#before burnout well and truly caught me

[grison-in-space]

which is, in fact, why the Asexual Agenda was created ten years ago: to make space for more in-depth discussions of the experience of being asexual without being constantly derailed by 101 shit. you gotta make different spaces for those conversations if you want to have them.

I do think you are being a little harsh, though: awareness weeks are not about higher-level discussions, they're about education and, well, raising awareness. that's the point of them! and I will say, also, as someone who has been around and part of asexuality activism communities for, shit, nineteen years now, you are taking a lot of progress done by that same basic-ass awareness shit for granted.

like. a lot.

when I was a fourteen year old kid realizing I was ace almost twenty years ago, I was pretty sure I would never meet another asexual person face to face and I was equally pretty sure no one would ever believe me if I used the word in front of them. fifteen years ago I was crabby because I couldn't tell which queer orgs wanted to be welcoming to aces like me, in theory, and which would explode in fury if I showed up with my full self. ten years ago I was cranky and tired because I had just navigated the immigration system with my (ace!) spouse and the whole process was exhausting and more than a little terrifying. five years ago I was trying to gently put the in-person ace community with its weekly meetings formally over to someone else before I left town. today I can look at a post like this and nod and think, "yeah, it is frustrating that asexual awareness week is always so focused on existing--but hey, I saw an infographic the other day pointing out that libido, interest in participating in sex, attraction, and political alignment with the goals of sex positivity are all totally unconnected axes!" which was a conversation I was part of hosting and promoting over a decade ago! today we're treating that shit like 101 material we expect allies to see, internalize, and move on with.

creating cultural recognition and a space for a whole group of people who had previously been treated like medical freaks at best is a long, slow project that involves thousands of frustrating, often annoying, repetitive conversations. it's okay if you feel impatient about that and want to do other work for a while. there are lots of jobs to be done, and you do not owe asexuality (or bisexuality) your educational allegiance to make a difference for your community. that does not change the reality: this is work that has been happening for decades now, and it will continue happening for decades to come, and every time it happens, the focus of the message is going to seem incredibly boring and incredibly basic. even if it's really getting just a tiny bit more complicated each time, it will always feel way below your level... because that is what 101, awareness, and education mean. it's teaching people who were not only out of class last time we did this, but who were listening to their friends gossiping in the hallway the time before that. that's the nature of the beast.

good luck. I'm glad you can take the more complex discussions for granted today. I hope you find something here to soothe some of your frustration and very valid impatience.

were activists who talked about the same issues we talk about today 30, 40, 50 years ago really "ahead of their time" or have we simply not progressed nearly as much as we should have?

[soft-mafia]

Saved [anime!Buggy x Reader]

warnings: fem reader, fem y/n, nsfw, smut, Buggy’s a bit of a perv, Buggy detaching his penis, fingering, fisting, blowjob, piss poor ending tbh

a/n: HELLLLOOO it’s been forever, I know. My HxH fic might take a while because I worked on the prequel right before working on the main one, and I’m currently struggling on that one😭 but if I execute it correctly I feel like the burnout will pay off once I finally finish it. I’m so excited for this little trilogy I’m cooking up guys, though I can’t decide if I want to publish the prequel first or the main fic. I’m already halfway finished with the prequel and I have a lot more energy when I write it😭maybe I need to change the premise of the main fic so I have more enthusiasm with it? But anyways, I’m gonna catch up with x reader writing lol.

There was a huge gust of wind, he was yelling at his crew over something he doesn’t even remember, and before he knew it he was flying into the ocean, trapped beneath the waves. Buggy’s entire body was frozen still not from his own choice, his eyes were wide and he hadn’t even gotten a suck of breath before he was pulled beneath the water. He truly thought he was going to die at this moment.

Suddenly, he feels someone is pulling at his arm. Well, attempting to that is, he’s not exactly light and dainty. But still, they pull and fight to get him above the water and back onto the ship. Once his head can poke out of the water and he can gasp in a breath of fresh air he sees his savior; it’s his chef.

Y/n had hidden a lot of her strength when she first joined his crew however she used it whenever she saw fit. Buggy’s eyes were still wide, he didn’t know why but when he saw her with wet hair, her makeup smeared all over— it was the hottest thing he had ever seen. Buggy had already been caught taking peeks at her from time to time, especially when she’s in the middle of prepping meals for the crew. Buggy can’t help but admire her lean, yet muscular arms as she pulls him back up onto the deck with some help from the crew.

The captain was still winded though, spitting and coughing up water. He was shaking, clothes damp and heavy, still feeling weak due to being soaked with pure sea water.

“Give him some air!” Y/n ordered his crew, getting them to back away from him for a moment. The way she barked that command made it seem like she was the captain of this ship. Buggy thought he should feel threatened, but the dominance in her voice was… oddly arousing.

Those feelings of arousal were quickly washed away as he sat up, coughing up more salty sea water. He then groaned and wiggled off his soaking wet coat that felt like it weighed a ton.

“Some help you guys were!!” Buggy snapped at his crew, then grumbled and let out another cough before turning to Y/n, “Thank you.” He choked out.

Y/n smiled at him, she always had such a soft smile when she looked at him. It seemed like every time she addressed him she had bedroom eyes, a dreamy smile on her lips, painted with black lipstick.

“I couldn’t let you drown.” She said to him, she blinked softly, her dark eyelashes were enchanting.

Buggy let out a shaky laugh, then slowly pulled himself up, “I’m gonna—…” he started, nearly falling over but he quickly found his balance, “—dry myself off.”

“Let me help you!” Y/n chimed as she sprung up as well, helping Buggy to the lower decks, rushing to where they kept all of the towels, getting Buggy the ones that were already clean and sitting in the dryer.

Buggy was wrapped up in towels, he could still taste the nasty water in his mouth, and his nostrils burned lightly, “I should really stop standing so close to the edge…” he muttered hoarsely. Y/n chuckled as she dried him off, rubbing his shoulders through the towels in soft circles.

“Nothing wrong with being clumsy, Captain.” She said, which in turn Buggy gave her a look.

“I’m not clumsy! It’s the damn wind… damn seasons changing.” He grumbled, which made Y/n laugh again. His cheeks blushed a bright red, if this was anyone else on his crew saying this… he would’ve chucked them overboard instantly, however he had to admit he found himself having a bias towards Y/n, due to her being absolutely gorgeous… and being the best chef he’s ever had in ages. Buggy didn’t think he could survive without her homemade hotdogs.

Sometimes Buggy wondered, why was Y/n so eager to join his crew in the first place? She was strong, hot, she could’ve stayed on her own and worked her way up at the restaurant she was working at but she snuck into a barrel on his ship and challenged his previous chef. Y/n made him the best pot roast he ever had and it instantly won him over. She would make him tons of food, feeding him more than his other crew mates(not that he was complaining about it) but why? He shouldn’t be anything special to a woman like her, he was just a dirty old clown, but for some reason she seemed to like spoiling him with meals.

“Hey…” Buggy looked back at her, “You’re not planning to kill me are you?” He looks at her with a suspicious glint in his eyes, something that would threaten any of his subordinates, however Y/n remained calm.

“Of course not.” Y/n chuckled, “Why would you think that?” She asked, it was a question out of curiosity, not a hint of guilt or intimidation in her voice.

Buggy looked forward, “You’re just so…” he couldn’t think of what exactly he was worried about, “Confusing.” He grumbled. There was a long silence, she started to dry off his torso.

“You’re powerful in your own right, you can go anywhere you want… but yet you’re here, with me.” He continued, “And you’re so damn generous. You make the best food I’ve ever tasted.”

“Is that something to complain about?” Y/n asked, gently taking off his hat and drying off his long flowing hair(which truthfully he hadn’t washed in days).

“Well— no.” Buggy stammered, then looked up at her, tilting his head back, looking at her upside down, “But why me?” He liked to talk big, but he knew that there were far more threatening people on these seas that would seem to be of Y/n’s caliber, men out there more worthy of having someone like her on their crew.

Y/n paused for a moment, looking down at him with her glimmering eyes. She then turned away, looking like she was going to get more towels but she was just fidgeting around with them, “Why not?” She asked.

Buggy frowned, then suddenly stood up and grabbed her by the shoulders, making her face him, “CAN YOU STOP ANSWERING MY QUESTIONS WITH ANOTHER DAMN QUESTION?!” He shouted, shaking her lightly, “TELL ME WHY YOU’RE HERE!!!”

“It's because I like you!!” Y/n cried out, then suddenly pulled away and turned her back towards him, covering her face. Buggy paused for a moment, stepping back. She… what? He then noticed she was sniffling, did he make the poor girl cry? There was a soft pain in his chest when he heard those sniffles, he felt terrible.

He stepped back over to her, then turned her back around.

“This is so humiliating-” She began, but before she could get another word out, Buggy connected his lips with hers.

It was a soft kiss, but it was passionate nonetheless. However Buggy hadn’t kissed anyone since he was in his 20s, so he was a bit rusty and had to turn his head awkwardly so he wouldn’t hit her with his damned nose. When he pulled back his face was flushed a bright red. Oh I shouldn’t have done that… He knew pirates didn’t go by any rulebooks or whatnot, but he knew he had committed a dozen conduct violations.

Y/n looked up at him, her eyes were wide, she looked so vulnerable and small compared to his large stature, Buggy felt more heat rise to his face, his eyes just as wide as hers. His arms instinctively squeezed around her waist, it was gentle and subtle but it pulled Y/n closer to him. Buggy realized what he was doing and quickly pulled away from her and grabbed his hat, he was quick to rush out of the laundry room. He let out a few grumbles to excuse himself although nothing coherent came out.

Buggy had locked himself away in his quarters for the rest of the evening, he was embarrassed and ashamed. Of course he always wanted to do that, everybody on his crew wanted to get a piece of Y/n, being horny pirates who haven’t seen a woman in ages before she came along and all… he sat at the edge of his bed, hands over his face as he sighed. Well if she wasn’t creeped out before she definitely is now, he growled to himself, Should I apologize? I’m probably the last person she wants to see right now-

His thoughts were halted when he heard a light knock at his door. This was around the time when Y/n would bring him dinner, which made Buggy feel even more terrible. The poor girl was probably so scared she thought she still had to make him food. The captain sighed as he stood up and made his way over to the door, opening it.

“It’s ok Y/n, you don’t have to-” Buggy was interrupted by Y/n stepping into his quarters, she then sighed and turned to look at him once she had entered.

“Was the kiss real?” She asked him, making Buggy speechless for a moment, she then spoke up again, “Or was it just a nervous reflex?”

Buggy thought for a moment, he didn’t know why he went in initially. It just felt like the right thing to do in the moment, “I-…” he felt his cheeks redden again, “Yes.” He croaked, “I’m sorry.” He said, putting a hand to his forehead.

“Don’t be.” Y/n said quietly, stepping closer to him, looking down at the floor, she then looked up at him again and put a hand to his face, cupping his jaw, his stubble prickled at her hand.

“I-… haven’t shaved.” Buggy chuckled nervously. Which made Y/n laugh and lean into kissing him on the lips, “I don’t mind.” She whispered when she pulled away.

One thing led to another, and before Buggy knew it, Y/n was stripped down to her underwear, lying beneath him on his bed. He was shirtless, his hands roamed over her body, he then pulled back and quickly slipped his gloves off with his teeth, tossing them to the side so he could get a good feel of Y/n’s body more thoroughly.

“Damn baby.” Buggy growled under his breath, making Y/n whimper and shiver. His fingers toyed around the hem of her bra strap, then he quickly moved his hands behind her to unclip her bra and toss it to the side. He lowered his face down in her chest and breathed it in.

In all honesty, Buggy didn’t care if he seemed like a perv, he was so lost in the moment that he was acting purely on instinct, though Y/n didn’t seem to mind at all, one of her legs was wrapped around his hips, her hands on his back. Her skin was cold to the touch, which took him aback at first but the warmth from his own body quickly warmed her up.

Buggy maneuvered the position and laid Y/n on her side, his crotch pressed up right against her ass, he lifted one of her legs in the air and detached his free hand, using that to move her panties to the side and rub at her clit. Her whimpers and moans were like sweet music to his ears, she was trembling against him, gasping softly. “Captain…” Y/n whimpered breathily, looking up at him.

“That’s right baby.” Buggy chuckled, watching her jolt and tilt her head back when he pushed deeper into her, groaning softly at the way her pussy swallowed his fingers. He added another one, until he got his whole hand inside of her, he thrusted in and out, she was already soaking wet, dripping onto him. Her moans grew, she panted heavily.

Buggy took his hand off of her leg to unzip his pants, fishing his cock out and letting it pop off, floating it over to Y/n’s mouth. His tip brushed against her soft lips, he gripped her chin firmly, “Open up, babygirl.” He said behind a devious grin. Y/n opened her mouth, then gagged against him as he slid his cock slowly down her throat until she took him all the way down to the base. Buggy let out a guttural grunt as her mouth squeezed around him. He thrusted his cock back and forth in her mouth while he thrusted his hand in and out of her pussy, essentially fucking her from both ends.

“You’re so fucking good.” Buggy groaned, “Letting an old clown like me use you like this…” he chuckled dryly, “You might be more of a freak than me.” He laughed. As Buggy thrusted his cock and hand in and out of her, he watched her breasts bounce with the force of his thrusts, he licked his lips, it was so arousing and it urged him to thrust deeper and faster into her throat, his balls hitting her chin as he fucked her face. Y/n’s eyes were rolled back, she was gagging and whimpering against his cock, juice splashing from her wet pussy as Buggy used her.

“Good girl…” Buggy growled deeply, “You’re being so good for your captain…” he grinned.

Buggy felt that familiar twinge in his cock, he groaned deeply, getting so close to spilling in her throat— but he couldn’t miss the opportunity to plunge inside of her. He quickly pulled his cock out of her mouth with a soft ‘pop’ from her lips before he could climax, then slid his hand out of her pussy. They were both panting heavily, Buggy’s cock hanging mid air, still hard yet dripping with her saliva. Y/n finally got a good look at it, his cock was big, veiny and girthy, with a fluff of thick blue hair feathering at the base of it, she remembered the way it had tickled her nose when he was fucking her face seconds ago.

Buggy turned Y/n’s face so she could face him, he kissed her on the lips, gently patting her on the cheek, “You can take me well, huh?” He chuckled, then his cock flew between her legs, pushing itself into her gaping pussy, making her gasp and arch her back, then let out another loud moan.

“That’s it.” Buggy chuckled, then grunted once he crammed himself deep inside, “Yes…” he moaned deeply.

He didn’t waste any time, thrusting with just as much force as when he had his cock in her mouth. Y/n gripped at the pillows, Buggy held her by the waist as their grunts and moans filled the room, his crummy bed squeaked beneath them. Buggy fucked her roughly, slamming his cock in and out of her, keeping her legs wide open for him as she trembled and squirmed. Y/n moaned his name out, whimpering and arching her back all for him. Buggy kissed her on the neck, then sucked on that area of skin, he hadn’t felt this good in so long, he didn’t know how he got this lucky.

“Captain!” Y/n moaned out again, her hips staggering, letting him know she was close.

“Just let it out baby…” Buggy groaned against her neck, “Let it all out, show me how good this cock is.”

Y/n’s pussy clenched around his cock, she came around him, coating his cock in that sweet cream. She let out a loud breath, then whimpered when Buggy continued to thrust, panting rhythmically.

Buggy was seeing stars, groaning and grunting as he plowed into Y/n, getting closer and closer to spilling out inside of her. “Can I-…” he grunted out, gasping before he could even get a word out from being so winded, “Bust inside…?”

Y/n gave him a nod, “Please.” She whimpered to him.

It didn’t take long before Buggy let out a deep grunt, holding Y/n tightly as he came inside of her, filling her up with sperm. Their sweaty bodies were pressed against each other, Buggy was so close to falling limp, it felt like all of the energy he had was drained out of him in an instant. He rolled over on his back, cock sliding out of her as his hands reconnected to his wrists.

“Holy fuck…” Buggy winced.

Y/n giggled, panting just as heavily but having more energy despite all of this. She rolled over as well and snuggled up against his side, holding his face again, noticing how he was completely flushed, his face was so red it looked like his nose was glowing too, she could help but laugh at that.

“You’re so cute, captain.” She kissed him on the cheek. No doubt the entire crew heard their love-making but Buggy was too exhausted to deal with it right now, hell he didn’t think he could even pull himself out of bed.

He turned to look at Y/n, then giggled at her, “You have a very odd taste in men.”

[hiverbluu]

Arghhh this looks makes me think about ghost Minjeong that seduces you to make you fuck her. Someone pls write ghost jmj fic!!! I need it 😞 well i do have something in mind like:

"Jimin, a college student on the brink of burnout, never expected her life to spiral further when she encounters a ghost in the dark alley near her apartment. Minjeong, a seductive and mischievous spirit, isn’t just a figment of Jimin's imagination. She's very real. At first, Jimin seeks psychiatric help, convinced she's losing her mind, but Minjeong proves her existence in hauntingly tangible ways. What starts as teasing escalates into a dangerous obsession, as Minjeong demands Jimin’s love while draining her life force. Caught between terror and temptation, Jimin must find a way to break free before Minjeong's deadly infatuation consumes her completely."

Also the second pic looks like jm. Truly gfs sksjsjskkssk

[kaetastic]

IF ONLY YOU KNEW

pairing: Regulus Black x Slytherin!F!Reader

summary: She was born green. Well, not literally, but the bond between two Slytherins was like no other. Written in the stars, destiny had been made for the two long before they were even born. So if he was truly her soulmate, does she have to bear the weight of his absence until she wilts?

word count: 4.1k

warning: angst, talks of character's death. had a plot, lost said plot.

notes: I haven’t written in some time even though I know I could’ve :( It was more than writer’s burnout, but even that I can’t pinpoint why. I also feel that Tumblr is the ONLY social media platform that I own where I don’t feel discouraged at any sort of interaction. I feel free here because I get to publish a story and just read other pieces by other authors. I also feel like this story has less of a plot and more of angst LOL IM SORRY OKAY i just want to cry right now haha.

“It is understandable that you are nervous.” The soft voice filled the air. Even though the windows were perched open as wide as they could to invite new air in, the witch felt incredibly suffocated. There were a lot of thoughts circulating her mind, overlapping each other and cutting one after the other before it could be completed. She felt her energy dim down by each second as her brain welcomed the traffic. Sometimes she wished there were potions that could hinder the thoughts for just a moment.

Her eyes laid on the reflection of her figure on her vanity mirror. Despite taking care of herself and getting ready to combat the obstacles of the day, sleep was one thing that did not want to cooperate with her. No matter what magic. The prominent eye bags were embarrassing to say the least after consuming concoctions after concoctions. Specifically tailored to her own suffering by some of the best Potioneers and apothecaries. The best people that came when you had pureblood family connections.

The witch was blessed (as her late mother would say) for having such luxuries in her life without ever working for it. Except, her mother didn’t say that in a ‘you have to appreciate what you have’ and more like ‘you have better things than low-life people so make sure to use it to your advantage and rub it on their faces.’ However, she never understood. Yes, she had wealth to her name, she had always been gifted with extravagant gifts ever since a mere infant, and she had all the access to so many things a normal witch didn’t. But in the far back of her mind, she had one thought on an endless repetition. She would trade it all for him back. Anything and everything.

“No. It is not. I am not just nervous, I’m,” Y/N huffed out, pushing the sentences and thoughts she would need to the most prioritized in her head. Pushing herself out of the vanity seat, she paced from one side of her room to the other. There were jitters in her legs, suddenly she needed to let out the pent up emotions in a form of movement. “I feel so angry, it is indescribable, and then I feel so down.”

A chuckle came from the previous voice, “Yes, I am very much aware of your rollercoaster of emotions. In fact, wasn’t I always the one to call you out on it?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, planting her palms on the window sill, her pupils grazed over the well-looked after garden. The male blurted, “Would it be so bad?”

Despite being caught up on the butterfly that innocently planted itself on a leaf, the witch mumbled under her train of thoughts, “I don’t know. It could go so many ways and I do not like that. Just when I thought I was settling myself into peace (that was a lie), of course Dumbledore had to reach out to me.”

She held her head low, fingers fidgeting with the ring wrapped around her finger. It was so cheesy for it to house an emerald crystal, but cheesy was one side he showed her to no one else. Y/N plopped back down on the seat, her head resting on her hands. Gorgeous. A masterpiece worked on so hard the public sought after it so much just to take it from her grasp. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t with her anymore. She sighed, getting lost in the colourless picture. The witch stared at it with so much love and longing that it might’ve pushed her back to square one, “Reggie, I wish you were here.”

Her thumb caressed the framed picture so gently.

“What do you mean, my love? I am.” The moving figure in the photo smirked, leaning his body on the side of the frame. Y/N noted the curls in his hair gently falling down his face. Tranquil nights that were not exactly innocent shared together in a bed, she had always fidgeted with the strands of hair that stuck to the sweat beads on his forehead. Nights that she can count. She missed the feeling of it between her fingers, and the way he always smelt like his cologne. It was always lingering.

“Piss off Reggie,” The wizard laughed a melody she so dearly missed. “You know what I mean.”

Regulus’ lips fall into a thin line.

“I am always with you. Remember when I spent that one summer at yours? The stupid promise I made when we were kids that I was going to haunt you even when I am dead is still being upheld.” Y/N laughed and she couldn’t help but feel the tears prickling in her eyes, “You are more than capable. We both know it. Dumbledore may had his eyes out for us back then, but he’s a man who wants to do good.”

That’s where the issue lied. Why did Dumbledore send an owl to her? Even though in the letter, the great wizard had stated that she was invited for a private meeting- that had to be the most vague reasoning ever. Not to forget the fact that Dumbledore had remembered how great of a student she was. He stated that she had great skills and assets. That was it. The line ended there… before he mentioned that the meeting would take place in 12 Grimmauld Place. That had stuffed a blockage in her throat because Y/N couldn’t breathe after slapping the letter to a close.

Despite there being no inhibitors of that house for some time, Y/N could not bear the idea of making that place her home. She could not imagine herself getting out of bed, reading a book, and cozying up in front of the fireplace (the other tasking job would have been carried out by the elf) because every corner of that house reminded her of Regulus. There was no universe where she would settle in a place that reminded her of what she no longer had. So she stayed at the house they dreamt of for their future. It was bought by their families as an engagement gift for when they had turned 17. It was young, sure, but the two were more than sure. Additionally, this was the future set up for them.

The new house still held memories of him, but not as much. It was a comprimise but she would rather make home of a place that lacked her painful memories. Wrapping a hefty, tight chain around her chest, it felt like a punishment knowing that the house was once a wish for the two. Now, it’s just her living that wish.

Regulus kept yapping reassurance, always using the wit he was adorned for while Y/N entertained herself with the countless framed pictures of Regulus. It felt like a routine at this point. A restart to the cycle she wished would just end. With a wide grin, Regulus had his fist thrown in the air as he rode the quidditch broom as if he was born for it. An arm had been thrown over her shoulders, yanking her closer to his body. The couple smiled in bliss in their infamous green robes. So innocent, so clueless for the future that was awaiting.

The witch remembered it as if it was yesterday, the jealousy that always were aimed at the two by the other pureblood children of their age. To be bethrothed before you were even breathing the air of the world was one thing; however, to be bethothed before being born and falling head over heels for one another was a one in a billion. Always reminded by her great aunts and all the women in her life that in one form or another, they had to find peace in their marriage. They had to find and make love in the marriage. It didn't apply to them.

Even though their seniors would tease and jest them for how they were always joined hip to hip every single day, they knew deep down- they craved for what they had. The compatibility between the two was a dream not even fairtytales could match. She knew that girls had eyes on Regulus, who wouldn't? But it was more than wanting the boy, it was wanting what they had. Regulus never had to reassure her despite the few times a burn had ignited in her chest. She knew they were for one another. Who could rewrite what was already written in the stars?

The ideal pureblood match.

She realized Regulus had stopped talking. The wizard watched her with such affection in his eyes, “What does Dumbledore want with me?”

The nature of the great wizard always ticked her off. Despite being praised for doing so many good deeds like Grindelwald, he did some things very harshly and brazenly. Not to forget his favoritism towards Gryffindor. It was petty of her to hold onto a memory like that after all these years, but she couldn’t help it.

“I’m not too sure either. However… the timing of the letter and my brother’s escape is too coincidental for it to be otherwise.” Regulus replied.

Great. Even though the wizard had stated in the letter that it was just a private meeting between the two, she knew the wizard always had cards up his sleeves. If she was, thereotetically, to meet Sirius Black- she would actually freeze in time. The two Black brothers didn't exactly look identical, but the black curls, their mannerism... she hoped he became a worse prick than he was in school.

Y/N sighed out, she needed to get this over with even though she really did not want to face whatever it was, "It's time."

The wizard in the frame sent a comforting smile, "You've got this, my love."

Pulling the drawer of the vanity, the hinges creaking, she pulled out a box that was kept in pristine condition. It had been so long since she needed to take it out. It's not like she left her house often. She let her eyes rest on the frame before resting her hands on its side as if it had been the most fragile thing to exist.

"See you soon, Reggie."

The lid of the box shut out the talking wizard.

There it was in all its glory. Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The rumbling and droplets of bricks had ceased, revealing the door camouflaged to all eyes except those with magic in their veins. She didn't know how to feel. Despite preparing herself for a few days and en route to apparate, she was very much not ready. Her fingers suddenly went numb. Although, the grip on her box remained tight as ever.

Y/N felt as if she had gone mad. The voice of her lover when he was a mere age of 12 played in her ears, followed by his laugh. Not even controlling her muscles, the corner of her lips curled up at the memory. The peri-puberty voice would be completely gone in a couple of years when he reached 17. Now it's a voice embroided in a picture frame.

She breathed in before taking a step forward. Just get it over with. Without even knocking, she made the boisterous creaking of the wooden door as her announcement. She had done the one thing she thought she wouldn't ever have to do. Step foot into the house her late lover would've inherited. The place reeks of him.

It was depressing- the thoughts and the place. She stood at the entrance of the incredibly narrow hallway, the walls that used to hold up framed portraits of credulous Black family members now empty with decaying portaits. Unmaintained. Corners of the wallpaper had start to curl into the air, its sharp edges prodding in the air- ready to launch attack to whomever finds confidence. The floor panels creaked with every slight step she made, and her body was enveloped by a sudden fright when she heard faint murmurs.

"Blood-traitors..."

That voice. As her head shot up with nostalgia and eyes sparkled with hope, a petite figure made way into her peripheral, stepping down from the staircase. If Y/N had to use better vocabulary, she would describe it as an aged old creature with wrinkles on its skin that matched trenches of mountains, on the other hand, she would describe it as what you would imagine sagging skin. The witch stood in the entrance, suddenly feeling the box slipping in her grip as she stared at the elf with a wide smile.

Feeling a presence in a house he was sworn to protect, the elf turned to face the witch. No, the magic in her wasn't tainted. It hadn't been touched. At all. Pure. His eyes widened while the corner of his lips curled up. A smile he had only been giving to his Mistress Walburga Black for Godric knows how long.

"Miss!" The house-elf exclaimed. Holding his cleaning equipments close to his chest, he couldn't believe it. She was right in front of him. In flesh. Excitement jitters in his frail old body, excitement he forgot he could experience. This was beyond a good day. This make ups for the blood traitor who found shelter in the house he had been taking care of ever since the Black household had vanished. Well, partially. Kreacher did not know how to react.

"Kreacher." The witch retorted back, a grin now playing on her face as she stepped closer towards him. She remembered how the house-elf was always so loyal and dedicated to the Black household. Well, to all except Sirius. There were summers when she had resided in the house- times when she truly had Regulus all to herself. Even though she wished those moments were calm and peaceful, it truly was not. The bricks of the house stayed solid until chaos erupted from the same source every single time. Sirius. Y/N lost counts of how many times she had left Regulus' room to meet the scowls on Sirius' face. Shouts after screams, arguments after disagreements- it was the norm for the Black household until Sirius had left home. Then there were never much noise.

If there was one thing Sirius was right about, it was the more time Y/N and Regulus had spent time together- the deeper they were in the hell-hole of trouble.

The house-elf stared up in amazement, "Miss! Kreacher has missed you! Kreacher has lost count how long it has been since Kreacher had seen Miss!"

Sitting on the edge of her tongue, the witch readied herself to reply to the joyness but not a word. Not a speckle of sound was made. How long has it truly been? It was a foolish question to ask since she had been counting ever since Regulus had left home and never came back. A decade and a half. A chunk of one's life and she still believed that her heart could not be mended. Her heart heavy wherever she went, even the short walk through her garden. Maybe if she left her house more often and saw more people than those that came to visit hers for services, she would've moved on. Would it be wrong? To devote yourself to one person who you thought your future lied with, then find someone else? Would it be so selfish?

"It has been some time, Kreacher."

The house-elf nodded eagerly, he thought today would be like no other except for the fact that he now has another burden on his plate, "Kreacher hasn't seen Miss in so long, Kreacher asks what is Miss' business in the Black's home?"

"She's here for me."

The split second she gaped her mouth to respond, another much deeper voice responded. Standing at the staircase stood a man with little to no life in him, Azkaban truly sucked the life out of him. His skin lost its colour, grey and pale, almost sickly. His eyes looked like it sunk in deeper than before, he lost fat in his cheeks, and his beard somehow trimmed. He obviously controlled whatever he could, but a few months would not bring back the soul he had 12 years ago.

"Welcome back,” The wizard gave her a tight smile as if he knew she was trying to get under his skin. Well, she wasn't exactly trying- after years of not getting along together, it just happened naturally. Y/N tilted her head, "Thought I was meeting Dumbledore."

"Well," He shot back, leaning on the railings (that was enough for the house-elf to take his leave despite not wanting to), "You thought wrong. I have no idea how people falling for his tricks.”

She chuckled at the absurdity.

“What are you doing here?” Sirius shot an eyebrow at her question. For a moment she thought she had asked the wrong question. No. She did not. As he made down the last few steps, the man stood in front of her. At an angle, maybe with lots of alterations and blurring, he looked like her Reggie.

“It’s my home. Well, house,” He quickly corrected himself. “Though, I’m surprised.”

When he noticed she didn’t understand him, he continued, “This place was to be yours, was it not? But you left. Abandoned it even.”

While he had the joy to crane his neck around at the place that seemed to be holding onto its last thread, she had her eyes set on his face. He found it humorous. Funny. Amusing. There were not enough words in the English vocabulary to describe the burning in her chest. The wizard turned to her face, “So why are you not occupying it?”

“You’re infuriating as ever.”

“Thank you for the compliment.”

As much as she wanted to stupefy the man before her, there was one question she wanted an answer to. So many questions but she yearned to have its replied to. She mumbled, eyes wandering on the diminshed trimmings of the walls- something she suddenly became fascinated with, “How did you find out?”

He hummed, waiting for her to finish.

“How did you find out about him?”

Him. She clutched the cardboard box harder, leaving small indents of pressure that could be brought back with a little magic. Losing Regulus was something she had to make peace with, but having a photo framed of him that was capable of communicating with her did not make it easy. Especially when she had begged numerous times at the beginning where he had been. Where he had gone to.

'Your mind is clouded with questions that I cannot answer, and I am sorry that I will never be able give you that clarity. My absence will leave a hole in your days. I know that it is selfish of me to know of its consequence and still pursue with it but I wish you a good life, a life we talk so much of. A life that I can no longer be part of. No danger will trail you, our past is the past.'

The words were choked out of her throat as the sudden recall of his letter clenched her heart.

Sirius wet his lips, “Kreacher did. That was after I checked his room.”

Regulus' room. The room she had made enemies with ever since the disappearance. She bet it remained the same. The sheets made neat (just how Walburga liked it), the carpet inched slightly to an odd angle, the broomstick leaned against the wall, and the framed picture of them freed of dusts.

"Although, that elf never mentioned anything."

The glossy appearance of her eyes vanished into the air once she brought her attention back to the escapee in front of her. It was the same response she received when she had gone on her knees for the house-elf, begging with bursting springs out of her eyes.

You are truly cruel, Regulus.

"He said the same thing to me."

Now it was Sirius' time to be intrigued, "Were you not head over heels for my brother? Or am I missing some bits here?"

Y/N couldn't help but to chuckle. Sirius and Regulus was the face of the rebellion for the phrase 'blood runs thicker than water'. He did not know what happened to his brother, he did not seem to be bothered by it. They dare say Slyterins were full of hatred.

"Let's move to the tapestry."

Understanding of how suffocating it was in the narrow entrance, the two magical beings stood in the room that had generations of the Black family marked on. A room full of history. There was one name she only sought out for, and she lost herself in his name.

"I don't know either. One... one day," She cleared her throat, noticing how her emotions were gripping around her words. "He held me like it was our last time. I jokingly asked if he would miss me for a few hours. He didn't say anything. Once he left that door, he never came back home."

Her fingers traced over the 'some fifteen years earlier' text.

"I knew how strong he was. He was more than capable but I could not find sleep that night. It felt like there was something in me- telling me that something was not right. The bed felt wrong, the air was wrong- it all felt wrong. I then saw the sun awaking, so I did too. And on top of the kitchen table was this."

The wizard looked at the carboard box she was handing to him. He had been extremely curious as to what she was holding, but did not inquire. His breath stilled. The lid came off to reveal the young man he had grown up with. While he looked like he aged a hundred years with tattoos scattered all over his body, the wizard in the photo frame had encapsulated his youth. No moment would have prepared him when a voice rang into his ears.

"Oh, hello, brother."

Sirius nearly flipped the box out of his hands if it wasn't for Y/N's quick reflexes. The box floated in the air whilst the magic residue from her wand evaporated into the air.

"What- what is that!" Clearly he wasn't aware of the invention.

"A picture frame."

"Well, clearly it is! What do you take me for? A fool?"

Before he could snap another remark at her, Regulus chirped up, "I think we all do, Sirius."

The wizard took a step back as Y/N pulled out the frame out of the box, displaying the moving picture. It was as if Regulus was inside the frame. Stuck. It could not be.

"Regulus... I don't know how to explain it but he enchanted it as if it was him."

Sirius took a deep breath in before looking back at the picture frame, suddenly very aware of his surrounding. He did not know if he should throw a fist or flee from the room. What magic was this? He has never heard of an interactive picture frame.

"What dark magic have you guys dabbled in?"

Y/N threw a hard glance at him, "It is not dark magic."

"Then what is it? There is no such thing as a talking picture! I've seriously gone mad. Merlin."

Regulus and Y/N watched as Sirius gripped his mane of a hair, crouching onto the ground whilst he rock himself slowly. He was mumbling incoherent things under his breath. Regulus could not help the stiffle that escaped his lips. The younger wizard found it beyond amusing. It was entertaining him. At the sound, Sirius snapped up, pointing fingers at the picture frame.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"To show you how great of a wizard he was, Sirius. I, of all people, knew the dispute between you two. You don't need the closure but I know deep down, you wonder just the same as me. We grew up together under this roof and we both have so many unanswered questions."

"I know the irrational and troubling things we did back then, but we grew up, we saw things we didn't before. Despite all the evil we were in, Regulus and Kreacher refused to tell me what happened. Not a bit. I know that I cannot be the only one to mourn him because Regulus is more than a stranger- he's your baby brother."

Sirius's eyes met with her glossy ones, the term sounded so foreign to him. The man whose voice was not heard and thrown behind bars felt a pin poke his heart as he realized the woman before him seeked answers he now also wants.

[concerningwolves]

god I'm reading Devon Price's latest substack essay on burnout, and it's.. it's confirming and crystallising something that I've suspected for a long time, actually.

See, all throughout school, I would have days �� roughly every month or so, sometimes two months – where I became Unwell. The symptoms never really fit anything, but I'd be exhausted, irritable, headachey, sometimes feeling kind of feverish. Most importantly, i'd just Know that I couldn't cope with school that day. I can remember these starting in middle school and getting more frequent and pressing into high school. When I did take the day off, I'd watch TV or films and sleep a lot, and then by the evening – if it wasn't a weekend night – I'd be in this weird place of feeling rested but also crushingly anxious with the knowledge that i'd just be back at school tomorrow. Holidays weren't truly restful either, except for maybe the middle two weeks of the six-week summer break. The two week Christmas and Easter breaks? I'd start to feel a bit better towards the end of the first week, then the dread would build up again throughout the second week. By my GCSEs, I couldn't keep up my academic drive, so I picked the subjects I most wanted to do well in (English, German, Biology, and History + maths because I needed to pass it so I could be done with it), focused my revision on those, and coasted by with perfunctory revision on the other seven subjects. It's honestly shocking to me that I got a full 12 GCSEs. People tell me that my results were good, and I know that logically they're right, but it took me a long time to be proud of them because I always knew that I hadn't really tried. It took me even longer to accept that if I had given every subject my all, it probably would have broken me.

As it was, I made it into my first term of college before I hit breaking point. Three A Levels (English lang & lit, history, psychology), dreams of a career in psychology or psychiatry, writing in all my spare time. I'd been very mentally unwell all through high school, but I'd always imagined that college would be my escape. First I was going to study philosophy, history, and English literature – but then that college had to drop the philosophy course. My next chosen college was an incredibly competitive college that held students to very high standards. I had the grades to get in, and I was dithering between a selection from English literature, history, classical studies, sociology, philosophy, or psychology. But I never made it in, because I missed the induction day. Students who missed the induction day automatically forfeited their placement. In hindsight, that was the first warning, but instead I felt wretched for a few days, then decided, fuck it, I was going to my final last choice college instead.

And in less than six months, I had an absolute breakdown. Anyone who was following me circa 2018 may remember the fallout. Skill regression. Low mood. Weeks spent just watching Supernatural or sleeping. Panic attacks. I never truly got my feet back under me. I dropped down to one a level and abandoned all thoughts of university, and scraped by college until I could just get out of there.

And reading this article, looking back at the trajectory of my life since 2018, it's... Eye-opening, to say the least. I don't know if I'm recovered or still recovering, or adjusting to my new baseline, nearly seven years later. Sometimes I wonder if an autism diagnosis earlier might have helped – might have given me the language and the tools to understand what was happening to me on all of those Unwell Days. So I grieve for that potential. I don't hate my life now, it's just.... I have to wonder, you know? What might have been. Could I have caught the burnout sooner? Headed it off? I don't know. I can't know. all I've got is where I'm at now, which is certainly something to be proud of, because I made it, even if I'm not anywhere near what's "normal" or "expected" of a 23 year old. and I have my whole life ahead of me yet. 23 years is nothing, in the grand scheme of things. Remembering that is always a balm.

But still I wonder. I grieve. It's hard not to.

[cosmicobubisi]

Cosmic's Malleyuu Whump vs Flufftober: Day 29

FATIGUE labyrinth | burnout | "who said you could rest?" / Time Capsule

Inspired by @ventique18's "For you, my love, anything."

TW: Mentions of torture

At this point, the shakes, the nausea, and the pounding, bleating headaches were just the extra sparkle that elevated Yuu's current existence from "kinda sucky" to "super hell".

They couldn't even remember an existence without them anymore. They were as much thorns in their side as the crutches they lay upon, when their broken, beaten body had well and truly run out of energy,

Yuu could be sleeping right now, but they'd be trading a bit of momentary comfort for a world of pain later. This, and all the other reasons listed above, where why they were considering a truly out-of-character move.

Crowley, or Raverne, or whoever he was, lay a few paces in front of Yuu, slumped over at his desk in a rare concession to his mortal body.

It probably hadn't been a willing concession. He only slept when he passed out, and only ate or drank for the same reason.

Yuu wasn't afforded such luxury. They could pass out and be pinched, slapped, or burned awake, forced to go on until they could not be roused.

If their mind were clearer, they'd wonder what the point of this all was was. While a little motivation was good, a little starvation nothing in the face of rescuing one's family, surely constantly staying this close to illness or death was less productive than just working regular hours and taking breaks.

But the only thing that occupied Yuu's thoughts nowadays was the all-consuming urge to murder the man before them.

It wouldn't be easy. They didn't have many tools that wouldn't be far too heavy to kill with in this prison of a temporal pocket dimension. All they really had was some sharp pencils, but right now, that sounded like more than enough.

They stood, head swimming and knees turning into water. The transition from standing to sitting had become all the more difficult with their lack of nourishment, and Yuu had to fight not to stumble into their own chair, lest they make some loud noise and spoil their plan.

Once they'd caught their breath, Yuu's eyes focused again on the form slouched over the desk. His desk was messy, as usual, and Yuu hoped that the bright light and awkward angle of his neck caused his cheek to dig in hard to the pushpins almost certainly scattered on his desk.

Yuu reached over to grab a pencil, then went back for six more.

They raised them over his back, and grit their teeth as they jammed the pencils into his neck.

Yuu had underestimated just how weak they'd become, however, because as the points of the pencils hit flesh, the strength of their grip faltered, allowing most of the pencils to clatter to the floor.

One managed to stab decently deep, though it didn't draw blood. What it did end up doing, however, was waking Crowley with a fright.

He shot up and swung his arms out, and Yuu took a large step away before he hit them.

Shaking off sleep, he looked at them groggily, but before his eyes could fill with his usual rage, Yuu tackled him in their own anger.

They managed to catch him off-guard enough that they were able to roll over onto him, crushing his lungs with their weight.

"You have to stop this," they croaked out, voice breaking with fury and exhaustion. "This isn't working anymore."

"Get off of me!" he grit out, punching their arms with his flails.

Yuu picked up his head and slammed it back onto the glossy floor- not hard, and not far, but the gesture was still meant to literally knock some sense into him.

For a moment, everything was silent, save for the roar in Yuu's ears.

Had they done it? Had they actually gotten through to him?

Before they knew it, Yuu was on their back, seeing stars in the bright lights up above.

"I didn't say you could rest," he hissed, nearly spitting at them "Who said you could rest? Because that certainly wasn't me."

He picked them up by the neck and dragged them to a familiar door.

"Come out when you've got a new idea," he spat, and they were thrown into the labyrinthine storage closet without another word.

His strength hadn't left him, Yuu thought as they crashed into a rack of shelves, holding any matter of knickknacks collected over the years.

Yuu could hardly pick themselves off the floor, scattered on the tile like spilled marbles. They sobbed, loud and ugly into the darkness, not bothering to muffle their sobs anymore.

When Yuu had agreed to help Crowley, after the mirror expedition had gone so wrong, things hadn't been like this. He always forged ahead, like he knew better than they did, but they were a team.

Yuu thought they'd seen something in that man. Behind his scatterbrained facade had been a man destroyed by the horrors of war, and they thought, with enough digging, they could rediscover the man who'd been lost.

That man was buried too deep in the ground for Yuu to uncover, however, at least if they were alone.

This place was torturing him- a place for Crowley to live in an echo chamber of his worst mistakes and most brutal failings.

No wonder he was so messed up here. That kind of thing would drive anyone mad.

Scrubbing their hand over their face as the sobs subsided, they tried to remember they weren't alone. Malleus was out there, somewhere, and he at least had his mother so he was not alone.

Yuu's eyes opened, and in the darkness, they saw something gleam.

In loopy script were the words, "To Meleanor, from Raverne" on a box, and Yuu opened it, curious about its contents.

Inside was a number of objects Yuu barely understood. A letter, with script too dense for Yuu to read, a box with earrings in it, a pressed flower, a stained napkin, a small portrait of someone that could have been anyone, and a folded-up note, with a necklace wrapped up in it.

Yuu didn't know what they were staring at, and for a few moments, their brain struggled to process that it was an object of great significance anyway.

Feeling every joint in their body protest, Yuu returned all of the objects save one to the box and stood up, stumbling out of the closet.

"Hey," they shouted, getting his attention, holding up the necklace and the writings of a spell. "Does this mean anything to you?"

[bi-bard]

Taylor Swift Songs That Would Describe Relationships with the Murder Husbands [Pt. 3 - Midnights Edition] - Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter Preference [NBC's Hannibal]

Title: Taylor Swift Songs That Would Describe Relationships with the Murder Husbands [Pt. 3 - Midnights Edition]

Characters: Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter

Word Count: 3,394 words

Warning(s): cheating, imprisonment, burnout

Author's Note: I've redone this four times. (However, High Infidelity was in all four versions)

----------------------

Will Graham:

High Infidelity

Do you really want to know where I was April 29th? Do I really have to tell you how he brought me back to life?

--Third Person--

It all kept going through Will's mind in flashes. Like lightning strikes. Just as blinding.

He could still feel the touches and kisses. He could hear every word and sound. He never knew how vivid his memories could be until he was truly haunted by them.

He wondered if (Y/n) was in the same state.

Lying in their bed at home, watching the movie of their night together. He wondered how they felt when they thought about it. Did they experience the same mix of guilt and longing that he did? Or maybe they were still angry at him.

(Y/n) and Will had a history that went back even further than his history with Hannibal.

The two of them had become everything to each other. (Y/n) had been with Will through everything. They stayed by his side when he got arrested, when he got locked away in his head, and everything in between. In his mind, they became a beacon. A sign of safety that may never be matched again.

Everyone else could see that too.

They saw the way that the pair of them looked at each other. It was easy to see how Will seemed to relax just a bit. How (Y/n)'s entire face just softened when they saw him.

Which is why it was more than shocking when Will left (Y/n) behind after Hannibal was arrested. He left town suddenly, leaving (Y/n) in the Wolf Trap house with a few dogs. No one knew why.

(Y/n) refused to go into detail about it. Instead, they would shake their head and say that it was for the best.

And then, Will came back.

After three years, the pair were meeting again in Jack Crawford's office.

Will kissed (Y/n) first. Back at the old house in Wolf Trap.

(Y/n) saw the wedding band on his finger. They just couldn't bring themself to care about it.

The rest of that night was contained to the blur of images. They ran through Will's head like images on a projector.

He wasn't sure how long he had spent lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling before he reached for the phone.

His body was moving faster than his mind was.

"Hey," Molly's voice almost caught him off-guard. "How you doing out there?"

"As well as expected," Will replied quietly.

"I see," she mumbled. "But you're doing some good, right?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "I hope so."

He didn't see it, but he could assume her eyebrows furrowed. "What's going on, Will?"

He closed his eyes. Every word, every thought was stuck in his throat. He couldn't think of something to say. He knew what he needed to say. What needed to be explained. He just couldn't.

In a way, Molly already knew.

She knew all too well about (Y/n) and their importance. Will still held onto the gifts they gave him. His hesitance to tell stories about them was sign enough to Molly that the wounds were all too fresh for him to discuss.

She couldn't find a way to be upset with them before then.

She only knew of the kind person that tried to keep the man she loved safe. She couldn't punish someone for being in love. She could only punish the actions that a person acted on. And even then, she found herself terrifyingly understanding.

"Did..." she didn't want to ask, but she knew that she needed the answer. "Did something happen with (Y/n)?"

Will's breath got stuck just as the words had mere moments before. "Yes."

Her eyes closed. "Did you sleep with them?"

"Yes."

She bit her lip and looked down. She was truly angrier with Will than she was with (Y/n).

She could've screamed at him. She had every right to do so. Will was expecting her to. Almost hoping that she would. Granted, he wasn't quite sure why. Maybe it was just in the hopes of knowing where he stood after it all.

But she didn't.

Molly stayed silent for a while, letting all of it sink in and settle under the surface of her skin.

"I'm sorry."

Will's words were a whisper. A desperate, overwhelmed, scared whisper.

He heard a sigh before Molly spoke, "I know."

It was just as quiet but sounded emotionless.

There wasn't another word spoken before the line went dead.

Will closed his eyes.

Nothing left to do now but deal with the feelings he still held for (Y/n).

Anti-Hero

I should not be left to my own devices They come with prices and vices I end up in crisis

If you had told me years ago that I would be visiting the man I loved in prison, then I would have scoffed at you.

If you had told me that I would find myself being constantly "confronted" (harassed) by the same "journalist" every day for God knows how long, then I would've questioned what the hell I had done to warrant such attention.

But here I was. Doing both.

Visiting Will was both the best and worst time of my week.

The best because I got to see the man I loved. The worst because it was in a hospital for the criminally insane.

I found myself sitting on a chair across from Will. He was in a cage. Locked away like a damn zoo animal.

I wanted nothing more than to walk closer. Just to touch his hand or press a kiss to his knuckles. But I couldn't do that because of the guard watching over us.

"I heard that you've been seeing a lot of Freddie Lounds," he said.

I nodded. "She got our address from somewhere. Don't know who would've known our address and willingly given it to her."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"It is," he corrected. "I'm the one being accused of murder, yet you're the one getting harassed. It's my fault that this is happening to you."

I shook my head.

"You're getting harassed and insulted. You have to come here just to see me. It's not fair to you. I have managed to drag you through hell without ever meaning to."

"I don't think so," I shrugged. He sighed. "You wanna know who I blame?"

He raised an eyebrow at me.

"I blame whoever decided to set you up in the first place," I said. "As far as the harassment, that's Freddie's fault. Not yours. You can't control how disrespectful some people can be."

He didn't respond.

"I love you, Will," I continued. "I love you so much that I sometimes can't even comprehend it. I am not going anywhere. I am staying right here with you. Through every moment of it. Got it?"

He slowly nodded.

I relaxed into my seat a bit.

"I love you too," he added after a moment.

I grinned. "I know."

I saw the start of a grin forming on his lips.

It brought me a sense of hope.

One way or another, we were both going to get through this.

Mastermind

What if I told you none of it was accidental And the first night that you saw me, nothing was gonna stop me I laid the groundwork and then just like clockwork The dominoes cascaded in a line What if I told you I'm a mastermind?

There was something about watching Will do his work that was absolutely fascinating.

He could look at a single room and tell you what happened within the last twenty-four hours. I found all of it incredibly impressive. Granted, it also made me feel guilty watching his mind go to a place that he clearly didn't want it to.

We had been in the lecture hall that he taught in. He was looking over crime scene photos and mentioned that I could stay if I wanted to.

"What do you think," he asked, looking at me.

Oh. That. That's why he told me that I could stay.

I looked over the photos.

Will was standing right next to me. So close that I could've sworn that I felt his breath hitting me.

I frowned at the images. It's not like I actually knew what I was talking about.

"I... I don't know," I muttered. "I can't make sense of any of it."

"Well, that's because this killer is working very hard to make us see a message when there very well may not be one."

"Oh," I mumbled, not looking away from the images. I wanted to see what he did.

"Are you alright?"

I looked over to see his eyebrows furrowed. He genuinely thought that I was able to do half of what his mind could do. He was diving into the darkest corners of a person's mind and coming back with a jewel.

I was frantically flailing my limbs in the hopes of not drowning and revealing that I couldn't swim.

I nodded.

"Are you sure," he pushed. I offered another nod. "You are not as good at hiding your emotions as you think you are."

"Don't be an asshole," I muttered.

He chuckled, shaking his head a bit. "Don't lie to me."

I took a deep breath, scanning his face for a moment.

"I have been for a while," I confessed.

"Excuse me," he raised an eyebrow at me.

"I... don't understand an ounce of the stuff you've been telling me about," I explained. "I've been doing a lot of reading and listening to your lectures when I can. I don't actually know a lot about any of this."

Will's arms crossed over his chest. "Why?"

"It sounds really stupid," I replied. "I liked you."

He didn't respond.

"I... I liked you, so I thought that the best way to get your attention was to try to relate to you with some of this stuff," I continued. "Not that I'm trying to trivialize what you do. I understand that what you do causes you pain and I want nothing more than to be able to help with that.

"And I'm sorry for lying to you. I just... I wanted to get to know you. Properly. I thought you were intriguing and clever and sarcastic as all hell and handsome. I was just trying to get you to let me in. Let me spend some time with you."

I barely noticed Will's gaze shifting as I spoke.

"And, not to brag, but it did work," I motioned around me. "I'd... I'd like to think that my company isn't a complete annoyance if you let me sit and listen to your theories and deductions. If it hadn't had some benefit, then I wouldn't have done it."

I stopped myself at long last. It was like the pause button on the remote was stuck. I just hadn't been able to stop talking until I had gotten all of that out.

"Will," I said. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not... I'm not upset," he explained. "A little shocked, maybe, but not upset."

"Oh," I muttered. "That's good."

He nodded.

I watched him step even closer to me. My heart rate spiked up. My palms were becoming sweaty. I was certain that my pupil had devoured most of my iris as I looked at him. His eyes seemed to focus on every other part of me.

His nervousness wasn't clear until he moved.

He was hesitant. Like he was ready to back away at any time. Whenever I showed an ounce of discomfort. I stayed where I was, letting him decide what happened next.

His lips found mine carefully. I had never kissed someone that treated me so much like glass.

I kissed him back just as gently.

His hands slowly moved to cup the sides of my face. Kissing him back seemed to unlock something. His hesitance fell away. He kissed me more passionately. I grinned into the kiss.

I leaned back a few moments later, feeling like if I didn't stop kissing him, then I never would.

Will tried to follow my lips, making me laugh quietly as I pushed him back by his chest.

I think it's safe to say that my plan had been a success.

Hannibal Lecter:

Labyrinth

It only feels this raw right now Lost in the labyrinth of my mind Break up, break free, break through, break down You would break your back to make me break a smile

Hannibal's house was overwhelming.

It almost felt like a museum of sorts. Like if I touched anything, an alarm would sound, and I would be escorted off of the premises.

The dinners he crafted were no different. He treated every plate like a canvas. It felt like a crime to cut into any of it.

I was always so grateful for the invitations that he offered me.

It was a privilege to get to sit across from him and have such casual conversation.

I always assumed that I was the only one who had something to be grateful for. He always seemed so in control of what was going on. He guided the conversation. The dinners were in his domain. He seemed to know every detail of the night long before he decided that I would be the one he was sharing it with.

One night, Hannibal showed me that I may have been wrong.

"I must say," he started, "I have often found it difficult to form genuine connections with people. But with you, it feels like I have no choice other than to allow one to form."

I chuckled. "I hope that's a good thing. I wouldn't want you to feel like I'm twisting your arm."

"Not at all," he explained. "'It is simply difficult for me to find space to hide from you. It feels more natural to let you see every part of me."

I grinned. "I hope you know that the feeling is mutual."

He smiled back at me.

"May I ask what inspired that confession," I asked as I reached for the glass of wine in front of me.

There was a pause as he watched me take a sip before returning the glass to the place it belonged.

"I found myself thinking about it in between appointments today," he finally replied. "I have yet to find myself looking forward to dinner with others in the same way I look forward to dinner with you."

"I'm flattered. I thought I was alone in terms of anticipation."

His grin seemed amused. "Perhaps our next dinner should be under different circumstances."

I hummed. "Well, Hannibal, it sounds like you're suggesting a date."

"And if I were?"

He looked away from me as he asked. For just a moment, he seemed nervous. Like some part of him thought that I would be able to say no to him.

"I would be happy to accept," I said.

He looked at me again. "Well then, I'll be sure to make something truly special for the occasion."

I bit the inside of my cheek nervously.

And just like that, everything had changed.

Paris

I want to brainwash you into loving me forever I want to transport you to somewhere the culture's clever Confess my truth in swooping, sloping, cursive letters

I had no better word to describe that night than fairytale.

Hannibal and I were in the midst of building our new lives. This meant a new home, new names, whole careers to rebuild. Everything was different. The only constant was each other.

Part of Hannibal's path to gaining respect from the people he needed to respect him was going to fancy events.

As he led me into a grand hall full of people in fancy suits and dresses, all conversing and drinking and dancing, I found myself overwhelmed.

I stood off to the side, deciding to entertain the view from the large windows along the wall.

Hannibal walked over to me, touching my back in an act of comfort. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "It's all just... more than I'm used to."

"I see," he replied. "Would you like to leave?"

"No, no," I said. "It's okay. I just need to adjust."

Hannibal reached over and grabbed my hand. I watched as he pulled it up to his lips, pressing a kiss on the knuckles.

"This all feels too good to be real," I mumbled as he did. He tilted his head at me, lowering my hand again. "The grand party and the fancy people. Being in a place like this. Being here with you. It all feels like some romantic movie."

"But you're happy," he asked.

I moved my free hand to cup the side of his face. "Yes. You have always made me very happy. You are the reason this all feels like such a dream."

His grin grew before he turned his head to place a kiss on my palm.

As we stood by the window, in this space between the beautiful city and the grand party, I decided that there was absolutely no place I would rather be other than right by his side.

Sweet Nothing

Industry disrupters and soul deconstructors And smooth-talking hucksters Out glad-handing each other And the voices that implore "You should be doing more" To you I can admit That I'm just too soft for all of it

I never ignored Hannibal when he greeted me.

Every time I came home, he would be tucked away in the kitchen. I would hear him call "Welcome home" and I would reply with some kind of greeting before saying that I was going to change before dinner.

He must've known that something was wrong from the moment that I didn't reply to his greeting.

I simply went upstairs silently and changed my clothes.

I came back down to the kitchen a little while later.

I wonder how exhausted I looked to him. I would like to think that I hid it well from everyone else, but with him, I never could. I never felt like I needed to. He had this air of comfort and safety to him. One that pulled down my walls before I could fight it.

I sat in the armchair in the corner in silence. I watched him work.

"Would you like to discuss what happened today," he asked, looking at me.

I shook my head, eyes still fixed on his cooking.

I heard him sigh and place the knife down. "(Y/n)..."

I finally let my eyes meet his.

"You can talk to me about whatever is bothering you," he explained. "Hiding your thoughts and true feelings in a relationship can lead to a very unhealthy pattern of behavior. One that I don't wish to see you partake in."

I didn't speak up for a moment.

"Darling, talk to me, please. I would like to know what is wrong so I can think of some way to fix it."

I felt the tears building up in my eyes. I looked down at my hands again.

"It's been a long day," I forced a chuckle, hoping to make it seem like I simply overreacting.

I heard the water run as he cleaned off his hands. He was still drying them as he made his way to me. I looked up at the sound of his footsteps. He knelt in front of me. His hands touched mine.

"I am just so tired," I said, feeling a few tears fall. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he insisted.

He leaned forward to press a kiss to my forehead.

"Burnout, while unpleasant, is becoming very common," he continued. "I will help you through it. I promise."

I nodded.

"I hope you know that there are no circumstances in which you would need to keep this from me."

I nodded again. "I know."

He leaned in and kissed my lips gently. Just enough to put my mind in a state of calmness. Enough to allow my eyes to close and my shoulders to relax.

"I love you," I mumbled as he pulled away.

"I love you too," he explained. "More than I believe words could describe."

I smiled a bit at him.

How lucky I was to have someone that made me feel as safe as he did.

----------------------

Author's Note: That gif of Will was a choice and it was a choice that I made very carefully.

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Navigation Guide

What I Write For

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[muniimyg]

just read the tags on your last ask and caught something interesting 😭

how does your therapist feel about your fanfics only if you are comfortable sharing that or you can ignore this ask!

Asking cause I used to write fanfics when I was like 15-19 years and I’m not that old (I’m 23 now😭🔫) yet but yeah have lost touch with my that side and considered telling my therapist about this..

anyway thank you and I love your fics!!

tw: anxiety & depression

she hasn’t read them or anything LOL but we jus talked abt how i use writing fanfics to help me process what i’m going thru as well as mapping out different perspectives… we’ve never discussed it in detail but she thinks it’s a healthy hobby for me. to be fair, she knows i’m delusional and aspire to marry yoongi so 😀

anyways..

because of the relationships i’ve grown up around,, i struggled a lot with communicating and dependency. also think that because of my anxiety and depression,, i’ve always found art in different mediums to be a great way to express and cope with the trauma or triggers i have. writing, as cliché as it sounds, has always been the greatest form of escape for me. it’s ironic cos as much as i use it to escape, i’ve also never been more found when i write 😍🤞🏽

also,, i’ve been writing fanfics for a while (but i only got decent at it now) since i was 12 actually…

on quotev,,, harry styles ofc…

then on wattpad for 5sos… i wrote a fanfic called 50 reasons why i won’t go out with you and my username was like cth-bluez or smt LOL

i stopped writing from 2016-2021 and then picked it up again when i got into bts and it was covid times! (my writing was HORRIBLE btw…) so its been 4ish years back in it and it’s been……. funny

we’re the same age btw! so we’ve lived the same amount of years and therefore i don’t have much to say about it.. except for the fact that i understand and see you. regardless if it’s burnout or not having enough time; writing is hard. getting back into it is hard !!! so to me,, to even think about writing again,,, is enough and i can’t wait for whatever stories you have to share with the world 🌟

not to be all sentimental but HAHAA i think my writing speaks for itself in terms of passion and growth. i’ve stressed abt updates, i’ve hated my own characters, i’ve had sleepless nights for writing concepts that got like 13 notes … i’ve had seasons of silence where it felt like i was jus writing to an empty crowd (which i truly was),,, but things change and before you know it you have strangers asking you about your writing journey 😹 don’t get me wrong,, there are definitely things that i’ve posted and absolutely hate atm,, and there are things that i think are my pride and joy… but that’s jus what it is. writing and its complexity of being everything and nothing to you all at once 🫶🏻

i think you should tell your therapist abt it! sometimes it’s nice to speak about the things we love(d) and lost in the past. you never know.. maybe it’s time to begin again :) yk what they sayyyyyyy

do it scared, do it tired, do it broke, do it alone, do it unsure, but do it anyway and then do it again

[brightoakgame]

Author's Marginalia - 4

This year is edging closer and closer to ending, and simultaneously toward the beginning of the new. It feels like there has been something lost in Western culture; back when the winters spanned longer, darker, lit with candles or the shadowed flickering of gaslight, so did our stories trend more to shadowed tales and huddling together for warmth. A Christmas Carol is a ghost story not because it is a seasonal outlier: rather, it was shaped from the coal smoke choked skies of Victorian England, caught between the dreadful and furious progress of industry, and the haunted trappings of ancient tradition.

December is a liminal space, neither here nor there, an end that anticipates a beginning. No wonder, then, how easy it is to feel set adrift.

(content warning: grief and depression)

I, too, have occupied a liminal space these last few months, attempting to push through some of the most severe burnout and depression I've experienced in decades. It has been slinking in the corners of my mind since midsummer, sometimes only glimpsed in the periphery of my vision, sometimes flaring out abruptly and swallowing all thought and reason with its ferocious, ever-hungry maw, so that I too become part of that echoing, dark--nothing. Sometimes it feels like I am inhabiting my own world as a ghost: I go to raise my stylus or address my keyboard, and my hand seems to pass through it entirely. I drift from room to room. I converse without any substance. I am a poltergeist that opens the cupboards and doors and goes through the motions, and yet my efforts at normalcy only seem to disturb the other inhabitants of my life. People turn to speak to me: I am not there. My partner complained recently about the bourbon-soaked phantom that wore my skin the night before, expounding on their very genuine desire to be carted off by the fae and eaten. He was unamused: the tipsy phantom had been in deathly earnest. I reminded him patiently that he knew who I was when he married me, and laughed it off.

The fae did not respond to my summons, which I am grateful and sorry for by turns.

December intrigues me more and more as I grow older, because I see December as a month of both storytelling and death in equal measures. I do not place more weight on tragedies than I do on comedies (if anything, I find comedy much more challenging!), but as desperate as I am for connection in art, death and grief are irresistible as mysteries and great unifiers.

Each breath comes with an inhale, and then exhale; every life will at some point encounter death. And grief, in my experience, loves to tell stories--the things that came Before, the things I maybe did not know, the embellishments given to quite ordinary things, crystalline now as past, exquisite and multi-faceted with loving truths and illuminating falsehoods.

I began writing Bright Oak in 2017: a very different time, feels like, though not so long past in the bigger picture. Between then and now, I've known many deaths and Deaths, rebirths and (quite literal) births, losses and gains. Friendships have washed upon my shores and receded again, as friendships seem wont to do, reshaping my perceptions, sometimes gently, sometimes not, and often leaving treasure in their wake. People are at heart truly, painfully lovely animals, I think.

I write because I want to understand better than I do; I write beloved friends and well-intentioned enemies, and they spirit me away to a world beyond, someplace where the water and air carry our meaning further and with more clarity, but with voices never too loud, never too harsh. I can hear them all. I know them better than I know myself; they know me better than I know myself. And they, too, will eventually fall to ebb tide, and wash back out into the vast sea of a world of things I do not properly understand. But I get to treasure them for that little time, and now I wish to share them with others before they go, like a collection of beautiful shells and pearls wrought from all I fear and all I do not understand.

Death visits us all, and so many, many times. I do not have to dig to know that I start the vast majority of my stories with accidents: I can pinpoint the day I felt my childhood ended, with the loss of a dear friend in a car wreck. The end of one chapter, when things were more heedless, but safe; the beginning of another, when things were dangerous, but a little wiser. There have been many, many chapters since. We are each of us anthologies, to a one; our tree rings show the times of plenty and the times of drought, the fires and the trauma, the slow recovery, the growing-over of scars, the knots and flaws and fine-grained beauty.

My favorite cemetery in town is a public park (and I admit, if this doesn't out me as a former goth kid, I don't know what would). One of my very earliest memories in life is of going to a playground with my mother on a bright weekend morning, trying to bring the sky ever closer while playing on the swing set, and making a new friend in the process. They asked if I knew what ghosts were: I did not, and they explained succinctly that ghosts were dead people that now chased living people, and did I want to play ghosts with them, since there were gravestones right over there-- a clear harbinger of ghosts being present?

I did not enjoy the game; I did not like being chased by ghosts in a rough and tumble round of monster tag. My mother, perhaps to calm me, pulled me aside and proceeded to read to me the poetic epitaphs of the last century headstones that bookended the playground, telling me how much she and my grandmother appreciated these final words set in stone: sometimes rote, sometimes religious, sometimes romantic, sometimes cryptic (pun fully intended).

It often recurred as a setting in dreams during my teens and early twenties. It wasn't until far later, when I moved back to my hometown, that I realized that this was a place that existed in reality, and was not merely a mishmash invention of dreams. After all, what cemetery has monkeybars and a swing set?

It's an old burial ground (at least, by Southern California standards); the graves outlasted the people still around to tend them, and sometime in the last century, it fell into extreme disrepair, and eventually was closed off to the public. Further, it was entirely bulldozed over when miscreants regularly gathered there for the purpose of vandalism and unrecorded mayhem, and after some hullabaloo over the matter, a handful of the old gravestones (belonging, of course, to the more prominent of the permanent denizens) were collected and lined up tidily in the corner of the green space, like a forgotten backstop, craggy granite guardians of the nearby playground.

I love this place, filled as it is with towering old trees, screaming children running amok (and quite possibly playing ghost-tag), people laying out obliviously to sunbathe, or picnicking blithely over the many-hundreds of dead some feet below the surface. It is such a poetic space to me, because try as we may to circumscribe death to a remote and out of the way corner, divorced and isolated from all things Life, it strikes me that death is the very foundation of all life as it proceeds. Death is in the day's end, the unfinished arguments, the words left unsaid, the little losses, the griefs we carry that we are not the person we were, and have not become the person we meant to be. Grief is the bittersweet knowledge that once I was one of those shrieking children, and once I sat on the periphery of the park, oblivious and sipping a coffee, and then I learned its story, and now I am able to tell it--and someday, someday I shall likely forget it, and tell it no more.

We are all the fickle authors of our own stories, and we all know the death that comes with the ending of one chapter, the bittersweet grief of letting it go and beginning anew. I dearly hope December treats every one of you with kindness; that the stories you tell, and those which you tell yourselves, bring warmth and comfort. Even ghost stories are not all bad--particularly when we can all huddle together around the bonfire, peeking at the stars as they show between plumes of smoke.

In this time of intense personal darkness, I am looking through the smoke to those stars. I am grateful for those who huddle at my side, imaginary and otherwise. And I look forward to the beginnings which I know to be just there, over the horizon.

B.

[castrationanxietyy]

Bathroom at El Cid, Bar Italia 6/19/23

I got the call that a ticket was free an hour and a half before the band was set to play.

Bar Italia's first LA show seemed fit for a Monday, and everyone inside was dressed far to appropriately for the setting. What may have lacked in originality from the crowd made up in the main event, a performance everyone will brag about for years to come.

Bar Italia had been the best kept secret of the noisy British post-punk scene debuting their first album Quarrel in 2020. Mystery and irony are at the forefront of their aesthetic, seemingly not taking their music as intentionally serious. The debut was short and sweet, not sticking to one specific genre yet not earning an experimental title. Their first recorded album becomes more muffled as each track proceeds, as if you are falling into a dreamlike state while listening. With this said, it was a blessing to hear their sound wide awake.

The band spoke not one word while performing. However, I do not think this was due to a lack of chemistry. The three heads of the band, Nina Cristante, Sam Fenton, and Jezmi Tarik Fehmi worked harmoniously whilst not batting a single eye towards each other.  I had told my friends that Nina’s demeanor reminded me of Hope Sandoval, in which one laughed and went, 

“No”. 

They did not bid the crowd farewell and simply took off their instruments and walked off stage. Untrained listeners assumed an encore, but luckily my friends and I linked arms and caught them as they were walking off stage into the corridor. They are truly stunning people; genetics had blessed them well. 

Although I tread lightly when describing a band through their online presence alone, I’m not sure how serious they could be when their album covers consist of memes that are popular during the time. I too felt like a crying stick figure once the set ended. 

The band themself are wonderful people, not yet touched by arrogance from their success. My lovely friend went to speak to them after the show and was gifted a small strip of paper that had their setlist. While speaking to them he claimed that their image isn’t cultivated, they just come across as the niche they wish to present. This doesn’t discredit their humor or general attractiveness, they are just kind people. 

Speaking of the crowd is not anywhere near as interesting as the band itself, but it does speak to the character of Bar Itaila's fanbase. It very well could have been the annoying LA charm everyone possessed, but it gave an aura of pretentiousness. As we danced and sang along, many in the crowd turned heads and told my companion to “be aware” to which I had turned and replied, “must be your first time”. It occurred a couple times throughout the night, but I don’t think our behavior was anywhere near inappropriate. You’re there to dance and sing and enjoy the music; why bother standing stone cold to seem otherworldly to a crowd who will probably laugh at you anyways. Might as well have some fun. 

I also must mention that the opening band 2070 was phenomenal. I had a chance to interview the leading members which will come out soon. 

Unlike other artists, or perhaps it was due to the size of the venue, they seemed real. I fear the band may be stuck in reddit purgatory for a while until their eventual burnout from popularity. Regardless, the band deserves success. They may be Matador’s unknown goldenchild for the time being, and I hope they continue with this status. 

It is easy to throw around terms such as “genuine” or “authentic”, especially when they are at the popularity level they currently hold, but for myself, they have earned the title. 

[chiefyakousdilftits]

PLEAAASE share about your raincode oc!! the design is so cute id love to know more on em and yakou

AAAAAH, THIS IS SUCH A SWEET ASK, YOU HAVE ME OUT HERE LIKE

ANYWAYS !! OC Talk under the cut !! 💕 ( CW ; Brief Mentions Of Child Ab*se And Gr**ming, Spoilers For Rain Code, Anxiety Mentions, Large But Legal Age Gaps !! )

So this is my babygirl, Yui Velveteen ( 21, she / her, cisfemale, panromantic, pansexual ). She’s a Master Detective with the Forte of Empathetic Touch ; the way her forte works is that she can feel exactly how a person feels simply by touching them, though this doesn’t mean that she can read minds, just experience the emotion, and her limit is that she can only feel so many emotions or so much of one emotion before she feels overstimulated and verging meltdown / burnout.

If any of you guys are neurospicy or familiar with neurodivergent terms, you’ll notice I said “overstimulated” and “meltdown”, and that is because Yui is autistic, as well as having a rather traumatic childhood ( emotionally absent father, abusive in all sorts of ways mother, groomed by a superior when she was a detective in training ), paired with severe anxiety ( specifically GAD, Social Anxiety, and Panic Disorder ).

She’s from a small farm town, called Ninjin Meadows, where she lives in a small cottage with a lot of pet rabbits, and is very close with her cousin who acts as an older sister to her, Gina Neuroprism, another Master Detective, who helped Yui get in with the WDO. Kanai Ward is Yui’s first big case, outside of finding lost pets or stolen pies, so she was quite excited to be dispatched to Kanai Ward, even though she knew it could be pretty dangerous.

Danger snuck up on her fast, however, since she was the only survivor on her train to Kanai Ward. She managed to escape by a hair, hiding behind the train while the peacekeepers swarmed. Poor girl has the Freeze Response to trauma and stressful events, but luckily, Yakou came just in time to whisk her out of there before she was caught by the peacekeepers.

Yakou was quite possibly the first person she wasn’t related to that showed her honest kindness and human decency, and being rather . . . naive to the world in the romance aspect, she does fall rather quickly, though he doesn’t really return her feelings ( those who have played Chapter Four absolutely understand why ) at least to an extreme extent, but given that Yui is rarely off on her own cases, since her forte is much better at the interrogation aspect of a case rather than the cool fieldwork. They spend a lot of time together and it’s shown that they really care about eachother. He understands her limitations and wanted to have her around due to the fact she’s good at the interrogation aspect of cases, though, given that Yuma and Shinigami reap the souls of the culprits, it’s hard for her to use her forte, leading to her and a few other detectives believing she’s useless to the Kanai Ward case.

She really proves useful in Chapter Two, where she helps Yuma and Desuhiko infiltrate Kurumi’s academy, Yui chatting backstage with Yoshiko, Waruna, and Kurane about Aiko, trying to experience the emotions and hypothesize about potential reasons they may feel the way they do during the case, and enters the Mystery Labyrinth with Yuma and Desuhiko. Shinigami’s abrasiveness is enough to make her cry though, and Desuhiko’s remarks do stress her out quite a bit, so she’s shown to know quite a few grounding techniques to try and keep her calm, and Yuma is pretty understanding of her as well, despite her being his superior.

Halara is the detective that Yui butts heads with the most, because of their opposing work views, though it is mainly work technique they disagree on, and not a deep rooted hatred of eachother. Y’know, like they’re work rivals ?

She’s the agency’s mom friend, because she truly enjoys caring for others, she’s constantly bringing by baked goods she makes from scratch and making sure they eat something that isn’t a meat bun every once in awhile ( on top of that, she’s a vegetarian, because she could not imagine harming animals, since she grew up in a farm town and knows what goes into butchering and meat consumption ).

She and Yakou are similar in quite a few ways, homebodies that are conflict avoidant, but most of their romance struggles come from his past trauma and their age gap, for awhile, he doesn’t view Yui as someone he’d even consider a romantic partner, and it comes up that their age gap is definitely noticeable, in some of their conversations, that he still views her as very kind hearted and loving, but like still a girl. Though given the amount of time they spend together and how warm and caring Yui is, it’s inevitable that he develops ✨ feelings ✨, and he knows he does too, however, he never gives himself the opportunity to act upon them, given that he’s her superior, and the age gap is there. He knows that him changing his mind about her could mess with her head, and he cares about her, so being in a romantic relationship within the canon timeline, it’s not in the cards, no matter how badly she wants it to be. They’re a “ What Could Have Been “ type of a relationship, a poorly timed relationship.

( CHAPTER FOUR SPOILERS AHEAD )

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Anyways, Yui comforting Yakou in his last moments and he pulls her in close to tell her “ I loved you too “. I’m going to v*mit.

[imformationusa]

Can a Life Coach Help You With Work-Life Balance in NYC?

Living in New York City can be both exhilarating and overwhelming. The city's fast pace, competitive environment, and the constant pressure to succeed can leave many New Yorkers feeling burnt out, stressed, and struggling to maintain a healthy work-life balance. If you find yourself caught in this cycle, you might be wondering: Can a life coach help me with work-life balance in NYC? The answer is a resounding yes.

In this article, we'll explore how a life coach can be instrumental in helping you achieve a sustainable work-life balance while thriving in the dynamic environment of New York City.

The Challenges of Achieving Work-Life Balance in NYC

Before diving into how a life coach in New York can help, it’s essential to understand why work-life balance is particularly challenging in New York City. Some of the common factors include:

Long Work Hours: Many professionals in NYC work extended hours, often going above the typical 9-to-5 schedule. The city's competitive nature pushes people to put in more time at the office or engage in multiple side hustles.

High Costs of Living: With the cost of living being significantly higher than the national average, New Yorkers may feel compelled to work extra jobs or push harder in their careers to make ends meet or achieve financial security.

Constant Hustle Culture: New York’s culture is synonymous with ambition, hustle, and drive. While this can be motivating, it can also lead to stress, burnout, and an unbalanced lifestyle.

Endless Social Opportunities: The city offers countless opportunities for entertainment, networking, and socializing, making it difficult to set boundaries between work, leisure, and personal time.

These challenges make it difficult to step back, slow down, and prioritize your well-being. However, a Life Coach In New York can guide you through this process, offering personalized strategies to balance your professional and personal life more effectively.

How a Life Coach Can Help With Work-Life Balance

Life coaches are trained to help individuals identify their values, set priorities, and create action plans to achieve specific goals. When it comes to work-life balance, a life coach in NYC can provide several valuable tools and strategies.

1. Clarifying Your Values and Priorities

One of the first things a life coach will help you with is understanding your core values and priorities. What is truly important to you? Is it career success, family, health, personal growth, or all of the above? It’s easy to get caught up in the fast-paced lifestyle of NYC and lose sight of what really matters. A life coach will work with you to uncover what you value most in life and how to align your daily activities with those values.

For example, if you value family time but find yourself working late hours, a life coach will help you identify ways to set boundaries, delegate tasks, or find alternative solutions that allow you to dedicate more time to your loved ones without sacrificing your career goals.

2. Goal Setting and Time Management

Setting realistic goals and managing time effectively are critical components of achieving work-life balance. A life coach will help you break down your larger goals into manageable steps, whether they’re related to career progression, personal hobbies, or spending more time on self-care. In NYC, where everyone seems to be juggling multiple responsibilities, learning how to prioritize and manage time efficiently is essential.

A life coach will also introduce you to practical tools like time-blocking, prioritization matrices, or creating a structured daily routine that allows you to focus on both professional and personal pursuits. By creating a tailored time management system, you can reclaim control over your schedule and minimize stress.

3. Developing Healthy Boundaries

In a city like New York, setting boundaries can be a challenge. With a constant influx of work demands, social obligations, and opportunities, many people struggle to say "no." Overcommitting leads to burnout and prevents individuals from dedicating time to their personal life or well-being.

A life coach can teach you how to set healthy boundaries in both your professional and personal life. They’ll help you recognize when you're overextending yourself and provide strategies to protect your time and energy. For example, if you find it hard to disconnect from work after hours, your coach may suggest clear communication strategies with your employer or setting specific times for email and phone use.

4. Mindset and Stress Management

Achieving work-life balance is not just about time management—it’s also about managing your mindset and stress levels. Many people in NYC feel pressured to constantly "be on" and to equate their self-worth with their productivity. This mindset can lead to burnout, anxiety, and dissatisfaction, even if you’re outwardly successful.

A life coach can help shift your mindset from one of constant striving to one of balance and fulfillment. This may involve practicing mindfulness, reframing negative thoughts, and developing healthy coping mechanisms for stress. Additionally, they may guide you through relaxation techniques or introduce habits like meditation or yoga that can help you stay grounded.

By helping you become more aware of your mental and emotional patterns, a life coach can empower you to make conscious decisions that promote balance and reduce stress.

5. Accountability and Support

One of the key benefits of working with a life coach is the built-in accountability. It’s easy to fall back into old habits or become overwhelmed by the demands of daily life in NYC. A life coach provides the support and accountability you need to stay on track with your goals.

During regular coaching sessions, your coach will check in on your progress, celebrate your wins, and help you overcome any obstacles that arise. This ongoing support ensures that you stay committed to creating a sustainable work-life balance and don't revert to unhealthy patterns.

6. Customizing Strategies for NYC’s Unique Environment

Living in New York City presents unique challenges when it comes to work-life balance, but it also offers incredible resources. A life coach who understands the specific demands of NYC can help you tailor your strategies to the city's environment.

For instance, your coach might help you take advantage of the city's abundant wellness resources, such as yoga studios, parks, or fitness centers, for stress relief. They might also help you explore networking opportunities that allow for personal and professional growth without overwhelming your schedule.

Conclusion

A life coach can be a valuable partner in your quest to achieve work-life balance in New York City. Through clarifying your priorities, setting boundaries, managing your time effectively, and shifting your mindset, a life coach can empower you to live a more balanced and fulfilling life amidst the city's hustle.

While NYC may seem like a city that never sleeps, that doesn’t mean you have to follow the same pace. By working with a life coach, you can create a customized plan that allows you to enjoy the best of both worlds: a thriving career and a fulfilling personal life. If you're struggling with work-life balance in the city, a life coach in New York can be the key to finding the harmony you seek.

[bluiex]

:D anon totally not procrastinating on writing that fic because of burnout here with some headcanons (mostly Scarian, one Rancher)

The Rancher one first:

Tango was absolutely going to flip the server upside down when Scar burned the ranch. Seething with rage, becoming deaf to the cries of the world. They got there too little too late to put out the flames and had to watch their home crumble. It didn’t help that the others threw out suggestions that they should get their revenge on Scar, but Jimmy knew better. As much as he wanted to get back at Scar, too, going into a blind rage wouldn’t solve anything, but make matters worse. Jimmy tries to keep Tango grounded, calling out to him and pulling him back to earth. He holds onto his soulmate’s arms, suffering searing scorch marks on his palms due to the netherborn’s flames on his body. Despite this Jimmy keeps talking to him, trying to get through to him, calm him down. It works, and Tango is glad to see his soulmate safe and sound other than the burns on his hands. He feels awful, truly, and treats his wounds and builds a good chunk of their new home as an apology. Jimmy can see just how on edge and heartbroken Tango is, and just cuddles in bed with him that night, reminding them that they’re safe, and they’re going to have their revenge with time.

Now for the Scarian ones!!

Vex Scar and Allay Grian time ehehehehhe. The gentle giant predator and the feisty tiny gremlin, a complete reversal on their roles. The Vex consider Scar to be very soft-hearted and the Allay think that Grian is too unrelenting. When they meet it’s more or less an initial shock that the other is not what they’d thought would be. They fit in with each other’s natures. After getting together, it wouldn’t take long before they’re found out, but they have a chance at appealing to their enemy’s family. Scar is very nice and gentle like the Allay, and Grian is not as weak or naïve as the Vex initially thought.

(My headcanon) They don’t think about having kids in the conventional sense. They mostly adopt animals who are injured or need a home. Jellie will obviously be Scar’s lifelong companion, but the others like Pizza, the Allay, and the Jellie Pandas, and any wayward creatures who need a warm place to rest will be welcomed with open arms. Grian admires how nurturing Scar is towards animals, and treats them like his own children. Scar might have once caught a glimpse of Grian tucked away in his nest with a baby animal, and Scar’s heart just melting at the wholesome overload.

Scar’s Vex side allows him to sense strong sources of magic, see through illusions and mirages, etc. When he meets Grian, he doesn’t exactly see it right away, but he senses a lot of ominous magical energy surrounding him. As he gets to know him more and more, that illusion is chipped away and he recognizes that Grian is a Watcher. (He also notices other Watcher/Listener-aligned Hermits, too.) This happens over the course of their friendship, and he realizes it only after Third Life. He confronts Grian about it, but he’s super understanding about it, which surprises Grian, and he trusts Scar to keep this secret from the others.

Just general fluff. They need to cuddle. Playful banter. Soft kissies. Words of encouragement. Hugs. Something so sickeningly sweet that it gives someone cavities >:’( <333

(its ok im on burnout as well lmfao, take your time! no rush<3)

dslkghsalkgh I love me some soft rancher. Jimmy just calming down a seething Tango, whos just all flamey and shit. Touches and hugs him anyways

LOVE LOVE LOVE! Vex Scar being the soft one, very happy carefree lil guy. And Grian being the unhinged one lmao. So cute i love it

FUR BABIES!! Yeees they have lil fur babies all the time. Jellie being the main one-

Yeees. I personally really love that Scar, being vex, can tell and sense Grian's watcher magic. and Scar is just like hella interested in it and asks SO many questions about it

yesyesyesyes please tons of cuddles and kisses and being so sickingly sweet to one another

[rqnvindr]

put on a show

pairing: scaramouche x gn!reader

genre: fluff, fake dating, f2l, modern!au

warnings: language and scara being scara but that’s it lol

word count: 1.6k

synopsis: scaramouche agrees to be your fake date at your company’s christmas party, which leads to an unexpected fate brought to you by feelings

a/n: this is a gift for @sungie for axia’s secret santa exchange! it’s nice to meet you and i hope you enjoy this piece that i put together!

--

you were exhausted after work. the holidays were undeniably the worst time to have an office job for a larger company. stacks of never-ending documents along with dozens of unread emails still sat unattended and all had to be completed before christmas. 

and on top of that, there was the annual christmas party.

planning it wasn’t a big deal. you were used to that and knew that everybody loved the holiday cookies you were contributing for the potluck. but you had been working there for 2 years and not once have you ever brought a plus-one, to which your coworkers were starting to jab you for. they truly didn’t mean any harm; they were an agreeable, friendly crowd that you were grateful to work with. yet, their suffocating attempts to get closer to you pushed you into a corner that you could only escape by pretending to have an answer to the relentless personal questions.

heading home right away wasn’t on your agenda even after a more mentally draining day than usual. you took the other train and took a route in the opposite direction. 

when you reached the apartment complex and knocked on scaramouche’s door, you didn’t expect him to answer so fast. usually when someone unexpectedly showed up to his place he’d groan and yell something along the lines of “i already have a vacuum go away”. 

“sorry...i should’ve told you that i wanted to come over.” you sheepishly step in and take off your shoes as he holds the door open.

“it’s whatever.” scaramouche clears his throat. “what happened at work this time?”

you settle on the couch and stroke his pet cat kuni on the head. “nothing HAPPENED per say. just the usual stuff y’know. the senior executives getting on our backs about ‘rookie mistakes’ and giving us the whole pep talk about holiday burnout and stuff.” you ramble on, suddenly feeling unsure about the plan you initially wanted to address.

“aren’t you sick of working a 9 to 5? i told you you should’ve just gone into software engineering like i did so you wouldn’t have to deal with people and could sit at the computer all day like you usually do.”

“hey, i’ve gotten better at limiting my screen time since we moved out of our old apartment! plus i do sit at the computer all day for this job, just in a way that makes me feel like the main character.” you wink.

“okay? you seem very on edge, you might as well just tell me what’s going on if i’ve figured out that much.”

“well, we’re having a christmas party...”

“and?”

“and my coworkers want me to bring a plus-one..”

“oh hell no.” scaramouche rises from his seated position, but you push him back down. “can’t you ask someone else?”

“but you’re the best actor i know.” you plead.

“at least i’m not painfully sweet to retail customers who don’t deserve it.” you flick his forehead, immediately making him change the subject to avoid discussing the day you met at your old part-time job, when he handled an overbearing lady in a polite tone so uncharacteristic of him that you had to be there to believe it.

“it’s just one evening!”

“what are you gonna do when they continue to ask about me? or for the next party? say we broke up? they’re either gonna pity you or become suspicious. besides, why do you wanna bend over for your coworkers out of all people? you’re not gonna get fired just for not having a date to a stupid party.”

you bite your lip. “true. i guess i just feel really isolated from all of them because of the age gap. i’m the youngest person there and the feelings of being behind compared to them have really caught up to me if i’m being honest..”

scaramouche stays quiet, waiting until he’s sure you’re done talking in case you have more to add, observing the way you play with your watch with your eyes averted to the carpet. 

he finally breaks the silence with a sigh. “fine. god, you’re just as stubborn as ever. i’m only saying yes because you came all the way to my house instead of just calling me and i knew you’d stay here all night if i didn’t agree.”

“plot twist, i came for your cat. but thanks, honey!” you pat scaramouche’s shoulder and he grimaces in response.

“ew.”

“just practicing.” you shrug.

--

the two of you arrive early to ensure that you have time to introduce scaramouche and help set up at the same time. there’s no elaborate plan; this is only a one time thing. you’ve agreed to only give vague answers to any further attempts to pry about your relationship after the party, no matter how specific they get.

you would cross that bridge when you got there. right now, you’re astonished at how sincere scaramouche’s smile seemed when he greeted your elderly coworkers, even calling your boss “ma’am”. he handled every single conversation with them smoothly and graciously, as if he totally stole the show. 

after putting the finishing touches on the dessert table, you go up to scaramouche and take his arm. “we should get ourselves a table while we’re at it.” you suggest once the conversation with your boss subsides.

“you’re just in time! i was having a lovely chat with your boyfriend here. you are very lucky to have scored such a charming and handsome young fella.” you nod with a soft laugh, unsure of what to make of her statement. sure, your boss had always been a sociable person, but scaramouche had to have made a truly lasting impression for her to give that degree of praise, which she rarely did to anyone.

you take your seats and instinctively rest your head on his shoulder. the butterflies in your tummy tell you that your sudden display of affection may be a part of a hidden desire to touch the boy who was once only known as your college roommate. did he always smell this nice? and since when did his jawline get so sharp-

you fail to snap yourself out of your thoughts when scaramouche turns and plants a small kiss on your forehead. nobody seems to be watching, but every little thing to make this fake dating scheme of yours seem authentic counts right?

--

it’s not until the end of the evening when you step into the banquet hall for fresh air that you come to terms with what you had been feeling,,,

you liked him. you were a fool, in love with scaramouche even after all of these years of keeping it as friends. he may be a bit of an asshole, okay he was totally an asshole, and yet you could only see the good parts of him. the part of him that still looked out for you and cared about your feelings underneath all of those layers. and it didn’t help that he was good-looking along with that, he had dozens of secret admirers vying for his attention all throughout the time you’ve known him.

but it would be selfish to ask him to stay this close for much longer. he already hated getting close to others, despite having let you in a long time ago. you sigh, ready to wallow for as long as it took for him to come look for you.

“hey,” the voice calling out to you immediately makes you turn. you feel at ease but also tense at the sight of scaramouche strutting over to you.

“hey. sorry for running off.”

“stop apologizing for everything. it’s getting old.” he snaps, though there’s a joking tone hidden within his response that only you would be able to detect. 

“anyways, yeah i was looking for you. and i also wanted to talk.”

you raise an eyebrow at him. “talk about what?” 

scaramouche clears his throat. “well, you know how you told me that you wanted me to pretend to be your boyfriend because i’m a ‘good actor’?” you nod, heart racing as he alludes to your previous thoughts.

“what if i told you that....i didn’t want this to be an act and i wished it was real?” with his sudden confession, he facepalms and turns away.

“sorry. forget i said anything. that sounded so stupid, i knew i shouldn’t have listened to tartaglia...”

you snort, to which the thickness in the air dissolves. “now who’s the one apologizing....?”

“shut up.” he grumbles.

“ok but that was actually a great attempt to be smooth, for you at least.”

scaramouche sighs, then gently leans towards you and cups your cheek, thumb brushing your hair out of your eye. “look, i fucked up just now. but believe me when i say that i meant it. i want to go on a real date sometime after this, just you and me, away from these weirdos who care too much about your love life for their own well-being and make you feel bad just for being younger than them.”

shocked at his words, you gape at him, trying to formulate a response even though you already know how you feel. but, he’s made it clear that he’s not going anywhere, he never backs away from his words and goes through with everything he puts his heart and mind to. so you take a deep breath and give him a warm smile.

“i’d love that, actually. i’ve liked you for a while but i only just realized it. my subconscious really did its job, telling me to take you here.”

scaramouche beams at you, a rare sight, and pulls your ear to his lips.

“maybe we can just ditch the party and go get ice cream right now.” he whispers and you smirk, taking his hand and exiting the hall.

from that day on, you’ve believed that christmas miracles probably do exist.

[disgruntledspacedad]

The White Room

The Better Love Series || Join My Tags

a sequel to Shit Hits the Fan

pairing: Javier Peña x Fem!Reader (Ears). Part of the Better Love ‘verse.

summary: Bill Stechner makes his move. You never even saw it coming.

words: 6.1k

warnings: 18+, plot, a little angst, a little fluff. 

notes: unbeta’d. this is a big one. notes at the end.

<< Shit Hits the Fan || These Hands are Magic >>

MASTERLIST

You take the embassy steps two at a time, wishing you’d have been notified about the change in your schedule just half an hour earlier.

You’d gotten a page just as you were headed out the door of the apartment. Stechner has decided to pull you from Centra Spike’s night flight over Medellín. He wants you at headquarters this evening instead. He didn’t say why. 

Part of you isn’t sorry. Escobar has been getting desperate lately, and between the outbreaks of violence in Medellín and the continued bombing campaign in Bogotá, you’ve been burning the candle at both ends. Javi, too. He’s been spending more and more time at the base in Medellín, and you’ve been spending more and more time in the skies, pulling random shifts through all hours of the day and night. 

It hasn’t put a strain on your relationship, exactly. In fact, in some ways, the little moments that you steal with Javi when your schedules just happen to mesh are all the more precious because of it. You’re both exhausted and a little cranky, but there’s been an underlying desperation to your recent interactions that’s only served to stoke the flame that flickers between you. 

It’s a bittersweet feeling. You cherish the time you get together, but on the other hand, it seems like even when Javi’s right there next to you, you miss him so much that your chest aches.

Which is why you’re miffed that Bill couldn’t have shuffled you around a little sooner. Javi’s been in Medellín for the past two days. He’d caught an early flight back to Bogotá just as you’d been finishing up another late shift flyover. You’d just happened to run into him at the embassy airstrip, a perfect coincidence. Your eyes had met over the tarmac, and like a pair of magnets, you’d crashed into one another. Javi had wrapped you into a fierce hug, and you’d pulled him into a heated kiss, and the two of you had spent a good five minutes canoodling in a hidden corridor near the water fountains, kissing and whispering and grappling for position as he’d pinned you against the wall. He’d breathed you in, and you’d reveled in the taste of him on your lips, each of you pressing frantically against the body of the other as if it had been weeks and not mere days since you’d been together. 

“I’ve got to go,” Javi had apologized into your mouth, breathing the words between a series of soft, desperate kisses. “Fucking… fucking early meeting with Martinez.”

“It’s okay, baby,” you’d reassured him, feeling very much like it wasn’t okay. You hardly get enough of him as it is. This tiny little taste had only deepened your aching need, and you’d felt your heart splitting in two as he’d pulled away from you, a small little grimace of frustration twisting his face. 

“I’ll see you soon,” you’d called as he’d hurried away, and he’d responded with a tight lipped smile and another dark look of longing. 

Now, you round the corridor toward the DEA office, walking as quickly as you can without drawing attention to yourself. Javi is working late again. If you hurry, you’ll have twenty five uninterrupted minutes with him before your night shift starts. 

“Ears!” You stop in your tracks, a little shudder of resentment flashing down your spine at Bill’s overeager greeting. “Just the lady I’ve been waiting to see.”

You school your face into a neutral expression of polite interest. Most days, you like Bill just fine, despite the fact that you really don’t trust him for shit. 

Today, damn him straight to hell.

“What’s up?” you ask, quirking your lips into an intrigued little grin. There’s a certain informality and blasé banter that Bill’s grown to expect from your encounters, and he’s sharp enough to sense that something’s off if you don’t perform.

“Oh, loads and loads,” Bill says, leaning casually against the corridor wall with his arms folded. 

You bite back a sigh. You really, really don’t have the patience to dance around him today. “Oh, really?”

Bill arches a questioning brow at you, and you remind yourself to be convincing, dammit. Usually, this isn’t an issue. Most days, you like your job, and your boss, just fine. 

Most days. 

“You’re bored, aren’t you, Ears?” Bill continues, pitching his voice deep, those probing eyes piercing straight through you.

“I -” you start. Bored isn’t how you’d describe it, lately.

Tired, more like. 

“No, no,” Bill’s expression is patient, endearing. “Don’t deny it. I’ve been watching you. I know that hungry look when I see it. You want more. You came to Colombia to do something important with your life, I can tell.”

Six months ago, hell, even three months ago, Bill’s words would have been true. Now, the very thought of more is enough to send you crawling into bed and sleeping for a week. 

‘Isn’t tracking down Pablo Escobar pretty fucking important?’ you’re half tempted to ask. You hold your tongue.

Obviously, it’s not to Bill Stechner.

“What do you have for me?” you say instead, hoping you sound intrigued, carefully not confirming or denying Bill’s suspicions. 

“Real work,” Bill says with a sharp smile. Something cold jolts down your spine at the his use of the word ‘real.’ 

As if everything until now has been a sham.

“Follow me,” he beckons, and you have no choice but to obey.

Bill leads you past the DEA offices. You catch a glimpse of the top of Javi’s head from the corner of your eye. He’s hunched over his desk, pouring over an open manilla file. You can barely see the deep furrow in his brow. He doesn’t notice you pass by, and you don’t pause to acknowledge him.

Something throbs in your chest at that.

You follow Bill through a few more winding corridors, down into the basement, past Centra Spike’s room, right up to an unassuming little bookcase built into a nondescript wall in the middle of nowhere. 

Bill pauses here, turning to look at you with shining eyes. 

You meet his stare, giving away nothing. 

With an enthusiasm that borders on theatrical, Bill huddles over a little keypad that’s tucked away at the edge of the bookcase. He punches in a series of numbers, glancing over to confirm that you’re still watching. 

You definitely are.

Bill steps back, and like something from an Indiana Jones film, the entire fucking bookcase slides aside, reveling a reinforced steel door built into the wall. 

“Whoa,” you can’t help but breathe.

Bill’s eyes glitter. He’s eating this up, impressing you. 

And truly, you’re impressed. That little spark of interest that had died in the past months of your burnout has flared with a vengeance. 

This is the shit that you joined the CIA for, and Bill Stechner knows it. 

“Welcome to the white room, Ears,” Bill announces lowly. It’s the soft, knowing voice of a man sharing a deeply guarded secret. He opens the steel door with a flourish, and it swings slowly aside, heavy and creaking, as if its weight alone could announce the gravity of what you’re about to see. 

Carefully, you step inside the room, ducking a little to avoid knocking your head against the low hanging doorway, crawling past the steel corridor entrance before you can straighten.

You blink, astounded at what you’re seeing.

Of course, you’ve heard whispers of CIA’s fabled “White Room,” a repository of classified files tucked away somewhere in the embassy basement. Even Javi’s mentioned it a couple of times, always with a hint of resentment, like he’d give his left arm for even a glimpse inside. Rumor is, Steve Murphy’s been in here before, but just once, and he was heavily supervised the entire time. It’s a fucking goldmine of intel, stacks upon stacks of carefully organized file folders, all at the fingertips of the few individuals who are important enough to be need-to-know. 

“Okay,” you whisper beneath your breath, taking it all in. Reality is a little different than you’d pictured. The entrance is impressive, sure, but what you’re staring at is even more so. Box after carefully labelled box is packed atop one another, stacked six deep on a never-ending series of steel shelves. 

You could spend an eternity here learning all of the secrets of Colombia. The implications are mind-boggling, and distantly, you wonder how many other well-hidden rooms the CIA has tucked away across a spread of foreign countries, a never-ending fountain of secrets related to god-knows-what.

Your brain stutters at the thought.

You realize suddenly that Bill is watching you carefully from the corner of his eye, observing your reaction as if he’s surreptitiously taking notes on every thought that flits across you brain. Again, you school your expression, reverting to that practiced, dead-eyed stare of careful neutrality. 

“Cool,” you say, a little breathlessly, knowing that Bill’s eager to wow you, and not seeing any reason not to acknowledge the fact that, yeah, you’re pretty fucking wowed. You turn to face him, ignoring the temptation to sweep your gaze over the many, many labeled files at your eye level. “So, what are we doing here?”

Bill laughs. “I’ll show you.” He leads you past the shelves, and now that you’re behind him, you can’t stop your eyes from tracking over the labels at your eye level. You’re appalled by what you see. 

Shelves upon shelves devoted to Escobar, and even more to the Cali Cartel, all broken down into sections of the individual godfathers. Rodriguez, Herrera, Bejarano, Moncado are all names that catch your eye. There are folders on each major sicario that you recognize from Javi’s info board: Mosquera, Lucumí, Vásquez, Gaviria... the list goes on. Even more files files are labeled Castaño. There’s a whole series of boxes on M-19, and a little past that, an entire shelf devoted solely to FARC. 

It’s more than your mind can possible comprehend in one quick sweep, and hell, that’s just what you could catch at eye level. 

It occurs to you that this is what Steve and Javi are always bitching about. Sure, you’re aware of the ever present pissing contest between the DEA and the CIA, but it’s always been peripheral information to you. Steve in particular is pretty vocal about his frustration with the ‘fucking CIA.’ “Goddamn file’s so redacted that it might as well be scrap,” you can just hear him muttering. 

Christ, if this is the kind of intel that the CIA has open access too, you can kind of see his point. 

Bill stops at a table in the center of the room, indicating it with a sweep of his hand. Reluctantly, you sit, a little annoyed that you’ve got your back to him now, but not feeling comfortable enough to twist around to track what he’s doing. Your instincts are screaming at you that this is a test. A big one. So you wait demurely in your tiny plastic chair, your hands folded primly in your lap, listening intently as Bill shuffles for something behind you.

After a long moment, Bill leans his hip heavily against the table, just a hair too close to your shoulder for you to be totally comfortable. You don’t have time to think on that, though, because he’s sliding a black and white photograph under your nose for you to view.

The man that leers up at you has a pinched face beneath a deep brow. His nose is long and lopsided, as if it’s been broken at least once. His thinning, limp hair hangs low over his eyes, giving him a mysterious, almost rebellious look. His mouth is wide, crooked teeth exposed in an open-mouthed grimace. He’s angling toward the camera, obviously unaware of its existence, leaning forward with a machine gun cradled to his chest.

“Feo,” you say instantly, your mouth working before your brain can catch up. You recognize him from the evidence board in the DEA office, and even more from your conversations with Javi. 

Feo is a low level sicario, one that’s just now caught the attention of Search Bloc, mostly due to the recent chatter that Centra Spike has picked up. You’ve yet to get a positive ID on his voice, but he’s been mentioned in several conversations lately, always in reference to ‘drops.’

Javi’s been working deep in the night to decipher these conversations, eager to learn what ‘drops’ Escobar and his sicarios are so desperate to come by.

“Feo,” Bill drawls, a hint of something sharp licking at his tone. You glance up at him, curious. “That’s an unfortunate nickname.”

He’s staring down at you with eyes that are too aware. Probing, assessing. 

Fuck.

“I’ve seen him on the DEA board,” you explain, grateful that you can provide an answer so quickly. You don’t like the way Bill is looking at you, like he’s daring you to confess a sin. 

“I didn’t realize there were many photos of him floating around,” Bill says casually. But you aren’t stupid. You read the threat in his statement, loud and clear.

“It’s a new one,” you reply automatically, feeling as if you’re scrambling to claw yourself out of a hole. 

But this is also true. Feo has been an ongoing mystery to Search Bloc, one that they haven’t taken seriously until recently. You wonder what it is about this man that’s got Bill so on edge. 

Bill hums. “Good eye.”  He hunches over the photograph, so close that you can feel his body heat against your neck. 

“This is Raul Manriquez.” Bill taps the forehead of the man in the photograph, then turns to leer at you. “Apparently, he’s known to his friends as Feo.”

He’s watching you for a sign. You refuse to give it.

“So,” you ask after a beat. Bill folds his arms across his chest, waiting for you to continue. He’s not giving any signs either, the dickwad. “What does the CIA want with Raul Manriquez?” 

Bill has never behaved this way with you before. There’s a certain weight to the way he regards you that hints at paranoia. He’s deeply, almost obsessively interested in this man, and it doesn’t make sense. 

Feo is a sicario, sure. But sicarios are far, far below Bill’s pay grade. The thought is laughable, even.

Something drops in your stomach. If Feo is more than a sicario, as it seems he must be, then it is far, far above your pay grade to be this involved.

Bill pulls out a chair beside you and sits heavily. He leans on his elbow, swinging his legs so that his knees brush your thighs. 

You echo him, carefully positioning yourself so that you’re facing one another, but no longer touching.

“We have intel to suggest that Raul Manriquez is connected with a Russian weapons ring,” Bill starts. You notice for the first time that he looks tired, too, his eyes a little bloodshot, heavy bags dropping darkly beneath them. 

Something clicks in your brain. “He’s Pablo’s weapons guy,” you breathe. The pieces fall together with startling clarity. The drops that the sicarios had mentioned. The fact that Feo seems to stay at the periphery of things, not nearly as involved with the day-to-day bullshit that other sicarios seem to thrive on. “He’s running guns.”

“Among other things,” Bill drawls, seeming thoroughly bored by the turn in the conversation.

You ignore that. Your thoughts are spinning wildly, forging connections, solving problems. Escobar’s got to get his weapons from somewhere. In the back of your mind, you’ve always sort of known this, but the significance of it has stayed firmly out of sight, swamped by other things that, at the time, had seemed far more important. 

But if you could catch Feo… If you could choke off Pablo’s lethality directly at the source…

“We could end this,” you whisper, sitting up to look Bill directly in the eye. Your voice rises. “Bill, if we neutralize Feo, Escobar’s lost his access to his guns.” Something swoops in your heart, and you feel brighter, more energized than you have in weeks. “We can end this war!”

“Oh, the fucking drug war.” Bill scoffs, waving his hand in a casual gesture of lazy dismissal. He looks frustrated, disappointed. “Ears, broaden you horizons a little, sister. Escobar is on the run. When he’s gone,” Bill leans in, the glint in his eye damned near dangerous. “And he will be gone, Ears, trust me.” He huffs a deep sigh, shaking his head as he pitches away to balance on the far feet of his chair, rocking back and forth in a way that reminds you of a restless kid in a elementary school classroom. His eyes are sharp, possessive as they pin yours. “What then?”

You stare at him flatly, a little miffed to have nearly a year of your life’s work brushed aside as if it’s just petty bullshit. 

You shake that emotion away, blinking hard, reminding yourself of where you are, of who your boss is. With the lines as blurred as they are in Colombia, and your unique position dancing between Centra Spike, the DEA, and the CIA, and Search Bloc, it’s easy to forget that ultimately, it’s Bill Stechner who owns you.

For the first time, that thought deeply unsettles you.

Bill falls forward heavily on his elbows, looking at you with a furrowed brow, and you remind yourself for the umpteenth time that this meeting is a performance, one that you’ve utterly and completely bombed until now.

You brain spins, processing the little bits and pieces of information that you’ve been given. Bill sees Escobar’s fall as in inevitability, inconsequential, even. He’s concerned about Feo in the context that he’s connected to the weapons trade in Colombia. 

Quickly, you consider what you know about Bill Stechner. A CIA big wig with a shady-ass military background. A man who’s mind lives in the future. 

A future without Escobar. He’s made that much clear.

“You’re looking to fill a power vacuum,” you announce suddenly, knowing instinctively that you’re not far off the mark. Bill Stechner is a man who is always thinking ahead, studying the political chessboard to analyze his next move, and the one after that, too.

And that truth bomb jars free even more thoughts that have been floating untethered in the back of your mind. When he’s not skulking around his office, Bill is gone for weeks at a time, supposedly off in depths of the amazonian jungle, brushing shoulders with his right winged military buddies. 

Commie hunting.

The pieces fall perfectly into place, painting a sobering picture, and all the while, Bill watches, a sharp little grin playing at his lips as you connect the dots. 

“Bill,” you say, refusing to accept any bullshit. You thump your finger hard against Feo’s leering smirk, pinning Bill with a dark stare. “Is this guy connected with FARC?”

Both of Bill’s brows arch skyward, and he leans back, looking at you with a new light in his eyes. You get the impression that once again, you’ve impressed him. 

You’re not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

“I don’t know, Ears,” Bill admits, glancing away to his hands, which are suddenly curling into fists in his lap. You can tell it really grinds his gears, the uncertainty. “That’s what I want to find out.” 

You consider him carefully, keeping your face expressionless. This is the most open response you’ve ever gotten from Bill, and you file away that information along with everything else you’ve learned today.

It’s a lot.

“What do you need from me?” 

It’s a valid question. Part of you, the part that is equally intrigued and enraptured by Bill Stechner and the CIA as a whole, genuinely wants to help. 

The rest of you is just desperate to get out of this room.

Bill’s lips slide into a knowing smirk. “Well, Ears,” he drawls, eyeing you in a way that makes something sink in your gut. “I’m glad you asked.”

“I’m listening.” You deliberately leave off the ‘sir,’ that you’re tempted to tack on to the end of that statement. Damn your army background.

“This is the moment that we’ve put you in place for,” Bill confesses, hunching forward on his elbows. Again, you get the impression that he’s trying to reel you in, seducing you with a show of honesty. 

You brace yourself. 

“The DEA is interested in this man, too,” Bill starts, shooting you a pointed look that says ‘I know you already know this.’ You keep your face carefully blank, so Bill continues. “I know that they’ve been working to track his location.”

Something cold coils in your heart. “Are you asking me to spy on Search Bloc?” you ask point blank. 

Bill shakes his head. “No, no, no, Ears,” he chides with an expression of extreme patience, as if you’re a child to him. “That would be counterproductive. We’re all on the same team, after all.” He pins you with a dead-eyed stare that sends a shiver down your spine. “I’m asking you to fully engage in your position with the CIA.” Bill stresses the last point, again reminding you of who you are, who you answer to. “You’re a liaison.” He hums a little, all casual disinterest, disarming you, reinforcing the bonds of loyalty that he’s forged with a simple shrug of his shoulders. “So, liaise.”

You realize with a starling, icy jolt of clarity that Bill Stechner has tolerated your relationship with Javier Peña for this very reason, that he’s garnered your favor - accepting your transfer request, giving you a raise, buying you drinks, playing your buddy - all in preparation for using you as his own personal mole in the ranks of Search Bloc.

And you’d fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.

Your throat works hard to swallow against a suddenly dry mouth. “I understand, sir.” 

For the first time, Bill doesn’t correct your formality. You hardly notice the shift, though. You’re still reeling from the implications of what he’s asking of you, of how he’s exploited you, taken advantage of all of your vulnerabilities.  Suddenly, you feel as if you’re choking, like a noose is tightening, tightening around your neck. You have to stop yourself from reaching to massage your throat, clenching your hands into tight firsts into your lap instead.

Bill watches it all in cool amusement. “Atta girl,” he praises, and you swear you taste bile. He stands, and you copy him absently, feeling detached and awkward, walking on legs that require all of your attention to keep from trembling. 

Bill claps a heavy hand on your shoulder. His eyes flash with something like pride, and you decide in that moment that you hate him, this motherfucker, almost as much as you hate yourself for falling for his bullshit. 

Goddammit, you’re so fucking stupid.

“Good talk,” he says, and you nod in a way that you hope is contemplative without being telling.

You follow Bill out of the room on wooden legs, your mind spinning with the implications of your conversation. He nods to you as the bookshelf slides shut behind you, and you nod back, relieved to see that he turns to head the opposite direction from the DEA office. 

You glance down at your watch. You’ve got ten minutes if you hurry. With all your heart, you hope that Javi is still working. 

You need to see him.

You push past his glass door, swinging it open hard enough that it bangs ominously against the wall. Javi is still slumped over his desk in the exact same position as before, studying a jumbled series of papers, a half-spent cigarette dangling from his lips.

Your breath catches at the sight of him. 

His head snaps up at your noisy arrival, dark eyes narrowed at the intrusion. His expression softens when he sees that it’s you. 

“Ears.” His voice is a sigh, a release of that same tension that you feel leaking from you own bones, and you dart forward, heedless of who might be watching beyond the glass walls.

“Hey,” you say, shoving aside an opened manilla folder to create a bare space for you to lean against. Javi doesn’t seem to mind that in the least, so you flop up onto his desk, pressing your thigh against his elbow, enjoying the feeling of just sharing the same space.

Javi glances at you, and your something lurches in your chest as you take him in. He looks haggard, exhausted, dark bags gathered beneath his bloodshot eyes like he hasn’t had good night’s sleep in far too long. 

“Another little chat with Stechner?” he grouses, peering up at you with narrow gazed suspicion. 

Your heart sinks, and you have to blink hard against the onslaught of his ire. Javi’s always been grouchy when he’s tired, and there’s nothing that drives him into a funk faster than any mention of Bill Stechner. It’s as if he has a sixth sense in that regard, like he can smell Bill on your skin. 

And that’s a gross thought.

Until now, Javi’s attitude had irked you, and you’d written it off as petty, just another brand of that delightfully obnoxious possessiveness that he’s continuously displayed since your apartment was bombed.

But dammit, you’re the moron here, not Javi. He’d been right not to trust Bill.

You shut your eyes tightly. You wonder if Javi should even trust you, given your most recent assignment. 

“Please don’t,” you whisper, not knowing how to put your many worries into words, and Javi must read your conflicted mood, because he lets the subject drop. He huffs, his attention falling back to the open file on his desk, his long fingers working little tapping patterns into its intricate woodgrain.

You follow his gaze, noticing that he’s been pouring over the same photograph that Bill had shown you in the white room. Feo’s ugly mug leers back at you, a knowing, secretive smirk playing at his upturned lips, like he’s mocking you, the motherfucker.

A flood of emotions swamp you. You’ve watched Javi squinting down at this same photo for days, his mind spinning as he attempts to tease out connections, completely stumped as to how this unassuming, ugly man fits into the bigger picture of Pablo Escobar and his sicarios. 

And now you know, but there’s not a damn thing you can say about it. Bill’s going to be watching you. Hell, he’d admitted as much today. Verbatim. If he thinks that his little spy is sharing classified CIA intel with her DEA boyfriend… 

Well, honestly, you’re not sure what would happen. You just know that it would be bad news for you, and probably even worse for Javi.

You release a deep, broken sigh, exhaling though your nose. You wonder how you’re going to balance it all, working for Bill without betraying Javi.

Well, you absolutely refuse to do that. Fuck Bill Stechner for even asking.

But now, watching Javi huddled over his messy desk, squinting in the dim light because he refuses to wear his fucking glasses, frazzled and careworn and a little cranky, something pulls at your chest. 

Refusing to share this intel feels a lot like a betrayal already, and suddenly, you’re desperate to confess it all to him, to crawl into Javi’s lap and spill your guts and cry and beg for his forgiveness for blowing off his concerns about Stechner, for even entertaining the thought of withholding information from him.

Just as you feel like you’re ready to burst, Javi sighs deeply, flopping the file shut. He grinds out  his cigarette and turns to glance at you, his eyes dark with need. 

Your breath catches.

Then, without a word, Javi pitches forward to rest his head against your thigh. He nuzzles there for a moment, and you find yourself carding your fingers through his hair, helpless against the temptation to touch him, comfort him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs after a long moment.

“Shh,” you whisper. Guilt gnaws at you. You’re the one who should be sorry. 

But Javi huffs a hot little breath against your leg, and you brush aside all thoughts of who should trust who, of loyalty and ethics and treason and chain of command. Right now, your entire universe is resting his head in your lap, and you’re determined to enjoy this moment, fallout be damned. 

“Baby,” he murmurs into the rough denim of your jeans, and your heart flutters. You bring your opposite hand to rest at the back of his neck, savoring the softness of his skin there, winding your fingers through the curls that brush against his collar.

Javi shudders at your touch, and you remember belatedly that you’re stroking at his number one erogenous zone, teasing him mercilessly without meaning him to. 

Reluctantly, you pull away, resting your palm at the slope of his shoulder instead. “Whoops.”

Javi snorts, craning his neck just enough to arch his only visible eyebrow in your direction. The rest of his face is squished into your thigh.

It’s fucking adorable, and it reminds you all over again how little you deserve him, this precious, perfect man. 

“What’s wrong?” Javi asks, like he’s sensed the direction of your thoughts. He twists further to frown up at you. One hand comes up to rest at the juncture of your hip, his thumb pressing deeply into your skin. 

It’s a comfort. 

“Nothing,” you mutter, because you can hardly say ‘everything.’ You busy yourself with working little circles at the base of Javi’s ear, hoping it’s enough to distract him from his line of questioning. 

 It’s not. Javier Peña has a mind like a steel trap, and he notices everything. “Bull,” he breathes, shutting his eyes despite his best efforts. “You’re worried ‘bout something.”

God, he looks wrecked. 

“I just…” You struggle for the right words to to offer him, come up empty. “God, I hate this.”

That one dark eyes flutters open again, soft with concern. 

“I miss you,” you blurt before he can dig any further. And oh, god, that’s not a lie. You miss Javi so much it fucking burns, even with him nuzzled right here in your lap.

Javi draws a deep breath, rolling over to expose the entire left side of his face. His opposite arm comes up to wrap around your waist so that he’s almost hugging you, his fingers digging gently into your flank. “What time is your shift over, baby?” he mumbles, his one visible eye glinting, nearly feverish with need. 

“Mmm,” you hum, your pulse hammering away in response to the how he’s looking at you. “I can probably be home by eight,” you say sadly. 

And really, that’s pushing it. It all depends on what you hear over the frequencies, and how quickly you can vet it. Anybody’s guess at this point in the game.

Javi blusters a deep sigh that prickles hotly at your inner thigh. “Dammit,” he groans, clenching his eyes shut in frustration.

“What’s your morning like?” In the craziness of the past few days, you’ve completely forgotten his schedule. 

“Early,” Javi mutters darkly. He doesn’t look at you.

“Fuck.” 

“Hardly,” he pouts against your jeans.

And god, you can’t blame him. Resentment wells hot in you. You just want a break, dammit, just a single fucking day to spend with the man you love. 

Is that so much to ask?

Suddenly desperate for more contact, you bend down to drop a gentle kiss at his temple. 

Javi inhales sharply as your lips meet his skin, and you lay there like that, contorting over him in a way that makes your sides ache and probably displays half of your bare back to anybody who happens to walk past the glass walls of the DEA office right now. 

You don’t fucking care. You need this. 

“Can I meet you for lunch tomorrow?” you ask as you finally pull away. You haven’t bothered glancing at your watch, but instinct is telling you that you’re already running late for your shift, and your back is killing you.

Javi sits up, slumping against his office chair with his legs splayed sideways. He’s all wild hair and furrowed brow, and if you weren’t at work, you’d be tempted to crawl into his lap and kiss that contemplative look right off his face.

“That might work,” he says slowly, licking his upper lip a little in that way that means he’s thinking hard. Something coils deep in your belly, and you have to shake your thoughts away from those lips and that tongue, and what all they’re capable of. 

Javi cocks a brow at you, tilting his head a little. “What are you thinking?”

Fuck it, it’s late. You slide off his desk, planting yourself in his lap with your legs spread across his, grinding subtly against his thighs. His belt buckle digs into your belly, but you don’t give a shit. You tilt his face to yours, reveling for half a second in his confused, awestruck expression before you plant your lips on his for a deep, gentle kiss. Javi moans a little at the contact, plaint and responsive against your advances, his hands coming to graze at your back reverently. 

“I was thinking I’d ride,” you whisper against the stubble at his lower jaw just as you lean in to suck at it. 

Javi twitches against you, a tiny jolt of his hips, like he’s tempted to take you right here in his rickety office chair, damn the glass walls. 

“I need to see your face,” you continue, pulling his hands up to rest at your ribs as you rock gently against him, a subtle preview of tomorrow’s menu.

Javi shudders beautifully beneath you. “What, this ol’ thing?’ he teases, nuzzling against your breastbone. You can tell that he’s pleased by the thought. 

“This pretty thing,” you correct, working your way back to his lips. 

Javi bites back a groan as you kiss him. “Was asking about food,” he murmurs against your mouth. “But this is better.” 

“Don’t worry about food,” you say, falling forward to nuzzle against his neck. “I’ll take care of it. And it will be perfect.”

Javi snorts. “Better be takeout, then.” He gathers you against his body with strong arms, cradling you close. You breathe him in, reveling in the distant smell of coffee and stale cigarette, all mixed in with a hint of musky sweat and something smoky and dark that is uniquely Javier Peña. 

“God, baby, I’m looking forward to it,” he confesses against the hollow of your throat, and you throw your head back, shut your eyes and let him ravage you there, just for a moment. 

Javi pulls away far too soon, and you shudder at the loss of him, your body damn near trembling with need. 

He rolls back in his chair, glancing up at you with an apology in his eyes. “It’s eight oh five,” he tells you somberly, and you wince, disentangling yourself from him, stumbling out of his chair and straightening your shirt and threading your fingers through your wild hair in an effort to smooth it down. 

“How do I look?” you ask after a moment, backing up enough to give him the full effect of you. 

Javi’s eyes are burning as he takes you in, damn near shimmering with want and exhaustion and pent up emotion, and you curse Bill Stechner once again for butting his big nose into your relationship, for complicating things that should be so fucking simple.

“Perfect,” Javi says lowly, his lips pursed into a thin line, his eyes glittering with some thought that you can’t name. “Fucking perfect.”

Something wrenches in your chest, and you catch your breath, feeling tears prickle at your eyes. You suck them down, frustrated at how often life in Colombia seems to draw your emotions to the forefront. 

Nobody needs that. 

You lean forward, unable to resist dropping one last, chaste kiss to Javi’s forehead. “Go to bed, Javi,” you whisper against his skin. You pull away, a gentle, teasing smile spreading across your face. “Seriously, baby. It’s just getting stupid now.”

You wink at him, and Javi huffs a little laugh. “Get out of here, Ears,” he grouses, waving a lazy hand at you, but his smile is gentle and soft, and you know that he’s recognized the reference for what it is.

Feeling lighter than you have in days, you shoot him one last cheeky wave. Javi blows a little kiss at you in response, and your heart stutters at the gesture. 

God, he’s such a sap.

You damn near dance to the Centra Spike office, slipping into your headphones a full ten minutes later than you really should. Nobody bats an eyelash, though, and you busy yourself with the normal nightshift bullshit, sipping your coffee and switching to the proper frequencies, the promise of tomorrow glowing in your heart. 

♠

notes/confessions:

I struggled so hard with this. I still don’t love it, but I’m sick of looking at it, so here ya go. Enjoy.

Okay, I know I have thrown some massive plot things at you this week. I know it’s complicated, and I know it’s a lot. Feel free to ask me questions. I’ve tried to make things as clear as possible, but I’m only human, Narcos is complicated af anyway, and Better Love is even worse, probably. 

Look for updates to slow back down again, because a) I actually do have a job, and b) we’re getting close to the point where I’m going to have to start posting If I Fall, and I want to have my chapters outlined a little better and maybe even a few deep before I do that. Look for a few little fluffy one-shots scattered between then and now, but guys... for the most part, the pieces are in place, and we are in the home stretch - of the setup, that is. 

Holy fucking shit.

Tags:  @jedi-mando, @perropascal, @hotspacepilots, @mostly-megan, @starlight-starwrites​, @thirstworldproblemss, @knittingqueen13, @yespolkadotkitty, @lv7867, @pascalisthepunkest, @sarahjkl82-blog, @corrupt-fvcker, @artsymaddie, @leonieb, @justanotherblonde23, @princess-and-pedro

Javier Peña tags: @magpie-to-the-morning, @tiffdawg, @danniburgh, @1800-fight-me, @mandoandgrogu, @hybrid-in-progress, @va-guardianhathaway, @speakerforthedead0, @feminist-violinist, @herefortheart, @dontmindifidontt, @blo0dangel 

[cosmicsierra]

Springtime - Professor Obi-Wan Kenobi x afab Reader

pairing: professor!obi-wan kenobi x afab!reader

word count: 1.2k :)

warnings: mature!! 18+ professor and student romance, smut? kind of? sexual tension

preview: In reality, Obi-wan wasn’t worried about whether or not his lesson made sense, it was simply a review of the week before. He knew that you were staring at him all class. He knew you had no idea what the lesson was about. He was being bold and shameless, trying to get you to admit what he knew.

notes: pls take this, i couldn’t stop thinking about professor obi and i needed to break and write slight smut to take some thirst out of my obi-wan longfic. slow burns killll me

masterlist

Diligent clicks from students frantically typing echoed off of the vast walls of the university’s tiered lecture room. You closed your eyes and put your elbows up on the desk. Settling your head in your hands, you ran one hand through your hair and sighed quietly. Your keyboard was the only silent one; every other student in the class was typing in an alarmed frenzy.

You, however, could only focus on the professor.

Usually, that would be a normal and productive habit of a university student of your level, but you weren’t focusing on his words, no. It was a warmer spring day. The lecture room class was being held in didn’t have the luxury of air conditioning, so the hot air snuck in through the windows and consumed the room. You, already dressed for spring weather, were in a knee length floral dress with a turtleneck underneath. Not only were you overthinking the turtleneck part now, but also you noticed your Professor must have been overthinking his outfit choice.

Professor Kenobi, always known for being well put together and gracing the room with a well energized presence (except for when he spent the night grading essays), was now brushing locks of strawberry blonde hair from his forehead. He wore a button up shirt with a simple vest and tie, but the sleeves of his button up have been progressively rolled up throughout class. You jiggled your leg.

His arms. Every time he reached toward the whiteboard to write out another big concept or a learning target about god knows what, the rolled up sleeves of his button up revealed a little more muscle. His muscles moved as he pressed into the marker to craft words in a beautiful cursive on the plain whiteboard. You wished you could pay attention to the content in class, but Professor Kenobi was absolutely killing you.

Before you knew it, students were standing from their seats and leaving the humid classroom as soon as they could. Some rushed off to their next class, and others lingered to chat with friends. Quickly snapping back to reality, you folded up your laptop and went to shove it into your bag. Swinging your school back over your shoulder, you stood up and walked down the tiered levels to exit the room, but you were stopped by Professor Kenobi’s voice. He usually conversed with you after class, as you genuinely did care about the content and wrote really well crafted papers for his class. However, you thought that the professor would want to get out of the class quickly, evident of his rolled up sleeves and slightly sweaty forehead.

“You’re just going to head out then? I assume you’re not a fan of this either.” Professor Kenobi chuckled and gestured to the windows.

You smiled. “I like it quite a lot, actually. It’s refreshing.” You pulled at the hem of your dress and fanned it out a bit, to show him that you did indeed enjoy the warmth. His gaze briefly held onto the hem of your dress. You couldn’t tell whether he was admiring the pattern, or if he was admiring you. Blushing, you gently let the dress fall back to normal and instead put your hand on your school bag.

“If you enjoy it so much, how come you are flushed?” Professor Kenobi smirked at you, teasing you. Your mouth dropped a bit. You swore he knew. He had to. There’s no way he hadn’t felt your eyes on his forearm all class. Jeeze, you needed to go and touch some grass. “Anyway, why don’t we head to my office to discuss your most recent paper. You made some pretty big revelations that I’d like to discuss.” His smirk turned into a smile, almost as if he suddenly remembered his role as a professor. You nodded. “It’s also air conditioned in my office,” he spoke, “so you shouldn’t be so flushed once we get in there.”

He turned to the lecture table to grab his own leather book bag. He swung it over his shoulder and it rested nicely on his hip. The strap was worn from so many uses carrying class materials all over campus. Holding the door open for you, he gestured for you to leave the room first. He propped the door open behind himself with a wooden doorstop.

Finding himself catching his gaze on your figure in the dress, he tried to focus on the vast stained glass windows in the hall as you two walked.

He spoke again, purposefully avoiding eye contact, “How was today’s lecture? Do you think the class was engaged? Did you feel engaged?”

Your heart dropped. Here he is asking you about the lecture, and all you paid attention to the whole class was his forearms. Hands starting to feel clammy, you stuttered out, “It seemed like the class was pretty focused. Everyone was taking notes.” You smiled up toward him, trying to hide your nervousness. You knew that being a college professor could be overwhelming, and that when students didn’t engage in class it became exhausting. You hopped he wasn’t falling into a phase of burnout, he was truly a wonderful professor.

He finally caught your gaze, finally stopping in front of his office door and unlocking the door, his eyes on you. “What did you think about the topic of logical fallacies?” In reality, Obi-wan wasn’t worried about whether or not his lesson made sense, it was simply a review of the week before. He knew that you were staring at him all class. He knew you had no idea what the lesson was about. He was being bold and shameless, trying to get you to admit what he knew.

You put your arms behind your back, and he gestured you into his office. It was neat, like always, only the stain from the outline of a coffee mug on his light desk, and a leather bound book, sitting open. You took your normal seat in front of his desk. He shut the door.

With your back to him, you answered, “With all due respect Professor Kenobi-”

“Please, call me Obi-Wan.” He interrupted. He smoothly walked over to his desk and sat in his chair. His elbow propped up on the desk, he leaned into his arm.

You gulped. “Okay, Obi-Wan, I had trouble focusing in class because of the humidity and heat in the room.” You were the one beginning to get sweaty, now.

At your words, a smirk formed on Obi-Wan’s face. Leaning ever so slightly closer, he looked into your eyes. “Is that so? Didn’t you just tell me you enjoyed this weather?” He had you now. Out of all of the teasing and his little quips, this was the first time you were at a loss for words.

Reaching over his desk and taking your chin gently between his first finger and thumb, his voice dropped to a whisper. “Or were you enjoying that the heat was making me so bothered in class?” You swore you had stopped breathing at this point. His hands were soft on your chin. Feeling an all too familiar sensation between your legs, you squeezed your legs together tighter.

“Darling,” his voice dripped like honey, “you don’t need to hide it. I know.” His opposite hand reached underneath the desk and gently laid in your knee. You slowly relaxed the muscles in your thigh.

You’re definitely changing your major to English, now.