#and I'm fairly certain I did something to my hand so

[untimelybones]

It's been 5 million years but I'm back with some low quality doodles (also draft for updated chimera toshiro??)

dont u love when your image gets compressed into 1 pixel

[pathologicalreid]

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGeTkmpNy/ SPENCER MF REID 🙏🙏 can I pretty please request a one shot based on that video ITS SO CUTE

dewey decimal system | S.R.

in which spencer does the most spencer activity first thing in the morning - reorganizing your bookshelves

(tiktok link)

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: i'm fairly certain there aren't any word count: 619 a/n: the beauty of this being my account is that, even though my requests are closed, i was able to exercise free will and write it anyway. because reorganizing your bookshelves unprompted is so something spencer would do.

The other side of the bed was cold when you woke up. Your desire to roll over into Spencer’s arms before getting ready for the day squashed by his absence. Aimlessly patting your bedside table for your phone, you checked your notifications.

You hadn’t received a text, there was no note left on his pillow.

Sitting up in bed, you frowned before climbing out of bed. Cringing at the cold laminate under your feet, you hugged your arms around yourself and mourned the feeling of your comforter over your skin.

To your surprise, Spencer was wide awake, standing in front of your bookshelf like he was an opponent ready to strike. Padding across the living room, you approached him from behind and wrapped your arms around his waist, depending heavily on his body heat to give you the courage not to run back to bed.

“Good morning love,” he murmured, voice gruff from lack of use. With a morning slowness, he skimmed his palms along your arms, swaying gently to the soft sounds of dawn. “Are you alright?” He asked you when you didn’t respond, too caught up in the feeling of him to speak.

Pressing your cheek to the fabric of his plain white t-shirt, you sighed, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of him, the scent of your laundry detergent on his clothes.

“What’s wrong, angel?” He whispered, softly squeezing your arms before turning himself around while trapped in your arms.

You didn’t let up, forcing him to twist himself within the circumference of your limbs just to see your face. The maneuver was so notably ungraceful that you couldn’t hold back your smile, “Nothing’s wrong,” you mumbled, now pressing your cheek to his chest while he tenderly cupped your head. “What are you doing up?”

Spencer dropped a kiss to the crown of your head, keeping his arms casually slung around you while he nodded at your bookshelves, “I was reorganizing your bookshelves.”

Furrowing your brows, you looked at your previously unruly shelves. They had now been adroitly redone, no longer having books stacked horizontally and being put off for another day, “What do you mean you were reorganizing my bookshelves?”

“Well, initially I had planned on using the Dewey decimal system, which is how my books are organized at home, but you had such an uneven ratio of each category that I ended up doing it alphabetically,” he explained to you, lazily using a hand to gesture to your collection.

Catching a glimpse of the titles, you asked, “By title?”

He shook his head, “Author’s last name,” he responded as if it should’ve been obvious to you. Spencer’s arms tightened around you as he craned his head to nestle his face in the crook of your neck, “Did you sleep well?”

You hummed contentedly at the proximity you had to him, “Right up until I woke up and you weren’t there.”

“I was reorganizing your books,” he emphasized, reminding you what he had spent his morning doing.

Nodding, you shut your eyes, savoring the feeling of his fingers as they now skated their way along your spine, “It looks nice, Spence.”

“Did you want to read a book together?” He asked you, continuing his ministrations on your back.

Pulling away slightly, you rested your palms on his shoulders as you looked up at him, “What?”

He jutted his chin in the direction of your shelves, “There are some books that I shelved, I think we could have a good time reading one together.”

You raised your eyebrows, “You’ll finish way before me though,” you hinted at his reading speed.

“Then I can read aloud to you,” he offered, beaming down at you.

[vanessagillings]

I’m posting the ever-so-rare photo of myself alongside one of my characters based on my childhood because today is World Autism Acceptance Day, and I wanted to show my little corner of the internet who this particular autistic person is:  

I was officially diagnosed in February, at age 38 (I’m now 39). A lot of people thought I couldn’t be autistic.  Some people who know me in real life still don’t.  And until around 10 years ago, I didn’t think I could be either, because I was nothing like the stereotype media portrays. I was told that autistics lacked empathy (untrue), and never played make-believe (also often untrue) and only enjoyed STEM.  I was — and am — an empathetic artist -- and make believe?  I can spend days sketching finely bedecked bears brewing tea or carefully choosing the right words to weave tapestries of fiction — though perhaps my hyper focus was a bit of a red flag.  Even so, how could autism describe me?  I was a good student.  I got straight A's. I didn’t act out in class.  I can make eye contact…if I must.  And lots of girls hate having their hair brushed with an unholy passion, right?  Clearly I swim in sarcasm like a fish, so autism couldn't be why I was so anxious all the time, could it?

If someone had told me when I was younger what autism ACTUALLY is — instead of the nonsense I’d seen on screens — I would have seen myself in it.  I didn’t hear that autistics have sensory issues until I was in my mid-twenties, which is when I first began to really research autism symptoms, and I had almost all of them:  sensitivity to light, smells, fabrics, temperatures, textures, and certain touches, all of which make me feel anxious, I fidget (stim), I never know what the hell to do with my hands or where to look, I talk too little or too much, I have special interests, I have entire animated movies memorized shot-by-shot and can remember the first time and place I saw every movie I've ever seen but I often forget what I'm trying to say mid-sentence, I echo movies and tv shows (my husband and I have a whole repertoire of shared echolalias, making up about 20% of our conversations), I was in speech therapy as a kid, I have issues with dysnomia and verbal fluency, I toe-walk, I can't multitask to save my life, I like things just-so, I’m deeply introverted but not shy, I need to recover from all social interaction — even social interaction I enjoy — and I find stupid, every day things like grocery shopping, driving and making appointments overwhelming and intensely stressful, sometimes to the point where I struggle to speak.  It turns out, I am definitely autistic. My results weren't borderline. Not even close. And while these aren’t all of my challenges, and not everyone with these symptoms is autistic, it’s definitely something to look into if you present with all of these things at once. 

So why did it take me so long to get diagnosed? The same bias that exists in media threads through the medical community as well, and because I'm a woman who can discuss the weather while smiling on cue, few people thought I was worth looking into. Even after I was fairly certain I was autistic, receiving an official diagnosis in the US is unnecessarily difficult and expensive, and in my case, completely uncovered by my insurance.  It cost me over $4000, and I could only afford it because my husband makes more money than I do as a freelance illustrator — a job I fell into largely because it didn’t require in-person work; like many autists, I have been chronically underemployed and underpaid, in part due to physical illness in my twenties, which is a topic for another day.  But it shouldn’t be like this.  It shouldn’t be so hard for adults to receive diagnoses and it shouldn’t be so hard for people to see themselves in this condition to begin with due to misinformation and stereotypes. Like many issues in America, these barriers are even higher for marginalized groups with multiple intersectionalities. 

It’s commonly said that if you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person.  This is why it’s called a spectrum, not because there’s a linear progression of severity (someone who appears to have low support needs like myself might need more than it seems, and vice versa), but because every autistic person has their own strengths and weaknesses, challenges and experiences, opinions and needs.  No two people on the spectrum present in the same way.  And that’s a good thing!  No way of being autistic is inherently any better than any other, and even if someone on the spectrum struggles with things I don’t — or can do things I can’t — doesn’t make them more or less deserving of respect and human dignity.

But speaking solely for myself, the more I learn about autism, the happier I am to be autistic.  I struggle to find words and exert fine motor control, but my deep passion and fixation has made me good at art and storytelling anyway.  I find more joy watching dogs and studying leaf shapes on my walks than most people do in an entire day.  More often than not, the barriers I’ve faced weren’t due to my autism directly, but due to society being overly rigid about what it considers a valid way of existing.  My hope in writing this today is that maybe one person will realize that autism isn’t what they thought — and that being different is not the same as being less than. My hope with my fiction is to give autistic children mirrors with which to see themselves, and everyone else windows through which to see us as we actually are.

If you’re interested in learning more about autism or think you might be autistic, too, I recommend the Autism Self Advocacy Network  autisticadvocacy.org and the following books:

What I Mean When I Say I’m Autistic by Annie Kotowicz

We're Not Broken by Eric Garcia

Knowing Why edited by Elizabeth Bartmess

Unmasking Autism by Devon Price, PhD

Loud Hands edited by Julia Bascom

Neurotribes by Steve Silberman

(trigger warning: the last two contain quite a lot of upsetting material involving institutionalized child abuse, but I think it’s important for people to know how often autistic children were — and are — abused simply for being neurodivergent).

Thanks for reading 💛

[e-vay]

See, with this newly revealed information for Sage and Aurora's friendship, love it btw, how did Shadow and Aurora's first date go? Who asked who? Where did they go?

I'm so happy to hear you're a fan of the Luminescent Ladies! 🤩 The first date was very casual, but a hit! Shadow is the one who asks Aurora out and they go to a café and end up spending hours together.

Since I've never fully written out the full Shadora story, bits and pieces of it exist here on my blog but sometimes the details change. But here's a very rough version of how I envision their first date going:

(If you're familiar with my story, you can skip the text in blue)

Shadow has spent the last several decades taking odd merc jobs in deep space in the hopes that he'll run into the woman he fell for years ago, but he never finds her. Rouge eventually convinces him to head back "home," and since he's never failed a goal before he decides he has to replace it with a new one: Get to know and enjoy the planet Maria always wanted to visit. So he heads back and that's where he meets Aurora (she does not know him yet, as she meets him later in her life via time travel). He's pretty certain Aurora is the woman who saved him years ago, but since she doesn't seem to know him he thinks maybe she's been reincarnated or something, he isn't sure. He wants to know her better and find out.

Since Shadow's new goal is to better acquaint himself with the planet he abandoned decades ago and since Aurora knows her hometown like the back of her hand, the two decide that she will be his guide (his 'guiding light' if you will 😉 ) around town. (Shadow doesn't need one. He's the ultimate life form; he's plenty fine exploring on his own. But he considers this an opportunity to do some recon to get to know her better). It mostly starts fairly professional even though Aurora does flirt with him a lot (she can't help it, just look at him!) but Shadow quickly becomes fond of her, and he decides he wants to pursue her romantically.

As they are going to bid each other goodbye after one of their tours, Shadow asks "You have a recommendation for every kind of activity in this town, correct?"

A: "Yeah! What is it you're looking for next?"

Sh: "Something... romantic, but humble. Where one might go for a first date."

And at first Aurora is internally thinking "Dang, so he is interested in somebody." But she dismisses that thought because it's none of her business who Shadow spends his time with.

She's gotten to know him a bit by now so as she's pondering ideas she's taking into consideration that he doesn't like loud, busy scenes and would likely enjoy somewhere more intimate, and she remembers him mentioning that he likes coffee. So she suggests this quaint little café that's on the edge of town.

He says "Very well" and surprises her by taking her hand and asking "Would you accompany me there tomorrow afternoon?"

She's shocked but enthusiastically agrees. He offers to "pick her up" at her house so they can go together, but since even as an adult Aurora still lives at home with her parents, she knows that if Sonic answers the door he will be very wary and likely follow them to see what's going on. She doesn't want the date to go awry before it's even happened lol So she convinces Shadow that she'll just meet him at the café.

Aurora is VERY nervous as she has basically no experience dating. She's only had a "boyfriend" once when she was a very little kid and that was really more of just a crush when she was too young to be dating anyway. She also has no idea why Shadow would be interested in her because she thinks she's pretty boring compared to him. (She even briefly thinks "Oh no, what if this is a prank!?")

But upon meeting him at the café he makes it very clear this is a date, bringing her flowers and being a real gentleman by getting her chair for her and all that jazz. Initially she is super self-conscious but Shadow quickly makes her feel really giddy (Ex: SH: "Wow, you look-" A: "Too bright?! I can tone it down! I just have to bend the light to make my clothes darker-" SH: "I was going to say 'lovely'. Please, don't dull your light for me." A: *Can't help but glow more*)

She very quickly gets swept off her feet haha.

They end up losing track of time and even continue to hang out on the outdoor patio after the place has closed and enjoy the sunset together. Before he gets the chance, Aurora over-enthusiastically asks if Shadow would like to have a second date with her and he warmly says yes.

-----

For the record, I'm always open to y'all's ideas of how Shadow and Aurora's first date would go down. If you want to write your own version of their date and it's completely different, I'd still love to read it :)

[cloudcountry]

I sent my request via dms but I'm still sending an ask for the sake of it, woops

Remember to hydrate and unshrimp :}

SUMMARY: idia doesn't how how to react when you show up at his door late at night and reveal something as earth shattering as your most recent breakup.

COMMENTS: we talked about this in dms but i hope you like the finished product!! <3

I CANT TELL IF THIS OR ANGST OR FLUFF. MAN.

reading this against its def angst oops

idia has issues but you're gonna get him through them trust 💪

The sound of mindless clicking, fans whirring, and Idia’s steady breathing are the only sounds that can be heard this late at night. It’s not that the residents of Ignihyde are sleeping—no, they’re all tucked away in their rooms, either tinkering with new tech or in the same position Idia is now. His lower back starts to ache from his slouched position in his chair, and so he straightens out his back to ease the pain. His spine cracks once, twice, thrice before settling down, and Idia promptly falls back into his old posture.

He briefly hears your voice in his mind, a reminder to sit up straight and not surf the web too late. He blinks slowly, briefly considering obeying your imaginary command, before he rationalizes using his PC more because you’re not actually here, you’re out with your boyfriend right now.

Or so he thinks.

It’s as though he summoned you, your knock on his door, a secret knock that only you would ever use. Idia insisted on a precaution like that so he’d know when it was safe to open the door and when it wasn’t. So far you hadn’t abused the privilege, never using it when you had friends with you. In fact, Idia was fairly certain you’d created a new knocking pattern recently when you had friends with you, just so he could know it was okay to respond but he didn’t have to open the door if he didn’t want to.

It's the knock that tells him you're alone.

So this time, he wants to.

He stands up, pushing his gamer chair to the side as his joints creak from being held in one position for far too long. He stalks over to the door, shaking hands reaching towards the doorknob. Because of your boyfriend, he’s always kept his feelings about you under wraps, wanting your happiness first and foremost. Besides, in what world would anyone be interested in him? He wouldn’t even want to associate with you like that, the thought of dragging you into his darkness was too much.

The doorknob turns and his door creaks open, a sliver of light spilling into his room until the rest of it is blocked by you. Idia opens his mouth to ask what you’re doing at his door this late, especially since you have a boyfriend and if anyone should be hanging out with you this late it really should be him and—

And—

And you have never looked more serious. It makes the words die in his throat, his lips parted like a fool.

“Do you have time to talk?” you ask softly, shifting from foot to foot in your pajamas and oh Great Seven, did you walk across campus like that? There were so many bugs out at night and snakes too, and what if you tripped because you couldn’t see where you were going? You came alone, WHY would you come alone this late? You could have gotten hurt—

His hands are twitching as your eyes drift down towards them, watching silently as they shake towards and away from you, like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure if he can. You initiate, taking his hands in yours and gently pushing him back into his room, nudging the door shut with your foot as quietly as possible.

“Um...what are you doing here this late?” Idia asks softly, his hands in yours, still twitching restlessly.

“I had to tell you something. It’s nothing bad on your part, before you start overthinking. It’s something to do with my boyfriend, now ex.” you say, each word purposeful and slow, like you’re picking your words very carefully in your sleepy haze.

“You broke up?” Idia murmurs, ignoring the way his heart jumps in his throat. 

Of course he’s happy you’re single now. Of course he is. But that doesn't mean now is the time to start fantasizing about actually dating you. Oh who is he kidding, he wouldn’t be starting that, he’s been doing that. The last thing he needs to his feelings getting in the way and making things hard for you, you’ve been his best friend for years now, ever since he came to NRC you’ve always been in his corner, even though sometimes you don’t get to see each other that often and he’s not going to fuck this up because he likes you more than he should, no way is he going to fuck this up—

“Yeah. We broke up a few weeks ago.” you say, moving your hands from his and pressing them into your thighs.

“Oh.” Idia says dumbly.

You smile weakly, glancing around his room before gesturing to his bed. Idia feels his heart in his throat again—it’s the only place with room to sit, yeah, but it’s so messy and oh Great Seven what if his manga makes you think he’s weird and you never want to speak to him again.

You don’t even spare a glance at his mess. You just sit down and clench your hands in your lap, watching him as he sits down next to you. His eyes land on your hands, white knuckled and shaking, and it squeezes his heart when he thinks about just what your boyfriend could have done to hurt you like this.

Your ex, he means. Your ex. He’s never going to be your boyfriend again, even if he apologizes, because as much as you’re hurting right now Idia knows you'll only come back stronger for it.

It’s one of the reasons why he admires you so much.

“It...wasn’t something I was planning on broadcasting. And as far as I know, he hasn’t told anyone either. Not that he’s good at telling people things.” you remark bitterly, a frown twisting your lips.

“Was he not talking to you?” Idia asks, balling his hands into fists in his lap much like you.

“No. He wasn’t.” you sigh, looking down at his floor, “He wasn’t at all.”

His room grows silent again, but Idia hopes you don’t hear the gears in his brain turning. He wants to make things better for you, he wants to make sure all the time you have left with each other is good for you, he wants to make sure you can live the rest of your life happy with the knowledge that you’ll never have to think about this guy.

He wants you to be happy so he can let you go after you two become seniors.

“Is...there anything I can do?” he mumbles, eyes darting around the room for a distraction, “Um, I made a mini planetarium projection for Ortho since he likes the stars so much and I think I have it somewhere in here—”

He knows exactly where it is. Like he’d ever forget.

“—I have some games, um...which ones do you like? I probably have something—”

He’s fairly certain you’d love the game sitting on the bottom shelf of his desk. It reminds him of you whenever he plays it.

“—or would you like to watch anime? Read a manga? You can leave too, that’s okay, just let me walk you home so you don’t get hurt—”

Not again, at least. But he’ll do anything to keep you here with him.

You cut him off with a small giggle, your balled up fists now pressed up against your face in relaxed palms, covering your mouth as your eyes crinkle in the corners.

“I’d love to stay. Thank you, Idia.” you smile softly and move your hands away from your mouth, and Idia feels his heart jump into his throat again because of course you’d know.

You’ve always known.

He swallows back a wave of sadness as his mind reminds me once again that he will leave you one day, and that day will come sooner than he wants it too, that he’s cursed and he shouldn’t taint you too—

“Anything is good as long as it’s with you.” you laugh quietly, falling back onto his bed with a soft thump.

It’s like you were always meant to be there.

[just-a-creep-babe]

What Makes You Tick - Chapter 1

(Ticci Toby x Reader)

Waah idk why I'm so nervous to post this part T~T 🖤🖤 I really hope you enjoy! And it would make me super happy if you lmk what you think!! 🖤🖤

Commissions are open!

Check out my ko-fi if you'd like to support me!

Masterlist: x

Prologue

Divider by @plum98

The scream is loud.

It’s shrill and abrasive, and it ends as quickly as it began—like the person’s breath was abruptly interrupted.

You bolt up. The sound awakens a deep, primal urge within you, and in a matter of seconds, you’re on high alert.

The fact that you’re home alone really only makes the whole situation that much worse.

You count the seconds ever so slowly ticking by. You don’t dare to move an inch. You just hold your breath, waiting, listening to the sound of your own heartbeat in your eardrums.

When you reach 100 and there isn’t another piercing scream, only then does your body recover from the freeze instinct. You move to the windows, try to see something—anything outside.

When nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, you nervously chew at your lip. Did you just imagine it? You don’t see anyone outside; no worried onlookers trying to find the source of the noise, no frantic person wandering the streets for help, nothing.

What are the chances only you would’ve heard it?

The scream replays itself in your head. It sounded like it could’ve come from your downstairs neighbor.

You’re probably the closest person in the vicinity, you realize. If they need help, you might be the only person who could assist them.

You grab your phone and rush out the door. Down the steps, you reach your neighbor’s door and offer three quick knocks against the wood.

You wait, nervously, anxiously, every second ticking by feeling much too long for comfort. When there’s no answer, you knock again. The memory of the scream rings in your ears again, and you feel your hands get sweaty with stress.

No one answers the door. You check your phone, calculate that at least seven minutes have gone by. Would it be appropriate to call the cops?

You open the phone app, then hesitate. Would they even take you seriously? You never once called the police in your life, and just thinking about it has you conjuring up a whole slew of ways it could go wrong.

You linger around the door for a few more minutes, then eventually give up and return up to your apartment. Your plan is to call your parents or roommate or maybe even your friend—anyone who might be able to advise you on what to do. But as soon as you reach your door, you get an eerie chill up your spine. Something isn’t right.

Your door is open.

It’s just a crack; barely even noticeable, and though you did leave in a rush, you’re fairly certain you didn’t leave the door open. It’s not something you would do.

You clutch your phone between tense fingers. Calling for help—even though it should be—is no longer on your mind. All you’re thinking about is who the fuck is in your home right now—and why.

It’s, again, like a fight, flight or freeze instinct kicking in. Except this time, your usual sense of self-preservation is overridden and you’re fully ready to fight.

You open the door, half expecting to see someone in the middle of your living room, but there’s no one there. Relief nearly washes over you, until you glance down and notice a trail of dirt leading deeper into your house.

Seeing it suddenly makes it all the more real.

There’s really someone here. There’s a stranger in your house.

As quietly as humanly possible, you follow along the trail. You’re so focused that your surroundings almost seem to melt away. When you see it; the silhouette of a person you don’t recognize, who doesn’t belong here, in your house, you act without second thought.

One hard hit to the back of the head is all it takes. The person crumples to the floor on impact. You gasp, the sound completely involuntary because holy shit—did that just happen?

Suddenly remembering your phone, you yank it up and dial 911.

The person seems to be knocked out cold, and as the line is ringing, you realize your hand hurts from hitting them so hard. A wave of fear tightens in your chest. Surely, you didn’t severely injure them, right? Surely, they’re just knocked out for a little while, and then they’ll wake up, and they’ll be fine, and you won’t get into any trouble, right?

It all counts as self-defense anyways, right?

Having never called the cops before, you don’t think much of the wait time. Your mind is so preoccupied with what you’ve done, with what’s happened in such a short amount of time, that you don’t even realize how long you’re waiting for.

But then you start to get nervous that the intruder will wake up. Or, worse, that they won’t wake up. The line is still ringing, and when you bring your phone down to check how long it’s been, you find that over five minutes have passed.

What the fuck is going on?

You can only stand to wait a few more minutes before you realize no one’s going to answer.

Maybe something’s down with the lines, or some other big emergency happened elsewhere and they don’t have the staff required to answer. Whatever it is, you’re on your own right now.

You hang up, tell yourself you’ll call back in a few minutes, and then you’re left staring at the knocked-out body of the intruder.

Judging by the shape and size of the figure, they seem to be male. They’re relatively tall and lean, with a square kind of build that tapers down at their hips. You can’t see their face, but they have thick, curly brown hair that reaches below their ears.

You should flip them over, you think. You should flip them over and take a picture of their face so that you have some kind of proof.

You kneel down, wrap your fingers around their form, and, as gently as you can so as to not wake them, you turn them over.

Your stomach drops at the sight. You can’t see their face since it’s hidden beneath orange-tilted goggles and some kind of mouthguard. But it’s what you see on their clothes that has you feeling light-headed.

Blood.

They’re covered in it.

It’s splattered along the front of their hoody, staining the fabric in a dark crimson color. You can’t tell if it’s theirs or someone else’s, and though all logic points to the former, you don’t even want to piece everything together.

You notice as well, now that they’re turned over, that they have a belt tied around their hips. And two blood-soaked axes are hanging from it.

You nearly scream, but the bile threatening to rise up your throat has you holding it all in. And you’re thankful for it, because god knows you don’t want them to wake up now.

If you weren’t high on adrenaline, you’re certain you’d be panicking—more so than you are now, at least. But it’s like your senses are heightened, and your thoughts are much clearer than they otherwise would be, and something inside you is forcing you to stay as calm as possible.

Secure them.

You need to find something to secure them before they wake up.

The best thing you can find on such short notice is a long-sleeved shirt you’d haphazardly left in the living room. You’d meant to put it away, but you hadn’t gotten to it yet—and you’ve never been so thankful for your laziness.

Your hands are shaking as you wrap the sleeves around the stranger’s wrists. You try to make it as tight as possible, and then you knot it over and over again until you’ve no more fabric left to tighten.

You’re grabbing your phone and dialing 911 again as soon as you can. But when you bring it up to your ear, the line doesn’t ring. You wait—fifteen seconds, thirty, a minute—expecting the ringing to start at any moment, but it doesn’t.

On the other end of the line, there’s just silence. Eerie, cold, dead silence. The ends of your hair stand at attention from the goosebumps rising on your skin. Something’s definitely not right.

Just as you’re about to hang up—static blares from your phone. It’s loud and unbearable and completely overpowering, like the sound is ringing inside your own head. It's impossible to think straight.

You scream, throwing your phone to stop the noise. But even with the phone away from your ears, it’s like the noise keeps echoing in your mind. All you can do is press your hands to your ears and squeeze your eyes shut and scream in agony.

It’s dizzying. It’s nauseating. You have no space to think, no space to do anything but clutch your ears and pray the noise will stop. It’s maddening.

You feel like you’re on the verge of passing out from the sheer pain and intensity of it all when, in an instant, it stops.

You don’t pull your hands away from your ears for a good few seconds afterward. Your heart is pumping loudly in your chest. Your jaw hurts from grinding your teeth. Every muscle in your body feels sore from overexertion.

What just happened—are you losing your mind?

Slowly, you hesitantly let go of your head and open your eyes.

He’s awake.

You don’t know if it was your screaming that woke him up—all you know is that he’s conscious, and he's sitting upright and looking at you.

A mix of emotions wash over you at once. You’re relieved he’s alive, confused as to what the hell just happened—and most of all—you’re fucking nauseous with fear.

Fear regarding the source of that noise, but also regarding the fact that there’s a stranger in your house, covered in blood, and the cops aren’t answering. There’s something wrong with your phone, you're home alone, and your neighbor might be bleeding out beneath the floor under your feet. And there's a stranger restrained in your house and you have no idea what the fuck to do.

The worst part is that the person—that man—looks like he's completely calm and at ease. Like he's in total control of the situation.

The nausea worsens, butterflies making you utterly sick to your stomach. It almost feels like you're the one restrained, not him.

You don’t know what to do with yourself.

You stare at him, and he stares back. Or, at least, you think he does; it’s hard to tell beneath his colored lenses.

Your gaze flickers to the hatchets, still secured around his waist. You kick yourself for not taking them off of him. And then you look at your phone, which you threw halfway between you and him, and you swallow back the lump in your throat.

When you look back at him, you notice that he’d followed your gaze to also look at your phone. He looks back at you, tilts his head, and your stomach twists in knots.

Why isn’t he saying anything?

You feel like you’ve accidentally trapped some kind of predatory animal in your apartment. It feels like, at any moment, if you make the wrong move, he’ll lunge at you and rip your throat out.

Never once breaking eye contact, you slowly creep forward to reach your phone.

He doesn’t say a single word as you move, which makes it all the worse. He merely watches you, curiously, like you're one of the most fascinating things he's ever seen.

When you finally reach your phone, you pick it up, open it, and dial 911 again.

You’re hesitant to press it to your ears. You don’t know what kind of malfunction happened earlier, but you’re not too keen on repeating the experience. You hold it at somewhat of a distance, just in case.

It doesn’t ring.

Just like earlier, all that comes through the line is dead silence. You wait maybe a minute before, out of fear of the static interrupting again, you close the line.

You try not to let your panic show through, because you can feel the stranger eyeing your every move. You dial your roommate’s number, but it’s the same problem.

With unsteady hands, you text your parents that you need help contacting 911. Although they don’t live close to you anymore, they’re usually the fastest to answer your texts. And you need help fast.

When they don’t answer, you text your roommate and friends the same thing. Surely, at least one of them is bound to see the text and help you—right?

“You can—you can try all you want. You won’t be able to reach anyone, a-anyways.”

Your blood freezes.

It takes you a second to register his words, and another to react.

“What… what do you mean?” you ask, though the words make your tongue go numb, as if your body’s warning you that just talking to him is a bad idea.

“He’s watching.”

In the culmination of your entire lifetime, you don’t recall having ever felt such pure, tangible fear.

The feeling is similar to that sensation you get when you’re at the peak of a nightmare—when you’re just about to come face-to-face with the monster, or when you’re about to reach the ground after falling from a great height—when you’re just about to die and it all feels so real.

But this moment feels surreal.

“Who’s watching?”

There’s more conviction in your voice than you feel in your entire system. You don’t know how you manage to sound so calm, so self-assured and in control of the situation, but it’s certainly not how you feel on the inside.

“He is. The one who’s—“ he cracks his neck abruptly to the side, interrupting his own sentence before finishing, “always watching.”

Another chill up your spine, though you manage to mask it fairly well, all things considered.

“Don’t—don’t worry. The police will be here—here—they’ll be here soon. Maybe 15, 20 minutes?”

You don’t know whether you should be relieved or unnerved by his reassurance.

“How… do you know that?” you ask hesitantly.

He shrugs, the movement entirely too comfortable, entirely too nonchalant.

“S-s’almost always the same.”

You want out. You want out of this conversation, out of this whole situation. You want him out of your house.

“What do you mean?” you ask, “How many times have you done this?”

You don’t know if you want the answer to your own question. In all honesty, you don’t even want to consider what the “this” in your question even refers to.

But it’s out of your mouth before you can even stop yourself.

He tilts his head, like he’s considering it. And then, after a few seconds, he shrugs again.

“Lost count.”

You don’t like his answer.

15-20 minutes, you think. There’s a chance he's lying to put you at ease, to prevent you from calling again.

But there’s a chance he’s right.

There’s a chance a neighbor heard, or your friends or family saw the text and are getting help. Either way, you realize that you have time to burn. You need to stay calm, focused.

He doesn’t seem agitated, which you take to be a good thing. He doesn’t seem frustrated or angry or unstable. If anything, it’s like he’s open to talking.

What more could you ask for?

You rack your brain for the best course of action. But you’re at a loss. You’re panicking on the inside.

You realize that one of the best things you could probably do is keep him preoccupied, keep him distracted.

“…How old are you?”

You don’t know why that, of all things, is the first question to come to mind. But it seems like a safe enough bet; it’s not too personal so as to upset him, and yet it might help narrow his identity or motivations down.

If only you’d had the chance to remove his mask and snap a pic of his face before he woke up.

You don’t expect him to take as long to answer as he does. He tilts his head again, looks up like he’s trying to calculate something in his head.

And then his answer sends another wave of unease through your system.

“Lost count,” he admits, repeating his previous answer.

You don’t know what that means, what it entails, but you don't even want to know either, at this point.

You rack your brain for another question, something light and easy to keep him talking, when he suddenly jerks his shoulder in a way that doesn’t look entirely voluntary.

You pause.

Did he... did he consume something?

It would explain a few things, though not everything.

He seems coherent enough to hold a conversation, but it’s not like he’s making the most sense. And, at the very least, blaming the strangeness of this whole situation on something simple would make you feel better.

To test out your theory, you ask him outright, “Why are you here? Do you know where you are?”

He looks around, like he’s only now noticing he’s in your apartment.

“This the—the—the upstairs unit? Your place?”

You nod, slowly, but even as you do, you’re not sure you want him to know that. And then you also don’t want to know the answer to the next question, but you need to ask.

“What happened?”

Nothing could’ve prepared you for his response. The way he states it too—so simply, so obviously, like it was as normal as going for groceries—makes you completely sick to your stomach.

And the magnitude of the situation fully crashes down on you when he answers.

“I killed her.”

[woso-dreamzzz]

Allergies II

Hardersson x Daughter!Reader

Natalia Guijarro (OC) x Hardersson!Reader

Part of The Big Adeventures Universe

Summary: You have another allergic reaction

In all honesty, you didn't really think it was that serious.

Nutrition meetings at Barcelona were a lot more in depth than what you were used to at Arsenal. They took ages and were full of information that would probably be interesting if you actually cared but, alas, nutrition had never been as interesting to you as other subjects so you tended to just zone out.

You were handed a new smoothie with some kind of new protein powder in or something you would have known if you actually listened.

You drank it.

That's when things start to get weird.

The nutritionist continues to drone on and you frown, scratching at your neck.

You stare down at your bottle for a moment as your throat goes all scratchy and intense.

You force yourself to swallow before glancing around.

Your throat gets a bit tighter.

No one else seems to be having such a reaction so you unscrew the top of your bottle to peer inside. You sniff the mixture before standing up.

You can feel people watch as you make your way over to the first aid kit at the front of the room. Your throat has fully closed up now and you know that you're turning alarmingly red and probably breaking out in hives.

Honestly, you feel a little bit shocked how you're even conscious right now but you grab your epipen and stab it into your leg.

"Banana," You say plainly," I can't eat that."

Even with the adrenaline now pumping through your system, you slide your way down the wall to sit on the floor, breathing in deeply.

The room erupts into chaos the moment you sit down.

The medical staff come in to check your blood pressure and your throat and the expiration date of your epipen. The nutritionist leading the session is going absolutely ballistic yelling at one of her assistants for not checking the allergy sheets before making and handing out the smoothies.

Talia looks close to tears as she forces her way towards you, practically shoving some of the medics away. "Are you okay? Is it bad? Do I need to call your mums?"

"No! Don't call my-"

Talia's already gone out into the hall, phone pressed up against her ear.

You wonder which one of your mothers she has in her contacts.

Surely not Morsa because she's still in that stage where she's pretending to hate your girlfriend but you can't remember your Momma and Talia interacting enough to have swapped numbers and you know for certain that you weren't one to hand out people's numbers without explicit permission.

As the medics fuss and the nutritionist yells, the team also gather around to check that you're alright but you just give them a gallant shrug.

"I'm fine," You say," The epipen did its work."

"I think I'd prefer if you take the day off," The head of the medical team says," Just to be safe. You can come back tomorrow."

You know better than to argue with him so you just nod with a little sigh of annoyance.

"I can take her home," Talia says as she re-enters the room," I've got her."

"I can take a taxi home," You insist.

You and Talia drive in together so only one car is used. If you go home in that car now then she'll have to get a taxi in the middle of rush hour.

"I'll take you home," Talia says," Coach can spare me at training today. Someone's got to make sure you actually follow medical advice."

You roll your eyes. "I swear you've been hanging out with my Momma behind my back." You take the hand she offers to help you stand. "You sound just like her."

You end up back home fairly quickly, curled up on the sofa and practically forced to take a nap.

Prins joins you, curled up in the bend of your knee. Reina settles on the top of the sofa behind your head, completely stretched out and at ease with herself while Kung manages to wiggle himself between your arms to nap there.

You don't know how long you nap for but it must be a while because the sun is setting when you wake up and you can smell Talia cooking up your favourite pasta dish in the world.

You sit up.

You've definitely been sleeping for a while because Reina has migrated to her cat tree, poking her head out of the cave to watch Kung bounce around the floor in outrage at not being allowed up there with her.

Prins has taken Kung's place between your arms and his tongue rolls out of his mouth in a semblance of a dopey smile when he notices you awake, his tail beginning to wag happily.

"Hi, little man," You say, gently scratching between his ears," Did you keep me company?"

Prins' tail wags even more fiercely than before.

"Didn't want to leave your side."

You jolt, shrieking and Prins whines a little.

"Morsa! What are you doing here?!"

"Talia called your Momma," Morsa says, tucking the blanket more firmly around your body," Your allergies acted up."

"I dealt with it," You insist," You didn't have to fly out."

"Yes, we did," Morsa replies," Because if we waited for you to tell us, it would take weeks!"

You puff out your cheeks. "I wouldn't want to worry you over something so silly."

"Are you calling your allergies silly again?" Momma says. She enters with two plates worth of food and you sit up.

Prins leaps down to wander over to his own dog bed. Seeing him lying there, Kung wanders over, jumping up onto Prins' back to finish napping there as Reina ducks her head back into her cave.

"No, Momma," You mumble, accepting your food as Morsa takes a seat on the armchair and Momma to the left of you, leaving an empty space for Talia, who also brings out food for herself and Morsa before taking her own seat.

"Are you feeling better, mi vida?" She asks," You look better."

You nod. "I feel fine. My leg aches a little but that's expected."

"We'll put an icepack on it once we've finished eating. Prins was very worried about you."

Prins raises his head at the mention of his name, tail wagging.

"He's good boy."

Morsa grins from across the room. "I knew getting you a dog was a good idea."

Momma scoffs. "You told me that we should have gotten her a fish."

Morsa coughs to clear her throat and mumbles," Don't lie, Pernille."

"You wanted to get me a fish?" You laugh in disbelief," And you say Rocky is the most disappointing pet in the world."

"Are you really saying your pet rock is more exciting than a fish?"

"Am I?" You pretend to think for a moment. "Yes. Yes, I am."

[punkshort]

I was thinking about Swept Away (like always) and an idea came to my mind... What if... IF... Joel was like, watching 🌽 and reader wanted to ask him something and just open the door.

Alright let's talk about it. Smut (18+ MDNI) ahead!

You were supposed to be at the spa for the afternoon. Before you left, you even told him you wouldn't be back until closer to dinner. That was fine with him. He could get some work done in quiet. But when you had breezed through the living room, accidentally dropping your bag on the floor, you leaned over to pick up your things. He was fairly certain you didn't do it on purpose, but when you bent over he caught a glimpse of your underwear. Lacy. Lavender colored. Barely any coverage.

He recognized them. La Perla. His assistant spent thousands there before your trip, picking out bags and bags of lingerie for you.

Did it need to be La Perla? No. Of course not. He didn't even think he would ever see them on you. But he wanted to give you all the finest things, and if it made you feel good, then it was money well spent.

Were you wearing the matching bra? He remembered it. It was see through lace with some decorative trim. What color were your nipples? He would be able to tell through that bra, no question.

You straightened up and he averted his eyes, swallowing thickly as he stared blankly at his laptop.

"Can I get you anything while I'm out?"

He glanced back up at you right as you were fixing the strap on your dress that had fallen off your shoulder, revealing a quick flash of your bra strap. Fuck, you were wearing it.

He shook his head, unable to answer, and you disappeared out the door.

He wrestled with a hard on for the next fucking hour. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop thinking of you in that lingerie, what you would look like all sprawled out on his bed while he sucked at your nipples through the thin, delicate fabric.

Work was slow. Fuck it.

He clicked out of his email program and slammed the computer shut before storming off to his bedroom, adjusting himself through his shorts as he moved.

Turning the television on, he scrolled through the channels until he found Playboy TV, Hustlers, Penthouse.

He leaned back in bed and picked one, just looking to let off some steam and not expecting after two minutes to see a girl who bore a striking resemblance to you pop up on the screen.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath while he watched the girl fall to her knees before some guy. She ran her hands up and down his thighs and looked up at him, making sure he was watching when she took him in her mouth.

She moaned around his cock and her eyelids futtered closed like it was the best thing she had ever tasted and he quickly tugged his shorts and boxers down, gripping his own cock in his fist.

Her breasts were fake, he could tell that a mile away, but she had similar facial features. Same length and color hair, same color eyes, same beautifully shaped lips. Skin that looked so soft, skin that he yearned to touch and lick and pinch and bite. He stroked his dick, imagining you on your knees for him with your perfect lips wrapped around him, gazing up at him like you were fucking thankful for it.

There was a cut scene then the girl in the video was bent over a couch. She gasped sharply, which turned into a deep moan when the man in the video slowly entered her from behind. Joel could see the enjoyment on her face. The pure bliss at the feeling of being stretched open and filled. Fuck, he wanted to do that to you. He wanted to see what your face would look like when he first stuffed you full of him. He wanted to hear the noises you would make when he began to fuck you, when he sucked on your tits and when he smacked your ass. He wanted to see what you would look like when you came. The sounds you would make. He wanted to hear his name from your lips when he made you come. Would you scream it? Or would you whisper it in his ear?

Shit, he was close. He was too wound up. He spent too much time being fucking hard, wishing it would go away, and now his pleasure would come to a very quick end.

He groaned loudly into the room when he felt that heat build at the base of his spine. His stomach tightened and he groaned again, his eyes squeezing shut while he pretended the noises coming from the television were actually coming from you.

And then it all happened at the same time.

He couldn't hear anything. He was too far gone, his excitement too unmanageable. He only opened his eyes right when he came, when he shot thick, white ropes of his seed all over his hand, but at the same time, at the exact same fucking time, he saw movement by his door.

He had imagined you were saying his name, but it turned out, you really were. Just not in the same way he had pictured.

His door slammed shut while his cock was still dribbling the lasts bits of spend from the tip, his hips pathetically rocking upwards from the mattress to fuck his hand.

"Oh, shit," he gasped, in both pleasure and pain. How much did you see? This was bad. This was worse than you walking in on him changing, but the damage was already done, so he took his time. He turned off the television and cleaned himself up slowly while his mind cleared and the seriousness of what just happened began to settle in.

He gripped the bathroom sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror, his chest still heaving ever so slightly from his climax. He needed to get you out of his fucking head before he did something really stupid. Something he couldn't take back. Something that couldn't be explained away.

The way he saw it, he had two choices: he could leave there and pretend like it never happened, like it was no big deal, and wave away your apologies.

Or.

Or he could tell you the truth. He could use it as an opportunity to come clean. To be honest. To tell you he wanted you so fucking bad that it hurt. That he tried to deny himself, he tried to be a gentleman, but it was impossible. Your allure was too much. It drew him in and fucked with his head, twisted him up and made him feel all crazy and out of control.

He knew what he had to do. He took a deep breath and stepped out of his room, his eyes landing on your bedroom door, and raised his hand to knock.

[kozachenko]

Here, have a fairly light sketch dump with two relatively complete sketches and some of the process for the main Zanmu one. Also, Gensokyo's specalist girl makes an appearance here too

Artist's Notes;

Zanmu is such a fun character to draw, like, there's so many little aspects in her design that you can emphasize, and her colour palette is so satysfying too. The reason I ended up drawing this was because when I was scrolling on Pinterest I found a specific pose that just screamed Zanmu to me (it was the skull that did it for me) and I just had to draw her in that pose. I did end up taking my liberties with my reference though, and also I am not drawing feet, I just straight up don't like it, and this is mainly something more on the sketchy side so it didn't really matter lol. Also, IDK too much about the hands, I'm usually pretty good with them but I struggled with them a bit this time. Also Zanmu is sitting on nothing because I just didn't feel like drawing what she was sitting on (plus I already drew in the clothes and including what she was sitting on would mean having to change the sleeves and I just didn't wanna do that lol). Also realized that I should probably start trying to improve on drawing frills in clothing, and I tried a new technique for drawing them. I do like how they look, but at the same time it can still be better.

I do love how Zanmu's pose turned out the most in this batch of sketches. In my process, I put the reference image on the canvas and then roughly blocked in the silhouette. One change I knew I wanted to make since the beginning of the sketching process was opening up the space between the bent arm and body more, mainly to make the silhouette of the pose clearer (even though with the addition of the clothes it does get closed up a lot). I also wanted to turn the torso towards the viewer and change the position of the legs to something more cross legged/casual. In another sketching pass, I just kinda quicjly scribbled what I wanted the pose to look like just so I could get my idea out and I'm glad I did that because that helped me focus more on the pose itself rather than the small details. Afterward, I did a sketch of the body, clothes, and hair all together and then coloured it to get the coloured Zanmu sketch!

Again, I could've done a better job with the feet and the legs themselves for that matter, but the nice thing about sketches is that they don't need to be perfect, and I was more so focused on the gesture/feel of the pose rather than the minute details. With her facial expression, I knew that I wanted something very specific with her eyes, so I just simplified it into this "almost closed" eye and I do like how it turned out a lot. Also, a problem that I often have drawing Zanmu is that in the poses I put her in, I don't really know how best to draw in those triangle cut outs she has, so instead, I added these little triangle details onto her sleeves and pants to add some visual interest and allude to them instead, also because they can kinda allude to a crown and Zanmu is the king of Hell so it fits lol (also, love it when people add details like that onto sleeves sm lol). The hair and tassles did a lot of heavy lifting when it came to making the drawing have a nice flow to it, and I have the headcanon that Zanmu is just able to make those float on there own by.... honestly I don't know, I just like the idea of her tassles defying gravity and floating all the time. Also IDK if you can see them, but I did make sure to include her scars as I'm basically adding that as a part of my way of drawing Zanmu. It just adds a certain something, y'know? Also found a specific reference for the skull and made it the red that it is in Touhou 19, and also because drawing skeletons and skulls is just fun lol.

Now onto Reimu, so that face drawing was mainly there just so I could get a better idea of how I wanted to draw her face in the future. My main concern was trying to make it different to Keiki and Zanmu's faces, so as I was sketching hers I had the drawings of Keiki and Zanmu's faces turned on to make sure I wasn't drawing the same thing again. Down here I included this little test I did where I hyper simplified the eyes of the three faces and just traced over their face shapes, noses, eyebrows, and mouths. While the nose is the most consistent trait shared among the three of them (tbf that can just be chalked down to an aspect of my style), I feel like the three are different enough from each other to where they don't have same face syndrome, even if you simplify the eyes into dots and also didn't include the detail of Zanmu's scars on her face.

I'm obsessed with giving Reimu these tiny little eyebrows for some reason, IDK it just works for her. I also really like using a red as a highlight for whenever I draw her hair black, mainly because it helps to give the illusion that her hair is just a really dark brown and incorperates her main colour of red into another aspect of the design. I also wanted to try and draw Reimu's eyelids differently to try and imply monolids but tbh IDK how well that reads. I also like how her pupils turned out, as I'm experimenting with different characters in my style having different kinds of pupils. I didn't even bother properly rendering her clothes, so I just did them linelessly (I think I wanna try drawing in my lineless style again for a future piece sometime as I kinda miss the feel it had). I of course had to give Reimu her big bow, and also use that specific shade of red. IDK what it is about that shade of red specifically, but I just love it, it looks so nice to me you have no idea- Now that I think about, I kinda wanna draw Reimu more now, as I feel like I can still do some more experimenting with how I draw her eyes specifically. Also because I've got some ideas when it comes to how I wanna draw her body type.

[allthesmutl0vers]

Managing Mischief: Weasley Twins x Fem!Reader (Part Seven)

MDNI, NSFW, 18+ Masterlist Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader x George Weasley TW: Mentions of ED, Oral Sex (M! and F! Receiving and giving), Just general fluff, and Ron who makes you facepalm yourself. 🤦🏻‍♀️ A/N: I am so sorry it took me so long to update this! I'm re-writing this story and the chapters are long af, and just a mess. (This was my first ever fic from like 2 years ago on Wattpad.) I solemnly swear that I will update this more. Tag: @helendeath @ the anon who asked where this was. Please reblog and/ or comment if you like the story, as they help me stay motivated to keep writing 💜🥹

Chapter Seven

Fred

Looking at y/n sitting next to me, talking to our friends, makes my heart pound. She’s so goddamn beautiful. I just wish we could make her see it for herself. George and I have tried to come up with reasons why she doesn’t eat when we’re alone, but we can’t seem to find one. We notice the weight loss. We were the first ones to notice it. At first, we thought she just wanted to slim down a bit, not that she ever needed to. 

But now? She’s so tiny that her ribs are poking out, and that can’t be healthy. What really worries us though, is when she gets so lightheaded she almost faints and has to sit down. Neither of us cares how much she weighs. We never did. We just want her to be healthy and happy. She will always be the most beautiful girl in the world to us, no matter her size. 

I’ve never been into Angelina. She’s a good mate and a fair chaser, but nothing more. The way that y/n got so defensive and chewed her out, though? Fuck, my dick swells just at the thought of it. Not to mention the way she blew up at Malfoy, calling out about having a shitty dick. That made my heart soar and almost cripple me with laughter. 

But what really got my attention? The way she said that she screams my and George’s names. I can only imagine what that’d be like, what it will be like. I squeeze her leg a little tighter, and she looks up at me with those beautiful brown eyes that I just want to fall into and never come out of. 

She gives me a curious look, and I lean down to whisper in her ear. “So, you scream our names, hm, little one?” I ask her softly and feel her shudder and clench her thighs under my grip. I love the way she reacts to my touch and my words. 

“Maybe,” she whispers back and softly whimpers. Biting her lip when I slide my hand further up her skirt. Fuck, I love the little sounds she makes. Every single one of them goes straight to my cock. I lick my bottom lip as George grabs her attention as we pull into the train station. 

George

I’ve seen y/n pissed off before, but her yelling at Angelina and Katie was something else. Something something much sexier. I’ve never given Katie so much as half a glance outside of quidditch practice, and during games, I’m focused on the game. At most just keeping people from getting bloodied up too bad. But I’m fairly certain she would’ve killed them if Harry hadn’t stepped in. 

I could’ve destroyed Draco on the spot when he asked to have a moment with her. But this girl, with her tiny little hands and fingers, stopped me instantly. She ate him up, spit him back out, and I’m pretty sure she made him cry. And he deserved every last bit of it. I don’t know what made him think it was a good idea to try to talk to her, alone for that matter. Did Blaise not tell him we’re together? Oh well, the whole school is going to find out sooner or later, and I can’t fucking wait. 

The only thing that really worries me is her eating habits or lack thereof. We haven’t really found the right time to talk to her about it, but we talk to each other about it. Fred thinks it’s just stress, but I think it could be an eating disorder. She’s losing weight so fast, and she’s so light that now I can lift her and swing her around with one arm without breaking a sweat. For Merlin’s sake, my trunk is heavier than she is. It scares the living daylights out of me when she almost faints. We can’t lose her. I can’t lose her. I wouldn’t survive it. 

My attention is drawn to her thighs clenching under my hand, and I look over to see Fred, no doubt whispering some dirty shit in her ear. She thinks she’s going to win whatever little game she is playing, and she just might. I want to get down on my knees and serve her every single chance I get. I haven’t even tasted her pussy yet, and I’m fucking addicted. 

I see her pull away slightly from Fred and take the opportunity to grip her chin and force her to look at me so I can whisper my dirty shit in her ear. She leans in with those perfect, supple lips and I fight the urge to just kiss her instead. But I hold back, whispering into her ear instead, smelling the strawberry conditioner in her hair. “We may be going to a feast, baby, but I’m going to eat you out like it’s my last fucking meal,” I hear her gasp softly and feel her thighs clench together even more, rubbing her legs together like she’s searching for some kind of friction. I kiss her as we pull into the train station, and she stands up to follow Fred out of the compartment with me right behind her. 

Y/n

I take Fred’s hand as I slide out of the booth. My panties are fucking soaked. This is going to be a long dinner, and the sorting ceremony feast is always long. As we we off the train, Fred and George go ahead of me, and each helps me down, taking my hands in theirs. We walk with our friends, everyone holding hands with who they’re now officially dating as we walk to the castle as the sun begins to set. 

We’re all some of the last people to enter the great hall. I can’t help but feel anxious with so many people staring at me, Fred and George. They sense it, though, and grip my hands tighter as they walk me to the Gryffindor table, and we take our seats across from our friends. “Everyone is staring,” I whisper to both of them.

“Let them stare, little one,” Fred tells me with a smile. 

“Nothing, and nobody can hurt you while we’re around. I promise, baby,” George says softly, stroking my hair. I nod my head and turn to the front as Dumbledore starts his speech. 

“Good evening, and welcome back,” Dumbledore says with a smile as the rest of the chatter dies down. “Here starts another year of education, friendship, and memories. While we may be separated by house, we are one school, one body. And we must all look out for each other, care for one another, and protect everyone. As with every year, we will begin with the sorting ceremony, welcoming fresh minds and new friends. Be kind, be generous, and be helpful. I’m sure you all remember the first time walking through those doors and the uncertainty that came along with it,” he chuckles before continuing. 

“Show them that no matter what house you are sorted into, everyone is welcome, and everyone has a place here. This year, we will also have a new Defense Against The Dark Arts professor joining us as well. A man I believe to be one of the bravest, most loyal, and even one of the most trouble-causing previous students I have ever known. Please give a warm welcome to Sirius Black,” he claps with a smile. 

We all look at Harry and smile. We all stand up and clap the loudest of anyone in the great hall, Fred and George whooping and hollering as Sirius walks out from a room behind the teacher's table, smiles at us, and takes a seat. 

*****

“That concludes our sorting ceremony,” Dumbledor claps as the new first-years take their seats at their assigned house tables. “Let the feast begin,” Dumbledore says as platters of all sorts of food appear on the table in front of us, damn near throwing me into a full-blown panic attack. 

Everyone digs in, and I start to look for the lowest calorie foods, mentally counting them in my head and comparing them to how much exercise I’ll have to do to make up for it when Fred takes my plate and starts putting food onto it. “What are you doing?” I ask him, trying not to panic. 

“Serving you, little one,” he says calmly, putting a scoop of potato salad on my plate, knowing it’s my favorite. I dig my nails into the palm of my hand when I see the size of the scoop, double what I would’ve taken for myself. My breathing intensifies as I watch him put beans and chicken on my plate, too. 

George takes my hands in one of his and tips my face to look at him. “Deep breath, baby. It’s alright. You don’t have to eat it all. We just want you to try, okay?” He says in a soothing tone of voice. I nod my head as tears well in my eyes, begging myself not to cry as Fred takes control of my plate. “Hey, hey, look at me,” George says, getting my attention again. “Take a deep breath in with me, okay? In,” he says and we take a deep breath in together. “Good, and out,” he says as we blow it out. We do this three times until I’ve finally calmed down. “Good girl, you feel a little better now?” 

I nod. “A little. I just hate eating in front of all of these people. I feel like they’re all staring at me,” I sniffle. 

“I promise they’re not, baby. But would it make you feel better if the others blocked you from looking at them?” George asks me. I nod shyly, and he smiles and kisses my cheek before leaning over the table to Hermione. “Pst, Granger,” he says, getting her attention as Fred sets my plate down in front of me. 

“Yes?” she answers, leaning over. 

“Tell everyone to scoot down so our girl doesn’t have to look at everyone while she eats, will you?” he asks quietly. Hermione gives him a thumbs up. 

Fred rubs my back lovingly and places some water and tea down in front of me as the others scoot down. “I don’t think I can eat all of this, Freddie,” I admit quietly. 

Fred smiles sadly and leans in. “It’s alright, little one. Just eat half, okay?” He says softly. 

I nod. “I’m sorry,” I admit, feeling ashamed. 

Fred tilts my chin up to look at him. “Listen to me. You have nothing to be sorry for. Do you understand me?” He asks seriously, and I nod as he continues. “Whenever you’re ready to talk about it, we’re here. Until then, and after, we will do everything we can to help you, okay?” 

“Thank you, Freddie,” I say softly. 

Fred genuinely smiles and kisses the back of my hand. “Anything for you, little one.” 

Our four friends scoot down to block me from looking at anyone else, and Fred and George tilt their bodies slightly to block me on the sides. “I still don’t see why we had to move,” Ron groans as I pick up my fork. 

Hermione nudges him in the ribs. “I told you, we’re helping y/n,” she scolds him. 

Ron rolls his eyes and looks at me. “Honestly, what did you need our help with, anyway?” Ron asks as he puts more food on his plate. 

I bite my lip nervously before I answer him. “I promise, I’ll tell you later. But I really do appreciate it,” I respond, giving him a small smile. 

Ron swallows a big bite and looks at me. “Whatever it is, it better be good, is all I’m saying.” 

Harry rolls his eyes and looks at Ron. “Honestly, Ron, just eat.”

I manage to eat half of my plate before the table magically clears and dessert appears. I take a deep breath, feeling my anxiety start rising again, but before I can get too deep into it, a voice behind me pulls me from my thoughts. “Ms. Hunt?” I turn around to see the headmaster, Dumbledore, behind me, looking down at me with a kind smile. 

“Oh, yes, sir?” I respond politely. 

“I hate to steal you away from your friends, but would you kindly accompany me to my office? I need to speak with you,” He asks like I have a choice. 

 “Of course, sir. Right now?” I ask, looking around at my friends and wondering how I could be in trouble when we literally just got here. 

Dumbledore smiles and nods once. “Yes, if you please. I will have you back to your common room with plenty of time to visit and settle in.” 

I nod and stand from the table. “Of course, sir. Lead the way,” As I walk through the great hall with Dumbledore, everyone, and I mean everyone, stares. But this time, I also hear the rumors. 

“She’s probably in trouble because she’s dating the twins,” someone from our table says.

“Hopefully, the slut gets kicked out,” someone adds in response to the first.

“Did you see her crying at the table? Fucking pathetic,” someone from the Ravenclaw table says.

“I heard she’s on drugs, and that’s why she doesn’t eat,” says someone from Slytherin.

I try to ignore them, but my eyes are filled with tears by the time we exit the great hall, and I can’t stop the sniffle that breaks free. Dumbledore doesn’t speak about it, simply handing me a tissue without saying a word as we walk to his office. 

“Sherbert lemon,” Dumbledore says to the griffin statue that leads to his office. The statue turns, and stairs appear in its place. When we get to his office, he opens his door and allows me to enter first. “Please, have a seat,” he says kindly, motioning to the chair in front of his desk as he sits behind it. 

“Sir, am I in trouble?” I ask nervously as I sit down in front of his desk. 

 Dumbledore looks at me curiously. “Now, why would you think that you’re in trouble?” He asks, making me want to roll my eyes. He always does this. Answers questions with a question. 

I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know,” then it hits me. “Is it my Mum?” I ask worriedly. “She’s in the hospital, you see, at,”

Dumbledore raises a hand, cutting me off. “At St. Mungo’s, with your father. Yes, I am aware,” Dumbledore says with a small smile. “Your father wrote me this morning and explained the whole situation. I am happy to say she is quite alright, even if she hasn’t woken yet,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “And you are not in any trouble.” 

Now, I’m even more confused. “Okay. Forgive me, professor. It’s just that I’ve never been called into your office before,” I say, looking around. 

“I asked you up here because I noticed that you seemed to be struggling at dinner. And I wanted to ask if there is anything that I can do to help,” Dumbledore responds kindly. 

I breathe a small sigh of relief. “Honestly, sir, I’m not sure,” I answer honestly, but I can see that he is waiting for an explanation, so I decide to just tell him everything. “Over the summer, I went through quite a bit,” he nods, waiting for me to continue. “My eating disorder has returned. It started in year three, and I got it under control in my fourth and fifth years, but this last summer,” I look off to the side, my hands shaking. “It returned in full swing. I noticed that I had gained quite a bit of weight and well…” I sigh and shrug my shoulders as I look back at him. “Here I am.”

Dumbledore nods, thinking for a minute before he speaks. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Ms. Hunt,” he says sympathetically. “You care so deeply for your friends, and you are always kind to everyone around you. I notice it when I am doing my evaluations during the year, and even just around the school in general,” he explains. “You are always the first one to offer help to another student, regardless of their house. I admire that about you,” he says with a smile. 

He thinks for another moment and speaks again. “How about this,” he explains. “There is a big enough table in your common room for you and your friends. How would you like to eat your meals there instead of the great hall? Your friends can join you, of course. You can eat your meals there in peace and just join the rest of the school when you feel comfortable enough.”

“That would be amazing, professor,” I say surprised. “But I would hate to burden you or the elves. I know nobody thinks about them, but I do. They already have so much on their plate: starting the fires, cleaning, and warming the beds on top of everything else. I would hate to add on to that.”

“I think it is a beautiful thing that you think of them,” he smiles. “You’re right. They are often overlooked. But I assure you, with your permission, of course, that when I explain the situation to them, they will be happy to help. Especially Dobby. As I hear, you have gotten quite close with the elf?” 

I chuckle and nod. “Yes, Dobby is wonderful. He always listens to me when I need someone besides my friends to talk to. And always with hot chocolate,” I smile fondly at the memories and nod. “Yes, I would very much appreciate that. You have my permission to speak with them about it. I know I can trust you and them.” 

Dumbledore nods and smiles. “Thank you for trusting me. Forgive me for asking, but does anyone else know of your struggles? Your friends, for instance?”

“Not yet,” I shake my head. “I was going to tell them when we got back to the common room once everyone else went to bed. I know I can’t fight it alone. Part of me doesn’t want to fight it at all, if I’m being honest,” I admit nervously. “But I’m tired all the time, and it’s scary when I almost pass out,” I sigh. “I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

Dumbledore nods with understanding. “Yes, the battles we have within ourselves tend to be the hardest to win. But,” he points to me. “They are also the battles most worth fighting for,” he says with a smile. “There is one more thing I wanted to share with you.” 

I lean forward slightly, paying attention. “Yes, professor?” 

Dumbledore clears his throat and leans forward. “When I corresponded with your father, he mentioned that when you’re stressed, it helps for you to have your own space,” I nod in agreement. “I have made arrangements, and you will have your own dorm room this year,” my eyes widen in surprise. My own dorm?! “If, at some point, you would like to share it with Ms. Granger or Ms. Weasley, that will be your choice, and we can arrange it. But it is your choice.”

“Thank you, professor. That is very generous of you,” I smile. “I hope it wasn’t too much of a burden.”

“None at all,” he shakes his head. “You may also, if you choose, have co-ed sleepovers. You are a bright witch, and I trust your judgment,” he explains, interlocking his fingers. “But only in your dorm room, and as long as you are careful and remember to take your potions every day. You are a young woman, and I understand that you have, well, shall we say, desires, but I do not want to hear you or your friends bragging about your privileges in the halls or class,” Dumbledore says sternly.

“As you know, private co-ed gatherings in the dorms are allowed for sixth years and above, but only before eight o’clock. Should I hear you or your friends bragging about your privilege, it will be revoked. Is that understood?” he asks seriously. 

I nod profusely. “Yes, professor, I understand entirely,” I respond, trying not to jump for joy right out of my seat. 

“Very well. Now, let’s get you back to your common room, and I shall confer with the house elves about your accommodations,” he says as we rise from our seats and walk out of his office. “Your dorm will be at the end of the hall, past the other girls’ dorm rooms. It’s a new door, so you can’t miss it.” 

As we walk down the corridors and up the stairs to the Gryffindor common room, he shares some of the amenities of my new dorm. I have to refrain from running ahead and telling my friends all about them as he tells me. Dumbledore also tells me how to lock and unlock my door. Apparently, my door is just like the doors to the common rooms, and once I set a password, so charm in the world will open it. Dumbledore also tells me one more surprise I’m excited to share with my friends tonight, while the rest of the school will be told in the morning. 

“Ms. Hunt, may I offer you one more piece of advice?” He asks as we reach the portrait of the fat lady. 

“Of course, professor,” I answer him. 

“In the course of my many years, I have heard a lot of foul rumors. Some about myself. The one thing I’ve noticed about all of them is that they are almost always false, and all from people who simply don’t understand or won’t understand one’s situation. As hard as it may be, pay no mind or attention to the rumors we heard upon our exit from the great hall,” Dumbledore tells me as he places a hand gently on my shoulder. “People tend to create such horrible things to say to cope with their internal issues. Not a single one I heard tonight defines you.”

“Thank you, sir. That does make me feel a bit better,” I tell him truthfully. 

“Of course,” he nods with a smile. “Goodnight, Ms. Hunt,” he says, turning away. 

“Um, professor?” I call after him.

“Yes?” He asks, turning to face me again. 

I smirk and point to the common room door. “I don’t have the password.”

Dumbledore chuckles and shakes his head. “Of course, my apologies. The password is ‘Fortuna Major.” 

I nod and Dumbledore turns and walks away as I turn back to the door. “Fortuna Major,” I tell the fat lady. She nods, and the doorway opens, allowing me to pass through. 

I walk into the common room and see my friends and the twins all waiting for me on the couches by the fire. Other than that, the common room is empty. Everyone else is probably still at the feast, given the fact that it doesn’t end for another hour. That, or they’re in their dorms, unpacking and settling in. When they see me, they all jump up excitedly. I walk over to Fred and George, giving them a big hug. 

“Are you alright?” George asks me as he kisses the top of my head. 

“Yes. He just wanted to talk to me about what I need to talk to all of you about,” I tell him as I pull back. “Also,” I smirk. “I got my own dorm room.” 

“What?!” They all ask in shock. 

“You lucky witch! How’d you manage that?” Ginny asks in surprise. 

“So that’s what the new door is for! Nobody could figure out how to open it,” Hermione laughs. 

“Yeah, I’m the only one who can unless someone has my password. I guess my dad and Dumbledore talked, and they decided that with everything going on, I should have my own space,” I explain as everyone still looks at me in shock. “So…” I smile wide. “You guys want to come check it out with me?” I ask them all excitedly. 

“Um, yes!” Hermione says excitedly as we start to walk toward the stairs. 

I turn around when I notice that the boys aren’t following us. “You guys coming?” I ask with a raised brow. 

They look at each other, and George scratches the top of his head. “Uh, it’s after eight, baby. No boys can be up there.” 

“Yeah, but we’ll wait here until you’re ready to talk,” Fred says with a look of disappointment. 

I smirk as I look at them. “Well, then, I guess it’s a good thing that my dorm is co-ed twenty-four-seven,” I smile wide. 

The boys look at me like I just sprouted seven heads. “What? Seriously?” George asks in shock. 

“How’d you swing that?” Ron asks in equal shock. 

I shrug my shoulders and smile. “I guess Dumbledore trusts me,” I giggle. They all immediately follow us up the stairs and to my door. “Okay, I need to think of a password so nobody except us can get in. Any ideas?” I ask our group. 

“Oo! One second, let’s make sure there’s nobody around first,” Hermione says, checking the dorms. “Okay, all clear,” she says when she comes back. 

“How about ‘butterfly’?” Ginny suggests, then shakes her head. “No, that’s too easy.” 

“How about your Mum’s maiden name? Nobody would be able to guess that,” Harry suggests next. 

“Excellent idea, Harry!” I say with a smile and turn to the door. I place my palm on the wood like Dumbledore told me to and set the password. “Password set to ‘Benson,’” I instruct the door. 

“Did it work?” Fred asks behind me. 

I shrug. “I don’t know, let’s see,” I say, gripping the door handle. “Benson,” the lock clicks, and the handle turns as I open the door. I gasp as I see my room. It’s beautiful. 

The room is huge. It’s square with the brick walls exposed. A big, four-poster queen bed is against the wall by my door, with a nightstand on both sides. A large table with a comfortable-looking chair overlooks my window, and next to it, a minifridge filled with Redbull, water bottles, and the potions I take every day. 

On the wall directly in front of my bed is a fireplace with a TV on top, filled with my favorite streaming services. In front of the fireplace, two small couches face each other, with a coffee table in the middle. On the left side of the room, a private bathroom and a wardrobe for all of my clothes. 

As we all explore my room, everyone tells me how much they love it. “And the best part?” I smile, moving to the green button by my wall. “You can all stay the night. This button summons beds, snacks, and drinks. I press it again, and they disappear,” I explain. 

“Wicked,” the twins say in sync as they sit on one of the couches. I smile and sit between them as everyone gets comfortable. 

“So, onto more serious matters,” I sigh. I need to talk to you all about something,” I tell them as my hands begin to shake. 

“You can tell us anything, y/n. We’ll listen,” Ginny says, giving me a reassuring smile.

“You’re our best mate,” Harry adds, pulling Ginny onto his lap. 

I nod and turn to look at Fred and George at my sides. “Whenever you’re ready, little one.”

I turn to look at everyone again and take a deep breath. “Please hold any questions or comments until I’m done. Because it’s a lot,” I ask everyone. Everyone nods as they wait for me to continue. I close my eyes, relax, and begin to explain. 

“So, as I’m sure you all noticed, I don’t eat a lot, or sometimes, not at all,” I take another deep breath and continue. “I have anorexia. It’s an eating disorder that causes me to starve myself. It started in my third year, and it got better in my fourth and fifth year, but it’s back,” I look down at my hands. “I’m not proud of it; as a matter of fact, I hate it,” I sniffle. “I’m just so ashamed of my body and so scared of getting fat that I can’t stop, even though I hate feeling so dizzy all of the time.”

Fred and George each take one of my hands, holding them tightly as I look back up at our friends. “I hate eating in large crowds. That’s why George and Hermione asked you guys to scoot down in the great hall. To prevent me from having to see anyone else or anyone else seeing me,” Ron covers his mouth and looks at me with a sympathetic expression. 

“I also have really bad anxiety. I take a potion for it every morning. Nobody knows because Molly would slip it into my coffee in the morning. I also carry around single servings of a stronger dose of it in case I have a bad anxiety attack. I hope you guys don’t think less of me or think I’m weird because of it. But I feel like I can trust all of you, and I feel like you won’t. It’s just hard sometimes because my anxiety tells me people will,” I finish explaining, wiping away the few tears that fall. 

Fred and George help me stand as everyone stands with them and they pull me into a big group hug. “We would never do that, y/n. You’re our best mate,” Harry reminds me. 

“Exactly. You’re like a sister to me. Hopefully soon, a sister-in-law,” Ginny adds, making all of us laugh as we pull back. 

Ron looks at me with a guilty look on his face and a tear falling from his eyes as he pulls me into a tight hug himself. “Merlin, I’m such an ass,” he sniffles. “Can you ever forgive me?” 

“Of course, I can, Ron,” I assure him as I pat his back before I pull back. “None of you knew.”

“Thank you for telling us,” Hermione says as she hugs me. “I’ll do some research, and I’m sure we can find a way to help you beat this.” 

I giggle as I pull back. “Thanks, ‘Mione. I can always count on you and your research,” I giggle. And turn to Fred and George, seeing them crying. They rarely cry, if ever at all. 

“I’m sorry if this is all too much,” I go to apologize, but before I can finish, they pull me into their chests, hugging me between them in my safe space. 

“Don’t you even think about finishing that sentence,” Fred tells me as he sniffles and kisses the top of my head. 

“You’re never too much, baby. We will always be here for you,” George assures me. They pull back and wipe my tears that started to fall again and kiss my cheeks. “Always,” George says as he looks into my eyes. 

I put my arms around their waists as they drape their arms over my shoulders when I turn back to our friends. “I have one more surprise,” I smile. “Dumbledore is giving everyone the day off tomorrow as a mental health day. He said he wants everyone to just relax and have an extra day on the grounds before school starts. So, I was thinking we break in my new room with a good old-fashioned sleepover.”

Everyone cheers, and I turn back to Fred and George. “You guys still have those bottles of Firewhiskey?” I ask, biting my lower lip with a smile. 

“Oh, baby,” George smirks and leans on my shoulder. “We have bottles for days,” he flirts, kissing my cheek. 

“Okay, but we need to be careful because Dumbledore said nobody else can know that you all are allowed in here after eight,” I warn him. 

“Here,” Harry says to Fred and George, reaching into his bag and pulling out his invisibility cloak. “Take this to go grab ‘em. Will you grab Ron and I pajamas, too? The four of us won’t fit under there,” he says, handing the cloak to Fred. 

“No problem, mate,” Fred says, taking the cloak from Harry and turning to me, kissing me deeply. “Be right back, little one,” he says with a wink. 

“I’ll come with you. I’ll hold the clothes while you hold the bottles,” George says to Fred before kissing me. “Back soon, darling,” he says with a smile as he gets under the cloak with Fred, and they sneak out of my dorm. 

“So,” I walk over to the green button on the wall and face my friends. “Should we press the button?” I ask with a smile. 

“Yes! But we should probably move the table and couches first, get them out of the way,” Hermione mentions. 

“Good point,” I agree. We push the couches out of the way and push the coffee table to the end of my bed, clearing the floor for whatever kind of beds pop up. “Alright,” I say with a smile as we finish, and I walk back over to the button. “Here goes nothing,” I say as I press the button. 

We gasp as two beds appear in front of the fireplace, adorned with pillows and fluffy-looking comforters. The table by the window magically fills with snacks and drinks. Chips, dips, cookies, pumpkin pasties, two liters of soda, a jug of pumpkin juice, and a kettle with hot chocolate. 

“Merlin, y/n. This is officially the coolest room I have ever seen in this castle,” Ginny squeals excitedly. 

“Um,” Hermione says with a blush. “Didn’t you say there would be the right number of beds for guests?” Hermione asks shyly as she looks at the two beds. 

I shrug. “Well, Dumbledore said couples were allowed, so maybe there’s a bed for each of you,” I suggest. “The magic probably knows you’re with Ron and that Ginny is with Harry.”

“If you’re not comfortable, Hermione, Harry, and I can take one, and you and Ginny can have the other,” Ron says, giving Hermione a reassuring smile. 

Hermione kisses his cheek and smiles. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. I was just curious,” Hermione says with a blush. 

“Cool, because I, for one, want to sleep with my boyfriend,” Ginny smiles and kisses Harry as he wraps an arm around his waist. 

My bedroom door opens and closes, looking empty until Fred and George remove the cloak, already dressed in pajamas, holding two bottles of Firewhiskey and pajamas for Rona and Harry. “Only two extra beds?” George asks as he hands Harry and Ron their pajamas. 

“The magic knows they’re together,” I quickly explain as Fred sets the bottles down on the table. 

“Oo, so we get to sleep with our girlfriend, too?” Fred flirts, wrapping an arm around my waist and dipping me. 

I giggle and kiss him. “Easy, tiger. Nobody is getting laid tonight.”

Fred lifts me back up and spins me in his arms to George, who catches me and sways. “Hey, no complaints here,” he says before leaning into my ear. “For tonight at least, baby.” 

“Just know you’re never getting rid of us now,” Fred says with a wink as he appears at George’s side. 

I laugh and roll my eyes. “Oh, no. Whatever will I do?” I ask in a flirty and sarcastic tone. 

For hours, we drink, eat, play cards and wizard chess, and eventually put on a movie as we all lay down. We all put on ‘Zombieland’ and mostly laugh at it. After the movie, our friends are knocked out hard, and I lay down between Fred and George on my bed, stretching my arms over my head as they wrap their arms around my waist. 

Fred leans in and kisses that sweet spot right behind my ear, making me hum in pleasure. “Can you be quiet for us, little one?” He asks flirtily, drawing lazy circles on my lower stomach. 

“Why do you ask, Freddie?” I ask, loving their touches. 

Fred and George look at each other and smirk before looking at me again. “We know you said ‘no fucking,’ but we want to finger you,” George says, biting his lower lip. 

I think about it for a moment, just the thought getting me wet. “What about the others?” I ask, not saying no.

Fred leans over the edge of the bed and lays back down next to me. “They’re passed out. We may or may not have put a sleeping potion in the bottle they were drinking from,” Fred says with a wink. “As long as you don’t get too loud, they won’t wake up.” 

I nod my head and bite my lower lip as Fred and George rub my thighs, making me clench them together. Maybe I’m crazy, but after all the teasing today, I need a release. “And you two are okay with not going all the way?” I ask, double-checking. 

“Completely,” they whisper together with devious smirks. 

“Plus, you deserve a reward after today,” George says, kissing my neck as his fingers trail up the inner part of my thigh, making them fall open on their own. 

“Mm, okay,” I hum softly. “I’m in.” 

“That’s our good girl,” Fred praises. “Just lay your pretty little head back and relax while we take care of you.” 

George quietly pulls back the covers and positions himself between my thighs. His fingers graze over my skin as he moves up the waistband of my sleep shorts, setting off sparks wherever he touches. He pulls down my shorts and panties, and his tongue pokes out to lick his bottom lip. “Mm, fuck. She’s glistening, Fred,” he smirks and looks at Fred next to me. 

Fred leans down to look at my pussy, making me blush as a low groan escapes his chest. “So wet for us, huh, little one?” 

I whimper with need at their words as Fred moves back to lean over me from my side. “Yes,” I moan softly as George swipes one finger painfully slow between my folds. 

Fred removes my shirt, leaving me bare before them. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he praises me as he leans down and takes one of my nipples into his mouth, drawing another small moan from my lips. 

George rubs slow circles around my sensitive clit as he slides one finger, then another, inside of me. “So tight and wet,” George praises. 

“Fuck, yes, just like that,” I moan as George starts to thrust his fingers in and out faster.

 “You like that, little one?” Fred asks as he switches nipples, pinching and rolling the one he was just sucking. 

“Yes, mm, I love it,” I moan, rolling my hips to meet George’s fingers. He pulls them out, making me whimper at the loss until I feel him shift, and his tongue meets my clit, licking and sucking on it as he slides two fingers back into me, curling and thrusting them in a delicious rhythm. “God, yes, George,” I moan, my back arching. 

George moans against my clit as his arm wraps around my hip and thigh, holding me in place. “You taste fucking devine,” he groans. 

Fred swallows my moans as he kisses me deeply, taking my bottom lip between his teeth. “Fred,” I moan softly when he pulls back. “I want to suck your cock,” I whimper against his lips. 

Fred chuckles darkly against my lips. “Is that so, little one?” he asks. I nod my head with another moan as George sucks my clit again. “How do you ask?” Fred teases me. 

“Freddie, please,” I moan softly, one of my hands moving down to clutch George’s hair as he laps at my clit and thrusts his fingers inside of me faster. 

Fred sits up, pulling down his pajama pants and boxers, freeing his long and hard cock. My mouth waters at the large size of it. I part my lips, sticking out my tongue to accept his cock in my mouth as he slides it in. “Fuck, you look so good with my cock in your mouth, little one,” Fred praises me. “Doesn’t she, George?” He turns and asks George with a groan as I take him deeper. 

“Like a fucking vision, Fred,” George says breathily before going back to my clit, flicking it fast with his tongue and making me mewl around Fred’s cock. 

I take his cock deeper in my throat, swallowing around him and hollowing my cheeks to create more suction as I bob my head up and down his long shaft. “Yes, just like that,” he moans, tilting his head back. “Fuck, switch me, George. I need to taste her now,” Fred groans. 

“Mm, don’t mind if I do,” George groans as he withdraws his fingers, and they switch places, making me whimper. 

“Needy, aren’t we, little one?” Fred teases me as he settles between my thighs and licks a long, slow line from my entrance to my clit. I hum and nod my head, making him smirk. “Guess we better take care of you then,” he winks and plunges his tongue into my entrance. 

I gasp as my back arches, and I grab the sheets of my bed. “Shh, don’t want to wake anyone,” George chuckles as he leans down and kisses me deeply, letting me taste myself on his tongue. “Mm, you want to suck my cock too, baby?” George asks me as he bites my lower lip. 

“Yes, Georgie, fuck, I want it,” I moan as he pulls down his pants and boxers. I grasp George’s cock, taking it into my mouth as Fred’s tongue moves to my clit and his fingers thrust into me harshly, making me whimper. 

“My God, you taste so good,” Fred groans against my clit, adding a perfect amount of vibration. My thighs attempt to clamp together around his head as I moan, taking George further down my throat. Fred forces them back open and thrusts three fingers inside of me. “Keep your fucking legs open,” he demands. The roughness of his hands, the demanding voice, and his sinfully skilled fingers only drive me closer and closer to the edge. 

I pull back off of George’s cock, stroking his cock and taking a breath of air. “Fuck, I’m going to cum,” I moan pathetically as my legs begin to shake. 

George thrusts his cock back into my mouth, gathering my hair in his hand and holding my head still as he starts to fuck my throat. “Good girl, cum for us, baby,” he moans, biting his lower lip. 

“Cum on my face like our good little slut,” Fred orders as he flicks my clit with his tongue faster and thrusts his fingers into me harder, curling his fingers and hitting that perfect spot inside of me. 

I force myself to take George in my throat all the way to his base, gagging around him as my orgasm starts to crest. “God, yes. Swallow my fucking cum, baby,” George moans as his cock twitches in my throat. My legs begin to shake uncontrollably as George spills himself down my throat, sending me right over the edge myself. His cock barely contains my moans as Fred holds my hands down at my sides, riding me through my orgasm with his devilish tongue as I swallow every drop of his twin’s cum. 

When George pulls himself out of my throat, he kisses me harshly, not caring about tasting himself on my lips. I pull back with a gasp as I look down at Fred. “Freddie, I want you to cum down my throat, too,” I plead. I had only just cum, and I already need more. 

Fred smirks and bites his lip as he comes up to my other side. “Your wish is my command. Open up, little one,” he instructs me as he presses his cock to my lips. “Fuck, that mouth,” Fred groans as I take him to the base, and he grips my hair tight. 

George’s fingers find their way back to my sensitive clit, rubbing circles around the tender nub. “I want you to be a good girl and cum for us again. Can you do that for us, baby?” he teases as his fingers slide to my entrance and back to my clit. I nod against Fred’s cock, and he harsh;y pulls me off of his cock by my hair, making me whimper. 

“He asked you a question. Use your words, little one. Are you going to be our good girl?” Fred asks in a low, demanding voice that makes me fucking feral. 

“Yes,” I hiss as he pulls my hair harder, only making me more wet. 

“Yes, what?” He groans, his cock twitching as the tip drips with pre-cum. 

“Yes, I’ll be your good girl,” I answer, sticking out my tongue and licking the slit on his cock where his pre-cum is dripping.

Fred hisses, and a low growl comes from his throat. “That’s our good girl,” George praises as he thrusts three fingers into my entrance, as his thumb rubs my clit. “Such a good little slut for us. Cum all over my fingers, baby,” George moans as my legs begin to shake. 

Fred pulls me off of his cock again. “Who’s good little girl, are you?” He teases me. 

“Yours and Georgie’s,” I moan softly. 

“That’s fucking right,” Fred groans as he thrusts himself inside of my mouth again and starts to fuck my throat. I feel myself come undone as Fred cums down my throat, shooting hot, salty ropes of cum down my throat, holding my head still as he gives me every drop. I feel my walls clench around George’s fingers, moaning and whimpering pathetically around Fred’s cock. 

When Fred pulls himself from my throat, he grabs my throat and slams his lips to mine as George fixes his pants and puts my shorts and panties back on, leaving soft, gentle kisses up my legs. “Woman, you’re going to be the death of me,” Fred whispers against my lips. 

“I could say the same to you two,” I whisper back as George lays back down next to me. 

Fred chuckles and sits me up, sliding my shirt back on and laying down on my other side. “You good, baby?” George asks me, drawing lazy circles on my hips. 

I smile and nod as I look at him. “So good,” I say quietly as Fred runs his fingers through my hair. “I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard in my life,” I giggle. 

Fred chuckles and kisses my neck softly. “You say that now, little one. Just wait until we get our cocks buried inside of you.” 

“We’ll wear you out,” George flirts with a wink. 

“Mm,” I hum, satisfied as I close my eyes and yawn. “Can’t wait.”

“Goodnight, beautiful,” Fred says, kissing me good night. 

“Goodnight, Freddie,” I say against his lips. 

George tilts my face to him, holding my chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Goodnight, my love.” 

“Goodnight, Georgie,” I say, kissing him just before sleep pulls me under with their arms wrapped around my waist.

[imagine-darksiders]

I’m having a really hard time right now. I just found out that my boyfriend of 2.5 years has been cheating on my physically and emotionally. Can I please request something fluffy and comforting of the horsemen reacting to finding out this news or just something fluffy with death? If not no worries, I hope you have a lovely day.

Oh my god that's awful! What a horrible, horrible thing for someone to do to you. I'm so sorry, I've channelled a bit of my own indignation into Death, War and Strife in these responses. I hope they bring you at least a little bit of comfort while you're going through so much. <3

Death:

This is… definitely going to be a problem for you.

Death never liked that sorry excuse for a human anyway… Never liked the way their eyes wandered in a crowd, even when they had your hand clasped possessively in theirs. The eldest Nephilim is an observer first, choosing to watch and wait for information to reveal itself, and after just a few days of watching you and your life-partner interact, he can already tell that there’s immeasurable love on your part, but very little on theirs.

Not that Death is any kind of expert, but he’s fairly certain love doesn’t involve draping oneself over another human while you’re still very much in the vicinity, a human who keeps shooting you quick, spiteful glances and grinning as they cling to your partner and bury their nose in their hair.

From his spot in the shadows, Death would watch your happiness wane, then vanish entirely. You’d turn away, and the Horseman had a sneaking suspicion that you were trying to convince yourself you were just being paranoid.

He had to stand there and listen, fingernails digging crescents into his palms as you quietly asked your partner about it later, politely mentioning how you weren’t sure it was appropriate for them to be all over each other like they often are. The subtle flirts that could easily be misconstrued as friendliness, the lingering touches on each other’s arms, the secretive rendezvous they’d tell you nothing about… You’d noticed it all.

Of course you did. They had the gall to be obvious about it. Death noticed too, and it was only because you told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to interfere in your love life that he didn’t pluck the little wretchs' souls from their bodies right then and there.

You were in love. You wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, but the old Horseman wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand by and watch you be treated with so much cruelty.

Your partner’s response to your observations?

‘You’ve been spending too much time around that Horseman. He’s making you paranoid. Are you looking for an excuse to leave me? I bet he wants that, doesn’t he!? Are you two fucking? Is that where this is coming from? Guilty conscience much!?”

If you hadn’t asked Death to take you somewhere outside the city at that very moment, he couldn’t have promised your house would be blood-free by the time it took your partner to finish speaking.

Since then, things have only been escalating. You found out your partner had their ‘friend’ over to stay the night while you visited the Forge Lands. You'd even asked them to join you on the trip, citing that the makers were dying to meet the lover of their favourite human, but of course, they'd brushed off your invitation as if it were an insult.

They’d neglected to tell you of their own plans, of course, and you’d only found out when you came home, crawled into bed with your partner and discovered a pair of shorts under the sheets. A pair that didn’t belong to anyone in your household…

Nothing came of it right away, save for you withdrawing completely, even from Death.

He was just about to stage an intervention when it happened.

It was, of all people, Vulgrim who alerted him. ‘That human of yours didn’t look well,’ he remarked casually when Death passed one of his Serpent Holes near the old Maker Tree, ‘Did you do something? I’m fairly sure they slept all night on that bench…’

It was all Death needed to hear.

Despair careens to a halt outside your door, his hooves kicking up sparks as they skid across the tarmac. Death has already leapt from the saddle by the time the horse stops, and wastes no time storming up the steps towards your front door, only to be given pause when Despair lets out a haunting whinny, drawing his rider to a standstill.

Twisting his mask around, Death squints over his shoulder and finds the steed’s big, skeletal head has pivoted to the right, ears pricked towards a streetlight that keeps its lonely vigil on the path opposite your home.

There, laying on a bench underneath its buzzing glow, Death spots a small figure trying to huddle into their coat for warmth.

Spitting out a curse, the Horseman turns and marches straight for the bench.

You’re startled by an ice-cold hand grabbing you roughly by the shoulder and hauling you over onto your back. Blinking back tears, the blurry image above you focuses until you find yourself peering straight up at the last person you wanted to see tonight. Well… Second to last.

A baltic chill rolls off the Horseman in waves as he glares down at you. “What are you doing out here?” he hisses, beating back the relief that threatens to dribble into his voice, “This is no place for a nap!”

Despite his gruff tone, he’s gentle when he pulls you into an upright position, kneeling down in front of the bench to bring himself to your level.

For several moments, you merely sit there and watch him check you over for injuries, your face a picture of bleakness, damp and sticky with tears. “I found their texts,” is all you offer him in the end.

Death goes very still then, darting his gaze to your face as a low hum starts up in the depths of his chest.

“They’ve been lying to me, Death… This whole time…” Crumpling forwards, you bury your face in your palms, shoulders heaving, “I …. I’m such an idiot! I knew! I knew, I just didn’t want to believe it!”

Almost at once, Death scowls, reaching forwards to slip strong, chilly fingers around your wrists and tug them away from your face. “You are many things,” he tells you sternly, “Hopeful, yes. Optimistic? Certainly. But an idiot? Never. There’s nothing foolish about expecting better from people you trusted.”

“I can’t believe it took me this long to-…” Sniffling, you let your arms go floppy in the Horseman’s grasp, shaking your head. “They’ve been going behind my back for months… They’ve been sending messages to each other… They said they can’t believe I still haven’t figured it out.”

“Do they know you’ve figured it out now?” he presses. If they haven’t yet, they soon will after a livid Reaper comes flying through the front door wielding a scythe…

Giving him a tiny nod, you whisper, “Yeah. Yeah, they know… Kicked me out… Told me they wouldn’t have had to cheat if I wasn’t being so suspicious and clingy…”

If he hadn’t spent so many eons practicing self-control, Death is sure the whole block would be levelled by now, with only you and the Horseman left standing. As it is, he isn’t the young, volatile force he used to be. He is, however, struggling to maintain that carefully concealed composure, for your sake. He knows it’ll only dampen your already dour mood if he were to start collecting souls…

Instead, he closes his eyes and focuses on the warmth of your wrists under his palms. Peeling his eyelids apart again, his gaze bathes you in a warmth of his own, the only kind he can give. Golden, ethereal light spills from his eyes and softly illuminates the tears on your cheeks.

“They… ‘kicked you out?” he puts tentatively, aware of the rough growl tinging his voice, “Of your own home?”

“…Technically it’s their home too.”

At that, the Horseman suddenly scoffs, sharp and cold. “Hardly,” he bites out, “You found it first. You had me check it for demon stragglers. Thane and Valus came and made sure it was structurally sound before you moved in! Your partner wasn’t around for that.”

With a grunt, he heaves himself to his feet, ebony hair swaying in front of his mask as he turns to stalk back across the street in the direction of your door.

In a flurry of limbs, you struggle off the bench, calling after him, “Death! Wait!”

He doesn’t, marching straight up the steps and curling his fist around the handle of your door.

“Oh god, what’re you doing? Stop!”

The Horseman’s shoulders rise and fall with a sardonic chuckle, and to your astonishment, he actually does stop, right on the top step, arm braced to rip your front door off its hinges. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he poses, “I’m taking you home.”

“I’m not-!” Shaky hands rake through your hair. “I don’t want to be in the same house as them right now, okay?”

“Oh, you won’t be,” he replies simply, a dark edge lacing the bass of his voice, “Not for long…”

And before you can stop him, before you can say another word to deter your apocalyptic friend from doing… whatever it is he plans to do, Death squeezes the door handle and wrenches the whole thing out of its frame, dropping it to the ground and sending splintered wood scattering across the steps.

You can’t bring yourself to go inside after him.

Like a wraith, the Horseman disappears into the darkness of your hallway, flitting through the house whilst you hover nervously at the bottom of your porch steps, heart in your throat and your elbows clutched tightly in sweaty palms.

It isn’t long before you hear a familiar voice exclaim, ‘What the Hell!?’ though it’s soon drowned out completely by a low, threatening rumble that sounds more like an earthquake than a Horseman’s vocalisation. The whole house even seems to shiver as the noise rolls through it, rattling the shingles and causing the windowpanes to wobble in their frames.

Your stomach drops like a stone when a shadowy figure emerges from the doorway moments later, holding another, far noisier shape aloft by the front of their hoodie.

“Death!” you blurt in shock, gawping up at your partner as they flail and beat their fists uselessly against the Horseman’s fist keeping them airborne, “Oh my god! Put them down!”

“In a moment,” he snarls, hauling your fellow human down the steps and out onto the street. For a brief moment, their eyes connect with yours, and you’re hardly surprised to see their pupils have shrunk to the size of pinpricks, delirious with terror.

“C-call him off!” they bark, earning a rough jostle from their tormentor, “What the fuck did you tell him!? Make this asshole put me d-ack!”

Letting out an inhuman growl, Death jerks to a halt and hoists your ex-partner higher into the air above his head. His arm doesn’t even quiver from the strain of keeping an entire human aloft.

Slowly, dangerously, he lowers your ex down towards his mask, fist twisted into the hoodie’s fabric with a silent promise to do the same to their neck. “You have no idea what you’ve brought upon yourself,” the Horseman seethes, “You will leave this place. You will leave this city. You will never return here unless you’re prepared to face the consequences.”

“What!?” they choke, giving up on hitting his impervious arm and instead trying to pry his fingers out of their hoodie, “Y-you can’t kick me out of Haven! Who the Hell do you think you are!?”

Hackles raised, Death keeps his head tilted back to glare up at them with wide, piercing eyes. “Who am I? Do you really need a reminder?” he laughs but it’s an ugly sound, dark and filled with the promise of pain, “Perhaps I should tell you exactly how and when you’re going to die, see if that jogs your memory.”

You can only watch on as your partner goes several shades paler than normal, shaking their head and begging Death not to tell them.

Cocking his head to one side, Death just shrugs a massive shoulder and says, “Suit yourself.” And with that, he promptly drops your ex on the road with a sickening ‘thud,’ turning his back on them as they writhe about, clutching at their coccyx and wailing in agony. It was quite the tumble.

As he passes you, Death catches your elbow in his palm, pulling you gently away from the human in the road. “Come on. Inside, now…Before you catch a chill.” Sparing a brief glance at the broken door as he guides you inside, he adds, “I’ll get that fixed…”

The night is still in its early hours, but you hardly feel like you’ll be getting much sleep. So, it’s with a heavy heart that you drag yourself into your bedroom, watched all the way by your ever-vigilant companion.

By his very nature, Death isn’t a comforting Nephilim. He’s grateful you don’t ask anything more than for his presence. You don’t expect him to hold you and stroke your hair while you cry against his chest, nor do you ask him to fill your head with pretty words about how you deserve so much better than your ex.

You don’t need to ask him for that. He does it of his own volition.

Instead, you’re content to sit on your bed with the ancient Horseman occupying the space beside you, an ever-constant presence, watchful and protective.

And if, after crying all of your tears out into the quiet night, you slouch sideways against Death and end up with your cheek pressed into his cool, bulbous shoulder, well… he’s not complaining.

War:

War was riding towards your home when he spots you stumbling in the opposite direction down the dark, empty street with a hand clutched around your mouth and your shoulders jumping with harsh, rapid intakes of breath. He’d been on his way to conduct another ‘welfare check,’ as you’ve recently taken to calling them, where he drops into your home just to make sure you’re safe.

So, to see you staggering outside without any visible protection has him spurring Ruin into a loping canter to pull up alongside you. Swinging a leg from his saddle, War drops heavily to the ground beside you with an almighty clang of steel, causing you to jump a foot in the air, as if you hadn’t even noticed him coming.

You really must be out of it to miss the largest Horseman’s approach.

What are you doing out in the city at night? He’s told you until he’s blue in the face how dangerous it still is for humans to wander around alone in the darkness, where demons could be lurking around every corner, sympathisers of the Destroyer or enemies of the Horsemen.

When you whirl around towards him, throwing your hands away from your mouth in shock, he catches his first glimpse of your face.

All at once, the titanic Nephilim goes from disgruntled to downright frenzied.

You’re crying. You’re alone, in the dark, with tears cascading down your ruddy cheeks, and he doesn’t know why.

His famously short fuse bursts into flames, whittling down to an explosion you can see coming from a mile off. Apoplectic with outrage, War surges forwards, crowding you against the faded brick of an old, tumbledown building as he darts his icy glare over you from head to toe.

You must be hurt, he concludes. Once he’s brought you safely into your home, he’s going hunting…

A wall of warm, unassailable muscle keeps you pinned as the Horseman surrounds you with his huge, encompassing gauntlets, their metal fingers splayed just inches above your arms with barely contained agitation. His anger only grows tenfold when you start to cry even harder, turning your face to try and hide from him.

“Who did this?” he rumbles, his voice rolling through you like distant thunder, warning of the storm to come.

“N-Nobody!” you blurt out in a sob.

The Horseman’s jaw clenches shut, canines poking out through a gap in his curling lips.

You know how much he hates being lied to.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you hang your head, lips pursed to hold back another miserable whimper. Under War’s attentive stare, you finally admit that your partner, the person you thought you’d spent the rest of your life with, has been cheating on you.

After an awkward moment spent explaining that cheating means seeking the affections of another behind your back, War’s lips peel back into a ferocious snarl, and the heat he exudes climbs higher and higher until it feels as though you’re standing in front of a burning furnace. Shyly, you tell him that you’d come home to find a stranger in bed with your partner, and you’d simply turned around and fumbled your way out of the house again, though not before taking an axe from the basement and destroying the fridge you’d just fixed, the television you’d scrounged up from a junkyard of course, the front door.

You were always busy in that house with a hammer and nails, fixing what the Apocalypse had broken. They were… good at telling you what needed to be fixed. Now, they can do it themselves. Ought to teach them some goddamn self-sufficiency now that you’re gone.

After willing his Chaos form not to burst out through his skin at the injustice of it all, with wild-eyes, War twists his hood in the direction of your old home, shoulders rising like the hackles of a beast.

He cannot allow this… this disrespect to go unpunished. The coward who did this will pay for his transgression. War’s scowl darkens. Behind him, Ruin throws his head back and bellows out a guttural whinny, pawing a molten hoof at the road until the tarmac starts to turn soft from the heat.

“War?”

Small, quiet, a far cry from the human he knows so well, you sound wounded though he can’t see any blood. You always told him the people who love you are supposed to protect you, to keep you safe and try to make you happy…

It had brought into question his own feelings on more than one occasion…

War knows how much you love the human you called your partner. He’s seen you sacrifice much for their happiness, not least agreeing to limit your exposure to the Horsemen solely because the Four made them so anxious. In War’s eyes, your loyalty to them was always admirable, even if it came at the cost of your closeness to he and his siblings, but now your partner has betrayed you in a way that’s cut you down to your core, spilling sadness out like a severed limb haemorrhages blood.

First thing’s first though… He has to get you somewhere safe. He knows without asking that you won’t be going back to your home… He’ll have to return in the near future to gather some of your belongings, but for now… Well, he’s been looking for an excuse to move you somewhere more secure. Somewhere off-world, perhaps. Like a fortress that he’s been fitting out to suit a very specific, very human set of needs…

Strife:

When he invites himself into your home in the typical, jocular fashion, only to find that you’ve locked yourself in your bedroom, sobbing under the covers, Strife’s first thought is ‘point me at the idiot I’m gonna murder.’

You don’t tell him what happened, not even when he wrenches your door off its hinges and throws it into the adjoining hallway before hauling his armour through the narrow frame to get to you. You know for a fact that he isn’t bluffing when he snarls, “I’ll kill ‘em. Just tell me who, and they’re dead.”

He’s killed plenty of people for lesser things than the unforgiveable crime of hurting his best and only friend.

His trigger finger twitches on the leather of Redemption’s holster.

It takes several minutes before he manages to coax the truth out of you, and when he hears you choke through a raw throat that your partner has been unfaithful, he’s…

… Conflicted.

First, there’s a surging upsweep of excitement. You’ve been spending less and less time with the Horseman lately, something your partner implemented after complaining that Strife would end up getting you killed someday. The nerve… You’re never safer than when Strife is at your side. Of course, there are times when he brings you to places where danger is present, but he’d die before he let said danger touch one, precious hair on your head. Now though, with your confession that you’ve left that cowardly human for good, Strife realises what that really means.

You’re free. You’re no longer tied to the arm of another, and he can finally have you all to himself!

Then, comes the guilt.

Selfish. How could he possibly be happy that your heart has been broken. Death always said Strife was sicker in the head than the rest of them…

Finally, every other thought he has is promptly buried by an uncontrollable, white-hot rage.

How dare they…

How DARE they!

Quick as a flash, he’s ripping Redmption from its holster and storming towards your bedroom door. His jagged edges are too sharp, too barbed and bristling to try and console you right now… He’d only end up hurting you…

“Strife! Wait!” you choke out, scrambling out of bed after him as soon as you realise his intent, “Stop! Wait, w-wait, wait! Don’t!”

It’s only the feeling of your tiny hands wrapping around his gun arm and clinging to it with feverish desperation that the red mist of rage starts to lift, leaving him huffing and snarling like an injured wolf in the doorway to your room.

“Please…” Your watery voice calls him back from the edge he’s teetering on, and he stiffens when you press your forehead into the swell of his bicep, as if to push your plea directly into his body. “Please. Don’t give me something else to have to cope with.”

It’s the only way to reach him.

Appeal to the trigger-happy Horseman’s soft spot.

You.

He loves causing trouble. But he hates when that trouble circles back to you.

With a deep, resonant exhale, Strife’s shoulders slump and he reluctantly slips Redemption back into its holster.

Then, in one, sweeping motion, he spins on his heel and bends down, scooping you off the floor, never minding the yelp of shock he draws from your chapped lips. You’d been crying for a while before he arrived.

The knowledge sets his temper flaring.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he forces the fire in his belly to quell, focusing on the cooling balm of having you held close to him.

With you in arm, he ventures into your living area and plonks himself down in front of the television on your sofa, causing its wooden frame to creak pathetically under his weight. Still bridling, he takes care in nudging a set of controls into your hands.

“Wanna watch somethin’,” he says churlishly, hoping you don’t think his mood is aimed at you, “Somethin’ funny… Cheer me up.”

‘Cheer you up,’ he doesn’t say, because that would invite a level of vulnerability that he isn’t ready to address just yet.

For you, it feels as though you’re sitting in the lap of a ticking time-bomb, though the both of you know that so long as you’re here, he won’t explode.

You’re still crying though, startled by a Horseman sweeping like a hurricane through your house, but at least you’re not alone with your thoughts anymore, nor the doubts or insecurities that keep scuttling like little bugs inside your head. Instead, you can focus on Strife, who eases his hissing temper back bit by bit, tipping you into his chest and curling his chin over you as he glares unseeing at the television screen.

There’ll be Hell to pay, owed by the human who did this to you. Of that he has no doubt. Oh, they’ll suffer, but sadly, he won’t kill them. Anyone who would look elsewhere for love when they had someone like you in their corner is the biggest fool in the Universe, and Strife intends to make sure they know it.

But for as long as you still draw breath, he doesn’t plan on letting another soul try to take you away from him again.

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

I'm up way later than I need to be and listening to music while I draw and this song gives me SUCH Sabo feelings and I would love to hear your opinions!! (Never Love An Anchor by The Crane Wives)

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=Y07xArvIvjw&si=ffMbMHTWuHHnxY2C

You dare bring. The Crane Wives. Into this peaceful household.

Never Love an Anchor no less.

RELATING THE SONG TO THE BLORBO FROM MY SHOW NO LESS

The audacity.

Anyway.

Yeah it makes me think about how Sabo left Ace and Luffy on his own accord at the end. Of course it was a last resort but he left them because he knew that this was the only way for them all to be free.

He left knowing that he would probably not see him until they were 17. Or maybe even never again.

He left them so that they could be safe. Because as long as long as he was with him, as far as he could see, hands would still try to claim him, resulting in the ones he loves getting hurt.

There was no winning for Sabo or any of them. As long as he tried delaying the inevitable, it just never would have happened.

He had to give up what he loved so he could keep it.

And then after he regains his memories, him thinking how much he’s changed. His claws might hurt the one he loves so dearly, even though at this point he doesnt even know him anymore. What if when Luffy finds out that he was alive, it only hurts him deeper. Knowing that there was someone who would have made a difference that day wasnt there. Reliving not only that day in the moment of reuniting, but the say he lost Sabo, too.

I dont find it strange that Sabo didnt try to reunite with Luffy until dressrosa. And in fact i think that reuniting with luffy is something he did as an absolute last resort. I think he truly didnt want to meet him that day at all.

In the anime alone, it doesnt much show it, but in the manga and the Episode of Sabo his hesitance and nerves are really clear to me. He takes a second before he starts walking to talk to luffy. His hand is clutched and shaking. He walks as slowly as he can. And also he only does it after he knows that Luffy cant get the fruit.

They both need that fruit safe. An heirloom of their precious brother, the only thing they have left that can life on from him.

If Luffy could’ve finished that tournament, im fairly certain Sabo would’ve never revealed himself.

I think he feels like he might hurt luffy if he did, but i also think that he didnt feel he deserved it. To reunite with Luffy after all that time. After all that happened.

Going back to the song, the lyrics

“So, I did the only thing that i could And severed the rope to set you sailing from my harbor.”

Even though it was Sabo who went sailing from the harbor, what he was doing was sever the rope from his connections with luffy and Ace so that they could grow and be free without worrying about being held back by him and the weight of his life keeping him suffocating at the bottom of the harbor he’s being drowned in.

If sabo had successfully left Goa that day, and he had reunited with Ace or Luffy somewhere down the line, i think he would act the same way he did in dressrosa that day. I think he would feel his baggage is too much, someone could be after him. And he wouldnt want to reunite. Especially after how he left them.

To me, that letter didnt read as a “i hope i see you again”, but a “goodbye forever”. Which i mean,,,, it was one, at least in Ace’s case, so … 🤷‍♀️ kill me

Anyway, the sentencing of your crimes of Crane Wives-ing me will be capital punishment, i hope you understand.

Thanks for the ask!

[pathologicalreid]

occupational hazard | S.R.

You and Spencer have a discussion about the dangers of his job.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: plot discussions from 9x23 (angels) and 9x24 (demons), canon compliant injuries, crying, established relationship word count: 1.23k a/n: thought of this while i couldn't sleep after watching the season 9 finale. also its me. I'm the crier.

Your mother always said you had a problem with staring. In the grocery store as a kid, she would pull you to the side and tell you that you were being rude. It always confused you because you didn’t think it was possible to be rude without speaking.

Spencer never seemed to mind your staring, he’d ask if everything was alright, but he never really asked you to stop or told you off.

So, while he was over at your apartment, sitting on the couch grading papers, you just stared at him. You studied how his hair fell in front of his face as he scrawled on the printed paper, and how he set his jaw when he noticed a mistake. Your brows furrowed when you noticed a small scar on the side of his neck, a confused noise escaped your throat.

That got his attention, “What’s wrong?” He asked, matching your furrowed brows before setting his pen down.

Cocking your head curiously, you leaned forward to try to look at his neck, “What is that?” You whispered. It was an old scar, so you could only really notice it when the light hit it just right.

“What is what?” He asked, looking behind him and on his shirt like he was looking for a spill.

Gently, you reached out your hand and touched the scar with your fingertips. “Where did you get this scar?” You couldn’t believe you had never noticed it before – the two of you had been dating for more than half a year.

He reached up his hand and met yours, intertwining your hands together, “On a case in Texas.”

Your lips parted slightly as you looked at the scar again. “How did you get that scar on a case in Texas?” You asked, even though you were fairly certain you knew the answer.

Turning, Spencer set all of the papers on the side table before he turned back to face you. “I was shot in the neck,” he answered almost a little too calmly. As if it was just another day in the office, and maybe it was to him.

It certainly wasn’t to you. “What do you mean you got shot in the neck?” You asked, your voice was high and reedy with panic. Fear settled in your chest on behalf of a version of your boyfriend you didn’t even know.

“Hey, hey,” he said in an attempt to calm you down. “I’m okay, this happened almost five years ago, love. I’m fine,” he said, cupping your cheeks with both of his hands.

Your eyes were still wide, like deer in the headlights wide, and you nodded despite yourself. “That’s so scary, Spence,” you whispered as emotion burned in your throat. You knew he worked for the FBI and had for a long time. You knew he had been in love with a girl who was killed in front of him – that’s why he was so protective sometimes. You knew he had been in prison for three months for a crime he didn’t commit – that’s why he taught classes for thirty days. This was the first thing you had figured out – you had told him to tell you everything in his own time.

For a moment, he watched you like he had something he wanted to say but wasn’t sure where to start.

You sat on your heels and retracted your hands from his neck, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry I just… I saw the scar.” Awkwardly settling your hands in your lap, you sighed. “You’re right, it was a long time ago.”

“Wait, what just happened?” He asked dumbfoundedly.

Shrugging, you settled into the couch cushions. “I just saw the scar and I was curious,” you whispered as your eyes burned. “I didn’t… I just mean you don’t owe me an explanation.”

Reaching into your lap, Spencer took one of your hands in his, gently skimming the pad of his thumb over your knuckles. “You can always ask, it’s a fact that my job is dangerous,” he told you softly. “Getting hurt is an occupational hazard. It was never my intention to make you feel like you can’t ask me questions about… Why are you crying?”

You wiped furiously under your eyes at the tears that had flooded your eyes, “because you got shot.”

“You’re crying because I was shot five years ago?” He asked in bewilderment, his tone wasn’t belittling, he was genuinely surprised at your reasoning.

Nodding, you pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes in an attempt to stop your tears. “I am a crier; I cry at everything. Please don’t read into this,” you pleaded, embarrassment flooding your cheeks.

Gently, Spencer pried your hands away from your face, “Please don’t cry. I hate seeing you cry, and I don’t know what to do.”

You shook your head, and your bleary eyes met his, “Really, Spence, I’m fine. I’m just a crier, okay? Sad, happy, mad, I cry.” You looked up at the ceiling light and sniffled, fanning your face in an attempt to dry it off.

He was staring at you, “You are quite possibly the sweetest human being I have ever met.” Spencer reached out and pulled you to him, “Look at me.”

Begrudgingly, you looked at him. “How many times have you been shot?”

“I’m not answering that until you stop crying,” he said, sweeping your hair behind your ears.

That answer did absolutely nothing to comfort you. Huffing, you pressed your lips into a thin white line, “I’m fine,” you whispered, “I’m just crying.”

Spencer smiled at you, “That is an oxymoron, and you know it.” His smile faded, “I’ve been shot three times.”

“Oh my god, Spencer,” you said, dropping your head to his shoulder.

He hummed softly, turning his head to press a kiss to your temple, “Once in the knee, once in the arm, and once in the neck. Please don’t cry.”

You nodded into him, “Yeah, you’re… you’re okay now, right?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Is there anything I can do to help you feel better?” He asked softly, running his hands along your back.

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, “I love you,” you whispered.

His movements falter for just a moment, “I love you too.”

Pulling away and wiping your eyes, “You should finish grading those papers,” you whispered to him, moving away.

Instead of letting you go, Spencer pulled you closer, “I’ll finish tomorrow. I want to be here with you now,” he responded softly. “Are we okay?”

“Your job scares me,” you answered candidly, “but we’re good. We’re great.”

He nodded self-assuredly, “I can’t change the job, but you could meet my team if you wanted to. Maybe meeting them would make you more comfortable with me going out into the field,” he offered. “And maybe I could…” his voice trailed off as he mumbled something else.

Tilting your head curiously, you hummed in an attempt to prod at him, “Maybe you could what?”

“I could make you my emergency contact. If that’s something you’re comfortable with,” he said. “I’ve never really had anyone to add, but I’m sure Emily wouldn’t mind.”

You smiled softly at him, grateful for every bit he let you in, “I would be honored. Just don’t have any emergencies.”

please like, comment, and/or reblog if you enjoyed!

[witchyfoxelf]

today is an extremely bad day for the magic the gathering community.

if you don't play mtg, here's what you need to know: the most popular format by far is actually a fan-created format originally known as elder dragon highlander (edh), and later becoming enshrined as an official format under the name commander. despite its official recognition by wizards of the coast, the commander format was governed by an independent panel known as the rules committee. if my use of the term "was" sounds foreboding... it should.

on september 23rd, this independent rules committee announced the addition of four cards to the format's banned & restricted list. regardless of how you feel about these changes, they were aimed to do the one thing the rules committee cares about: keep the format fun & fair for all players. again, i must stress that this is their only motivation. that's something i'd like everyone to keep in mind before we move on to where we are today.

the rules committee was expecting the backlash to their decisions to be vitriolic. the cards they banned were popular among... a certain segment of players. and more importantly, they were cashcows for joyless collectors and the secondary market. the kinds of people who unironically refer to these little pieces of cardboard as "investments." and yeah, i'm being a little unfair here. i will acknowledge that. but i think it's pretty warranted considering what happened next.

what happened next were death threats. lots & lots of death threats. lots & lots of death threats, a disproportionate number of which were directed at the rules committee's only female member. yeah, shocking. ironically it turned out that she literally voted against the most unpopular changes to the banned & restricted list, not that she needs to have to make this entire thing reprehensible. but it's just... frustrating. all of it is very frustrating.

of course she isn't the only one who received these threats. the rest of the rules committee also received similar harassment, as did plenty of people who weren't even involved with this decision. it's just a very ugly moment for the community.

if you have ever considered sending someone actual, literal death threats over PIECES OF CARDBOARD, please reevaluate your entire life immediately.

and look, there are some extremely reasonable criticisms of the decision and how it was announced. i'm not denying that. and i will fully admit that i had a fairly positive view of the bans compared to the people who were angry. but regardless of how you feel about them, one thing is undeniable: they were made by people whose entire motivation is making the format more fun & fair. that was literally their only motivation. they were not beholden to shareholders or executives or any of the other machinery that makes Line Go Up. they just wanted the game to be as fun as possible.

today, wizards of the coast announced that the commander rules committee is officially handing over management of the format to wizards of the coast. a company who, ever since its aquisition by hasbro, has been nakedly motivated by profit above all else. a company who, even when it was more independent, would have ultimately had that motivation simply by virtue of being, you know, a company.

so tl;dr (too late), good job mtg community. you showed your entire ass to the world by harrassing people off of the internet over fucking pieces of cardboard, and now hasbro fully owns the game's most popular format. i hope you're fucking happy.

[vodika-vibes]

Hey I was wondering if you could write a crosshair x reader where they have a lazy morning maybe with batcher too.

Lazy Morning

Summary: You decide to sleep in on your day off. It leads to a very relaxing day with the love of your life.

Pairing: TBB Crosshair x F!Reader

Word Count: 1087

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: I started writing this ages ago and then put it on pause, before continuing it today and I have no idea where I was originally going with the story, so I'm sorry if the vibes changes midstory. The only problem now is that I want to lounge by the pool. Alas, there is no pool.

It’s early, though not so early that the sun isn’t high in the sky, and you groan in annoyance when the bright morning sun hits your face, waking you from your very nice sleep.

Wait.

You’re fairly certain that you shut the curtain before you fell asleep last night.

You crack open a singular eye just as something large and heavy lands on the bed, and then you yelp as the solid mass of muscle flops next to you. “Batcher-?”

The lurca hound releases a happy little noise and buries her head under your pillows and blankets. 

You groan and roll onto your back, flinging your arm over your eyes, “Crosshair? Why is your dog in my bed?”

“I’m fairly certain it’s our bed, angel.” Crosshair replies from somewhere on the other side of the room, near the door. He’s probably the one who opened the curtain too.

“You don’t live here, leech.” You counter without any heat in your voice.

“Rude, and I went through all of the trouble of making caf and breakfast for you. But, since you aren’t interested-”

“I hate you. What did you make?” You ask as you slowly sit up and squint at the man leaning against the door frame, “And how’d you get in anyway?”

“I made a quiche-” You shoot him a look, and he rolls his eyes, “Believe it or not, I am capable of following instructions from a recipe.”

“Yeah, but normally people start with, like, pancakes. They don’t tend to jump to quiches.” You reply as you swing your legs off the bed and stretch your arms over your head, “And you didn’t answer how you got in the house.”

“I picked the lock.”

“Cross!”

“Hey, you don’t want me to pick the lock, then give me a key.”

“Ugh, I haven’t had a copy made yet. I’m working on it.” You pad over to him, yawning widely, and then you thump your head against his chest, “Why’re you and Batcher over here anyway.”

“My brothers are annoying.” Crosshair replies as he sets his hand between your shoulder blades, “I needed some quiet.”

“Mm,” You slide your arms around his waist, “And you decided to make breakfast for me while enjoying the quiet?”

You feel him shrug, “You deserve to be spoiled. Maybe.” He says, his hand sliding up to rest lightly at the back of your neck. 

“Maybe?” You ask with a laugh.

“I do have a reputation, kitten.”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember.” You rub your nose against his chest, allowing the sharp scent of Crosshair to fill your lungs, and then you pull back slightly, “Thank you for making breakfast, I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” He lightly rubs the back of your neck with his thumb, a small, slightly crooked, smile on his lips. “It still needs to cook for a bit, so you have time enough to shower and wake up.”

You hum thoughtfully, “Yeah, I might do that.” You lean in to brush your lips against his jaw, only to giggle as he ducks his head to kiss you properly. You lightly trail your fingers against his jawline, “Good morning, Crosshair.”

“Mm, it is a good morning now,” He murmurs, before he drops one more kiss against your lips, “Go take your shower, I’m going back to the kitchen. Batcher, off!” The dog whines but jumps off your bed, dragging your comforter with her.

You sigh, and Crosshair chuckles, “I’ll handle it, kitten. I’m planning on spending the day lounging by your pool, so maybe grab a swimsuit.”

“You just want to watch me parade around for you in a bikini.”

“Yeah, of course.”

You huff, though there’s no heat, and you lightly kiss him one more time before you meander over to your dresser to dig out your swimsuit, “Why do you want to use the pool when we live on an island?”

“Uh, there are people at the beach, and there aren’t people here. Besides, you’re the one who owns a pool in spite of living on a tropical island.”

You scowl at him as you pull out your bathing suit, “I didn’t build the pool, the house came with it.”

“You still bought it.”

“Inherited it.”

“Same difference.” He walks over to you and tugs your bikini out of your hands, before pulling a different one out of your dresser, “Wear this one.”

“...this is white.”

“I know what I’m about, kitten.”

“You’re such a man sometimes,” You take the bikini though and turn towards the bathroom, “I’ll be down shortly.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Fifteen minutes later, you step into the kitchen, clad in the white bikini and a sarong hung low around your hips. Crosshair offers you an appreciative whistle, before he tosses a ball out the back door for Batcher to chase.

“Prettier than a sunset,” He praises, a small smirk on his lips.

“Only because I’m wearing this thing,” You counter as you walk over to him and lightly pluck his toothpick out of his mouth.

“You could take it off, I won’t complain.” He drawls with an appreciative drag of his eyes down your body.

You point at him with his toothpick, “Pervert.”

“Guilty as charged.” He pushes your hand away and stands so he’s able to catch your lips in a kiss, “I opened the umbrella and put your breakfast on the table outside already. I also put out towels for us, as well as the sunblock.”

“Well, you have everything in hand, don’t you?”

“All that’s left to finish the perfect morning, is you sprawled out in the sun.” Crosshair replies.

You laugh softly, “Well then, who am I to deny you?” His arms snake around your waist and he tugs at the knot holding the sarong in place.

“You’re not going to need this, kitten. It’ll just get dirty.”

“And I’m sure it has nothing to do with wanting to see my legs.”

“Of course not.”

“Uh-huh.” You slide your hands up his chest and then wrap your arms around his neck, “It’s a good thing that I actually like your attention.”

“Oh, how much do you like my attention?” Crosshair asks as he bumps his forehead against yours.

“Enough that I’m considering inviting you to spend the night.”

He chuckles, “Well then, I’d better behave so you don’t change your mind.”

And you laugh one more time, before you pull him down into a kiss, leaning your weight against him. He’s right about one thing, this is definitely the perfect morning.

[whorbidmore]

okay, so, I've fallen victim to the leon kennedy brainrot steadily overtaking me, following me from Tumblr to Pinterest, to Instagram and even the absolutely fucking dreaded application of TikTok. I don't even use it that often??? and the algorithm is just like 'wow, yeah, this little fuckers gay as hell send in the 40 year old meow meow!!' and having watched Death Island fairly recently, I'm gonna have my opinions on what this dude would be like. Cus my brain loves to rationalize shit and think ab 'what if this mf was someone real?' so... fuck it.

Leon Soft Kennedy Headcanons

SFW

accidentally bigoted. - im sorry but let's be so fucking real here. he's a 40 something year old man who spent the majority of his life in either the military, a police training academy in the 90's, or otherwise working under the U.S Federal System with minimal/no time between missions to unpack absolutely everything he's got going on... the guys gonna have some problematic tendencies. Obviously that doesn't mean he means any of that or is incapable of change, etc. etc., but I know for damn certain this dude would laugh a little at Bill Burr's borderline to blatantly misogynistic material and has probably chuckled unironically at the attack helicopter jokes. But, he's not a complete dick, and would definitely become more critical of those kinds of jokes if it's pointed out to him.

honest to God, Dad Without Kids™ - it's not simply enough for me to leave it at 'but it's the vibes!!' so, I'm gonna break this shit down. Leon is absolutely Gen X incarnate. I can fucking guarantee you that on his off days he accidentally ends up dressing as an undercover cop; I'm talking cargo shorts, light blue button up, those fucking standard issue boots cus "they're perfectly good shoes" and those stupid ass sunglasses... you know the ones I'm talking about. Let's say you're living with him, right? And you're... you, and you wanna watch something on TV. This dude would strain himself getting up like a turtle fallen backwards on its shell, stand up, walk right in front of the TV screen and stand there with his hands on his hips. It doesn't matter that he had to piss, he needs to get a better look of what's happening! Does those really loud, obnoxious coughs and sneezes, absolutely blows his back out doing one at least five times a year.

Only watches British Reality TV - Considering he's canonically a film buff, I'll say that this is purely for whatever he gravitates towards on general streaming services. I honestly don't see him being the type to regularly tune in to standard American cable TV, or only does so under specific circumstances like American Ninja Warrior or maybe Forged in Fire if there's absolutely nothing else. It's not something that's exclusive to Americans, — I'm from New Zealand and I do this too, — but Leon absolutely falls into the category of watching British Reality and Game shows purely because of the accents. I'm talking Jeremy Kyle, The Big Fat Quiz of Everything, Taskmaster, The Great British Bake Off and so on and so forth. It doesn't matter that baking isn't his forté or a passion of his, if Josephine curdles her buttercream by over mixing, his hands are in his hair in utter disappointment. 100% tries to mimic their accents too. We all do it, don't lie.

Has... very dated music tastes - I don't know if you could guess, but the last paragraph included me calling myself out and name dropping some shows I watch anyway or grew up watching, and I'm just saying that this is gonna be no different. If anything? This'll be worse! Since I'm very passionate about the music I listen to and have the inability to keep my interests separated from the other, of course my love of particular bands will bleed over into my interpretation of Leon's character! Anyway, all that for me to say that Leon fucking LOVES 90's grunge musicians, specifically Pearl Jam and Soundgarden, as well as early nu metal bands like Korn (their dubstep phase did not happen.), TOOL, and Rage Against the Machine — and no, he unfortunately doesn't see the irony of him being a fed and listening to Rage, — but would also have a soft spot for psych rock, post-punk and shoegaze. My man's definitely laid awake at night, sobbing without expression as he struggles to accept that Ada never really wanted him like he wanted her while listening to fucking Slowdive. My hottest take here is that he doesn't really listen to Deftones. Like he'll occasionally blast My Own Summer, Change, Bored or Rosemary, but anything outside of those? He just didn't listen to 'em. My second hottest take is that he does NOT like Slipknot, which kind of pains me 'cus I do, but I fucking bet you this dude would actually adopt one piece of "Gen Z lingo" or whatever just call them cringe. Though admittedly he would've been jamming the fuck out to Psychosocial and The Devil in I when they came out. Went off the deep end in Vendetta, obviously, and drunk-cried himself to sleep on the couch listening to Linkin Park.

Very confusing spending habits - On one hand, we all understand that Leon came from money, — he was implied to have been born into a mob family from my understanding? And I doubt he'd ever really had to worry about being fully, irrevocably broke, — but I'm sure that growing up in the U.S Foster Care System made him at least a little more cautious of where his money comes from, where it's going, what he's spending it on, etc. So, on the one hand, he's apprehensive to spend recklessly, particularly on perishables. But also, if he can drop over $100,000USD on a motorcycle that got absolutely fucking cheese grated into the road, and spend a perceived, metric fuck ton of money on designer leather jackets and massive watches, it's gonna be hard for me to call him 'financially conscious'. On one hand, he gets apprehensive on spending more money than he needs to on food since he's "just gonna shit it out later", but if he sees a cool watch or a nice suit in a shop window? Money's suddenly not an issue! Not because he's materialistic, but because the one thing he really maintains a sense of control over in his life are his possessions and the way he dresses. The D.S.O can call him in for another months long mission whenever they please, and all he can realistically do is allow the government to tug on his leash and put him where he's needed. He may as well spend their money on things he wants!

Gets out... enough? But also, not really? - So, personally I've pegged Leon as more of an introverted person, — amateurly typed his MBTI as possibly ISFJ? — so he doesn't really feel the need to go out and meet new people or really hang out with anyone. If somebody invites him out? Sure, he'll go. Otherwise, it rarely occurs to him to meet up with friends or colleagues at a cafe or anywhere. I think he'd prefer to just go there alone, mostly for the sake of having somebody else cook for him as opposed to actively seeking out the atmosphere. It's pure convience in his mind. And remember when I said in the beginning about him accidentally being at least a little misogynistic? Yeah, that was me trying to say that he regularly tries to hit on younger waitresses. Not because he actually wants anything to do with them, but simply because it's an ego boost. He likes that he can make girls half his age blush or offer him their numbers, because it tells him that he's still desirable, and ultimately, that gives him the power to reject them politely and go about the rest of his day. If they don't reject him first, of course. Admittedly, Leon's audacity towards women peaked during Infinite Darkness.

Since I'm planning on posting more NSFW headcanons for this guy, — and more NSFW kinds of posts, — here is the obligatory Minors DNI attachment. For your own safety, I don't care if what I have to say is tame so far, you can hold it off I promise.