#bc that isn’t a vague fun word

[kafus]

i sure do wish people knew what special interests and hyperfixations actually are because 1. they are two different things and 2. not everything you like a lot is a special interest or hyperfixation 😭

[nereidprinc3ss]

andromeda | (dybmn? bonus)

a bonus vignette from spencer's POV. we find out how he really feels about reader. takes place the day before the argument at the bar.

note: this is not part six! takes place between parts four and five.

series masterlist

18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, semi-graphic descriptions of sexual fantasies, some angst, you're not actually present, mention of alcohol, very vague discussions of murdery stuff bc he's supposed to be working, sassy spencer makes an appearance a/n: for all my angels who said they wanted a snippet of spencer's POV! i'm sorry if i'm overdoing it with this story or clogging the spencer tags, i'm just having a lot of fun! i hope you enjoy or that this may be clears some things up for you, pls lmk your thoughts:) ily!!!

Spencer is incessantly drumming the particle board table underneath his fingers.

The polymer veneer is one of his least favorite textures—he hates the grain of it and if he were to accidentally scratch the table with his nails he knows it would make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

But of all the things he’s worried about, that ranks very low on the list. 

He’s got a lot of mental tabs open all the time—and the tabs, he can deal with. It’s when he starts trying to operate with multiple windows that he begins to struggle. His brain, while it is a very fine tuned sort of computer, only has one monitor. Unfortunately, no human (except for the ones who’ve had their brain hemispheres surgically split) is immune to the inevitable pitfalls of multitasking. By dividing his mental energy between you and his job, he’s really fucking up his job. But he also thinks he really fucked up with you on that phone call the other night and for being as logical as he is he can’t seem to make that feel unimportant—even though he’s disgusted with himself for it because there are literally people dying. 

Someone knocks on the open conference room door—he looks up, skimming his lips over his fist. 

“What’s up?” he says too quickly upon seeing Emily’s mildly concerned face peering in on him. 

Her mouth bridges into a sort of nonchalant frown and her brows kick up. 

“Just… checking in. Haven’t heard from you all morning.”

“Yeah, the, uh—the geo-profile. I’m still… I’m still working it out.”

It’s not like he’s ever been phenomenal with his syntax in a social sense, but Spencer is certainly aware he’s doing even worse than usual right now. 

“Okay. Uh… is there anything in particular stumping you, or…?”

“Nope. Just not enough information. But I’m—I’m going to keep trying.”

“Alright. Got your phone handy?”

It’s an odd question—of course he has his phone handy. He’s been doing this job longer than Emily has. How else would he communicate with the rest of the team? He bristles. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Emily shakes her head. She’s always been particularly good at reading his moods.

“You’re not under attack, Reid. I was just asking.”

Just as he’s about to say, why would you assume I’m not prepared for my job, he manages to swerve away and stifle the words with his fist. Instead he looks back down at his copy of the map and nods. In reality, he truly isn’t prepared for his job today. The reason he has his phone so close, fully charged and at top volume is because he’s worried he’ll miss a call from you. 

Emily says something else, and he hums in response, and then she’s gone. 

He shouldn’t be reading into your reticence this much. It’s not like you just sit by the phone all day, eagerly awaiting a call or text from him (like he does you). You have a life. You’re busy. And even if you are intentionally dodging his texts, he can’t entirely fault you for it. Spencer knows he’s clingy. He knows he’s overbearing. It’s part of why he panicked the other night and told you the whole humiliating story about Elle. Because he can’t ever just be cool and he felt the need to explain himself. 

But the problem was, and is, that he doesn’t know how much longer he can go without saying those three words that fucked him over all those years ago.

So he’d danced around them. Applied them to someone else to try and avoid outright professing his all-consuming love for you over the phone. However you feel, Spencer has to assume he feels more. Spencer always has to assume he feels more because he usually does and it’s gotten him into trouble before. And now he’s pretty sure he was exactly right, as often is the case, because you didn’t tell him he was mistaken and you’d clammed up and you haven’t talked to him since and he’s not supposed to be reading into it this much. 

Three victims killed and dumped within a 6 mile radius of the first victim plus one victim killed and dumped 23.8 miles away. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Fuck this guy. 

Spencer decides the problem is that he needs more caffeine. 

Or possibly, if he were a different kind of man—copious amounts of alcohol. 

So he stows his phone in a pocket and asks the first person he sees where the coffee machine is. 

“Looks like you found it earlier,” the woman says, glancing pointedly down at his mostly empty mug. A playful smirk tugs at pinkish-brownish lips. She’s pretty, he realizes distantly. But he registers it the same way he’d take note of the model of a car, or the species of a bird, or the kind of shoes someone is wearing. It doesn’t actually interest him. It’s just part of processing his environment. “I can show you to it?”

He doesn’t have the heart or energy to explain that someone else brought him his cup earlier and he’s not flirting with her. 

“If you could just point me in the right direction…?”

She laughs, short and dry, before she’s pointing down a hall. 

“Kitchenette down there and to the left.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, already walking away without sparing her a second glance. 

She’s the kind of woman he would have paid a lot more attention to before you came along. Not that he’d ever sleep with someone on the job (not since he was 25, anyway), but if he’d met her under any other circumstances he probably would have cared more about the way her pupils dilated and her eyes had widened slightly and she’d adjusted her posture and all the other small things people do when they’re attracted to someone else. 30 year old Spencer might have slept with her. 27 year old Spencer definitely would have slept with her. Current Spencer obsessively pines for a woman who is already his girlfriend and whom he has yet to sleep with at all far too much to think about other women like that. 

But god, does he think about you like that. 

His feet carry him down the dim, carpeted hallway but really it took barely a nudge and he’s thinking about you like that. At work. As he’s pouring himself coffee. 

Spencer is confident in the fact that if anyone were to look at him right now, they’d never guess he’s running clips of you in his mind like a dirty supercut. Because he’s just pouring coffee. That’s one good thing about having all those tabs open all the time. He can toggle between them quickly. He has enough going on in the background that people look at him and all they can tell is that he’s thinking hard about lots of things. Some of them just happen to be the way you look when you’re naked on his bed, skin shining and glazed eyes sleepy, parted lips higher in color than usual and catching your breath. Some of them happen to be your hair brushing his stomach before he gathers it back for you. Some of them happen to be the way your thighs feel on either side of his face, or how you stretch around his fingers, or how you might feel when you stretch around his—

He hisses as hot coffee overflows from the mug and burns his hand. 

Maybe he’s not as calm and collected as he thought. 

But on top of all the other things he’s dealing with, having been so close to actually sleeping with you the other night is really fucking with his head. Even if he tells himself he wouldn't have done it, he knows himself better than that. He's too familiar with the effect you have on his judgement.

“Found it okay?” 

Spencer looks down, surprised to see the woman from earlier sitting at her desk and watching him as he quickly passes by on his way back to the conference room. Her legs are crossed. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a flouncy sort of blouse which seems impractical for working in an FBI field office. Maybe she notices his eye catching on her figure and misguidedly swivels her chair to give him a better look. But all he’s noticing is that it doesn’t look like yours. Now he’s picturing the curve of your hip dripping in silk after that first night at Rossi’s. How your waist and your stomach feel when he slides his hands over you. This woman—she might as well not even be here for all he’s actually seeing her. 

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

Then he’s gone. Very briefly he acknowledges that he should feel sorry for so obviously brushing her off, but he doesn’t care even close to enough. He sets the coffee down on the table and rounds to the board where one of several maps is taped. On autopilot he draws lines between dump sites because one of the background tabs had deduced, while he was busy watching you like porn, that the distance between dump sites form the beginnings of the constellation Orion with some mathematical precision that’s too exacting to be coincidental. Orion’s Belt plus the most recent victim. Betelgeuse. 

There are ten formally named stars that make up Orion. He marks all of them, but circles the transposed coordinates of Bellatrix, Saiph, Rigel and Meissa as the next most likely dump sites. Most probably it will be Orion’s head. They’re all in wooded areas. He calls Garcia. Garcia will call Emily, wherever she is. If the unsub sticks to pattern, which they always do, they have until midnight. It’s trite, really. Predictable, like people always are. Far too quickly he drinks half the cup of scalding coffee and retraces his steps through the office to find the bathroom. 

It’s empty. The fluorescent lights hum. Spencer washes his hands with cold water and presses still wet fingers to his eyes. You’re waiting for him behind the black of his lids.

At first you would whine, and he would kiss you and you’d moan into his mouth and say his name when he opened you up as far as you would go. The air would be thick and warm with sex and vanilla perfume. Afterwards he’d take care of you and buy new sheets for his bed in your favorite color even if they didn’t match the walls and there would be nothing you’d want for that he couldn’t give to you ever again. 

But. 

That’s all contingent. 

No matter how often he fantasizes about it, no matter in how much detail, and regardless of how often those details change wildly, one thing always stays the same. 

The shape of your lips, swollen from kissing, bending around five or six vowels and only two consonants (it seems odd that there are only two consonants in I love you), sometimes before you start, sometimes in the middle or right at the peak—but always there, always moving in slow motion—and always silent.

In real life, they’d be aloud. It’s why his fantasies aren’t good enough. It’s why he can’t stop fantasizing about it. That’s the only part that really matters to him. The rest varies. 

Not because having sex with you doesn’t matter—it matters so much he almost shatters his molars whenever he starts picturing it around other people. But because Spencer can’t have sex with you until you love him. 

And he worries that you can’t love him until you have sex with him. 

The last time he thought that about a person, it didn’t turn out well.

Maybe there is some magic number. Some amount of times you need to have sex with someone before they’ll love you back. 

If there is, he knows for a fact it’s more than 32.

And he also knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he cannot have loveless sex with you thirty three times while he waits to find out. 

Not again. 

But he's going to hold out as long as he possibly can until you say it because he so badly wants you to love him back. He'll let the weight of every ignored text, every reminder that you don't feel that way about him, hang from his shoulders until he collapses. And then he'll probably try to get back up.

Recycled paper towels scratch against his skin. He dries his face and hands and throws them crumpled into the trash can. 

Outside the restroom, he pulls out his phone. For safety reasons and paranoia disguised as professionalism, you’re not his lock screen. It’s a photo of the Andromeda Galaxy. Whatever distance lies between you and Spencer, it could always be greater. No matter where you are in the world, you will always be the same 2.537 million light years away from Andromeda that he is. 

It makes Orion feel much closer. You, too. 

He sends you a text—the third message in a row. 

The distance between blue bubbles feels like light years. 

I’ll be home tomorrow. I miss you. 

[deanbrainrotwritings]

— LIFE AIN’T EASY WHEN YOU'RE A MYTHICAL CREATURE

SUMMARY : you don’t suspect that dean has been in the shadows of your life for months, but he’s managed to make you his friend. he feels hopeless about making you fall for him, and it’s worse when you agree to go on a date with someone unexpected.

PAIRING : vampire!dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), baker!dean, kidnapping, stalking (it’s only hot if dean does it), angst, unhealthy obsession, yandere!Dean, possessiveness, soft Dean, reader isn’t perfect, vague chronic illness, panty kink, masturbation (m.), dumbification, a bunch of kinks actually, kinky!dean, sub!dean, jealousy, and more to come

WORD COUNT : 5.2k

A/N : this series will soon fill the square for stockholm syndrome on my @jacklesversebingo card. back to the baking bc it’s so fun and cute to write dean like that. also, their relationship is going somewhere, or is it!? muahahah. xx

Deep in thought, Dean carefully sliced through the soft, warm dough with a sharp knife. The rolled up cinnamon rolls slowly took shape as they were severed from each other along the lengthy roll. Each was cut one-inch thick, all almost perfect and similar from years of experience. The delicious spicy aroma of sweetened cinnamon filled the space around him, keeping him in his affectionate state as he thought of you. 

He usually had a handful of customers this early in the morning but never so many that he couldn’t work slowly and do the work all alone. If he hired anyone, it would only make it difficult for him to be relaxed and all by himself. It’s safer. With the speed he worked at, he didn’t need the help anyway, and with the time… he didn’t want to talk about the time. 

Today, he didn’t have a problem with the idea of not seeing you—if it meant you were resting. It could have been either because he had been at your home or because he understood now how you spent most of your precious time. Perhaps it was all of those things, along with his sudden concern for your health.

Which was why he didn’t expect you to walk through the door.

It was Saturday. A too-early, cold Saturday morning. 

He wanted you to sleep in, but he was thrilled that you were there anyway, letting in the chilly air as you clenched your fists tightly at your sides and shivered cutely. You brushed your hair off your shoulder with reddened fingers and Dean briefly abandoned the dough to admire you.

You looked more beautiful than he remembered. Could it be real, that you were so stunning? So, so breathtaking in that crisp morning sunlight as it poured over your body like glittery gold; with your delicate features, your skin bitten by the cold morning air, and your lips lightly chapped. 

He wished someone could paint you. He wished he had picked up the hobby a lot longer and had the skill to do so himself. To paint the gentle wisp of your hair, the ethereal angles of your face, the plump shape of your lips, your glimmering eyes, and the elegance of your body. All on his own, because only he could capture every exquisite detail of you.

He was pulled away from his thoughts when he heard the way your lips brushed against each other as you murmured, “so fucking cold.” 

He grinned adoringly, silently wishing to kiss your lips until they were bruised and warm. Your teeth clicked against each other quietly and you subtly shuffled on the mat in front of the door before walking normally towards him. 

Your gaze slowly lifted to meet his own and your body visibly relaxed as the warmth within the bakery finally encompassed you. Dean relaxed his grip on the knife and let his shoulders drop, copying your movements subconsciously. 

“Hey,” you grinned, standing in front of him and rocking on your feet with your hands behind your back shyly as you looked up at the menu. 

He blinked. Was this real? Were you really here? Was the universe trying to embarrass him for what he’d done most of the night? He swallowed, his eyes glazed over at the memory of you naked. 

“Hey,” he whispered, smiling softly. 

“What have you been up to?” You wondered, letting your eyes move over him once again. Dean looked down at the abandoned cinnamon rolls he’d been making, he thought about your question, and felt a little bit guilty. 

What was he up to, you asked? Stalking you, going into your house illegally, stealing your things, and thinking of you. Oh, and also jerking off to the image of seeing you naked, using your underwear that he’d stolen from your drawers. 

Dean had eagerly peeled off his clothes as soon as he got home. 

His clothes were strewn across the floor but the things he’d stolen from you, he’d thrown on his bed. Except for your underwear, he held onto that. He knew if he were human, he’d be burning red in the face with pinkish splotches spreading down his freckled neck and chest. 

All he could think of was you. 

And he’d been resisting the urge to touch himself every time his cock would harden at the thought of you for so long that he felt like he was going to combust if he refused any longer. 

He settled into his bed and slowly dragged his calloused palm along his dick. Everything was done languidly despite his impatience, despite the sensitivity becoming nearly unbearable in between his legs. Slowly, behind his closed eyes, your silhouette became more solid and more vivid—like a dream made true. 

He swiped away precum and dragged it down along his cock, imagining that it was your spit instead. He moaned. The thought of you naked, breasts bared to him, just in the lace panties he’d stolen, leaning above him on your knees with a small smirk on your soft lips, made his stomach clench. 

“Fuck,” he whined, trying to keep the fantasy alive. He imagined it was your hand wrapped around him, soft and small, slowly moving up his painfully hard cock. 

“Dean,” you’d say his name the way you said it the first day he met you. You’d rub your thighs together and keep torturing him with gentle strokes. He’d take it because he finally had you and he didn’t care about anything else. “You wanna come so bad, don’t you?” You’d taunt, because he knew you were secretly wicked. 

He wouldn’t even be embarrassed when he nodded dumbly, squirming as you waited for every dribble of precum to fully slicken his cock. He’d take every degrading comment as you slid your fist his base to tip, and he’d watch stupidly like a devout man as you touched yourself with your free hand.

Your fingers would pinch and brush against your nipples until they were tight, you’d teasingly squeeze your breasts, and then you'd sneak your hand inside your underwear to rub at yourself. He would only beg pathetically for you to let him touch you, but you’d never allow him to. 

You’d just keep moving your hand up and down until he was glistening wet, hot and red at the tip, and throbbing in your soft palm. “God, look at you,” you’d tease. He’d drop his eyes from your naked body to watch his cock and the way it looked in your grasp. “You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?” 

“Fuck, yes,” he’d grunt steadfastly. 

“Yeah, you’re so good for me,” you’d praise, because finally you had something you could control. Something that would change and adapt to your every need because you were his purpose. You were what he was meant for—who he was meant for. 

And he’d moan loudly, bucking his hips upwards involuntarily, and shoving his cock fast into your hand because you finally recognized it. He’s good for you. Only you. 

Maybe once he was stupid and desperate, you’d bring yourself closer. You’d drag your soft, warm lips across his cold skin. You’d drag your tongue across his neck and suck gently behind his ear and he’d still moan at the sensation. 

Your hot mouth and hotter breath would drive him crazy. Your warmth, once you leaned over him completely, would make him feel alive again. And your warm hands would move over his body, desperate to feel every inch of him because you needed him as bad as he needed you. 

“I want to fuck you so bad, Dean,” you’d murmur against his ear and then you’d drop your warm cunt down over his cock without warning. He’d moan softly as you gently rubbed the lace covering you over his painfully-hard cock. He’d be able to feel how hot you were between your legs and how wet you were as the soaked lace stuck to your folds. 

He rubbed the cotton of the crotch of your lace underwear against his cock with a moan. He stained it with his precum and continued to tease himself as he imagined that you were on his lap, rubbing your clothed pussy against his cock. 

You’d definitely torture him this way. 

You’d pant against his mouth and balance yourself with your hands on his shoulders, rocking your hips against his. The lace would make him more tender and more desperate to finish, but he’d wait for you. As you undulated your hips and lifted yourself up just to drop your pussy back down, he’d finally be able to touch you. 

His name would slip from your lips breathlessly and he’d bury his face in your breasts, licking, biting, and kissing at them until you were puffy and tender. You’d praise him for all the pleasure you felt and your words would be stemmed in affection and warmth.

He’d claim you with bruises on your soft body and he’d mark you with light bruises from his mouth on your breasts, shoulders, and neck. His bites would only be surface level and visible by redness and never by a wound. But you would be his entirely. And he would be yours completely. 

“I’m so close,” you’d warn him and he’d plead for you to let go. And when you finally came, you’d moan his name a dozen times, and he’d feel your body tremble above his and he’d hold you up. He’d continued to grind against your pussy until you found yourself again. “Come for me, Dean. I want to see you.”

And he’d finally come. His entire body would feel the release and he’d shout your name because you’re all he’s ever wanted. “That’s right, Dean. Look at me.” He’d force his eyes open just to watch you and your amazement as his cum covered your thighs and his stomach. “You’re so hot, baby.”

Dean wished he could stay in his fantasy, but instead, he opened his eyes to reality. To his darkened room and the moon as it hung above him instead of you. He swallowed hungrily, his throat was dry and he forced himself to look down at your ruined underwear now covered in his release. 

He bit his lip as he clutched onto your dampened lace underwear. And closed his eyes, smiling softly as if all of that had really happened. 

“I’ve, uh- nothing.” Way too guilty Dean, relax, this is the woman you love. “Just trying out some new recipes. What about you?” For the first time, Dean realised you had dimples as you chewed on the inside of your cheeks. You looked cuter, if that were somehow possible.

“Workin’,” you answered with a small smile, “I’m gonna do some unpacking so I can just get it over with. I’d come here more often, but work is so chaotic.” You would? Did that mean you thought of him? Or did you mostly think of the food? He wished you would add why. Maybe you wouldn’t tell him, but offering to help you unpack was a great opportunity for him to insert himself into your life. Unfortunately, you started talking before he could ask, but he kept it close. “You said you were trying new recipes. Anything I can try?”

“I made a few giant pop tarts earlier,” he admitted and hesitantly resumed slicing through the roll. He wanted to keep watching you, to notice every change and every detail in your face as you spoke and looked around curiously. 

“Oh really?” Your voice changed, more curious and excited than before. He looked up and smiled, setting the knife down now that he was finished. 

“Yeah, wanna try it?” 

“Yeah, soon as you’re not busy.” Your eyes flickered down to the unbaked cinnamon rolls he’d forgotten all about. You grinned playfully when he looked back up at you after slowly following your gaze. He chuckled. He appreciated your consideration, but leaving you was the last thing he wanted to do. 

“Alright, I’ll finish up and get to you in a bit.” 

He picked up the cinnamon rolls and put them into a tray as you walked away to sit at a nearby table. He stole a quick glance at you as soon as he got to the back with the tray carrying the cinnamon rolls to make sure he could safely put them in a baking pan and put them in the oven faster than humanly possible, but not so fast that you’d be a little too bewildered. 

He waited patiently after he’d finished and listened to you as you tapped on the screen of your phone. You laughed quietly occasionally and he assumed you were texting someone or watching a video with the sound off. He couldn’t stand the thought of you talking to someone else and he also couldn’t stand not being there to see you smile. 

So he stepped out of the back to get your attention and you instantly looked up at him, still trying to stop your soft laughter. He smiled at you and your flushed cheeks and your watering eyes. You shut your phone off and got up to meet him at the counter again. 

Still, even surrounded by sweet sugary pastries, all he could smell was your flowery perfume. The heat of your body, from your blood, made him hyper-aware of you. You were a giant blossoming tree in the middle of a meadow, calling to him in a bed of pretty flowers. You were the most beautiful, always, among everything. 

Your eyes flitted over his face, always so curious and confused in your eyes, but content in your smile. He wished to read your mind, to compel you to spill your truth and make your thoughts known to him. What did you see? 

He forced himself to look away from your eyes to retrieve a medium tray containing what looked like a literally large pop-tart. The top-centre was coated in pink frosting and had white sprinkles, the sugary scent filled the small area between you and him. 

“Strawberry filling,” he informed you, because he wanted your feedback. He wanted to know what you were thinking, always; but he didn’t want to ask that of you.

“Ooh,” you grinned, “my favourite. I'll buy it.” He blinked at you. Most people asked for samples before buying something they’ve never tried before. 

“Want a drink with it?” He asked, starting to package it for you. You hummed softly.

“Anything with vanilla. Surprise me?” You surprised him with your request and he nodded dumbly. Were you always going to choose something different? Would he never be able to memorise your single favourite order and have it ready for you whenever you found yourself in his bakery? 

He turned around and looked at the coffee machine, the coffee beans, the syrups, spices, and everything else, wondering what would go perfectly with vanilla. What was something that was so beautiful in flavour? Something that tasted the way he thought you would? Your skin, of course, not in a cannibalistic or vampiric way. What would your skin taste like when he pressed his lips to it, when his tongue smoothed across your flesh, when he sucked at your body?

You entertained yourself again on your phone, but this time you were quiet. For about ten minutes he looked over at you as he worked on your drink, adding the perfect mixture so that the final product alluded to you—at least to him. 

You knew you were being watched. He figured by the way you bit your lip and hugged yourself with one arm as you played some game on your phone. He tried not to, but he couldn’t help himself. You were the most magnificent being in the whole universe. More wonderful, more unique, and more intriguing than the Hercules-Corona Borealis Great Wall. 

It's how he ended up making a vanilla-lavender latte.

He handed it to you once he’d finished, the sun was shining a little brighter now behind you, against tinted windows. It was the perfect choice for a drink, as the sun created a celestial aura around your body, you didn’t know it. You never did. 

“Is it okay if you try them now and tell me what you think?” He wondered if he was asking too much. He’d take it like a champ if you rejected his offer. The last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable, but he also couldn’t be so afraid that he’d never get to make a move and see the outcome of his choice. 

You blushed and your brow twitched inquisitively, but after a few seconds you agreed. “Sure.” 

You opened the paper bag and plucked the corner of the pop-tart, large enough to capture the filling and the frosting at the top. 

He watched your mouth as it opened, your tongue as it held the treat, and then your lips shut around it. And he snapped his eyes up to yours watching you. Your cheeks burned timidly, and your eyes stared directly at his name on his chest, at the black word lined over his pink shirt above a white long sleeve. 

However, you quickly relaxed and your eyes brightened as you chewed. You moaned softly and moved your eyes up to Dean, using your face to say everything. You thought it was good and Dean was a little too preoccupied with the way you moaned. The softness of it, slightly drawn out as the jam and bread sank into your tastebuds.

“That’s really good,” you told him cheerfully once you’d finished, then you moved on to the latte. You held it in your hands for a few seconds to test the heat of it in your palms and lifted it up to your lips. You took a few careful sips and your eyes became more vibrant. “It’s so good,” you moaned, then you licked your lips, and Dean had to keep himself in check. “How are you so good at this?”

He chuckled and opened his mouth, but a gust of wind followed by three young women swept through the door and stole your attention from him. They giggled, one of them stared directly at him and the other two whispered to each other, something about Dean being hot. He didn’t care. 

“How much is it?” You asked, immediately turning back to him. His face fell and his mouth opened and closed. He didn’t want you to leave yet, but you suddenly became guarded all over again. He sighed and made his way over to the cash register to, once again, lower the price and wait as you collected your things before paying. 

“Bye, Dean,” you murmured with a rueful smile.

“Um, bye,” he said stupidly, watching as the small group of women took your place. “Wait!” He called after you and made his way to you when you stopped to regard him with a lifted brow. Your eyes dropped down to his legs and quickly back up to his face. Did you just check him out?! Focus, Dean. “I wanna help you… unpack,” he added the last word after your confused face said everything. 

“What? No, you’re busy here,” you blushed, and looked down at his feet. Just accept his help!

“I, uh…” Shit, what excuse could he make. “I can get off an hour early and I’ll meet you at your place,” he suggested. You still looked unsure and chewed on your lip as you thought it over. “If you're worried about my tiredness, don’t be. God knows I have too much energy at the end of the day, and can't ever sleep.” He knew you’d take his words as an over-exaggeration and you conceded with a sigh. He grinned and you smiled with a roll of your eyes at his triumphant expression. “I should get back to work…” he wanted to touch you now that you were so close to him, looking so soft and sweet. Now that he could feel your warmth a little more, like he’d been pulled even closer to your orbit, he almost wanted to just reach out and kiss you. 

He just clenched his fists and bid you farewell again. He’d barely turned around to watch the three women stare judgmentally at you and him. He grimaced. 

“Dean,” you stopped him. He turned to look at you without faltering, dazzled by the amusement in your voice. “You need my address, don’t you? And my phone number?” 

“Oh, right,” he was embarrassed. Wait, your phone number? He grabbed his phone from his back pocket a little too excitedly and handed it to you, unlocked. Only after you’d searched his phone for his contacts did he hope he didn’t leave anything inappropriate about you open. 

You handed him his phone and smiled softly. You appeared indecisive and he waited for you patiently, he’d always wait for you. And he was glad he did. You stepped closer and he held his breath, your warmth felt like sunfire now. You raised your hand, brushed your fingers against the softness of his cheek down to the stubble near his jaw. He knew you felt the unusual coldness of his skin when your touch lingered, but he hoped that it was because you felt as fluttery and breathless as he did. Then you dropped your hand. 

“Sorry, you had a bit of flour on your face, but I guess it’s part of the job.” He could feel your blush even more now, it didn’t matter seeing it, just the feeling of your body reacting to being so close to him was making him feel like a feral animal.  “It’s kinda cute so don’t even worry about it,” you shrugged and then blinked after realising what you said. You flushed and stuttered, “uh, bye, Dean. I’ll see you later.” 

He blinked as you made your way out before he could process what you said and the way you’d touched him. His mouth was agape and he really thought he might just start singing. You thought he was cute after all? And you felt so warm. 

He smiled boyishly and turned around dreamily, almost ignoring the three women he’d forgotten completely about as he found his place back at the counter to take their order. 

After a few hours, once he was sure you were home safe he texted you—after thirty minutes of deliberation: hey, it’s Dean. 

He knew his heart would be hammering against his chest only because he couldn’t stop clenching and unclenching his fist as he waited. Only a minute had passed when he saw you read his message, and he started to pace and tried to ingore his phone as he attended to his costumers. 

And you’d responded after a few long minutes: hey, dean, do you like burgers?

4 months later — January, 2024

Dean had to admit, you played the mystery card fairly well. 

You were relatively quiet and preferred to listen, which was hard because there was a lot Dean couldn’t say to you. 

Even though you’d both hit it off the day he helped you unpack the heavier items in your home, there was still something in the way. 

He knew that was the reason why you and him had a minimal distance that neither of you could crossover. He wished you were braver, but mostly, he wished he were braver. If he didn’t feel like he had too much on the line, because he did. Any information of his past could put you in danger and if he told you about himself and you didn’t accept him, that could put him in danger. 

He was completely fixated on you and trying to close the gap between you and him that he had missed so much about the real world. But he couldn’t help it, you inspired him. Since he met you, he’s made dozens of new recipes and mixtures that reminded him of what you’d taste like or what you smelled like. 

And when he wasn’t using work as a distraction for when you were busy at work yourself, he spent his time scrolling through your social media. Now that you had included him in your life, it was easier to keep track of you and the things that you perhaps wouldn’t share with him or anyone else unless it was behind the safety of a screen. 

He knew about your colleagues, new friends, and even managed to find your professional account. It was how he got to know you a little better, seeing you from your years in highschool and throughout university. He read people’s comments on your posts, their niceties and their relationships with you. He looked over all your followers and the people you followed back. 

He was just going to have to be content with what he had so far with you. He’d probably have carved his own heart out if you ended up falling for someone who wasn’t him. The only thing keeping his heart intact was the fact that you never spoke to him about anyone and when you did tell him about someone, it was because they’d upset you somehow.

It took everything in Dean’s body to not do something extreme about those people in your life. From your horrible colleague who never shared important information about work with you, to your irritating friend Nico who would “wait” for you to end up falling for him. It would be petty and dangerous. 

And that infuriating part of his brain would sneer at him that he was no different than Nico. But he was! Dean was not pretending to be your friend so that you would miraculously realise he was the one for you. He wasn’t good to you because he wanted an advantage, he was good to you because he knew it made your life easier. He did things for you without you knowing because he loved you. He didn’t want anything in return, not even your love. That’s not why he did what he did for you. 

He’d always keep you safe. He’d do anything for you, for the rest of your life. Even if the moment never came, that you’d never loved him as much as he loved you. 

Now, here he was, watching you from his spot behind the counter as he kneaded the dough to make a new batch of doughnuts. He couldn’t help himself; you were always worth looking at.

He loved watching you. 

You made cute faces when you were focused and you’d eventually find comfort as you sat in the corner alone working on your projects. He’d smile at you and you’d smile at him and it was perfect. It felt so intimate that you were just there with him. That there were no words that needed to be spoken. The space between you, filled with people and food was never enough to stop the way blood rushed up to your cheeks whenever he caught you looking at him.

There was no one who caught his attention anymore, but he still knew how to play it off—for frequent visits that he’d benefit from finally. Some things never changed. Unfortunately, he felt that this was the only way to keep his bakery open when he was so enthralled in your life. He may not lure women to their deaths for a nest, but he sure did lure them into his bakery so they invested in his business. 

He’d considered that maybe his customers weren’t shallow, that it wasn’t true that he was attractive and that was his only worth. He hated thinking that it didn’t matter how good or bad he was at baking because to the people who frequented his bakery, he was pretty and that’s all that mattered. He hated having to settle for it, if it was what brought business to his bakery. 

At least you were more interesting than that, he knew you were honest, and he knew when he’d really screwed up a recipe. It took him a while to get Mexican sweet bread right but you were the perfect person for that. 

His phone buzzed in his back pocket and he pulled it out, brows furrowed, mouth still in a pout. He smiled effortlessly at your name as the text notification lit up his screen.

You: You okay?

He looked over at you and smiled reassuringly. Were you watching him the whole time? Oh, God, you were. He now realised your laptop was shut and you were sitting facing the front of the bakery instead of facing your laptop. 

You looked down at your phone and started typing. He stared at you as you chewed on your lip and knocked your knees together, restarting your fidgeting habit. He only looked away to read your messages. 

You: I think I want a concha

You: And maybe some coffee

You grinned at him when he lifted a brow at you, but he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. You were already restless, it wouldn’t help you to have more caffeine.

Dean: You sure about that coffee? It’s almost 6. 

You: Make it small

Dean: Decaf

You: Fine :(

He laughed. You were so adorable. He felt it warm and bubbly as it rumbled through his chest and he heard the way you blushed. It made his body feel wild and tender every time he felt you became flustered. You laughed demurely and your fidgeting stopped momentarily.

He shook his head and put his phone in his pocket. Your wish was his command. He couldn’t bear to look at you for a second longer, you were made to be adored and loved by him. 

When he walked over to you, coffee and sweet bread in hand, he sat down in front of you. You smiled cheerfully and leaned forward curiously, pulling the coffee into your cool hands. “What?”

“Nothing, just bored,” he shrugged with a smile. You hummed softly and brought the cup to your lips. You moaned at the flavour, he felt the warmth of it pouring down your throat and spreading through your torso. “Got any plans this weekend?” 

You paused to look away and stared at the lid of your coffee as you brushed your fingers against the cardboard sleeve. Then, you relented. “I’m going on a date, actually. On Saturday.” 

Dean felt his heart sink. His face emptied every emotion and he was glad you didn’t look up. 

“Oh,” he muttered tightly, “do you.. like… the guy?” 

Now, you looked up at him. He rearranged his face to smile softly. You shrugged, noncommittal. God, woman. He was not interested in hearing a yes, but he also hated the way you kept everything close to the chest unless it was eating you up inside. How could he hate something about you when he loved you? No, he was just jealous. Your mystery was part of your charm and knowing things about you that others didn’t, demonstrated your trust in him. No one else had gotten that close to you and he knew it because you dedicated a vast majority of your free time to him. 

“He’s alright,” you faltered again. “It’s Clayton.”

The fucking mechanic? You're joking. 

-> heartbeats and flatlines

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[fairyhaos]

How To Fucking Write: a guide by fairyhaos

[masterlist]

this post details:

STARTING A STORY

PACING A STORY

hi gays and gals and welcome to "how to fucking write", a post (series) where i talk about how i brainstorm for writing, plan for writing, write the writing, and everything in between. nothing too serious here lmao, but i'm definitely planning on making at least a couple posts on this bc a) it's fun and b) i wanna help! so if you find this useful then pls lmk by reblogging + drop an ask if there are any specific things u want me to give my two cents on ^^

okok and now without further ado,,, let's look at the topics i'll talk about in today's post!

#1 - HOW TO START A STORY.

.. bullet point one : have an idea

the first big thing is that you need an idea. doesn't matter if you're a pantser and don't plan out your writing before you start. that's totally fine! but before you begin, you need at least an idea: maybe it's a vibe, a character personality, a specific journey you want the characters to go on. maybe it's a piece of dialogue. maybe it's the ending- the point you want to end up at after however many thousand words.

whatever it is, it's best to have some inspiration, some idea of what you wanna do. no point in writing if you don't know what you're writing, you know?

(of course, that brings up the issue of Having An Idea in the first place, but finding inspiration to write is a whole other can of worms we can open in another post.)

.. bullet point two : practice

okay, so now you have an idea. how do you put that idea to paper? how should you actually start your story?

it’s all to do with practice.

it’s the most annoying piece of advice in the world, but it helps so much. you just have to write lots and lots and lots, to find the way that works for you. whether you wanna start your stories with pretty scene descriptions, with dialogue, with dramatic one-liners. finding your voice, your style, what’s most comfortable for you, is really really important. and takes practice.

an example, though: for me, i prefer either a line of dialogue, or one-liners that a) help immediately establish a character’s personality or can b) introduce an interesting setting.

[chan + swingset] — one-liner example

[hoshi + silly] — dialogue example 

but of course, everyone’s style is different. so i’d recommend playing around! find a list of one-word prompts and just write a few that inspire you, writing the beginnings. it’s important, also, that you’re having fun, because if you’re already struggling with starting to write, it’ll be even harder if you’re doing it while feeling stressed.

.. bullet point three (mostly just for longer fics)

maybe you don’t find a style, in the end. maybe you’re comfortable with all of them, which is totally fine! but then you look at your writing, and you think, “oh… this isn’t as good as i thought.” 

and it makes you want to give up. what do you do, then? how do you carry on with your start?

just put words to paper. it doesn’t matter if the words are terrible, if you’re making up shit and using placeholders for description words or whatever. just carry on, get to a place you’re happy with, like the end of a scene, or maybe a dialogue exchange you really like.

because now, guess what? you’ve successfully created a first draft.

making first drafts is actually so important. seriously. first drafts allow you to fuck up, allow you to write terribly. they help you fumble and trip your way to the finish line (or at least a rest point) so that you can go back and do better.

even if your first draft is terrible, it’s helped you make your way to a point you’re happy with. now you have a vague idea of what you want, even if the description or characterisation or something is way off. because now, you can edit it, or even scrap it and use only a few words from that draft in your next one. or maybe, if you look back at it, maybe it’s even decent enough for you to use. 

whatever it is, when you first start writing that story, think of it as ‘The Worst Draft’. because it probably won’t be as good as you want it, and it’s okay. just write, with no fears of it being bad, because that’s literally fine. it’s not set in stone. the backspace button exists. after your first draft is made, make another. and another, and another, because i promise, after that first draft, it only gets better from there.

#2 - PACING A STORY.

.. bullet point one : adding things

pacing is always really tricky. however, i do think that slowing a story down is easier than speeding it up, so here we go,,,,

finding out the exact way to slow down a story really depends on what type of story you're writing, but there are a few all-round things you can do which can help pretty much any setting.

if it's a scene with loads of dialogue, and things feel like they're jumping to the end topic too quickly, add descriptions. your readers are blind, writers, and they depend on you to be able to see what's going on. are your characters having a conversation on the street? take a break to describe what they see. are they in a coffee shop? maybe someone comes in with a huge noise, or their coffee arrives at their table. are they hanging in midair with nothing around them? well, describe the actions of the character they're talking to, then.

example: (from my seoksoo fic bc it's the only long fic i'm working on rn)

by adding character descriptions, movement, thoughts, instantly everything seems to have slowed down. it thickens time, allowing you to move at a more leisurely pace.

if it's a scene full of action, you can do the exact same thing. maybe there's a high-tension moment and something significant happens. slow down time there, describe something small in great detail. talk about the thoughts they're having.

and even if it's just an ordinary scene, describing is important. the setting, the characters' actions, their thoughts. it's okay to write too much. then you can delete things which make things feel like they're moving too slowly.

.. bullet point two : delete

not gonna lie, finding out how to speed up the pacing of the story can often be really specifically tailored to the setting of the story.

with stories that have loads of action (spy, apocalypse, etc) i'd recommend adjusting sentence length. you'll want short, punchy sentences, without loads of commas and clauses, but you'll also want to experiment with having those short sentences gradually get longer. it helps with tension and suspense.

it has to be short. running fast. something to elevate fear. quick, but also desperate, before they then spill over each other, picking up pace, all of the thoughts blurring together and going faster, and faster, and faster, and then-

then the penny drops.

people use the metaphor of music a lot, and it really does work that way. it needs to ascend to its climax: gently, cautiously, before sprinting upwards and only describing things like the barest emotions (the fear they feel, the panic, anger, anything) before everything reaches its peak and comes crashing down in a flurry of action descriptions.

but of course, the easiest way to speed up something is to delete. delete swathes of setting description. delete unnecessary dialogue. delete an entire scene and rewrite with only the things you remember (which can help make sure you only have the essentials in your scene, btw. very helpful).

it might take a bit of adjusting, rewriting, moving things around, but ultimately, quickening the pace of the story depends on the way in which you write things. be concise, be dramatic, and don't dawdle.

... and that's it ! if anyone has anything else they want advice on (how to structure, how to write dialogue, how to plan etc) then just shoot me an ask, because i'd love to help however i can :)

tagging: @selenicives who asked for this in the first place hehe ^^

[bamboozledbird]

𝕚𝕗 𝕚 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕚 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 pt.2 // stiles stilinski imagine

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Theo Raeken, Lydia Martin Pairing(s): Stiles x you, Theo x you (no use of y/n) Word Count: 5.3k Tags: a fix-it for y'all bc i'm a pushover Warnings: Underage drinking (at least in america rip, they're all 19+), creepy guys in bars, emetophobia, new jersey slander (please forgive me jerseyans)

Request: for all you people i made cry with part 1. this is my love letter to you. A/N: you don't necessarily need to read part 1 to understand, but this is a follow-up to if i could lose you i would.

The night starts well enough. Theo’s hand is a warm, steadying weight against your lower back, and his cologne cuts through the vague funky smell clouding the bar. Lydia chose it; somehow, no matter the city, she always knows about the coolest, underground spots that seem to only circulate within an elite circle of twentysomethings. It really isn’t all that shocking when you think about it as you nurse your bitter cocktail; every single person who catches a glimpse of Lydia immediately craves her attention. Unfortunately for them, Lydia always takes you as her date, though lately she’s been ending your nights out at a stranger's apartment more often than not. She’s never said it, but you know it’s because, ever since the disastrous end to her start-of-summer bash, Theo's made himself a permanent third-wheel on girls’ night. He’s never said it, but you know he started tagging along because you’ve been distant since Stiles poured into your bedroom and pressed on all the bruises his fingertips left behind when he left you. You really thought you’d washed them all away with 3,000 miles, 3 months, and 3 weeks of the scrape of Theo’s teeth. 

You sip on your fourth drink of the evening, sitting on a barstool because your legs are too wobbly to stand on, and Theo watches you watch Lydia spin a girl with a radiant smile and glitter tinsel in her hair. 

“You wanna dance?” he hums in your ear. You can barely hear him over the bass and the buzz of too much tequila. 

You nibble on your straw and hiccup around it, “Don’t think I can.”

Theo makes a move to grab the drink in your hand, and you bend backwards to keep it out of his reach. “Come on,” he frowns, “you can’t even stand.”

“So?” you purse your lips petulantly and punctuate your point with a loud suck, draining the last few drops of your lime margarita through a few chunks of leftover ice.

Theo looks tired as he studies your face. “What the hell is going on with you? I see you every day, and I still don’t have a fucking clue.” 

You’re too drunk to pretend you don’t know what he’s talking about. Hiccupping again, your nose scrunches, “I’m just…I wanna go home.” Theo pats his jacket pockets for his keys, and you shake your head a few too many times. “No, not there.” Your stomach turns when you finally realize what you actually mean. You want to hitch a ride on the melting ice in your glass and dissolve into knotted hair on Sunday mornings, freckled skin washed with the shifting sun, and pouted pink lips, cursing the snooze button and your cold toes. You don’t say that. You’re drunk, not cruel. “I wanna go back to Stanford. I hate it here.”

Theo’s eyes are shadowed in the dim light of the club, but they’re calculating. “You really think that’s far enough?” 

Blinking slowly, your mind spins with the drinks in your stomach as you try and fail to think of something clever. “Feels far,” you mumble, and Theo doesn’t look reassured. It’s hard for you to differentiate pain from anger through watery eyes and the brume of tequila, but whatever emotion is darkening Theo’s expression, you think it’s justified. He’s smart enough to know what you mean. 

 His face goes blank as he searches for his keys again, “I think that’s enough fun for tonight.”

You shake your head and wriggle down further into the cradle of your hips, “I wanna stay.”

Theo exhales through his nose and runs a hand over his face, “I thought you wanted to go home.”

Your tongue is thick as you struggle for words, sniffling as they tease you from the fraying edges of consciousness. “Not there.” You know you sound like a baby, recycling the handful of words you can remember, and you know that tears will only make it worse, but they still bubble along your lash line.

“Stay at Lydia’s then,” Theo spits out through gritted teeth, but he shoves a napkin towards you to mop up your running mascara, so you forgive him. It’s your fault, after all. At least, you think so as you watch him leave. 

“Boyfriend troubles?” Your head lulls to the side as you blink dumbly, all big-eyed and glassy, at the stranger leaning against the bar beside you. He’s tall, well-built too, but you’re mostly focused on his pungent cologne. It’s hard not to; you’re suffocating in it. 

The man laughs and grabs your chin, shaking your head a little, “You’re adorable. How could anyone stay mad at you?” 

You recoil, wrenching your face from his sweaty grasp, and run your tongue over your teeth. “He’s not…” your protest gets lost in your throat when he steps into your space and slides his hand along your spine, just shy of your ass. Your dress is backless, completely exposed to his wandering gaze, and your skin crawls with the sensation of his fingertips grazing your back.

His breath is hot and wet on the shell of your ear, “You want to forget about it for a while, angel?” 

“No,” your head jerks from side to side, eyes screwed shut, “I don’t—I think I’m gonna puke.”

A wave of relief rolls over you when a red-taloned hand slithers between your bodies. Lydia shoves the stranger’s chest sharply, sending him stumbling into the stool behind him, and his hand falls from your hip. 

“Does it look like she wants to contract something from a limp-dicked lowlife in tacky shoes?” The top of Lydia’s head barely reaches his shoulder, but her eyes are sharp and her sneer is venomous. The creep has the good sense to look a little afraid. “You have exactly two seconds to get the hell out of here before I personally ensure you’re on every public sex offender registry from here to Quebec.”

She grabs your hand before he has the chance to disagree and pulls you into the bathroom. In comparison to the loud, muggy dancefloor, it’s a wonderful reprieve: an oasis of cold air and muffled bass. 

Lydia fusses over you for a minute; you wave off her concerns and push yourself onto the sink even though your arms feel distinctly gelatinous. You can tell she doesn’t believe you, but men preying on drunk women is a tragically large and present underbelly of girl world, so after a moment she turns her intense focus to the lighted mirror. She looks perfect—she always looks perfect—but she won’t believe anyone except her own reflection.

The aching strain in your arches slowly dissipates to a faint tingle the longer your feet dangle from the counter, your heels discarded below. They’re black strappy things from the back of Lydia’s closet, and so is the scrap of black silk that Prada has the audacity to call a dress. You are grateful, however, for the short hem and open back now that your skin finally has the chance to breathe. 

You watch Lydia apply her lipstick with a precision brain surgeons could only dream of, smiling lazily. She’s graceful with the slender brush, like Botticelli stroking a swathe of red silk over a canvas of smooth skin. You envy her, with your eyeshadow already melting below your waterline, but mostly you love her. So proud to have such a goddess for a best friend. 

Her head tilts as she smiles at you, and she must be at least a little godly because she doesn’t smear her lipstick when her mouth curves. “What?” she hums around her puckered lips. 

“Nothing,” your words slur together, “you’re just perfect.”

She tucks her lipstick into her clutch and shakes her head, “And you’re so drunk. Lethal, babe.”

“I love it,” you sigh as she starts fixing your hair, clicking her tongue when you start to fidget. You slump into her careful touch and watch her fingers smooth through a few knots near your ends. “Being drunk is my favorite.”

She twirls her finger, indicating you should turn around, and begins twisting your flattened curls into an elegant bun. “I’ve noticed,” she mutters through the bobby pin clutched between her teeth, “you’ve been drinking more than you’ve sober lately.”

“It’s summer!” You blow a curl off of your nose and close your teary eyes so that your mascara doesn’t flake onto your cheeks, “You’re supposed to be drunk.”

Lydia hums and pulls a few strands of hair loose to artfully frame your face. “I didn’t realize alcoholism was seasonal.”

“You,” you bop her nose and giggle when it scrunches under your finger, “are being a major buzzkill. Don’t kill my buzz; that’s murder in the first.”

“Someone has to be.” Lydia leans her hip against the sink, and her brows curve, “Where’s Theo? I thought he was your DD tonight?”

You let the intoxication sweep over your senses because it’s easy and knock your ankles together like a child on the swings. “He left,” you chirp.

“He what?”

Your bottom lip juts out a little, “I think I hurt his feelings.”

Lydia is incensed. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and mutters a few choice words under her breath, “I’m going to hurt a lot more than that when I find him.” You curl in on yourself a little, and she sighs, unwinding her fingers from tight fists as her eyes soften. “He really left you here?” she asks quietly.

You shrug, refusing to feel sorry for yourself, and make grabby hands at her sleeves, “It’s okay. You’re here, and you’re my best friend, and I love you.”

She laces your fingers together and squeezes your hand, “It is not okay. That creep had you halfway to his car.”

You shudder at memory, and feel the ghost of the stranger’s clammy hand against your lower back, “But you rescued me. So it’s okay.” 

You frown at Lydia’s frown and push her cheeks together, squishing her mouth into a crinkled half-smile. She rolls her eyes a little and takes your wrists in her hands gently, “He shouldn’t have left you. It was a shitty thing to do, babe.”

“I made him sad, I think.” You hiccup a little, “I think I always do.”

“He can’t leave you blackout drunk in a skeezy bar just because you’re in love with someone else,” she huffs.

You tease the tip of your tongue through your front teeth, swinging your legs back and forth below the sink, “It wasn’t skeezy when you picked it.”

Lydia huffs again and folds her arms over her chest, “That was before I saw tall, dark, and creepy try to take you home.”

Your playful grin crumbles as your drunk-numb mind finally catches up with the burning behind your ribs. “I’m in love with someone else,” you say, voice sticky and thick in your throat. 

She lets out a sigh so soft you wonder if you just imagined it and takes both of your hands, “I know.”

Whimpering quietly, you turn your nose into your shoulder, slightly embarrassed by the sound. “I’m sad about it.”

“I know,” Lydia combs a few strands of your hair off of your tear-tacky face and smiles a little, “let’s get you home, okay?”

Another round of nausea hits you as you finally realize that you’re truly, really, horrifically drunk, and you still can’t forget him. 

“I don’t think I know where that is anymore.” 

Lydia was able to corral you into an Uber after you puked a few times. She held your hair back and helped you brush your teeth. You cried a little when she wiped the sweat off of your face with a makeup wipe, watching her take care of you with big wet eyes, as she tucked you into bed like the baby tequila and heartbreak had turned you into. She made you promise to call her in the morning, and then she left you to sleep off the ache in your throat and the six margaritas in your bloodstream—or was it seven, you can’t remember. 

You can’t remember much, it seems. You scroll through your feed for a while and squint at the blurry splotches of color, trying to recall if you were good enough friends with the girl from software systems to leave a comment on her post about how hot she looks in red. Your fingers drift, swiping away from Instagram to the only thing you remember. The thing you’ll always remember.

The phone rings exactly two times.

“Hi.” It’s the only thing you can think of besides, ‘I love you. I love you. I love you. Please make it stop.’

“Hey.” You listen to Stiles breathe on the other side of the line and snuggle further into your pillow. “You there?” 

His voice is soft in your ear, and your eyes go lidded, “Uh huh.”

He clears his throat, “What are you doing up this late?”

You twist around your sheets, and the tip of your tongue pokes out at your phone. Apparently, you’ve also forgotten that he can’t see you. “What are you doing up this late?”

“It’s uh,” Stiles pauses and there’s a rustling sound on his side of the line, “almost 8 here.”

You blink and frown at the time on your screen, “Nuh uh.” 

There’s a pause; you hate it. You want him to keep talking until you fall asleep. He finally sighs, “Are you drunk?”

Your tongue pokes out again, “I’m not the one who can’t tell time.”

“Baby,” your heart skips and your breath hitches, and he must be tired because he doesn’t seem to notice the slip, “we’re in different time zones.”

Your heart stumbles over the skip this time, and it feels a lot like flatlining. “You went back already?”

“I, uh,” he shifts, must be in his desk chair because you can hear something rolling, “my lease started. Figured if I’m paying to live in Philly, I should actually, y’know, live in Philly.” 

“Oh.” One little syllable, and it’s heavy with so many things you can’t bring yourself to dwell on it. 

“Yeah.” 

“So, uh,” you hear him scratch at something, most likely the back of his neck because he sounds anxious, “why’d you call?” He’s quick to correct himself, words overlapping like ripples in a creek, “Not that I’m not glad you called; I’m stoked you called—or maybe something a little less embarrassing—but I, uh,” there’s that scratching sound again and a quiet thudding of drumming fingers, “I really didn’t think you would.”

“Dunno,” there’s a smile in your voice, but you aren’t sure if he can hear it through the wobble, “just started dialin’, n’ I ended up here.”

He stands, and the phone shifts against his cheek as he starts to pace, “Where are you?” He sounds worried. You frown—you don’t want him to worry. You want him to hold you.

“Home,” you pause, nose wrinkling because that’s not quite right, and then add, “my house.”

“Did you drink anything?”

“Clearly.”

You can hear the eye roll from the other side of the country when he huffs into the phone, “I meant water. Did you drink any water?”

“Uh,” you nibble on your lip, “yes?”

He huffs again, but this time you can tell he’s smiling, “Get up and get some water—Advil too. Put it on top of whatever book you’re reading so it doesn’t get lost in your pile of shitty chapsticks and hair thingies.” 

Your eyes cross, affronted, “They are not shitty.”

“They’re an endless cycle of chapped hell.”

“But they taste good,” you grumble, cuddling your pillow to your chest.

He’s smirking; you know it. “Oh, I know.” 

You both just breathe through the line for a long moment, remembering the same slick slide of lips and tongues. 

“I miss you,” you whisper. 

Stiles inhales sharply, “I miss you too.”

“No,” you shake your head, smearing mascara on your pillowcase, “I miss you.” Your mouth is dry, and you can’t find the right words to explain it, how he’s apart from you even when he’s standing right there. There just aren’t enough words in the English language to explain the ache in the marrow of your ribs, how he still lingers inside your skin like some kind of fucked-up, agonizing osmosis, how you love him so tortuously, so effortlessly. Indefinitely. 

You can’t explain, but when he whispers, “Yeah, me too,” you know he knows. 

You sniffle and hiccup a few times, and a sigh crackles through your speaker. “Drink some water for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper. You roll onto your stomach and sit up a little on your elbows, “Will you stay?”

“Yeah, baby,” his chair squeaks as he sits back down, “‘till you fall asleep.”

“Promise?” Your voice is thick, like you’ve been crying for hours, and Stiles’s voice is tight when he finally replies. 

“Promise.”

You wake up with dry eyes and a rank taste in your mouth. There’s a glass of water and a handful of Advil on your nightstand, and you just know. You’ve known for a while actually, maybe forever, but you can’t pretend you don’t anymore. 

Theo seems to know why you invited him over so early on a Sunday morning. He doesn’t even look sad when you officially end it, and you wonder if it’s because he knew it was over a long time ago. You wish, selfishly, that he would’ve let you in on the secret so that you could’ve avoided all this. You hug him before he leaves, and it’s stiff and awkward, and you feel a little shitty about the whole thing—but it doesn’t feel wrong. 

You feel like yourself for the first time in a long time, and that feels good.

Summer is almost over, and you don’t have the time to obsess over all your wanting. All the air leaves your body sometimes, no room for anything but honey, veins, and new stubble, but you have so much to do. There’s no time for drowning in it when you’ve only got a few weeks before the semester starts. 

You don’t even have the time to acknowledge the nerves wriggling up your esophagus until you’re standing in front of a black door. Your screen is lit with the address Scott texted you, along with roughly 100 exclamation points and a dozen or so brain explosion, party popper, and happy face emojis. They steady you as you knock on the splintering door. The unit is cute and quaint, and you distract yourself by getting a better look at the sage green columns. 

Stiles opens the door, looking disarmingly soft in his worn sweatpants and stretched-out t-shirt—like cuddling on the weekend, like playing video games until sunrise, like home. He blinks at you slowly, pretty pink mouth slightly ajar.

You shift on the soles of your sneakers, jamming your hands into your hoodie pockets. “Hey.”

He blinks some more and seems to be only capable of repeating what he hears, “Hey.”

“So,” you dig the toe of your shoe into the porch, staring at a warped patch, curved from seasons of melting snow, and shrug, “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by.”

He recovers from his stupor and leans against the doorframe, hands tucked under his armpits. “You were in the neighborhood,” his head tilts with his arched brow, “in Philadelphia.”

“Well,” you try not not to smile, “it was on my way.”

Nodding, Stiles rubs his chin and purses his lips. You want to kiss the smirk off of his stupid face. “Right, the classic eastbound Stanford route.”

“Not quite.” You adjust the strap of your duffle bag on your shoulder, easing some of the ache pinching at the base of your skull, “New transfer orientation is on Monday. Turns out Princeton’s comp sci department is decent.”

His face becomes guarded, but there’s a little something like hope behind the uncertainty, “4th in the country.”

Something warm inside your stomach flutters. He knows. Of course, he knows. He probably researched it all the way back in high school. You brush your hair out of your eyes and hum, “Mhm.”

Stiles slides his socked foot back and forth, slipping on the polished floor of his cozy entryway. He barely catches himself on the doorknob. You laugh until he says, “Stanford’s 2nd.”

Your shoulder lifts, “That's correct.”

His chin dips as he searches your face for something. You smile at him, and he swallows; it looks painful. “You turned down MIT because it was too far from home.”

“That's also correct,” you say quietly with a jerky nod. 

His eyes go wide as he shakes his head, almost violently. He almost slips again with the dramatic effort, “MIT’s 1st in comp-sci.” 

You steady him with a palm against his chest, swiping your thumb over his ribs. His heart thrashes under your touch, and your face lifts with a timid, tender smile. “Sure, but Princeton’s ranked #1 nationally. Overall champs, baby. Suck it.”

Stiles finally smiles, but it’s hesitant. “You don’t say.”

You let a breathy exhale and drop your hands to your sides, curling and uncurling your fingers into tight fists. He’s still looking at you, a cute little wrinkle in-between his brows, waiting for something more. Fair enough. He kind of laid it all out on the line the last time you spoke in-person—he kind of deserves to stew a little after everything he put you through, but you’ve forgiven him, decided you want to be happy more than you want to punish him.

You roll your shoulders back and tilt your chin to meet his gaze. “I don’t believe in soulmates.”

Stiles’s face goes sour, and he crosses his arms firmly over his chest, mouth twitching between a pout and a frown. “You stopped in Philly just to tell me tha—”

You rock onto your tiptoes to press a finger to his lips, biting back a smile when they pucker like a fish, and say, “Will you kindly shut it for a minute? I need to get through this. I practiced a lot on the plane.” His eyes narrow, sullen and irritated, but he keeps his lips pressed together, waiting impatiently for you to finish.

You slip your finger from his mouth to cup his jaw, thumbing just below his cheekbone, and his body goes lax, irritation slowly seeping from his lanky limbs to the floor. Grinning, you poke the tip of your tongue at him, and he swallows hard as he tracks the movement.

“As I was saying,” you smile through the snark and slide your hands to his chest, resting against the vibration of his thudding heart, “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I don’t think there’s just one person out there for everyone—but that’s a good thing, right? I mean, the entire concept of a soulmate is basically just a blackhole. You’re falling, and falling, and falling—and there’s no end; you’re just trapped. There's no choice. I don’t want to love like that—I don’t want to love you like that.” 

It’s cute, the way his face screws up around a theory. It’s a familiar expression, and you can’t help but melt at the knees while you watch his eyes flick back and forth, adding up all your expressions and trying to calculate the meaning. The corner of your mouth pulls into a slip of a smile, “If I turned around right now and never saw you again, I’d be okay. I mean, I wouldn’t drop dead or anything.” 

He sucks in sharply, head jerking back, “What the fu—”

“Hush, I’m almost done.” You keep going before he can interrupt you again, rushing through the rest of your speech, running out of air and restraint, “I think that I could get over you, eventually, years and years from now—but the point is—what I realized is: I don’t want to. I don’t want to get over you. I don’t want to find someone else. Stiles, I love you—I’m in love with you, and I really think tha—”

His lips are wet and warm against yours, and you whine softly into his mouth at the familiarity. He hooks his thumbs in the belt loops on your jeans and yanks you closer, until your chests are pressed together and you can feel him breathe. You were right—the beard burn is delectable.

The kiss slows into something less desperate, something more like forever, and Stiles brushes his lips over yours in a few chaste pecks. When your lashes finally flutter open, you see that he’s grinning at you. It’s so wide, so happy, and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he says, “Sorry, you just would not shut up, so I figured it was either kiss you or shove something in your big mouth—and I’m not super confident in my CPR skills. Scott and I really spent most of the time figuring out how many pencils we could fit into the dummy’s mouth.”

“I take it back.” You push his face away from you, but a laugh bubbles past your swollen lips when Stiles pinches your waist. “I hate you.”

“Nope. No refunds.” Stiles shakes his head solemnly and wraps his hand around your hip, squeezing possessively, “You kiss it, you buy it. That’s what Coach said about the dummy.” 

“Well,” your arms find their way around his neck, and your fingers wind into the soft hair curling behind his ears, “you are a dummy.”

“The dumbest,” he agrees. He’s smiling, but his eyes are sincere, cloudy with guilt. “Baby, I never should’ve—”

You take great satisfaction in your turn shutting him up with a kiss, tugging on his hair until you’re on your tiptoes and he’s groaning into your mouth. “I think we’ve been miserable for a long time,” you whisper, breath ghosting across his shiny lips. He shivers, and you press your temple against his forehead, “I think I’ve had enough of it. How ‘bout you?” 

Stiles nods quickly and dips in to kiss you again. “Can I say sorry one more time?” he mumbles, kissing the ridge of your ear.

“I suppose,” you sigh and fall back onto your heels. 

He takes your bag from your shoulder and guides you into his apartment, kicking the door shut so that he doesn’t have to let go of your hand. There’s a thud as he drops the duffle bag onto the floor, and you barely have the time to take-in the ratty little sofa and coffee table piled with empty pizza boxes before he’s on you again. “I’m,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, and it twitches with the contact, “so,” his lips trail to your cheek, “very,” he presses a kiss to your temple, “truly,” to your hairline, “forever-ly,” to the tip of your nose, “sorry,” to your mouth. 

You sigh as he settles in for a real kiss and fall back onto the couch with him on top of you, disrupting his rhythm with a breathy giggle. He braces his weight onto his arms, and you wriggle down until your face is directly below his. “Hi,” you trace his bottom lip with your finger, smiling when he purses his lips to kiss it. 

“Hey.” He looks drunk: cheeks flushed, eyes hazy with pleasure, body loose and free from critical thinking—and you think to yourself that you’d do just about anything to make sure he’s this happy for the rest of his life. 

Stiles rolls, bringing you into his side with an arm around your waist, and presses against your lower back until you're crushed against him. Still, you squirm closer. Neither of you say anything for a long time, content with the sound of each other’s breathing, and then Stiles hums in his throat a little and plays with the ends of your hair, “So. You’re gonna live in New Jersey.”

“Yup,” your mouth pops with the ‘p.’

He grins, “Wow. You must, like, really love me or something.”

“Or something,” you tease, and he bites your shoulder in retaliation. 

“Jersey isn’t so bad,” his voice is muffled against his teeth, still embedded in your sweatshirt. Well, his technically.

You laugh, “It’s not?”

“Nah,” Stiles pulls back to look at you and scratches at the back of his neck, lifting a shoulder, “wouldn’t mind living there for the…beaches.”

“The Shore, you mean?” you grin, trying to imagine Stiles with a bad spray tan and slicked back hair. 

He grins right back and strokes your cheek, “Yeah, I’d move there for the Shore. I’ve actually been searching for just the right opportunity to show off my scrawny arms and pasty complexion. It’s like, what, a 40 minute drive from there to Penn?”

“Trenton would be around that, but I was thinking Pennypack would only be 30 from Princeton.” Stiles looks at you through lidded eyes, suspicious. You grin, “For the cheesesteaks, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he quips, but you can tell his heart isn’t in it. His face turns serious as he whispers, “You don’t have to do this,” into the quiet air humming between you. “I would’ve transferred to a school in California if I knew you still wanted me.” A flash of something ignites behind his eyes, warming the amber to whiskey, and he sits up a little, reaching over your head for his phone, “I’ll do it right now.”

You clutch his wrist and shake your head, pulling on his arm until he’s close enough to feel your lashes brush against his skin, “That’s why I didn’t ask. You’ve been dreaming about this program your entire life.”

Stiles is unusually still as he stares you down. His incisor digs into his bottom lip with a cruel bite, “What about your dreams?”

You huff, “What part of #1 don’t you get? I literally just told you to suck it. In case you forgot, I cordially invite you to suck it again, #6.” He smiles, but his eyes remain unconvinced. Your face softens, all the muscles and cartilage going gooey with affection, “It was never about Stanford, Stiles. It was about home. Guess it took you going away to figure out home sucks without you. S'not really home at all, actually.”

His lashes flutter slowly as he blinks, shaking his head, tongue running over his teeth as he struggles for air and words in equal measure. You kiss him until he finds them. “I know you don’t believe in it,” Stiles breathes out, “but I don’t think I could survive you being gone. Not again.”

You stroke over the planes of his face and hum thoughtfully, “I believe you wouldn’t want to.” Your shoulder twitches with a quick shrug as you add, “I know I don’t.”

His mouth chases your fingertips, pressing kisses to them every so often, and he closes his eyes heavily—like he hasn’t slept in months, maybe since the night he broke up with you. “These last few months have been just the fuckin’ worst,” he finally manages a smirk after you kiss his nose in agreement, “like a fuckzillion times worse than the summer I broke my leg, and you and Scott signed up for rec soccer without me.”

“You’ve got to let that go,” your voice is high and whiny, and Stiles’s smirk widens, “we didn’t even win any games.” You tickle him, heart leaping into your throat when he laughs and squirms away from your relentless fingers, “Didn’t have our good luck charm with us, obviously.”

“Obviously,” his grin is smug with satisfaction. Stiles tangles your legs together, legs clunking clumsily but that’s just part of the delicious charm, and hooks his chin over your shoulder, “So, Pennypack, huh.”

You nod, “I really don’t want to live in Jersey.”

You can’t see him, but Stiles peers at you, a little dubious, a lot fond. “And it’s not just for me?”

You grin, caught, and shake your head firmly, “Absolutely not.”

“It’s for the cheesesteaks,” his brow arches, and he seems to finally understand when the room becomes a swathe your smile, of your bubbling laughter: He makes you as happy as you make him. 

“Obviously.” You mean, I love you, I love you, I love you, and I never ever want to stop.  Stiles hears it, of course he does, and he says it back, sealing it with a kiss, “Obviously.”

[inbabylontheywept]

I love your writing. It’s the type of writing that I love bc other than being easy to read, I admire it bc it accomplishes what I struggle with. It uses few words yet conveys across the idea efficiently, vagueness to its benefit.

Have you heard the phrase “I want to distill myself like poets do”? It comes from a tumblr post of someone trying to express the same thing as me rn.

Anyway the other part of what I wanted to say is that I’m autistic, and when I try to write, I always succumb to the urge to add as many details and overexplanations as possible to avoid being misunderstood. You’re autistic too, but your writing shines in doing the opposite, so I was wondering if you struggled with this too, and how you got better, or if your flavor of autism simply doesn’t manifest in this way and this isn’t a problem to you

Unfortunately, I do naturally tend towards condensed formats. So some part of this is just natural for me. If it makes you feel better, I tried several times to make serials while doing HFY and I never succeeded. I've also tried several times to write books, and I always just get kind of stuck. It's one of my big regrets, so if you have any experience in those, I'd love to hear it. Same from anyone else reading this, actually - if you've made the jump from short stories to long form, I'd like to know how you managed.

Still, despite it being a natural thing for me, I can give you three activities that I've done that improved my short story work very much.

First, improv classes. Attending them will help your writing in ways you will not believe, and also, as an autist, that shit's better than OT. My parents signed me up for some in the summer of my fifth grade year, and they were legit life changing. Way less social anxiety, better writing, I could sing their praises all day. If you do one thing on this list, do this.

Second, write poetry. I do not consider myself a poet, but I attend a weekly poetry writing club, and it has noticeably improved my prose. Find one and go. As you get better, try and constrain the poetry you write to things like rhyme and meter. Writing with artificial constraints is amazing for teaching people to be focused and direct.

And if you have room for a third thing, maybe try finding a way to do extemporaneous public speaking besides the improv. I grew up Mormon, which involves absolutely insane amounts of public speaking from an early age, but I also did stuff like that in middle school NAL and high school speech and debate. Those all helped. They were stressful, and not terribly fun, but they did help, and it's a good skill to have.

I love talking shop, so thanks for asking! And just to reiterate my request from before, anyone that's jumped from short stories to novel length works, please, tell me your secrets. Plz.

[envyenvys]

Some scenes from the Stevie Harrington au I’ve been rotating in my mind for months

Details & IDs under the cut:

[ID 1: Stephanie Harrington speaking into a walkie-talkie, her text bubble reads:

“Sound off, shitheads.”

She has long brown hair with big waves, and is wearing a white tank top and blue jeans. She looks vaguely annoyed or exasperated. End ID 1]

[ID 2: Steph lying stomach-down on the end of a bed, propped up on her elbows so she can hold hands with Chrissy Cunningham, who’s speaking. Chrissy’s text bubbles read:

“Jason just doesn’t get it. I wanna hang out, and shop, and cheer, and beat the shit out of interdimensional man-eating monsters. You know, I wanna do girly stuff!”

Steph looks indulgently down at Chrissy, who’s smiling and sitting on the floor. Steph’s wearing a red crop top and blue jeans, and Chrissy has on a yellow and white striped headband, a white and pink floral print button-up shirt, and sunny yellow overalls, which have multicoloured flowers embroidered around the hips and ankles. End ID 2]

Chrissy’s dialogue here is inspired by a similar quote from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, because I thought it would be a fun & cute thing for her to say, and her outfit is inspired by one of princess Diana’s bc she’s a fashion icon.

[ID 3: Steph and Robin Buckley, both in their Scoops Ahoy uniforms, complete with the hats. Robin’s holding up a whiteboard divided into ‘hit’ and ‘miss’ sections. ‘Miss’ has twelve tally marks, and ‘hit’ has a single tally with a small question mark beside it. Their dialogue reads:

Robin: Board’s getting full, Harrington. You’re a real heartbreaker today.

Steph: Told you I could make this outfit work.

Steph is smiling, holding an ice cream scoop, and her hair’s braided over her shoulder with a red scrunchie. Robin looks amused, like she’s teasing. End ID 3]

[ID 4: Steph and Dustin Henderson in the scene from season 2 where they’re leaving a trail of meat for Dart on the railroad tracks. They both have yellow gloves and are holding buckets of meat, and Steph has her bat over her shoulder. Their dialogue reads:

Steph: I’ll bring you some of my Farrah Fawcett spray.

Dustin: Isn’t that for girls?

Steph: It’s for hair.

The word ‘hair’ is underlined. Steph is wearing a light blue and purple jacket over a red turtleneck and blue jeans, and her hair is in a ponytail with a red scrunchie. Dustin is wearing his canon outfit, complete with the baseball cap and headset. He looks skeptical. End ID 4]

Bonus transcript of me explaining the single tally + question mark in dms:

🍓[me]: Snappy dialogue to indicate that the board is abt men failing to flirt with her and not the other way around 👍

🍇[beloved]: who's the hit?

🍓: Eddie lmfao

🍓: The question mark is there bc Robin was so baffled by Eddie’s complete lack of rizz that she’s not sure she even interpreted that correctly

🍇: KNEW it

🍇: robin watching the entire time: 🤨

🍓: He wasn’t even trying to flirt is the thing he just got up there and lost his mind and his friends were standing behind him clearly being like “we don’t know this guy” and somehow steph got like… giggly??

🍓: Robin, afterwards: what the hell was that

🍓: Steph, clueless: what was what? 😀❓

🍓: Eddie crouching down behind one of those large decorative plants for ten straight minutes desperately holding his head in his hands shinji-style to stave off the cringe

🍓: His ice cream melts btw

🍇: his friends are standing a full meter away from him, pointedly not looking

🍓: Yeah they’re on the other end of the food court sitting at a table facing him but very carefully avoiding actually looking at him. They’d put their backs to him but the last time they did that (different mall, long story, they aren’t allowed in anymore) Eddie got kicked out by mall security and it took them like three hours to find him

🍓: This was before Gareth’s time and no one’s ever actually explained the full situation to him bc 1) they keep embellishing it and 2) eddie gets screechy when they try

[so-long-soldier-writes]

Don't Worry Today, Face It Tomorrow

kai parker x reader

summary: kai's been lonely enough in his life to sense something's off with you. tonight was a good time to trust his intuition.

tags: mental health issues, depression, loneliness, late night conversations, suicidal thoughts, emotional hurt / comfort

word count: 2.6k

a/n: this is a fic i kind of wrote for myself but still want to share. i somewhat vaguely made the reader's problems my problems, because i needed to talk them out, but struggle to do that with people, so i do it through my writing. i wrote this a little while ago but have been hesitant to post it bc i didn't want to worry my readers by posting so many sui/sh related fics, but as explained in the ending note of this fic on ao3, i'm entering a new stage in my life where i hope i can start writing gentler & more lighthearted & fun fics again. i've been in a dark place these last couple months and have completely lost myself as a person, but i'm actively trying to make my life one where i'm not afraid to be present. i saw a quote recently that said, "...if hope is out of reach, try curiosity instead," and so that's about where i am rn. but anyway, i hope, despite it's heaviness, you guys like this, or maybe, it helps you feel less alone. <3

“Thought I’d find you here.”

You roll your eyes at the familiar voice. Of course he’d come to disturb your peace. 

“What do you want?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. The sound of shuffling indicates he’s coming closer. “Just checking on you.”

“I don’t need checking on. I didn’t the last time, nor the time before that, and certainly not this time. Can’t you catch the hint that I want to be left alone?”

“See that’s the thing… the hints are all there, I’m just choosing not to leave you alone.”

Fully irritated now, you shift your whole body to face Kai. Annoyingly, he leans against the restaurant’s chimney, unbothered by the heat that must be emanating from it. His arms are crossed over his chest, but his usual smirk is replaced with a somber look.

“Why?”

“Because…” He isn’t looking at you. In fact, he seems to look right through you, perhaps into some far off world or a deep void that threatens to swallow you whole. “...You look like someone who shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve climbed up here five times in the last two weeks. You’ve been acting distant. You don’t eat, I doubt you sleep. Everyone’s worried about you, and they have every right to be.”

“I’m fine,” you lie. “Maybe I just like it up here. I can see the whole town. I’m in it, without being in it. It’s peaceful.”

If that was supposed to comfort the young witch, it didn’t. He tilts his head against the brick. “And what about the rest? Are they right to worry about you? Are these new habits you’ve seem to have adopted secretly a cry for help?”

You narrow your eyes. “Of course not, that’s insane. I told you, I’m fine.” Before he can ask anything else, you continue. “And what’s it to you? Why do you care? If they’re so worried, why don’t they come and bother me instead?”

“Because they haven’t followed you to the extent I’ve followed you.”

“Comforting.”

“They see you at lunch, not talking, not eating, not laughing. And then they see you go home, usually early, and not come out for days. They acknowledge the fact you haven’t answered their texts in days, and they know you’re not feeling well, but they’ve barely scratched the surface.” He pauses. “I’ve been studying you. I see the dullness in your eyes, and I can tell apart a real laugh from a fake one. I’ve begun to notice that right before you’re about to make up an excuse to go home, you tap your nails on the edge of the table. You scan the restaurant, making sure the coast is clear, so that you can make a sure shot to the door without being interrupted.” You open your mouth to speak, disturbed by the detail, but Kai interrupts. “I’m a sociopath. I notice things in a person’s behavior that are missed by most.”

“And why do you think all these ‘things’ are reasons to have you so worried? Maybe I’m just tired of socializing.”

“Maybe. But I’ve been alone for a long time and I know how it feels. How it feels to be hopeless, and anxious, and exhausted, in a way that goes beyond needing a couple more hours of sleep. I might not’ve been under the same circumstances, but I remember searching for the nearest, tallest building several times when I was locked in that prison world. Let me tell you, the view is nice, but when you finally get the courage to walk up to the edge, the fall is not.”

Your eyes had dropped back down the roof’s floor, but they snap back up to him quickly. His words make your heart race with sudden anxiety. When you try to open your mouth to respond, nothing comes out. It takes a moment to recover. 

“How many times did you try?” Invasive, but he’s sharing, so you ask anyway. 

“Truth be told,” he surprisingly answers, “I lost count.” He inches closer to you, but you don’t move away. “I couldn’t die in there, but that never stopped me from trying.”

“Until Damon and Bonnie got there.” 

“Yes, but I was alone for eighteen years until they did.” He sits beside you now. “Maybe you can see why I was so determined to get out.”

“I could see it before,” you admit. 

You know most of Kai’s background. You know he had a big family, most of which are dead now. You know he has been in and out of prison worlds for most of his young life. You know his time spent in those other worlds was deserved; he wasn’t just a sociopath, but a serial killer, as well. Only recently did he finally stop hurting people, afraid of ending up in another one. It was a deal he made with the brothers and Bonnie.

Kai is less afraid of death than being alone. Hell would be a cakewalk compared to the prison worlds. 

“My father ensured I couldn’t die so that I wouldn’t be able to take the easy way out. And then again, in 1903, the heretics could only dessicate; they couldn’t die, either. Guess my ancestors have some deep-rooted fascination with eternal suffering. The twin merge is a curse. You either die or kill your sibling before you’re old enough to rent a car. Then, if you live, you have to marry and watch your kids do the same. And if you die before you have merge-able kids, whoops, the death of the coven is on you. Like, imagine you get hit by a car and die, and so does the whole three hundred year old coven. That’s embarrassing. Imagine explaining that to the ancestors in hell.”

You snort and let out a laugh. 

“Obviously, I don’t care about my coven, and I only wanted to be the leader so I could prove that I could, but it does suck that we’re all nonconsensually born into this life and can’t get out of it. It would be easier if we didn’t hate each other so much, and that instead of life being one big game of dog-eat-dog, we could come together and be like, ‘Hey! This sucks! Can we try to figure out which ancestral bitch cursed us and maybe reverse that? We’re supposed to be witches, right?’”

You laugh more now. A genuine laugh, amused by Kai Parker’s unusual bareness and honesty. Never had you had such a sincere conversation with him. Frankly, you didn’t know he was capable of opening up as much as he is now. It’s nice. It’s the most meaningful conversation you’ve had recently, and if you’re honest with yourself, it’s healing. 

Not only do you know Kai’s background, you know his loneliness. Of course, you’ve never been in his shoes exactly, but you know what it’s like to feel helpless. Sometimes your parents teach you about pain before anyone else has the chance. Sometimes your friends break your heart the hardest. Sometimes it feels like there’s a target on your back and everyone’s carrying arrows. 

You don’t need to experience the same trauma to relate to someone, you just need a little bit of courage to speak up about it. The right people will listen. Those who understand. 

“I said before that I understand why you were willing to hurt Bonnie and Damon to get out,” you say. “I stand by that still.”

“You do?”

“I met your father once. I was friends with Liv before she skipped town, and he came to her dorm when I was there. He was cold.” You pause, rubbing your arms as a chill runs through your body. Whether it’s the cool night breeze or the memory, you’re not sure. “He smiled, and he made a joke, but his posture was rigid and his eyes were dark. It was like looking into the face of a snake that could strike at any moment. I was afraid to look away, yet afraid to look right at him.”

“He was never a warm person. He loved his wife, and did love my siblings, I think, but coven always came before family. He would betray even those closest to him in a second if asked. I was always told it was complicated for him, but it’s pretty simple. He never hesitated. It was obvious. There was no right vs wrong war in his mind. Guess it makes him a good leader, though. Maybe.”

“Not a good leader,” you argue, “but a dedicated one.” Kai seems to ponder that. “My family’s the opposite: they are complicated. They say one thing, but expect the other. Everything is a guessing game. You’re never quite sure what they want from you, and nothing’s ever good enough. Life feels like a competition: you have to do the most, study the hardest. There’s a thousand boxes to check by the age of twenty-three, and if you don’t complete them, you’re never going to catch up, never going to make them proud.” You’ve ranted a little, spoken somewhat quickly, but Kai follows along with great understanding. “I have a relatively big family, too, and they’re all over the country checking boxes. I live in a small town, with goals only big enough that I won’t feel like a failure if I don’t achieve, and spend every day just trying to stay alive. I’m the biggest disappointment to them and it’s so obvious.”

“Looks like we’re both family disappointments. Do they know about the supernatural?”

“Oh, god no. Their heads would explode.”

Kai laughs. He sees you shiver again and silently unzips his sweater. You startle a bit when he puts it around your shoulders, but then welcome the warmth it brings. It smells like him, so you pull it closer, finding that as a new comfort. 

“Thank you.”

“It’s technically Alaric’s-”

You start to pull it off, “ew-”

He stops you with a hand to your back. “But I’ve had it for months.”

“How’d you-?”

“After Damon woke me up when they put me on ice. I’d siphon the magic from Caroline’s mom on two conditions: one, he’d let me merge that night, and two, I could borrow a sweater.”

You chuckle, then let it envelope you again. Kai’s hand leaves your back, taking some, but not all, of the new warmth with him. He stretches out, leaning back on his elbows, and watches you copy the position. Your knees touch gently, though neither of you move. He studies you again, eyeing your face for tension, but finds your lips slightly parted in a relaxed state. You aren’t afraid of him; you aren’t trying to get away. 

The only person who isn’t taut as a band around him is Damon, because the vampire’s confidence and strength matches that of the young witch. But here, you’re only human, full of emotion and exhaustion, and alone on a rooftop with none other than the self-proclaimed sociopath himself. If your friends knew, they’d surely be freaking out, and maybe an hour ago, the thought would panic you, too. But now, at this moment in time, you’re completely calm. You’re trusting him. 

“So what’s the verdict?” He says out of nowhere, speaking up in the dead of night. The restaurant crowd left some time ago, and the roundabout hasn’t been driven through for less. In the far-off distance, you can hear a dog, but it stops after a few barks. 

“What?”

“How are we getting off this roof tonight?” You look over to him with an eyebrow raised. “Are we jumping, or are you gonna climb off with me?”

You ponder the question. Truthfully, you didn’t climb up today with the full intention of climbing back down. If Kai hadn’t followed you up, you, as he put it earlier, may have made it to the edge. 

But now, with both of your hearts and histories spilled out in front of you, things are different. Things are harder, because he’s involved. Yet, at the same time, things feel easier. He’s involved. He listened, and he shared his own story. You found common ground and it brought you closer than you’d ever imagined you could be with him. Hell, lately, with anyone. Somewhere, deep in your heart, you feel a bit of hope. 

“I’ll be honest,” he starts, “even though I’m out of the prison world, finally leading this dumb coven, and somewhat surviving in this town, I’ve considered it. I thought getting out would be a fix-all, and once I was, I would be okay, but I never imagined that life outside of it could be as lonely as my life was there. My coven still controls me and my family still hates me, and I wanted to get out and prove myself, and live, but now, sometimes,” he struggles for the right words, “I can’t find it in myself to care anymore.” He looks over to you to find you nodding, understanding. “I could die a hundred times over in the prison world with little consequence, but here, death is permanent.”

You offer a smile and a second of silence before agreeing. “Sometimes its permanence is a comfort, but sometimes a hindrance. It's permanent, I’ll never have to carry this weight again. I’ll never be a burden, or a failure, or a disappointment. But at the same time… what if I regret it? What if I’m halfway through the fall, or lying in a hospital bed, and there’s no saving me, but suddenly, I regret it? Or what if we’re conscious in the afterlife, and I miss the body and soul I once had, but gave up before my time was up? It haunts me. I have decision paralysis over dying. I wish I could make up my mind.”

Kai’s never cared much for other people, but in this moment, he knows if you got any closer to the edge, he’d hurl himself forward to pull you back. He sensed something was off about you earlier. You’d been climbing up here for weeks, but this time felt different. Necessary. 

“How about this? Climb down with me and we don’t have to make any decisions. Okay?”

“So the decision is to make no decisions?”

“Exactly.” He sits back up, outstretching a hand for you to take. “Let’s go get a coffee or something, and we can worry about it later. And, maybe, tomorrow won’t be so bad, and we can put off that decision making a little bit longer.” Kai manipulates slightly. He knows there is no decision to be made - it’s not a yes or no - but an ultimate decision on when you will take that step closer to the edge. So, if he can distract you day by day, and put off that ultimate decision, he could, with time, pull you from the edge, and eventually, off the roof. 

And that is a decision he is willing to make. He’s never cared much for other people, but something about you softens him. His life hasn’t been a fulfilling one. He hasn’t accomplished much, and he’s done little that makes him proud of himself, but you make him want to change. Be better, do more. Even if he only does one good thing, he wants to do it. He wants to save you. 

“Okay,” you finally agree, taking his hand. “Coffee sounds nice.”

For the first time of possibly many, he helps guide you back down the stairs, onto the safety of the pavement ground. You keep a hold of his hand all the way to the twenty-four hour diner two blocks down, and the whole time, he can’t stop smiling. 

[jackfrombaskinrobbins]

road trip as a teenage avenger headcanons!

type of writing: headcanons / scenario

word count: 1k

request: yes / no

dynamic: avengers x teen!reader (teenage avenger series)

characters: lots ofc but i'd say big emphasis on reader (duh), harley keener, peter parker, miles morales, scott lang, clint barton, bucky barnes, sam wilson, tony stark, happy hogan, natasha romanoff, and bruce banner. more are prob in it but i don't wanna type it all out lol

a/n: y'all i think my pictures are getting more chaotic & tbh i think it's a good thing anyways requests are still open, send in an ask whenever :)

taglist: @nutellani @thecloudedmind

(fill out this form to be on my taglist!)

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it was an annual tradition for the avengers to go on a road trip.

steve always said it was "team bonding". it was honestly kind of fun.

better than the other "team bonding" you did, which mainly consisted of running long distances!!

anyways, they usually would do it soon after you, harley, peter, and miles finished school (also yes im including miles now bc i love him)

tony would come over the intercom while you all were lounging around and tell you to pack your bags.

packing is always a big issue.

let's just say that SOME people are big overpackers...

COUGH scott COUGH

no offense to him but like ppl have had to sit in the trunk before because of him

and he overpacks with stuff that rly doesn’t make sense

like once y’all went to colorado

and he packed snorkeling equipment

and so you were like “scott. seriously?”

and he looked at you with such a serious face

“y/n. what if all the snow melts? then we would be underwater!! i have an extra snorkeling mask too. i was gonna give it to you, but now idk….”

HAHA

bruce overpacks too

but he overpacks in a good way

guys bruce is like the mom on vacation

well him and tony both

you’d think steve would be but he is NOT

like the man doesn’t even wear sunscreen

and then here comes bruce with a tote bag full of snacks

which tony eats half of by the way

smh

the best part of having thor on a trip is that he will ALWAYS pick you up if you’re too tired

like once he had you and peter under both his arms like footballs bc u got tired

and clint was sad bc he was tired too

he tried to get scott to pick him up but scott wasn’t ready and they both fell and they like hit their heads

that was an interesting day

ok so setting the scene again

you, peter, harley, miles, natasha and bruce were in the middle of a very competitive round of uno

like y’all

competitive doesn’t even begin to cover it

anyways you were about to get uno

FR

you put down your card and suddenly 

“HEY EVERYBODY” “SHHH you’re being too loud” “ohh sorry HEY EVERYBODY”

you started laughing at the quite obvious blunders of thor and clint in the intercom room

“thor, buddy? you don’t need to be kissing the mic when you speak, alright?”

tony, from another room, always quick with the jabs.

“AH! MY BAD STARK. HAHA! THIS MUST BE BETTER”

natasha just shook her head but you and peter, harley and miles were DYING

“ANYWAYS IT IS ROAD TRIP TIME. EVERYONE PACK UP AND BE IN THE FAMILY ROOM IN TEN MINUTES… what? MY MISTAKE. ONE HOUR. THAT’S RIGHT ONE HOUR.”

with that done, you all got up, groaning.

“uno.” natasha smirked at you, noticing that you only had one card.

“darn it!!!” you said. “well, doesn’t matter now. we have to go anyways.”

“we can always resume it later, y/n :) “ 

“fine, nat. but i’m going to win this time!! right bruce??”

“well, kid, you know i’m usually on your side, but…”

“aw, come on!!”

ok fast forward. 

you were in the family room

aw guys isn’t that cute that they call it a family room

bc ur a family

awwwwww

ok anyway

and here comes scott with his fifty bags

“relax sharpay, we’re not gonna be gone for THAT long”

guys i wanted a cool tony nickname and tbh i just remember vaguely that sharpay had like suitcases on the cover of her movie i never even watched it so i could be wrong but that was my intention

“tony, these are my essentials.”

“scott, why don’t you just shrink that down? like seriously, man.” miles remarked, and you couldn’t help but agree.

“hey, y’know what? that’s a great idea miles!!”

and so he ended up shrinking his luggage

but then he couldn’t find it

oh scott

sigh

anyways tony and happy did a lot of car assignment work

to make sure everyone would get there safely

and your car

was

drum roll please

ok also this was only for the trip there

the trip back would be different

ok the car was

tony, happy, clint and peter

tbh this was not a bad car at all

poor miles and harley were stuck with scott, bucky, sam and steve

natasha and wanda and pietro and thor were the other one

although here’s the issue

guys

fr

tony is a bad driver

but happy didn’t feel like driving

and u were just starting to drive so clint was like “NO WAY do i trust y/n in a car!!!”

that goofy clown fr

so tony was driving

oh and btw y’all were going to the compound

tony told you and you were like 

“dude, that’s not a road trip”

and he was like “we’re in the car for more than an hour. it’s a road trip, kid.”

and miles and harley kept texting like theorizing about where u were going

harley said europe

and you were like

harley

anyways ya 

so tony is like swerving and speeding everywhere 

ok maybe thats dramatic

but happy was holding the little bar

and he was like yelling at tony to slow down

meanwhile clint is just singing along to the music thats BLASTING

and u and peter are ready to accept ur deaths

like u literally texted sam a video of what was happening and he almost called happy to tell him to pull over 😭 

sam’s got ur back thats for sure!!

anyways tony pulled into a drive thru

bc he needed coffee

guys hes tony stark he needs stuff like that

and he got u and peter and clint happy meals :D

and clint was so excited like 💀 

love him

happy made sure u and peter had ur seatbelts on 

he said it was bc he didn’t want to have to explain to midtown why yall didnt come back for the next year 😭 

that and “too much paperwork”

smh

anyways tony finally got it together

u and peter decided that he just needed an acoustic song on the radio bc as soon as something more relaxing came on he was a lot better lol

the rest of the drive was pretty alright

i'm gonna do another headcanon set about the avengers actually on vacation but yeah there ya go :)

thats how the road trips work yahoo

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[syndrossi]

look i’ve barely begun to scratch the surface of the asks/comments i have from the most recent chapter but for now i gotta talk about this scenario my brain started forming on the commute back home from work. (it’s a 20-25-30min something drive depending on traffic) so i had a lot of time to think about shit whilst epic trailer music played in the background.

so, the scenario is most likely someone daemon has wronged in the past or someone that blames daemon for some misfortune or betrayal.

at some point in their lives, either when they’re teenagers, young adults, or hell when they’re twelve if you want, the kiddies get kidnapped again. only this time, they’re more of an insurance policy to keep daemon in line whilst torturing him with the fact that his kids have been taken again. i’m just now realizing this could have been more of a dance-era situation but don’t be limited by that!

daemon has caught one of main guys, probably the orchestrated responsible, but he can’t just kill him, he has to find out where are his sons and he’s the only lead. the guy responds with vague comments, that eerie type shit kind of like alys rivers but less fun. he then reveals that he will tell daemon where his sons are, he just won’t be able to save both them.

he reveals that he sent one to the stepstones, the eldest that takes after his father. and he sent the other beyond the wall to the land of always winter, the younger who matches the landscape. daemon never considered his sons would be separated. and now here’s the real fuckery of it all, the guy threatens daemon that within [insert time limit] his men will be instructed to kill his sons, he’ll only tell daemon where they both are at the last second [daemon also wouldn’t have time to contact rhaenyra or laenor or rhaenys or any other dragonrider bc there just isn’t enough time to get them here and they’re fucking far away atm], as he would only be able to fly to one of them with enough time to save them, leaving the other to die. so he asks daemon which son he was willing to sacrifice. daemon is horrified by the idea of it.

that’s all i got so far.

although i do have this fun little thought that whilst this dude is threatening his sons and forcing daemon to go through this mental torture of sacrificing one of his sons to save the other, the one that takes after him or the one that looks like him? and during that time we cut to this figure dripping in blood walking through the castle or keep or wherever daemon and this guy are atm. we keep cutting back to daemon and this guy and back to the guy dripping in blood getting closer to where daemon is. we keep seeing shots of hands bloodied and bruised, clothes stained red, loud boots, and then the shot focuses when the door opens and both men see jon, drenched in blood from head to toe (reminiscing of daemon when he killed the crabfeeder/older jon when he fought in TBOTB). jon doesn’t say a word, he just pounces on the guy, beating him senseless until daemon grabs him, he focuses on his son, they hug, etc etc, and now we can go get rhaegar.

except rhaegar is 100% having his own little side adventure bc he def escaped. and might end up found by some men of the night’s watch or something. but he definitely would have to go through some rough patches, having to survive in the cold wild for a while until he’s found or he finds them.

this is also kinda bad bc now daemon and jon are tryna find rhaegar but now rhaegar is gone, and it’s just like SHIT, how are they gonna find each other again??

- i have no idea what to do with the hatchlings during this holy shit

Funnily enough, ravens and dragons fly about the same distance a day on average. (Slightly more for ravens, maybe 300 miles per day vs a more standard 250 miles for a dragon.) But dragons CAN push themselves. So evil villain could literally just send ravens with a "kill them" order and Daemon would have to choose which raven to race.

Evil villain would have to be very unhinged not to cash in on Volantis's extravagant bounty on either of the boys (let's say they're twelve), so definitely someone Daemon has pissed off beyond measure, likely at the Stepstones. (Or Allard, stripped of power and honor, driven to revenge? Becoming the villain he's always been in Daemon's mind?)

The twins have a special bond with their dragons that allows them, especially when older, to call them from an impressive distance for short periods of time. So it could be that Jon's dragon strays into range if he flies out looking for him (the Stepstones are much closer to King's Landing/Dragonstone than the North is), allowing Jon to pull a daring escape that involves carving a bloody path through his captors and flying back to Daemon, either to carve a new bloody path if the location is controlled by the enemy, or to scare the living daylights out of anyone who comes across his dried blood-flaked clothes and hair as he storms up to wherever Daemon is.

Meanwhile, I could see Rhaegar being his usual uncannily charming self, armed with knowledge of the Old Tongue, which he insisted a tutor be hired to teach them once Jon mentioned its relevance to his original struggle with the Others. Eerie, pale-haired child who can speak the Old Tongue and sings songs of ice and dragons? The band of wildlings who stumble upon him after he escapes his original captors aren't sure what to do with the boy other than bring him back north of the Wall. Ultimately, Rhaegar convinces them that they will be cursed if they do not take him to Winterfell, which is where they eventually reunite.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if i incorporate an old friend’s oc into my oc’s backstory?

hi!! this is a more lighthearted AITA- i’m basically just gauging proper oc etiquette bc i have no clue if this would be rude.

i (18X) am a d&d player. have been for a long time! i started at 13, with a huge group of my friends. we didn’t get to play much bc there were so many of us, but it was a blast and i ended up loving my character, natphi (a classic tiefling bard) so much that she eventually became a standalone oc for me.

in-game, natphi entered the party alongside her friend, luca (a half-elf ranger), who was played by another one of my friends (18 or 19 X now, 13 at the time). we were baby gays, and natphi and luca had a really fun sort of will-they-or-won’t-they wlw best-friendship. it was a great dynamic, and we both loved drawing them together and discussing them and even rping how they first met over discord. it was a blast, and eventually natphi’s friendship with and pining over luca became an important part of her story and character to me.

however, by this point luca’s player and i were going to different schools and had dropped several friends in that group due to standard teen drama, so it was hard to keep in touch. we stopped talking a couple of years ago with no hard feelings- just a classic drifting apart over time.

natphi is still one of my most beloved ocs (we’ve been through a lot together) and i still daydream about her friendship and such with luca. it gets difficult when i want to draw her in any meaningful way, though. luca isn’t my character, and if i drew her and posted it i would absolutely link back to her creator’s instagram, but it feels really odd to make and post art of the oc of someone you don’t talk to anymore. i can’t go and ask them if they mind, because once again, we haven’t spoken in years.

i’ve been chewing on this dilemma for a bit, but an idea came to me as i started preparing to make natphi a character sheet for a oneshot i’m doing soon: i could make natphi’s relationship with luca a part of her backstory and come up with some tragic separation of them. it would work great with natphi’s current backstory and deepen her character motivations, so there’s no problems there. however, i still feel really iffy using a now-stranger’s character with mine, even if i were to only refer to luca as more of a vague ghost than a full character. part of me feels like i’m “copying” her and just changing bits and pieces so she doesn’t look exactly the same. technically, nobody would actually be able to tell unless i told them, but i’d still feel like an ass for doing it if it’s “cheating,” for lack of a better word. however, i also know i’m a chronic overthinker, so i’m asking all of you instead: would i be TA for this??? i genuinely have no idea. thanks in advance for the input! ^^

What are these acronyms?

[acescorazon]

Buggy x Mihawk x Crocodile prompt: With Buggy's chop chop powers and just picture his body parts popping off mid-coitus. Like Crocodile gets too enthusiastic kissing Buggy and his head comes clean off, or Mihawk's got his hand on Buggy only to end up his disembodied manhood in his hand from tugging a little too hair. It's freaky and unexpected and weird, but Crocodile and Mihawk roll with it, leading to some really interesting fun times with their clown.

Title: Pieces

Rating: E (or however the hell the young folk are rating fics on tumblr.com.)

Word count:5966

Warnings: Smut, Dirty talk, Dom/Sub, Praise kink, Degradation kink, (I don't know why i'm always paring the two together either.), Crying, Spanking, implied choking, implied hair pulling, brief face fucking, subspace, multiple orgasms ((you only see one bc i'm lazy though :) ))....Buggy takes his own dick in this.

Summary:

Now, this is the perfect time to make it known that the Chop Chop Fruit is a rather interesting devil fruit … Buggy has had his powers for over two decades now, and there are times when he genuinely forgets that he even has them. Sometimes he gets scared or startled and, without knowing it, his entire body responds accordingly to his emotions; In an almost cartoonish manner, his head and limbs and everything else all detach from him, and go flying in all different directions, openly displaying his true emotions for the world, and it’s only after he’s recovered that he realizes that his body isn’t put together like it should be or isn’t even together at all. 

Uh, that kind of thing happens all the time when he’s suddenly startled or scared… but it’s not something that has ever happened during sex before.

Until now…

Buggy’s mind is a hazy mess. He can no longer remember if he’s in the middle of a punishment or a reward…Perhaps this is an act of servitude instead? He… He can’t remember…Mihawk and Crocodile have been fucking him for so long now, that Buggy can’t even remember what started all this. There have been scorching insults thrown at him, but there have also been sweet praises whispered to him and against his skin, so who knows what this is? 

Buggy lies on his side, and Crocodile’s holding one of Buggy’s legs up as he slams into him from behind, and all Buggy can do is whimper at this point. As for Hawkeye, he’s lying in front of Buggy, whispering praises and words of encouragement to him as he jerks Buggy’s cock. Buggy has no idea what the hell Mihawk’s even saying though because all he seems to be able to do is concentrate on the endless pleasure his two lovers are giving him.

He feels so… Jesus, how can he even describe how he feels right now? They’ve fucked him so good tonight, that he’s at the point where he constantly feels…unbelievable. Everything’s a little much, but he can’t help but want more at the same time. It’s insane. He feels amazing. He can barely think, and what little thoughts he does have are usually hard to process and about how good he feels.

How many times have they made him come tonight? Two times… No, no, Three times. They’ve given him three mind-blowing orgasms, each one more intense than the last, and good God, he didn’t even think that was humanly possible, But Mihawk and Crocodile did it. They fucking did it, they’ve made him come over and over again. After each orgasm, they’d simply chuckle and cover him in kisses, and maybe they’d praise him and say something like, ‘Oh, that’s it. That’s a good boy.’, but he does vaguely remember one of his orgasms where they laughed at him, and went: ‘Don’t think we’re stopping just because you came, slut.’ (Was that his first toe-curling orgasm?... He thinks it was.)

What was he talking about…?

Right, orgasms. He’s had three orgasms already… And after each one of his orgasms, Crocodile and Mihawk made Buggy so dizzy with their sudden shift in personalities. They’d go from how they normally are in bed: Mean and rough to sweet and loving. They’d cover him in kisses and gentle touches after he’d come too, asking if he could continue, and Buggy would nod eagerly. In return, they’d praise him some more and say that they knew Buggy could keep going and that he’s such a good little clown…

Heh… He’s their good little clown.

 Buggy didn’t think he’d be able to reach his climax a second time, let alone a third time, but somehow Mihawk and Crocodile’s kisses and touches, and words of encouragement keep getting him hard. Sometimes it’s taken a bit longer to get him excited, but his lovers are dedicated to their craft and somehow know how to get Buggy hard even after he’s come. 

God, and now Crocodile and Mihawk are trying to get a fourth orgasm out of him. They claim that they know Buggy can give them one more orgasm, but Buggy doesn’t know if that’s possible. They’ve gotten him hard again, which, kudos to both Mihawk and Crocodile for doing that, but even though he feels incredible, he doesn’t think that he’ll come any time soon. He knows that Mihawk and Crocodile will keep going all damn night if they have to, though. 

Buggy’s hair clings to his sweaty face, and Crocodile and Mihawk didn’t just make a mess out of his body and his mind, they’ve also ruined Buggy’s perfectly styled hair by either roughly yanking on his soft blue locks during a heated moment or whilst playing with it during one of their periods of recovery. Buggy was probably pissed earlier in the night about them messing up his hair, but at this point, he’s too far gone to care about anything but the pleasure he’s receiving.

Buggy has no idea what kind of noises he’s making right now, but they have to be pathetic because Mihawk starts cooing at him and shushing him gently, “Shh.” he whispers, not that Buggy really pays attention to him, “You’re okay. You’re doing so, so good.” He tells Buggy as his hand glides up and down Buggy’s sensitive cock, almost in perfect sync with Crocodile’s thrusts. Mihawk himself has already come, but he wants to make sure that Buggy’s taken care of, and his tenderness and selflessness are something that Buggy’s always loved about him.

Buggy whimpers in response to… Whatever it is that Mihawk’s saying and, as Mihawk’s talking to him, Crocodile calls out from behind him in a rough, breathless voice, “Fuck, Buggy,” He grunts, “Gimme another kiss.” he orders, and then he’s nudging his cold metal hook against the side of Buggy’s face, urging him to turn his head and give him what he wants. In a daze, Buggy smashes his lips against Crocodile’s and quickly finds out that just a simple kiss right now is a little overwhelming for him. Too much is going on for him to know how to respond to what, and he lets Crocodile take control of their whole kiss, knowing Crocodile prefers to be in charge anyways.

Buggy’s eyes fall close for a brief moment as he loses himself to the feelings of Crocodile’s tongue and sinful hips, and also the firm grasp of Mihawk’s hand. So good, so, so good. He’s never felt this good in his entire life. Crocodile’s thrusts are growing rougher, sloppier as well, and a bit too pleasurable for poor Buggy, but he’s rewarded for taking everything that Crocodile’s giving him with praises from Mihawk and gentle kisses across his sore neck, which, by the way, is covered with hickies and faint marks left from when Crocodile had his hand around Buggy’s throat. 

Crocodile breaks away from their kiss, gasping for air, “Fuck, you feel too fucking good,” He curses, “You’re going to make me come again, baby.” He warns, and then he places his mouth against Buggy’s ear. His breath comes out in quick, warm puffs of air against Buggy’s sweat-drenched skin, making him shiver just a little as he starts whispering to him, “Do you want me to come in you, baby?” He asks with a chuckle. “Huh? Want me to fill you up, pretty thing?” he asks, like he and Mihawk haven’t both already come in him enough tonight… Still, Buggy nods his head enthusiastically, “Plea…Please,” He yammers, “Baby, please…” and he can’t recognize his own voice because of how hoarse he sounds as he replies to Crocodile. 

You can always tell how far along the night has come just by the way Buggy replies to his two lovers: If he’s smug, mouthy, and refusing to take orders or say what Crocodile and Mihawk want him to say, then Mihawk and Crocodile probably haven’t gotten their hands on him and shown him who’s boss yet. If he’s a pathetic whimpering, sobbing mess who would say and beg for anything no matter how humiliating, they’ve either started fucking him senseless or are in the middle of doing so…

“What… What was that?” Crocodile grunts, picking up his pace and pounding into Buggy with his rough, skillful hips, and somehow, despite being close to orgasming for the second time himself, he seems like he still has it in him to tease the shit out of his lover, “Couldn’t hear you.” Oh, he heard Buggy, Crocodile just wants to have his ego stroked a little bit. And, perhaps, if this were earlier in the night, Buggy would refuse to beg for something so degrading… but fuck it.  

Buggy’s voice comes out sounding weak and cracks a little as he speaks, but he still repeats himself, now almost chanting, “Please… Please,” He whines, trying desperately to get his sentences to come out and make sense, but his own pleasure is making things a little difficult, “Please, don’t stop… Please, come in me… i’m begging you.” 

Mihawk chuckles, sounding rather amused at all Buggy’s whining and pleading, “Crocodile, give him what he wants.” He orders softly, and now the hand that Mihawk has around Buggy is pumping his leaky cock faster, and if Crocodile didn’t have a death grip on him right now, Buggy would try to fuck into Mihawk’s fist, but he can’t, so he just continues to whimper noisily. “How could you say no to such a pretty little thing like him, especially when he’s practically begging?” Yeah… how could he say no to a pretty little thing like Buggy? 

At this point… Buggy will agree to anything they want, they make him feel so fucking incredible that it’s insane. If they told him to beg to be fucked all night, he would. If they told him to tell them they were the best lovers he’s ever had and that no one can compare to them, he would. If they wanted Buggy to say that he belongs to them and them only, he would… Fuck, if they told him to get on his knees and bark like a dog, he wou– 

Never mind.

Buggy and Crocodile get tangled up in another messy, tongue-filled kiss a moment after Mihawk orders Crocodile to stop screwing around and fill Buggy with more of his come, and now as they make out sloppily, the former warlord fucks him with rough, wild thrusts, trying to reach his climax. Buggy grabs onto anything he can get his hands on, which in this case, just so happens to be one of Mihawk’s biceps, and he squeezes him tightly as a wave of pleasure washes over his body. “Fuck, fuck,” Buggy mewls, and his cries of pleasure continue to grow in volume, but one particularly hard thrust to Buggy’s prostate has Buggy yelping. 

That… That … Oh, sweet fucking god. 

Now, this is the perfect time to make it known that the Chop Chop Fruit is a rather interesting devil fruit … Buggy has had his powers for over two decades now, and there are times when he genuinely forgets that he even has them. Sometimes he gets scared or startled and, without knowing it, his entire body responds accordingly to his emotions; In an almost cartoonish manner, his head and limbs and everything else all detach from him, and go flying in all different directions, openly displaying his true emotions for the world, and it’s only after he’s recovered that he realizes that his body isn’t put together like it should be or isn’t even together at all. 

Uh, that kind of thing happens all the time when he’s suddenly startled or scared… but it’s not something that has ever happened during sex before.

Until now…

Crocodile has made Buggy feel amazing all night long, but Buggy didn’t truly realize just how much Crocodile was affecting him. He doesn’t realize it at first but, there’s a moment after Crocodile slams into his prostate, where Buggy gets perhaps a bit too excited. His head, his arms, his legs, good lord, even his dick, all excitedly fly from his body as Buggy hastily breaks his and Crocodile’s kiss to moan loudly. He just felt so fucking incredible. His cloudy brain also doesn’t register the brief moment where both Crocodile and Mihawk’s movements falter and they both stare at him with questionable expressions written all over their faces, but he eventually realizes that something isn’t quite right. 

The idea of having all his body parts detaching because he got too worked up during sex is…kind of mortifying to Buggy. He tries to put himself back together quickly, whilst Crocodile is still fucking him from behind, but Mihawk keeps his hand around Buggy’s cock firmly, refusing to let it go and let Buggy reattach it to his body, “Wait… I have an idea.” He announces slowly.

Buggy is a weird combination of embarrassed and painfully aroused right now… He doesn’t know what he wants to do at that moment. Does he want to run away? Does he want to hide? Does he want to apologize? He doesn’t know what he wants to do, all he knows is Mihawk suddenly has a mischievous look in his eyes. “Open your mouth for me.” He orders. 

Buggy’s face is red, in fact, his cheeks are on fire right now, and he can barely even maintain eye contact with Hawkeye, and it’s partly because Crocodile is still chasing after his own orgasm and because Buggy just did the most embarrassing thing ever. “Open.” Mihawk orders again, this time sounding a little more stern, and Buggy whines in response, parting his lips obediently.

Buggy doesn’t know what he was expecting Mihawk to do after he ordered him to open his mouth, but he definitely wasn’t expecting Mihawk to shove Buggy’s detached cock in between his own painted lips. Uh, he was probably thinking something more along the lines of Mihawk shoving his fingers or his tongue into Buggy’s mouth instead, but obviously, that would have been too practical. 

Now, to be honest, Buggy has sucked his own dick before, but it’s only been a couple of times when he was much younger, and he isn’t the biggest fan of it because it’s usually too much for him to handle and he feels so weird about the whole idea. Mihawk feels differently, apparently, and takes it upon himself to use Buggy’s cock more or less as a sex toy. Where he got the idea, Buggy doesn’t know, but he shoves his cock roughly in and out of Buggy’s mouth while watching him with curious yellow eyes.  

Buggy’s own mouth feels so hot and velvety around his dick, and it feels really weird being able to feel the vibrations around his cock from his own moans, and even weirder when Mihawk makes him choke on his own cock, but it’s a good weird. Buggy lets his eyes fall shut again as he lets Crocodile and Mihawk take over completely and use both of his holes. God, this shouldn’t be doing the things it’s doing to him right now. He loves it. He loves them. 

“Captain Buggy,” Mihawk calls out in a playful voice, and Buggy can just hear the smugness in his voice. He loves this shit, of course, he loves seeing Buggy ruined. “Do you like choking on your own cock?” He asks, chuckling. No. Yes. No. Yes. Maybe. Buggy doesn’t know, he doesn’t want to think about any of this anymore, he just wants them to keep fucking him.

Buggy really didn’t think that he would be able to come a fourth time, but he can feel his orgasm building up in his gut now. God, how do Mihawk and Crocodile do it? How do they know his body so well? How do they know just the right things to do and say to make Buggy burn with arousal? They somehow always know just how to grab, touch, kiss, and fuck him so that Buggy is left a trembling, whining mess afterwards, but how? How do they do it?!

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Crocodile announces with a grunt, digging his blunt fingernails underneath Buggy’s upper thigh. He’s so big and his cock feels amazing, and Buggy tries to beg him to come again, but finds it extremely hard with Mihawk still fucking his mouth with his own dick. Instead, Buggy’s muffled and choked pleas fill the room as Crocodile quickens his pace, thrusting into him a couple of more times before he suddenly grabs him hard, and comes inside him with a long, loud groan. 

Buggy whines. He’s close, and somehow Crocodile’s quick, brutal thrusts weren’t enough to take him over the edge, but he wants to come. He wants to, he needs to, he… He opens his eyes, glancing at Mihawk with teary eyes, silently pleading for him to do something, anything as he grabs onto his forearm and squeezes it tightly. 

Mihawk raises his eyebrow at Buggy, “Oh, do you want to come again, darling?” He asks, and a moment later he slowly pulls Buggy’s cock from in between his lips so that he can answer him.

Buggy wipes the drool from the side of his mouth, not bothered when he sees a blotch of red on his fist from the remnants of his lipstick. His makeup has long since been ruined by Crocodile and Mihawk and has either been kissed, cried, or drooled off because of a certain pair of former warlords, but he doesn’t care about that either anymore. “Yes, please.” He replies in a rough voice, hoping that his reply is good enough for Mihawk.  

Mihawk gives him a beautiful, yet mischievous little smile, “Okay.” He agrees, nodding before adding, “I have another idea though, okay, darling?” He tells Buggy. God, should Buggy be scared? “How about we put this to good use?” He asks with a grin, holding up Buggy’s dick. Huh? Buggy thinks at that moment, utterly confused. 

Oh, that’s… Well, Buggy can’t say that he’s ever… Sure, he’s sucked his own dick before. but he’s never used his dick to, uh… well, what he’s saying is this would definitely be a first for Buggy. Still, Buggy can’t say he’s entirely against what Mihawk is suggesting right now… Just… isn’t it a little weird…? 

Crocodile slowly pulls out of Buggy with a small groan. He’s still recovering from his orgasm as he slowly lowers Buggy’s leg back down, “That’d be fucking hot.” He mutters, panting slightly, “You want us to fuck you with your own cock, huh, Buggy?” Well. Buggy isn’t against it, but again, isn’t it…weird?

Buggy speaks up, and this time his voice is tiny, “Uh, i don’t mind but… wouldn’t that be … weird…?” He asks, trying to figure out if Crocodile and Mihawk are serious about this whole thing or if they’re just fucking with him. 

“Nah. Here give me that thing.” That thing? Does… Does Crocodile mean Buggy’s literal dick? Oh, god. Oh, god, this is actually happening, oh god. Crocodile and Mihawk really do treat Buggy’s detached dick like it’s the world’s most realistic dildo, and don’t mind passing it around to each other. They… They do know that Buggy can feel everything even if his dick isn’t attached to his body…right?

All three of them are still lying on their sides, drenched in sweat and a little worn out from all the night’s activities, and Crocodile doesn’t seem in any rush to change their position, but he does pull Buggy’s ass a little closer to him before he… He presses the tip of Buggy’s cock against his hole, and Buggy’s taken cock all night; Crocodile and Mihawk have been taking turns using his mouth and ass as they see fit, but… Oh, this is different. 

Buggy makes a weird, strangled sound and involuntarily grabs a hold of Mihawk, squirming slightly, which causes Crocodile to pause for a moment, “Does it hurt?” He asks. No, it doesn’t hurt but it feels… Good god. “No, just…” Buggy whines, it’s a little much and Crocodile only pushed the tip in. “It’s a lot…” He mutters, and Crocodile asks if he wants him to stop, but Buggy shakes his head vigorously. 

God, why would he ever want to stop?

Crocodile slowly eases Buggy’s own, hard, leaking cock into him, and how do you even describe something like this? It’s something akin to masturbation, but a hell of a lot more pleasurable because he can feel everything. Buggy can feel his own cock nudged up against his prostate which in its own right is mind-numbing, but he can also feel the tightness of his own ass. It’s weird, and it’s a lot, and Buggy really wants to come again.

As soon as Crocodile starts moving Buggy’s cock, these pathetic, breathless, and whiny sounds come flying out of Buggy’s mouth, and he can’t control them. They’re loud and unfiltered, and both Crocodile and Mihawk seem entertained by Buggy’s reaction. “This is the loudest you’ve been all night, my love.” Mihawk chuckles, and his partner-in-crime adds his own comment a moment later, “Shit, Buggy, if you wanted us to fuck you with your own cock, all you had to do was ask.” He teases. That’s the thing, Buggy never even considered something like that until they brought up the idea.

 

Buggy doesn’t know what to say to either of those comments, but it’s not like he can reply anyways. The pleasure he’s feeling at this very moment is intense, enough to render him a babbling mess.  Too much. It’s too much…But, it’s so good, so, so, good. He closes his eyes and whines, burying his face in Mihawk’s shoulder, and he thought he could only focus on the pleasure he was receiving before, but he was wrong. Right now, as Crocodile roughly shoves Buggy’s own cock in and out of him, the only thing that he can focus on is all the sensations that he’s feeling. 

So, so good. 

He briefly registers Crocodile and Mihawk pressing against him, sandwiching him between them as they begin kissing, and usually Buggy loves watching those slow, sensual kisses his partners engage in, but tonight…? That’s the furthest thing from Buggy’s mind. He can’t watch them and enjoy the little show like he normally would. Which is a shame, but he has all the time in the world to enjoy the sight of Mihawk and Crocodile making out. “I…I…Oh,” Buggy struggles to communicate something with his partners, but he’s not sure what he’s even trying to say or if words are just involuntarily leaving his mouth at this point. 

Mihawk and Crocodile are practically unfazed by Buggy’s rambling, too caught up in their own kiss to care about their lover’s incoherent whines and whimpers, that is, until Buggy starts mumbling something about wanting more. “Ah, i…” Buggy cries out, and his voice is continuing to rise in volume, peaking once Crocodile suddenly rams Buggy’s cock into his prostate. “Please…” His eyesight goes blurry for a moment as tears gather in his eyes, and he holds onto Mihawk harder, shaking now as Crocodile fucks him. “Please… please more.” He doesn’t understand how something can be too much and yet not enough at the same time. 

Crocodile cackles, now breaking his and Mihawk’s kiss so that he can tease and torment an already wrecked Buggy. He mocks all of Buggy’s reactions from his cries of pleasure down to his sniffles, loving what he’s doing to poor Buggy. “Ah… ah… again…again…do that again…” He laughs, “Ah, ah, more.” That’s… Buggy didn’t say that, did he? “Baby, please~” Crocodile pretends to whine, and afterwards is once again back to laughing at Buggy. 

Buggy’s face grows hot again. He’s embarrassed yet he wants more of it all, he wants to hear Crocodile’s deep, seductive voice even if all he’s doing is teasing Buggy. Or even if he can’t fully comprehend what he’s saying, Buggy still wants to hear him, he wants to hear Mihawk too. “Fucking look at this shit,” Crocodile orders him, once again using his hook to nudge Buggy’s head to the side and making him watch as he thrusts Buggy’s cock in and out of him, “You know you’re moaning like a slut from being fucked by your own cock, right?” He sneers. 

No. Yes. No. He… He’s not moaning like a slut… is he?

Mihawk chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss against the side of Buggy’s temple as said man watches intently as Crocodile continues to roughly fuck him with his own dick, almost caught up in a trance now by the sight. “I think he sounds pretty when he gets like this.” Mihawk says, “Come on, Buggy, I know you can be louder than that.” he insists, “Come on, show us how much you’re enjoying yourself, darling.” 

“Oh, god, don’t get him started.” Crocodile groans, but there’s a wide smirk on his face now, “The whole island will hear his ass if he gets any louder.” 

Buggy ignores his boyfriends, he’s still mesmerized by the erotic sight of his own detached cock being roughly thrust in and out of him. Things are always a lot more intense whenever Buggy can see himself getting fucked whether it be by Crocodile or Mihawk… or … or even himself? He moans again at everything: the feeling in his gut from having his prostate hit again, the warmth and unbelievable tightness from his own ass surrounding his cock, and the sight of it all happening right in front of him as he lies on his side and takes everything.  

“Get your ass up and on your hands and knees, Buggy.” Crocodile orders, all of a sudden, and when Buggy takes a little too long to respond, both Mihawk and Crocodile change his position for him. It’s quick, all of a sudden they’re leaving his side, almost in sync, and then they’re roughly rolling Buggy onto his stomach before both of them move behind him. 

Buggy starts whining loudly again, annoyed that his pleasure was suddenly put on hold for the moment so that Mihawk and Crocodile could switch their positions. How dare they stop? Buggy was fine being fucked on his side. He didn’t say to stop or move! He just wants to be fucked so bad, and he wants to come too! They know that and yet they still stopped fucking him! How annoying… They’re terrible, horrible, mean boyfriends.

Buggy’s incoherent complaints earn him a hard slap on the ass a moment later as Mihawk, or maybe it’s Crocodile, forces him up and onto his knees. “Quit whining, brat.” Crocodile mutters as he hands Buggy’s cock back over to Mihawk. 

As if Buggy hasn’t been spanked enough tonight. He turns his head to look at Crocodile with a bit of a pout. His ass is still a little tender from earlier when Crocodile and Mihawk literally took turns spanking him and mocking him as he cried…which again brings up the question: Was this all a punishment or a reward? The lines often cross and blur together with the two of them, and they often give him a little bit of punishment in the middle of their rewards, but sometimes there’s softness and love, and praises in their punishments… 

Man, who cares? Buggy just wants to be fucked.

Mihawk takes Buggy’s cock into his hands again before he spits into one of them, rubbing and coating Buggy’s dick in more drool, “Just be a little more patient,” He tells Buggy, obviously trying to make sure Buggy’s cock is wet enough before he starts fucking him with it again. Buggy’s needy and impatient though, and continues to whine as he shakes his hips from side to side, an act, which of course, earns him another harsh slap on the ass from Crocodile. He whines as his tears continue to fall from his eyes, and he can’t tell if he’s crying from being hit or from his own frustration. Maybe it’s both.   

When Mihawk finally plunges Buggy’s own spit-covered cock into him, Buggy gasps sharply and drops his head down into the pillow in front of him, moaning. God, why does this feel so good? This shouldn’t feel as good as it does… is it because he’s already come before? Or is it because he’s close to climaxing again? He’s not sure, but Crocodile is suddenly calling out to him again. Ugh, what now? “Start fucking yourself.” He orders, “You better watch too, got it?” God, why is he ordering Buggy to do things when Buggy can barely piece together a coherent thought?

Buggy picks his head up a moment later and looks over his shoulder, noticing briefly how Mihawk and Crocodile have their tongues in each other’s mouths again, and he slowly starts moving his hips backwards, fucking himself on his own cock, and enjoying the sight a lot more than he should. Buggy’s hot, tired, and embarrassed, but none of that can stop him from wanting to keep going. He needs this. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, he wants to be fucked so, so bad.  That’s all he wants right now, no more, and no less.

He knows his fourth orgasm is coming, but he has to work for it a little bit. He doesn’t mind though, he feels amazing, especially when he throws his hips back and hits his prostate with his own cock, fucking that amazing spot within, and leaving himself gasping and crying for more. Buggy makes sure to let Mihawk and Crocodile know how good he feels, but he’s not making as much sense as he thinks he is right now. Whatever, he just feels good, okay? 

No matter how many times he says it, no one seems to truly understand just how much pleasure he’s receiving right now. He never wants it to stop, and he thinks that he would be fine if Mihawk and Crocodile wanted him to go another round with them, but maybe that’s just his horniness talking. Yeah, it’s probably just that. He continues to fuck himself on his own dick until one particularly hard hit to his prostate has him practically crying again from the overwhelming pleasure it causes. He stops moving his hips, letting Mihawk fuck him with his own detached hard-on instead, quick and rough, just like he likes it. 

“Oh, are you tired?” Crocodile chimes in from behind him with a small laugh. He gives Mihawk one last kiss and runs his hand through his damp, raven locks before he moves to join Buggy at the top of the bed.

 

There’s another brief shift in their positions, one that happens so fast that Buggy’s foggy brain doesn’t even process it’s happening at first. He ends up with his head in Crocodile’s lap, but Crocodile doesn’t tell him to do anything, he just allows him to rest his head as he slowly starts to run his hands through Buggy’s hair. A sudden shift in his behavior always leaves Buggy dizzy. He seems to know just when to be mean to Buggy and when to be nice to him, and the same could be said for Hawkeye. God, Buggy loves them.  

“Okay, okay, just relax, we got you,” Crocodile tells him in a soft voice. Buggy’s practically a puddle of mush as Crocodile and Mihawk take care of their worn-out and practically incoherent clown. He’d collapse into the mattress if Mihawk didn’t have one arm wrapped around his waist as he continues to slam Buggy’s own cock in and out of him faster, now quietly urging Buggy to come for him. God, Buggy wants to come so bad, and he’s practically sobbing into Crocodile’s thigh. “I know, I know,” He coos, “You’re okay, you’re almost there.”   

Both Mihawk and Crocodile start to gently coax him into orgasming, whispering to him how he’s so good and pretty, and he doesn’t need to hold back. That he can come, and that he’s going to look so pretty once he does. God, they’re too much. “Come on, baby, come for us. I know you can do it.” Crocodile tells him.

“Oh, you poor thing. I know it’s too much, but you can take it.” Mihawk reassures him a moment later, “Come on, come for me and Crocodile. Make us proud, darling.” God, Buggy squeezes his eyes shut as the tears run down his face. He can’t do this, it’s all so much. It’s so good, but it’s too much. He sobs, a babbling mess now as he feels his orgasm finally about to hit. “That’s it, that’s it, Buggy,” Mihawk says softly, and when he hits Buggy’s prostate again, Buggy fucking loses it.

All the muscles in Buggy’s body suddenly tighten as his orgasm hits him, and he’s left coming hard, spilling into his own ass. It’s intense and he doesn’t think he’s ever going to stop coming, but when he finally does, he goes limp in Mihawk’s grip. He’s panting and shaking from his orgasm, and still crying a little, but he feels so, so good. So light, so weightless, so loved and protected, and… 

“Buggy?”

“Baby?”

“My sweet, are you okay?”

Here’s the thing: Buggy knows that Mihawk and Crocodile are talking to him, he can hear their voices, but he… He’s so caught up in his own ecstasy, that he either doesn’t want to put the energy into replying to them, or he just can’t, and he isn’t sure which one it is. He just wants to enjoy himself and this feeling of floatiness that’s consuming his entire body for a moment. God, he feels so amazing, so lightweight and happy, and a little sleepy…

Mihawk lowers Buggy’s hips, slowly and carefully, still calling out to him, and a moment later he and Crocodile flip Buggy over and sit him up, checking on him because he still hasn’t replied to them. “Are you okay, Buggy?” Mihawk asks, crawling up towards Buggy and cupping his face, “Hm?” He repeats a moment later as he gently moves Buggy’s hair out of his face and begins to cover him in kisses.

Crocodile joins in on the moment of softness, also kissing Buggy’s flustered and sweaty face, “Was it too much for you?” he asks. 

 Buggy blinks slowly. His entire being is shaking right now, he’s never… he’s never experienced such an intense orgasm, and he’s still trying to recover from it. He feels…god, he feels so good though, that’s all he can say. He hums in response a moment later, finally giving Mihawk and Crocodile the reply they so desperately want, but he doesn’t bother to do more than that. “You did so good, darling.” Mihawk whispers to him a moment later, “We’re so proud of you.” Proud? They’re proud of him?

Buggy closes his eyes and just enjoys their hugs and kisses and soft touches for a moment, feeling his already pounding heart, pick up a beat every time Crocodile or Mihawk, or both praise him. 

“We are,” Crocodile confirms a moment later, “You were amazing,” He praises him with a soft, warm smile, then adds, “We love you so, so much, Buggy.” Oh, god. Buggy loves them too. 

“We do, we love you.” Mihawk agrees. 

Mihawk and Crocodile carefully get Buggy out of bed after that, still muttering soft praises and words of affection to him as they get him all cleaned up and then help him get himself dressed, because Buggy’s still a shaky, puddle of goo that can barely function. He’s a happy puddle of goo, though, that’s for sure. After that, they ask him if he wants to cuddle on the couch and watch a movie, and Buggy can only nod in response. 

Crocodile picks out the movie they’re going to watch, going on and on about how he’s the only one among the three of them who has any tastes in movies before putting on arguably the worst action film Buggy’s ever seen in his life. Buggy doesn’t really pay attention to the movie though, he sits in the middle of his two boyfriends, curled up with them in a giant blanket and resting his head against Mihawk’s shoulder as said man lazily plays with his hair. Buggy’s still feeling all light and floaty from his orgasm even long after the three of them have stopped making love, and soon finds himself peacefully falling asleep to the sounds of the two loves of his life bickering about the quality of the movie they’re watching. 

[foreststranger]

BLADE - There’s A Major Problem: II

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ(ꜱ) *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

↳ you’re dragging around a dead body for like the first half or so and mentions of blade wanting to die (bc he’s blade)

ꜱᴛᴀʀʀɪɴɢ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

↳ 『honkai: star rail』blade x gn!reader ft. kafka as emotional support and sam as worried sibling (SAM IS A WEIRD ROBOT TRANSFORMER LOOKING THING??? IN LOVE 😍)

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

↳ a continuation of my last post (read it here) since it was fun to write and i think it’d be nice to continue bc i’m so many ideas. anyway the synopsis for the last post was:

“a kinda (barely) angsty-hurty/comfort-maybe-ish-sorta (?) unpolished short-tiny-small-lazy fic where blade dies so you gotta drag him back home and wait for him to heal himself back to life or wtv” which makes complete sense

in this post, you bring blade home with the help of kafka and take care of him as he recovers.

𑁍 ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1.1k

ɴᴏᴛᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

↳ OMG BLADE INSIDE A LITTLE HOUSE IN KAFKA’S NEW QUEST RAAAAA BLADE LOVERS STAY WINNING 🦅🦅🦅🇺🇸🇺🇸 NOW MY FANFIC IS LITERALLY CANONICAL 💯💯💯 #domesticblade #imnotdelusional #bladeisliterallyinlovewithme #weliveinahousetogether #andwehavesevenkids #real please bear with me and my tangents bc i swear i’ll write for other characters (when i come up with ideas) but there’s so many thoughts i have about blade ajdhsmaksjhshakaksjs anyway sorry for this unpolished, rushed, messy thing i just want to complete it now so i can move on to NEW IDEASSSS

“[name].” She leaned in, grabbing the phone out of your hands and scaring your spirit out of your body.

“*Xianzhou profanity*! Kafka! Oh… you scared me.” You rub your forehead. Your splitting migraine had only worsened after Kafka’s sudden appearance.

“How’d you make it here so fast? I mean, I thought you were on-“

“I thought you wanted to get him home first. You can ask as many questions as you’d like after, hm?” She always had a tendency to cut you off. You leer at her before responding.

“…Right, yeah. Yeah… we should, uh, get him home first. Okay. Let’s… let’s go.”

“Are you alright there, [name]?” She giggles, bringing her face closer to yours. “You sound… nervous.” Tension grows in your brain as if it were being pulled on.

“Sorry. Just a headache. How’ve you been?” You try to make some small talk to distract yourself. Though Kafka doesn’t reply. Your hands grapple for Blade’s forearms while Kafka reaches for his legs, the two of you easily lifting him off the ground. His body dangles so limply that it causes you to wince.

“I can carry him myself, if you’d prefer,” she offers. “Blade isn’t the easiest to bring around.”

“No.”

“No?” Kafka lets out a soft snicker, her voice soft and sultry as usual. “And why’s that?”

“Because I want to help carry him.” You walk backwards, trying to maneuver Blade through a fence.

“You’re struggling, dear. Maybe I should just-“

“I’m fine, Kafka.”

It’s been several hours now. You’re tired and thirsty and hungry and in pain. Everything is sore and you’re not sure how much longer you can walk.

“Kafka? I… I don’t think I can walk any further.” She sighs as you screech to a halt. You set Blade down as gently as you can, his arms bouncing as the collide with the ground.

“I can tell. I told you before, didn’t I? You can walk home. Bladie and I will follow. Get some rest, [name].” Despite her kind words, Kafka’s ‘I told you so’ smirk makes you internally groan.

You crash through the door, kicking off your shoes as you race to the bedroom. From the nightstand, you snatch up some first aid supplies — a roll of bandages, rubbing alcohol, and an antibiotic ointment. You’ve treated Blade’s minor injuries before but never lethal ones. Cuts and scrapes were what he came to you for, not enormous gashes.

“Kafka…? Will this be enough?” Your head turns to the doorway as she pulls Blade along, gracefully lifting him onto the bed. There was poise in every little movement of hers, even while carrying corpses.

“Sure,” she answers. Vague answers were the bane of your existence. Maybe Kafka in general was the bane of your existence. Like true in-laws, you didn’t really get along with any of the other Stellaron Hunters, either. Their line of work was… questionable, and they were an interesting bunch.

“Would you like me to stay and help, dear?” Kafka asked, staring at you intently. Her eyes always freaked you out a little. You can’t help but look towards her ear instead. From her earlobe dangles a glistening pearl earring.

“I can take care of him on my own, don’t worry.” You give her a tired, pathetic thumbs up as reassurance. “He’s in good hands.”

As Kafka leaves the room, Blade begins to stir. His eyes tightly shut as he rustles around on the bed. You’re at his side immediately.

“Blade? Don’t move, please. I’m gonna patch you up first.” You’ve never been good with your hands and you weren’t exactly a doctor, but you’d be damned if you didn’t at least try. He opens his eyes and glances up at you. Blade looks exhausted. As if he was on the cusp of achieving a goal he’s dreamt of all his life, but failed just at the finish line.

“Are you alright? You look so sad.”

“I’m fine,” he answers, his tone clipped. It’s evident that he was holding out hope; hope that perhaps this would be the last death of his.

“Sit up for me. I need to see your stomach.” His tailcoat has a long cut at the front, though it was hard to see much due to the drying blood. Blade did as you asked, dangling his legs off the edge of the bed and leaning on you for support. You hold up his upper body with one hand while the other undoes his button. It pops open without much resistance. He doesn’t seem to be looking at you as you slowly slide his sleeves off his arms. The sight is… not as gory as you’d prepared for. Blood coats most of his chest, and thankfully, it’s all you can see.

“I’ll be right back, Blade. I have to get a towel.”

After a gruelling few minutes of bandaging his wounds, you toss him one of your shirts. It’s a little small on him, tightening around every one of his curves, outlining his figure perfectly. Maybe you liked seeing him wearing your clothes.

“How do you feel? Is everything okay?” He nods in reply.

“Blade? You look… just adorable right now.” You lean in close and pinch his cheek. He doesn’t seem to have a reaction, but you swear you can see a hint of redness on his face.

Then, you hear the ding of a notification coming from your pocket. You take out the phone to be greeted with another text from a Stellaron Hunter.

“…What are you doing?” Blade stands up, leaning over to see what you’re doing on his phone. You turn it off before putting it back into your pocket.

“You got a few texts from Sam, so I thought I’d respond. They were just… checking up on you.”

“Mmh.” He sits back down onto the bed. Your hand reaches out to support him as he does so.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty? Need anything?”

“…Just you,” Blade sighs. The sudden silence of the room fills you with a quiet peace. Like, despite just seeing your lover dead, everything might turn out okay. Blade lays down and you decide to join him, right by his side. His arm wraps around your waist, limply pulling you close to himself. A feeling of warmth fills your heart as he spoons you. Then, in that moment, you’re sure that everything will turn out okay.

ask before translating, taking inspo from (not copy), reposting, etc. my work. remember to credit me and if you’re taking inspo from it, please @ me as I’d like to see what you do with my ideas!

[stolitzsings]

💖, 🖋 and 👨‍👩‍👧 for the ask game! (I probably got at least one of the emojis wrong but hopefully they still make sense 😂) - @blitzwhore

💖 What do you like most about your own writing?

Can't believe you're gonna make me think of something nice to say about myself 🤣 I've been told I have a very "lyrical" style of writing, and sometimes I'll write a sentence or paragraph that flows really well and just Hits. I love those moments when I feel like I've really nailed it at a word-for-word level.

👨‍👩‍👦 Do you tell people in real life that you write fic?

Most people in my life know I do writing of some sort, but I'm pretty vague with the details lol. I only talk about writing fic with irl friends who also write/read fic (and I don't tell most of them that I write smut, just bc I know it isn't their jam). I told my therapist I write "character studies," because what is smut if not horny character analysis? 🤣

🖋 Post a snippet from a current WIP

Putting this one under the cut!

Ok I was a little nervous about sharing this because it's from a longer AU I've been toying around with, and historically I'm very bad at sticking to longer projects. But regardless of what I do with it I had a lot of fun writing this scene of M&M tormenting Blitz lmao

Blitz could feel his face heating up. “He isn’t— It’s not like—” Fuck, he was losing this one fast. “Okay, so maybe we’re boning or whatever, but it’s just a casual thing, you know? It’s not like we’re dating or anything.” Moxxie raised an eyebrow. It was almost impressive how smug he looked. “Who said anything about dating?” “I think he just did, babe.” Okay, now they were getting on his nerves. He could feel his spines starting to bristle.  “Look. It’s just a convenience thing, ‘kay? He gets to have his bad boy fantasy, and I get a reliable fuck who I know won’t steal my kidneys while I’m asleep.” It wasn’t like Stolas would ever really consider a relationship with someone like him. Disowned or not, he was still a royal. And that was fine! Blitz didn’t want anything complicated, anyway. Fucking was easy. It was comfortable. It was all either of them was looking for.  “If you say so, sir.” Moxxie had somehow dialed the smugness up to eleven.  Blitz rolled his eyes and walked towards the door. “I’m firing both of you. And I’m keeping your shares for today.” He was pretty sure Moxxie started to say something in response, but he was out the door before he heard it.  He let himself stew as he made his way down to the parking lot. “Looking for excuses,” for fuck's sake. They were hired killers! What did they expect? He was going to get injured sometimes. And it only made sense to go see Stolas, who knew more about this shit than any of them did. Besides, a quick fuck sesh was good for you, or something. Boosted your sero-whatever levels. Got your blood pumping. It was basically healthcare, anyway. Talk about a bedside manner, he thought to himself, grinning. He made a mental note to use that one with Stolas later. He'd think it was funny.

“C’mere, B, let me take a look at that scratch for you.” Millie had opened up their first-aid kit and had just finished bandaging a shallow cut on her thigh. Blitz looked down at the wounded arm that she’d gestured to. It wasn’t serious— an annoyance, more than anything. He shrugged. “Eh, that’s okay. I’ll just have my guy take a look at it.” Millie eyed him skeptically, like she was trying to catch him in a lie. “You know, you’ve been spending an awful lot of time with this mysterious “guy” of yours lately.” Moxxie looked up from his paperwork with a conspiratorial smile. “You’ve been seeing him for everything, even minor injuries. Almost like you’re looking for excuses to pay him a visit.” Oh great, the famous M&M tag team. “What? No, I haven’t.” Even he knew he sounded defensive. “Sure looks that way to me.” Millie crossed her arms and perched on the edge of the desk so that she and Moxxie could give him the double stare-down. Cute. “Are you sure that medical attention’s all he’s been giving you?”

Thank you for the ask @blitzwhore! I'm still answering these prompts if y'all are curious 😊

[bluehoodedmousebane]

Im glad my ask inspired you x3

But dont burn yourself out over it, y'know?

Also as fun as Halo 3 is... The Prophet of truth seems to had a serious re-write since Halo 2.

Cause in Halo 2, he seemed to know EXACTLY what the halo rings were, letting the other prophets die, and specifically cut off the heretic's message before he mentioned anything about guilty spark or anything like that.

But in Halo 3? He's just a zealous propaganda machine :/

No cool subtle hints of his plan, no vague lines that he knows he'll destroy the universe, nothing. Just "I am the bringer of the great journey!" and "I am the voice of the covenant!" and its just such a let down from the buildup of his whole arc from Halo 2

ALSO PLAY ODST RIGHT THE HECK NOW!!!!!!!!!

Super Intendent and Virgil my beloveds :3

I said a while ago. Hold on is it in my tag. YES okay so when I was talking about halo 2 a while ago I said that it felt like 2 was Bungie trying to expand on all of the ideas they had for CE. And they had a lot of trouble with that bc of how rushed they were.

3 feels like the successful version of that, with the stipulation that it’s trying to wrap up all of the plot points from the previous games. I think CE was the tight-knit concept, 2 was the stage where they spaghetti’d that concept way out, and 3 was the point where they shaved down things to finish the series. A LOT of stuff got- cut isn’t the right word- simplified. But all of these things are still recognizable. You don’t play as the arbiter unless you’re playing with another person but he’s there next to you. They made the models slightly less detailed but thank god because 2 on original graphics was kind of nasty in the cutscenes. I think Truth got the same treatment, mostly because he has less screen time. He’s less detailed than he was in 2, but I do think he’s characterized the same.

He is very aware of how all of the forerunner tech works- he knew exactly where to go and what to do to open the portal to the Ark. He’s still manipulative, actively hiding the details of the great journey even when he’s got Johnson’s hand on the trigger. The line, “but that secret died with all the rest,” is an insane one, because doubly proves that he knew the heretic was right about the rings.

It would have been so cool if he was just as subtle in his manipulations as he was in 2, but by the time he gets to earth he is desperate. The Covenant got cut in half, he was just being chased around his own ship by the demon, and he’s scrabbling to activate the portal on his enemies’ homeworld. Then on the Ark he’s under the assumption that he’s already at the finish line, that he doesn’t have to keep up his facade of power for much longer. He’s still in character, it’s just warped by circumstance and squashed by the simplicity of the game.

Also for ODST- sir yes sir I’ll get on it right away O7 :3c

[distant-velleity]

(un)sweet dreams

Summary: Once Malleus Overblots, Yu doesn't exactly dream. Silver does. Word count: 3.5k+ Warnings: my unbeta'd writing A/N: So!!! Yesterday I played through Book 7 Part 3 since that dropped on TWST EN, and it inspired me~ In regards to Yu's story, I haven't actually considered Book 7 a whole lot, so I felt like writing this would be fun and solidify his plotline some more at least before his own Overblot. Haha. Um. This is meant to replace the MC-centric chapters of 7-40 through 7-51; where it ends is roughly where in-game 7-52 starts. Please enjoy my Silver and Yu acquaintance content bc I sure don't write enough of it (<- it has an entire relationship section on Yu's wiki) <3 Also, contains reference to this oneshot.

~

In the distance, thunder—the herald of dignity and danger—rumbled. Of an unimaginably deep weight, it rolled through the clouds and over the seas.

…

In the drearily elegant throne room, static zipped through the air, the buildup to a temper at the end of its wick.

“It’s incredible! 16 years, and not a trace of her! Are you sure you searched everywhere?”

“Uhhh, we searched mountains, forests, houses… and all the cradles.”

“FOOLS! Search for a maid of 16. Go… and do not fail me.”

…

In the depths of the forest, pretty voices rose, unaware of the unwanted guest listening in.

“You’re already betrothed! To Prince Philip, dear!”

“But that’s impossible. How could I marry a prince? I’d have to be…”

“...A princess.”

“And you are, dear!”

…

In the winding tower, a spindle glistened in the light.

“Touch the spindle. Touch it, I say.”

As delicate as a petal, a hand was drawn to the spindle.

“You poor, simple fools, thinking you could defeat me! ME! The mistress of all evil!”

…

To call it ‘waking up’ would be a lovely description, but an ultimately unearned one. To Yu, it feels more like dragging his consciousness out of a haze after fainting; his thoughts are blurred around the edges and his memories blurrier still.

He blinks once, twice, and slowly raises himself to sit up. Beneath his hands, placed to support the dead weight of his body, the ground ripples outwards in the image of water.

Yu stares at it.

He feels no dampness through his clothes, no chill, so the reasonable assumption is that the ground isn’t any sort of liquid; and yet it behaves like one. There’s certainly a surface beneath him, but how real is it? As far as he can see, the world is purely black, with no horizon line in sight. 

Strange.

…Strange, but not unfamiliar. After all, Yu has been here a number of times before. 

(More vividly than any other memory, he recalls Riddle crushed by a flurry of books; Leona discarded from an unending chessboard. Azul left beached without the safety of his pot; Jamil weighed into submission with chains. Vil smothered with distorted veils; Idia dragged deeper and deeper into the darkness. 

All these incidents which should have caused splashes, yet—each time—caused the ground to do little more than ripple.)

Only, this time, there’s no one but Yu here. He’s all alone in the expansive darkness for some unknown reason. 

Why?

As he racks his brain for the answer, a screen pops up before him. And then another, and then another after that…

[ CURRENT DEBUFF — Fae Maleficence: USER’s physical body is deeply asleep and frozen in time. ]

[ MAIN MISSION — “Perpetuation by Briar Thorns” Continued. ]

[ NEW OBJECTIVE: Figure out your situation. ]

[ Setting tracker to target object… ]

[ USER is 500m away from exit. ]

Yu sits there, allowing the messages to sink in. For a moment, he’d forgotten that this would always be the work of the System. 

He shakes his head to rid himself of any lingering grogginess and carefully brings himself to his feet. In the distance, as promised, is the only other source of light aside from his locket—a glowing white rectangle vaguely resembling a door, waiting upright as it does every time he is sent to this strange mindscape.

Slowly, limbs fatigued, Yu walks over to the exit as the ground ripples beneath his feet. Floating beside him, the tracker’s number of meters steadily decreases. 

It feels like an eternity before he finally reaches the light.

[ USER is 0m away from exit. ]

What lies beyond the door is totally uncertain; Yu would like to hold onto the hope that he'll simply wake up as per usual, but something tells him that won’t be the case. Still, there’s nowhere else for him to go. Not unless he enjoys the loneliness of a solitary forever—and even if so, he has the nagging feeling that people need him.

Inhale, exhale.

There really is no getting around it. Yu steps out of the darkness and into the light of the exit.

…

Weightlessness strikes him before his senses are muted.

[ Entering new dream. ]

“A new dream?”

Like an epiphany, just as he’s being transported from one mindscape to another, Yu remembers the disaster that occurred before his bout of unconsciousness. The lounge had been filled with fire, then embraced with thorns, and most importantly—

[ USER has entered Spectating Mode. ]

“—Yue’er—!”

Yu blinks and stops mid-shout, regaining his senses in the middle of a fairytale-like landscape. 

Frozen in an eternal sunrise, the sleepy forest of his surroundings is painted in a warm pink wash. Even the towering trees and steep, rising cliffs appear rosy under the light. A little ways from the stone path beneath Yu’s feet is a babbling creek, crystal-clear and so brilliantly lavender under the dawn sky that it glimmers. 

However, it too is halted in its tracks by the absence of time—so, rather than follow its futile downstream flow, Yu’s gaze traces the creek’s edge until he finally looks at the quaint cottage before him.

It’s odd; just looking at it makes him feel at home. The thatched roof, the brick base and chimney, the curved shuttered windows, the waterwheel—perhaps it’s because the sight seems right out of a storybook that it feels so comforting. 

Yu takes a step forward. So does someone else, right through him.

Barely able to stifle his scream in time, Yu stumbles backwards, watching as none other than Silver proceeds on the stone path. Unaware of the wide eyes trained on his back, he continues on ahead with a relaxed posture. At this moment, something he said during an interview comes to mind—

…‘I lived deep in a Briar Valley forest before coming to this school’...

“Is this what he meant?” wonders Yu aloud, hesitantly following Silver to the cottage. When it becomes apparent that he truly cannot be perceived, he breaks into a jog to outpace the sophomore’s naturally longer strides. “It’s… definitely not what I imagined…”

Although Silver’s resting stern look is unparalleled, there’s something blissful about it that Yu just can’t quite place. The look of someone returning home, ready to rest and bask in familiar comfort after a long day.

“But…” Yu hesitates as he realizes something, the two of them approaching the door. “This is just a dream, isn’t it? What are you expecting to see when you enter that house?”

Obviously, he receives no answer. It doesn’t stop him from holding his breath as Silver opens the door.

Consequently, Yu realizes a second earlier that there is nothing but a despairingly hollow void on the inside of the cottage.

“Silver, wait!” he shouts to no avail.

Silver naturally steps inside, only for his foot to find no purchase and no floor. His eyes widen helplessly as he stumbles forward, plummeting into the darkness. Yu scrambles to stand on the edge of the doorstep while clinging to either side of the door frame with both hands. 

When he looks down into the void after Silver, he sees just a flash of that iridescent hair of his before it’s gone.

“Dammit—!”

[ Ending Spectating Mode. Termination in 3… 2… 1… ]

“—what?”

Suddenly, Yu’s grip slackens against his will, and everything starts disappearing around him. As the step beneath his feet and the frame underneath his hands fade from existence, he finds himself weightless again but intimately aware that he’s falling this time. 

His descent is a terrifyingly long one. Various scenes and flashes of light zip by, until he passes two halves of a stone wall that shut like gates and meld together above him. The light disappears. Gravity chooses then to reorient itself entirely—meaning Yu is suspended in air for a moment before crashing down face-first onto the cold, hard stone of what is now the ground. The force knocks the air right out of his lungs, sending him into a fit of violent hacking and coughing as he tries to regain it.

“What just—” He gasps, balling his hands into weak fists. Although he’s still on the floor, he shakily props his upper body up on his elbows. “What just—happened—”

“Yu? You’re in this dream, too?”

Under the dim lighting, Yu looks up to see Silver on the floor nearby, appearing equally disoriented but at least more conscious than he was before. Strangely, a glowing specter of what seems to be a bird flutters around him for a moment, but it’s gone as soon as it appears.

“Oh, Silver!” Yu exclaims, relieved. He hurries to sit up properly. “You remember what’s going on now, right?”

Silver visibly hesitates, considering something, and then nods slowly. “Yes. Not only that, but I also remembered—a few months ago I had a foreboding dream with Lord Malleus in it, almost identical to this one.” He swivels his head to look around the room they’re in. “...it seems that we’ve fallen into a different room this time.”

Yu takes the time to also observe their surroundings. Dark stone walls, eaten away by age; hardly lit by a few sparse torches, flickering with an ominously familiar green fire. 

Had Silver experienced that same thing in his initial dream? Stepping into the cottage only to be betrayed and sent into the abyss? If so, then…

“It must be the same castle,” Silver murmurs to himself without any prompting. “In that case, perhaps I can still find…”

He trails off, brows furrowing, and meets Yu’s eyes. 

“What is it?” asks Yu. 

“I’m sorry to ask this of you,” says Silver with earnest remorse, “but would you mind accompanying me in exploring this castle? There is something from last time that I feel I need to find, and it may assist in understanding our current situation.”

“Well…” Regardless of any possible misgivings about this situation, Yu mostly trusts Silver. Mostly. But, better to be around a knight with a comforting presence than anyone else in a dreary place like this. “...okay. Why not?”

“There are some risks. I don’t know what to expect once we exit…” Silver trails off, realizing it was just a figure of speech, and stands up. His movements quickly lose their dizzy sluggishness. Once he’s on his feet, he offers a hand to help Yu up, which is gratefully taken. 

“Let’s go, then.”

…

The interior of the castle is ancient and almost abandoned, its walls a powerfully deep slate grey. There are only a few torches here and there to light the way, forming small spheres of cold light amidst the shadows. The arched ceilings are high up, causing the sound of their footsteps to echo back at them. Even the air is stiff and chilly, masking any signs of life. 

“Just like Diasomnia,” Silver whispers. 

The comparison is eerily accurate. Yu thinks about the lounge, where their physical bodies should still be, and a shiver runs down his spine. 

“It… feels like we’re getting involved in something we shouldn’t,” he murmurs. “Do you feel that?”

“…yes,” admits Silver, a hand resting on his baton for reassurance. His eyes narrow slightly. “But at the same time, that’s a sign that we’re on the right path… I hope.”

He continues down the dim hallway with cautious confidence, leaving Yu quietly in awe of his ability to push forward despite his doubts.

It takes what feels like several minutes of walking before the bird specter from earlier flits by, catching non-existent wind beneath its wings and zipping ahead of them. 

Silver’s eyes light up, stopping mid-walk. “That was—!”

“Wait, you saw it, too?”

“Yes. It normally marks the owner of a dream.” Before Yu can ask how he knows that, Silver continues. “Since this is my dream… I think it’s leading us to where we need to be. We should follow it.”

Again with that need to find and need to be—it only stirs skepticism in Yu, especially considering what happened the last time Silver simply followed the logic of the dream, but at the same time his hands are tied. “If that’s what you want, then. We don’t have a lot of time to deliberate.”

There’s only a curt dip of Silver’s chin in acknowledgement before he starts running after the bird, forcing Yu to sprint in order to keep up with him. It takes them down another long hallway before slipping into the entry arch of a winding staircase. Silver doesn’t even hesitate before racing up the stairs. 

“Silver, hold on a—seriously?!”

Yu can do nothing but chase after them. 

They seem to be ascending a tower, given the excessive length of the circular staircase that extends upwards for what may as well be an eternity. Yu wouldn’t find it difficult to believe if it were the tallest in the whole castle. 

Finally, the bird gives one last weak flutter of its wings before dissipating. At that point, they’ve already reached the top, stopping right before the entrance to the room that crowns the tower.

The door shudders and creaks, swinging open on its weak hinges with barely any force; as if inviting them inside. 

With Yu close behind, Silver enters, only to abruptly freeze in his tracks. 

“This is it,” murmurs Silver breathlessly, sounding absolutely certain.

His gaze is trained on the sight right before him: the room empty aside from a sole spinning wheel, placed in front of floor-to-ceiling frosted windows. Its spindle is so sharp that, even with the limited illumination from the torches, it gleams in the light. Uncovered as it is, the intrusive temptation to touch it is strong even to Yu. 

Outside, lightning flashes and thunder roars, momentarily turning the spinning wheel into a menacing light-lined silhouette. The rain only intensifies after, drumming against the window in violent torrents.

Silver suddenly takes off one of his gloves and steps towards the spinning wheel.

“Uh… Silver?”

Yu finds it difficult to hide his concern, and even more so when there comes no indication that he was heard at all. Silver continues to walk at a slow but resolute pace and reaches for the spindle with his ungloved hand. It’s perhaps the exact opposite of what he should reasonably be doing.

( ‘Touch the spindle.’ )

Oh. Yu’s eyes widen.

“Silver—Silver!” Yu raises his voice a notch, going so far as to grab Silver by the arm; only to be easily shrugged off. It’s surprisingly rude coming from the normally-composed boy, but it doesn’t seem intentional. “What are you doing?”

He receives no response—Silver continues on as if in a trance, eyes wide in an uncharacteristically morbid fascination. It’s not unlike watching a trainwreck in slow motion, the way his pale finger draws closer and closer to the spindle while Yu is helpless to stop him again. 

Closer, and closer…

( ‘Touch it, I say.’ )

“Silver, don’t touch that—”

The spindle breaks skin. 

Instead of blood, something dark and inky comes out of Silver’s finger. It is scarily reminiscent of blot. Silver stares at it as if he has no recollection of what he just did to himself.

“SILVER!” 

Yu operates purely on instinct, clamping his hands around Silver’s to stop the ‘bleeding.’ He examines the other boy’s expression, shifting from confused to dawning horror. “Are you okay? Do you feel weird?”

“N…no,” Silver forces out, furrowing his brows. His skin has gone pale, sweat beading on his face, although it could just be from the shock of snapping out of his stupor. “I don’t think so—”

Around them, the room shakes violently; he and Yu both stumble as a result. An inky darkness seeps in from the cracks in the walls, rapidly covering the floor and filling the air.

“I—Is that blot?” Yu wonders in a terrified sort of way, stepping back as it approaches. He shoots a quick glance at Silver—being in a dream together is bizarre enough, but being alone in a dream with a possible Overblotter…!

Thankfully, Silver doesn’t seem to be going mad. No blot drips from his forehead or anything of the sort, but his lips set into a thin, stressed line. “It isn’t. We still have to get out of here, though. Hold onto me, tightly!”

He offers his arm, and Yu doesn’t think twice before grabbing onto it as if his life depends on the strength of his grip. In a way, it does. Then rationality clears his mind for a moment; he blinks and opens his mouth to ask what purpose this serves.

Silver, eyes narrowed with concentration, is just a second faster to speak.

“Those I’ve met and will someday…”

Sparkles of magic coalesce around them, little flashes of birds and flowers, as Silver recites his incantation. Yu draws in a sharp breath, surprised—this must be his signature spell.

“… 「 Meet in a Dream. 」”

The world fades as they warp away.

…

Yu hadn’t realized he was squeezing his eyes shut on instinct, but he opens them once he feels ‘wind’ ruffling his hair. He immediately regrets it.

The scenery around them is gorgeous, no doubt—a warm sky packed flush with cotton candy clouds, kite-like birds cutting a path through the air. It is, however, impossible to appreciate when one is plummeting directly towards the ground and there is less ‘wind’ as it is just your body obeying the laws of physics.

“Why are we so high up?!” Yu screams. For maybe the third time now, his deathly fear of heights is being weaponized against him. 

Silver’s jaw is clenched tightly, focused on the rapidly-approaching ground. “I’m losing control… Hold on tight!”

He then grabs and holds Yu close to him, reassuring but also incredibly tight to the point of squeezing.

“Crap!” Yu gasps, the air being forced out of his lungs. Silver is strong, just as sturdy as the Leeches, but Yu’s hands still try to find purchase on the Diasomnia uniform’s various belts and armor sections.

“Sorry, but please bear with me!” Silver insists. “If we’re separated here—well, let’s just say I don’t think I’ll be able to find you again…!”

Yu promptly shuts his mouth, even though he still holds extreme misgivings towards their decreasing altitude. It’s then that they break through the clouds, and their surroundings change in an instant. 

Gone is the dreamy sky—they find themselves falling towards another bleak-looking castle, raised among rocky mountains and an endless pit filled with briar thorns. The sky and landscape alike are a somber greenish-grey. Diasomnia, Yu’s mind provides helpfully.

Regardless, the walkway leading up to the dorm grows less and less distant. 

Silver uses one arm to pull Yu even closer to him, muscles straining with the effort, as he releases the other to grab his magical pen. He draws it from its holster and yells at the top of his lungs, “WINDS!”

They are showered in sparkles before the world becomes blurry, spinning as their bodies reorient to be straight up. Yu vaguely registers his feet gently touching the ground and the arm around him loosening, but he still opts to lean on the infinitely more solid Silver.

“Are you okay?”

“Ughhh…” Yu closes his eyes, hoping his dizziness will die down. “Sorry. I don’t think I can stand on my own.”

“Take your time. I admit that spell was a bit abrupt.” Silver exhales in relief. “At least we’re both unharmed.”

Yu frowns. He stands up straight as soon as he can, dusting off his clothes. “I know I am for sure. How’s your finger?”

At some point, Silver must have somehow gotten his glove replaced. He peels it off to reveal his index finger back to perfectly normal. There is no scarring, no dried blood, nothing—just unmarred skin.

Some of the tension leaves Yu’s shoulders. “Thank God.” He looks away as Silver puts his glove back on. “So… from one castle to another, huh? This is a scarily accurate recreation of Diasomnia.”

“Right… it’s just a dream,” Silver remarks. “If nothing else, it’s proof that we managed to shake off the darkness…” He closes his eyes. “Good. That’s good.”

“Darkness? You mean that black stuff coming after us?” asks Yu. Just thinking about it again fills him with a sense of dread.

Silver nods. “If it catches you, it drags you into an even deeper slumber—I’ve encountered it a few times before. I’m… not sure why it showed up as soon as I pricked my finger, though.”

He pauses and stares quite intently at his own hand, lost in thought.

“How did I let that happen again? I thought I’d learned my lesson after last time, but as soon as I heard Lord Malleus’ voice…”

“Silver,” Yu interrupts. “Um, I don’t really get what happened, but we need to figure out where to go from here…” He gestures vaguely at the pathway before them and the grand exterior of Diasomnia.

“Ah—! Right.” Silver lets his hand fall back to his side, looking towards the dream version of his dormitory. “Let’s assess the situation first. I believe the owner of this dream will be inside.”

“Lead the way, then.”

Before they head into the main building, Yu hesitates and turns to look back. Where the winding cobblestone bridge towards the exit mirror normally would be is an opaque, all-consuming fog. Amidst that fog are wisps of green; magical fireflies flitting back and forth, shining like emeralds. 

So this was made possible by…

“Yu?” Silver calls, already a few meters away.

Shaking his head to rid himself of any irrelevant thoughts, Yu turns back around. “Coming, sorry!”

He hurries down the path, trying not to look back again.