#and i figure i can make another set in the future with the other things i wanted to include

[t-u-i-t-c]

Taiya & Genba │ Lap 3

"Genba has just lost track of his wheel. That's all."

+ bonus

[obeymeluv]

Enchanting a Fae - Malleus x Reader

A random Malleus x Reader

Malleus isn't sure why he comes to your dorm so often. His booted feet take him there automatically, he supposes. If Lilia were to ask him, he's just making the rounds on his usual haunts and looking for pieces of forgotten grotesques and gargoyles in need of cleaning. Ramshackle was a prime destination for all things forgotten and dusty, after all.

Perhaps it can also be a home to things muddy and sopping.

A small smile twists the edges of Malleus' lips as he blinks rain from his emerald eyes. It's ironic that he, future King of Briar Valley and fifth most powerful mage in the world, was caught unaware by the weather.

How very human. It's a beautiful experience, to drown in the quiet hush of rain.

He steps lightly but with purpose, long shadow breezing up the walkway to your door. It swells as lightning tap-dances behind him. Thunder rumbles, much like the sound he tries to swallow down as you crack the door open hesitantly, face melting into one of welcome.

Oh, child of man...Malleus feels the warm swirl in his chest tighten as you take his hand and pull him inside. He ducks his head, finally remembering to pull his horns down enough so they don't scrape the frame like they have in the past.. "Fae are supposed to be invited in," he reminds you. "And I told you, you always have a standing invitation." you say with a gentle dismissiveness that both humbles and endears him. You continue to show him that you care not for his title or his princely demands. You treat him like all the others. He does his best to stand on the welcome mat you thrifted, afraid the water will rot the ancient floor and leave you with something else to fix. You scurry back with towels and some spare clothes that smell like human. Not you, but human. Malleus can't stop the angry rumble in his throat as he realizes that smell is probably from your human friends at Heartslabyul. Clothes for other men? Disgusting. You always forget he has another set of vocal chords and he excuses the noise as 'clearing his throat'. "It's all I have," you murmur, unsure now if you should take the offer back. He can tell you're still debating that uncouth noise, the slip of the tongue.

"I accept your generosity." Malleus knows it won't be a perfect fit, but it would do better than your clothes. Not that he didn't like the idea of adorning himself in your scent. Turning away from you a little, Malleus removes the purple striped belt at his waist and undoes the many gold buttons on his curious coat. You can't tell what the black shirt is underneath but it sticks to him and you find yourself trying to tear your eyes away and commit him to memory all at once.

Not in the creepy way! Just in the 'I've never seen Malleus in just gloves, a shirt, pants, and boots before' kind of way. He's none the wiser, realizing he has a real problem on his hands. The gloves he chose are water resistant but they've somehow gone flush against his slick skin and feel more like a seal than a savior. His draconian nails cannot save him, blunted and useless in the leather. Should he use his teeth? What if he hooked them on the edge of a horn and just shimmied it off? You can practically read his mind and grab his hand before he can raise it near his head. "Don't do that! You'll ruin them!" you give a huffy laugh at his simple, boyish logic and it takes every ounce of control from all his decades of walking upright to keep his tail from smashing a hole in your floor.

He watches you drape the loaner clothes around your neck like some sort of scarf as you motion for his hand.

Your hands are almost cartoonishly small in his as they trace the stitching and try to feel for any buttons or ridges. Small, but so considerate and so warm. Dragons run warm from the fire and magic in their blood but he cannot explain why your touch is absolutely radiating and searing him in the most comforting way through the leather. He almost hopes you never figure out how to take them off so you can just fiddle with his hands forever. Malleus relaxes into your touch, basking in the care and attention.

His hopes are dashed when the glove separates slightly from his lax wrist and you free his hand. You pull off the other one. If he had no shame, he'd make a cool request for you to hold them and warm them. "Boots off, then change." you give him a small rag for his hands and point to his feet. Delighted and somewhat surprised to be your willing subject, Malleus obeys and starts to take off his boots.

He braces himself against your wall with one hand, mindful not to put himself through it like he almost did the mine tunnel at Beanfest. One boot off, he wrestles blindly with the other. Malleus is much more interested in how you tend to the pitiful fire in your fireplace. Your back is to him and whatever you're wearing leaves you shapeless but cozy. The embers crackle in the hearth, the light dancing across your face in a way that makes something baser claw at the pit of his stomach.

Shiny thing. Dragons like shiny things. You would be a most gorgeous shiny thing. Always ethereal, no matter what you're wearing or doing. If you would permit him, you would be his most valued treasure.

His heart sings at the thought, almost tying itself in a knot. That low, tingling feeling comes back to him and Malleus wants to croon his Dragon Song. It would fall on deaf ears, so to speak, as you have no dragon blood to appeal to. "Your eyes are doing that thing again." Malleus flinched a little, green fire sparking in his mouth as a warning puff of smoke dissipated between you. He didn't realize you'd come upon him again. The dragon relaxed, turning his head away as he exhaled the building smoke through his nose before it could send him into an undignified coughing fit.

Lilia had been consulting his grandmother on some behaviors as of late and both arrived to the same conclusion: he's experiencing draconian puberty. 'The thing' his eyes do are a sign of said puberty. It is the unfurling of all his emotions, the dilation of his eyes signaling his interest and trying to draw you ever deeper to him. In a way, it is a thrall, but it leaves him at your mercy as much as it should leave you in his.

Somehow, you don't take it as hard. If his world wasn't a sudden explosion of the scent of your skin and soap, the heat of your body, and the curious fondness with which you look at him, he would ponder this injustice further.

But he does not. Right now he can't even find the words for a simple lie, a diversion, as he breathes in the smell of you and tries not to melt. To have you touch him right now would be the worst thing but he's never wanted it more. He wants so badly to sink his fangs into your wrist, your neck, and let you wear the affectionate bruises like a family crest. His family crest.

"You're supposed to be getting changed," you admonish him.

"Mmm, but I can't," Malleus refrains from snuggling into the small towel you're blotting against his face. He closes his eyes and tries to sense the heat of your hand through the fabric as you move carefully around his lashes. "I'm being tended to and it would be rude to interrupt," he teases.

"No point in giving you dry clothes if you're going to get them wet putting them on." you laugh. He swallows thickly as you brush his throat dry. "Now go change," you swat him with the rag. Body towel and clothes in one hand, damp footprints follow Malleus to a spare room.

As he suspected, the clothes were ill-fit for his frame. Spade and Trappola were smaller than he was, being human and all. It was another thing entirely to get the shirt over his head without shredding it on his horns. He's afraid to move his arms too much and hopes he's not offending you by pulling the pants low enough to give his tail room. You've just finished laying his clothes out on dry towels before the fire and he's grateful.

It is a dying fire. You have a small supply of kindling and old papers to feed it but he doesn't think it will be enough. "I would like to repay your generosity with a gift. May I?" "You know you don't have to get me anything," you wave him off. He's not sure if it's a human trait or a you trait but you don't take easily to gifts.

"But it is practical and will serve us both," he knows he's caught your attention. He can see you trying to figure out what kind of gift that would be. Malleus approaches the fire, kneels down, and breathes it in. Dragons who can breathe fire, like himself, can convert outside sources of heat to their fire on rare occasions. You jump when he spits out a green flame and it roars to life, casting the walls in jeweled light and emitting a heat you didn't know you missed.

"Cozy!" you chirp. It was a gentle kind of heat that would be perfect for snuggling under a blanket. He sits on the other end of the sofa, a respectful cushion between you, and rests his head on a hand as he looks at you.

"And it will last much longer! You needn't fret about it getting out of control, either. It is my fire, and I can control it." he sees the beginning of sleep on you. Malleus grew up with Silver and was all too familiar with the slow descent into a nap. You make a valiant effort, he will give you that. You're in the middle of a soft argument about being rude to company and Malleus laughs despite himself.

He dropped in uninvited. Certainly that's more rude, yes?

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence, the fae more amused than he has been in a long time as your eyes get heavier. You look stunning in the green glow and he can't help but think you'd look just as ravishing in black.

In a crown. On a throne. In his bed. All of these things have the Dragon Song welling up in him again. The buzzing in his chest closes off his ears; Malleus jumps to alertness as you tug gently on the ends of his dark hair. "You let your hair down. It'll get weird if it dries in a ponytail holder."

It takes some effort, but he untangles it from his hair. "What shall I do about you, Child of Man?" he muses. "I will be forever indebted to your attentiveness."

"Did you find anything cool on your walk? You always show me." your eyes twinkle with the vestiges of consciousness. This is your one final push before succumbing to sleep, he can tell. He did, in fact, find things to show you and had forgotten them until now. When you're drenched, everything just feels heavy and soaked through. Malleus fishes the random items from his coat pocket and settles back down on the couch.

You've seen all manner of things at this point--feathers, polished rocks, twisted roots that looked interesting, pieces of statues, actual gems--and it never gets old. He presents you with a rock carved into the shape of a bear, a chunk of what might have been an old cup, and a ring.

The ring doesn't catch your eye right away. You're too busy playing with the bear. He wiggles his hand so the firelight catches it and you still. Malleus takes the bear from you, flipping your hand over to slide it on your finger. "A gift, my dearest."

"Malleus, I--" you start to protest.

"We fae are no strangers to offerings, both giving and receiving. It would be a disservice to present you with anything less." he speaks over you, his words gentle but commanding. He kisses your hand.

You'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought of dating him. It just seemed a little silly--a random no-name person and the fae prince? What kind of cliche was this?

A handsome one that was staring you right in the face.

"If you'd like more, the best I can offer you is a kingdom." he teases, lounging back against the sofa. He said it so casually that it caught you off guard. You're face is almost unbearably hot and Malleus chuckles.

"A whole kingdom?" you finally recover. "I'll take it."

Oh, there it went. Malleus felt the trap snap shut on his heart. This was the lethal moment Lilia warned him. He was helplessly smitten and enchanted. Irreversibly so.

"Truly?" he's before you in a second, one hand around your waist and the other holding the one with the ring. "Now is not the time to jest, Child of Man. I offer you my heart in earnest and the reply must be just as true!" he's staring up at you through his bangs and you swear you see more scales on his forehead.

"W-Well, yeah," you stutter. "I wouldn't mind. Just kind of thought we would do more dates and stuff first," your face was heating up again.

"We shall, as many as you like!" he's scooped you up in one arm, cradling you to his chest. You threw your legs around him so you didn't fall backwards but he doesn't notice, pulling your other hand over his shoulder. "Every day, even! As soon as the weather clears, in fact!" "But it'll be dark out!" you protest. Malleus probably could change the weather if he wanted but that wouldn't stop the ground from squelching and things being nasty. He stopped excitedly rambling about walks and things to do.

"We've walked in the dark before?" he doesn't understand why you don't want to go out this particular time. "And I have seen you to your door, safe and sound every time."

"But we're already here. Together. Inside." you explain slowly. "Maybe we could...cuddle...a little."

Oh yes. Splendid idea! Malleus all but dives for the couch at the suggestion. It is a paltry nest but it's yours. You're still recovering from the recoil, glad he fell back first and didn't squish you.

Did you just hear something rip? You hope he didn't break the couch. You don't get much time to think about it as he pulls you close and tucks you under his chin like he's been rehearsing it with a pillow. He's just the right combination of soft and muscle, of guard and gentle as he figures out where to put his hands. He settles for one supporting his head and the other cradling yours.

It's very awkward because he's mostly off the couch but he can't be bothered. You're slowly drifting to sleep in his arms and he's never felt more joy. He watches with deep interested, practically holding his breath as you sleep. Faes don't need as much sleep as humans but he doesn't think he could sleep if he tried because you've been courted by him!

Malleus is roused by his phone sometime later. The couch is small and cumbersome to him but it's held up. He begrudgingly untangled himself from you to answer it, long arm just reaching it on the table.

"Yes?"

It's Lilia. "Where are you, young man? We've been trying to reach you!"

He had fifteen missed calls from Sebek, eight from Lilia, and some text messages from Silver.

"Ensnared, I fear." Malleus smiles into the crown of your head. "I'm doomed to languish in absolute bliss. It's a very powerful enchantment, you see."

"Taken the leap, have you, Malleus?" he could hear the smile in Lilia's voice.

"I have, and I've landed in something quite wonderful."

"We fae are supposed to trick and trap, not the other way around! But...at least you're safe. Make it known that I will not tolerate--"

"Any eggs before marriage." Malleus rolled his eyes. He'd only heard that a million times recently.

"If you're not back at Diasomnia in two hours, I'll break that enchantment myself. Understood?"

"And if I object?" Malleus challenged, patting your head as you began to move.

There was a moment of silence. "I shall tell your grandmother."

Malleus hung up.

That might do the trick, he thought, brows raised. His grandmother was from an older generation of fae who were still entrenched in anti-human beliefs. Would she love you because he did? Could you enchant her, too? One look at your sleeping face, so at peace and pressed up against him, had him convinced.

Yes, he was pretty sure you could enchant any fae. It certainly worked on him.

[eggfriedricedwasian]

TimKon clone baby au but Tim heals after creating the baby.

Tim disappears after achieving Bruce back from the time stream, well he sent the information on how to get Bruce back from the tim stream rather.

The fight with Ra's, the LOA, all that happens, except, once he's fixed up, he leaves. Drops off the radar.

He's still severely unstable. Almost as if he's catatonic.

But he makes it to the lab, freeing the growing baby from the green liquid, grabbing the thing no, girl, this baby, his baby, was a girl.

He has a daughter.

Daughters are the most precious thing the world can offer.

He now has the most precious thing in the world. The most precious little girl he's ever looked at.

Hell hath no fury like a mother without a child.

So Tim drops off the radar. He goes somewhere secluded, cheap, and away from crime and heroism.

He raises his daughter, he fixes himself, he learns, she learns, he grows, and she grows up.

While he's being the best most doting dad in the world to his daughter, little Mary-Jane Drake-Wayne(-Kent), the Bats, with the newly returned Bruce, look for Tim.

Kon and Bart, who returned from the dead, also look for Tim.

Kon, of course, was the one who finds Tim first. Tim and a baby. An 8 month old baby.

This baby has fair skin, wavy bed headed locks, and bright blue eyes. This baby was on her stomach with her head up, hair standing up all over the place, looking at Kon, while snuggled in the crook of Tim's arm.

Tim was sleeping, legs curled up on his side with his arm out underneath the baby girl and his hand resting on her back.

"Ah"

The sound of the baby's voice snaps Kon's attention to her. She's so small and yet so big. Since when did Tim have a kid? And with who?

Tim stirs awake slowly and Kon holds his breath.

"Mmm.. MJ, what are you doing up so early, sweetie?"

Tim turns on his back, putting the baby called MJ(who is in the most adorable Superboy onsie ever) on his stomach.

Mj doesn't turn her head to him, eyes still transfixed on Kon's figure.

Tim turns to look over and sits up, pulling MJ closer to him chest, hugging her tight, and pulls a knife out from under the bed, backing up towards the wall.

"Hey, hey, it's just me, Tim."

"N-No! I don't know who you are, but you aren't Kon!"

It pains Kon to hear that.

"It is me."

Tim shakes his head.

"If it really was you, you'd tell me something only him and I know.

"One time, when we were on Young Justice, you almost gave away your secret identity to me before Batman said you could, but you did it anyways."

Tim seemed to calm at that. He slowly puts the knife down, and back where it was.

"H-how?"

"Tim travel stuff. Was with the Legion of Heroes in the future recovering for a bit before they sent me back."

That would explain it.

Tim slowly scooted off the bed, standing, but not letting go of his baby. God his baby.

They stand in silence for a while longer, looking between each other, and Kon between Tim and MJ.

"Who's the mother?"

He asks. He's not sure why he did. Why would he care?

Tim seems taken aback by the question. But he avoids it, smoothly, as if he was preparing for this scenario, in this way or another, to happen.

"You can join us for breakfast."

Kon agrees.

The kitchen is small.

It has a counter island protruding from the wall acting as both a counter space island and a table. There were two chairs at it, plus a high chair.

"Sit here, baby."

Kon hears Tim whisper to MJ as he sets her down in the high chair.

She fusses very little as she gets buckled in. She settles just as fast when Tim gives her a toy. It makes noises as she swings it around, smiling brightly.

She has Tim's smile. Kon thinks distantly, looking at the way her cheeks squished and her gummy smile showed. The dimpled weren't Tim's, though.

When Kon looks at Tim, he doesn't know what to expect. Tense? Sure. Shaking? Maybe.

He wasn't expecting Tim to be smooshing bananas in a bowl with a fork, putting a baby spoon in it and putting it in front of MJ for her to eat, all with a small smile on his face.

A smile he's never seen before. It's domestic. Motherly sort of domestic. His eyes are crinkled, his smile is so full of love for the little baby laughing and making a mess of her face, chair, clothes, and bib while she ate mushed bananas.

"Tim.."

Tim's smile falls shortly down, if he wasn't watching all that closely he wouldn't have seen it.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"... Pancakes, if that's alright.."

Tim nods, turning and grabbing an apron, putting it on.

The apron said "World's Best Housewife" on it.

He grabbed a bowl, a pan, flour, eggs, oil, butter, milk, and chocolate chips and whatever else.

He made the batter, started up the heat on the gas stove, then added the batter, before plating and placing the pancakes, three on each. Syrup sat in the middle, which both of them drowned their pancakes in.

They started eating in silence next to each other. MJ's baby noises were the only thing that kept the silence even remotely tolerable.

"She's a clone..."

Tim started.

He looked at Tim shocked. Of course he was shocked. She was a clone!

"...Of us.."

Kon's heart stopped beating for a second. If the white noise generator wasn't going off somewhere in the house, he was sure he could hear Tim's heart beating really fast.

"...that I made."

Kon's world took a turn.

Tim Drake, his best friend, his Robin, someone he had confided in about his upbringing as a clone, made MJ out of both of their DNA in a lab as a clone.

"What."

He no longer felt hungry. He felt.. He didn't know what he felt. There were so many mixed emotions going through him right now.

Anger? His best friend cloned him after he told him how he hated being cloned.

Joy? He has a daughter. A daughter Tim made. Why did Tim make her?

"It was a hard time for me. I lost you, Bart, my dad, and then Bruce. I tried to clone you and Bart, and I had the bright idea of adding my DNA to the mixture when cloning you. It worked, and now she's here, and I'm here, and.. you're back."

He said it as if he didn't want Kon back.

Kon was about to speak up when Tim beat him to it.

"It's great that you're back, Kon, but I broke your trust and promise by making her. But she's my kid, so you don't have to stay, you can leave. I'm fine right where I'm at and I'm not going back, to the Bats, to the Waynes, to no one. Not even for you."

For the first time since their first meeting that morning, Tim looked at Kon. His eyes held such fierce determination, love, and compassion in them. All those felt for MJ, not for him.

What did he even say to that. What did he even do.

MJ was his kid too, right? She was a clone of Kon and him, so that makes her his child as much as Tim's, no?

Would Tim even let him be her other dad? Did he even want to be her other dad?

He did.

Lex and Clark didn't treat him like their son and he was their *technical* kid. He wanted oh so desperately to have parents that loved him, he wanted to give MJ that since he didn't get that.

She didn't deserve it. She was just a baby. A baby Tim made out of grief for him dying.

"What's her name?"

He asks instead of everything else.

".. Mary-Jane."

Tim answers after his initial shock at the question.

Tim turns back to her, seeing her finished with the bananas, now content playing with her toy while she stares at her father.

Tim takes the bowl and goes to put it and the plates in the sink, then cleans MJ up and the chair before extracting her and heading over to the diaper changing table in another room to change her diaper.

The door was still ajar so he could see Tim change her diaper and clothes and hear as she giggled while her father cooed at her and poked at her nose and belly and kissed her face.

I should be doing that too.

"Tim."

He calls when Tim walks back out.

Tim stops right outside the room's door, holding MJ, Mary-Jane, in his hip. She was now in a light blue little blouse and denim blue jean skirt with cute ruffled socks and a little bonnet.

"Can I.. I want to.."

He couldn't form his question.

"Could I be her other father?"

He blurts out instead.

They both stare at each other for what felt like the longest time of Kon's life.

"Really?"

Tim finally asks.

He nods, pushing his lips in a thin line and furrowing his brows, expecting a no for an answer.

"Okay."

"What?"

"I said, okay."

Kon looked bewildered despite hearing his answer.

"I know you, Kon. I know how you felt about Clark and Lex when it came to parenting, I expected this, actually. You want to be there for her, unlike they were with you. I had time to think about it these past few months."

That actually.. made sense, but it didn't at the same time.

Tim motioned for Kon to follow as he sat down on the couch. Kon sat next to him.

"Want to hold her?"

He nodded immediately, and was given MJ before he could finish.

She was small, so very light in his arms as she stared up at him with those big blue beautiful eyes, his eyes.

"She helped me, ya know."

Kon looked at him, adjusting his hold on her so she could hold his finger.

Tim watched her intently.

"I was in a really dark place when I had her, when we first came here. I didn't know what to do, but I knew I had to take care of her. But I knew I couldn't with how I was. So I got better, for her. She helped me. I've been clean, I've been taking care of myself, eating 3 meals a day, cleaning the house, raising her, taking medicine, regularly working out, meditating, sleeping a full 8 hours, and napping with her."

He paused to get a breath in.

"I don't regret it, leaving, going off the radar. I've never been more healthy and more stress free, and more alive in my life."

"I'm never going back."

Kon leaves it at that.

He doesn't know much about what happened, but he doesn't care anymore. This is his family. And he isn't going to leave it.

[so-i-did-this-thing]

I’m 18, and admittedly there’s no real hope for me transitioning until I’m in my 30s ( education, family, finance- stuff like that ). It leaves me feeling kind of hopeless a lot of the times- I don’t have the energy to be ambitious or to feel good about my future because, even optimistically, it’s another six-seven years of hell waiting for me. Existing is hard. Can’t date, can’t leave the house without wearing a jacket, can’t look in the mirror too long. At least my dysphoria doesn’t drive me to suicide, but it’s drained me in every other way possible.

So, thank you for existing. I burst into tears today when I saw your profile. Thank you for reminding me that this…isn’t my forever. I just need to pull through. Joy is waiting on the other side.

Hey, Anon. Sounds like you have a bachelors + advanced degree lined up? I hate that college is so fraught for young trans people right now, when it should be your chance to start expressing some personal freedom.

A lot can change in just a few years, and change for the better can happen faster if you plan what you can now. Part of my transition stalled simply because I was just waiting for something Good to happen to me, instead of making it happen. (Working on job skills, being responsible with my money, meeting other queer people, etc.)

If you *are* to be stuck in Limbo for a while, please don't fall back on "at least I'm not suicidal" when evaluating your mental health. I did this for 13 years, and so much of me broke down under the weight of that inertia -- my family hoarding triggered and my depression got so bad, I nearly became homeless.

If it helps, here's a timeline of my own journey:

4: knew I was a boy

20: tried to come out, didn't go well, went back in the closet

21: too depressed for grad school for my music degree, went to tech school and fell into a stagnant web career

27: dad died, stress made a lot of my mental issues worse

30: near rock-bottom, got fired from work, nearly lost my house, living below poverty line, drained retirement, credit score probably like 300, I couldn't even get a secured credit card, new BFF started abusing me

31: started dating (never went well), too poor to fix AC, power frequently shut off, hoard starting to block rooms

33: almost out of money, started HRT, lost a lot of music gigs, stuck in payday loan hell

34: found steady employment again tho at a toxic web shop, $45k/year, cleaned up my hoard for the first time

36: met my partner, lost my virginity, started hanging out with queer people

37: got AC fixed, slowly started improving home, stopped being stealth, partner moved in with me

38: told abuser to fuck off

40: got top surgery, caught up on back taxes w/the IRS, able to secure credit again

41: got out of a toxic job industry, free from payday loans, started making $80k/year in a new field

41: got married to my partner, hoard pretty under control now

45: broke 6 figures for my salary

46: left Florida, bought a house

47: got a promotion to a senior role, hit 800 credit score, home is clean and organized (except for some stalled unpacking, I'll get there...), working on rebuilding my retirement

It was really around age 37 where I made a concerted effort to plan my way out of my shitty living situation. It's also when I really embraced being queer. I wish I had managed it earlier, but I was a goddamned mess and hid a lot from my family & friends. And I didn't know how to energize myself when things felt bleak.

So, please avoid my mistakes by taking efforts to set a higher bar for your mood. Get outside in nature, make things with your hands, consume and spread queer art, try to find safe outlets for expressing and exploring your gender, and above all, create a network where you can safely vent and have folks take care of you when you need help. Stoicism goes toxic far too quickly - you're going to need to cry *and* become a shoulder to cry upon.

And then pick yourself back up and continue with your plan towards joy. I believe in you - I don't think it'll be as long as it appears. <3

[stevie-petey]

AHHH i loved the new stug blurb,, can u do another one between s2 and s3 of steve letting himself fall for bug like maybe he realizes that its happening or not but the rest of the party and robin or even nancy and jon are picking up on his little lovesick actions towards her

hello !! this is basically the premise of the in between chapter for seasons 2 and 3 BUT its cutie and i love writing them so enjoy !!

"did you really think y/n wouldnt throw you a graduation party?"

steve gulps at dustins question, looking around uncomfortably at his decorated house full of everyone he loves and admires. everyone from the party swims in his pool. jonathan is at the picnic table with nancy, cutting fruit together for the kids. claudia gossips with joyce, who stands with hopper at the grill. steve doesnt want to ask how you convinced the man to come.

"how did she organize all of this without me knowing?" steves heart aches at the idea of you planning this entire thing for him, giggling at the innocent deception.

"shes a freakishly good liar." dustin pats his chest. "anyways, im gonna go swim now. please try not to stare at my sister in a bikini."

"a bikini?"

dustin laughs hysterically, running into the water without any other quips.

steve stands on his patio, mouth open, now very much terrified to turn around in fear of seeing you and dying with a public audience.

seeing you in a bikini hours after realizing hes fallen so fucking in love with you... for a second steve thinks it must be a dream.

only you walk out of his house with a pretty purple bikini hidden under a knitted white throwover and your hair is tied back and youre smiling at steve and holding towels for the kids and suddenly he can see an entire future with you walking towards him just like this, just this angelic and lovely, over and over again.

"i take it youre surprised," you laugh, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek in greeting. "congrats, by the way. im so proud of you, honey."

honey honey honey honey.

he understands now why you associate the golden substance with love and comfort and tenderness.

"i-" the embarrassing squeak of steves voice makes him want to die. "i-uh. im really surprised."

"good!" you set the towels down and steve can now see every inch of your skin and his face burns like hell. he doesnt know where to look. "i promised the kids we'd have a pool party here when it got warmer, and i figured you wouldnt want to celebrate graduation, so here we are: celebrating graduation with a pool party."

"i-" he cant speak. its fucking humiliating.

"mike found the water guns," nancy suddenly appears, blowing hair out of her face. "we have about five minutes before this party becomes d-day."

she notices steve and smiles at him. "congratulations, by the way."

"mhm," hes resorted to humming.

nancy frowns. "everything alright?"

he nods, jerky, he must look like an idiot, and in the movement his eyes inadvertently fall towards your very exposed, very lovely body, and nancys quick eyes catch it.

"oh, i see." she bites her lip, noticing your confusion. she doesnt know how you cant see the effect you have on the poor boy. "y/n, why dont we go grab steve some water so that he can cool off."

his eyes widen in alarm. "nancy!"

"so he speaks," she giggles, grabbing your hand to pull you away. "c'mon, lets give him a moment."

"i dont understand," he hears you say as you leave. "did something happen?"

nancy laughs, shaking her head. "you look good in purple."

"what-"

the backdoor closes and steves heart feels like its about the give out.

"i thought youd react a little more," jonathans teasing smile steps in front of him. hes just as perceptive as his girlfriend and steve really wants to drown.

"i think i just had a stroke."

jonathan snorts. "alright, buddy. lets get you some water."

-

﹂blurb masterlist

﹂if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

[loosescrewslefty]

Screaming, crying and OBSESSING over the way Anya and Demetrius are on opposite sides of the Neurodivergent scale and also far more similar to one another than either one realizes. More than any other character we've seen so far, it feels like these two are Yin and Yang, opposite sides of the same coin.

Demetrius easily absorbs facts, figures, and other information that follows a set pattern. But people confuse and frustrate him, and he deals with that by not dealing with it. Anya has the ability to understand more about strangers she passes on the street than people who see them regularly ever could, but traditional academics can overwhelm her so she is resistant to studying. And yet both of them are othered and seen as abnormal by everyone around them, building a wall between them and their peers that they both find difficult to overcome.

Anya tries to fit in through masking, pretending as hard as she can to be normal (with limited success) but Demetrius has given up after going so long without anyone helping him better understand others which leads to him disassociating in social situations as a self defense mechanism, to get in and out as quickly and painlessly as possible while telling himself it doesn't matter.

Except it does.

Demetrius didn't need to ask about Damian's stella. But he did. Because he wants to find some sort of common ground with his brother even as he reassures himself that it doesn't matter and he doesn't care. He doesn't pick up on the fact that this makes Damian feel self conscious, that he's comparing his one stella to Demetrius' six and worried their father will love him less for not being as successful. Demetrius doesn't understand how the subject switched to Donovan at all, and shuts down hard when their father is mentioned. Just like he did when Damian called and asked him to be a bridge between them way back when.

(Demetrius warning Damian not to get his hopes up about Donovan coming to meet him also conflicts with his internal dialog about how the people around him don't matter and he doesn't need to care about understanding them. If it actually doesn't matter to him, then he wouldn't care if Donovan blew Damian off.)

Circling back to the original thought though, I desperately hope that we're going to get Demetrius and Anya interacting directly with one another at some point in the future because I have a feeling that Anya's blunt, child-like nature will lead to her just directly telling Demetrius the things that are eluding him when he interacts with others, demystifying all the unspoken social cues he's supposed to yet cannot intuit for the first time in his life. And he is going to be in awe of this child for her ability to not only understand others, but translate for him when he cannot grasp whatever it is they are trying and failing to say to him.

Demetrius could appreciate Anya's abilities, rather than being afraid of or disturbed by them. And they could both understand the feeling of not fitting in with the crowd. Of knowing that others regard them with fear and contempt, or want to use the things that make them different for their own purposes and treat them like they are just a tool instead of a person. The potential is there for a very interesting platonic relationship between two kids who have spent their whole lives feeling like their differences alienated them from everyone else in their life, and in Anya's case a fear that the discovery of that difference would lead to her losing the love of everyone important to her in her life.

[revelboo]

I miss our Doomed Senator. We're kinda like a new species to him so I best believe he'll want to know anything about us.

He’s going to have so many questions

The Worst Is Yet To Come Pt 4

Senator Shockwave x Reader

• "It's just a scanner. Harmless," he says as you back away, chirping softly. Even when he plays the light over his own hand to show you it doesn’t hurt, you still shy away. "How can I feed you if I can't scan you and figure out what you can eat?" Keeping his tone soothing even though he knows you can't understand him, he tries to coax you into holding still. Tempted to just grab you and scan you, but afraid you won't trust him if he does. And he wants you to come to him.

• Pointing imperiously at where he'd set your gear just out of reach as he growls nonsense at you in a tone suspiciously like someone baby talking a small animal, you hate not being understood. Hate being afraid, because seeing that thing in the vial has unnerved you. Wondering if you’re destined for a vial, too. And he seems set on running whatever that thing is over you while you just want your stuff back. Feel naked without it in only your underwear. But it’s mostly the fact that both of you are well aware that he can easily just make you submit and hasn't that makes you give up and move closer to let him have his way and his expression lights up as he passes the thing over you.

• “Very good,” he says smiling when you chirp insistently and point. Demanding your things. Reaching, he picks up your stuff and you hold out your arms expectantly. But he hesitates looking at your outer covering. Hears your impatient chirping as he toys with the suit, studying how it’s made. Finding and flipping up a tiny panel. A display of some sort? Grimacing when you shrill at him for carefully wiggling the panel loose, he offers you the rest of the suit. “I’ll give this back.”

• Did he just take your suit’s display? “I need that.” It’s mostly to monitor you, but it’s also your comm. Definitely want that back since it’s your only link to the outside. Even if it hasn’t worked since you’d gone through the gate, you keep hoping to hear another human voice. Another survivor. You can’t be alone. You’d seen other people get pulled through. They must be out of range. That’s all. Because thinking about being alone terrifies you more than the giant, alien robots.

• Reaching to gently tap you on the head, he smiles when you immediately swat at him. So aggressive for being so tiny, but then if he was in your place, he’s not sure he’d be so brave faced with a giant he couldn’t understand. You must be terrified. Syncing the primitive tech to his datapad, he lets it scan and compile a language chip for him. Wants to know what you’re saying. What you are and where you came from. To learn. Because you might give him a clue, a breakthrough for his biggest, most ambitious project. Can’t leave any avenue unexplored when it comes to the future of his people and their survival. Can’t fail them.

Previous

Next

Shockwave arrived! He’s so long legged

[bumblequinn]

hi @sourpatchsquids! thank you for your question.

as an artist with ADHD, i know this struggle very well. unfortunately offering advice on this kind of thing can be tricky, because what works for me may not work for you (and vice versa!). nonetheless, i can try; take whatever works for you, forget the rest, or reshape any part of it as you see fit. :)

but before i offer any actual tools, i have one caveat. i want you to take a moment to reflect and consider if you should be:

changing expectations

the timing of this question seems fated, because just the other day i had a therapy session wherein i expressed my grief and frustration over struggling to work lately due to my seasonal depression. it's not fair that i'm struggling just because it got a little darker outside! i just want the spark i had in the summer! i was so much more consistent!

my therapist's response: nothing about human beings is consistent. we get sick, we get tired, we get hungry and thirsty (and thirsty) and sad and lonely and restless and stressed and overwhelmed. this all gets amplified for folks who are atypical in some way or another.

when my therapist compared our seasonal cycles to those of plants and other animals, who wilt and slow down and hibernate, i protested aloud that i wanted to be a perennial instead. at this she said: even perennials change with the seasons. rose bushes have to be pruned, sometimes down to half their height! it was a dose of perspective i didn't particularly want, but really needed.

so when you're struggling to work through executive dysfunction, burnout, or brain fog, it can help to first check in with yourself about a few things. what do you have the capacity for right now? do you need any accommodation? and if so, what changes you might make to accommodate yourself?

with practice and self reflection, i've learned a handful of specific routines that help me when i'm struggling with creative work, which i'll detail next. note that while your question is specifically about music and i am specifically a musician, i believe that all of these suggestions can apply to most any form of digital creative work.

with that in mind:

#1: work slower

when i'm at the top of my game, i can get a LOT done in a day. but when i'm depressed, fatigued, or distracted, i just can't go full steam. sometimes i'll try to convince myself that i can if i just push harder, but what actually ends up happening is that i'm just fiddling with settings and going in circles rather than moving forward.

instead of that, when i want to work a lot but can't, i try to work slow. how slow? however slow i need to. take four hours to figure out the melody for a single verse. take all day to figure out that drum groove. yeah, i take a lot of breaks in between. who says i have to be my Absolute Most Productive Every Day Or Else? that's the puritan work ethic talking. kill it. be kind to yourself.

i'm reminded of advice i once read about some super successful and prolific author (gaiman? king? pratchett?) who said they wrote only four hundred words every weekday. that's already less than the word count of this post, and i'm only—[travels into the future to check my final word count]... 22.8% of the way through writing it!

now, i don't think i could function that way, because ADHD means some days i'm hyperfocused like crazy, and other days i just have no steam at all (more on that in #4-6). but it seems to me that if even someone highly respected in their profession can achieve what they have with only a little bit of work on a regular basis, maybe i don't have to punish myself for not pumping out a finished work every single week.

doing less work per day means you're much less likely to burn out, which does a lot for working more consistently. if that consistency still doesn't look like a five-day work week, that's okay! as long as it helps you work even a little more often when you want to, it's something worth doing.

however, if you're still feeling truly stuck, all hope isn't lost. you can still try:

#2: switch projects

sometimes the reason i'm moving slow is because of a bad brain day, but sometimes the reason is that i just cannot muster the motivation to do the specific task i'm trying to do right now. ADHD is fueled by novelty and interest, and if i'm not interested in what i'm doing, or it's feeling stale, that's a sign that i need to switch gears.

this is why first it's helpful for me to have more than one project going at a time. this might mean completely unrelated works, or it might just mean related tracks as with the music for a game like SLARPG or susan taxpayer.

the idea here is not to start a dozen different projects and bounce around them like i'm playing whac-a-mole—though i have done that. (i don't recommend it.) the idea here is to have a manageable number of different projects i can be working on so that if i get bored or stuck on something, i have fallback options.

what that number of projects is depends entirely on the week. maybe right now it's two, maybe another time it's three. i would probably be getting carried away if i tried more than that, but that's just my own limit. maybe yours is different. that's something for you to think about.

but it doesn't have to stop there.

#3: switch focus

maybe there is this one project that i just HAVE to work on, but the task i'm trying to do at this stage just isn't coming to me. okay, well, why don't i try working on a different task?

let's say i can't figure out what i want to do with the melody in one part of the song:

what if i try jumping ahead to a different part of the melody? ...no, i'm stumped on melodies today. okay, how about working on the drums instead? ...hmm no, i think i'm just completely tapped out on writing parts right now. alright, what if i organized my tracks, making sure they're all grouped and named in a way that i can work with easily? what if i did a rough volume balance for the mix?

and so on. if that's not enough to shake the off stuckness, i might consider: what can i do to make this project more interesting to me?

what happens if i try using an instrument or effect that i almost never reach for? what if i try sampling something obscure? what if i bang out the drums using my midi keyboard instead of drawing it in on the piano roll?

any approach that breaks me out of my usual habits is bound to get that feeling of novelty and fun back when i need it.

or maybe i can't do any of that right now, and so i take the time to answer a question from a fellow musician instead. i consider that part of my work, too, in a broader sense. check in with yourself and figure out what you can do right now. the rest will still be there later.

but okay, let's say you try switching gears, and switching again, and again, and nothing is moving. you try new approaches, but that wall of awful is insurmountable in this moment. it happens! the next thing you might try is:

#4: learn something new

when you aren't able to make progress on your projects, you can still make progress on your knowledge and craft. i often find this stokes a flame of inspiration in me where there wasn't one before. and even when it doesn't, it still gets my brain out of that feeling of stuckness and dread and into one of thought and action. learning also benefits in the long term because it adds to the well of knowledge from which you draw for all your future works.

for all the awfulness that exists on the internet, it remains an absolute treasure trove of teaching. there's an endless ocean of videos, blog posts, and articles from which you might learn something about your craft. (and if you sail the seven seas, plenty of book PDFs as well. 🦜🏴‍☠️)

it's true that the quality and depth of information out there can vary wildly, but in my experience most resources get at least some things right. and the more you research, practice, and figure out what works for you, the better you will learn to differentiate between the advice worth keeping, and the advice to forget. (that goes for all of what i'm saying here, too!)

that said, since our shared focus is music, a few resources i would highly recommend are:

music theory and composition music matters, 12tone, charles cornell, music with myles, 8-bit music theory, and this introduction by andrew huang

mixing and production dan worrall (especially this series for fabfilter), kush after hours, red means recording, andrew huang, alice yalcin efe, in the mix

general inspiration nahre sol, ben levin, david hilowitz, game score fanfare, posy, jerobeam fenderson, open reel ensemble, and ELECTRONICOS FANTASTICOS!

(if any readers have their own helpful resources for creating music or any other media, feel free to share in the replies & reblogs! 💓)

of course, on an especially bad day, it might be a challenge to seek out information, let alone retain it. that can feel pretty bad, but remember: be kind to yourself. the next thing you might consider trying is:

#5: consume art you love

not just music. books. shows. movies. games. illustration. animation. whatever moves and inspires you.

but do it intentionally. don't just pull up some random thing the algorithm suggested! check in with yourself about what you want (or are able) to engage with right now. choose accordingly. if you get a little way into it and realize it's not scratching that itch, hit the bricks. check in with yourself again. wash, rinse, repeat, until you find whatever it is that speaks to you right now.

and do it actively, if you can. don't just let it go in one eye and out the other! really pay attention to the work. what do you like about it? what are its themes and motifs? what makes it work so well? what are its flaws, and how much do they matter? what might you do differently? you can write notes as you do this if it helps, but even simply noticing and thinking goes a long way.

what you don't want to do is come at this with a lens of shame or envy. you're not here just to say to yourself, "ugh, if only i could do THAT." it's okay if it happens. use that thought as a springboard for curiosity: "well okay, how DID they do that? do i have the resources for it? if so, how could i apply that to my own work? if not, how can i adapt it, or what do i need to learn?" keep your mind open and approach the work with a sense of wonder.

as a creative person, it's very easy to think, "i should be making something right now, not watching a movie!" but that thought forgets something vital: your art is a response in a conversation. of course the "language" you use is your own, and maybe if you're lucky you'll invent a new word. but most of the words you use have been around long before you were born. you're just one voice in a dialogue that spans continents and generations, and that's okay. it's even the whole point.

none of us is an island. we are profoundly social animals. just as we can't live without eating, we can't make without learning. so half of making art is consuming it. consider this part of the process as well.

and finally,

#6: rest, and live your life

let's say you're in really dire straits. you've tried working slower. you tried changing focus, you tried changing projects. you want to take in new information or actively engage with your favorite art, but you're not in the headspace for it. what now?

take a nap. take a walk. take a shower. eat a nice meal, or an okay one. talk to a friend. maybe even do that chore you've been putting off (you know the one).

it's human to always crave making, but you're not a machine—and even if you were, machines need regular maintenance, too! you wouldn't drive a car that's completely out of gas, and you won't do yourself any favors treating your body that way either.

i know that when you take a break it feels as though you're not accomplishing anything, but you are: you're taking care of your animal self. and while you do that, your creative brain doesn't stop working! much like windows, it has countless background processes running at any given moment, with inscrutable names like "cbdhsvc_692da" or "Microsoft Edge Update Service." it's true, i checked.

when you're stuck on a project and you step away to rest, your brain is still chipping away at your ideas unconsciously. i like to tell people, "it's percolating." much like waiting for a pot of water to boil, that idea is still heating up, even when you take a step away. just be sure to check in on it once in a while. the time will pass, and it'll be boiling again before long. :)

before i go, i'll leave you with one last thing to keep in mind as you try all of these strategies:

be kind to yourself.

being human is just about one of the hardest things you can do. let alone being a human trying to survive capitalism while living with disabilities! the last thing you need on top of that is to overwork yourself, talk to yourself negatively, or treat yourself harshly. there are plenty of other people in the world who do that to you—don't be one of them.

i'm not saying that you shouldn't try to challenge yourself, to test your limits and go above and beyond your ambitions, if that's what you want to do. just remember that hard work and self compassion are not mutually exclusive. so be careful not to bully yourself. take pride in the progress you make, even when it seems small. encourage yourself like you would a friend who's going through a hard time. and when you challenge yourself, be your own cheerleader.

i hope you find this advice helpful! remember, this is just what helps me, so don't feel like you have to follow any of it exactly. maybe taking time to learn new information helps break you out of your rut more than working slowly, so you reach for that tool first. maybe having multiple projects going at once is too distracting for you, so you prefer to stick to one at a time. whatever your needs are, feel free to alter and adapt these ideas to fit you.

thank you for reading, and i wish you the best of luck in your creating.

with care, bee 🐦

[0bunnyia]

Hi Nia ...congratulations baby ..wishing you even more success and growth ahead - this is just the beginning!

Can u do prompt 3 with Hyunjin please💞

현진 ─── Mission Failed Successfully

You’ve been dating Hyunjin for a while but haven’t shared your first kiss yet. Wanting it to be perfect, you plan a romantic evening with dinner and a walk by the beach. However, things don’t go as planned, and you start feeling disappointed. Hyunjin tries to comfort you, and the night takes an unexpected turn.

Pair: Hwang Hyunjin x Reader

— OH MY FIRST REQUEST EVER????? thank you so much for your sweet words lovely🫶🏻🫶🏻 I wrote this for a while and hope you like it HSHSHS!! (⁠♡⁠ω⁠♡⁠ ⁠)⁠ ⁠~⁠♪

nia’s 10 followers event (send me a number pleaseee t___t)

⚠️ : none. wc: 0,8k

Hyunjin and you had been dating for a while. Taking it slow, you hadn't had your first kiss yet. It had been months and you've been wondering—did he even want to be intimate with you, or were you just being too forward?

So, you decide to take matters into your own hand—turning your first kiss into something straight out of a fairytale. You planned everything perfectly, a dinner by the candle lit, followed by a walk near the beach as the sun began saying it's goodbyes. And then you'd lean in. Perfect, right?

Here you are—everything is perfectly ready. With all of your might, you prepared this on your own, without asking anyone for help. Might as well go all in. You had one plan in mind; making your first kiss absolutely unforgettable—the kind that would make your future kids go awe when they hear the story.

Hyunjin hadn't thought much when you asked him to come over for dinner. He figured it was just another sweet date planned by you—nothing out of the ordinary, just the two of you enjoying each other's company.

He rang the bell, looking straight out of a fashion magazine—roses in hand, and his hair all messy from the wind. "Love! Sorry I'm late, traffic was crazy, and gosh the wind is really strong out here." He said first thing, handling you the roses he was holding.

"Well, your hair does look a bit of a mess, come inside before it all blows over." Holding the flower, you took his hand with your free one. Guiding him to your dinner table, you glance at the window outside. It was windy—you hope it doesn't storm, it will ruin everything if it did.

Dinner was great—super romantic. The candlelight really did help setting up the mood. But you couldn't keep your mind off his lips, stealing glances every chance you got. Gosh, you couldn't wait for dinner to be over so you could take him by the beach and kiss him like he was some sort of prince from a fairytale.

But the sky seemed to have other plans. By the time you both finished finner, it was storming hard outside. Your mood dropped in an instant. It was supposed to be the perfect moment—you planned it all, but it didn't go the way you imagined. The storm showed no sign of stopping anytime soon, and the sun was already saying it's goodbye. The kiss under the sunset... ruined.

You couldn't help but broke down. You had prepared everything with all your heart—and fate decided to ruin it all.

"Love! What happened? Why are you crying?" Hyunjin said, grabbing a tissue and gently wiping your tears. "I'm sorry... did I do something wrong? Please don't cry." He kneeled beside you, clearly worried, still wiping your tears with so much care in his eyes.

"It's not that... we were supposed to spend the end of our dinner by the sunset and have our first kiss—but now it's all ruined! I've been waiting so long for this moment," you said between sobs.

"Wait no no no—don't cry! It's not ruined yet. See? Isn't this also romantic? Just you and me by the candle light!!" — "well yeah! In the middle of a storm." It came off harsher than you planned it to be, but you were just too upset by now—the storm showed no sign of stopping soon, making fun of your plead.

"I was working my butt off preparing this and—" he cut off your rambling by leaning in, shutting off whatever you were about to say.

His lips pressed softly against yours, gentle at first—like he was afraid to break you. The world around you blurred, the storm outside, the flicker of candlelight—everything faded except for him. There was warmth in the way he kissed you, like he had been holding back for far too long. It wasn’t rushed, or messy. It was perfect in its own quiet way—like time had slowed down just for the two of you.

Gosh, it felt magical—the feeling of his lips in yours. Hyunjin smelled like a pile of fresh roses. After a few seconds, he pulled back slightly to catch his breath. Observing your teary ones and swollen lips. Without a word, Hyunjin collapsed into your shoulder.

"Oh wow, you taste amazing. I've been waiting for this ever since our first date. You wouldn't believe how long I've been dying to get a taste of you." He said, face still buried on your shoulder.

"But it's not like how I planned it.." — "all I care about is being with you, love." He pecked your cheek and leaned in again, growing addicted to the taste of your lips.

Maybe it's not how you planned it to be, but it was definitely better.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

exhibitionism

part I

Pairing: SugarDaddy!Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: While out on a Friday night with your friends, you're struggling to pay for your second drink of the night. You are about to send it back when a stranger steps in to pay for your beverage. And really, what's the price of a drink?

Warnings: 18+!, Ben once again being his own warning, age gap, language, misogyny, drug consumption, smut (kissing, biting, marking, slapping, dirty talk, clitoral stimulation, overstim, forced orgasms, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus/oral, p in v, cum on face, throttling, rough sex, semi-public sex), mind games, manipulation, degradation, power imbalance, I may have missed some. (There's a bunch in this one, agh!)

Word Count: 7,109

A/N: Part one is just setting the tone, besties. I needed to build the atmosphere slowly because the next few parts of this? Unhinged. Truly. You can probably tell from the title that this one? Gonna be a different breed to the other works I've done. Obviously it's an AU, Ben isn't Soldier Boy here, but some (exceptionally) wealthy prick. And—good god—he's about to be the most controlling I've ever written him. I'm so beyond excited for the next few instalments of this one. I hope y'all are too. <3 Feel free to give me feedback, tell me if you're looking forward to the next part, tell me what you think. My gross little heart loves it. And yes, this is part one... so you know the drill: if the warnings listed above aren't evident yet, they will be. All the love.

Without further ado: EXHIBITIONISM

Power is not taken. It is given.

A glance across the bar. A drink set down without a word. A hand at the small of your back, guiding you somewhere you don’t belong.

It starts small—a single indulgence, a breathless yes.

Then, suddenly, you are on display. Draped over his lap, diamonds at your throat, whiskey on your lips. A possession. A prize. A thing to be seen.

Because men like him do not love. They own.

New York made you tough fast. It had to.

You’d come here alone, chasing a future that didn’t come with a safety net. No trust fund. No monthly deposits from a parent who still called to check in. No handouts, no home-cooked meals waiting for you in a house you no longer belonged to. You’d left it all behind—the family who told you it was them or college, the life you could’ve had if you’d just been what they wanted.

But you chose yourself.

And now? You were paying for it.

Rent was due in five days. You had barely scraped together enough, and there were still textbooks to buy, bills to pay, groceries to figure out. Your job—some soul-sucking gig that barely covered the essentials—kept you too exhausted to focus on anything else. But tonight, for the first time in weeks, you’d let your friends drag you out, promising yourself you’d try to have fun.

They didn’t understand, not really.

They weren’t cruel, just privileged. All born into wealth, raised in big houses, given credit cards they never had to check the balance on. You liked them—loved them, even—but you’d stopped trying to make them understand what it felt like to have nothing.

So you smiled, let them buy overpriced cocktails, laughed at their meaningless complaints, and sipped your one, carefully nursed vodka soda.

The rooftop bar was packed, warm from the heat of too many bodies, the glow of the city stretching out behind it. Your friends were already tipsy, ordering another round while you debated whether or not you could justify one more drink.

You couldn’t.

But for one night, you wanted to feel normal.

You followed one of them to the bar. She ordered some expensive, ridiculous thing—probably something with elderflower and gold flakes.

"Just put it on your tab, babe."

You laughed, shaking your head. "I’ll get my own. I’ll meet you back at the table."

She shrugged, flounced off, and you turned toward the bartender, already digging through your purse.

That was your first mistake.

The second was realising too late that you didn’t have enough.

Shit.

Your stomach sank as you counted out the crumpled bills, the few lonely coins at the bottom of your clutch. You pushed the drink back across the bar, heat prickling up your neck. Elbows on the counter, you pressed your face into your hands, forcing slow, steady breaths.

You could handle this. It wasn’t a big deal. You’d just… go back, tell them you weren’t drinking anymore.

And then—

"How much you need, sweetheart?"

The voice came from behind you.

Rough, low. Amused.

You froze. Shook your head, already mumbling, "No, it’s okay. Really, I—"

And then you looked up.

And fuck.

He was standing right there. Tall, broad, menacingly gorgeous.

A dress shirt stretched across his chest, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the flex of his forearms. Dark, expensive-looking pants. A thick watch on his wrist. Clean, manicured beard, hair swept back, and green eyes that looked like they could see straight through you.

He looked like a million fucking dollars.

And he was looking right at you.

"Tough night, sweetheart?"

His voice curled around you like smoke—low, deep, amused.

You barely had time to process it before he stepped forward, before he was in your space, before he was there like he'd been waiting for this moment all night.

You turned your head just as he slid into the empty spot beside you, just as the bartender reached for the drink you'd pushed away—ready to pour it down the drain.

And then he clicked his tongue. Just once. A sharp, quiet sound, and the bartender froze. Then nodded. Like that single fucking noise was enough to halt the whole goddamn world.

"Another," the man said, fingers tapping once against the polished wood of the bar, easy and sure. He had a voice like a slow drag of whiskey, rich and rough-edged, as he lifted his chin toward the bartender. "And get her extra lemon in both."

No hesitation. No questions. Just a quiet nod as the bartender went to work.

You swallowed, pulse kicking against your ribs, the air between you thick and electric.

Who the fuck was this guy?

"You didn’t have to do that," you said, voice steadier than you expected, even as heat burned up your throat. "I can’t afford to pay you back."

That got his attention.

Slowly, his gaze dragged back to you, head tilting slightly, like he was deciding whether or not your words deserved a response at all.

Then, finally—finally—he smirked.

"Wasn’t offerin' so you’d pay me back, sweetheart."

You exhaled sharply, something tight winding in your chest.

His eyes dropped for a fraction of a second—your mouth, your throat, the rise and fall of your breath—before flicking lazily toward the empty stool beside you. Then back to you.

He didn’t speak, just lifted an eyebrow. A question. An expectation.

You glanced at the seat, pulse hammering. Something told you that this—right here, right now—was the moment. The choice. The one that would set everything else in motion. Your fingers curled around the cool glass, and with a slow, careful nod, you gestured to the seat.

Permission.

His mouth curled at the corner, something smug, something victorious, and he sank onto the stool. And then he leaned in. Just enough to tilt his face toward you, just enough for his scent—woodsmoke, leather, something dark, something rich—to curl into your lungs.

"Ben," he said. Just that. A name, simple and short. A gift, or a warning. "And you are?"

You hesitated, lifting the drink to your lips, tongue flicking over the extra lemon wedge as you took a slow sip. His eyes followed the movement.

You told him your name.

He repeated it, like he was testing it, rolling it over his tongue just to see how it tasted. Then—

"So," he murmured, the word slow, deliberate. "What’s your story?"

A question with no right answer.

You exhaled softly. "Not much to tell. Just… out with my friends."

Ben made a quiet, thoughtful sound, lifting his glass to his lips—but he wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was looking at them.

Your friends, back at the table, ordering another round without even noticing you were gone. All glossy lips, designer bags, endless money, the kind of girls who would never, ever have to count crumpled bills and loose change just to afford a drink.

You felt the weight of his gaze shift back to you before you even turned your head. And when you finally looked up, he was already smirking.

"Yeah." His voice was slow, edged with something sharp. "See, I don’t think you are."

A pause.

"One of them."

The words cut straight through you, precise and exact, slipping beneath your skin like a blade between ribs.

Because fuck—he was right.

You let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, shaking your head before taking another slow sip of your drink.

"Yeah," you admitted, rolling the condensation-slick glass between your fingers. "You’re right. I’m not one of them."

Ben didn’t look particularly surprised. He just hummed—low, deep, expectant. Waiting.

And for some reason, you gave him more.

"They’re comfortable," you murmured, staring down into your drink, watching the ice melt. "They don’t have to worry about money. College is just a fun, cute idea to them. Something to pass the time before they go off and do whatever rich girls do when they get bored." You swallowed, the truth suddenly sitting heavy on your tongue. "They’re all pretty. They dress nice. They never have to worry about whether or not they’ve got enough crumpled bills in their purse to pay for a measly vodka soda."

Silence stretched between you.

Then—a sharp tut. Ben clicked his tongue, shaking his head like you’d just said something ridiculous.

"They’re not that pretty."

Your brows furrowed. You glanced at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

But he didn’t answer. Not right away. No—first, he looked.

And fuck.

His gaze dragged over you in one slow, unapologetic pass, starting at your legs, bare where they crossed beneath the bar, lingering just a little too long at the hem of your dress. His expression didn’t change, but you felt it when his eyes darkened, when they lingered on the soft, subtle curves of your body, when his gaze flicked up, finally—finally—to your face.

And then he smirked.

"Yeah, they’re pretty," he admitted, his voice a lazy drawl, like he was indulging the thought just for the hell of it.

Then his eyes locked onto yours.

"But you?" He leaned in, forearms braced on the bar, and his next words were just for you—low, rough, dangerous. "You’re a fuckin' knockout, sweetheart."

A flush crawled up your throat, warm and insidious, and you were so goddamn grateful for the dim lighting because what the fuck.

You weren’t used to this. Not the attention. Not like this. Not from a man.

Not from someone who looked like that—who looked like he had at least fifteen years on you, who carried himself like he had twice as much experience, who was looking at you like you were something worth his time, worth his attention, worth every second he was spending sitting here, watching you squirm.

Your breath caught. You took another sip of your drink, hoping like hell it would cool the heat spreading through your veins.

But his eyes? They told you—you weren’t getting off that easy.

Because Ben didn’t stop looking at you.

If anything, his attention sharpened. Every time you wet your lips, every slow sip of your drink, every flick of your tongue against the rim of the glass—he tracked it, eyes dark and unreadable.

He wasn’t subtle about it. Didn’t even fucking try to be. And worse? You could feel it.

Feel his gaze pressing into you, lingering on your mouth, dipping to your throat every time you swallowed, flicking back to your face just to catch the way heat bloomed beneath your skin.

He knew. He fucking knew. But when he spoke again, his voice was easy, casual—like he hadn’t just been devouring you with his eyes.

"What are you studyin'?"

You blinked, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

"Literature and Language," you answered, trying to sound normal, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped when his gaze lingered just a second longer than necessary before he nodded.

"Huh." A slow, thoughtful sound. "Why those?"

Your fingers curled around your drink, rolling it between your palms. "I love words."

That made him smirk, like you’d just said something that amused him.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, feeling almost shy under the weight of his gaze. "I want to write. I don’t really care what. Just… something."

Ben nodded, tapping his fingers idly against the bar.

"You on campus?" He asked. "Or you got your own place?"

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to answer. But because you weren’t sure why you felt so fucking compelled to tell him the truth.

His voice wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t prying. But something about him—about the way he looked at you, the way he asked, slow and expectant—made it impossible to brush him off.

You parted your lips to answer, but—

"Hey!"

Your name, bright and teasing, cut through the moment.

You turned to see one of your friends making her way over, heels clicking against the polished floor, eyes flicking between you and Ben with obvious curiosity.

He didn’t look at her. Not once. Even as she stopped beside you, even as she smirked and let her gaze drag over him, assessing, intrigued—Ben didn’t fucking blink.

His focus was still on you.

"We’re heading to another club," your friend announced, raising an eyebrow. Waiting. Watching. "You coming?"

And you—God help you—you were about to say no. You were about to say I want to stay. But before the words could even form—

"She’s good," Ben said smoothly.

Your friend blinked, startled, before her eyes snapped back to him.

"We’re having a nice conversation," he continued, voice easy, unreadable. Final. "Don’t worry about her. I’ll make sure she gets home safe."

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But your friend? She just grinned, because of course she fucking did.

"See ya later, babe!" She sang, giving you a knowing look before turning back toward your table. Back toward the others, who were already watching. Already smirking, like hungry fucking wolves.

Then your friends were gone, and the bar felt quieter, smaller without them. But Ben? He was still here. Still right beside you, still watching. Still holding all of your attention hostage.

He tapped his glass against the wood once, slow and thoughtful. Then—

"You want somethin' different?"

You blinked, shifting slightly in your seat. "I’m okay."

Ben made a noise in the back of his throat, something between a hum and a scoff, before waving a hand, cutting you off before you could say anything else.

"Didn’t ask if you’re okay, sweetheart." His voice was smooth, lazy, but edged with something sharper. "Asked if you want somethin' different to drink."

Your lips parted, but you hesitated.

Ben didn’t.

"I’m gettin’ another whiskey," he said easily, before his gaze dragged over you again—slow, indulgent, knowing. His smirk deepened. "I can get you one of those fruity little drinks if you want."

You frowned, shaking your head. "I don’t choose those for a reason."

His eyebrows ticked up, but he didn’t interrupt.

"I like alcohol to taste like alcohol," you murmured, running your finger along the rim of your glass.

And that? That earned you something new. A slow, low whistle. Ben grinned, sharp and approving.

"Atta fuckin’ girl."

Your stomach flipped, heat curling somewhere low and slow.

"Here," he said suddenly, reaching for his drink. "Try mine. See if you want that."

You barely had time to react before he pressed the glass into your hands, fingers brushing against yours, firm and deliberate. You weren’t sure why, but your breath hitched.

Not because of the whiskey. Because of him. Because of the way his pupils visibly darkened as you hesitated, as you lifted the glass, as your tongue flicked against the rim of the glass—

The same place he’d been drinking from.

Your lips parted around the sip, slow and small, the liquid burning warm and smooth down your throat. You shut your eyes, exhaling softly.

"Fuck," you murmured, sighing just a little.

You didn’t even have to look. You already knew. But when your lashes fluttered open again, Ben was already watching you, one brow cocked, a knowing little challenge hanging in the air between you.

You swallowed, ignored the heat spreading across your skin, and shrugged.

"It’s nice," you said lightly, reaching to slide the glass back to him. "But I don’t want you to spend any more money on me."

Ben scoffed, like the idea of money was a joke.

"Chump change, sweetheart."

Then, without another word, he whistled for the bartender, tapped his glass against the counter, and lifted two fingers in the air.

A silent command.

Seconds later, two fresh glasses of whiskey slid across the bar toward you. Your throat felt tight. You exhaled, a small breath of laughter slipping free before you even realised it.

"You’re a little young to have such a refined palate."

You huffed, rolling your eyes, before saying, "I used to steal sips of my dad’s whiskey when I was little." You paused, eyes flicking down to your glass, swirling the amber liquid absently. "I’ve always liked the burn."

Ben went still.

Just for a second. But it was enough. Enough to notice the way his nostrils flared, the way his fingers tightened around his glass, the way his gaze dropped back to your mouth like he was suddenly thinking about something else.

And then—

"Come with me."

His voice was low, thick with something weighted, something hot.

You blinked. "Where?"

Ben tipped his glass toward the entrance, toward the doors leading outside to the private rooftop patio.

"Need a smoke." A pause. "You should come."

He didn’t ask. Not really.

It was a suggestion. A promise. A fucking test.

And you? You took your glass and followed.

Ben held the door open with his foot, one arm braced against the frame, the other pressing lightly against the small of your back as he guided you outside.

The touch—warm, firm, easy—made you shiver.

His hand didn’t move. Didn’t slide away, didn’t lift, didn’t hesitate as he steered you toward the back of the rooftop patio—away from the clusters of people near the entrance, away from the noise and the neon city glow.

He led you to a hidden corner, tucked behind hanging plants and low-lit lanterns, a secluded little alcove that smelled like whiskey and leather and cigarette smoke. A place that felt expensive. Exclusive. Like somewhere you didn’t belong.

Ben sat, sprawling out across an outdoor sofa, legs spread wide, exhaling slow as he placed his whiskey down on the table. Then he stretched, arms draped over the back of the couch, rolling his shoulders with a satisfied hum before tilting his chin up at you.

"You gonna stand there all night?" He drawled. "Or you gonna come sit down?"

Your breath hitched. You slid your drink down next to his, then hesitated. Ben smirked. Then he patted his thigh.

Patted. His. Thigh.

"C’mon, sweetheart." His voice was low, teasing, wicked as sin. "I don’t bite."

Something thick and molten curled in your stomach, pooling warm at the base of your spine. And you didn’t know why—why the hell you actually listened, why you obeyed like it was the most natural thing in the world—

But you did. You perched yourself in his lap, delicate and careful, settling neatly on his thigh, just like he told you to.

His hand smoothed over your back, slow and deliberate, before wrapping around your waist and pulling you in closer, settling you against him as he sank deeper into the couch.

His warmth seeped through you instantly.

You hadn’t realised how cold it had gotten—the sharp chill of the evening settling deep in your bones, biting at your skin, leaving you barely covered in the slinky black dress.

But now? Now you were wrapped in his heat.

He reached into his pocket, fishing out a pack of cigarettes, fingers working slow as he tapped one loose. You watched as he flicked open his lighter, gold flame illuminating his face, sharp and stunning in the low light.

He took a long drag, exhaling thick ribbons of smoke into the air before tilting his head back to look at you.

"You smoke?"

You hesitated. "Only sometimes."

Ben hummed. "Why only sometimes?"

You scoffed softly, lifting a brow. "Can’t really afford it."

That made him laugh—low and amused, smoke curling from his lips as he shook his head like you were something funny, something ridiculous.

Then—without warning—he plucked the cigarette from his mouth and held it to yours. The move was smooth, effortless, like it wasn’t even a question whether or not you’d take it.

Like he already knew you would.

Your lips parted before you could think, before you could stop yourself, and you let him press the cigarette between them.

Ben’s eyes darkened visibly as he watched you inhale. Watched the way your lips wrapped around the filter, the way your lashes fluttered as smoke filled your lungs.

And then—still watching—he took it back. Lifted it between two fingers, brought it back to his own mouth, inhaling slow and deep from the same spot your lips had just been.

Your stomach flipped. Your pulse pounded.

And in that moment, you understood. He was doing this on purpose. Every touch, every look, every slow, lazy movement. All of it.

Ben shifted slightly beneath you, his thigh flexing against you, his fingers tightening just a little against your hip. And you—God help you—you stayed perfectly still. Right where he put you.

Ben kept smoking, the cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers as he leaned back, the picture of easy, indulgent satisfaction. He didn’t move much—just enough to shift his thigh beneath you, just enough to flex against the softest parts of you when he adjusted his sprawl.

And you?

You didn’t move at all.

Not when he kept feeding you drags of his cigarette, the filter brushing against your lips in slow, deliberate offerings. Not when he exhaled thick ribbons of smoke past your shoulder, keeping you close, keeping you still.

"You didn’t answer me earlier."

You blinked, head tilting slightly, forcing yourself to keep your breath even.

"Sorry?"

"You live on campus?" His voice was lazy, deep, completely unbothered. "Or you got your own place?"

You hesitated for a beat, shifting your drink between your hands before answering.

"I have my own place."

Ben hummed, dragging another slow inhale from his cigarette, eyes steady on you. "That right?"

You nodded. "It’s nothing special, but I managed to get it all by myself. It’s not the worst neighbourhood, but it’s good."

He nodded, exhaling smoke in a slow, steady stream.

"You like it?"

You blinked, caught off guard. No one had ever asked you that before. You’d lived there for two, almost three years now. Since you’d started college. It wasn’t something you’d ever thought about, wasn’t something you’d ever stopped to consider.

It was just… a place. A roof. Somewhere to study, sleep, survive.

"I—" You hesitated, licking your lips. "I like the fire escape."

That made him laugh, short and sharp, the sound richer than the whiskey on his tongue.

"The fire escape?" He lifted a brow, smirking. "Why’s that?"

Your fingers traced absently along the rim of your glass. "I like sitting on it. Reading when it rains."

Ben made a low, thoughtful sound. A soft hum that rumbled somewhere deep in his chest. Like that was interesting. Like you were interesting.

His eyes flicked back to your face, pinning you in place, holding you there, trapping you without even touching you. Then, smoothly, effortlessly—

"You goin' home tonight?"

The question landed like a punch to the ribs. Your throat went dry.

"Or," Ben continued, flicking ash into a tray, his voice even, unbothered, "you wanna come home with me?"

You choked. Your lips parted, a rush of heat crawling up your throat, your skin prickling with something hot and tight and suffocating.

"I—"

Ben’s smirk deepened.

You forced a breath, shaking your head quickly. "I—no, I’m not—" You swallowed hard. "I’m not that type of girl."

That only made him grin wider.

"Yeah?" He exhaled slow, tilting his head as he took another drag, watching you through the smoke. "What kind of girl?"

You panicked. You could feel it, the clumsy mess of heat and nerves unraveling inside you, twisting your stomach into knots.

"I don’t—" You exhaled sharply, tripping over your own words. "I don’t just go home with guys and have sex after only knowing them for a few hours."

Ben let out a low, amused sound. And then—the kill shot.

"Didn’t say we were gonna fuck, sweetheart."

Your face burned. Your heart stopped.

And Ben just smirked. Smirked like he already knew exactly how you’d react. Like he’d known from the second he said it. Like he’d already fucking won.

Heat flushed up your throat, creeping high into your cheeks, and Ben noticed.

Of course he fucking noticed.

His smirk deepened, eyes flicking over your face before his knuckles brushed against your cheek, slow and deliberate, the drag of rough skin making your breath hitch.

"Fuckin’ cute," he muttered, almost to himself.

Your stomach flipped. You swallowed hard, ignoring the pulse hammering in your throat. "Then what did you mean?"

Ben tipped his head, watching you with lazy amusement.

"Hm?"

"If you weren’t inviting me to sleep with you," you clarified, voice softer now, breathier. "Then what did you mean?"

Ben exhaled slow, the cigarette burning amber-red between his fingers.

"It’s a Friday night, sweetheart," he murmured, stretching against the couch, his thighs shifting beneath you. "You could come back to mine."

He paused, tilting his glass to watch the whiskey swirl before flicking his gaze back to you.

"I could show you a good time."

Your stomach fluttered.

"More whiskey," he continued, tapping a lazy rhythm against the rim of his glass. "Better than this shit they’ve got here."

Your brows furrowed slightly.

Better?

The whiskey here was good. Expensive. You weren’t even sure how much better it could get—

"And," Ben added, eyes flicking lower, watching the way your legs pressed together, "I got some coke I’d love to blow up your ass."

You choked.

Ben laughed, rich and warm, whiskey-dark and indulgent, like he was savouring every second of this.

"That a no?" He teased, exhaling smoke.

You sputtered, shaking your head quickly. "I—what the fuck—"

Ben lifted a brow, eyes glinting. "You ever done coke, sweetheart?"

You hesitated. Too long. His smirk widened.

"Only once or twice," you admitted carefully, shifting slightly in his lap.

Ben hummed, something thoughtful, something knowing. Then—smooth as fucking silk—he leaned in just a little closer, fingers tightening against your waist, his breath warm and whiskey-sweet when he murmured.

"So come home with me."

Your pulse kicked.

"We don’t have to fuck," he added, smirking against the rim of his glass. "But if you feel like it after a few lines, I ain’t gonna chuck you out."

Your chest felt too tight. Your limbs felt too warm.

This was stupid. This was dangerous. This was the worst fucking idea you’d ever had.

And yet—

Yet his hand was still on you. Yet his voice was still in your ear. Yet he was still looking at you like he already knew you weren’t going to say no.

Because you weren’t. Because even if you had another choice, even if you had an escape, you’d still go willingly.

You nodded.

Ben’s grin flashed, wide and wicked, all sharp teeth and wolfish excitement.

"Yeah?"

The way he said it—rough, eager, eyes sparking like he’d just heard something delicious—made your stomach flip.

You nodded again. That was all he needed. Ben stood, all smooth, effortless power, knocking back the last of his whiskey in one swallow. Then he grabbed your glass, pressed it into your hands, and cocked a brow.

A challenge.

You understood. Your fingers curled around the cool glass. You lifted it to your lips, savouring the burn, letting it warm you from the inside out.

When you were finished, Ben was still watching you. And then? He grinned. And slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close like he’d already decided you belonged there.

"C’mon, sweetheart."

He led you through the bar, past bodies and noise and neon glow, steering you out the front doors and onto the street.

That was when you saw it. The car. Big. Black. Sleek and expensive as hell. A driver stood by the curb, leaning against the hood, one boot crossed over the other, hands in his coat pockets.

Ben steered you toward the back door, but before he opened it, the driver let out a low, rough chuckle as he climbed into the front seat.

"Leavin’ early tonight, are ya, mate?"

The accent caught you off guard. British. Cockney. A voice like gravel and burnt whiskey, rough and sharp-edged.

Ben pressed you into the back. You glanced up, catching the driver’s eyes flick toward you in the rearview mirror, a smirk pulling at his mouth.

Ben clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he slid into the spot beside you. "Made a friend, Butcher."

Your stomach tightened.

"Wanted to show her a good time."

You swallowed hard, suddenly so fucking aware of where this was going, of what you’d just agreed to. But then Ben pulled you further into the backseat, and the moment stretched thin, reality slipping away, replaced with the heavy warmth of him against you.

The door shut. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows. And you realised something. Ben had a fucking driver.

A chauffeur.

You felt a slow, sharp pulse of realisation.

Jesus Christ, this man had money.

And as the car glided through the streets, moving toward the nicest part of the city—where buildings stretched high and elegant, where penthouses gleamed from impossible heights—

You couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why the hell was he indulging you? Why had he picked you?

Ben just smirked, pulling you closer, thumb tracing a slow, lazy stroke against your shoulder. And you were nervous now, because you didn’t belong in his world, but you were already inside it.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of a sleek, modern high-rise—all clean steel and glass, standing tall against the city skyline like it owned the night itself.

It was the kind of building that made your stomach drop.

The kind of place where people with money, real money, lived—the kind of people who didn’t check their bank accounts before ordering drinks, who didn’t split rent five ways just to make ends meet, who didn’t pick up extra shifts just to afford their next meal.

This was a different world.

The engine idled low, a soft hum beneath your skin, and then—

"So, what’s the plan, mate?"

You blinked.

Butcher was looking at Ben now, one arm slung over the back of the passenger seat, all smirk and knowing eyes.

"You want me to keep the car warm?" He asked, voice edged with thick, cockney amusement. "Or you takin’ the girl back later?"

Your stomach flipped.

Ben exhaled through his nose, grinning like he already knew the answer.

"Clock off for the night."

Butcher let out a low, rasping chuckle, nodding once as he faced forward again, like he’d already seen this a hundred times before.

The door clicked open.

And then Ben was pulling you out of the car, his hand firm against your lower back, guiding you forward—into the lobby, past the marble floors and golden light, past the concierge who didn’t even lift his head.

Because of course he didn’t. Because this was Ben’s world.

And then—

Then he was leading you to a private elevator. Not a normal one. Not one that anyone else could use. No—this one was his. A sleek, polished cage of steel and shadowed mirrors, with only one fucking button.

Penthouse.

Your pulse pounded. You barely had time to process before Ben pressed the button, the doors sliding shut—sealing you inside.

And then?

Then his hands were on you. Not in a foul way. Not in a way that made you want to run. But possessive. Purposeful. Heavy. His fingers gripped your hips, your waist, sliding over the thin fabric of your dress, curling around you like he was memorising every inch.

Your breath hitched as he spun you, pressing you up against the wall with zero hesitation, his body all heat and weight, caging you in.

He wasn’t kissing you. He wasn’t even trying to. But he was everywhere.

One hand hiked your thigh up, draping it over his hip, holding you open against him. His palm slid over the bare skin, rough and warm, trailing fire in its wake. The other? Splayed over your ribs, fingers flexing, gripping, feeling.

You gasped softly, lightheaded, dazed, overwhelmed.

And Ben? Well, Ben just smirked.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, dragging his hand up, brushing his knuckles just beneath the swell of your breast, not quite touching—just teasing. "You’re soft as hell."

Your fingers clenched at your sides, your lips parting, but nothing came out.

"Fuckin’ sweet, too," he continued, voice low, thick with something weighted, something syrupy. His thumb dragged over your jaw, over your cheek, tracing slow, lazy circles against your heated skin.

"So goddamn good."

Your knees felt weak. Your body felt like it wasn’t even yours anymore.

"Fuckin’ glad I spotted you tonight, sweetheart."

The words sent a sharp, heavy pulse of heat straight through you. His breath was warm against your throat, but he still wasn’t kissing you.

Just feeling. Just touching. Just taking.

"So glad you ditched your little friends," he muttered, squeezing your thigh, his fingers pressing into soft flesh, into heat, into want. "Didn’t wanna have to come over and pull you away from 'em."

A pause. A dark little chuckle.

"Would’ve, though."

Your breath shuddered.

Ben tilted his head, watching your reaction, like he was waiting to see how deep he could sink his teeth. His grip tightened.

"Christ on a cross," he rasped, hungry, pleased. "You’re so fuckin’ pretty."

And fuck.

You felt like you were floating, like you weren’t even inside your own body anymore, like he had fully consumed you without even trying.

You hadn’t kissed. You hadn’t done anything.

But he was already all over you. And you were already his.

Ben didn’t take his hands off you.

Not once. Not in the elevator, where his grip stayed firm on your waist, fingers curling possessively over the thin fabric of your dress. Not as he led you down the hall, past artwork that looked like it belonged in a museum.

Not as he pressed a hand to your lower back, slow and steady, steering you toward a door at the very end.

And when he got there? When he reached for the handle, turning it effortlessly, he paused. He smirked. Then, with one push, the door swung open.

And fuckshitfuck.

You stepped inside—hesitantly, breath catching in your throat. Because it was beautiful. Not just rich. Not just expensive.

Money-money.

The kind of wealth that wasn’t loud or gaudy. The kind that settled deep into the bones of a place.

Everything was earth tones, dark woods, deep greens, warm browns. A massive, open-plan living room and kitchen stretched out before you—plush, oversized furniture, sleek coffee tables, a fireplace nestled into the far wall like an afterthought. One entire wall was just glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked New York in its entirety, glittering and endless. And it was pristine.

Except for the drugs.

Half-finished baggies of white powder littered the coffee table. A bag of weed crumpled in the corner. Whiskey bottles stood like monuments—some full, some empty, some abandoned halfway.

A pack of cigarettes lay open beside a vintage lighter that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

The room reeked of money, whiskey, power. Of Ben.

And you just stood there, gawping. Wide-eyed, breath shallow, taking it all in. You hadn’t realised how long you’d been standing there until you heard him chuckle.

"Somethin’ caught your eye, sweetheart?"

You turned, heat creeping up your neck—

And Ben was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with pure amusement. Like he already knew exactly how overwhelmed you were. Like he was enjoying this just a little too much.

And that smirk? The one that said you were exactly where he wanted you? Yeah. That wasn’t leaving his face anytime soon.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you choked out, breathless, eyes still dragging over the room, over the drugs, over the absolute excess of it all. "What do you do for a living?"

Ben laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a real, warm, whiskey-thick laugh, head tilting back slightly as if the question was fucking hilarious.

"Not important."

That was all he gave you. No explanation. No answer. Just a lazy smirk as he jerked his chin toward the couch.

"Go sit down."

You nodded—still dazed, still breathless, still trying to process where the hell you were—but instead of sitting, your feet carried you toward the window. The city stretched out before you, lights spilling across the night, thousands of tiny pinpricks glowing against the dark.

It was beautiful.

So much—so big—so vast and consuming.

You didn’t realise you were staring, didn’t realise how quiet the room had gotten, until you heard him moving behind you.

The low clink of glass against glass. The soft thud of a bottle against the counter. The sound of him fumbling through something, shifting around, pouring drinks.

Then he was closer. The air shifted, thickened, and then the drinks were being placed down on the table beside the couch, and then—

Heat.

Solid and warm and undeniable as Ben stepped up flush against your back. Large, rough hands slid over your waist, slow and deliberate, fingers flexing slightly against your hips, gripping, holding.

You exhaled sharply, but you didn’t move. Not even when his fingers brushed your hair over your shoulder, exposing the bare skin of your neck. Not even when you felt his breath—hot and steady, thick with whiskey and smoke—ghost over the sensitive skin there.

He inhaled. Breathed you in deep, slow, indulgent.

Your eyes fluttered. Your heart kicked.

"Ever seen it like this?" He murmured, voice low against your throat.

You swallowed, hard, struggling to find words. "Never," you whispered.

Then he dragged his beard down your neck. Slow. Rough. Teasing. A scrape of warmth and friction as he traced down to the junction of your shoulder, where he paused, fingers tightening just slightly against your waist.

"Pretty fuckin’ cool, huh?"

You just nodded. Couldn’t do anything else. Didn’t trust yourself to speak. And Ben chuckled—low, rich, satisfied—his breath a warm rush against your skin.

Then, before you could even process it, he spun you—quick, effortless, leaving you lightheaded and breathless—until you were facing him.

"So," he drawled, smirking as his fingers dragged down your arm, as his thumb brushed slow circles into your skin. "About that coke."

A pause. A challenge. An invitation to ruin.

Because you know exactly what he’s asking. And you already know what your answer’s gonna be.

Ben took your hand. The grip was firm, steady, assured—like he was leading you somewhere you’d never been before, somewhere you weren’t supposed to go.

And you let him. You let him pull you back toward the couch, let him sink onto the cushions before pulling you down with him.

His arm draped over the back of the sofa, legs spread wide, thighs brushing against yours as he reached for something on the coffee table. You watched as he picked up a small, round mirror—not a plate, not a tray, but a perfectly cut, polished mirror disk—and set it between you.

Then, he reached for the knife. Not a normal one. Something sleek, expensive, sharp as hell.

You swallowed, watching as he tapped a small bag against the mirror, tipping out soft white powder, letting it fall in neat, delicate little mounds. He worked slowly, unbothered, using the blade to spread it out, separate it, line it up into thin, precise rails of destruction.

One big.

Four small.

Then, without a word, he leaned down. Inhaled the big one like it was nothing, like it was routine, like he wasn’t even thinking about it. The rasp of his breath pulling it in sent a sharp pulse through you, made something tight coil low in your stomach.

Then he tapped the knife against the mirror. A soft, metallic clink. And then his eyes flicked to you.

"Your turn."

You swallowed. Nodded. Leaned down, hands pressed against your thighs, trying not to overthink it.

The powder burned, sharp and electric, snaking down the back of your throat and settling like pure fire in your bloodstream.

You sat back fast, licking your lips, pressing your tongue against your teeth—

Jesus Christ.

It was good. Better than anything you’d ever had before. And you knew. Knew that even that one line—that small amount you just did—probably cost more than everything you were wearing.

And the dress you had on? It was expensive. Because it wasn’t even yours.

It was borrowed.

Just like this moment. Just like this night. Just like the breath you were taking right now, sitting beside him, sinking deeper into something you weren’t sure you’d be able to climb out of.

And Ben was watching you. Watching the way your pupils dilated, watching the way your body relaxed, then tensed, then relaxed again.

And then—softer, darker, lazier—

"Yeah, sweetheart." A slow, amused hum, tapping the knife once more against the mirror, watching the way you were already chasing the high. "That’s the good shit."

Ben tapped the knife against the mirror again, sharp and expectant.

"Go on."

Not a question. A directive.

Your pulse skipped. But you didn’t hesitate. You leaned down again, dragging in another quick, clean inhale, feeling the burn, the sharp flood of heat and adrenaline surging through your system, blooming fast and bright beneath your skin.

Before you’d even sat back properly, Ben was already taking the last two lines, exhaling through his nose, jaw flexing as he set the mirror back onto the coffee table.

Then—without missing a beat—he passed you your drink. And pulled you straight into his lap. Rough. Thoughtless. Uninhibited. The coke had already stripped away the last of his patience, his hands heavier now, more possessive, more desperate to touch.

Your knees hit the couch cushions on either side of his thighs as you let him drag you over him, gasping softly as your weight settled onto his lap.

Your fingers curled instinctively around your whiskey glass, and then you spilled it. Just a little—just a splash, just enough to stain the stark white fabric stretched across his chest. Your eyes went wide.

"Oh my God—"

Ben just waved a hand.

"Don’t fuckin’ matter, doll."

Then, to prove his point, he grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled. Hard. The top few buttons popped clean off, pinging against the glass in your hand, the sharp little sound ringing out between you.

Your breath hitched, then you laughed. A real, bright, breathless laugh.

And Ben froze. Just for a second. Then—low, rasping, amused—

"Shit."

His hand slid up, fingertips pressing into the hinge of your jaw, rubbing slow circles, thumb brushing over your pulse.

"That’s a pretty fuckin’ sound."

You blinked, still breathless, still lightheaded from the coke and the earlier whiskey.

"What?"

Ben’s smirk curled slow, lazy, dark.

"Your laugh." His hand trailed lower, over your throat, over your collarbone. Over your legs, kneading into soft flesh, gripping. "Fuckin’ cute."

The word sent a sharp, electric pulse straight through you.

"You’re fuckin’ cute."

Your heart stuttered.

His hands moved restlessly, hungrily—up your thighs, over the thin fabric of your dress, rubbing slow circles into your hip.

"The fuck were you even doin’ out tonight in that bar, huh?" He muttered, voice rough, almost possessive.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Ben just smirked.

"Dumb fuckin’ luck."

His hand fisted into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch.

"Wasn’t even lookin’ for a girl tonight."

His thumb dragged over your jaw, his grip tightening.

"And somehow, I see a fuckin’ angel at the bar."

You swallowed, hard, pulse fluttering against his palm.

And Ben—Ben just kept looking at you like he already owned you. Like he’d already decided you were his.

Your fingers tightened around your glass. You took a sip, letting the whiskey burn through you, and immediately, your eyes went wide.

"Holy fuck—" You stared at the glass, shocked. "This is good."

Ben’s smirk widened, all smug, all knowing.

"Told you I had better shit."

You took another sip, let the whiskey melt against your tongue, burn down your throat, let your head tip back as you savoured it. And then his hand was on you again. Big, warm, rough—fingers curling around your throat, guiding your face back down, forcing your gaze to his.

Your breath caught.

Ben’s pupils were blown wide, pitch-black, swallowing up the green. Coke-dilated. Lust-drunk. And he laughed. Low and smug and so fucking amused.

"Shit, sweetheart." His fingers tightened just slightly, enough to make your head feel even lighter. "You're fucked."

You blinked, hazy, breathless, lost.

Ben’s eyes dragged over your face, watching. Studying. Memorising.

"No pretty colour left in those eyes anymore," he murmured, voice slow, heavy, lazy as sin. "Swallowed whole by your fuckin' pupils."

A pause. A smirk.

"Can you even see straight?"

And fuck. The way he said it. The mocking lilt. The condescension. You whimpered. Soft. Small. Instinctive.

And Ben saw it.

You watched the realisation dawn on him in real time—

The way his smirk flickered, darkened, deepened. The way his pupils somehow blown out further, his grip flexing slightly against your throat because he fucking knew now.

He knew exactly what you liked.

And now? Now, he wasn’t gonna let it go.

Ben sighed, like he had all the patience in the world. Then, without breaking eye contact, he plucked the whiskey glass from your hand and set it on the side table.

Then—with nothing else between you—he fixed you with his undivided attention.

"Now," he murmured, voice dipping low, dark, warm like syrup.

"You gonna let me stick my tongue down your throat?" A pause. A smirk. "Or you need a bit more coke first?"

You whimpered again. And that was it. That was all it took.

Ben let out a low, satisfied hum, then tightened his grip on your throat and pulled you in. His lips crashed against yours, deep and consuming, nothing soft, nothing hesitant. His tongue licked into your mouth immediately—wet and hot and insistent, tasting of whiskey and sin and the kind of ruin you’d never recover from.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

It was possession. A claim. And you let him take it.

@mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @itshellfire @nevercameraready @suckitands33 @kayleighwinchester <3

[doumadono]

Warnings: smut w/o plot, cunningulus, f!reader, squirting, fingering, alcohol use, voyeurism Synopsis: after the war, you and Shigaraki spend time together while the rest of the League prepares for the final mission. Excessive drinking leads to a moment of intimacy between you and Shigaraki, with him tasting your cunt for the first time. Unbeknownst to you, your boyfriend Touya unexpectedly returns early and witnesses the scene A/N: this piece was commissioned on my Ko-fi page by my beloved @shonen-brainrot - I'm sharing this fic with her consent. Thank you for commissioning me, baby! I hope you enjoy it! Friendly reminder to everyone else: my writing commissions are open :)

MASTERLIST KO-FI COMISSIONS: OPEN

You spent a mere three months as a member of the League of Villains, yet during that brief period, you actively contributed to planning the Paranormal Liberation War. Despite the apparent "loss," you understood that, among other things, you achieved a strategic victory. After exiting the stage with Tomura and his other allies, you needed to keep a low profile, and so you did. Leveraging your quirk, Speed Recovery, you became a highly valuable asset to Shigaraki, aiding in the recovery of his injured allies.

Amid this intense three months period, you cultivated an unexpected understanding with the most enigmatic figure in the organization — Dabi. Astonishingly, he turned out to be the long-lost son of the Number One hero, Endeavor. Before you fully grasped it, you found yourself low-key "dating" - an understated term for the intensity of the connection. It encompassed spending endless hours together, engaging in profound conversations, and gradually closing the physical distance between you two.

Yet, an undercurrent of unease lingered as you sensed Tomura's discontent. Was he possibly envious of someone as seemingly ordinary as yourself? The uncertainty hung in the air, casting a shadow over the dynamics within the group.

You devoted considerable time meticulously plotting the retribution, even as you witnessed Tomura's growing anger and frustration. Reassuring him, you affirmed the intricacy of his plans, confidently asserting that soon you would unveil a lesson for the heroes, showing them their rightful place.

After the devastating War, Tomura visibly bore the weight of stress, engrossed in devising his next set of plans.

One evening, while the others were away preparing for the final mission, you and Tomura remained at the hideout, sipping from a shared bottle of vodka. The conversation delved into the details of the plan and the sacrifices it would inevitably demand.

Tomura took a sip, his crimson eyes fixed on you. "This mission will change everything. Sacrifices are inevitable."

You nodded, the weight of the responsibility settling in. "Yeah, but it's necessary. For a better future."

He smirked, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "A better future, huh? How optimistic."

You chuckled, recognizing his penchant for cynicism. "Well, not everyone can be as optimistic as you, Tomura."

He leaned back, fingers tapping against the bottle. "Optimism won't save us. Practicality will."

You smirked, appreciating the contrast in your perspectives. "Practicality and a bit of optimism won't hurt."

Tomura scoffed, taking another sip. "You're incorrigible."

You raised an eyebrow. "Coming from you, that's a compliment."

He chuckled, the corners of his lips curling into a rare smile. "Maybe. But let's not get too sentimental. We have work to do."

As the night wore on, the shared bottle of vodka dwindled, leaving both you and Tomura with a growing sense of intoxication.

"Thanks for the refill," you slurred appreciatively, the alcohol already making its presence felt.

Tomura, seemingly affected by the spirits as well, mused, "Can't believe Dabi didn't teach you how to drink."

You chuckled, the room swaying slightly. "Guess he missed that lesson."

With a nonchalant shrug, Tomura rose, tossing the empty bottle effortlessly into the trash bin. He went to a nearby cabinet, retrieving another bottle of alcohol and two fresh glasses.

You protested, waving your hands, but he poured you another drink, raising an eyebrow. "How are things between you and our lovely Todoroki, by the way?"

The question struck a chord, and you frowned, feeling a bit uncomfortable at the sudden turn into personal territory. "Well, you know, complicated," you replied evasively, taking a sip to buy some time.

Tomura leaned back, swirling his drink, his gaze fixed on you. "Complicated, huh? Must be quite a story."

You sighed, the alcohol loosening your tongue. "Yeah, it is. But we manage."

He nodded, taking a thoughtful sip. "Managing is something, I guess."

You attempted to shift the conversation away from your relationship with Dabi, bringing up other topics, but Tomura proved relentless. With a cocky grin, he circled back to Dabi, probing for more details.

"Come on, spill it. I want to hear the juicy bits," he taunted, swirling his drink with an unsettling confidence.

Sighing, you relented a little. "It's not that interesting, Tomura. Just the usual ups and downs. Nothing to discuss."

He leaned in, a dark glint in his eyes. "Ups and downs, huh? Sounds like there's more to it."

You rolled your eyes, realizing that steering the conversation away from Dabi was an uphill battle. "Can we talk about something else, Tomura? There's a whole world out there."

He chuckled, his laughter carrying a sinister undertone. "The world can wait."

As the night wore on, Tomura's questions became more probing, his tone growing darker and more insistent. He seemed to revel in the discomfort he caused, savoring every tidbit you reluctantly shared about your tumultuous relationship. Tomura got up, the creaking floorboards announcing his movement as he paced around the room. He cast a sly glance in your direction, the dim light highlighting the eerie grin on his face. "You know," he began, still walking, "I always suspected there was more to Dabi. But Endeavor's son? Now, that's interesting."

You shifted uncomfortably, eyeing him as he continued to circle the room. "Yeah, surprising, right?"

He chuckled, a sinister edge to his voice. "Perfect, actually. Vengeance is a powerful motivator. It'll make him even more useful for our cause."

Tomura took a place beside you on a worn-out couch, his arm casually wrapping around your shoulders. He poured another drink, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

You gave a weak smile, feeling a little uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze. The tension heightened as his arm tightened around your shoulders, and he handed you the freshly poured drink.

"To unexpected alliances," he proposed, raising his glass.

You clinked yours against his, the liquid burning down your throat, the room spinning with a mix of alcohol and Tomura's ominous presence.

As Tomura poured another round, he seemed undeterred by the growing level of intoxication. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol.

In the midst of another casual conversation, Tomura, with an unsettling nonchalance, steered the dialogue back to Dabi. "Did he fuck you already?" he inquired abruptly, his tone cutting through the drunken haze that surrounded you.

Your cheeks flushed, and you visibly squirmed in discomfort at the unexpected and personal nature of the question. "It's none… None of your… Bussiness, Tomura," you hiccuped.

"Come on now, spill it. Did he or didn't he?" he pressed, a mocking grin playing on his lips.

You sighed, feeling the weight of the question. "Tomura, that's really none of your business…"

Tomura's grin widened, and he leaned back, seemingly pleased with your discomfort. "Sounds like a yes to me. Dabi's got taste, I'll give him that. Was he a gentleman, delicately tending to your needs, or more like a dog in heat, just claiming what's his?"

Your face burned hotter as you bit your lower lip, desperately downing the glass of vodka, and quickly covering your mouth after. "Something in between," you mumbled, your words slightly slurred.

Shigaraki chuckled darkly, throwing his head back. "Mmmm, I see. What a pity then. You deserve to be taken care of, baby. Such a little, pretty villain," he reached his gloved hand out and touched your cheek. The gloved touch sent shivers down your spine. "Did he eat your pussy?"

The nausea welled up inside you, and all you wanted was to escape to your tiny room and lie down. You nodded, managing a weak, "Yes," hoping it would satisfy Shigaraki and put an end to the uncomfortably intimate interrogation.

Tomura grinned, placing his glass on a tiny coffee table. He simply leaned in, crushing his lips onto yours without seeking your consent.

In your intoxicated state, attempts to push him away were feeble. His lips bore the flavor of vodka, but strangely, you found yourself not entirely opposed to the unexpected kiss. A part of you didn't mind what was happening at all, so you casually moved your lips against his in a dance influenced by the haze of alcohol.

Before you could fully comprehend the situation, his gloved hand, adorned with only two fingers covered by a black leather, slipped between your thighs and beneath the plain skirt you wore. His touch started at your thigh, skillfully massaging the soft flesh, while slowly ascending.

A gasp escaped your lips as a strange warmth began to build within your abdomen. You cursed yourself for reacting this way to your boss. You shouldn't be feeling like this; after all, you had a boyfriend. What would he think if he knew how Shigaraki's touch was affecting you? You blamed the intoxication for clouding your mind, and even if you desired to push Shigaraki away, you felt powerless; your hands seemed to weigh a ton.

Gloved fingers teased you through your panties, eliciting a gasp that escaped past your parted lips. You bit down on your lower lip, the sensations proving intoxicating, clouding the last remaining rationally-thinking parts of your brain.

As your head lolled back, resting against the back of the couch, Shigaraki licked the column of your neck. "Shhh, shhhh, it's okay. Ain't gonna hurt ya, sweetie. I just wanna make you feel good, like Dabi never did, I bet."

Shigaraki pushed the fabric of your panties aside, his touch careful as he rubbed against your folds, discovering they were already slick with your excitement. He grinned, licking his lips. "Look at you," he chuckled, hiccuping a little. "Mmm, already so wet for your boss. That's the attitude I like."

Shigaraki rose from the couch, a hiss escaping him as his pants grew uncomfortable, his dick tenting the fabric. He knelt down, parting your thighs, and took hold of the sides of your panties, skillfully tugging them down your legs until they were off completely. Bringing the garment to his nose, he sniffed it like a wild animal, licking the damp spot on the material and growling in anticipation. "Fuck," he muttered, his other hand palming himself through the fabric of his pants.

As the man licked a stripe along your slick folds, a loud whine escaped your lips, and you leaned back fully against the couch. Slowly, you brought your hand to your mouth, covering it as if to prevent all the moans from escaping. It felt so wrong, yet oh so right at the same time.

Shigaraki closed his lips around your clitoris, fervently sucking the swollen bud into his mouth. This left you writhing beneath him, moaning like a cheap whore you apparently were at that moment. His bare fingers, devoid of glove, expertly rubbed your entrance as Shigaraki continued to lap at your slick folds. The obscene noises he made filled the air, his head shaking left to right to increase the friction you sought with every roll of your hips, each movement trying to push your cunny further into his face.

"O-Oh, God…" you whimpered.

Shigaraki chuckled slightly before slipping his tongue into your entrance. It was the moment you arched your back, sliding one of your hands into his white hair, tugging it to bring his face and mouth closer to your heated core.

He skillfully fucked you with his tongue, his gloved fingers simultaneously massaging your clitoris, causing your wetness to spill all over his eager tongue. "Mhmmm," he grunted, still palming himself through his pants.

Lost in the throes of passion, neither of you heard the door opening. Little did you know that the rest of the League had returned to the hideout.

Dabi stood in the doorway leading to Shigaraki's office, his turquoise eyes wide open as he witnessed the scene unfolding before him — his boss, someone he had once considered a friend at some point, and his girl, getting laid.

Meanwhile, Shigaraki resumed lapping at your entrance, growling like an animal at your scent and taste. In contrast, you were already a moaning mess.

"I fucking love your little cunt," Shigaraki declared, kissing your swollen clitoris before returning to licking your dripping hole.

Dabi felt anger and jealousy building up within him, but he also sensed some primal desire. Casually closing the door, he walked over to the two of you, nonchalantly dipping down next to you on the couch. "Well, well, I see you two are having some fun, huh?" he growled.

It was then that you snapped your eyes open, instantly attempting to push Shigaraki off your pussy.

However, your boss simply looked at Dabi lazily, and after kissing your cunt, he straightened up, wiping his lips from your juices glistening there with the top of his palm. "Todoroki, you're back already."

Dabi scoffed. "What do you fucking think you're doing, Tomura?" Dabi growled, igniting a little blue flame on his left palm while his right one rested possessively on your knee.

"And what does it look like? I'm eating her cunny out," Shigaraki replied, a wry grin on his lips.

"She's fucking mine, and you're fucking aware of that," Dabi reminded.

Shigaraki chuckled darkly, waving his hand. "Oh, don't be such a dog in the manger. I didn't fuck her, yeah? Just licked her tiny cunt. That's not a fucking crime, is it?"

Dabi breathed angrily through his nose. "I can see you got fucking turned on just by her taste," he scoffed, glancing at the tent in Tomura's pants.

Shigaraki unselfconsciously palmed his dick, tilting his head to the side. "Can you blame me? Look at her, such a little naughty villainess we have here. And her taste is intoxicating."

Dabi scoffed again. "Imagine that I know, as I've fucked her many times already."

Tomura ran his bare fingers up and down your cunt. "Don't be angry at her, it's my fault. We got a little too wasted, and I kind of couldn't stop myself when I smelled her wetness," Shigaraki explained, pointing his chin at the coffee table and the empty bottle of alcohol and glasses.

Dabi shook his head in disapproval and reached his hand out, catching your chin between his index finger and thumb, tilting it so you faced him. "You're such a naughty whore, getting wet for him? Pathetic."

Your cheeks were still flushed. "S-sorry, Touya…" you whined pathetically.

Dabi looked into your half-opened eyes. He couldn't deny the twitch in his pants as he saw you so vulnerable and exposed. The idea of letting some other guy fuck you while he watched had always lingered in the dark corners of his twisted mind. Now, the opportunity presented itself. "You liked him licking your cunt, hmm?"

You bit at your knuckle, slowly nodding your head for yes.

Dabi sighed. "Fine. Make my girl cum," the scarred man ordered, looking at Shigaraki. "But don't you fucking dare to put your fucking, pathetic cock into her. That's exclusively mine privilege."

Shigaraki cocked his eyebrows, "Who do you think you are to boss me around, Dabi?"

Touya grinned nastily. "Seriously? Your cock already makes a damp spot in your pants, man. I know you want her. So give her what she wants. Make her fucking cum. Let her decide which one of us eats her pussy better. I'm sure she's gonna choose me."

"T-Touya, I.." you started, but your boyfriend placed his fingers on your lips, sealing them.

"Shut up and spread your legs wider like the good whore you are," he instructed.

You nodded hesitantly, following his words.

Shigaraki grunted, seeing your pussy spreading open just for him. He instantly dived between your legs, lapping at your folds again, making slurping noises and eating your cunt so intensely that the base of his nose nudged your swollen clitoris, making you whine.

Dabi watched the scene with a stoic expression attached to his scarred face. He reached one of his hands around your shoulders, bringing you closer to him so you rested your side against his chest. His other hand grabbed the hem of your skirt, hoisting it up your hips to provide himself with a better view of your drenched cunt and Shigaraki diving between your legs.

"You're such a needy whore," Dabi whispered into your ear, moving the arm he had wrapped around your shoulders to unbutton your shirt and fish out one of your breasts from the cup of your bra, fondling it gently. "So fucking wet. Look at the mess you made on this bastard's face."

You were whining, resting one elbow on Dabi's lap, moaning even louder as you felt his hardened cock making a bulge in his jeans.

Shigaraki slipped his gloved fingers into your cunt, massaging your inner walls.

Dabi grasped your chin and tilted your head, sloppily kissing your lips. Your tongues danced together.

Shigaraki spat down on your pussy, spreading his saliva all over your folds with his thumb. After that, he returned to sucking your clitoris while finger-fucking you.

You moaned in Dabi's mouth, breaking the kiss to bite your knuckle again as your thighs trembled after Tomura hit that super-sensitive, spongy spot deep within you. "Fuck…" you whispered, your eyes watering. "Holy shit."

Dabi chuckled darkly. "That's it, doll, let it go. Cum. I know you want to cum."

"Yes, d-daddy," you moaned and reached both hands to slip them in Tomura's messy hair, bringing his face closer to your dripping cunt to ride your orgasm all over his tongue and lips.

"Don't you fucking dare to stop licking her cunt. Stick your ugly tonuge out," Dabi instructed, and to his surprise, Shigaraki obeyed.

You grinded your pussy against you boss' flexed tongue, moaning louder and louder until your pussy clenched around his fingers, leaving you trembling all over your body, moaning and panting.

Of course, Dabi decided it was not enough, so he reached his hand down your body to gently rub your clitoris, only to spank it with his heated up fingers a few times.

You bucked your hips more until you squirted all over Shigaraki's face, moaning both their names as if it was the last prayer of your life; your runny juices covered your boss' chin, nose and lips, dripping down his cheek to his chest.

Shigaraki also panted and groaned, the damp stain on his crotch expanding, signaling he just came, too.

Dabi kissed your cheek, glancing down at Shigaraki. "Look at you, boss, getting so turned on by a mere woman. That's surprising," he rose from the couch, adjusting his hardened dick in his pants. "Now excuse me, I'm taking my girlfriend to my room so I can fuck her the way she likes the most," Todoroki easily scooped you up in his arms. "Oh, and thanks for preparing her for me. I appreciate that a lot."

[makingqueerhistory]

Listen, you were given one wild and precious life, please do not waste it by dividing yourself and others from community.

I have this friend, who was in the process of figuring out some things around their identity, and again and again, they separated themselves from the queer community for some reason or another, giving distance as a form of imposters syndrome, and it broke my heart because they were a part of my queer family. Not in the static way of knowing a person's exact set of labels and being able to quantify where they may have landed on the Kinsey scale, but in the way that mattered.

They were my queer family because I knew I could rely on them to listen and reshape their view of the world again and again to make room for me. They were my queer family because they loved me and my wife fiercely and with an ardent devotion that is usually saved for biological relations. They were my queer family because I knew I could rely on them to fight for my queerness and be outraged when I was just exhausted.

Just as I believe that you can be a queer person and never choose to connect with the queer community, I also believe that you can be deeply embedded in the queer community without ever having to identify as queer.

Anyways, so much love in my heart for queer family today. From the past, the people who have known and kept secret, who have known and loved, who have known and learned. From the present, the people who are working to understand, the people who care so much, the people who are angry when we are scared. And, of course, in the future, thank you for joining us, thank you for being family, thank you for holding the world to a higher standard.

[lostinwildflowers]

Attack On Titan Masterlist

Zeke Yeager

❈ A Missed Chance (0.7K) - ✨ - You are in love with Zeke Yeager, but he's busy with that blonde girl.

❈ When Opportunity Strikes (Part 2 to A Missed Chance) (3.3K) - ✨❤ - Zeke was with that blonde girl, but after the party he notices how reclusive you are. He is determined to figure out why, but then that blonde girl makes this complicated. Where does that leave you?

❈ Late Nights and Lonely Calls (1.0K) - ✨❤ - Zeke has to spend a late night in his office, and he sees how much he misses you in the whimsical charm of the night.

❈ Studying, or Something (0.7K) - ❤ - You and Zeke were supposed to go out on a date. Physics homework is the only thing that stands in your way.

❈ If Only in My Dreams (3.4K) - ❤✨ - The Dream Titan causes a reconciliation between you and Zeke.

❈ The Staircase (4.3K) - ❤✨ - The staircase outside of your apartment seems to be endlessly busy, where you find yourself caught in the middle between two futures. You know you’ll need to pick one path to go down, but which one will you choose?

❈ The Staircase - Zeke's Ending (1.1K) - ❤ - You’ve planned to go out to eat with Zeke, but to make dinner with Levi after your presentation. One seems to call to you a little more than the other.

❈ The Claim of A Heart (Series - 19.8K ) - ❤✨ - Love finds you in playful and tender childhood, taking a hold of you and your beloved Porco. That is until a call from the Prince of Marley comes, and your heart gets ripped away from you, and plans unfold when a secret is found.

❈ Mint Chocolate Chip (0.6K) - ❤ - You and Zeke go on an evening stroll, and he wants your favorite ice cream.

❈ One Call Away (1.4K) - ❤✨ - Waking up in the hospital is not something that was on your radar. Thankfully, Zeke is your emergency contact.

❈ Coral Colored Confessions (0.9K) - ❤ - You are a marine biologist on a mission - to find more coral for your research. You drag your boyfriend along for some fun.

❈ Falling Leaves and Apple Picking (1.1K) - ❤ - You go apple picking with your lover, and he makes things, well, interesting.

❈ Chocolate-Iced Donut... with Sprinkles! (1.0K) - ❤ - You are trying to get donuts for your office, but what happens when the cashier spills another customer's drink?

Levi Ackerman

❈ The Staircase (4.3K) - ❤✨ - The staircase outside of your apartment seems to be endlessly busy, where you find yourself caught in the middle between two futures. You know you’ll need to pick one path to go down, but which one will you choose?

❈ The Staircase - Levi's Ending (0.9K) - ❤ - You’ve planned to go out to eat with Zeke, but to make dinner with Levi after your presentation. One seems to call to you a little more than the other.

❈ Caught Slipping (2.2K) - ❤ - You and Levi get to spend a weekend together in the snow.

❈ Happy Accidents (1.3K) - ❤ - You and Levi had been close friends ever since you joined the Survey Corps with him and his underground friends. You were the first friendly face the three of them saw, and you quickly took a liking to Levi. You are talking to Izzy when someone appears behind you. Oops?

❈ Believe Me When I Say I Love You (27.5K) - ❤✨ - A young, naïve princess and a scrappy kid off the streets find themselves at odds, only to form a close connection that could cost the princess's future.

❈ Hard Truths (0.3K) - ✨ - Levi found someone else.

❈ Colder Weather (1.0K) - ❤ - It’s cold out, snow is falling, and you aren’t at your shared house with Levi. He’s planned a surprise for you, and he wonders what you’ll think when he asks you a whimsical question.

❈ Depletion (0.7K) - ✨ - The mission was supposed to be easy. Ride in, scout for a new camp set up, ride out. Except you weren't making it out.

❈ Just a Walk in the Park (0.7K) - ✨ - You and Levi go for a walk in the park.

❈ A Long Day (0.9K) - ✨ - You get to go home to visit your family and friends from college, where you just want to spend the rest of your evening with Levi. He can see how stressed out you are, and gently helps you unwind from all of your tension.

❈ A Little Payback Never Hurt (1.1K) - ✨❤ - You get a little jealous when Levi is talking to another girl. You decide to try to get a little payback.

Porco Galliard

❈ The Claim of A Heart (Series - 19.8K ) - ❤✨ - Love finds you in playful and tender childhood, taking a hold of you and your beloved Porco. That is until a call from the Prince of Marley comes, and your heart gets ripped away from you, and plans unfold when a secret is found.

❈ Home (1.0K) - ❤ - Porco comes home from a long day at work to you making dinner in the kitchen. He takes a moment to appreciate you, finding himself in love all over again.

❈ Before the House (Part 2 to Home) (1.0K) - ❤ - Porco just managed to put a ring on your finger, sealing it with a beautiful wedding. Now, it’s time to find a place to call your own, while Porco calls you his.

❈ A Crumbling Foundation (Part 3 to Home) (1.2K) - ✨ - While marriage is a beautiful thing, it can test the limits of even the strongest of people. Things aren’t flowing as easily as you thought, and Porco’s got a strong opinion you can’t seem to beat.

❈ Quickstep (Part 4 to Home) (2.1K) - ❤ - Before the life of marriage, you and Porco were friends who had full-time classes to juggle between the two of you. And- a ballroom dance class.

Jean Kirstein

❈ Night Changes (2.2K) - ❤✨ - You wake up from a nightmare and Jean comforts you. In easing your worries, you ease his.

❈ Hidden (1.7K) - ❤✨ - You and your best friend, Jean, are cleaning up your ODM gear when an urgent request for you comes from Erwin’s office. What will he tell you, and what will it mean for your friendship with Jean?

❈ Head Over Wheels For You (1.1K) - ❤ - You are biking back to the parking lot on campus when you fly head over… wheels? for someone.

❈ You’re Wheelie Great (Part 2 to Head Over Wheels For You) (1.4K) - ❤ - After running Jean over with your bike, Jean takes you back to his place to fix it up.

Erwin Smith

❈ Sleep, Love (1.3K) - ❤ - You are trying to finish your work, but sleep is calling to you. You ignore the need to sleep, so Erwin takes matters into his own hands.

❈ The Dance (1.3K) - ✨ - Your steps were not working out with your current partner. So when a tall blonde rival's partner becomes ill, do your steps smooth out?

❈ Promenade (Part 2 to The Dance) (4.2K) - ❤✨ - A war of dance is upon you, and somehow your partner is your rival. What will happen when it is time for the ultimate dance?

❈ The Olympic Games (Part 3 to The Dance) (7.1K) - ❤✨ - You've qualified for the Olympics with the person you were least expecting, but now, you're competing for gold. Will you manage to make it?

❈ When The Time Is Right (1.0K) - ❤ - A venture into the woods on your day off doesn't end the way you expect it to.

Miche Zacharius

❈ Get Me A Cowboy (2.0K) - ❤ - Miche is a cowboy, through and through. When you accidentally accuse him, what will happen?

Connie Springer

❈ Cold Ramen (1.4K) - ❤ - You and Connie are best friends in college, but one day he confesses his love to you,

Headcanons

❈ Cooking with the Warriors - ❤

❈ Soft Erwin Smith - ❤

❈ Hand Holding with Zeke - ❤

❈ Reverse AU with AOT Boys - ❤

❈ College AU with Zeke - ❤

❈ Jean’s Insecurities - ❤✨

❈ Sleeping Next to Zeke Yeager - ❤

❈ Relationship HCs with Zeke Yeager - ❤

❈ Alzheimer S/O with Levi Ackerman - ✨

❈ Alzheimer S/O with Levi Ackerman – Part 2 ✨

❈ Becoming Warriors with the Galliard Brothers - ❤✨

❈ Reading with Armin Arlert - ❤

❈ Small! S/O with Zeke Yeager - ❤

❈ Deaf S/O with Zeke Yeager - ❤

❈ Sentimental S/O with Eren Yeager, Porco Galliard, and Reiner Braun - ❤

❈ AOT Characters as Pilots in Top Gun - ❤

[c4llezz]

29. THE conversation

after daniela broke up with you, she shoved everything that reminded her of you in a box that she later hid in her closet thinking she would never see you again. years later she still reminisces about her time with you and thinks “i should’ve taken more pictures”

valentine’s day. a day of love and romance, of confessions and intertwined fingers. A day to celebrate with your partner or to laugh with friends.

definitely not a day to meet with your ex.

you’ve been wandering the streets for hours now, trying to escape the emptiness of your apartment. the silence had been too loud, your thoughts too chaotic.

but now, as you walk through the heart of los angeles, you regret leaving. the city is drowning in red, hearts plastered on storefronts, roses spilling from vendor carts, couples tangled in each other’s arms on every corner.

you don’t feel jealous. not exactly. you just feel... out of place. everyone else is where they’re supposed to be, while you’re heading toward a conversation that could rip open wounds you’ve spent years trying to heal.

with her.

daniela. your first everything. the first hand you held, the first lips you kissed (emilio in third grade didn’t count), the first person who got to know you even better than you knew yourself.

if someone had told you three years ago that you’d be meeting daniela again, you would’ve laughed in their face. then, in the quiet of your room, you would’ve cried yourself to sleep.

yet here you are, four years after your second valentine’s day together, walking toward the location she texted you.

it’s nearly 4:40. you’re early. you tell yourself it’s because you want to check the place first, but deep down, you know the truth.

the park looks familiar— too familiar. it reminds you of atlanta, of the park where you and daniela used to sit for hours, talking about the future you thought you’d share.

the place is empty, except for a lone figure on a bench.

you approach them slowly. “you’re early,” you say when you get close enough.

she flinches,“so are you”

you shrugged your shoulders “i wanted to scope out the place. make sure you weren’t planning to kill me”

she rolls her eyes and without a word, she stands and starts walking toward a tree. you hesitate for a second before following.

“i found this place while i was in t&d, out with ezrela and lexi,” she says, running her fingers along the bark. “it looks so much like our old spot that it became... safe. whenever things got too heavy, i’d come here and climb this tree. just like we used to.”

you smile despite yourself. “should we?”

the two of you settle onto a thick branch, side by side but careful not to touch. your can feel your heart pounding so loud she must hear it.

daniela stares ahead, gathering her thoughts, before finally speaking. “I’m glad we’re having this conversation.” then she pauses and with a shaky breath says. “everything i’m about to tell you is true. and i’ve thought about it a lot. about how i should say it”

she hesitates, then looks you in the eye. “i lied to you. when we broke up, i lied”

your jaw tightens. “i know. you should’ve told me what was going on before i spent my whole summer with you, thinking we were fine, when you’d already moved on with someone else”

she shakes her head “that’s what i lied about. there was never someone else”

“what?”

“i didn’t cheat on you. i didn’t leave you for another person. i just... i didn’t know how to end things without you feeling guilty about how i was feeling”

you furrowed your eyebrows “and how were you feeling?”

daniela exhales, staring at the fading sunlight. “i never told you how much the distance was breaking me. we went from talking every second of the day to barely speaking at all. weeks would pass without hearing your voice. and i knew it wasn’t your fault. i knew you were chasing your dream, and i was proud of you. but still... i was miserable”

the confession sits heavy between you. you watch the sun set on the horizon, thinking of the moment when things first started slipping through your fingers. “my friends told me you weren’t the same,” you murmur. “that’s why i kept flying out to see you. i thought maybe, eventually, you’d tell me.”

daniela laughs softly, but you can tell there’s no humor in it. “if i had, you would’ve stayed until i felt better. and when i was trying to end things you were seconds away from giving up everything just to make me happy. i couldn’t let you do that.” she swallows hard. “so i said what i had to say to make you hate me. because if you hated me, you wouldn’t come back. and if you didn’t come back, maybe i could move on.”

The ache in your chest is unbearable. “If you had just talked to me—”

“i know” her voice is small. “my biggest regret is not fighting for us.” for the first time, she turns and looks at you in the eye “i want to fix it.” she says determined “if you let me”

your breath catches in your throat “i don’t know, daniela. we are not the same people we once were. we don’t know each other anymore”

“then let me get to know you. the new you”

masterlist prev next

taglist...

@gtfoiydlyj @meganskiendielsbtc @itzkatflixs @fruityg0rl @reey0w @hrurchives @sunshinez4 @xochitlisbest @bandaidss320 @1luvkarina @kristalag @wtfisthisnoclueman @peanutbutterlover05 @awkwardtoafault @yjiminswallet @sirenontheloose @linnnsworld @saysirhc @caratinluv @mei2yok @1800hotnfunn @urfriendlylocalidiot

[st4rtar0t]

Helping your recognise your superpower

I'm currently doing donation based readings to pay for my tuition fees. DM to purchase a reading!

Thank you so much for your time and energy and I hope you have a great day ahead!

Picture 1

Your lust for knowledge is your superpower. And I know you may think that is a lame power to have but I do want to your realise that knowledge is everything. The more knowledgeable you are, the more mature you become. Maturity comes from a sense of understanding and experience. The way you're always ready to learn new things makes you unique. Some of could be an higher achiver, or your sense of self comes from your academic performance. I think it's good to be knowledge but don't bring yourself down when you don't perform well. Give yourself time to learn and revise.

Your another superpower is your ability to look at situations from different perspectives. You know sometimes our pain clouds our vision making it difficult to acknowledge the hurt of others. But not for you, no matter how bad your situation is, you wouldn't let your emotions cloud your judgement Which is an remarkable ability.

Your faith, whether in yourself, in others or in something greater than us all, gives you strength and resilience in times of difficulty. Your belief in humanity, your trust in kindness and your faith in the possibility of a better future awaiting us uplifts not only you but also the people around you.

Picture 2

Your planning is your superpower. It's like having a secret weapon in life. When you plan, you're like a master strategist, able to foresee obstacles and navigate around them. You can set goals and figure out the steps to reach them. Planning helps you stay organized, focused, and prepared for whatever comes your way. It's not just about making lists; it's about taking control of your future and making things happen. So, embrace your planning abilities, because they can truly make you unstoppable. Some of you could be INTJ/ENTJ.

Your another superpower is your protectiveness. It's your ability to shield and guard the ones you care about, keeping them safe from harm. Just like a superhero, you have an instinct to watch over others, anticipating dangers and swooping in to shield them from harm. Your protective nature is a strength that shines brightly, offering comfort and security to those around you. Embrace this superpower, for it is a reflection of your love and dedication to keeping your loved ones out of harm's way. you may think that this makes you more feminine but caring for the people that you makes you stronger. Your constant transformation is your superpower because it means you're always evolving, learning, and adapting. Instead of being stuck in one way of thinking or doing things, you embrace change and use it to your advantage. You're like a chameleon, able to adjust to any situation or challenge that comes your way. This flexibility allows you to grow stronger, wiser, and more resilient with each transformation. So, don't fear change, embrace it, because it's what makes you unstoppable.

Picture 3

Your love for others is your superpower because it has the ability to transform lives in ways beyond imagination. When you extend kindness, understanding, and support to those around you, you create an atmosphere of warmth and positivity. Your love has the power to heal wounds, mend broken hearts, and inspire greatness in others. It's a force that spreads joy, brings people together, and fosters deep connections. Through your love, you become a beacon of hope and strength, capable of uplifting the spirits of those who may be struggling.

Your powerful presence is like a superpower. It's all about how you carry yourself and how you make others feel when you're around. You don't need special abilities because you are your own strength. People notice you without you having to do anything flashy. Your confidence and the way you connect with others make you stand out. Your presence is like a magnet, attracting attention and admiration wherever you go. It's what makes you truly remarkable.

Your voice and the words you choose have immense power. When you speak, it's like magic weaving through the air, touching hearts and minds. The tone, pitch, and rhythm of your voice can convey emotions and messages in ways that no other form of communication can. And the words you select? They're like arrows hitting their target, shaping thoughts, inspiring actions, and building connections. Whether you're calming a storm with soothing words or igniting a fire with passionate speech.

[plor-bindery]

(Re)Bound: Polar Night/Midnight Sun by me (@toomuchplor)

It’s been nearly a year since I started bookbinding, so I decided it was time to revisit the first fic I ever set.

I'll do a post with side-by-side photos another time but suffice it to say, it's not so clear to me that it's like 'first book bad, this book good'.

And if you're like, wow, Plor is posting a lot of binds this week -- you are correct. I'm on vacation this week, but also I'm wrapping up a few things that were WIPs for weeks. Lots of victory laps, but this is the last one!

I did my first typeset in Word before quickly switching to InDesign (which I have for work reasons anyway) so I wound up designing from scratch. (By the way, I’m very happy to share typesets if anyone is ever interested — for personal use only, of course!)

I used Canva to create the cover page and chapter headers in this cute watercolour style. And the end papers are pretty chiyogami from a paper store in Toronto.

I rounded the spine, but it didn’t need backing as the swell wasn’t much. I am still figuring out rounding for sure — the hardest part is getting the text block and spine stable enough to trim the head and tail straight afterwards, at least for me!

Sewn faux double core silk endbands on a 2 mm leather cord core.

I dithered about the case cover art for weeks while I did a million other projects. I knew I wanted to try something new but couldn’t find the right approach or technique to inspire me. Then I randomly tried a paper onlay for a blank book I was making and had my eureka moment.

The cover design is drawn by me in Illustrator, then cut from chiyogami by my cricut. I used a PVA/corn starch paste 50-50 mix to glue on the paper directly to the cover before the gold HTV outline was applied. The gold is partly decorative and partly to protect the edge of the onlay from friction/wear.

I am obsessed with how this looks. It’s quilting and paper art and mosaic all together? I can see myself doing this style more for sure.

One challenge is that once it’s glued up, you have exactly one chance to place the paper onlay on the cover — you can’t pick it up and try again because even with mix, the glue marks the fabric. So you need steady hands and good planning. I’m wondering about transfer tape or maybe even post it flags to help guide me in future projects? I'm pleased with the result but it could be better.

After all that sweating and work, I was paranoid about wear and tear on the paper, so I made a dust jacket. (Shout out to @citrusses for advice and emotional support during lamination time, and to lately for chatting with me and advising me as I did the paper onlay design and work!)