn’t contain herself. She relaxed her throat, looked up at her Master and took his entire manhood inside her mouth. She almost came instantly. It was peaceful and sexy and just simple, like his cock was the puzzle piece that fit her perfectly, completed her, made her whole. She existed to be conquered, and realizing she was putting his pleasure over her ability to breathe was the final sign of her complete, loving surrender. She let it out, watched it glisten with her spit, and started licking it and loving it and she didn’t know how much came from her own need and how much it was a silent command by the man who had shown her the light. Her mind was too fuzzy to make such distinctions anymore.

He took a deep breath, fighting back the first signs of an orgasm. He needed to make a point.

“Linda… do you love Ava?”

The blonde stopped for a moment, shocked by a myriad of contradictions.

“Yes”, she decided. Her voice was shaking.

“Tell her”

Linda looked at Ava, the woman she had loved above all others.

“I love you…”

“But you have more to say, don’t you?”

“I… hmph… I…”

“Tell her”

“I love you… but… but… I love his cock so much more! Fuck! I need it! I need to feel it, to suck it, to be fucked by it… I’m sorry… but… I love it, I love it, I love it! I want it to fuck my throat, to take my cunt, to ram my ass! I need it! I need to be a slave to it, a whore for it, a fucking living toy!”

“What if you had to choose between Ava and my cock?”

“Fuck her! Sorry, my love… I do love you, but… You can never do to me what… what Master does to me, what his cock makes me feel! I hope I won’t have to dump you but… I would leave you for this cock in a minute! I’d do anything. Anything. Anything!” If she had more to add, her need to serve cock snuffed it. She took it all in with desperation, with total, shameless abandon. She needed to feel... used. In her proper place.

Ava felt a tear roll down her cheek. Her knees buckled in defeat. She didn’t even care. It was all gone. Her life, her love, all gone. And she could feel her eyes drawn again and again to the cock that had destroyed her. She felt her mouth watering.

“Linda, would you say you’re a lesbian?”

“Fuck no!”, she said before immediately wrapping her lips around the cock’s head.  

He felt a swell of pride. Of triumph. He knew Ava sensed the truth as well. He was right. He had proven his point. And now Ava’s full conditioning would take hold. A little bet with himself, making her own mental acknowledgment of his theory her final trigger. She took off her t-shirt. She would never wear it again. No more shame, no more pain about her figure. Only arousal and pride. His gift to her.

She crawled to him on all fours. The girls kissed– but now, they kissed for him, to arouse him. They were lovers, only they both knew there was a higher love. A truer love. Ava looked up at her owner and opened her mouth, greedily awaiting his blessing. Linda used her skillful hands, aiming his cock and teasing it, jacking it off, using just the right amount of pressure and speed. 

No man could resist such a sight.

In a few seconds, Ava was covered in his cum, more beautiful than she had ever been. Linda certainly felt that way, and she licked and kissed her sister slut clean.

He watched carefully, looking for signs of defiance, and finding none. In fact, Linda put his fears to rest with a simple statement.

“Ava, we need to buy you a pair of rainbow socks”

Did you enjoy this story? You can support my work at patreon.com/prettynosferatu !!

[waitineedaname]

POV for the no excuses writing meme, please 👀 (i love this game so much!)

a bit of context: this is for my lesbingqiu wip inspired by that "can yuo put that out on me" tweet! the wip is from binghe's pov, so here's shen yuan instead. she strikes me as the kind of person to think being thirty makes her old (it does not lol)

--

Shen Yuan wasn't sure why Shang Qinghua had insisted on dragging her out drinking if she was just going to abandon her at the first sight of her situationship across the bar. She didn't care if Shang Qinghua insisted she needed to go out more! She had work to do! Never mind that her "work" these days mostly amounted to opening her dissertation document, glaring at it for an hour, and then closing it again. She was simply getting too old to go out drinking. She was thirty now; she might as well join a knitting circle if Qinghua was that worried about her social life.

She continued grumbling to herself as she lit her cigarette. It was much quieter outside the bar, though she could still feel the music thumping through the wall behind her. She would give Shang Qinghua another five or ten minutes to prove she hadn't completely forgotten about her, just long enough to take a smoke break, and then she'd leave. She could go home, change into her pyjamas, and spend the evening working through her reading list like she'd originally intended.

Her plans were interrupted by a sudden spike in the bar's volume as someone opened the door and stumbled out into the alley beside her. Shen Yuan nearly dropped her cigarette as she was suddenly confronted by the most absurdly beautiful woman she'd ever seen.

She wondered deliriously for a moment whether there had been a modelling event that she didn't know about, because there was no other explanation for a woman this gorgeous being loose in the wild. Her dress hugged her curves in all the right places, and she had the kind of artful curls that Shen Yuan thought only existed in professionally styled wigs. Her bone structure was fine, and her skin was perfect. Seriously, was Shen Yuan hallucinating?!

The woman was also, Shen Yuan realized, extremely drunk. She stumbled over her high heels, reaching out to support herself on the wall with a groan. Shen Yuan's hands itched to reach out and support her, but she resisted the impulse.

"Are you alright?" she asked instead. The woman looked up, startled, eyes wide as if she hadn't realized Shen Yuan was there. Absolutely no way those eyelashes were real. They had to be falsies.

The woman made a slightly incoherent noise, and Shen Yuan frowned. How drunk was she? She then abruptly stood up straighter, though she was clearly still supporting herself on the wall.

"I'm fine," she said, surprising Shen Yuan with a low, smooth voice like honey. "I just needed some fresh air."

Shen Yuan nodded sympathetically. Poor thing. "Drink a little too much?"

The other woman's lips pursed in a pout. "My friend ordered shots," she explained.

And then just let her wander off?! Shen Yuan would like a word with this friend of hers. "You should be careful with those," she cautioned. "They can get you drunk very fast."

The woman nodded with the earnestness of an eager student. "Jiejie is very wise."

Oh, she was far too cute. Is this what people were referring to when they talked about blessed interactions between drunk girls at a bar? Never mind that Shen Yuan was hardly buzzed herself. She wanted to pat this girl's head and give her more wisdom, even if this wasn't really her area of expertise.

"Would jiejie keep me company while I sober up?" asked the other woman, her speech slightly slurred and her dark eyes pleading. As if Shen Yuan could say no to eyes like that!

"Of course." Shen Yuan nodded. It was her responsibility, after all! A code of sisterhood, to look out for drunk girls! "What's your name?"

"Luo Binghe." She found a more comfortable position leaning against the wall, resulting in her curls spilling over her chest. Shen Yuan foolishly tracked the motion, then forced her eyes back up to Luo Binghe's face. Aiyah! That dress really left very little to the imagination! Wasn't she cold?! Should Shen Yuan offer her jacket? "What should I call jiejie?"

"Shen Yuan." She lifted her cigarette to her lips and took another drag in the hopes that it would make Luo Binghe's appearance less distracting. Luo Binghe was staring at her with an intensity that made her want to squirm. "Are you here for some special occasion?"

Luo Binghe just continued to stare at her for a while. Poor thing, she really must be drunk. Shen Yuan knew how slowly she processed things when she was drunk. She could be patient with the girl. "My friends wanted to celebrate me starting graduate school," Luo Binghe eventually explained. Her pretty features pulled in a slight frown. "I think it's just an excuse for them to get drunk."

Shen Yuan chuckled at the petulance on Luo Binghe's face. "Maybe, but that’s a worthy thing to celebrate. Congratulations on starting grad school."

"Thank you, Shen-jie." Luo Binghe's expression softened into a smile again, still laser-focused on Shen Yuan's face.

Shen Yuan took a moment to look Luo Binghe over again. Grad school, huh? Shen Yuan struggled to believe that, but she couldn't see why Luo Binghe would lie. It's just, Shen Yuan was in graduate school, and she felt horribly outclassed by the girl in front of her. With looks like hers, she could easily become an idol or something! She didn't deserve to waste away in academia like Shen Yuan, though she admired Luo Binghe's academic drive. And so young, too...

"You seem awfully young for grad school," Shen Yuan said. It could be that she just took good care of herself, but she wouldn't have been surprised if she'd said she was still an undergrad. "How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-five," Luo Binghe said.

"Twenty-five," Shen Yuan repeated. Twenty-five! And she was here, talking to thirty year old Shen Yuan outside a bar. Shen Yuan's earlier impression was right; this really was not the scene for her. "I think I’m officially too old for this bar. People will think I’m a creep if I keep coming around here." She took another drag from her cigarette, feeling morose over her age. "When I graduated high school, you would’ve been thirteen. Isn’t that weird?"

It had seemed like Luo Binghe was sobering up, but she suddenly wobbled on her heels. She was staring intensely at the cigarette in Shen Yuan's hand. "Can you put that out on me?" she slurred.

Shen Yuan's heart rate spiked. Ah! How could she be so oblivious? What kind of helpful jiejie was she if she was blowing smoke in Luo Binghe's direction?! "Oh! I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked if it was okay to smoke near you. I’ll put it out." She quickly ground it out on the wall. Luo Binghe made a pitiful noise of complaint, but that's okay, Shen Yuan had this handled now! No more smoke when Luo Binghe had specifically wanted to get fresh air!

"I know it’s a bad habit," Shen Yuan attempted to make an excuse for herself, her fingers itching with nervous energy. "It gives me something to do with my mouth and hands. I guess I should get a fidget cube or something less bad for me, but…" She trailed off with an awkward laugh.

Luo Binghe's eyes were still wide and slightly wet, fixated on her hands. Poor thing, the smoke must've made her eyes water. She opened her mouth, but she was interrupted by the door to the bar opening with a slam.

"Bing-jie!" A girl burst out of the bar, covered in jangling jewellery and not much in the way of actual clothing. She latched onto Luo Binghe's arm, speaking way too loudly to be sober. "You left your Ling-er all alone in the bar!"

Luo Binghe's expression immediately soured, but based on the way she didn't shove the other girl away, it was clear she knew her. Ah, Shen Yuan realized. This must be the friend who'd ordered the shots. Well, she'd just been planning to keep an eye on Luo Binghe until she sobered up or a friend joined her, and here was the friend. Her company was no longer needed here.

"I should probably get going," Shen Yuan said, giving Luo Binghe a soft smile. She had been scowling at her friend, but when she looked back up at Shen Yuan, her eyes were wide and puppyish again. "Get home safe, okay?"

Luo Binghe nodded, once again reminding her of an earnest student. "I will, Shen-jie."

Shen Yuan waved and left the alleyway. She sighed and pulled out her phone to call a cab. Shang Qinghua could find her own way home. Serves her right.

Still, the night wasn't a complete wash. Even as she made her way home, her thoughts drifted back to Luo Binghe. Did she get home alright? Was she drinking enough water? Would she be too hungover in the morning? A girl that pretty and that drunk could be a real target for unsavory people. Shen Yuan didn't doubt that she could handle herself -- those arms of hers were impressive -- but she couldn't help but worry.

Ah, well. Worrying wouldn't do her any good. It's not like they'd ever see each other again.

She put thoughts of Luo Binghe aside and decided to put her energy towards preparing orientation for her department's incoming graduate students.

[gucciwins]

okay i don’t know if u still talk about this series but i LOVED harry & bels story it was so beautifully written that i stopped writing my dissertation to finish it today!!! how do u they bel & h would be in 2024?? 🫶🏻🫶🏻

sweet angel! thank you so much for reading 💜 hope the dissertation is going well. I loved writing for harry and bel so here is an update for you.

word count: 1,383

love on tour

+

Y/N loved weddings. 

She loved the joy it brought the couple and everyone in their life. She loved seeing pieces of the couple scattered around as she tried her best to piece their story together. Y/N loved the cake, the food, and the open bar, where she loved to drink as many Shirley Temples as she liked until she gave herself a toothache. There was so much love in the air that Y/N always wanted to step back to see how happy everyone was to be there. The dance floor is where Y/N liked to be most of the night dancing from partner to partner. 

The wedding of Naomi Hart and Sarai Barrera is something Y/N had waited ages for after the engagement last year when on vacation in Italy with Y/N and Harry. It was a week-long celebration for her best friends, seeing as Y/N and Harry didn’t see them after the organized engagement party at Harry’s home, where their family gathered. 

While the ceremony today had been beautiful, Y/N could not stop crying. She delivered her speech and said everything correctly with no tear in sight, but after she pronounced them married, Naomi and Sarai shared a beautiful kiss, and the waterworks began. Harry pulled her to the side, squeezing her tight as she let her tears drip down her face, knowing she’d steal a moment to fix her makeup, although she knew it wouldn’t budge. Ailany, her makeup artist and close friend, promised a bucket of water would not move her makeup. 

Y/N was finally done with pictures and ready for a cold beverage. Still, because brides were busy, she was given a list of miscellaneous tasks that Y/N happily passed on to Naomi’s brother, who was excited to have something to do running away from any more photos. Y/N and Harry grabbed photos together. She knew they would be going up around their house in London. Harry had plastered his favorite pictures of them, from one hanging in the kitchen to a few scattered in the hallway next to the art pieces both had acquired through the years. Three were placed on the mantle, and each had their respective picture on the nightstand at the side of their bed. Their love is scattered throughout the house, easily seen by anyone who visits them.

She was running away from the large greenhouse and into the venue before someone could stop her. Y/N would also be keeping an eye out for her boyfriend. She needed a kiss to make it through the next hour. As Y/N turned the corner, she almost bumped into someone, but she quickly stepped away, noting the person had drinks in their hand. The familiar vanilla smell filled the air around her, and Y/N instantly settled. 

Harry. 

She had found Harry. 

“Bel, you alright?” 

Y/N nods, “Need a drink.” 

Harry grins at her, raising one of the glasses in his hand. “Fancy a water?” 

Y/N shoots him a bright smile. “Did you know I love you, Harry Styles? Because I do. So much.” 

His cheeks turn pink, “it doesn’t hurt to hear from time to time, my love.” 

She takes a long drink of water, sighing in relief. They happened to get married on the hottest day in California. Winter was like no other here, but today felt like the start of Spring. Harry slipped his hand into Y/N’s and began to walk with her. Y/N didn’t question where he was taking her. She was happy to steal a moment away with him. 

Y/N leaned her head on his shoulder, the comfort of being with her person enough to soothe her. 

Harry had led them to a dead-end that faced the ocean, the windows long and tall, allowing her to view every inch of the outside. He carefully helped her sit on the bench to smooth her dress. 

“Alright, amor?” 

“Perfect.” 

They settled close to each other, Harry resting his hand on Y/N’s lap as she once again leaned her head on his shoulder. It’s a beautiful day, and Harry can’t help but think that one day, it will be Y/N’s and his turn to marry. They both want it, and he has the perfect ring for when the time is right. 

“Back to filming soon?”

Y/N sighs, “Let’s not, estrella.” 

“You’re going to leave me.” 

Harry knows she loves her job, but after the time they’ve spent at home together, he selfishly wants her to stay with him as he enjoys his break and begins the process for his next album. 

“I love you, Harry. You promised to come with me for a week or so.” 

He had agreed. Of course, he would be going, but there was something special about simply being Harry and Y/N inside the comfort of their home. 

“I will. You have the last of the award season soon.” 

Y/N frowns, “I was invited, but my films are releasing this year since everything was pushed back.”

“But Lily Gladstone, my love.” 

Y/N laughed. “She’s going to win. We’ll send her a bouquet of flowers.” 

“I will be attending the Brits,” Harry reminds her. 

“Will I be your date?”

“If you’re free?” He teases, knowing very well she has this date saved in her schedule.

“Dork.” 

The silence floats around them, and Y/N knows they must head back soon but makes no move to stand up. Instead enjoys the quiet of being with Harry.

“Y/N?” Harry voiced after five minutes. 

“Hmm…”

“What do you picture your future like in a few years?” 

She detects the tremble in his voice and moves her body to face him. Her hands snaked up his suit, and her fingers briefly played with the lace collar before settling on his cheeks. Y/N loves Harry. He’s never afraid to speak his mind, but sometimes he even overwhelms himself. 

“Well,” she starts. “Our future is us living in London. It’s a place we love, and I don’t picture us living elsewhere unless you magically convince me to live in Italy, which I would never oppose. We’ll have two dogs because you promised we’d get one this year,” she reminds him. 

“We’ll make it happen,” he promises. 

“In a few years, I hope we’ll be married. You’ll be touring, and I’ll be your groupie, having quit acting.” 

“Y/N,” he deadpans. 

“Kidding,” Y/N giggles. “I hope to have directed a few films, one I love with a cast and crew who support me every single step of the way. I want to continue to create a safe environment and continue to pave a path for Latinas. But mostly, I hope we’re happy. We continue to encourage our dreams and hold each other’s hand when things get tough. I hope to love you for as long as I breathe. How does that sound?”

Harry’s eyes shine with tears. He gives her a single nod. “It’s perfect. Everything I want.” 

He closes the gap, needing to kiss Y/N. Needing to express that he wants everything she stated. He feels the world pause around them, and he knows at this moment there is no one else in the world who could ever come close to making him feel as loved and cared for as Y/N makes him. Soulmate is a big word, but he knows it’s the one for them deep down. 

Y/N giggles against his lips, “You love me?”

“Te amo,” he responds. 

“I love you.” That is Y/N’s answer. 

Harry pulls her in for another kiss, full of passion and familiarity. So much is being said at the moment, and Y/N knows they won’t ever forget it. 

Y/N loved Harry. She knew he was her person. The person she was meant to spend the rest of her life with knew he felt the same. 

2024 so far had brought them lots of joy, and with Harry’s birthday coming up, she knew it would only get better. Ultimately, Y/N had no idea what 2024 had in store for them, but as long as she kept loving Harry and he loved her, she knew everything would be alright.

[marigold-hills]

june 4: wildfire | @wolfstarmicrofic | word count: 626

PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART • FIRST PART

Remus says: “take me to bed.”

Remus say take me to bed and Sirius remembers a trip to France when he was a child, the summer air during a drought, sharp and heavy and dense enough to blanket him, and then, a week later, watching a wildfire ravage through the forest. This is the spark, Sirius thinks.

He was safe within the Manor’s wards, but the fire was a savage, hungry thing and it ate the horizon. Sirius was a wild child then, and he is wild still, and the desire to go outside and feel the burn on his skin hasn’t changed.

“I’ve finished my dissertation,” he admits, not ready for this golden moment between them to end and coming clean about the little omission is easier than facing new thoughts.

(Remus says that’s amazing, Sirius. He says good job, congratulations.)

“And I… um… tattoo.”

“You got a tattoo?” Remus reads into the jumbled words, frowns, “why didn’t you say? You’ve been going on about it all year.”

Sirius is wearing an oversized Queen T-shirt he likes to sleep in. The hem is loose. Makes it easy to lift up above his torso. Down the middle of his breastbone, exposing more than skin: the sign of the alchemical Great Wolf and below it seven intricate moons, waxing and waning.

“You… you didn’t say that’s what you were getting.”

Remus doesn’t blink, not once. Takes in the ink like reading a book – top to bottom, careful eyes. Reaches out to touch each symbol in turn, one by one, his fingers holding the same reverence Sirius has seen in him when handling ancient texts. They’re keeping his place, marking where he is on the page. For one mad moment Sirius wants the mark to be permanent.

“Why, Sirius?” Remus asks as if Sirius knew the answer. He doesn’t say Pads or Padfoot or “you great big mangy dog” as he does usually, he says Sirius and that’s how they both know it’s important.

And Sirius wants to answer – wants to give the right answer - but he can’t because he doesn’t know. Only knows this: he was there, with the money ready, and the man with the tattoo gun asked what will it be? and out of the window, out of the corner of his eye, Sirius saw the moon and said: this. This is what I want to touch me for the rest of my life, this is what I want to carve into my skin.

And while the ink was being needled into him, it quietened the need he has to bite and keep, to hurt.

And now, Remus’ careful fingers meld it together and satisfy the part of him which wants to be soft and gentle, sweet.

“Sirius?” Remus prods when he doesn’t answer. Splays his hand so that it lays flat across the tattoo, and has Moony always had hands this large? Has the rough edge of his fingers, from years of using a quill, always felt like that?

It must have because this is Moony – their Moony, his Moony - but it couldn’t because Sirius never once has been rendered quiet by a simple touch before. There have been so many over the years, in the Shack, after Quidditch, in the Lake, at nights filled with nightmares. Always the same hands, and yet.

Sirius let’s go of the hem of his shirt and grabs onto the hand on his chest, presses it closer into his skin like he could push it through to touch his heart (it’s beating now, so fast, so, so hard). He wants more and he wants to understand, and he’ll give into both the urges. For as long as Remus will let him.

Remus, eyes wide, lets him.

NOTES:

This is part 4! There will be 30. I suggest reading in order for the full experience but they also should work as standalone.

Don’t do this in the library. If you must, I suppose 2am is a good time.

I’ve changed Sirius’ tattoo from how it was in the movies. Originally the symbol he has on the very top is for amalgamation and here I went with antimony because it signifies the great wolf and I like the idea of that. The symbols are actually very similar looking. If you remember part one, this one goes back to the dissertation he’s writing.

not sure if I should add smut to this. Thoughts?

@moon-girl88 @digital-kam @tealeavesandtrash @sweetstarryskies

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged in next parts)

[draculasfavoritewife]

Idle Hands

Summary: Whenever Tony forgets to go to bed, it's always been up to you to bring him back to your side.

Pairing: Tony Stark x fem!Reader

Warnings: Heavy on the softness compared to most of my other stuff; I was in a very sentimental (read: sad and touch-starved) mood back when I wrote this lol. Tony Stark is a TEASE both in word and deed -- I have said it is canon therefore it is now. The feral way he makes me feel should be illegal. Also you can read the...implications of my vague wordings towards the end as tame or as smutty as you wish ;)

I feel the need to mention here that Tony Stark has been my most favorite comic book character since I was but a mere 11 years old. He holds the distinction of being my longest-running fictional crush/object of my obsessions and I love him so deeply and for so many little reasons that I could write a PhD dissertation on him. So please enjoy my little love letter to the man that has held my heart for nearly a decade and a half <3

It's that point of the night where you really can't decide if it should be counted as ungodly late or ungodly early. 4:00 am does tend to scramble the thoughts.

You've been drifting in and out of an uneasy sleep for what feels like forever, and as you roll away from the digital clock display on the wall with an annoyed sigh, you suddenly see why.

The other side of the bed is utterly untouched.

He hasn't been here with you at all.

You sit up, trying to remember if he had plans tonight. The calendar app on your phone has no record of a gala, awards ceremony, board meeting, or anything else that might have taken up his time.

Which means he's probably down in the lab again.

Briefly, you contemplate trying to call him, but you know from experience that he probably isn't taking calls right now, even if FRIDAY tried to put one through for you. He's in that zone that only designing and building can put him in, the one mindset where his too-busy brain is crystal clear and the world at last makes sense to him.

So you pull yourself out of bed, throw one of his old sweatshirts on over your cami and pajama shorts (he keeps the AC cranked all the way whenever it's warm outside) and pad out of the bedroom and on your way downstairs.

His lab is awe-inspiring as always, no matter how many times you see it. The purring thrum of the generators and the comforting pulse of dimmed lights, the heavy, electric feeling of the air itself -- he's described his workspace to you as having a life of its own before, and you can understand so well why time escapes him down here.

You just hope he's not using it to escape from other things as well.

He's deeply absorbed in his work on something at a station opposite the door, and your heart skips a beat even as you smile fondly at the familiar sight. Clad in sweatpants and a black tank through which you can just barely see the blue glow of his arc reactor, he looks all at once more human than usual and like some being from another world entirely.

It's the Stark curse, he told you once, and you recall the wry slant of his lips as he said so. To know you're a god trapped in a mortal body, an infinite mind with a finite number of years to use it. It's the reason behind all his greatest triumphs -- and all his harshest falls from grace.

And somehow, you were lucky enough to be the one he fell in love with.

It still feels like a dream sometimes.

Realizing he isn't going to look up on his own anytime soon, you stifle a yawn and knock sharply on the doorframe.

"Tony?"

He stiffens as if he's been shocked (always a possibility, when he's rewiring) and shoves the safety glasses high up on his forehead. "That would be yours truly. Everything alright?"

With a laugh, you cross the room, warmth rising in your chest as he immediately sets down his tools and steps out from behind the table to meet you. And damn, he always looks good -- he is Tony Stark, after all -- but there's always something about him when his hair gets all unruly and he has THAT look of intense concentration on his face that really drives home to you all over again just how gorgeous he is.

You cuddle up to him, and he kisses the top of your head.

"Asked you a question, Honey."

"Do you know what time it is, Tony?"

There's a prolonged moment of answering silence as he glances up at one of his nearby monitors. "Crap. Well, why are you up?"

Pulling back slightly so you can tease the protective eyewear off his head, you give him a look. "Can't sleep."

An eyebrow tilts; he's playing dumb.

"And that's my problem why?"

"Jerk." You take your time playing with his glossy dark hair, neatening it back up before raking your fingers through it to mess it up again. "Maybe because you love me...?"

"Oh, so you're down here looking for sympathy, got it." He smirks at you, a well-practiced and infuriatingly handsome look. "In that case, sorry about your insomnia, Beautiful. There's melatonin in the drug cabinet upstairs." He snares the safety glasses from your fingers once more and makes as if to return to his work. "Sympathetic enough for you?"

You wrap your arms around his waist from behind, stopping him from going any further, though the smug son of a bitch starts tinkering with his new designs again even through your persistent clinging. It mesmerizes you for a couple seconds, always has, the way his hands work with such delicate precision and dexterity, and you can't help selfishly wishing he would turn them towards other, less...mechanical endeavors at this moment.

He probably would, in all honesty, but Tony Stark is the king of making you work for it. Philanthropic he may be, but some things even you have to earn from him when he's feeling particularly devilish.

"I don't want your pity," you hum, pressing a sleepy kiss to his shoulder. "I was lonely without you."

"Perfectly understandable. I've been told by many that I'm scintillating company. You can, by all means, stay and watch me work, you know. Feeds my humble ego."

You roll your eyes and impatiently reach up under his shirt, feeling his muscles tense at the unexpected coldness of your hands.

That finally gets his attention and makes him turn around. Before you can even fully comprehend it, he's swept his work out of the way and lifted you up onto the worktable instead, restless fingers drawing intricate patterns on your inner thighs, though his eyes never leave yours, crystalline blue pinning your attention to his amused face instead of his very distracting hands.

"That," he grins, "was adorable. Sleepy version of you is so much more demanding. Maybe I should stay down here too long more often."

You try to frown at him, though his sparkling gaze and mischievous touch make that impossible. "How dare you."

"I do a lot of dumb things to see where they get me. You know that." He nods at the thick gray sweatshirt still keeping you warm. "Why don't you take that off for me, Sweetness. You make me cold, I get to return the favor."

Unable to come up with something snarky to say in return with the way his hands are making you shiver now, you do as he suggests with little resistance, the exposed skin of your arms and chest prickling at the much cooler air.

He leans in to tenderly kiss your neck, and your breath leaves in a sigh at the way his facial hair scratches at your throat. He's always been a helluva kisser and the meticulously maintained goatee is just the icing on the cake. Making out on his worktable was not the original plan when you first came down here, but even by his own admission Tony's best plans are usually improvised.

And you're certainly not complaining.

"What did you want from me again?" he murmurs, close to your ear.

The absolute audacity of him.

"Mmmmmmm," seems to be about all you can manage at the moment, and you know very well what's coming next.

He pulls you closer to him, the movements of his fingers turning agonizingly slow and prompting a slight gasp from you.

The smile that gradually spreads its way across his mouth is absolutely wicked.

"What was that, Sweetheart? I didn't quite catch it."

You try to reclaim some semblance of coherence, but his firm hold on you prevents you from escaping his delightfully systematic torture, so instead you grab on to his well-defined shoulders, your forehead resting against his chest. The mechanically-stabilized beat of his heart echoing beneath his skin a brief reminder that he's alive, despite everything he's been through, and he is yours. There's no one else on his mind, no one else he's let this far into his messy and often painful world.

The world may know him as Iron Man, the one who has saved them more times than they could ever count, but how many people really know the Tony that you know?

That same Tony who now raises one hand to tip your head back, whose sharp eyes soften with affection for the slightest of seconds before the anticipated words fall from his tongue, the words he knows will always unravel you.

"You just have to tell me what you want. Come on, Princess. Use your words."

You shudder and lean in to beg for another kiss.

"You, Tony. Always you. Please."

He kisses you back with renewed intensity, leaving you completely breathless.

"There we go...was that so hard?"

[cosmichorrorlesbians]

what's your dissertation about? you mentioned it in the siltcord and i'm really interested

oh my god hey I'm so happy you're interested! broad strokes because I've only been working on it for a few weeks but: the current theme is 'resistant landscapes' (both man-made and natural) in the later writing of Shirley Jackson!

Essentially, my main thread is that Jackson had two parallel strands to her work, which as far as I can tell began kind of interrelated but then diverged quite significantly? She's probably best known now for The Haunting of Hill House and to a lesser extent We Have Always Lived In The Castle, which are these. weird surreal psychological horror novels, engaging explicitly or implicitly with the supernatural, and centred around introspective, strange and sometimes deeply misanthropic female characters from isolated social units with dysfunctional, possessive relationships to each other.

Aaaaand then on the other hand she was known for being a 'happy housewife' who wrote these whimsical, quasi-autobiographical stories about all her children and how hopeless her husband was. These were popular too. Betty Friedan called her out in landmark 1963 feminist manifesto The Feminine Mystique for essentially spreading patriarchal propaganda.

The interrelation between the two is really jarring, because in one family is a source of horror and tragedy and in the other it's a source of, like... laundry. And Jackson's home life wasn't everything those stories made it out to be-- her marriage was unfaithful, her mother could probably be fairly called emotionally abusive, and as I talked about on the siltcord, she developed severe agoraphobia which often left her housebound.

So, yeah. My plan is to explore the depiction of families as constructed social units in dialogue with the environments they are constructed in in that work. Obviously a lot of that is relation of house to family, in the context of which Hill House is especially rewarding to consider, but I also want to look at relationships with nature and urban environments (especially in the context of settler colonialism and how that has had an enduring legacy in Jackson's particular part of New England), xenophobia (largely in regard to class, though racism and anti-Semitism are presences in her writing), domesticity and the idea of the housewife, and how horror relates to All Of This. The ideal of making a home within a hostile environment and of that environment turning on you, essentially.

I don't yet have particular areas of focus within that broad umbrella, but I might update with bits and pieces about it as I work? I don't really talk about academic stuff on here but I am very much Critical Literary Analysis Guy and I do also post relentlessly about haunted houses as a concept so if people would be interested in it maybe I will

anyway if you've read this far I recommend Horror in Architecture: The Reanimated Edition (2024) by Joshua Comaroff and Ong Ker-Shing which is a book about how horror movie tropes can be mirrored in built environments! I'm reading it right now and it's conceptually fascinating plus fairlyyy comprehensible by academic standards (if a little dense) if you, like me, are a Fool who knows nothing of architecture. very good also for getting to look at pictures of some of the most Fucked Up Buildings (affectionate) you've ever seen.

[dolliedarlin]

THE PA | SIX ⏤BAKUSQUAD POLY

SUM. : its paradise finally finding and spending time with your soulmates, you want to treasure your precious time together for as long as possible

PAIR. : bakusquad poly x personal assistant reader

LENGTH : 5.6k

G. : fluff ; soulmate au ; poly au ; prohero au ; timeskip au ; time spent together is precious

WARNING : sexual tension ; kissing ; suggestive ; a fat slice of cuteness 

A/N : i’m so sorry for the extended wait my loves, thank you all so much for waiting so patiently for this update. a lot of things happened this past year. There are many reasons but I don’t have the time to explain, all I can say is that I’m so so grateful for all of your patience and I hope to make up for it by writing every day now that it’s the holidays and I have the time to write something other than my thesis/dissertation. 

PREV.

“Um…Bakugou-san?” you whisper hesitantly, resisting the urge to fidget about, considering the position you were currently in.

“Hmmm?” the blonde gruffly hums from behind you. Still too skittish to answer, Bakugou takes advantage of your silence to shift his attention away from paperwork and wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you closer and nuzzling his face into your neck, “What is it?” he whispers back after revelling in your alluring scent, beaconing him to keep you trapped for longer in his lap. 

“I have a lot of work to do too,” you wail with a whine, face and neck overheating from his touch. The close contact and affectionate skinship is something you still have to get used to and you’ve begged all of your soulmates to give you time to get accustomed to it. They try their best to honour your wishes but also admit that they will always have their moments of weakness, even Bakugou. If it has anything to do with you, they will always have a weakness.

“Just a few more minutes,” Bakugou presses his words into the exposed column of your neck as he further buries his face into your skin. His large hands roam the rest of your body but one eventually finds its place clutching the curve of your waist as the other rests against your shapely thigh. You’re flustered to say the least but understand that it’s only natural for your soulmates to get this needy as you have a terrible habit of pulling away from their amorous advances, no matter how demure. It could be a simple brush of hands but you still panic from it. You feel horrible for being so timid but the others have assured you that they find your shyness to be very endearing.   

You’re always holding up such a sophisticated and elegant appearance as his personal assistant; your eyes focused, your frame confident and your tongue polite and professional with a touch of dignified zest, befitting a woman of your occupation and standing. You have the job because you are capable, punctual, reliable and hard working - you do your assigned tasks exceptionally well. But to see you reduced to shy glances, an acquiescent frame and clement articulations has the proud hero on his knees and ready to service you in every which way. It’s what you deserve, after all, as his beautiful, beautiful soulmate. 

You’re always holding up such a sophisticated and elegant appearance as his personal assistant; your eyes focused, your frame confident and your tongue polite and professional with a touch of dignified zest, befitting a woman of your occupation and standing. You have the job because you are capable, punctual, reliable and hard working - you do your assigned tasks exceptionally well. But to see you reduced to shy glances, an acquiescent frame and clement articulations has the proud hero on his knees and ready to service you in every which way. It’s what you deserve, after all, as his beautiful, beautiful soulmate. 

You’re always holding up such a sophisticated and elegant appearance as his personal assistant; your eyes focused, your frame confident and your tongue polite and professional with a touch of dignified zest, befitting a woman of your occupation and standing. You have the job because you are capable, punctual, reliable and hard working - you do your assigned tasks exceptionally well. But to see you reduced to shy glances, an acquiescent frame and clement articulations has the proud hero on his knees and ready to service you in every which way. It’s what you deserve, after all, as his beautiful, beautiful soulmate. 

Bakugou almost laughs at himself for being such a hypocrite; he’s always the first to berate his other soulmates for smothering you with affection and using you as a distraction from work. And yet…here he is, distracting you and himself during the work day. Defeated, Bakugou finally lets his head fall back and breathes out a chuckle indicative of his trounce. 

“Alright, you can go…” smiling up at him in thanks, you move to get off his lap but are stopped by the slight squeeze of his hands, “but first, gimme those lips,” he doesn’t give you a moment to respond before he’s confining your lips to a passion-filled kiss. It wasn’t just one kiss he took from you, he took several, growing hungrier and hungrier after each one until he finally let you go with a proud grin. You hurry to the door and wish him well on his own workload, too embarrassed to meet his gaze as you close the door behind you. 

If you had even an ounce of courage to catch a glance of him before exiting his office, you would’ve seen him licking his lips and wiping your smudged lipstick from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. A satisfied smirk contours the line of his lips as he examines the pretty colour on his thumb and kisses it with a hum of fulfilment. 

You always taste so sweet… 

He’s typically not a fan of sugar but the sugar on your lips is something he’ll always hunger for. 

Making it out of Bakugou’s office, you immediately pull out your pocket mirror and check your appearance. Smudged lipstick. You click your tongue but smile and go about reapplying your favourite colour when you make it back to your desk. Your hair needs fixing too and new ruffles on your work dress needs flattening but it’s easily manageable. Looking around, you’re safe from any prying eyes and sigh in relief before continuing to go about finally doing your work. 

You love your soulmates dearly and wish you could reciprocate their advances with just as much vigour but you care for their careers and public image too much; they’ve worked so hard to get this far, you can’t let them throw all that away just for you. 

At least nobody but you, Bakguou and a small handful of upper management individuals and Proheros actually enter the top floor of the Dynamight Agency so you’re pretty safe from any prying eyes or loose gossip. As long as you maintain your clean and professional appearance in front of your colleagues, you and Bakugou will be free of any scandalous rumours. 

Since uncovering your bond with the other five proheroes, you’ve since then successfully moved into their shared modern, luxury estate. It appears that there are gated clusters of high-end properties scattered strategically across Tokyo, where only the top Proheroes reside, so that, when called to emergencies, they are able to arrive at locations in their allocated radius at a reasonable time. 

It’s early morning and you’re freshly out of the shower after having finished your morning exercise at the home gym, when you smell something delicious in the air. 

You had already combed hair oils through your damp hair, did your skincare and pulled on your undergarments in the spacious bathroom; you were ready to return to your room so as to get dressed but your rumbling tummy couldn’t resist the enticing seduction of aromatic food in the air. 

Tightly tucking your bath towel snug around your figure, you cautiously make your way to the downstairs kitchen, trying to figure out who would be in there so early in the morning. Usually, the only other person awake right now is Bakugou as he likes taking his morning run in the crisp cool air of daybreak. Other than him, you find it hard to place who could be cooking up breakfast so early in the morning. 

It wouldn’t be long before you finally find out who the culprit is, however, and you couldn’t be happier to make the discovery as it came with a great view. Standing at the stove stood Kirishima, shirtless and with a simple apron on, his chequered pyjama bottoms loosely clinging onto his frame from the sharp lines of muscle carving out his brawny waist and hips.     

“Good morning, (Y/N)!” Kirishima greets with his back still turned, shocking you but it’s to be expected. His trained senses must have traced your figure from the top of the stairs all the way to the kitchen door. 

“How did you know it was me?” you ask, tilting your head and leaning against the door frame, amused by his jovial attitude. Just seeing him (or any one of your soulmates) makes you happy. 

Kirishima shrugs his shoulders, “the sound of your footsteps are different to the others,” his answer made your brows raise in surprise. Was he really that acutely tuned into you and the others’ gaits? 

“What are the differences?” you ask out of pure curiosity as you watch him step away from the stove and plate the delicious breakfast he cooked up for everyone. 

“Yours are the softest and most steadily paced. Sero’s are almost silent and are the slowest but most consistently paced, Bakugou’s steps are relatively quick and stomp-y, like he’s always trying to get somewhere quickly,” both of you chuckle at his carefully used descriptor for your typically hot-headed soulmate. Kirishima is now reaching into the cupboards to lay out everyone’s favourite drinks with their favourite glasses or mugs, “Mina’s steps usually kinda follows a tune or rhythm and Denki tends to be the most ‘messy’ but fun,” he puts into air quotes as he approaches you and pulls you close by the waist. You place your hands around his neck as you tilt your head up to peer at him with questioning eyes, “his pace ranges from slow to fast and wide to short strides,” you both smile at each other and he leans in to press his forehead against yours, “now…it’s breakfast time~” he chimes and pulls back with a grin. 

You giggle and nod, completely forgetting your state of dress, the morning fuzziness clouding your usually alert state, “right, thank you Ei~” you sing happily, stomach already craving for a bite of the filling breakfast laid out across the table. 

“No; thank you~“ Kirishima matches your tune-filled voice but his statement brings a question to the tip of your tongue.

“What do you mea-? Ah!” you squeal when the red head playfully bites your exposed shoulder. 

“You’re so cute, babe,” he whispers and kisses your skin, an apology for the reddening bite he marked into it. 

“Ow! Stop it!” you laugh and try to push him away.

“No can do, I gotta bite you for being so cute and sexy,” 

“What did I do?~” you whine. This makes Kirishima pull away with a raised brow, giving you an up and down look before prompting you to look down at yourself. 

“Oh!” he hums in satisfaction from your flustered stance when you quickly realise how severely underdressed you are. Granted you have your underwear on but you were still in just your towel.  

“I know you don’t mean to but,” Kirishima whistles softly, winking at you after he makes a show of looking you up and down again, “you look so…tempting right now,”

Feeling uncharacteristically courageous, you flirt with your eyes and smile innocently, “maybe that’s what I want to do…” 

Not a second passes before you’re swept up into your soulmate’s muscular arms and placed to sit on the kitchen counter. Kirishima already has your lips in a heated dance with his own as his hands hold you close at the waist. Your own hands make their way into his soft hair, untamed by his usual gel. At some point, your towel comes off and Kirishima throws away his apron. Although it starts off heated, your passionate lip-lock tango with the red-head slows to prolonged kisses, as soft as moonlight and as relaxed as the lazy summer breeze. The main focus shifted in that same change of pace. Instead, the two of you focused on each other’s skin, enjoying the warmth and touch of the other. It felt nice to feel the skin of your thighs around his naked waist as well as feeling your exposed back with his rough hands. It made you sigh contentedly into his mouth as he smiled against your connected lips. 

At last, the two of you part for air but stay pressed against one another with your foreheads touching and your eyes staring deeply into each other’s loving gaze. 

“You’re so soft…” Kirishima compliments in a hush, so that only you could hear him - not that there was anybody else around to eavesdrop on you. It’s one of the main reasons why he loves touching you so much. He loves how your skin seems to always welcome his touch with a softness unique to you. His other soulmates have their own individual feel but yours is a delicate velvet that the roughed-up hero always appreciates - similar to Mina but still exclusive to you. 

“And you’re all scarred up…” you return, eyes somehow frowning at him.

“I’m not a rough person,” as if to demonstrate he gives you another feather-soft kiss. 

You giggle, still speaking in whispers, “I know…but it’s sexy,” he grins widely and pulls away to laugh aloud. 

“You really need to stop that, babe, you always make it so hard for me to be gentle with you,” an embarrassing heat rises to your cheeks as you look away bashfully. He moves back, leaving you sitting atop the kitchen counter and returns shortly after to pull his giant shirt over your figure, swamping you in the fabric. Once dressed in his shirt, Kirishima brings you down from your perch and chuckles at your appearance. He loves seeing you in his clothes so much; it makes you look so much more lovable than you already are.

“I’m sorry,” you don’t really mean the apology from the cheeky smile on your face but Kirishima accepts it, he doesn’t really want you to stop either. 

“Should we wake the others-?”

RING! RING! RING!

A blaring alarm cuts through the once calm atmosphere and prompts Kirishima to check the hero device he and the rest of your prohero soulmates always keep on their person. 

 “What is it, Kiri?” you ask, worry in your eyes as the red-head quickly goes about getting dressed into his hero suit. 

“There’s an emergency nearby so I’m heading out,” fully-dressed, Kirishima grabs a quick bite of breakfast before heading to the front door with you following close behind, “don’t worry, beautiful,” he reassures you with a smile after putting on his shoes. 

“I know you’re strong but please be careful,” he thanks you for your concern and pulls you into a final kiss before he’s rushing off. 

“I’ll be home soon!” He calls back as you wave him goodbye from the open doorway, attempting a brave smile with concern swimming in your hollowed-out chest. Within the house, there’s a flurry of movement as the others abruptly rise from their sleep and rush to put on their own hero suits - they probably rose to the alarm too. Even though more of them were soon going to be joining Kirishima, you felt more assured then when you saw him rushing off to the scene alone. If they work together then they’ll be able to stay safe.

You know they’ll get home safely.  

A rustling from the shrubbery nearby catches your attention and you freeze in place. This is a gated private community, the likelihood that someone could sneak in would be very low on the scale. Approaching the uniform, decorative flora in your outdoor slippers and Kiri’s shirt, you peak over and spot nothing. Relief washes over your head. The paranoia over potentially getting caught by paparazzi and aggressive media personnel was slowly getting to you and it’s anxiety inducing; you can’t even happily spend time with your newly discovered soulmates. 

You shake any remaining negative emotions out of your frame and re-enter the house, ready to wish the rest of your soulmates goodbye as they ready themselves to join Kirishima for a villain attack. 

It’s a surprise how you could have ever survived so long without having Mina as your selfcare partner. You already took good care of your skin and hair before but, with Mina, the routine became so much more fun and entertaining, especially when she was able to rope in the others to join you. She could be very convincing. 

Denki was the one who actively sought you two out to do some selfcare together; Kiri and Sero were up for doing anything with you two, trusting in your knowledge of the topic and love of them to be well taken care of. But it was Bakugou who put up some resistance. He always eventually succumbed to your demands, however, grumbling here and there under his breath but you could see that he enjoyed being pampered, especially when it was by you and Mina. You two are their favourite girls after all. Soon enough, you’re sure he will be the one to seek you two out for the weekly routine pampering session, he was a man all about routine, after all.

One of the main things you liked to look forward to about this whole routine was the shopping aspect. It was always fun to pile skin care and self care products up in your individual baskets, hoping to share your findings with one another when you met up at the check-out counter. 

This time, Mina had been very excited to shop together with you all in search of a new clay mask she had been anticipating the release of from one of her favourite skincare brands. The two of you planned an entire night based around that clay mask and Mina made sure she was off patrol duty so that she could experience it with you. Sero was kind enough to take on her shift so that you two could spend quality time together, to which you both rewarded him with plenty of kisses and cuddles. 

“If either of you want another pamper night but it falls on Mina’s shift, always tell me first and I’ll happily switch shifts,” Sero voiced out, his face littered with lipstick kisses and a dopey smile stretched out across his lips.

One problem was that the search for that particular clay mask took longer than expected. It appeared as though everyone had been out to purchase it too so splitting up to cover more ground in the store was definitely a good idea. The two of you managed to meet up at the spot the clay mask was being sold and swiped up two tubs of it with an enthusiastic cheer. 

“Let’s hurry and pay so we can start our selfcare date night early today,” Mina whispered in happiness beside you as you nodded along. You displayed a smile despite the ominous feeling you felt following you about the store. It was your paranoia acting up again; you hate to say it but you easily complied with it by keeping a modest distance from the pinkette who had been trying to link arms with you on the way to the cash register, “what’s wrong, (Y/N)?”

“Oh nothing…” you hesitated but let her have her way in standing close to you. It’s just your paranoia, you don’t want it taking over fully and tarnishing your relationship even though it came from a good place. 

Night soon fell and after seeing off Sero, you and Mina moved to her room, where she played her self care playlist through her portable speaker, laid out some yummy snacks to share along with all the self care necessities the two of you would soon be spoiling yourselves in. The first order of business was a shower. You took it together and helped each other with your hair, giggling at the bubbles the shampoo made, talked through your favourite body scrub, helped give one another shoulder massages when helping to lather up the body wash and squealed in unison from the final burst of ice-cold water to tighten up your hair follicles. 

“That took longer than expected,” you laughed, catching sight of the clock on the wall. It had been about an hour or so since you and Mina entered the shower together. 

“Yeah but it was worth it, that was such a fun but relaxing shower,” Mina sighs in content as she stretches out in her bathrobe on the bed. The shoulder massage you gave her did magic to her usually tense back muscles, she’ll be sure to brag about this to her other soulmates in the hopes that she’ll be able to playfully induce some jealousy whilst simultaneously praising more of your hidden skills and talents.

“Yeah~” you reciprocate her sigh of content, “as much as I love the boys, I love our girl time too,” the two of you hummed in agreement and stayed sprawled out on the bed with a towel under your wet hair for several more minutes before eventually agreeing to continue your self care session. 

While your hair was still wet, you treated your scalp and hair-ends with hair oils, using a scalp massager on each other when doing so. After that came the much anticipated clay mask. 

“We have to be careful with clay masks,” Mina warns as she applies the mask onto your face as you close your eyes, she was using the small spatula provided and secretly admired the sweet features of your face while doing so. This was a good idea. The pinkette loves seeing you relaxed and happy rather than stressed and serious, though a pair of furrowed brows, a firm gaze and your elegant silhouette did have a big, flustering effect on her. 

“Why is that?”

“We can’t move our faces once it begins to dry because then it’ll crack,” 

“Oh yeah…” she giggles at your realisation, how could you have forgotten that? Nevertheless, it was eventually your turn to apply the mask on her. 

“Mmmm~ you have a really gentle touch, (Y/N),” Mina praises, her voice lazy from the peacefulness and happy from your company. You wanted to reply but your mask was already setting in and you didn’t want to ruin Mina’s work in applying an even coat for you so you settled with humming in return. 

When Mina’s mask was done, the two of you resorted to communicating through writing. You both danced to songs with straight faces and helped give each other cute pedicures while waiting for the timer you set up. It was really hard to keep from laughing when you danced to songs, staring at each other with straight faces. You were doing a pretty good job until Mina turned to the side, faced you and started to twerk with the most deadpan face you had ever seen on her. 

Naturally, you had a laughing fit, cracking up your dried mask and soon had the pinkette cracking up her mask too when your laughter became too contagious. 

“Oh my god! Your face! Your Face!” you wheezed.

“No! Look at your face! HAHAHAHA!” the two of you laughed your butts off until you heard the boys walk into the house from downstairs. You wanted to go and greet them but Mina shook her head and pulled you close, “you wanna do something fun?”

How could you say no? 

Now you’re waiting at either side of the door and waiting for one of your four potential victims to pass through and scare the living daylights out of. You were hoping it would be Denki first but from the heavy footsteps and light cordial whistling, you could tell that it was going to be Kirishima…

And, soon enough, the red-head walked into view as you and Mina shared a mischievous look, anticipating his surprise. Just as the red-head was a step or two away, you both jumped out and pulled funny faces to accompany your cracked up face masks. 

“Woah!” Kirishima jumped and clutched at his heart but laughed it off like the good sport he is, “You two really scared me there! Haha! Looking cute~” he gives you both a kiss and walks off but not before giving you both a light slap on the butt, “Good luck with the other three~”

Denki was the one that came next and he had the most exaggerated expression; screaming like a little girl. It sets you and Mina off into hysterics as you high-five with the pride of achieving such a funny response. Of course, the blonde didn’t like this or, at least, pretended like he didn’t because his revenge only came in the form of tickles. He too wished you and Mina good luck with the others. 

“Next time you two decide to do masks, don’t forget to invite me to join in too!” The electric hero pouts cutely while you and Mina give him kisses of apology before promising to include him in your next face mask session. 

Sero didn’t get scared like you hoped. Instead, he grins toothily at you both and leans down to meet your eyes since he’s so tall and gives you both a soft kiss on the lips. 

“Nice try cuties,” he chuckles at your adorable pouty faces, having to hold himself back from cooing at you, “if only Denki didn’t come before me and squeal like a little girl,” the three of you laughed loudly before shushing up in anticipation for the final victim as Sero walks off as well. 

When the time finally came, Bakugou flinched and Mina didn't miss the opportunity to tease him for it. Naturally, the spiky blonde’s hot-headedness makes him angry and he scoops you and Mina up in both arms before stomping off into the bathroom. 

“Wash that stupid mask off already! It’ll dry out your skin!” 

So he has been listening to your ramblings about self-care…

Sero has developed the most romantic pastime and, at your shy request, he also takes the time to teach you what he’s been able to learn on his own. 

Sat in between his long, outstretched legs, Sero guides you through a melodic arrangement of chords on his acoustic guitar. He is patient and his large hands guide your unpracticed fingers through the movement with a kind warmth. In his dark eyes, there is a soft tenderness reserved only for you in appreciation for your interest in his hobby and the genuine effort you put into doing your best. 

It’s already been a few weeks and you’re already a handful of sessions in with him. The start was rough and full of giggles but now you were already able to successfully play a sweet little tune with minimal help from the tape-hero. 

Time spent together like this always sets such a comfortable atmosphere that will only be remembered with fondness, at least, it does for Sero. For you, a perfectionist at heart, remain unsatisfied with your nominal progress. 

“It’s okay, pretty, no need to push yourself. You have the prettiest little hands so don’t stress too much over being unable to reach the tough chords right away, you’ll adapt over time,” in an attempt to comfort you, he presses a languid kiss to your temple from behind.

“My hands aren’t small!” you stretch out your hands and wiggle your fingers in a feeble attempt to demonstrate your statement. 

“Well…” Sero stretches out his own hands to compare his against yours and smirks at the defeated groan you give. 

“Your hands aren’t a fair comparison because yours are just abnormally big!”

“And yours are abnormally small…” he teases and tightly wraps his arms around you in order to tame your small tantrum of protest. You’re too cute sometimes, “It’s not a bad thing, Bonita,”

“You make it sound like a bad thing…”

“These pretty hands have done a lot of things. Amazing, incredibly things and now they’re attempting to learn a passion of mine, something they aren’t obligated to do, which, in my opinion…” he holds your hands in his and brings them to his lips, whispering into the skin covering your knuckles, “makes it the most amazing thing they’ve ever done thus far,”

In the silence, Sero presses another kiss against your temple and realises the sudden new heat of your skin. It’s a clear indication of your newly flustered state and makes the signature toothy grin splay out over his lips; you really are the cutest. 

“You’re too much sometimes, Hanta,”

“Listen…” he whispers into the skin of your shoulder after already having pulled down your shirt collar for better access, “if you want, you can have free access to my guitar whenever you’re free,” he promises, “even if I’m not around, you can practise as much as you want. You have my express permission,” he kisses your shoulder once more, “surprise me, Bonita,”

Every chance you were able to practise without Sero, you took the opportunity with determination underpinned by your deep desire to surprise him with your solitary progress. 

A week or two passes and you’re finally able to repeat the tune that Sero often strums effortlessly on the guitar and you rush to demonstrate your success to him as he is relaxing in a hammock within the garden between two trees.

“Sero! Sero! Look at what I can do!” You call out, giddy with excitement and his guitar in your arms. Stopping before his hammock, you wait for him to sit up with a lazy smile and focus his full attention onto you. You then begin to play with a look of full concentration on your face and triumphantly serenade him with the same romantic tune he’s been subtly serenading you with during each of your guitar sessions. 

Once you strum the last tune, he showers you in applause and whistles in glee at your achievement. 

“That was amazing! You did so well, come here, Bonita,” he opens his arms for you whilst still in the hammock. With a squeal of happiness, you join him and cuddle up in his arms, the guitar leaning against one of the trees you were nestled between, “I’m so proud of you,” he praises as you kick your legs in happiness, “you’re so cute when you get all giddy like this,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your head and his voice lowers dangerously, “it makes me want to do unspeakable things to you” he laughs as you squeal from the shock and embarrassment his confession brings you, “but, I did make a promise and I’m following strict instructions from Katsuki to be gentle with you. For now, it’s going to have to wait - until then…” Sero lifts your chin up to look deeply into your beautiful eyes and playfully pouts at you, “try to stop being so unintentionally seductive,” he tucks your face into his collar as holds you in an affectionate embrace. A calm wind rocks your cuddled up figures within the hammock and your heart beats in momentary happiness.

You don’t want to admit it but you feel the ominous feeling of being watched once again and quickly make an excuse to return to the house. The excuse you come up with has you mentioning something about remembering the forecast for rain later so Sero gets up soon after you and puts his hammock away whilst taking a mental note of your unusual behaviour to potentially discuss with the others later on. 

“How is this possible?!” Denki gapes in astonishment from beside you, his hands clutching at his hair as you smile triumphantly. The blonde has taken you out to his favourite arcade, a secluded treasure tucked away in a quiet alley within the city. He’s a regular who manages to fail at winning any plushies at all the claw machines and yet, here you were winning him a pikachu plushie on your first try. 

“Here you go, Denki,” you chirp happily, handing over the Pikachu toy. It suits him so well, he deserves to have it and you’re happy to have made the effort to win it for him.

“How did you do that?” The electric hero almost begs on his knees for some sort of guidance. There’s no way you could have defeated the undefeatable claw machine without having some sort of secret technique or past experiences. He always loses all his tokens trying to win plushies and you make it look so easy. He wants to get you a cute plushie too!

“Haha! I don’t know,” you shrug with a bright smile, “I just know that I wanted to give you that Pikachu toy,” at your answer, Denki forgets all about his jealousy and allows his awe of you to skyrocket. You’re so cute. So very cute!

“Eeep!” you squealed from being swept up in his arms. With your hands on his shoulders, you look down at him as he adoringly stares up at you. There are countless butterflies in your stomach that you try to suppress but it’s no use when you catch sight of his devoted, lovestruck expression. 

“You’re too good for me,” 

Seeing as the arcade was mostly deserted, you dared to lean down and press a kiss against his awaiting, pink lips, “I could say the same about you,” Denki grins widely at your comment and locks your lips into another kiss. 

You offer to win him another plushie but he insists on winning you one himself so as to even the odds. Unfortunately, despite his determination, he ends up losing all his tokens and you were left comforting him on his loses. He was really cute about it though. There was a fire in his eyes that sealed his determination into a pointed focus aimed solely at the claw and the buttons of the machine. It was admirable and his actions alone were worth all the plushies on display put together and more. 

“Thank you Denki,” 

“For what?” your soulmate deflates and melts into his seat, strawberry slushie cradled in his hands for comfort, “I didn’t win you a plushie even though I used up all of my tokens,”

“You put up a good fight and that was what mattered,” you pressed a soft kiss against his cheek, prompting a bright blush to flourish over his expression. 

“I still want to win you a plushie though…” he mumbles under his breath, pouting like a defeated and grumpy child, making him even cuter in your eyes. 

“Maybe next time…”

The sinister feeling prodding your senses around every public interaction with your soulmates is just your paranoia. For the most part, you’ve been as careful as possible to keep the intimate interactions private. You need to keep your soulmate's reputation and public image in mind, afterall. They take such good care of you that you should do the same but in your own way. Having multiple soulmates is incredibly taboo and you don’t want to ruin your new found happiness. All you want is to treasure this bliss forever. 

NEXT ; BNHA MLIST

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