#anyway that's enough introspection for tonight

[mizuno-marmalade]

sigh. ethel cain brainrot lately.. cainrot ig.. listened to two children in a motel for the first time last night and. hu o e g h. stop making me think about my childhood challenge !!!!1 im gonna stpo talking before i say something stupid bcus i am extra prone to doing that once my meds wear off lmao.

[illyrianbitch]

A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs — Part Two

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: After a family dinner leaves him feeling more alone than comforted, Azriel finds himself at your shop once more. He's unsure why he’s come again—only that something in him, and in his shadows, is drawn to you.

Warnings: some self-deprecation, envy, loneliness, insomnia, fluff, fun, deep introspection, az and his relationship with his shadows

Word Count: 4.3k

Part One | Series Masterlist |

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Step Two: Learn the Language of the Dark

Sleep does not come when called, nor does it linger where it feels watched. It prefers to arrive unnoticed, slipping in through the cracks of an unguarded mind. If you search for it too directly, you may find it has disappeared entirely.

The trick is patience. Let the dark settle. Listen to the quiet things—the crackling of a fire, the rhythm of your own breathing, the steady pulse of something unseen. Do not demand sleep’s presence. Let it believe it has found you first.

— (A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs, 27)

Azriel tried his best to control himself. 

Truly— he did. But a few nights later, around half past two, Az found himself outside of your shop once more. 

He hadn’t planned to come here. Had told himself he wouldn’t. But the moment he left the River House, he knew he wouldn’t be going home. He couldn’t bring himself to. He knew that tonight, even more than usual, the townhome would feel like a mausoleum. A place for something long dead. And he would be the only ghost haunting it.

Family dinner had been nice. Better than he’d expected. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed them all until he was sitting at the table, feeling that familiar warmth and laughter fill the space. Their happiness made him happy. Being surrounded by them should’ve been enough. And for a little while, it was.

But Azriel had never been good at enough.

Even as he sat there, listening, speaking when prompted, he could feel it creeping in—that itch under his skin, the restless, bitter twist of something ugly. He’d wanted to stay. He’d wanted to soak in their presence, as if he could steal a little of their light and make it his own. And yet, the longer he sat there, the more he wanted to bolt. Like some feral thing backed into a corner, too proud to ask for space but too tired to keep pretending.

After dinner, his shadows had heard Nesta. Had curled around the sound of her voice, quiet and careful as she asked Feyre how she did it—how she managed being a mother. He pulled them back before they could hear more. Before the words could break and he’d hear an admission of fear that wasn’t intended for his ears.

Azriel left the room, but the next was no better. Mor and Emerie were huddled near the bassinet, soft laughter between them, cooing at the newest addition to the family—Wren, all dark hair and violet eyes, bright and powerful, just like her father’s. Rhys was in the room next door, speaking in that same hushed tone Feyre had used, Cassian listening just as carefully. Family planning. Words of advice from one parent to another one, soon-to-be. 

Azriel stood there, staring at them, feeling like something separate. Something apart.

He hated himself for it. Hated that he couldn’t just be happy for them without feeling like he was standing in the cold, pressing his palm to a window, watching something he could never touch. Selfish, for letting his own misery take up so much space in his chest when he should’ve just enjoyed the evening. 

It was his own fault, anyway. His own doing.

So he left.

He had been too tired—too sleepless—to fight the urge to go somewhere else. He let his shadows lead him through the streets, through the hush of Velaris at night, until they curled around the door of your shop.

The bell above the door chimed as Azriel stepped inside. A soft, lilting sound, delicate against the quiet. He stilled beneath it, looking up, his shadows stirring at the noise. The brass caught the low glow of candlelight, swaying gently from where it had been fastened to the frame. 

“It’s new."

Your voice brought his attention back down. You stood behind the counter, sleeves pushed to your elbows, hair barely held together with a crooked pin, as if you'd meant to fix it but got distracted. There was something easy about the way you smiled—amused, but not unkind.

“It was a gift, I think," you said, glancing up at it. “Someone left it outside.”

Azriel knew that. He was the one who left it there. A gift, in theory. A selfish comfort in truth. A bell above the door made it safer for you. And if it gave him even a fraction of peace, knowing you’d loudly hear should anyone come inside, well—he wouldn’t think too hard about that. A wisp of shadow curled toward you, drawn by what Azriel could only assume was the warmth in your voice, before he managed to reign it back in.

He cleared his throat. “It's nice.”

You hummed in agreement. “Looking for anything in particular?”

Company.

But Azriel didn’t say that.

“Another candle,” he said instead. “The one you gave me last time.”

Your brows lifted, something flickering behind your gaze—curiosity, maybe. “Are you starting a collection?”

He held your gaze. “It's all gone. I loved it that much.”

A slow tilt of your head. A look that said you didn’t believe him. But you smiled anyway, making your way around the counter. “Okay. I have some new ones as well, if you’d like to try them?”

Azriel nodded in agreement and you guided him through the shop, showing him the new additions to your collection. He noticed all the subtle changes in arrangement since the last time he’d been here—the way the dried herbs hanging from the rafters had shifted, a new assortment of small trinkets tucked near the register, the faintest scent of something floral and unfamiliar woven into the air.

You excused yourself momentarily to greet a few customers, welcoming them inside with the same gentle ease you had with him. Azriel, left to his own devices, felt a brief temptation to slip away. Not out of disinterest, but guilt. He was taking up your time, and despite the comfort of your presence, he knew better than to linger where he wasn’t wanted.

His shadows disagreed. They remained close, lingering in the pockets of candlelit corners, curling against the floorboards like smoke. One drifted toward the counter where you stood, its edges flickering as if continuously reaching for you. Surely, if there had been any signs of discomfort that Az had missed, his shadows would have alerted him. They hadn’t. The only murmurings they’d offered him were small observations, whispers about you and your creations. 

Besides, you didn’t seem like the type of fae to entertain something you weren’t invested in. If he was overstaying his welcome, he was sure you’d let him know. 

It wasn’t like he was wasting your time.

Azriel planned on buying as many candles as you’d let him. To make up for the free one you’d given him and to pay, without you even knowing, for the pleasure of your company. Which, now that it was voiced in his mind, sounded a lot more strange than he anticipated.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back. His wings shifted slightly behind him, careful not to knock over anything fragile. He’d been so focused on the small, grounding motions—keeping his hands from brushing against too many things, keeping his wings tucked, keeping himself small—that he hadn’t noticed anything else.

“Oh,” you murmured, glancing toward the front window. “It’s storming.”

Azriel looked up, following your gaze. The sky had darkened, thick clouds swirling low over the city, and a soft, rhythmic patter of rain had begun to tap against the glass. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

You looked at him.

He didn’t know why, but something about the way your expression shifted made his throat feel tight. He could see you thinking, watch the thought settle behind your eyes before you voiced it aloud.

“Nights like these are a rare occurrence for me.”

Azriel blinked. “How so?”

You gave him a smile—small, slightly lopsided. Then, without answering, you brushed past him, moving toward the entrance of the shop. Azriel didn’t mean to indulge, but he did, just slightly, inhaling your scent as it breezed past him. It settled somewhere deep inside him. He hadn’t realized a smell could do that—that it could sink into him like a tangible thing.

He watched as you flipped the wooden sign on your door, turning the lock with a quiet click.

“I close,” you said, spinning back to face him. “And I work in the back.”

Then, without waiting for a response, you tilted your head toward the doorway leading deeper into the shop and started walking. You didn’t look back as you called, “Are you coming?”

Azriel hesitated.

He had already been forming the words to excuse himself, to say something polite but firm— Oh, no, it’s—

But he stopped.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, raising a brow. “Come on,” you said, as if it were obvious. “You can’t leave in this weather.”

Azriel had traveled in much worse conditions—in blizzards so thick they stole the breath from his lungs, in hailstorms that left bruises even on his wings. A normal Velaris rainstorm was nothing to him. If anything, it was comforting. Familiar.

But he didn’t tell you that.

Instead, he exhaled, glancing once more at the window, at the downpour streaking against the glass.

And then—

“Alright,” he said. The shadows at his feet swirled, shifting toward the doorway, clearly happy with his choice. He could practically feel their pleased chattering, the happy vibrations they sometimes created. 

You gave a small, satisfied nod before turning on your heel and disappearing into the back room. Azriel followed.

The space was different from the shop—warmer, lived-in. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with jars of dried herbs, glass bottles filled with rich oils, and neatly arranged wicks. A long worktable sat in the center of the room, its surface covered in wax molds, candles in various stages of completion, and an array of handwritten notes scattered between them.

At the far end of the room, a narrow spiral staircase curled upward, disappearing out of sight. Azriel’s gaze lingered on it briefly. A way to your living space, he assumed.

You moved through the space with the same ease you had in the shop, lighting a few candles as you went, their soft glow adding a golden warmth to the dimming room. His own shadows shifted in response, mirroring the flickering dance of the candlelight. He hadn’t seen them so animated in a while. So playful, almost. 

Azriel settled into a chair near the worktable, and exhaled slowly. It was nice, he realized. The quiet. The scent of wax and herbs. The gentle crackle of the wick as one of your candles burned.

For the first time all night, he felt no desire to flee. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The rain had only grown heavier,  rattling against the windows as Azriel watched you work, cataloging each movement with a quiet, deep interest. His shadows coiled lazily at his shoulders, watching just as intently as he did. Every now and then, one of them would curl toward your hands, retreating just before it could brush your fingers.

Azriel had never given much thought to how candles were made, had never given much thought to candles at all, really. He was learning, however, that it was an intricate process—more than just wax and wick. There was something patient in the way you measured things, in the way your hands moved with an ease that could only come from repetition. It reminded him, strangely, of sharpening a blade. 

“It has to be centered,” you explained, adjusting the wick with deft fingers. “Or it won’t burn evenly. And you don’t want the wax to cool too fast, or it’ll crack.”

He nodded, storing the information away.

The wax melted down into liquid gold, shimmering under the dim light. He recognized the stillness in your hands, the same kind he practiced when honing an edge to perfection—waiting for the right moment, for the right feeling. And then, just when it seemed right, you poured. The wax slid into the glass containers in smooth, curling ribbons, and Azriel swore it pulsed for a second before settling. Glowed. Just for a moment, he thought he saw the faintest shimmer at your fingertips, like embers beneath your skin. 

Then came the oils. A few drops of something dark, something rich, something sharp. He watched them sink in, curling and shifting. “Some oils don’t mix easily,” you murmured, taking notice of his extreme focus on their movement. “You have to convince them.”

Azriel glanced at the tiny vials on the table, their labels handwritten in looping script. “Convince them?”

Some scents work together naturally. Others take some persuasion.” You tapped one of the vials. “Bergamot plays nice. Cinnamon is stubborn. If you add too much, it overwhelms everything else.”

That caught his interest. It felt familiar. The wrong amount of pressure could make or break a blade. Too much force, and steel became brittle. Too little, and it dulled before it ever truly became sharp. He stored the information away— another note added to the mental archive of things he was learning about you. 

One of his shadows curled along his wrist, then flicked toward the bottles, hovering over them like it was considering. Another slithered across the table, weaving between the vials before retreating back into the folds of his wings. You traced their movements with a pointed gaze.

“They’re curious things, aren’t they?”

“It’s part of their nature,” Az offered, almost sheepishly. 

“All things must have hobbies,” you hummed. “Do they ever sleep?”

His lips parted slightly. It wasn’t a question he’d ever been asked before.

They rested, yes. Pulled back into him like a tide receding from shore, still present but quieter, subdued. If that counted as sleep, then maybe. But Azriel didn’t know sleep well himself—had never been able to slip into it easily, to surrender the way others did. So who was he to define what sleep was, really?

"I think they rest," he said slowly. One of the shadows drifted toward you, stopping just shy of your fingers. Hovering, like it was waiting for permission. "But I don't know if it's sleep. I’m not sure I’ve been the best example. My habits aren’t exactly… restful."

The shadow between you wavered, flickering like a flame. The corners of your lips quirked, just slightly, in response. A small smile of enjoyment, maybe, Azriel thought. Of awe, his shadows confirmed.

Your gaze dropped to your hand, where a trail of dried wax clung to your fingers in pale, ridged streaks. You rubbed your thumb along one, absentmindedly, then turned your palm upward. Open. Still. An invitation, Azriel realized.

Then—slowly—they came.

They circled your hand like they were learning it—one loop, then another—before slipping gently around your fingers, brushing along your wrist. Like smoke, yes. But warmer. Almost reverent. As if they recognized something in you.

And for a moment, Azriel felt strangely vulnerable.

It was rare to see this—a core part of himself, his very being—so open with someone he barely knew. Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? You were still, in many ways, a stranger. And yet… his shadows were drawn to you. He was drawn to you. That openness—they granted it freely. And Azriel, without even realizing, had let them.

No one ever really understood how deeply they were tied to him—how it wasn’t just power or convenience. It was identity. Intimacy. Letting them roam like this, show interest, was the closest thing to baring his chest and asking not to be wounded.

“They like you,” he said quietly.

Your head lifted. “With that tone,” you murmured, “I’m tempted to believe they don’t like many people.”

“They don’t.”

You blinked—just once—and he swore he saw something shift in your face. A flicker of surprise. Maybe even a hint of color across your cheeks. You looked down, almost shyly, as the shadows wound another lazy circle around your wrist.

You pulled your hand back slowly, and his shadows slipped away like they’d been summoned home—one vanishing into the curl of his wing, the other folding back beneath the table like a ripple disappearing into still water.

You cleared your throat. “So, what about you?” 

Az blinked. “What about me?”

You smiled, just a little. “What does a Shadowsinger do for fun?” Then, with a slight tilt of your head, “Besides keep his shadows company?”

Azriel liked the wording you used.

There were times he felt… guilty about them. His shadows. As if he had trapped them in his orbit, as if they deserved more than to be tethered to him. They were brilliant creatures—strange and knowing in ways even he couldn’t fully understand—and they’d chosen to protect him. He used to wonder if they would have preferred someone kinder, someone softer. If they were ever disappointed by the male he had become.

But the way you said it—as though he was the one devoted to them, made him glow. Just a bit. Because he was. They were him. The best parts of him, he liked to think.

A lone tendril wrapped briefly around his wrist before retreating. A soothing motion— a silent reassurance. Azriel shook his head. “Not much.”

You nodded, as if that was answer enough. And maybe it was.

But as he sat there, watching the wax cool and the storm roll on outside, he wondered if he liked that answer at all.

Azriel wasn’t sure who he was if he wasn’t needed—wasn’t sure if he was anything at all.

He was a protector first and foremost. At least, he liked to think so. It was one of the only good things he could say about himself. That, and a brother. A son. A friend. Those were good titles, too. They gave him purpose.

He was a warrior, as well. That title was heavier, stained with blood he couldn’t always see but always felt— thick between his fingers, stuck beneath his nails. He was a Spymaster. He had duties, priorities, an expectation to shield his court from unseen threats. And that was what he was good at. He’d learned how to enjoy it, in some twisted way.

But it wasn’t like he had hobbies. Not really.

There were things he found joy in, once. Music, mostly. But he never indulged. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just another thing wrong with him, another flaw added to a list that never stopped growing.

Maybe it was because it felt wrong— felt wrong to have things that brought him joy and peace. Things he didn’t think he deserved.

Or maybe it was something else.

Azriel didn’t like being bad at things. He didn’t like falling short. If he wasn’t the best, what was the point? What was he worth? He wanted to prove to people he was worthy, strong. Important. And maybe, in some childish way, he was afraid of loving something he wasn’t perfect at. Afraid of failing at something that wasn’t life or death but still meant something. Afraid of finding something that was his and losing it anyway.

Because Azriel lost things. That was what he did.

It was why he was suspicious by nature, why he questioned every good thing that fell into his hands. His family never seemed to understand.

You’re not in that cell anymore, Az. It’s okay to let people in.

They didn’t get it. Not truly. Not even Mor.

Because Azriel was always in that cell. Every time things got hard, every time he fell into his bad habits again, he was there. Eight years old. Small and angry and afraid. A caged thing with no way out but violence.

That suspicion bled into everything. Even the idea of having something that was his. He didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust himself with it. What if he let his guard down? What if it made him weak? Distracted? What if someone he loved suffered for it?

But sitting across from you, watching the way your fingers brushed the rim of a cooling candle, Azriel let himself think—just for a moment—of the things he did enjoy. The things that could be his, even if he never let them be.

“I like to draw,” he said before he even registered the words.

You looked up, brows slightly raised. He blinked.

Then, quieter—like he had to ease himself into it—he added, “Sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

You stopped, the candle in your hands forgotten as you looked at him. Really looked at him. And Azriel thought he could get used to this—the way you focused on him so intently, so openly, as if he were worth paying attention to. As if he weren’t something to be endured or feared, but something worth knowing.

“What got you into it?”

Azriel didn’t want to tell you the truth—that once his eyes had adjusted to the dark of his childhood cell, he’d learned to draw shapes in the dirt of the cement floor. That he’d sketch the things he wanted, as if bringing them to life in the dust could make them real. It started small—a circle for the sun, a smiley face, crude and uneven. But as the years dragged on, his drawings became more intricate, more desperate. They were the only thing in that cell he could control.

Later, when he was older, he’d picked it up again—not for his mind, exactly, but for his hands.

He’d spent years watching Rhysand and Cassian write with ease, moving ink across parchment like it was nothing, and he’d envied them. Envied the way their hands obeyed without hesitation. His had been ruined before he even had the chance. But Azriel couldn’t accept that. He wouldn’t. He’d forced himself to practice in the dead of night, scrawling his name over and over again until his fingers ached. Until he could hold a pen without his grip faltering.

And then, in rare, fleeting moments, he’d find himself drawing again. Not to prove anything. Not to fix what had been broken. Just to capture something. The slant of a roof from where he was perched. The outline of a hand, a face, a familiar silhouette lost in the crowd. Sometimes, when no one was looking, he’d feel something close to satisfaction. A flicker of something childlike and untainted.

And then, like always, he’d snuff it out.

“Just something I picked up,” Az finally answered.

“I’m jealous. I’m shit at drawing.” You huffed a quiet laugh. “That's why I don’t have a logo.”

Azriel exhaled something that might’ve been amusement. Not quite a laugh, but something close enough. He tucked that information away, curious as to why it made his mind perk up, why he suddenly had the urge to pick up a pen, to find a loose scrap of parchment.

“Well, I’m not any good.”

“That’s what the best of them say. I can tell you’re great.”

He frowned slightly. “How?”

“Your eyes,” you said simply. “The artistic ones always have lovely eyes.”

A blush crept up Azriel’s neck, settling at the tips of his ears. It had been a long time since something so simple had affected him like this.

He used to worry that he looked too much like his father—harsh lines and jagged edges, equal parts anger and spite. A face built for scowls, for war. But he had his mother’s eyes. He was grateful for that. Had always been. It was the one thing about himself he had never resented.

“I guess you’ll have to see,” he said, and the tone of his own voice caught him off guard. Lighter. Almost teasing. It was… flirty. More than he’d been in a while.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so at ease—why he let himself lean into it. It wasn’t that Azriel didn’t flirt; he did, though not as often now as he once had. And he was damned good at it. Even he could admit that.

But it was never like this.

Never with someone who could make him blush in return. Never in a moment that felt this close, this quiet. This real.

You raised an amused brow. “Does this mean you’re going to show me your work?”

Azriel gave you a gentle, half smile. A sweet thing that pulled at the small dimples on his cheek.  “Maybe.”

Something glinted in your eyes. Something warm and gold, identical to the light Azriel had seen flow into the candle you’d made. “I can take a maybe,” you said.

Azriel stored that image of you away in his mind, too. 

The rest of the night passed easily.

Azriel watched as you poured more wax, as you tested scents and told him about the customers that would take these candles home.

You turned it into a game, making him guess the notes of each scent. You smiled when he got it right, laughed in surprise when he was spot on about its name. It made him feel like a thief, stealing those moments—the way your eyes lit up, the way your grin tugged at your cheeks—and tucking them away like something precious. Like they weren’t his to have, but he’d take them anyway.

He didn’t tell you the truth. That after centuries of broken noses, scent was a muddled thing for him. That it wasn’t instinct or skill, but the creeping tendrils of his shadows coiling at your hands, ghosting over glass, whispering the answers to him. He had no plan on telling you, either. He was too enamored with the way you looked at him, too selfish to give it up.

The storm didn’t let up until the early hours of the morning, rain easing into mist as the sun crept over the horizon. Azriel didn’t leave until you unlocked the shop doors, until the first customer walked in as if on cue. And by the time he made his way home, breathing in the damp, earthy scent of a freshly washed world—a scent he knew without help—he realized he’d forgotten how lonely he’d felt before he stepped into your shop.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: me rising from the dead to give you a tender slow burn hehe. this series is lowk my stress reliever/my excuse to dig deep into az's mind. my energy has been nonexistent recently so hopefully this isn't ass

i hope everyone is doing amazing <3 love u mwuah

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[chaoticdreamersthings]

Glimpse of us

!!!!WARNING! RPF BELOW!!!!

Pairing: Joost x fem Reader

Description: You and Joost used to date, but the relationship ended - badly. You hooked up a few times after the breakup, but then he ghosted you. You realize you might be a little more in love than he is.

Author's note: Writing this i was inspired by my own toxic ex, and it was very hard to find a pic that fit... Joost just doesn't look as a toxic ex at all. Every pic gives off labrador boyfriend energy. This and the second part will be very introspective so prepare for that!

Warnings: alcohol, angst, kinda asshole Joost?

Word Count: 5,6 k

Part: 1/4

PART 2

You open the window and let the summer air spill in. For the first time in what feels like forever, everything feels… okay. 

Yesterday marked something small but huge: you didn’t cry. You didn’t even lie down and think about everything you have lost. You didn’t spend hours second-guessing your decision, and that was a huge step. 

You breathe in deeply, and head to the kitchen to get some breakfast. 

Still, somewhere deep inside, you know this peace is fragile. Maybe it’s only here because he’s on tour busy enough to forget you - or at least too far away to reach you, sleeping in a different city every night. He had that habit - only loving you when you’re physically there. 

You shouldn’t worry about this now. You’ve been doing so well not letting you mind go that way. You can keep it that way. Just stay in this morning, without letting him take up any more space.  Maybe, day by day, it will get better and that history between the two of you will be just a blurred memory from the past, and you will be the same person you were before all of this mess happened. You smile a little as you pull things from the fridge. There’s still a long way to go to, you know that. But everything is slowly falling into place. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that the universe might have a plan for you. A good plan. 

You even started making small adjustments - stepping back into life, meeting new people, letting go a little and maybe - just maybe - there’s someone out there who could make you forget about Joost. 

The doubts still creep in anyway. They always do. You spent so long convincing yourself he was it. The one. No one would ever come close. And even now, it’s hard to imagine anyone making you feel the way he did. But you push the doubts away. It will never change if you don’t at least give it a chance. 

Besides, everything that happened between you and Joost should have closed that door completely. After all the things you said to each other, all the fights, the screaming, the nights you wished you’d never met him - there’s no way back.

There was never a guy that made you feel so good. But there was never a guy that made you feel so bad either. 

And you know - you know - the only word for it is toxic.

You shake the thoughts from your head. It’s a pattern you know too well - the constant analyzing of every moment, every feeling, as if it could somehow save you. You’ve always struggled to just let it be - to let life flow without dissecting every possible outcome your choices might create.

Your phone vibrates.

Clara: “Ready for today? :)”

You take a glance on your phone and smile to yourself. When Clara and the other girls told you about the rooftop party, you knew right away - this could be it. A “launch” party for your new life. 

And to your surprise, you feel absolutely ready for that. 

Maybe it’s genuine. Or maybe you just miss the rush - adrenaline that the highs and lows of your relationship with Joost used to bring. 

Either way, you don’t want to open that door. Not now. Not today.

You type out a quick reply - Yes, absolutely - and set your phone down beside your fresh breakfast. You already know what you are going to wear tonight, and you can hardly wait for your friends to come over for pre-drinks, just as you agreed. 

You used to love nights out. But somewhere along the way - between the mess of your love life and chaos of everything changing - staying at home started to feel safer.

At home there were no uncomfortable questions to answer, no chance of running into Joost’s friends, and most importantly - no drunk texts sent at 2 a.m. that would ruin your life for weeks afterward. 

But you knew you couldn’t hide forever. Being alone was a straight road to overthinking.

This time, though, it’s going to be different. 

You can feel it.

*

“The party is here” - those are the first words you hear from Clara’s mouth as you open the front door to see her. Her grin wide and infectious.

The party is, in fact, here. You can’t deny that that she is the heart and soul of the party. 

"The party is late, as always” - you tease, smiling as you kiss her on the cheek.

You didn’t expect anything different - she’s always late, which drives all of your dutch friends crazy. The other two friends of yours are already there, sitting on the couch and drinking cocktails. 

You both head back to the living room and you make her a drink without even asking what she wants. You know her that well.

“So, looking forward to anything special today, ladies?” - she asks. 

This woman never wastes time. You’re pretty sure she’s the one with something special on her mind - probably the real reason she even started the conversation. And you’re eager to hear the details.

Your other friend, Victoria starts talking about a guy that she met through a dating app. They’ve already gone on a few dates and he mentioned he’ll probably be at the party tonight. For now, he made a good impression and she says she has a good feeling about him. 

You wonder if you will ever be able to meet someone new without the urge to constantly compare him to Joost. 

You are on the right path, right? You’re getting there - and today it is a big step. You might not be completely over it, but hey, who is? And what’s a better way to get over someone than to meet someone new?

Seven months have passed since you two broke up, but it’s only been less than two months since the last time you saw him. After a night together, you were the one to message him, but he never replied. 

The time between the breakup and then going fully no-contact was the most intense and difficult time of your life. You both decided that it was for the best to end It - the constant fighting, the inability to meet each other’s needs. But you never really stopped having feeling for each other. 

At least you never stopped having feelings for him. His mind was a big puzzle you could never solve. You spent so many sleepless nights wondering: Did he truly care about you? Was he ready to be with you? Or was he just playing with you, keeping you close, knowing you were completely in love with him? 

Even now, you still don’t know the answer.

“What about Joost? Did he stop writing you?” - Clara asks you, her eyes piercing through you. You can’t lie - she has this weird way of seeing through you, peeling away everything you’ve tried to keep hidden.

“Yeah… He’s on tour, I guess. I don’t know. I am trying to think about it less.” - you answer, your voice calmer than you’d expect. 

You leave out the part where you were the one to reach out last, sending that message that never got answered. Really, the question should be whether you stopped writing him - but Clara doesn’t need to know that.

The silence from him that day… it sent you into a spiral. A whole day in bed, crying, overwhelmed by the fear of losing him for good and the shame of still longing for someone who clearly wasn’t as invested.

She doesn’t have to know that either. At the end of the day, you tell yourself - it’s not a lie. You’re just not saying the whole truth. 

“Good choice” - she smiles. 

She can see on your face that you are not really in the mood to talk about it, and you know she absolutely agrees. She’s told you a billion times that he should stay in the past. 

You spent enough time venting about him to her and your other friends. You know their advice by heart: break up with him, go no contact, do everything you can to forget him and start a new life. 

But they do not know the way he knows your body - how he is able to drive you to the edge and make you feel like nobody else ever has. They don’t know the deep conversations at 3 a.m., the way he could make you open and talk about things you never thought you could say out loud, they don’t know your inside jokes, they don’t know how you understand each other without words.

But they do know the other side - the crying, the breakdowns, the way you felt like you were losing your mind from the mixed signals, the sudden silences, the way he pushed you away over nothing whenever his insecurities got the better of him.

It was too much. When it was good it was really good. But when it was bad… it was unbearable. Maybe you two were just never meant to fit - his mood swings, your sensitivity, crashing into each other over and over. 

Oh, but you wanted him to be the one so badly. 

You know how toxic your thinking is, but you can’t help it, he is a drug, but he’s your favorite drug.

The drug you’re quitting - you remind yourself, pulling your thoughts back before they spiral too far.

“So, mission for tonight: find a nice guy for Y/N.” Vitoria says as the others nod in agreement.

“Calm down, girls… I am not saying no, but I don’t want to force anything.” You laugh. “You know it usually doesn’t end well when you try to hard. Besides, I’m still pretty hurt and cautious after the last… relationship. So, no rush”

You take a few sips of the cocktail, and fix your hair, glancing at the clock. It’s getting late and you should be heading out soon. You feel a wave of excitement - one you haven't felt in a long time. You have a feeling that something good might happen tonight, and honestly, you are all in for it.

You spend the next hour drinking, and laughing, Clara is telling a story of the DJ at the party she likes and she can’t wait to see, and Lena talking about the vacation she just took with her boyfriend. 

God, you’re lucky. Lucky to have friends like this - girls who are supportive, who listen without judgement, even when you were losing your mind over Joost. 

You know you could just as easily go to dinner, visit an art gallery, catch a concert but or have a drunken night in the club with them - and they would still be right there, no questions asked. Your friends are real ride-or-dies, and whatever happens, you know they are here to stay. 

You finally order an Uber, and you all head to the location together. To your relief, the weather is perfect - no rain, no wind. You’d been worried, as always in Amsterdam, that the rain and the cold might ruin the party, leaving you either stuck at home or scrambling last-minute to find another club you don’t even like, wasting your time and money. But tonight, the universe seems to be on your side.

The guards at the door let you in without a problem, and you ride the elevator up. 

The place looks amazing - small lights everywhere, casting a soft glow over everything. The Amsterdam skyline glimmers in the night - familiar rooftops, canals and narrow streets wrapped in the city light.

A large group is already dancing in the middle of the dance floor, while smaller groups gather around high, white tables, sipping cocktails and laughing. It feels like a party out of a movie, and you’re so glad you didn’t talk yourself out of coming.

“Come on, let’s get a drink” Lena says, tugging you toward the bar, and you follow. 

The tall guys at the bar glance your way, a few holding their gaze a little longer than necessary - and you’re really glad you decided to dress up tonight. Everyone looks so stylish - it feels like they organized a meet up for the most attractive people in the city. 

You look around, and spot at least a few guys who catch your eye. You also glance toward the dj, curious if he’s as cute as Clara promised. He isn’t exactly your type, but you can definitely see what she sees in him.

You lean against the side of the bar, sipping your whiskey sour, while your friends are still waiting for their drinks - when a tall guy steps toward you. 

"Hey, sorry to interrupt - I just wanted to tell you that you look absolutely stunning.” - he says, and you turn your head to look at him.

He’s tall with light brown hair and green eyes. His smile is infectious. 

There’s something boyish about him - maybe it’s the way he’s dressed, a little casual for the crowd - but it’s charming, not sloppy. You find yourself smiling back without even thinking. He’s pretty cute. And it’s just a conversation, you remind yourself. A first step toward moving on.

“Thank you. You don’t look bad yourself.” - you say, leaning in so he can hear you over the loud music.

“Do you live here in Amsterdam?” he asks quickly, and you can tell your answer gave him a little boost of courage. Good. He seems like a decent guy - and most importantly, he doesn’t give you the instant creep vibes.

You tell him, with a smile that yes, you live here now - though you originally came for a student exchange a few years ago and ended up loving the city too much to leave.

You leave out the part about Joost - the real reason you decided to stay after falling in love with him, figuring it’s probably not the best idea to bring up an ex in the first conversation. 

He goes on to tell you that he’s from the Netherlands, but from a smaller city. He moved to Amsterdam to work in the entertainment industry and he’s enjoying it so far. There’s something easy about talking to him. He seems nice, easygoing, and - most importantly - not weird at all, which helps you loosen up a little. Even if you never never see this guy again, it’s a step in the right direction. You feel proud of yourself. 

“Did you come here alone?” - you ask, a little surprised by the lack of company. 

As much as you were enjoying talking to him, you also wanted to spend the night with your girlfriends.

“No” he smiles “Well… kind of. I came alone but I’m waiting for my friends - they should be here any minute…” he glances over your shoulder. “Actually… I think that’s them now.” 

He waves his hand toward the entrance and you turn around, curious if his friends are as cute as he is - maybe you could introduce them to your girls. 

You freeze. It’s as if your body forgets how to move, how to breathe. There he is. Blonde hair in that perfectly messy way, dark t-shirt, black jeans, glasses. You would recognize him anywhere - in the biggest crowd, in a dream, in a memory you don’t even want anymore. You see his face in half of the guys you pass on the street. But none of them are him.

And now, he’s here. Laughing at something his friend says, his laugh is so heartbreakingly familiar it makes your stomach twist. You, on the other hand, are the last person who feels like laughing. Your knees go weak, your eyes widen. 

How?

How is it possible that the second you try to move on, to have one night where he isn’t clinging into your every thought - he appears? It’s like he has a radar, always sensing the exact moment you might finally be okay. 

He turns his head and waves toward the guy you’re talking to - but then he sees you. His smile fades, and his eyes widen in shock. He definitely didn’t expect to see you either. 

You think about running, but it is too late. And even if you tried, your legs are heavy as stone. You see his face shift -  quickly covering up the reaction, pretending you haven’t shaken him. You try to fix your own face too, but you can feel the panic sticking to you, like heat on a summer day. It feels like it’s 200 degrees in here, and you are burning alive. 

“So… You didn’t tell me your name” the green-eyed guy says, turning to you - and for a second  you forget how to speak. He must sense your emotions, because he looks at you with a touch of concern. You shake your head quickly, and say:

“Y/N” You try to smile, but you know it’s not convincing. You bite the inside of your cheek. Why did you come here? Why did you ever think you were ready for this? 

“So guys, this is Y/N” he says, still cheerful, as he turns toward his friends. "And these are…”

“We met before” Joost cuts in, his voice low. His voice is cool, but you can feel the weight of his stare pressing down on you.

You keep your eyes fixed anywhere but on him. You know what you’ll find if you look. All those feelings you tried so hard to bury start clawing their way back to the surface, raw and intense. One look, and you’ll break. You haven’t forgotten. You haven’t forgotten, even for a second, that he left your last message hanging in silence.

“Oh really? Where? You didn’t tell me you have such beautiful friends” the green-eyes guy says, nudging Joost lightly.

You almost groan at his words. Perfect. Just perfect. You can already picture Joost throwing that sentence back in your face during the fight you know is inevitable. 

Who were you trying to fool? You’re not over him, not even close. The way your whole body reacted at just seeing him tonight was proof enough. You glance at Joost, silently begging him with your eyes not to make a scene, not to say something that will set everything on fire. You feel dangerously close to crying now. The pressure behind your eyes, the tightness in your throat.

Joost looks at you for a long second, something unreadable flashing across his face. You can’t tell what he’s thinking and it terrifies you. Finally, he says:

“She’s an old friend of mine” his voice casual, a little too casual for your liking.

The word friend cuts through your skin like a knife, but you know there was nothing else he could have said in that moment. But it sill feels like betrayal. Your legs feel heavy, and you start desperately searching for an excuse to leave, to run away from this nightmare, but the shock of him being here doesn’t help - you can’t think straight.

“Sorry guys, we need her” - you hear Clara’s voice, and then you feel her hands gripping your shoulders, steering you away from the group. “It’s an emergency!” She calls back, as the others - everyone except Joost - look after you in confusion. 

Her fingers dig into your skin, grounding you, pulling you back to yourself.  

“Jesus fucking Christ” she whispers under her breath as you hurry across the rooftop. 

The bathroom is packed, so instead she guides you toward an empty table tucked away on the side, where the music is softer and you can actually breathe again.

“What the HELL was that?” She says, her voice sharp. “Did you know he was going to be there?” Her accusatory tone needles at you, and you’re pretty sure she’s about to drill holes through your arms with her fingers.

“Do i LOOK like I knew?” you snap back, louder than you mean to. “Do you think I would’ve been standing there talking to that guy if I had any idea?” 

You run your fingers through your hair, trying to calm yourself down, trying to think of a way out of this mess.

“I don’t know how the hell this keeps happening. It’s like he has some fucking radar or something. Every time I start to think I deserve better, every time I try to move on, he shows up. Wasn’t he supposed to be on tour or something?” 

The anger starts rising in you - but so does the disappointment. 

And as usual, disappointment wins.

You’re angry at yourself for still caring, for still reacting that way. But worse than the anger is that tiny, pathetic hope inside you, still craving his attention. You still wanted him to chase you. You still wanted him to choose you. And you hate yourself for it. 

“Let’s just go home.” You say finally, exhausted and defeated.

“No, Y/N. No way. We are NOT doing that. You can’t just keep running away. You’re not a coward. You’re not.” she gives your arms a small shake and stares right into your eyes, willing you to believe her. "Just go back there and ignore him. Act like he doesn’t even exist. I saw you tonight - you were happy, ready for something new. Don’t let him take that away from you. Please. You’re so much better than that.” 

You know she is right. You really do. But you also know yourself - and the combination of Joost, a party and alcohol has never, ever ended well for you. 

Still, the girls had been looking forward for this night for so long. You don’t want to be the one who ruins it, who makes everything about you again. 

“Okay. You’re right. I’ll stay” you say, your voice a little unconvincing, but you mean it - or at least you want to. 

Clara grabs your hand and squeezes it. 

“Are you ready to go back?”

You aren’t ready, but you know you’ll never be, so you nod. You glance at yourself in the mirror, fixing your hair, reapplying a bit of lip gloss, and let Clara take your hand. She leads you through the thick crowd on the dance floor, the music pulsing through your chest.

“I know exactly what you need” she says when you reach the bar.

But before you can answer a voice cuts through the silence, hitting a nerve and reopening every wound.

“Clara. Long time no see” 

He’s there - casually leaning against the bar like he owns the place. He’s speaking to Clara, but his gaze flickers past her, straight to you. You immediately turn away, refusing to meet his eyes. You know what he is doing. This was always his game - trying to reel you back in, whether it ended in a fight or in his bed. You focus on the bar, the glasses, the endless flicker of lights, pretending he isn’t there, pretending you don’t still crave the smallest scrap of his attention.

“Yeah” Clara snaps. “Let’s not change that.” 

Joost chuckles under his breath - low, amused - but you see the flicker of irritation cross his face.

“Woah, no need to be so harsh with me”

“I’m here with my friends, we’re having a girls’ night. Can you give us that?” She says, turning fully to him, staring him down. “And if you’re going to talk to me, look at me. No need to look at her.” she tilts her head subtly toward you.

You stay silent, watching the scene unfold. Part of you feels Clara might be coming down a little too hard - after all he didn’t cheat, he didn’t lie. It wasn’t a clear villain story. You know the mess between you two had blame on both sides. But deep down you also know you fought for him - you tried. 

And he didn’t. So maybe, just maybe, he deserves every part of that coldness now.

"Fine. She’ll text me later anyway” he shrugs, and turns away, disappearing into the crowd.

You sigh, frustrated with his behavior. Classic Joost - feeling uncomfortable, rejected, so he throws something provocative and hurtful flipping the shame onto you instead of just leaving with dignity. 

You will write him anyway? What is that supposed to mean? 

Except, you know exactly what that’s supposed to mean - and worse, you know he’s not wrong. Because you have written to him - countless times, late at night, drunk or brokenhearted, begging him to come and see you. And he did - almost every time. And you did the same.

You remember it all too well: sometimes it was a text at midnight, sometimes a call at two a.m. - and you without thinking, throwing a hoodie over your pajamas, sneaking out into the night. You were desperate to feel him, even if only for a few hours. For a little while it felt perfect - like nothing bad had ever happened between you. There were sweet words, whispered promises, nights where you almost believed it could work. 

But it always unraveled by morning - swearing, fighting and accusations. Still, even if it ended in pieces, you kept choosing the few hours with him over the endless emptiness without him. You never hated the heartbreak as much as you hated the silence.

Joost walks away, and you sigh again. You keep telling yourself it’s okay - you can handle it, you can just ignore him. But with every glance in his direction, with every word he throws into the air, it feels like it’s getting worse, not better.

“Are you ok?” Clara asks, slipping her arm protectively around your shoulders. "Maybe I was a little too harsh, but we can’t have him thinking that he can just walk back into your life… again… Come on, Y/N. You can’t let him treat you like that. He shouldn’t be speaking to you like that - no matter what happened between you two.” Then she turns to the bartender, lifting four fingers. “Four tequila shots please”

“Four?” You blink at her, half-laughing “Are you trying to kill me?” 

You know that Joost and alcohol in one place is a dangerous cocktail. But then again, without alcohol, this whole night might become unbearable. 

You watch as the bartender lines up four small shot glasses, putting a slice of lemon on top of each one. The thoughts are boiling inside your head, and you pray that tequila will help you ease your mind - or at least steer your thoughts somewhere more pleasant.

You move to the dance floor. Lena and Victoria join you, one of them pulling along with the guy she had been talking about earlier. You try to loosen up, let the music carry you, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. 

Your eyes keep scanning the crowd again and again, searching for that familiar messy blonde hair. You spot him a few times - always surrounded by his friends, laughing, drinking.  At least, you think, he hasn’t caught you staring yet. You’re thankful that he didn’t show up with a girl… or hasn’t found one yet. You know that if you saw his hands on someone else, it would feel like a knife twisting inside your heart. 

You don’t even know if he’s been with other women since you two parted ways. You don’t want to think about it, because the mere thought of him having sex with someone else makes you feel like ripping your heart out.

"Stop thinking about him” Clara says in your ear, her voice full of concern.

If only it were that simple. You’ve been trying for the last few months, with absolutely no success.

“I’m going to the bathroom” you reply.

None of the girls follow you, and you hurry to the bathroom, but halfway there, you realize what you really need is a moment to gather your thoughts. You turn instead toward the smokers’ area - where the music fades into a distant hum and you can finally breathe. 

You don’t smoke, not really, but part of you considers asking someone for a cigarette. Maybe it would help to settle your nerves.

For now, you stand alone, gazing over the city. The cold brushes against your skin as you take in the Amsterdam skyline, trying to recognize familiar roofs. The sky is already soft with grey - the kind that signals dawn is just moments away. Summer nights here are short in this city.

The quiet is comforting. For a moment, the chaos in your head begins to settle. 

“So i was gone for two months, and you are already hitting on my friend?” You hear a voice behind you and you nearly choke. You hadn’t even notice him approach. 

You turn around and meet his gaze, and the words catch in your throat. You try to stay calm.

“I did not hit on him. And not that it’s any of your business” you aim for a harsh tone, trying to sound determined, but you know the words are shaky. He’ll notice it - the vulnerability you’re trying so hard to bury.

“It’s not?” His voice smooth, almost too calm, as he stays behind you, and you can feel the tension building between you. “I’m not sharing you with anyone” he adds, his fingers brushing lightly against your elbow. 

You quickly pull your arm away and turn to face him, the words hanging between you.

It’s sick and twisted, but you can’t deny it - your heart races when he says that. The possessiveness in his voice turns you on. God, how pathetic. How could you still feel this way after everything? At least he can’t hear the thoughts running through your mind. 

“You’re not sharing me with anyone because I’m not yours” you say, looking him in the eyes.

You feel your heart beating like crazy. Why does he always have this effect on you? How does he do it, every single time, without even trying?

“Is that so?” His voice is low, his face is just inches away, his eyes locked on yours. You want to look away, break the connection, but somehow you hold firm. Despite everything - the anger, the resentment, the betrayal - there’s something else simmering underneath it all. The sexual tension between you two is undeniable. 

You hate him. But, God, You want him.

If only it was simpler, if only he wasn’t so complicated, maybe you could just give in, without a heartache. You know the pleasure he’s capable of giving you, and part of you wants to let go and surrender completely. But you don’t.

“Yes.” You answer, and then without another word you turn and walk away, pushing your way through the crowd. You forget about the bathroom, forget about everything except the need to get away from him.

The only thing on your mind is reaching the bar - the only place that feels like an escape, even if it’s just for a moment. 

Why can’t it ever go your way, just once? Why can’t the universe cut you a break and let you forget about him just for a second? Are you cursed, destined to drown in this toxic love that’s already taken so much from you? Why does he always show up, even when he’s the last person you want to see? 

“Y/N” - you hear Clara’s voice. “I was looking for you” the moment she sees your face, she knows something is wrong. “That motherfucker. What did he say this time?”

You swallow, trying to push down the feelings. You just want to pretend that he didn’t get under your skin again.

“It’s nothing. He didn’t do anything.” That is not entirely true. But you don’t want to burden her with the truth - not yet, anyway.

"Don’t you DARE leave with him tonight.” She says firmly, locking eyes with you. She grabs your wrist tightly. "And I mean it. You’ve made so much progress, you’re feeling better, you can’t throw all of that away!” She studies your face and already sees it - the hesitation, the weakness. “I know you love him. Believe me, i do. I see it in the way you your eyes flicker when you look at him, or when you say his name. I don’t think he is a bad person either. I know he’s been though a lot, I know sometimes he doesn’t even realize how much he’s hurting you. And yeah… I know he loves you too. But how many times are you going to put yourself through this? You can’t live like this. Always scared. Always waiting for the moment he’ll leave or disappear for days, or decide to break up with you and then change his mind like nothing happened.” She squeezes your hands. “That sex? It’s not worth it. Even that love is not worth it. Please… just once, choose yourself, not him.”

You are nodding all the time while she is speaking. You know all of it, and you agree with every word she says. And tin that moment, you make a choice - you won’t fall back into that cycle - not again. As much as you want to, as much as you BOTH want to, you know it doesn’t lead anywhere. It doesn’t have a future. And you promised yourself - you don’t want anything anymore that doesn’t have a future.

[idioticidoms]

Man in the Mirror

|Schlatt x Afab!reader x Ted Nivision|

Summary: Ted finds himself in a living nightmare. Inadvertently (maybe?) third wheeling the girl of his dreams and his best friend on a night out in Los Angeles.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: yearning men, uncertain relationship status, unsatisfying ending, implied one night stand, Ted is an anxious non confrontational c!ck, alc use mentioned, 18+ minors dni

((I re-read “Normal People” this week so I’m making it everyone’s problem, sorry!!!!))

Ted anxiously fiddled with his hair in the mirror, unsatisfied with the way it laid on his head. If he were better at being introspective, Ted might’ve admitted the need for perfection came from the desire to impress you rather than to appease some sort of internal beauty standard. But who needs that kind of self-reflecting anyways? After winning a small victory with his cowlick, Ted glanced down at his lit up phone. Just one notification mattered. 

"can't wait to see you tonight! :D"

The little encouragement you gave was enough for Ted to summon whatever courage he had left. Two more spritzes of cologne before he was willing to get into his beat up Tacoma. Ted could swear he could smell the remnants of your perfume on his passenger seat. It’s been a week since you last sat in that seat. Last week, you dragged him out of cushy L.A. to the treacherous mountains of San Bernardino. You pleaded with him to take you up to Big Bear for the day. 

"It'll be a fun escape from Los Angeles." You said over the phone. "Plus, it's a pretty drive."

It was a pretty drive. The sun was setting behind the thick forest, lending everything in its light a romantic glow. The air was characteristically fresh, smelling sweet with moss and tree sap. It was hard for Ted to not look over to see how Golden Hour looked on you. He wondered if the golden dying rays of sunlight casted soft, purplish shadows on your face. How bright your eyes would look in that light. But he cared more about getting you to the hole in the wall diner in one solid piece. The curves and bends of the highway encouraged him to keep looking on the road, trusting your beauty would exist even if he weren’t there to bear witness. Take that Orpherus. 

After paying a ridiculous parking fee, Ted walked the few blocks towards the theatre. He reveled in the surprising chilly breeze. June Gloom wrecks havoc again. His plans for the night were solid, well crafted. After the show, he would take you to a fancy dinner. Get you fancy food, expensive drinks. Drive you home then like any gentleman worth his salt - ask you to be his girlfriend. 

Ted grinned as you waved at him excitedly from your spot in line. That smile quickly dropped when he realized the full scene. By your side was an unfamiliar sight - Schlatt. 

Ted quickly tried to find a reason why Schlatt would be in LA of all places tonight.

Chuckle week? No, that was scheduled for next month. 

VidCon? Not happening this month, plus it's not something Schlatt would ever go to. 

The realization sunk into Ted's stomach like a bitter pill. The only reason why Schlatt would be in L.A. this weekend is so deviously simple: to see you. Ted always knew Schlatt had a thing for you. One Chuckle Week after one too many beers, Schlatt confessed to Ted and Charlie his unspoken feelings. Schlatt hiccuped about his secret passions for you, your body and to be a part of your life. Charlie consoled him like any good friend would. Gentle hand to aching back. But Ted stood off to the side, trying his best to be civil. After that night, Ted concluded that Schlatt would be a terrible boyfriend to you. 

Schlatt lives on the other side of the country, Schlatt is emotionally unavailable, Schlatt is an asshole. Schlatt is no man for you.

But there he was. Laughing at a joke you told. Ted greeted you through slightly gritted teeth. You beamed a happy smile in his direction.

"Schlatt! I didn't know you were in  town this weekend." Ted said, trying his very best to hide the venom in his tone. 

Schlatt cocked an eyebrow towards Ted. 

"Yeah, it was a last minute kind of thing."

The cursed trio found themselves shuffling into the cramp auditorium. In the lobby, people were ordereding 12$ beers and shitty wine coolers. After finding your seats, Schlatt offered to grab some overpriced drinks while you and Ted caught up. Ted felt the pressure of his burning, unasked questions. But, despite the inner anguish, he took a moment to glance at you. You were dressed up. A simple black dress paired with simple black heels. But, the way you did your hair, the lipstick you chose made the simplicity of your fashion glitz with unashamed sophistication. Ted always loved when you wore a particular necklace. On one of his roadtrips with Eddie, he spotted a cutesy swan necklace for you. Bringing that necklace back from his trip to your possession felt like a devotional act. Ted carried the little swan from countless cities, through all sorts of weather and car failures just to place it in your hands as a small trinket of companionship. 

The swan proudly flashed its shine against your neck even in the dark auditorium. 

"Why’d you invite Schlatt?"

"I had a third ticket. I tried giving it to someone else but no takers aside from Schlatt." You explained calmly.

Your explanation sounded so crisp, so clear it nearly tempted Ted into mindless belief. 

"I guess he must really like this band. He flew in for this."

The last sentence you spoke was the missing smoking gun. Again, Ted’s mind was filled with more questions but before he could even dare to ask any single one of them, Schlatt returned with 3 drinks.  Two shitty overpriced beers, one shitty overpriced cocktail. Schlatt tossed the beer to Ted before gingerly placing your cocktail in your hand. 

"Oh that's where that went. " Schlatt said, flicking a bracelet that graced your wrist. 

"Finders keepers." You giggled, hiding a sheepish grin behind a sip of your cocktail. 

Throughout the duration of the show, Ted could barely appreciate the band or the music. He was too concentrated on finding any possible excuse of why Schlatt would've left a bracelet at your apartment. Why Schlatt knew your cocktail order. Why Schlatt seemed to be getting closer to you throughout the set, his hand just shy of grabbing your waist. 

The concert ended nearly as quickly as it began, at least in Ted's mind. You tried your best to scurry out of the auditorium before the inevitable foot traffic. On the way out, Ted watched in annoyance as Schlatt pulled your elbow away from rushing people and into safety that only a man as big as Schlatt could provide.

Somehow your cursed trio ended up at a dingy bar. Schlatt and Ted ordered a beer and a shot, while you opted for another cocktail. As you tried to covertly slip your card to the bartender, Schlatt quickly intercepted the little plastic card with his own. 

"You got the tickets, I’ll get the drinks.”

Ted should’ve offered to pay, he should’ve spoken up, announced his presence somehow. But instead, he found himself chatting up another girl at the bar, watching as Schlatt kept inching closer and closer towards you. Another beer, then the night faded.

Ted woke up the next morning in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar apartment. Boyishly, he slipped out of the bed, gathered his items before quietly dashing out to grab an Uber. 

“For Nivison?”

“Yeah. Do you have a charger?”

The driver pointed toward the mess of various cables by Ted’s feet. As he waited for his dead phone to charge, Ted felt the vengeance of his hangover pique through. The rest of the ride was silent.

Stepping into his apartment, Ted looked at himself in the mirror. Disheveled hair, eye bags and a creeping 5 o’clock shadow. Hardly the picture of perfection he wanted to present to you. Notifications swarmed his newly resurrected phone. Only one interested him - a new close friends story from you. 

It was a picture of a photo booth picture. There you were, in your simple black dress, in three stills with Schlatt. The first still was of you and Schlatt grinning ear to ear, side by side. The second, you placed your hand on Schlatt’s jaw as you kissed him. The third still was the most painful of all. You and Schlatt were laughing at the lipstick stain left on his face. 

Ted threw his phone before crashing asleep on his couch.

[fictioninmyblood]

Mine Now

Part 4

Summary: Terry and Y/N have become good friends over the last few years. Whenever he was in town long enough to enjoy his apartment he made a point to spend some time with his favorite ballbuster. The last few times he’s stayed in town long enough to notice some changes in her and after several weird early exits he decides to follow her and finds out she’s homeless and sleeping in the woods. He’s both elated that she remembered enough of what he taught her to make her situation work and pissed she didn’t come to him for help. Having been more introspective about their relationship lately anyway he decides that now is the opportune time to trap her ass in a relationship he knows they both want and need.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, smut, d/s themes, final Part of this miniseries

A/N: My work is NOT to be plagiarized or reposted (on any site other than this) without my explicit consent and recognition.

“…This is no longer up for discussion. We are going to go empty your unit later, I am going to break down your campsite, and you are moving in with me completely tonight.”

With the way that Terry emphasized the words ‘are’ and ‘am’ paired with his no nonsense tone, it took Y/N a moment to restart her brain after that declaration, her logic and libido now warring over which should respond. “But-,” she tried again, but Terry cut her off.

“Don’t make me take you over my knee Y/N. I will do it,” he said, his brain going into autopilot, as he continued to hold her face, making her hold their eye contact. Usually he could keep the dom in him in check around her, but now that they’d established the mutual attraction plus the months he’d been abstinent, having recently lost his appetite to indulge in his sexual needs, it was difficult to keep himself under control. She brought that side of him out so easily that he constantly had to be vigilant about being mindful of it since they’d become friends, but the lines were erased now and he was itching to redraw them the way he wanted. His hunger was back with a vengeance and she was the only person that could appease his appetite.

All she could do was whimper in response to the switch up. She had an inkling that he could embody big daddy energy earlier, but now, she was absolutely sure she was 100% right about that assumption. She hadn’t even noticed that she was quickly dipping into subspace, something she’d hoped for an opportunity to experience, but never having had a partner who brought it out of her, had only been able to read and imagine it. Y/N started wiggling again, her body moving on autopilot. She was overwhelmed by the possibility of disobeying his demand just to give him a reason to make good on his latest promise.

Terry watched her process what he said and was pleasantly surprised that instead of being repulsed by it she looked to be considering his words as an offer. He watched the way she relaxed and could instantly place the look of subspace creeping up on her. By the way she had constantly complained about never being sexually satisfied by any of her previous partners which she had started to blame herself for and he had to shut down the notion plenty of times as well as the slip she made a couple months back about being part of the bdsm community, he figured she wasn’t even aware of the shift. The few times he’d allowed his dom persona to slip over the years, even before her drunken confession, and the way she naturally responded he’d guessed she might be a sub, but now with the evidence in front of him, he was sure his hopes were a reality. It was almost comical to watch her make her decision and act on it, testing the boundaries of their budding new relationship.

Speaking before she could really think through what was happening, Y/N said, “But what if you figure out you don’t want me no more after a while? You could decide to not like being my man and I’d be in an even worse position than I am now.” She looked up at him with a cross between ‘I dare you’ and ‘What if all my fears come true’ puppy eyes that made his decision for him.

“I see we’re going to have to work on your trust in me. Something I never thought we’d have to do before kitten, but that’s alright. I’m prepared,” Terry said with a soothing tone as he released her cheeks and cupped her face with one hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Reigning in his desire to dive in headfirst he prompted a much needed conversation he thought he’d have to wait a while to have. “Do you remember your drunken confession that you have participated in the bdsm lifestyle?”

She shook her head no, but in reality she did have a vague memory of letting that tidbit of info slip. She’d hoped and convinced herself into believing it was just another haunting dream where she imagined confessing one of her darkest secrets followed by him having his way with her afterwards.

“Well I do, kitten and by the looks of it you are a perfect match for the dom in me. Am I right? Are you a submissive?”

She nodded, still looking up at him with that doe-eyed expression and unable to get her mouth and voice to work. Terry took a deep breath, taking it all in, and doing his best to not show his eager excitement.

“I need verbal confirmation mamas,” Terry said as he rubbed on her backside, easing her more and more into the comfort his presence and arms had created.

She tucked her head in the crook of his neck as she said with a soft whispery voice, too scared to hold eye contact as she confessed, “Yes, I’m a submissive.” If she hadn’t been right by his ear, he doubted he would’ve been able to hear her clearly.

“May I have your permission to handle this disagreement as a dom?” Terry said, nervousness lacing his voice. Afraid she would take the option of stopping this encounter right where they already are. “I understand if you’re not ready to trust me that much yet and if you do I promise I won’t do too much until I’m certain we’ve gone over every soft and hard limit.”

Y/N sat up and stared into his eyes for a few moments. Once she found whatever she had been looking for, she nodded.

“Words Y/N,” he said.

Her eyes cleared ever so slightly, instantly appeasing his concern that she wasn’t aware enough to answer honestly, and she answered, “You have my permission Terry. I trust you with all that I am.”

He nearly teared up at her confession, but controlled his emotions for the time being, immediately going into dom mode.

“Let’s go. Up.”

Y/N looked at him confused and stuck by the quick switch in his tone. Terry smirked and grasped her ass with both hands so that he could stand and walk them to his bedroom. She made this little noise that was a cross between surprise and arousal at him not waiting for her to comply and simply making his request reality. He been knew that he was going to enjoy everything about solidifying their relationship, but establishing their dom/sub dynamic was going to easily take the cake. The noises that came out of her alone were quickly becoming his drug of choice.

“What are you-,” Y/N started to say as Terry sat down on the edge of his bed and eased her off of his lap so that she was at his side facing him with her legs still somewhat wrapped around him. Her voice trailed off as he lifted her gaze from her hands that were fidgeting in her lap with his forefinger crooked under her chin, making her hold eye contact. This habit he had of doing so was going to be one of the many things she’d contribute to her ‘hard era’ demise. The action had a way of disarming her of her metaphoric shields and swords. 

“Didn’t I make it clear that I was going to take you over my knee if you kept insinuating that I’d want or need to keep an exit strategy just in case we don’t work out?”

“I-,” she started but was silenced by him calmly and smoothly wrapping his hand around her throat, applying enough pressure to make sure she understood exactly where things were going. 

“Tell me at any moment if what I’m doing is making you uncomfortable or making you want me to stop so you can run away from me and my depraved way of fixing your behaviour,” he said then paused, giving her enough time to respond. At the blissed out look on her face and rumble of a moan she was not letting out, but he felt nonetheless, Terry took her silence as submission. As he continued to talk he released and pressed on her throat with just enough pressure for her to feel a brand new wet spot being created in his boxers.

“You’ve been telling me with increased frequency over the course of our friendship that you trust me. Was that a lie, mamas?”

She shook her head no as best she could.

“Then why are you questioning my very clear intentions of not only making you my lady, but also my wife? Hmm?” he asked as he stopped releasing the pressure he held on her throat at the sweet spot right before she couldn’t take in any air and let her feel the weight of the possibility of him actually cutting off her ability to breathe. “Why do you keep insisting that I’m going to change my mind about anything I’ve said today?”

This time she did let out a moan, unable to stop herself as her mind continued to empty.

“That’s okay. We’re going to fix this contradiction of yours and we’re going to start right now.”

With a maneuver that was quick as lightening, his marine days and fight training coming in handy, she barely registered being moved to lay across his lap and the boxers being stripped from her body. By the time she caught up with the change in her position he was delivering heavy pops to her ass that took another few seconds for her brain to process a delayed reaction to. He had been switching back and forth between each cheek and as soon as he delivered the third and fourth ones, increasing how hard he was delivering each blow she’d swung her arm back to block him. Though Terry was hyper focused on his mission to correct her behaviour, deep in the feel of finally being able to handle her body and mind the way he always craved, he caught sight of her swinging arm and caught it without breaking eye contact with her ass. Without pausing his actions he kept delivering firm smacks, tucking the caught arm behind her back as he continued alternating between cheeks, spreading out his blows so that she’d feel the evidence of this session from her thighs up to her actual butt for days. He kept hitting her, delivering that sweet pleasurable pain until she was a tear streaked blubbering mess, wailing out an apology.

Y/N was falling and fast. Though she confirmed for Terry that she was part of the community, they didn’t take any time to tell each other what they liked best or not. Fortunately unfortunately for her, this was her second favorite part of being a submissive. Having experienced plenty of traumatizing ass whoopins to last a lifetime as a child, one of her happy places as a sub was allowing her dom to replace those memories with the sweet pain of doing the same. Very few had been able to do so. But Terry? Terry somehow instinctively knew where the line was and how to toe it so that she got the most out of her experience while simultaneously ensuring his discipline was being received. When she had time to replay these moments later and think through every action she was sure to question how she ever took blame for the mediocre lays she’s had throughout the years.

Now that Terry got her to the place where all she could say was “‘m sorry” he stopped and gave her a few moments to take in every sensation working its way through her psyche. Still keeping the offending hand laid across the small of her back he rubbed on her ass and thighs, giving her the much needed pause. It wasn’t what she would’ve considered enough time to recouperate, but it was the exact time Terry knew she needed not to end up falling all the way into her subspace before he wanted her to. He wanted to be balls deep and able to see every expression crossing those beautiful brown eyes, lickable lips, and expressive eyebrows. When he was sure she had enough time to get herself somewhat together he sucked on a few of his fingers, coating them in a considerable amount of spit, and plunged them into her sweet pussy.

Feeling how soaked she was for him and meeting her eyes as she turned her head to look at him, Terry was immediately thrust into his own version of heaven. She had opened her mouth to probably let out some kind of protest but he started moving his fingers before she could utter one word. Between the knowledge that she now had some of him in her, his spit coating her walls with his dna, the feel of her pussy gripping his fingers for dear life, and the sweet noises that escaped her, Terry let his feralness take over. He pulled his fingers out and sucked on them giving her his own symphony of moans. As soon as he got every last drop he flipped Y/N onto the bed, her back hitting the mattress with a light bounce, making her chuckle lightly at his obvious desperation. He mumbled out “need more” right before he shouldered his way between her thighs and those luscious lips made contact with her pussy. In that moment he resembled a feral animal that had been starved and then given an all you can eat feast. Y/N’s chuckle was immediately replaced by moans, whimpers, and screeches at how thoroughly Terry was eating her out.

As grown as she was and as deep she’d been able to experience the bdsm community, for all intents and purposes Y/N was still pretty inexperienced with receiving pleasure outside of giving it. In her entire sexual history, there’d only been one other man to make her gratification a priority, having consistently chosen selfish self-centered partners who gave up when they deemed her reaching pleasure was taking too long. Terry easily topped that experience times ten, obviously eating her out for his pleasure, and her mind was barely keeping up with the reality that not only was it possible, but her new reality. As he licked, flicked, sucked, and lapped at her clit and dripping hole Y/N was lost to the sensations. She hadn’t even noticed when she’d moved her hands to grasp the top of his head, grasping and rubbing at it like a prayer, caught between wanting to simultaneously pull him close and push him away. He knew what he was doing and there was no hope of him stopping before he was good and ready.

Terry had found nirvana and it was between the thighs of his dream woman, his best friend, his future wife. He’d always enjoyed losing himself in pleasuring the women he was with, but this was different. His typical obsession with driving a woman insane by giving her more pleasure than she ever had was magnified by who he was with, something he had never experienced before. It felt like he was possessed and despite pulling orgasm after orgasm from Y/N he just couldn’t bring himself to pull away from his proverbial plate. He’d felt insatiable before, he’d even felt feral, and definitely with her, but never to this extreme. If this was just the beginning of him getting to taste not only her, but what it was like to fulfill both of their desires as a couple, then he was screwed. He wanted to spend every waking moment right here for all of eternity, The fact that he’d just figured out how to create a work-life balance this past year niggled at the back of his mind, giving him a sense of ease that he would be able to enjoy moments like these a lot more often than he would’ve had he still been working at the same pace he was before.

By the time he came up for air and grounded himself back into the reality of being in the room and not just between her legs, Y/N had experienced four earth shattering orgasms and was hurtling towards the fifth one, right on the edge and peeved at the sudden loss of it slipping from her grasp as he backed away. She didn’t have too long to think about the loss of contact because by the time she had refocused on the room Terry had stripped her of his shirt and was naked and lining himself up with her, holding onto one thigh and pushing it back so that he could have a better sight of where he was going. Despite the already built anticipation of joining together, Terry paused his actions as soon as they were aligned and locked eyes with Y/N. Her eyebrows were knit together and she was biting her bottom lip, her eyes glazed over with both satisfaction and longing. She was radiant. He relished in that look and took this moment to watch her expressions change as she watched him move his dick up and down her folds, coating himself in the slick and saliva he’d procured for them during his time eating her out.

“Ready mamas?” he finally asked.

By the time Y/N looked up to meet Terry’s already watchful gaze, she had been lost in sauce, watching his beautiful crown jewel tease her entrance and make her more and more wet, something she thought would be impossible after the long worshipping session he just blessed her with. When he asked her that, she had been remembering all that he’d done up until this point to make her gratification a priority and imagining all the ways she’d get to experience more once they completed this first. All she could do was nod, but that wasn’t enough for him. He popped her thigh, reminding her of her earlier punishment and reprimand to use her words. If she wasn’t already a waterfall, the intense look he gave her would’ve turned her into one.

“Yes Big Papa,” she finally squeaked out.

His eyebrows rose and he answered, “Big Papa, hmm? That’s how you feeling?”

She got this giddy expression, nodding again with an accompanied ‘mmhmm.’

Terry’s chest swelled and if he had time, he would allow his ego to trip and do jumping jacks, but he wanted, no, needed, to hear her say it again and again. He wanted her screaming that name to him at the top of her lungs. He’d never had that pet name before and it made him feel extra special that this is the image he’d elicited in Y/N. Unable to wait any longer, Terry finally eased himself all the way into her, taking his time so that they both could savor every inch of their joining. By the time he bottomed out he was certain that this woman was going to turn him into an animal. Never in any of his experiences had he ever felt such a need to mark a woman with his seed. Mark her body as his dom? Of course. But he wanted to mark Y/N’s soul, to put his stamp on every corner of her body, mind, and life as her man. He’d meant it when he told her he was already on the fast track to making her his wife, but now that he was seated in her he wanted it all and he wanted it now. He wanted her to take on his last name, he wanted her pregnant with his babies, and he wanted the world to know that he was responsible for every drop of happiness she embodied that came from outside of herself. 

Y/N was seeing stars almost immediately, but when Terry started moving his hips in a whine like motion, taking his sweet time to find every pleasure point, her eyes rolled. She couldn’t control her reactions to his ministrations if she tried. It was almost overwhelming how good he was making her feel and there was no way that anyone would ever again be able to convince her that a woman was supposed to live without pleasure in the bedroom. He hit spots she didn’t even know she had and made her mind empty in a way she didn’t think she’d ever been able to accomplish. 

All she could do was hold on to him as he took her on the ride of her life. Meanwhile Terry was doing everything not to cum too soon while realizing that even if he did, he was going to keep going. There was no way the man was going to be able to leave her sweet body for the foreseeable future. Everytime he found a new spot he repeated the move that got the various responses, full of satisfaction that he was the one doing this to her. He wanted her to keep coating him in her essence forever.

“Wait Terry,” Y/N gasped as soon as he hit that magical spot she’d only experienced the pleasure of by her own hand before, “that’s my spot.” She tried desperately to push at his stomach for some relief, but he just gathered both of her hands in one and continued to move his hips with slow determination. The action made her cream and cum in no time at all. That elusive spot that she herself only found twice in her entire life and no man had ever been able to was now being struck with such precision that Y/N felt like she was going to go crazy from the sensation.

“That’s your spot?”

“Mmhmm” she moaned out, becoming quickly overwhelmed by the pleasure he seemed to easily shower her with. She wondered how he seemed to always effortlessly give her what she needed and how the hell that superpower transferred to the bedroom exponentially, but the thought left just as quick as she was about to cum again.

“Nah, that’s my spot now,” he said with a look and grin that told Y/N she was in a different kind of trouble with him now and he was sure to collect.

Terry sped up ever so slightly, keeping the same whine of his hips that allowed him to reach all of her and dig her out the way she deserved. He moved the hand that rested on her thigh to her throat. Keeping a firm grip on her hands with the other, turning her face to look him in the eyes.

“Say you’ll be Papa’s good girl.”

“I’ll be Papa’s good girl.”

With the way Terry was staring her down and had honed in on her spot, hitting it consistently with a precision she still couldn’t believe was possible despite his accurate efforts, she couldn’t think about what she was repeating back to him let alone protest.

“Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry Big Papa. I won’t do it again, I promise.” Y/N babbled back, her eyes rolling into her head as the strongest orgasm she’s ever experienced ransacked her body, having never fully calmed down from the previous one.

Terry watched her fall apart under him and kept going, wanting to experience making her do so all over again as quickly as possible. He added his thumb to her pretty pearl that reappeared as if to say, “I’m ready again,” and rubbed slow circles into it that juxtaposed his increasingly faster strokes.

Y/N had barely come down before her body was gearing up for another explosion and at this point the man could ask for her soul and she’d offer it up in every lifetime. Terry could feel her clenching around him and his own nut quickly approaching, but he had a goal and as much as it hurt to do so, he stopped moving. Y/N’s unfocused eyes instantly realigned and she let out a protesting groan. As unbearable the pleasure was getting to be, not having it was even worse at this point, especially so close to the edge again.

Terry tongued her down, slow and deep, kissing her as if only his lips were capable of making love to her. Past the point when they both needed air and when Terry could feel her pussy gripping at him as if he was threatening to pull out, he pulled back and stared down at her. Terry always believed in a higher power, but she was truly his living testimony of personal experience with the creator. Shy from his intense gaze, Y/N tried to look away, but Terry kept her in place by lightly tightening the grip on her throat. He gave her a few lingering pecks and then said, “promise me you’re mine now Y/N.”

“But Terry-,” she had started to protest, but an unexpected jump of his dick, reminding her that he was still very much seated in her pussy, halted her words. She gulped, finally understanding the trouble she’d found herself in. This was his end goal, getting her to agree to the very thing that scared her most, being truly vulnerable and trusting someone enough to join her life with theirs completely. Surrendering to his request meant that she accepted his declarations and promises as fact, not fiction.

“But nothing kitten,” he kissed her between his words as he released her hands and started rubbing on her thigh and butt as the hand that gripped her throat lightly squeezed and released. The combination of sensations crippled her thought process further and kept her usually ready and waiting list of reasons why no one ever really wanted to be subjected to being in a relationship with her out of the forefront of her mind. She couldn’t come up with one good reason as Terry continued his actions and words.

“You and I both know that we belong together and I will keep you here under me all night if that’s what it takes to convince you not to listen to the fear I know echoes through you as much as it does me.”

Y/N really focused on him now that he’d started speaking his heart and it made tears well in her eyes as she realized that he’d been feeling the way she had all along. It was a hope she daren’t concentrate on for too long or too hard, but it’d lived with her long before she met him and blossomed into a painful thing as soon as they met. As she kept listening and fought to keep her tears at bay, she realized it only hurt all this time because she never thought he actually felt the same way for her. She thought it wasn’t possible that someone like him could ever want her, all of her. Now that they were in this moment though, she could experience the reality of her hope and it was painful in a whole different way. 

“I have loved you since the first moment I laid eyes on you.” Y/N let out a sob at that confession, letting her tears finally flow. He kissed at her tears and she started really crying, unable to stop herself from releasing all of the emotions fighting for a way out of her body.

“I know you’ve been fighting that pull that struck us both that first day as much as me, but I’m begging,” Terry swallowed the emotion threatening him now that her own floodgates were opened by kissing her breathless again, “please stop fighting this and give in. Be mine. All mine. Forever.”

She didn’t know when, but her hands had made their way to his chest and she was absentmindedly rubbing against his skin as if to ground herself in this moment. Scared of her voice Y/N nodded, but he wasn’t satisfied with the nonverbal answer. A small moan escaped her as he slowly started moving again, reminding them both of how intense their connection was both physically and metaphysically.

“Give me words kitten. I need to hear you say it. I need to hear you say you’re mine.” Terry practically begged as he made love to her with all thoughts of fucking her into submission no longer anywhere to be found. He’d restarted the slow sure pace he’d had before as he moved the hand on her throat to cup her face lovingly, gripped at her ass trying to pull her impossibly closer, and all he could think was that there was no way he could let her go ever again. There was never going to be another day that went by without her being his lady. He couldn’t let her keep existing without his presence and protection, without knowing that he wasn’t going anywhere and she was safe to relax and be with him.

Y/N’s small moans were increasing with the pressure of his pleasure and it took every remaining brain cell to actually fix her mouth to answer him. By the time her ‘yes’ came out it was a breathy whimper and as happy Terry was to hear it, he needed to hear it again. And again. And again. And he was going to keep up his actions until she couldn’t stop saying it, until she couldn’t stop shouting it.

“You mine?” 

All she could get out this time was ‘mmhmm’.

“You gon let me move all of your shit in here tonight?”

“Yes Big Papa,” she moaned out.

“Good kitten,” he responded before he lost himself to her pussy and dug her out until both it and her were sure that they were both his now.

[reflectingiridescent]

The Girls' Night Out Job: a story about being known and loved

The Girls' Night Out Job is about badass ladies teaming up to save the day, but it's also about wanting to be known - and how opposites attract. Let's talk about it.

One of my favorite quotes about love is actually by Timothy J Keller, a minister, which I would apologize for, but it's on theme for Leverage so anyway:

To be loved but not known is comforting but superficial. To be known and not loved is our greatest fear. But to be fully known and truly loved is...what we need more than anything. It liberates us from pretense, humbles us out of our self-righteousness, and fortifies us for any difficulty life can throw at us.

We see different stages and perspectives on this idea throughout the episode, from Sophie, Parker, Tara - and yeah, even Mattingly and Peggy.

The whole episode, Parker's trying to deal with a little conflict in her relationship with Hardison. They share values, so does it matter that they don't like to do the same stuff in their spare time? Parker's worried enough about it to seek out Sophie.

Meanwhile, Sophie and Tara are working together (whatever their definition of "working together" is, because they've absolutely collaborated before tonight) for the first time and realizing that they do the same job in completely different ways.

Sophie and Tara are two women who are smart and capable, and both love to be in charge. They butt heads because they're both individually so good. Throughout their bickering, we see that they actually work pretty well together.

After spending the whole night working with someone who does exactly what she does (just worse, because Parker's the best in the world), Parker realizes that she likes Hardison because he doesn't like to do the same kind of stuff she does. He accepts her as she is.

She also sees how clearly she and Hardison complement each other. She asks Sophie for help all night, but she's also asking Hardison for help all night.

Meanwhile, we're revisiting the theme of identity. This makes sense because Sophie's conflict around her identity is the reason Tara came to know the team at all.

Parker is friends with Peggy but is struggling with how much she tells Peggy because Peggy doesn't know that Parker is a thief.

Meanwhile, Peggy is living an honest life with wholesome interests, but her date is only pretending to have those interests. Peggy is struggling to find love too!

Likewise, Tara is struggling with exactly what Sophie was struggling with in s2 - Tara is dating multiple people but as aliases of herself. It's played for laughs here because Tara doesn't introspect to the degree that Sophie does, but it matters to Tara.

Tara's really been looking forward to her night with Sophie because that's the time when she gets to be herself with someone who knows her.

Sophie's really been looking forward to her night with Tara because she just needs a little space from her crew. She's just a little lacking in the usual patience she has when she talks to Parker before leaving Nate's apartment. And who can blame her? Nate's been nearing a line this season, not to mention she and Nate had to tell the crew that they're hooking up now. As colleagues. As friends. Obviously. 👀

(As a side note, Nate looks confused when Sophie says she's hanging out with someone tonight. She definitely did not tell Nate who it was, and he doesn't stick around to listen to Hardison talk about Parker maybe having second thoughts. He's totally satisfied being friends with benefits with Sophie. TOTALLY. 🙄)

At the end of the night, Tara hooks up with Mattingly, who does know what she does for a living...and likes a lot of the stuff that she does. Read alongside the conclusion that Parker reaches about Hardison, this is maybe a step in the right direction for Tara.

And Mattingly is very similar to Tara - the DVD commentary points out that he and Tara are supposed to show what Sophie and Parker were like before they met the crew. Mattingly even gets the same "This is my job" line that Tara did in s2. He wants to be paid. And like Tara in s2, he looks a little conflicted when he realizes that Parker is using her theft for good - and the effect that has on people.

And despite talking a big game, Tara has evolved a little since s2. She's happy to use her night with Sophie to help Parker by doing fun spy things. She's also happy to help Parker keep Peggy, a civilian, from being blamed for Mattingly's crimes. Tara pre-crew would not have given a shit unless Sophie called in a favor.

So where does this leave us? This episode suggests that a good relationship is one where people know and love each other, where complementary partners are preferrable to people who are too much alike. After this episode, we see that Parker and Hardison have that down. Tara and Mattingly are maybe looking for that themselves. Peggy's still looking, mostly because she has a penchant for finding thieves as friends and dates (though there's Hurley at the end...👀 who has a similar accidental ability to end up around people committing crimes).

And Sophie...well, Sophie's got all her stuff going on with Nate this season, which is fine, but this episode isn't really about them (no, that's a story for The Lonely Hearts Job). The relationship of hers being explored here? The one with Tara, who knows Sophie, accepts Sophie, and is very, very different from Sophie.

Tara's ideal relationship? Honestly probably someone a lot like Sophie.

"The things we do for friends," muses Sophie at the end of the episode. Sophie, who doesn't know anyone not in the game except for Maggie. Sophie, who therefore must use the word "friend" very preciously. Friendship involves trust, and she voluntarily walks in a world where that does not comes easily. At this point in the show, the crew are her friends. Hell, Nate is her friend.

Sophie needed time to figure herself out, and I think when Tara figures herself out, Sophie will be there for her, like she has for a long time.

[sangrefae]

Hey! Could you do 🍷for everlarkthorne for the most recent ask game you posted?

this took longer than i wanted it to bc peeta is weirdly difficult to write for. also this took a weirdly introspective turn because i thought about him consistently being Weird about alcohol in the series and was like. Time to put him under the microscope. TY for requesting, though, it got me back to writing after a long break 🥹

---

The fire bathes the living room in a deep orange wash with its light, the kind he can only get with the rarer, fancier paints he had had far too much access to after the Games. If he were to paint this moment, he thinks to himself, he might have to take some of the sienna and mix it with a yellow, better to brighten it than white. There's no place he could use the white paint in the room, really---wherever the fire's light doesn't touch is drowned in shadow, the only other light from the kitchen doing little than defining the shapes of the furniture. The stark contrast serves to make Gale's angular features sharper, only highlighting the strong curve of Katniss's nose and the slightest edge of her brow because of the angle of her gaze.

Any attempt to recreate the scene would be fruitless, anyway. There's no way for him to capture the brightness of Gale's loud voice with paint, nor Katniss's responding giggles from her place curled up on the armchair. He'd need a different dimensional medium entirely to recreate the warm caress of the fire's heat from across the room, tinted by firelight in the late hour and the new bottle of liquor Gale had brought back from 10. It's called mezcal, he'd said, though Peeta had admittedly tuned the rest out after taking his usual polite sip and leaving the rest of it to the two of them.

It had burned just the same as any of the alcohol he'd ever had, but it's a testament to its strength that both Gale and Katniss have only had a glass each and yet seem as affected as they'd usually be after two drinks on a regular night. He can only tell that Katniss is still awake at all from her intermittent giggles at Gale's story; she's fallen asleep on his shoulder quicker after having far less to drink than she has tonight.

"It's one thing to see horses on TV in the Capitol, okay? It's another to have one, right in front of you... lookin' at you," Gale insists, reaching for his glass as he speaks. He'd recently topped it off, and it shows in his exaggerated, loose movements, his growing volume. He tends to get louder the more he drinks, Peeta has noticed, and his words flow easier than they ever have while sober.

Peeta's eyes flick to the bottle sitting on the table between the three of them, just once, before moving back to Gale. It still takes conscious effort to stop the impulse in its tracks, the only tell the slight twitch of his hand in the bottle's direction.

Dr. Aurelius had told him that it's a fear around alcohol that explains the anger it hides behind, an issue with the lack of control, the unpredictability. He'd never been able to deal with it well, to put it lightly. Another deeply buried and poorly healed wound, the origins muddied even without the tracker jacker venom scrambling his memories; he knows his mother wasn't much of a drinker.

Clearly, those few times she did were more than memorable enough.

At least he can work on it now, with most of the hijacking more or less handled. As much as it ever can be. In more accurate terms, he's working to make it yet another item on the long list of knee-jerk reflexes he's learned to suppress. Just another fear he'd been hardwired to associate with violence, his doctors and therapists working overtime to deprogram.

Maybe it's working. He doesn't feel quite as much like a cornered animal when in proximity to Haymitch anymore, which he'd mistakenly attributed to the hijacking before realizing that mistrust had begun far earlier than the Capitol sunk its claws into him.

"You've seen elk, though, 'n' they're nearly as big," Katniss interjects, slightly slurring her words. She's grinning, a rare enough sight by itself, but paired with her loopy giggle it's so precious that Peeta will always have the urge to run and grab his paints to memorialize it. "How different could they really be?"

Peeta joins in with Katniss's laughter this time, spurred by Gale's utterly incredulous expression thrown into further exaggeration by the flickering light.

"From a distance, do you know how easily an elk could fuck you up--?" He cuts himself off, opens and closes his mouth a few times before seeming to give up and flop back into the plush sofa. Katniss's laughter must be contagious, because Peeta's ribs are quickly growing sore from the strain. He has to press his back into the cushion of his armchair and force himself to breathe, cheeks still aching.

Maybe it's working, because he's scarcely felt safer than he does here, wrapped in warmth and easy laughter with the two people he can trust the most. Across from him, Gale groans in good-natured frustration at Katniss, and Peeta's smile grows.

[mochatune]

I really love your characterization, I feel like you're really true to the source material whenever possible ❤ you're good at making cute moments without sugarcoating the unpleasant parts of characters!

I'm curious.. how would Peter/YB react to the reader confronting him about not actually loving them? Reader having been very accepting of him and having a sort of revelation when his Perfect Boyfriend facade slips. (I mean he'd absolutely just cut his losses and go full murder mode but I think it'd be interesting if he actually had any level of introspection.)

If the goal was to flatter me then it worked, like shit, what a beautiful compliment 😂❤️ I got you rn. There is a lot of ways to interpret this hc so I’m hoping what is written is what you were asking for.

——

- Peter had a lot of red flags you’d had looked past. He was perfect and went above the bar when it came to past men who had entered your life. He remembered your birthday, the anniversaries, even those cheesy days like national hug day and he spared no expense into making it special for you even when there was nothing to celebrate.

- this was honestly a big part in why you were so accommodating when he was less than savory to be around, you yourself are surprised with how much of a pushover you were in the past. Guess it shows just how low the bar is for you.

- things eventually just started connecting as you got to know him. The possessiveness being a big part, it felt like ever since getting to know him your social life sort of…. changed. It suddenly felt like there was less time for the other people you cared about, even your family wasn’t spared when it came to him. Everyone was a challenge for him.

- neither of you really ever really established a relationship, you always thought you two were just really close friends I mean … sure there were some moments where it felt like something more but it wasn’t something you were barely even beginning to consider after past relationships left you feeling drained. You were okay with this sort of situationship for the the time being you just hadn’t noticed how much he had really wanted.

- He was always the guy there for you to talk shit with when you were frustrated or the shoulder to cry on, he was practically your best friend ever since Lucy had passed. You still blamed yourself for everything despite no consecutive reports on the case for months now but hey atleast you had someone to help you grieve and move past the tragedy that had happened at that diner. He was always there for you, he said it himself and had done more then enough to prove it through his actions towards you.

- one day he just changed. It’s like the guy you’ve been building trust with for almost half a year now just turned around and showed you a side he’d been forcing himself to hide from you.

- suddenly seeing those eyes that made you feel like prey, it was weird and quite frankly you didn’t like it. You didn’t like how he was treating you like a piece of meat, like any other guy would. It felt like you were beginning to see him for who he was.

- all a guy had done was catcall you, it wasn’t anything. You ignored it and kept it pushing like you always do but he just couldn’t let it go.

- he didn’t do anything, not while you were watching anyways but you saw that change in demeanor. He’s done it before though it was always a flash of an emotion you could not name, it always intimidated you but never for long as he was back to his same old lovable self.

- he sort of just dumps everything on you, everything he’d been keeping in all those nights working up the nerve at the mere thought of embracing you as more than just a friend. All those times you had cried to him but not because of him, it infuriated him that the relationship he’d been making up in his head since practically forever with you was nothing more than a mere delusion he’d created to cope with never actually being with you. That was going to change. Tonight.

- he knew, he just knew you wanted to be with him as much as he did with you so when you told him you were put off by his behavior and that you did not feel for him even a fraction of what he felt for you, hearing that “you wanted some time away from him” threw him through a loop. Not a pretty one either.

- those eyes again, the ones he has flashed at the man earlier. The ones that had you feeling helpless. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

- it was like a gust of wind when he grabbed you with all his might, a meaty vein pulsing trough his forearm and the eyes of a killer gaping into your soul. A screaming fit paired with it, words along the lines of “why can’t you just accept that you love me” the words of a delusional freak that you know in your bones you should have never even given a single benefit of the doubt. That all this time that gut feeling in back of your mind was true all along.

- you’re in so much distress that it’s all a blur. The over-exertion of your muscles trying to fight back against the agonizing grip of a grown man paired with the ringing in your head from the screams, the wet on your face from the spittle of the man screaming intensely in your face. There’s a thud and suddenly everything is just black.

- you find yourself with a pounding headache and foggy vision bound against a soft surface, most likely a mattress. You try to move but you find your wrist cold from a handcuff keeping you fastened against the bed post. Everything from last night comes back and you’re reliving everything, a panic attack hits you before you calm down again having hope that there may be a way out of this.

- your captor, the person you thought you’d see comes walking in with a slight hop in his step. Almost as if last night never even happened, he has a tray of food. You aren’t sure what it is but you know you want no part in it immediately readying your voice to try and talk your way out of this predicament.

- there’s a stool by the bed your bound to, he sits on it and puts the tray on the bedside table right by your head.

- he tells you good morning in a sickly sweet voice you wish you’d never hear, almost as sickening as the deep purple bruise left on your arm after the mere grip put on you last night.

- you don’t offer a kind response back (who would let’s be honest) but it doesn’t seem like he minds. That flips a switch when the next words fly out of your mouth, almost as if you didn’t even think about who you were talking to before you spoke.

- nasty words continuously come out of your mouth begging him to let you go all the while barking like a chihuahua as if you were trying to hit a nerve. Who could take anyone seriously while they were tied down though?

- he laughs it off, this is why he loves you so much. You have a quality that can’t be copied, your spirit is so pure to him. He can’t help but communicate how much he loves you with a breathy voice and an ethereal stare.

- you’re next words were your biggest mistake, the ones that sealed your fate. You just couldn’t say you loved him back.

- his reaction, it’s not as bad as last night but still terrifying nevertheless. He understands it’s a process in a relationship but to spout such nonsense is enough to rile him up all over again.

- he’s more than offended at being told that he doesn’t really love you and only like the idea of you, you’re more than that to him. You’re essence, the mere presence of you is enough to blow him away. He huffs it away with a smirk, you don’t mean that.

- you’re too weak to fight the cloth clogging your airways, the all to familiar blackness coming back into the corner of your eyes slowly drowning your vision in it as your brain goes numb.

- begging to leave it just won’t work, he knows you really love him and that you want to stay here. You just need time and he’s more than willing to take care of anyone else who seems to think they knows what’s best for you and him.

- just like he did with Lucy.

- overall the guy is fucking delusional, say goodbye to the possibility of him having even a single moment of clarity when it comes to you.

[aventurineswife]

HAIIII

my jazz band (club) was boring bc my bestiest westie wasnt there (THEY DITCHED ME AND WENT HOME WITHOUT TELLING ME)

but anyway, u said to blow up ur inbox with requests or something, so >:3

aventurine (i think u can tell i like him with the fact i put him in every request) and any other characters u want with a reader who plays one or more instruments (this is based off me, i personally play flute, bass guitar, and cymbals, but u can pick whatever instrument(s))

maybe do a scenario where like characters didnt know reader played instruments, and character walks in on reader playing something

could u also make it romantic, please? :3

-:3 anon

Symphony of Surrender

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, March 7th x Reader, Fluff, Romance, Vulnerability, Emotional Healing, Gentle Moments, Inner Struggles, Self-Discovery, Complex Relationships.

Warnings: Minor Emotional Angst, Themes of Trauma (Aventurine's past), Slight Manipulation, Light Romance and Sweet Moments, Minor Character Introspection.

A/N: I'M SORRY WHAT?! 😭 DAMN YOUR BESTIE SHOULD'VE AT LEAST INFORMED YOU THO!!

The soft, melodious notes of a piano drifted through the luxurious, dimly-lit room. Aventurine, dressed in his usual flamboyant attire, had just returned from a late meeting. His mind buzzed with the usual mix of strategy and calculation, but something felt different tonight. The air seemed to hold an unfamiliar tranquility. Curious, he followed the sound of the piano, his footsteps light but purposeful.

As he entered the room, his eyes fell on you—sitting gracefully at the piano, your fingers dancing across the keys with a fluid elegance that struck him silent. The soft glow of the room illuminated the delicate movement of your hands, each note resonating with a raw emotion he had not expected to find in this space.

You didn’t notice him at first, completely absorbed in the music. Aventurine lingered in the doorway, watching you with an intensity he rarely allowed anyone to witness. His usual guarded demeanor faltered for a moment, the mask of charm and bravado slipping as he admired the way the music seemed to flow through you, as if it was part of your very soul.

Finally, you paused, the last note hanging in the air like a whisper. It was then that you turned to find him standing there, his usual smirk replaced with a rare, genuine expression—one of awe.

"Didn't expect to find you here," you said with a teasing smile, your hands resting on the piano keys. "I didn't know you were a fan of music."

Aventurine stepped closer, his earring catching the light. "I appreciate all forms of art," he replied, his voice a mix of amusement and sincerity. "But I must admit, I didn't expect this from you."

You chuckled softly, a playful glint in your eyes. "I guess I have a few surprises up my sleeve."

He walked around the piano, his gaze never leaving you. "I should have known. You're full of mysteries."

Your fingers hovered over the keys again, as if debating whether to continue playing. Aventurine watched you carefully, his eyes intense yet tender. He stepped behind you, leaning in just close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence.

"I'd like to hear more," he said quietly, his voice low and almost vulnerable. The usual confidence in his words softened, revealing a hint of something deeper. "But this time... let me join you."

You hesitated for a moment, your gaze flickering to him. Then, with a small nod, you placed your hand on the keys, inviting him into this intimate moment.

As the music resumed, Aventurine found his own rhythm, not in the notes, but in the unspoken connection between you. Each sound was a step closer, each chord a bridge built between the two of you. The game of life was full of risks, but for the first time, Aventurine felt that maybe—just maybe—some risks were worth taking.

The Astral Express hummed with its usual rhythm, but inside your cozy little room, a quiet atmosphere settled. You had been practicing with your bow earlier, but tonight, something called to you—a need to express yourself differently. So, you decided to take a chance. With a deep breath, you reached for the guitar hidden in the corner of the room and began to strum, unsure of the melody that would come.

As your fingers found their way, the sound of the guitar filled the space with warmth. The soft, melancholic tune seemed to escape from you effortlessly, reflecting the longing and curiosity you often felt. You hadn’t played for anyone yet, not here, not on the train. But tonight, you needed to.

Oblivious to the quiet music, March wandered down the hallway, her camera slung over her shoulder. She had been busy capturing moments all day, and now her mind was buzzing with thoughts of her mysterious past. But then she heard it—an unfamiliar sound. She stopped, curious, her eyes wide. The soft notes of a guitar? Was it you?

March, being ever the curious spirit, couldn’t resist. She peeked around the doorframe, her heart racing with excitement and anticipation. There you were, completely absorbed in the music. Your eyes were closed, and your fingers moved across the strings as though it was second nature to you.

She took a small step forward, her breath catching in her throat. It was a side of you she hadn’t seen before. The way the music seemed to flow from your very being, the way your body swayed ever so slightly with the rhythm, captivated her.

You paused mid-strum, sensing someone’s presence, and looked up to find March standing in the doorway. A small blush crept onto her cheeks as she realized she’d been caught.

"You play," she said softly, her voice tinged with awe. "I had no idea."

You smiled warmly, setting the guitar down beside you. "Guess I’ve got a few surprises up my sleeve too."

March stepped closer, her playful grin lighting up her face. "You know, I didn’t take you for a musician."

You chuckled, a little embarrassed. "I don't often show it. Just felt like playing tonight."

Her smile softened, her usual bubbly demeanor giving way to something more earnest. "It’s beautiful," she said, her eyes shining. "You really know how to capture a moment, don’t you?"

You nodded, a bit of warmth spreading through you at her compliment. "It’s like photography, in a way. Capturing a feeling, a memory."

March’s eyes sparkled with understanding. "I get that," she said, her gaze flicking to the camera resting on her shoulder. "But with you, it’s more than just a moment. It’s... part of who you are."

Her words lingered in the air, and you felt something shift between you—something deeper than either of you had expected.

Before you could respond, March suddenly grinned mischievously. "Mind if I join you?"

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her sudden offer. "You play too?"

She winked. "I don't know, but I’ll give it a shot."

With that, she sat beside you, taking a seat with her camera beside her, and together, you found a new rhythm. It wasn’t just about music anymore; it was about the connection between you two, woven through each note, each laugh, and the shared understanding of a journey you were both still figuring out.

As the music played, you realized that this was more than a simple tune—it was the start of something special.

[snarkythewoecrow]

It's technically Wednesday and I started a new WIP tonight!

Definitely been tagged for WIP Wednesday in recent weeks, but haven't had anything, so here you go, and tagging @buckybeardreams, @underwaterninja13, @theotherbuckley

Been struggling to write but got some words down tonight, so here you go. This is BuckTommy, only the first scene (which is sorta a ficlet by itself I guess) Some angst and introspection, and then some soft hurt/comfort will come later in the fic (please forgive typos it's super late and this is a draft)

“Oh, Evan.” His mother never seemed to say his name without a slathering of curdled disappointment, withering came to mind, thinking back now as an adult when he pictured her saying it, the sagging lines where there should have been creases from her smile. 

Neither of his parents had ever been able to say his name without some soured pinch to their lips.

Sometimes even Maddie seemed tired when she’d say it, no matter how much she loved him, not to the degree his parents did, with that trademark exhaustion, but enough to leave him feeling like a wraith for it, as if speaking his name sapped the life from her veins like it did his parents.

And love him or not, Maddie couldn’t fix him—not in the way he needed.

No matter how many band-aids she placed over his broken, bleeding skin, it wasn’t her love that had left his chest an echo chamber. That hollow place had been created for a parents’ love that had never taken root. 

So, he'd left—looking to fill that ache with something—finding a new family with the one-eighteen and starting over with a better name. Because where Evan had been said with a sigh, a grimace, annoyance—Buck could be said with a teasing and playfulness that his old name never could. 

Yet, beneath his skin, Evan had never felt more alone, scared of losing everyone and being forgotten, and so Buck sought comfort in the heat of others, in their skin, changing his shape to be what was wanted, trying to fill the void.

He drank from that well until he nearly drowned in it.

Except that a person, like a house, can’t stand divided—or more directly, ignoring a part of yourself didn’t erase it, nor any of the wounds that made you want to hide it away.

Especially when lightning stops your heart, and you dream of another life—one just a shy step to the left—close but just wrong enough to leave you rattled when you choose life, only to wake to your parents' faces as they say your name. 

That same cadence and tone—the whined note of pity as his mother says for the thousandth time in his life, “Oh, Evan,” somehow still almost sounding disappointed.

Perhaps she always would be—probably internally screaming at the unfairness that Buck had returned from the edge yet again and Daniel never could.  If that weren’t enough for another few years of therapy alone, he didn’t know what would. 

Their near-awkward attempts at caring in the After, how his mother’s voice still thinned across the bridge of his given name, nearly snapping and falling off the other side, reminded him of its wrongness of just how lonely that part of him would always be—a reality where Evan may never be said without pity or contempt.

A house divided—and it might have stayed that way, if one Tommy Kinard hadn’t arrived, looking like a brick shithouse with a sexy cleft, short-circuiting his brain and making him stumble over his own name.

“Buck—Buckley,” Buck had to clear his throat, scrubbing his palm over the pocket of his jeans before shaking Tommy’s hand.

“Your name’s Buck Buckley?” Tommy raised his brows, nose scrunching a bit. “Did your parents really hate you that much?”

Buck hadn’t missed Eddie, hiding his snort of laughter behind a fist, as he pretended to be working on the tailgate. Asshole.

He’d sent a glaring squint in Eddie’s direction, subtly flipping him the bird, then turning back to Tommy. “Uh, actually, somehow I have no doubt they did—or still do—but, um, yeah, anyway.” He rubbed the back of his neck before dropping his hand. “Hi, I’m Evan—um, Evan Buckley—though most people like Buck better.”

And then, Tommy had done something unexpected—his eyes tightened, the soft blue made brighter by the afternoon sun, seeming to search Buck’s own before suddenly turning softer, then crinkling at the corners. “Well, if it’s okay with you,” Tommy said. “I think I’ll stick with Evan—I got a feeling he’s a pretty interesting guy, too.”

[asexualtabris]

Hi! 5 or 12 for the Rook story time prompts?

hiii! Thank you for the ask! And thank you for making such a wonderful list of prompts! I'm doing 12 tonight, though I may do 5 tomorrow 😈

12. Rook making a new friend

Note: This takes place right after Thorne is conscripted. He has shed his slave name, but has not picked a new name to take yet. The is before he transitions, but I use he/him for him anyway. I guess it's Warden origin night 😂 Fennel is based on my cat Jazzy who has wobbly cat syndrome (though Jazzy is a black cat 🐈‍⬛) This got a little introspective, Thorne is adjusting to some major changes in his life.

G | 600 words

"And here's the pantry," said Warden Juliana Krist, waving an arm into the dark room. "You'll be in here a lot, seeing as you're starting on kitchen duty."

A few cats scrabbled out, threading between his legs.

"And there go the Regiment of Ratters." She said with a fond laugh. "They keep us rodent free."

He looked back into the pantry, a shine catching his eye. There was a small gray cat staring at the two of them warily.

"Oh, that's Fennel. He doesn't like most folk." Juliana told him, folding her arms across her chest. "Skittish little bastard. If you're lucky enough to see him walk and not flee, he waddles around like a duck. The other cats knock the shit out of him cuz he can't stand up right, so he hides usually." She shook her head and chuckled. "I'll be damned if he isn't the best hunter out of the lot of them, though."

He continued to watch the small cat, wanting nothing more than to comfort him.

Juliana watched him out of the corner of her eyes for a few silent moments. Finally, she sighed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Well, that's the full tour, then. Welcome to Weisshaupt...." She faltered. He still hadn't given the Wardens a name to use. "We're happy to have you in our ranks."

He stared pointedly at her hand on his shouler and she removed it quickly. "Let's head back up." She turned and headed back towards the stairs but paused and looked back when she realized he wasn't following her.

He stared silently at Fennel, whose eyes were the size of the moon. He squat down and fiddled in his pocket for a bit of dried meat he'd swiped from the kitchen.

"Uh... Elf?" Juliana called.

He flinched but looked over his shoulder.

"Ah, sorry, uh. You?" She tried again, looking a little lost. "Are you coming?"

He shook his head.

"All right...." She shifted her weight awkwardly. "Well, I've shown you where the barracks are. You're to report to the kitchens at dawn."

He turned back to the pantry and Fennel and held out a bit of the meat to the cat. After a few moments Juliana sighed softly and continued up the stairs.

He sat there for a long time. Alternating between tearing little bits of the meat up and placing a bit closer to Fennel. The first time he tried it, Fennel had shied away. Though this last time, the little gray cat didn't move, just stared at him with his big yellow eyes as he made his way back to his spot just outside of the pantry. He sat with his back against the wall and lost himself in thought.

This was home now. He would learn to fight. He would die in service to the continent.

Service.

Would his life ever truly be his own?

A quiet chewing noise brought his out of his reverie and he slowly turned his head to see Fennel chomping at the trail of meat he'd left out. He watched as the cat indeed waddled clumsily toward the next piece, his back legs heavy and cumbersome.

He thought Fennel was adorable and he felt his chest lurch with affection.

When the cat wandered close enough, he slowly held out his hand, offering it to Fennel to sniff. Warily, Fennel wobbled as he sniffed the air, then stepped forward to thoroughly investigate his knuckles with sniffs. When he passed Fennel's test, the cat began to furiously rub his head against his fist.

His lips twitched, the closest he'd come to smiling in years.

[viktorarcanedeservesbetter]

jayvik prompt: post canon, they comfort each other late at night in their little cottage as a loud thunderstorm rages outside.

Okay so this took a turn.

Kind of introspective?

Hope you enjoy!

---

The thing is: neither of them use to be afraid of loud noises.

At least once a day, in the beginning of their partnership, one of them would cause a mini explosion. Either screwing in something wrong or adding too much gunpowder to a prototype. Hell, multiple explosions a day when stabilizing the crystals.

Everything changed after the attack on the council.

Jayce didn't notice it until week four or five of his stay in the ravine, miles below what was left of Piltover and Zaun. He'd sleep, because he was exhausted, and then the nightmares would begin. He would awake, breathless, panting, hearing the boom of Jinx's rocket breaking through the glass and destroying everything.

Sometimes he thinks it was because he was too worried about Viktor to sleep properly enough to dream, back before Viktor woke up and left him in his regrets.

He wondered, he worried, all the way below-if Viktor dreamt and felt the same fears. If he could sleep at all and would wake to the sounds of his life almost ending, of enforcers pulling rubble off him, of Jayce ripping his shirt open and desperately trying to get him to breathe better, of breaking ribs until he felt the horrifying lack of support provided by his weak spine.

Now, he knows, from personal experience, Viktor feels the same.

The rain is fine. Long rainstorms, just the sound of water against their cabin roof. Calming.

The thunder and lightning?

Awful.

Viktor always accepted his touch before. That was something not new, something that tugged at Jayce's heart and wrapped it in warmth. Now, though, it's a lot more. Viktor seeks out his touch as if they are magnetic, as if they are glued. Well, they are two halves of the same whole, two sides of the same coin.

Now, Viktor seeks out his touch at every moment, convenient or non-convenient. Viktor watches him chop wood from the porch, he prefers to shower together, he to sit on Jayce's lap while they read. He loves every bit of it, soaks up every touch like a sponge. Its a comfort. Jayce doesn't know what he'd do without his touch, always there.

Like tonight.

Neither of them sleep when it storms like this, not without some sort of drug. Viktor is better, actually, about accepting a mix into his tea to help him sleep-Jayce prefers more natural methods, and he's more afraid to fall asleep first and Viktor not be there not when he wakes up, not because he left, but because he was never there.

It's a little fucked up.

Anyways, on stormy nights like this neither of them sleep because Jayce simply can't. He's too wound up for a calming tea to really work and he refuses to use up their supply of sleep aid because Viktor needs it more-despite what he claims-and Viktor refuses to fall asleep if Jayce won't.

What he doesn't want to admit is that he's gotten better at handling the sounds of the thunder and the shock of lightning. Viktor feels better if he is able to help-and Viktor is so good at helping-so Jayce pretends he needs the comfort as much as Viktor does.

He's not lying-it still bothers him, it always will-but it's not as bad as it was before.

Which leads them to now: Viktor, wrapped in his lap, curled around Jayce with a heavy blanket over them both. It's early winter, the rainstorms here are cold and get colder until they become snow. So they sit in front of the wood stove and cuddle, comfort each other.

Another crack of thunder startles them both. It's far away, the storm is leaving, but Viktor chatters in his grip, pressing Jayce's head to his chest so he can hear the heartbeat there. That is Jayce's real comfort: the steady beat of life versus the shock of untraceable thunder. The flash of lightning shocks him again.

"It's okay," Viktor murmurs as Jayce wraps his arms to cradle his partner closer. "I have you, Jayce."

He knows why Viktor is afraid. He won't admit it-can't tell Jayce, but it isn't a lie. Viktor is afraid because the last time he heard a sound remotely similar it was Jayce pointing a weapon at him to save the world. Viktor thinks Jayce is afraid for the same reason.

He's not.

Well, that was awful-awful in a way he will never forget-but he doesn't regret it. He doesn't regret it the same way Viktor doesn't regret him doing it. He doesn't regret it because it ended with them here, together.

He presses a kiss to Viktor's collarbone, where the skin is exposed.

"I have you," he says, curling Viktor down to hold him tight. Viktor loves the pressure, loves the touch, seeks it out. "Okay? I have you."

He can't admit to Viktor his real fear.

Viktor is afraid of the sound because it reminds him of his own undoing, of his actions he did while sick. Viktor is afraid of the sound because every boom is a reminder of a life he unknowingly took. For Viktor, the sound of thunder is each action that made him less human, the flash of lightning is the reminder he-some version of him-forced Jayce to do the one thing he didn't want to do.

He cradles Viktor in his lap. He holds him tight, wants their bodies to become one again. Jayce can't tell Viktor why he fears the sound. Why each storm scares him, even though he gets a little less afraid every time.

Another crack of thunder rolls in, but this time, only Jayce shakes. Viktor, like he hoped, is asleep, calmed by Jayce's slow petting and tight hug. He stands, shaking, careful of his knee and carries Viktor to their room. The bed is unmade, but he lays Viktor underneath the comforters, and curls in beside him, so that Viktor's head is against his chest.

This is how Jayce will sleep. He allows Viktor to think he can't, in the morning, if he wakes first, he'll move them back to the couch and pretend they woke up there. If Viktor wakes first, he'll lie and say he fell asleep right after.

Likely, it will take him until the storm fully passes.

Jayce is afraid of the storm because he pictures Viktor's body, laid in rubble, barely alive, near death. Every flash of lightning reminds him of his own killing, of leaving Viktor behind to move to the next stage, because it was what he himself told Jayce to do.

Jayce is not afraid of thunder because of regret.

Jayce is afraid because the storm reminds him of the death of the one person who matters the most.

So he lays, his heart only calming as Viktor smiles in his sleep, his touch against his cheek.

Jayce comforts Viktor by letting him curl around Jayce, feeling his presence, allowing him to believe he's helping. He is-Jayce doesn't lie like that-but that's not the whole truth. No. The reality is this: Viktor comforts Jayce by simply being there with each boom of thunder, by breathing through each flash of lightning.

Then, when the storm finally passes, minutes or hours from now, Jayce will sleep, calmer, his arms wrapped around his soulmate.

For now, though, as the storm slowly moves, he focuses on Viktor's breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, the tiny sounds he makes.

All to remind himself that Viktor will never again pass, not by someone else's hand, and not by his own.

Never again.

send me drabble requests or ask questions here!

[iguessitsjustme]

Love Sea Ep 4 & 5 Thoughts

Okay. As I’m writing this, I know I’ve been gone from tumblr for at least a week (I was back(ish) a day earlier than expected. Weeeeee) Possibly more. So it’s been a minute since at least episode 4 aired. So I’m lumping it in with my episode 5 watch next week. And if y’all think just because I’m not on tumblr, I’m not liveblogging…well of course I am. My wrist does hurt though so I’m not sure how talkative I’ll be. I am also having a bad brain day and I have had a whole weekend full of absolute shit. And my week is going to be…tiring. I’ll be on a plane, a road trip in a car, and then a train. All in the span of like…4-5 days. Don’t ask. Anyway that will be in the past by the time I post this. Time to watch. As always, liveblog under the cut and will likely have criticism. You’ve been warned before you click:

“Every meeting ends with a farewell” please tell me they aren’t going to try to be deep right now. They have not done nearly enough to build up Rak’s side of feelings for me to believe he’s feeling introspective at leaving this place. He pretty much hated it here for the most part. I could maybe understand if it was Mut since he just apparently immediately fell in love because he believes in love. And believing in love means automatically falling in love with the standoffish guest that you’ve been fucking.

Okay the heart of my issue with Rak and Mut can be perfectly encapsulated in this scene where Rak learns that Mut has a pickup truck. “And did I ever tell you I didn’t have a pickup?” Sir, what you feel for Rak is not love. Because if you actually loved him and cared for him, you would have heard his complaints about the motorcycle and the cargo tricycle and used the pickup truck for him instead. He literally told you the motorcycle hurt him to ride and still you did nothing. Because it means more for you to have this weird sense of superiority over Rak than it does to make sure he’s comfortable and not in literal pain. I had a more caring relationship with my former coworker than this. Because I did something where I thought I was in the right but it was a petty argument and honestly, I could see how much she was hurting from it. So I apologized and I let her know that she was more important to me than being right. And that was for a COWORKER (now friend yay). Mut can’t even manage to do that with someone he supposedly likes romantically.

Why does Rak not get to be upset about this? Mut just immediately shuts it down by saying “let’s not end on a bad note.” Sir, you caused the bad note and made no apologies. Instead you laughed at Rak for daring to want some comfort while having no control over his own life while there. Like seriously. If you caused the pain, you don’t get to dictate when the hurt is done.

And the flashbacks again. Will we get some every damn episode? We’re 4 for 4 now.

Rak baby boy this doesn’t make any sense. Does Mut have a magic dick? I do not understand.

What.

Noisy sidewalk people go AWAY

So Mook is paranoid for her valid concerns about STDs? He should get tested. So should Rak. If memory serves, both sleep around. Mut with guests and Rak when he needs to write smut. And Rak has slept with Mut already. I know they used a condom each time, but he should still get tested too. Seriously. Rak’s wealth and fame won’t protect him from STDs.

Noisy neighbor go AWAY

Man I wish this show would just let Rak be aro without making it about trauma and him just being scared to love.

Am I supposed to care about this random woman at the end? Cause I don’t.

And I feel meh about this episode as well. See you in literally the bullet below for episode 5 but it will be a week for me. Time is weird man. Time is weird.

Time IS weird past Rae. And you were right, it was a tiring week. I’m finally caught up on shows though..sort of. I still might start another show tonight. Or maybe listen to an audiobook. I think I’m gonna return my library book and see if they have it on audiobook. If I thought my wrist hurt last week, that’s nothing compared to today. Mistakes were made on my trip. One was unavoidable and the other was…well I did an exercise and that was a mistake.

Anyway now for episode 5.

Rak should wear his glasses all the time. That is all (speaking of glasses…where did I put mine…)

I had issues with that whole scene but honestly I’m too tired to type them all out. Mut is not as smart as he thinks he is and that’s all I have to say.

Rak, sweetie, the waiter just stood there. You know that. You were there.

I’ve had guys say this to me after I told them I don’t like them. You will never guess the outcome of that.

Absolutely the fuck not. There is no way that any person with a uterus wrote this line. Because what the fuck. Why is it that Mook isn’t allowed to be upset with being sent all over yonder on an errand for someone who is NOT her employer and this is the response to her being upset? Believe it or not, people that have periods can be angry because of the actions of other people and not just because of their period. Yes, PMS is a thing, but it is not the only reason for anger. Who wrote this line? I just want to talk.

Save Mook. Save her.

I hate how Vie perpetuates the horrible stereotypes of women in order to manipulate Mook. It’s awful.

So let me get this straight. Mut…forced Rak to go out to eat with him (even though they could have gotten delivery) and then when they’re shopping and Rak has explicitly stated that he wants to leave, it is a “date” because Mut is interested in Rak and he says so. But Rak has stated he does not like Mut. So the whole thing doesn’t work because Rak DOESN’T WANT TO BE THERE. It’s not a date if they both don’t agree it’s a date. And to Mut, you can’t use Rak’s novels against him. Those are characters in fiction. They don’t represent Rak’s real feelings. I hate Mut. Have I mentioned that? I mean I’m not Rak’s biggest fan either but Mut is just…dumb. Rak should be able to argue against this it’s so dumb.

Most novels don’t have sound?? I mean there are audiobooks but the sound in those is typically just words. Unless it’s different in Thailand? I don’t know. Also maybe this is a translation thing? (This is me after the end of the episode and I get it. He was talking about what the author says the sound effect would be. I admit it, I was dumb here. I don't think it came across quite right in the translation but this is fully on me for being dumb. But also the sound mixing at the end? Do NOT get me started. It was bad and I wanted to die.)

If someone put all of my alcohol and snacks back while I was shopping AND paying for it…I would murder them on the spot. I beg your finest pardon Mut, but let Rak have snacks? The alcohol I’m less pressed about because he does have alcohol at home but the snacks? THE SNACKS? I hope Mut rots in hell. This is The Ultimate Sin to me. *guards my snacks with my life*

If Rak’s skin still looks that good on a diet of alcohol and snacks, then I will eat my hat. Also Mut mind yo business. You ain’t his doctor. C’mere Rak. I’ll give you some snacks.

Save Mook. Save her.

This family drama is so poorly written. I feel bad for the actors who are killing it in this scene. They deserve a better script.

I did not hate the end of that episode. Or the scene in the dressing room. Mut's response to the drama was...he still has some work to do on boundaries but it wasn't bad. He did eventually respect the boundaries and they had some good communication in that dressing room. I don’t like that he had to be screamed at before he left Rak alone, but he didn’t walk to Rak which I was so scared he was gonna do and the show was gonna paint it as romantic.

The preview for next week has me concerned though. I probably won’t like episode 6. But that’s all for this week…and last. My wrist hurts and I need a nap.

[neganium]

eugh, I am having Too Much of a Time™ today and it's purely my own fault (probably, mostly). having to block + mute an author on AO3 bc I'm p sure they already did it to me first, due to some evidence not adding up, and thinking it was probably bc they were the same person as the fandom artist on twitter who posted fanart that started giving me Massive ick, and saw my author's note on a fic that was (unfortunately, bc I couldn't get it out of my head) inspired by a piece of fanart from them that I saw from before I was icked, and might've realized that even tho I was being purposely vague, that it was Totally About Them Specifically (initially I wasn't sure myself if they were the same person, bc their writing was pretty tame; tho tbf, even tho it was ick-worthy their art was still on the tamer side of icky things in that fandom I've seen).

it made me feel bad, and I 1000% deserve it; got me all introspective about the kinds of Freak™ this fandom for a children's show tends to gather and how it's mutually incompatible with my own Freak™ (bc I am a massive freak, just in slightly different ways and also better at keeping certain thoughts to myself, which is. quite funny if you know my ass at all LMAO). idk I'm sleep-deprived and this whole situation bummed me out, massive ick that they gave me aside. kind of liked the fic, too; not enough people write for this fandom and I get writers' block way too fuckin easily, on top of never having the energy for it. anyways.

maybe I should advertise my shitty adopts again, and pray I get enough bites that I can order us some shitty pizza or smth tonight so I don't have to scrabble to find anything halfway edible for supper tonight (shopping has not been done yet, and will probably be rather lean due to circumstances, anyways; we run low on food way too fast, and it probably doesn't help that I don't know how to cook and am way too lazy/picky).

[reqording]

12/17/23 1:22 am

it's been a long time since I've written. I'm 21 now, and tipsy at a salsa gala. You can definitely find videos if you try, but nothing of me dancing because I've kinda been way too scared to dance.

things have been okay. I passed most of my classes with A's, and if I put proper effort in, I could've passed them all with A's, which is enough for me, honestly.

I keep having romantic feelings on a whim, despite knowing that I'd rather wait to find the thing that is right for me. Sadly, logic doesn't always overwhelm infatuation. Luckily, having no rizz renders it meaningless anyway.

I paid money to be at this gala tonight, and I'm definitely glad I came, even if I am not dancing much. Someone approached me and asked me to help her friend learn to dance, and she said I was amazing. Easy dopamine baby. I'm still a little bit too shy to ask strangers, though.

Just talked to a friend, and he gave me some tips on confidence when dancing, but I'm not sure how much it can do to overwhelm the rustiness I feel when it comes to salsa. Regardless, it was nice to talk to him.

I keep seeing so many beautiful people here, and yet still can't understand the men who spend their time simply looking at women.

maybe when I read this again I'll be in love. Maybe, as a lofty dream, I'll be married to someone that I treasure, and have no need to contemplate these thoughts. And yet, I can't help but think that I will be alone. if between now and that loneliness, someone special does end up reading these words? I guess this is my time to talk to you. Not as the person desperately in love with you, but as the coldly rational person who will inevitably (apparently) fall for you.

please don't break my heart. there's only so much more I can take. That doesn't mean don't tell me if feelings fade or blah blah, just be honest with me and try to be there for me afterward, and I'll be okay.

I guess it probably tells something about me that I'm giving future people tips on how to break up with me gently, but I suppose I'm just a bit of a cynical fellow.

anyway. I've got a night of salsa dancing left before me, assuming I decide to harness it. However, I am having quite a time just pouting and contemplating, so who knows.

I wish I could stop spoiling my days by thinking of love.

I wish I could forget the faith I have in the fact that I will find someone someday, who will warm my arms, my neck, my heart.

I wish I could simply live like there's no tomorrow.

but one day, I hope, someone will read these words. They will be the person I love unequivocally. The person I want to give my whole heart and mind to. And maybe the first person who I show the fullness of myself can't handle it. Maybe you are the second, maybe the third, and yet all I need is for you to hold a genuine love for me, for the things I love and the words I share, and you will be the first in my eyes, the only thing that I can see, the one that I thank endlessly for blinding me, because to have you as my final sight would be an honor above any other.

how pathetic, honestly.

to sit here, pining, as I could be doing something about it. What if the perfect person is here tonight? Lonely and introspecting all the same?

alas, I am pathetic, so I suppose I will never know.

[aquarianlights]

Wow, hugs. I didn't mean to make you go that introspective, but I hope it helped you! I want you to know that I'm proud of who you are and the person you've become. Your posts bring a smile to my face like nothing else. I'm damn happy that you exist! Maybe you the person you are today needs to forgive the person you used to be. Not excuse it, but at the same time, not feel the guilt that you have for so long.

Oh. No worries! I am almost always that introspective. Haha. That's just me 24/7. A lot of people find me too serious tbh. 😅

You're so sweet and so kind. But, no. I absolutely deserve to feel the guilt for what I did. Frankly, I deserve to be punished, but I got away without anyone realizing I did the thing. And I couldn't speak up coz I wasn't in my right mind until months upon months later when I was finally out of there and away from that place and a person there. And I just sort of... never did. We weren't on talking terms anymore and I haven't spoken to them since. It is the only relationship in my life that has ever ended disastrously. Friends, family, romantic, etc. First and so far the last. So we respected each others wishes and didn't speak. I wouldn't know how to tell them anyways coz it wouldn't be just one person I'd be telling... and it would bring up so much grief and anger. And possibly put me in jail, but I'm honestly not sure about that one, whether there's actual laws surrounding what I did or not. I *think* there are but I haven't seen them enacted on anyone before so idk. But I'm sure they would come after me and they would have every right to. I deserve to feel guilty and awful for what I did and I won't ever forgive myself and that's how it should be. That's what is morally and ethically right. I need to think of it every day, at least once, until I die in order to respect the one involved that didn't deserve to be involved. The one that was innocent and got caught between a really complicated situation that I didn't know was happening to me at the time. I need it to repent, too. Not in a religious way coz fuck religion and all those cults. But repent as in absorb the pain I caused an individual for something that wasn't their fault and didn't even have anything to do with them.

There's so much more, but you get the gist. It's just what is right when you do something so terrible that you can't even say it aloud to anyone.

But your words mean so much to me. They really do. And I appreciate you so much. Thank you. Your words are like a warm hug right now and it is srsly much needed tonight. It's 1am where I am right now and I can't thank you enough for this. I hope you're having a wonferful day/night. And a wonderful life. I'm thankful you're alive and here, too. 💙