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wheneverfeasible · 3 days ago

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Mother’s Day

Below is a little thing I wrote just now to try to process my own emotions surrounding Mother’s Day and the pain of not being loved enough by someone who should have loved you unconditionally. So excuse any typos because it’s not really edited yet lol. It did admittedly become more Steddie focused though lol what can I say, even in emotional turmoil these little gay idiots are my brain rot.

wc: 1.8k || rating: T || warnings: child neglect, toxic mothers, dead mothers, difficult relationships with mothers/parents

Steve waited a respectful distance away as Eddie knelt at his mother’s grave. A year ago, Eddie had been fighting for his life, had been so gravely injured that no one really expected him to make it, to survive. He coded at least three separate times those first few months, and each time Steve had to watch the way Dustin and Eddie’s uncle began preparing for the worst.

Miraculously, however, he did it. Eddie pulled through. Eddie lived.

It took some doing, but they even got the charges against Eddie dropped with the help of the prodigal Hopper, back from the dead and about to make it every government and city officials’ problem. He tore into Powell for allowing the town to put out a witch hunt, for indicating that Eddie could be guilty with no evidence that Eddie even touched Chrissy.

Powell quietly stepped down, willingly taking a leave of absence, and Hopper stepped right back into his role as Chief of Police as a resident hero. It became much smoother sailing for the Munsons after that, especially after the Carvers left down after the death of Jason and bad publicity from his apparent lunacy.

Eddie still had much to overcome, however, having had half his guts chewed to bits, and his physical therapy was long and arduous. He at least had company in the form of Max, recipient of metal implants in her body to fix her shattered bones, though even now her eyesight had yet to return.

Steve helped them, of course, because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. Robin and Vickie were getting along swimmingly now and Steve knew she needed her own space to work out what that all meant, so he had plenty of free time.

Plus, the little brats were at the hospital every spare second of their day to visit both Max and Eddie, and they frequently needed a ride. Nancy and Jonathan helped out sometimes in that regard, but more often than not it was Steve. He didn’t mind, however. Having come so close to losing Max, Steve liked to keep an eye on her as well.

And then there was Eddie.

Eddie was something…different.

He was a friend, certainly, but Steve knew that had none of this happened, they probably never would have become friends quite like they were now. He was also aware that, now that things were finally and truly over thanks to Eleven—Jane—that Eddie had no reason to want to hang out with someone like him.

Except Eddie always seemed happy when Steve peeked through the doorway with a little finger wave, face lighting up in delight and proudly proclaiming to his uncle that he wouldn’t have survived without Steve’s help, much to Steve’s embarrassment.

Steve’s parents, miraculously, returned to town. Steve had thought, perhaps, they’d finally pay attention to his injuries. That they’d see the hospital bill and the antibiotics Steve had to take and the bloody bandages and the nightmares that wouldn’t leave him alone and just…finally care.

It was wishful thinking.

Steve’s dad set to work trying to take advantage of things for his business, to take over the roles left empty by the “earthquakes” to gather even more influence and resources for himself. Steve’s mom set to volunteering, though always looking picture perfect for the multiple articles about her benevolence in the newspaper.

Steve’s mom was loved in the community, respected, adored. She played her part well. No one except those close to him would ever suspect Steve of being neglected at home, his needs always coming second to his parents’ schemes towards their public image. Nevermind that his father’s cheating was an open secret, or that his mother could cut someone down and have them cast out of the social elite with just a few words.

Steve had learned at a young age that he would never be either of his parents’ priority.

Seeing Wayne, unashamed tears in his eyes, clasping Eddie’s hand from where he sat at his bedside day and night as he recovered wasn’t the first crack but it was definitely a significant one for Steve to finally see how parents should treat their children.

Did he even really have parents? Were the Harringtons truly his family? Or was it the ragtag bunch who, despite the constant bickering and snarky comments and insults, had his back when things mattered? Who put bands on his face, held ice to his head, tore their own clothing to form bandages, who bared their souls to him in shitty public restrooms, who smiled when they saw him like they were genuinely happy to see him?

When Steve left his house for the final time, he didn’t even think his parents noticed. He honestly still didn’t know. When he showed up on Robin’s doorstep with his single duffle bag of items, she didn’t hesitate to bring him in with a smile on her face that said she was proud of him for finally making himself a priority.

Her parents didn’t feel quite comfortable with him staying there, however, so he hopped around and stayed with the Hopper-Byers who accepted him without a word after he explained things to them. Joyce was still wary of him a bit, he could tell, because of his past altercations with her children, but she didn’t turn him away.

It was a little uncomfortable staying with the boy your ex-girlfriend left you for and his entire family, however, so Steve somehow found himself staying with the Munsons as well. Which worked out, honestly. As part of their hush money promise, the government had purchased them a small two bedroom house in one of the areas left undamaged by the earthquakes, the previous residents having left the cursed town for good.

And that was…weird, but mostly weird because it wasn’t. At first it had been, sure. But he’d gotten so used to Eddie and his uncle while Eddie was still in the hospital that it really didn’t change things up too much. Plus, Steve being there allowed Wayne to return to work, and Steve helped Eddie to and from his physical therapy and anything else he needed.

And so they got closer.

And closer.

Until one night Steve didn’t have to sleep on the couch.

In the morning, there had been chaos. Or he thought it would be chaos. He’d been ready to jump up and protect Eddie when Wayne found them curled up in bed together, was preparing himself for hateful words and hard fists. He’d been terrified, but thought to give Eddie enough time to make his escape, except…

Wayne just sighed out ‘finally’ and told them breakfast was on the table.

Robin punched him in the arm later when he told her, but since she was sporting a hickey on her neck barely covered up by her blouse, he figured she didn’t have much room to talk.

When Eddie finally felt well enough, there was talk of taking a trip. Eddie wanted to get out of town for a while and Steve honestly couldn’t blame him. Steve thought a change in scenery would do well for both of them, especially when Steve kept seeing his parents around town and being hailed as benevolent heroes of the community for their volunteer work and (taxable) donations, yet they never looked for him.

When they did see him, their eyes skimmed away like Steve was nothing more than a stranger to them. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he had always been a stranger in his own house.

Summer was once more fast approaching. Having received his GED last year, Eddie was ready to get the hell out of town before the school year ended, especially since he wanted to visit somewhere specific first.

His mother’s grave.

Eddie told him late one night under the covers, his fingers absentmindedly tracing through Steve’s chest hair, that the last time he flatlined, the time everyone finally thought that that was it, he saw his mother again.

He didn’t know if it was a hallucination or maybe a glimpse into the other side, everything was possible now he supposed, but she looked as beautiful as she did before she got sick and crushed him to her body. She had whispered how much she loved him, how proud of him he was, but that it wasn’t his time yet. She had told him he deserved to be loved and that he would find it soon, that it was closer than he thought, and she would always be with him.

Eddie had looked up onto Steve’s eyes from where his head rested on his shoulder and smiled, saying that his mom had been right. Love was closer to him than he’d ever thought possible. It was the first time Eddie told him he loved him, the first time Steve told him the same, and Steve knew then that this was what home was supposed to be like.

Watching Eddie now, whispering his final goodbyes he never got the chance to say and telling his mom how right she had been, Steve felt an ache in his chest. He felt guilty as well, or rather he felt guilty that he didn’t feel guilty.

He wished he could change places with Eddie, felt jealous of him, wished that his mom had loved him even if it meant she was dead too. Had his mother ever told him she loved him? He honestly couldn’t remember.

He felt like a terrible person for thinking such things, but the ache in his chest was still too raw, still too painful. Especially on today of all days.

“Happy Mother’s Day, mom,” Eddie whispered, one beringed hand clasping onto her headstone, tears evident in his voice. “Goodbye.”

Steve was there in an instant, arm around Eddie’s waist to help him up as he steadied himself on his cane. Eddie smiled at him, thankful and loving, even as tears rolled down his cheeks. Steve gently kissed them away, feeling Eddie’s expression soften beneath his lips.

“She would have loved you,” he whispered, allowing Steve to guide him back to the car.

Steve kissed Eddie’s head as he helped the man settle in the passenger seat, watching the way his eyelids flutter, emotional and physical exhaustion taking its toll. He glanced back at the grave, and for a split moment, he thought he could almost see a sparkle of light and feel a mother’s love.

“Thank you for loving him,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of him now, I promise.”

Maybe Steve’s mother would never love him the way he wanted her to, but as Steve drove off towards the rising sun, hands clasped with the man he loved, he allowed himself to heal just a little more. The ache may never leave him, but he wasn’t alone anymore. And he never would be again.

ao3

Hostage Hotties (open):

@derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump @scoops-aboy86 @dotdot-weirdlife @everywherenothere @bumblebeecuttlefishes @hiei-harringtonmunson @estrellami-1 @nebulaoz

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington has bad parents #angst #steve harrington angst #steve harrington emotional whump #anti mothers day #plot thots

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missredherring · 3 days ago

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Set Up

Javi Gutiérrez x Harry Castillo

Rating: M

Word Count: 1.1k

Contents: kissing, frottage.

Summary: Matchmaker AU. What are the odds a matchmaker sets you up with a former hook up? Asking for a friend.

A/N: I loved the parallels in the gifs and this idea quickly followed. Thanks to @perotovar for their encouragement.

Not beta read.

Divider by @saradika-graphics.

Javi takes a deep pull of wine and barely tastes it before he swallows. It's not how he was taught one should enjoy wine, but enjoying isn't his goal right now. Maybe he should've gotten something stronger if he really wanted to dull some of the nerves twisting in his stomach.

He's dressed nicely in a fancy restaurant whose waiting list goes out years rather than weeks or months. That he made this reservation a couple of days ago is a testament to the power of an old family name like his, but it makes him feel like even more of a failure.

It'd been a secret wish to find a partner organically. A chance encounter set up by fate where interest sparked with a moment of eye contact, a brush of the hand, an exchange of shy smiles. He knows real life is nothing like the idyllic movies he adores, but the small hope clings to his heartstrings and pulls at the worst times. Besides, when was the last time he's spent enough time in a coffee shop to have a proper meet-cute?

He'd thought Gabriela was the one for a few sweet months of heated kisses and whispered daydreams of a better future out from the thumb of his family. In the end he couldn't bare to trap her in his golden cage just because he was lonely and desperate for companionship. She understood better than he did that his family would never approve of them together.

The pressure to marry and marry well only increased after Lucas' failed coup d'état. The family needed to repair its reputation and present a stable, powerful image to the rest of the world. What better way to do that than with a wedding?

Javi's orders were clear: marry soon or they'd marry him off themselves by the end of the year and he would have no say in the union.

He understands. It's the least he can do to repay the wealth and power that's let him live such a carefree and privileged life, but that hope swings like a pendulum in his chest and he wants one last chance to find love for himself. That's happened before, right? There are a fair few movies that have the protagonists finding true love with the threat of an arranged marriage hanging overhead. Of course they also portray those marriages as a soul-crushing union that's a fate worse than death. He doesn't want to crush anyone or be crushed himself.

Hope swings away and he had to admit that maybe his family isn't wrong about the arrangement idea. So he negotiated one last chance to find a partner for himself and reached out to Nic for advice. His friend (his friend Nic Cage) had offered up the name of a New York-based matchmaker who he swore was one of the best. Some of the successful Hollywood couples? Her doing.

It was a strange experience to trust a total stranger to match him up with another stranger based on a form he filled out, but Javi is the kind of person who wants to trust other people, no matter how many times life delighted in proving him wrong.

Harry C.

He hadn't wanted to see pictures, charmed by the idea of a true blind date, but maybe that had been a mistake. The matchmaker had assured him they matched on the important things and now it was up to them to see if there was any potential in person. He hoped this whole thing wouldn't turn into a disappointment his family would see as another failure.

Javi reaches for his glass again but redirects to the water instead.

His phone vibrates from where he'd placed it next to the table setting. The phone going off during the date would be rude, wouldn't it? He turns the sound off before checking the message. It was from the matchmaker:

"I hope you have a wonderful time with Harry. Of course, if you're not feeling it let me know and I'll get you out of there!"

The emojis depicting a person running away makes him smile. He replies with a thank you and the fingers crossed emoji.

He starts to put the phone back on the table, but should he put it in a pocket instead? Would the phone on the table signal that he wasn't wiling to give his date his full attention? Should he have left his phone at home? No, meeting a stranger in a city he was only passingly familiar with was too naive even for him.

"Javier?" a voice asks as shined leather shoes come into his line of sight just beyond the table.

Javi finishes the movement of slipping his phone into his pocket and stands to greet his date.

"Please, call me 'Javi.'"

"Javi," Harry confirms and doesn't hesitate when Javi takes his outstretched hand and uses it to pull him in for a quick embrace. He lets Javi guide his face to the left and right for two presses of smooth skin against his cheeks. It's over in seconds, leaving Harry with a lingering sense of warmth and a pleasant, familiar cologne.

"Ah, please, have a seat," Javi says, gesturing to the empty seat opposite of him before sitting back down at the table.

It's a nice restaurant with packed tables spaced far enough apart for privacy in low lighting. It would be easy to forget about the city outside when all you can hear is the quiet hum of conversations and the occasional clink of silverware.

With his prize in his sights, Harry's patience feels boundless as he watches Javi finally settle in his seat and look him in the eyes for the first time that night.

Belt buckles rattle and the hiss of zippers are echoed in exhalations as ruddy cocks are freed from pants.

The recognition is slow but steady as Javi studies his face, his eyes darting from feature to feature before landing on his lips when Harry can't hold back his smile.

Harry could spit, but the other man takes his hand and licks along his palm and fingers instead, grunting when Harry uses it to press and hold their dicks together while he kisses him again and again, dizzy with the taste of alcohol and wedding cake.

"I finally get to know your name and of all people a matchmaker is the one to give it to me. What do you think the odds of that are, Javi?"

Seeing Javi's face among the candidates had been a shock. Harry had never expected to see the man he'd hooked up with at his brother's wedding again, but there he was, smiling at the camera wide enough to bring out the laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, just as he had when they'd locked eyes across the room at the reception.

"Small," Javi croaks, taking what can only be described as a 'swig' from his wine glass. "but apparently not impossible."

#javi gutiérrez x harry castillo #javi gutiérrez #harry castillo #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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allhalemischief · 23 hours ago

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Scott McCall is a good person.

But he is also a bad friend and, subsequently, a bad alpha.

He is morally righteous, quite literally he always does the morally right thing. The core of his character is that he is a good person. It is impossible for anyone else to live up to his moral standards because 1. its his story and he’s the one telling it and 2. narratively no one else can be as good or better than him because then his character is obsolete.

However, despite being morally perfect, he is also extremely self centered. As a result, he tends to be judgmental and neglectful to those around him.

He is capable of being a good friend, we’ve seen it. Yet he is, more often than not, focused on himself and whoever he happens to be dating at the time than anything else.

In order to be a good alpha, you have to be a caretaker. An alpha’s responsibility is, first and foremost, to take care of their pack. While not to the same extent, you also need to be willing to take care of your friends to be a good one.

Scott never wanted to be a werewolf and for most of the show, refuses the responsibilities of it. While he obviously will deal with problems that arise, it is begrudgingly. Even as an alpha, he shirks the responsibility of making sure everyone in his pack is okay.

But before he even becomes an alpha, we see how he treats Stiles, his best friend - his brother. He is focused on getting on the lacrosse team, getting in with the popular kids, and Allison. Stiles is consistently an afterthought or a tool to use.

Everyone Scott purposely engages with is someone who can provide him with something. Even his girlfriends, who he seems to grow to care for eventually, start out as more for the sake of being in a relationship than because he wants them in that position in his life or because he’s is interested in them as people (I am specifically looking at Allison and Kira for this bit).

The disregard for Stiles’ theories is a mix of it requiring him to give something of himself and his anything supernatural is not my problem attitude. Although, for some asinine reason he also tends to disregard the fact that Stiles is usually right when he does try to do something about it, refusing to listen until after he has already failed (the ego that comes with being so self centered probably).

I love puppy Scott. This is a side of Scott we see in canon. He is adorable and, while naive and a bit oblivious, he tends to care.

Scott McCall is capable of caring for others.

I love getting to see Scott and Stiles be brothers but those times are few and far between because Stiles is a giver and Scott is a taker.

Neither of these are inherently bad to be but only if you find balance. If a giver fails to set boundaries and gives too much or if a taker doesn’t accept those boundaries or takes too much with or without them, the consequences are their own fault.

Stiles has trouble setting boundaries with Scott, which is his own fault, but Scott regularly uses this for his own gain.

It’s never really acknowledged but, even if it is subconsciously, Scott is aware and doesn’t stop taking.

We see him be a good friend and sometimes a good alpha even, but it isn’t consistent because usually someone else has to point out the issue before he will notice and do something about it.

My issue is that this happens frequently enough that he has so many opportunities go oh, this is obviously something I am struggling to do so I should work on that.

As someone who is supposed to be so morally good, you would think he would want to be as compassionate and caring as possible.

But. He. Doesn’t.

I do not hate Scott for the core of his character - although it definitely gets on my nerves on occasion - I hate him for being a waste of his potential.

I love when people make Scott the bad friend in fics. I know Scott is such a puppy in most peoples eyes and they say that it hasn't been easy for him but FUCK that. IMO he was such a bad friend to Stiles. He was so quick to shoot Stiles theories down and ignore him when Stiles was always the first one there for him. I love fics where Derek and his pack take Stiles in and Scott is just confused but we all know why. Like yes, push Stiles away so Derek can pick up the pieces. Stiles joining the Hale pack is one of my fav tags. Idk. I just also didn't like Scott at all in the show.

#teen wolf #teen wolf scott #scott mccall #stiles stilinski #teen wolf stiles #tv: teen wolf

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sunsetmade · 6 hours ago

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His Sunshine

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: She’s a drop of sunshine, always talking, laughing, and telling stories. But someone dims her light and Rafe isn’t happy about it.

Rafe Cameron wasn’t the talkative one in the relationship—and he liked it that way.

He preferred to keep his arm wrapped loosely around her waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of whatever sundress or oversized tee she wore that day, chin dipping to nod at her stories while her voice animated every room they entered. Her voice was always light and full of feeling, rising in excitement over small things like funny-shaped clouds or a new candle she found at the store.

He didn’t always understand how she could find so much joy in the ordinary. But he loved it.

He loved her voice, and how it didn’t quiet even when people didn’t listen. He loved how she always looked for the best in people—even when they didn’t deserve it. And he loved the way she filled in all the spaces he left behind: with warmth, with softness, with sunshine.

So it should’ve been just another night—her talking, him holding onto her.

But tonight felt different from the second they stepped into the Boneyard Country Club ballroom.

⸻

She looked radiant.

That was the only word Rafe could think of. Radiant.

She wore this pale yellow silk dress with a low back and tiny straps that tied behind her shoulders. Her hair was curled a little at the ends, and she had this natural glow about her that wasn’t makeup—it was just her.

And she was excited.

“Okay, so I’m not saying I’m not nervous,” she chattered, looping her arm around his as they walked inside. “But also, like… a little bit? I don’t know. Maybe Rose will actually like me tonight because I promised myself I’d keep my elbows off the table.”

Rafe snorted. “That’s your strategy?”

She beamed up at him. “Polite elbows. That’s all it takes.”

He bent his head down to kiss her temple. “You don’t have to do anything different.”

She just hummed and squeezed his hand, like she knew he meant it but didn’t fully believe it.

Ward and Rose were already seated at the far end of the room, surrounded by familiar faces—business partners, country club wives, donors with too much money and too little sincerity.

She didn’t fit here.

Rafe knew it. She knew it.

But she never let it stop her.

She greeted everyone like they were old friends, complimenting dresses, asking genuine questions, laughing at half-funny jokes. Rafe didn’t say much—he never did at these things—but he stood tall and quiet beside her, his hand never leaving the small of her back.

She belonged beside him. Even if no one else could see it, he did.

Until she went quiet.

⸻

They were standing in a little cluster near the bar—Rafe had just stepped aside to get her a glass of champagne. She was mid-sentence, retelling a story about how their dog had barked at a paper bag for a full five minutes last week, and people were laughing, smiling, leaning in the way they always did with her.

And then a girl—one of those daughters of a board member types, with sleek hair and a designer clutch—tilted her head and said, too sweetly, “That’s adorable. You’ve got, like, a kindergarten teacher vibe, you know? It’s cute. Like a little golden retriever.”

The smile on her face flickered.

Only for a second.

But Rafe noticed it from across the room.

She laughed it off, of course she did—offered a light, “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment,” and turned to someone else. But something in her shoulders had changed. She wasn’t glowing anymore.

She was dimming.

When Rafe returned, she smiled at him, took the glass from his hand, and slid her fingers between his like nothing happened.

But he saw through it.

She was quiet the rest of the night.

⸻

They didn’t talk about it in the car. She hummed softly to the radio and leaned her head against the seat, watching the houses pass by through the window. Rafe kept glancing at her, jaw tight, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her knee.

She usually talked the whole way home—about the food, about someone’s dress, about how she tripped a little on the rug but swore no one noticed.

Tonight? Silence.

When they got to his place, she slipped her heels off at the door and padded into the living room. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t mad. She was still smiling.

But it wasn’t the same.

“Hey,” Rafe said quietly, tossing his keys into the bowl by the counter. “You good?”

“Yeah.” She nodded too fast. “I’m good. Just tired. Long night, you know?”

He walked up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and rested his chin on her shoulder. She melted into him, like always, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes when she glanced back at him.

“Talk to me.”

She hesitated.

Then, with a small shrug: “I’m just being sensitive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Rafe—”

“Was it that girl? The one who called you a dog?”

She let out a soft laugh, but it was thin. “Golden retriever. And she said it was cute.”

He turned her around gently to face him. “I don’t think you’re cute.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

He smirked a little. “You’re beautiful. And smart. And funny. And if she saw even a fraction of that, she wouldn’t have said that passive aggressive bullsh—”

“Rafe…”

He quieted when she touched his chest, her eyes soft but sad.

“I’m used to people not… really getting me,” she said, voice small. “I know I’m a lot. I talk too much. I get excited about dumb stuff. I’m not polished like those girls your family knows. I probably do seem like a golden retriever.”

“Hey.”

Rafe’s voice dropped, and he reached up to cradle her face in both hands.

“You’re not ‘a lot.’ You’re everything.”

She blinked hard. He saw the tears she was trying to hide.

“You light up every room, and people who don’t get that?” His thumb brushed her cheek. “They don’t deserve to be in the same room.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to argue, but he shook his head.

“I like your stories. I like that you talk too much. You make every boring moment better just by being there. You make me better.”

She let out a shaky breath.

Rafe leaned in, brushing his nose against hers.

“You don’t ever have to quiet down to fit into their world,” he whispered. “You’ve already built your own. And I’m the lucky one who gets to be in it.”

Her eyes shimmered. And then she buried her face in his chest and hugged him like she never wanted to let go.

Rafe held her tighter.

She was still quiet that night.

But this time, it wasn’t because of anyone else.

This time, she was just wrapped up in the way he made her feel—safe, loved, enough.

And that was all she needed.

#outer banks #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fanfics #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe imagine #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x reader #obx fic #obx x reader #rafe cameron #rafe angst #rafe outer banks #rafe fluff #rafe cameron fluff

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jungkoode · 2 days ago

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ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 03

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 12, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: bruising, self punishing, self harm, cleansing one self, ocd portrayal, stressful situations, psych sessions, public healthcare portrayal in the mental health realm

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3,6k

➔ A/N: HELLO. WELCOME BACK TO THIS NIGHTMARE. Kiki Nation is THRIVING. And by thriving, I mean crumbling under the weight of my own pacing choices. That’s right. You thought you were getting plot? ACTION? MOVEMENT? Wake up, babe. This is Kiki Nation, and here? We move like anxiety on a Sunday night—slow, painful, and entirely internal. But listen… listen. Jokes aside (kind of), this chapter is actually doing a lot even if it looks like nothing is happening. I love writing scenes like this because, while it feels still on the surface, the psychological current is raging underneath. What’s being said without being said? What’s slipping through the cracks? What isn’t Taehyung allowing himself to articulate because if he did, it would crack him open? That’s what this is about. It’s tension. It’s claustrophobia. It’s the mind eating itself alive. We’re diving deep into the obsessive-compulsive loops here—realistic ones. I researched this thoroughly, not only as someone who lives with neurodivergence, but as someone who respects how complex OCD truly is. It’s not just “I like things clean” or “haha I’m quirky about numbers.” OCD is a deeply distressing, all-consuming, reality-warping condition that demands ritual to relieve unbearable tension, even when you know it makes no logical sense. You KNOW it’s irrational. That’s the point. But the alternative feels worse. And that’s what I wanted to capture. The thing about trauma—especially when you’re neurodivergent—is that your brain will cling to anything that feels controllable when real life becomes overwhelming. And sometimes, those fixations grow teeth. What starts as “I need to clean this” becomes “If I don’t, I am disgusting. I am dangerous. I will harm something I care about.” That’s not aesthetic. That’s hell. And yeah… Dr. Bernard trying so hard but still being limited by time, funding, caseloads… It’s a subtle nod to the very real way public healthcare systems stretch mental health care to its absolute breaking point. Because if Taehyung had money? He’d have private therapy, trauma-informed care, daily support. But no. He gets 45 minutes in a tile-counting room twice a month and a prescription that might not even be enough. It’s not fair, and that’s kind of the point. For legal reasons, this is a joke!!! 🥰 (But is it?) So yeah. I hope you’re paying attention to the mirror. The numbers. The language he uses. The way he doesn’t trust reality itself. There’s a reason this chapter feels repetitive. There’s a reason he keeps looping. And if you felt trapped reading it—good. You’re right where I wanted you. (affectionate)Thank you for reading and for trusting me to tell a story that digs a little deeper than surface-level trauma bait. Your comments and support mean everything to me. I read every single one. See you in the next chapter where… oh. Oh no. Yeah. See you there. (awkward finger guns)

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Purple blooms beneath thumb pad.

Bruises beneath his finger.

Taehyung presses harder, watching skin darken under pressure.

Pain flares, then dulls. Not enough. Never enough to convince himself that yesterday was real.

He sits on the edge of his mattress, counting breaths.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

The apartment smells of bleach and nothing else.

(bleach, he needs to bleach the r—bleach—it’s dirty, he needs bleach)

No food. No life. Just chemical purity and the faint must of walls that never fully dry.

You were there. In his store. Breathing his air.

(impossible impossible impossible)

His fingers find another patch of unmarked skin along his forearm.

Pinch. Twist. Hold until capillaries burst and blood pools beneath the surface.

The pain grounds him in reality, but reality itself has become suspect.

How could you exist in the same grimy corner of Paris where he scrubs floors and straightens shelves? How could something so clean touch something so dirty?

Your scent lingers in his memory—sweet almond, rose, powdered sugar.

Macarons.

(macarons, macaronsmacaronsmacarons)

The kind sold in patisseries where everything costs too much and the staff watches him like he might pocket something.

He's never wanted macarons before. Never craved anything sweet.

Now his mouth waters at the memory.

(disgusting filthy unworthy)

Seven new bruises track up his arm like stepping stones.

Evidence that he exists. That yesterday existed. That you might have seen him—really seen him—even through the curtain of hair he uses to hide.

The thought makes his stomach lurch.

He stumbles to the bathroom, falls to his knees before the toilet. Nothing comes up. He hasn't eaten since yesterday morning. Just water. Just enough to keep his body functioning.

The tile is cold against his forehead as he counts again.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Again. Again. Until the nausea passes.

You'd asked him a question. Spoken directly to him. Your voice precise as cut glass.

‘Why are you helping me?’

He hadn't answered. Couldn't answer. What could he possibly say?

Because your knees shouldn't touch this filthy floor.

Because you're too perfect for this place.

Because I'm not worthy to watch you bend.

The memory of your cotton pads—the dented package he'd first grabbed, the horror that had seized him when he saw the imperfection—makes his fingers twitch. He'd found you a perfect one. Undamaged. Clean.

It mattered so much in that moment, more than breathing.

He drags himself up from the bathroom floor. Crosses to the sink. Turns the water as hot as it will go and plunges his hands beneath the stream.

The burn is good. Clean. Skin reddens instantly.

He scrubs with the rough side of a sponge until his palms are raw. Until he can't feel the phantom touch of the cotton pad package he handed you. Until he can't remember the way your fingers almost—almost—brushed his gloved ones.

Gloves. He'd been wearing gloves. Thank god. Thank god.

(still dirty still contaminated still worthless)

The mirror above his sink is spotless. He keeps it that way, though he rarely looks into it. Now he forces himself to meet his own eyes.

Dark circles. Hollow cheeks. Hair too long, falling across his face in messy blindish waves.

He looks like a ghost. A shadow. Nothing substantial enough to exist in your world.

Yet you'd looked at him. Tried to see his face. Asked him a question in that voice like winter air.

His stomach clenches again, but differently. Not nausea this time. Something worse. Something like hunger, but not for food.

Macarons.

The word loops in his mind, sweet and forbidden. He wants to taste them now. Wants to know if they taste like you smell. Wants to dissolve them on his tongue and pretend he's breathing the same air that touches your skin.

The thought is so profane it makes him dizzy.

He stumbles back to his bed. Sits on the edge again. Pinches another spot on his arm, harder this time. The pain blooms bright, then fades too quickly.

You'd looked back at him from the doorway. Caught him watching. Your eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. Seeing.

No one sees him. No one notices. He's made sure of it for years.

But you had.

His phone buzzes. Work in an hour. The convenience store waits, its floors already collecting new grime, new evidence of human existence that he'll need to erase.

Will you come back? The question terrifies and exhilarates him.

(come,come you have to comeback)

He should pray you don't. Should beg whatever god might listen to keep you away from his dirty corner of Paris. Away from his contaminated existence.

Instead, he finds himself hoping. Desperately, pathetically hoping.

The bruises on his arm throb in time with his pulse. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Evidence that yesterday was real. That you were real.

That maybe, just maybe, you'll be real again today.

Persistent.

The word hangs in stale office air. Taehyung's fingers twitch against his thigh.

Twenty-six tiles. Wrong number. Wrong pattern. Wrong room. His eyes trace the edges where white grout meets ceramic, counting again in case he missed one. Twenty-six. Still wrong.

(wrong wrong wrong fix it fix it)

"Taehyung? I asked if your contamination fears are still persisting."

Dr. Bernard's voice is distant as a radio playing three rooms away as it filters through the fog. The man sits across from him, pen poised over a notepad that's seen too many patients. His colorful socks peek beneath gray trousers—today they're yellow with small blue bicycles.

Taehyung notices this instead of meeting his eyes.

"Yes." The word scrapes his throat. Dry. Unused.

How long has he been sitting here?

"And the medication? You're taking it regularly?"

Taehyung nods.

Paroxetine. Forty milligrams. White oval pill. Bitter when it touches his tongue if he doesn't swallow fast enough. He takes it every morning at 7:07. Never 7:06. Never 7:08.

(seven seven seven)

"Good, good." Dr. Bernard makes a note. The pen scratches paper like insects crawling. "And the cleaning rituals? Any improvement there?"

Twenty-six tiles.

The pattern is wrong.

If he could just add two more, it would be twenty-eight. Seven times four. Perfect.

His fingers curl into his palm, nails digging half-moons.

"About the same."

Dr. Bernard sighs. Not an impatient sigh. A tired one. The sigh of a man with sixty-three other patients. Taehyung counted the files once when the secretary stepped away. Sixty-four including him. Too many. Not enough time.

"You mentioned last time you were using bleach on your hands again." Dr. Bernard taps his pen against the notepad.

Tap-tap-tap.

Not seven taps. Irregular. Unpredictable.

“Is that still happening?"

The bleach burns. Burns means clean. Clean means safe. Safe means—

(he won't contaminate you)

Taehyung blinks.

Where did that thought come from?

"Sometimes." His voice sounds hollow even to himself. "When it's necessary."

Dr. Bernard's glasses slip down his nose. He pushes them up with his middle finger, a gesture Taehyung has seen forty-seven times in their sessions together.

Always the middle finger. Never the index. Never the thumb.

"And what makes it necessary, Taehyung?"

You. Your perfect skin. Your clean leotard. The way you move like water, untouched by the filth of this city.

But he can't say that. Hasn't told Dr. Bernard about you. About the mirror. About the convenience store. About yesterday when you spoke to him and the world tilted on its axis.

"Dirt." The answer is inadequate. He knows this. "Contamination."

Dr. Bernard waits for more. The clock on the wall ticks. Not seven ticks per minute. Sixty.

Wrong number.

"I see." Dr. Bernard writes something down. "And have there been any changes in your routine lately? Anything new?"

You.

You are new. You with your rose-macaron scent and perfect posture. You who looked at him—really looked—and didn't immediately turn away.

"No." The lie tastes metallic.

"Taehyung." Dr. Bernard sets his pen down. Leans forward slightly. His chair creaks. "We've been meeting for three years now. I'd like to think I know when something's changed."

Three years. Thirty-six months. Not a multiple of seven.

Wrong.

"Nothing important." Another lie.

Through the thin wall, he hears another doctor's voice. A woman laughing. Someone crying. The Centre Médico-Psychologique never has enough space, enough privacy, enough time. His forty-five minutes will end in seventeen more. Then Dr. Bernard will see someone else. Someone whose problems might be fixable.

"I've increased your sessions on your Carte Vitale authorization." Dr. Bernard slides a paper across the desk. "Twice monthly instead of once. I think it could help."

Taehyung stares at the paper. The government seal. The stamps. The signature.

So much bureaucracy to fix a broken mind.

As if more sessions in this room with twenty-six tiles will stop him from scrubbing his skin raw after thinking of you.

"Thank you."

He doesn't reach for the paper. His hands are dirty. Always dirty.

Dr. Bernard's phone buzzes. He glances at it, then back at Taehyung.

“I'm sorry, I need to take this. Just a moment."

As Dr. Bernard steps outside, Taehyung's eyes drift back to the floor.

Twenty-six tiles. He could fix it. Break two into halves. Make twenty-eight. Seven times four. Perfect.

(break them break them make it right)

His foot hovers over the tile nearest his chair. One stomp might crack it.

Fix the pattern. Fix the room. Fix him.

But he doesn't move. Just counts again. And again. And again.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

Dr. Bernard returns, tucking his phone away. "Sorry about that. Where were we?"

Taehyung's foot settles back on the floor. Twenty-six tiles. Still wrong. Still broken.

Like him.

"They're wrong."

The words escape before Taehyung can swallow them back. His tongue feels thick, disconnected from his brain.

Dr. Bernard leans forward. "What's wrong, Taehyung?"

"The tiles." His finger points downward, trembling. "Twenty-six. Wrong number."

(wrong wrong wrong fix it fix it)

Dr. Bernard follows his gaze to the floor, brow furrowing. Understanding dawns slowly across his face. He sets his notepad aside and kneels, running a finger along the grout lines.

"The tiles—there are twenty-six. Should be twenty-eight." Taehyung's voice cracks. "Seven times four. Or at least twenty-seven. Has a seven in it."

His heel bounces against the floor. Up-down-up-down. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Again. The rhythm keeps him tethered when his mind threatens to float away.

Dr. Bernard stands, retrieving a black marker from his desk. Without hesitation, he kneels again and draws a thick line across one tile, dividing it neatly in half.

"There," he says. "Twenty-seven tiles now. Contains a seven."

The marker squeaks against ceramic.

The line isn't perfectly straight.

Doesn't matter.

The number matters. Twenty-seven. Has a seven. Better.

Taehyung's breathing slows. The pressure behind his eyes eases.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Bernard says, returning to his chair. "I've been seeing you for three years. I should have noticed sooner."

He gestures vaguely around the room.

“They just changed my office last month. I didn't think to count the tiles before you came in."

Three years. Thirty-six months. One hundred fifty-six sessions. And Dr. Bernard still doesn't understand that everything must be counted. Everything must be checked. Everything must be right.

But he tried. He fixed it. Drew a line. Made twenty-seven.

(better better better not perfect but better)

"Thank you," Taehyung whispers.

Dr. Bernard nods, uncapping his pen again.

"You mentioned nothing had changed in your routine. But something in your face tells me otherwise." His voice softens. "Sometimes change can trigger episodes like this. Even good changes."

Taehyung's fingers find each other, twisting. Counting knuckles.

"I found something." The words feel strange in his mouth. Heavy. Dangerous.

Dr. Bernard waits. Patient.

The clock ticks. The newly-divided tile stares up at them both.

"A window." Taehyung continues. "At work. Behind the storage room."

"At the convenience store?"

Taehyung nods. "Two days ago. Needed cleaning supplies. Went to the back room. Not the main storage. The other one. Where they keep replacements."

His sentences fragment. Break apart like the tile on the floor.

He can't help it.

The memory is too bright, too sharp.

"Nobody goes there. Dusty. Dirty."

(filthy filthy filthy)

"And you found a window?" Dr. Bernard prompts.

"Not a window. A mirror." Taehyung's throat constricts. "But it's not a mirror. It's a window. One-way. Looks into the building next door."

Dr. Bernard makes a note. "The building next door to your store is...?"

"Ballet academy." The word 'ballet' feels sacred on his tongue. Too pure for his mouth. "Practice room. Empty usually. But not that day."

His heartbeat accelerates.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

Faster now.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

"Someone was there?" Dr. Bernard asks.

Taehyung closes his eyes. Sees you immediately. Your reflection in the mirror as you practiced. Arms extended. Back straight. Perfect. Clean. Untouchable.

"A dancer."

He can't bring himself to say more. Can't describe the way you moved like water.

The way your reflection caught in the dirty glass and somehow remained untainted.

The way he stood, frozen, watching for twenty-seven minutes before his manager called his name.

"I see." Dr. Bernard makes another note. "And this discovery upset your routine?"

Upset. Such a small word for the earthquake that destroyed his carefully constructed world.

"I went back. Yesterday." The confession burns his throat. "After work. Before closing."

Dr. Bernard nods encouragingly. "To see this dancer again?"

Taehyung's nails dig into his palms. "Yes."

"And did you?"

The memory floods back. Not through the mirror this time. Face to face.

You, entering the convenience store minutes before closing.

You, scanning shelves with precise movements.

(dirty dirty dirty can't touch can't let you touch)

"Yes." His voice barely audible now. "She came into the store."

The pronoun feels wrong. Inadequate. You are not a 'she.' You are something else. Something more. Something clean in a filthy world.

"Did you speak to her?" Dr. Bernard asks.

Taehyung shakes his head. Then nods. Then shakes again. "She spoke to me."

The memory of your voice makes his skin prickle. Cut glass. Winter air. Perfect diction.

"What did she say?"

"Asked why I was helping her." His eyes find the divided tile again. Twenty-seven now. Better. "I picked up her cotton pads. Found her a new package. Undamaged one."

Dr. Bernard writes something down. "And how did that make you feel? This interaction?"

Feel? How could he possibly explain?

The terror. The exhilaration. The certainty that he was contaminating something perfect just by existing in your presence.

"Wrong," he finally says. "I felt wrong."

"Wrong how?"

"Dirty." The word tastes like copper. "She's clean. Perfect. I'm..."

He gestures at himself. His stained uniform. His raw hands. His existence.

"Taehyung, have you ever heard of religious scrupulosity?"

The question hangs in the air. Taehyung's fingers freeze mid-count against his thigh.

"It's a form of OCD where someone becomes fixated on moral or religious purity. They develop intense fears about contaminating sacred things or being unworthy in a spiritual sense."

Taehyung stares at the divided tile. Twenty-seven.

His throat closes. Words retreat, curling back inside where they're safe.

(not religious not that simple not that)

Dr. Bernard waits. The silence stretches between them like a thread pulled too tight. When Taehyung doesn't respond, he tries again.

"I'm not suggesting this is exactly what's happening. Just that there might be similarities in how you're viewing this dancer."

Taehyung's jaw tightens. His teeth grind together. The sound fills his skull. Drowns out Dr. Bernard's voice. Drowns out everything except the memory of you.

Perfect posture. Clean lines. Untouched by the filth surrounding you.

"She's just a person," Dr. Bernard says gently. "A talented dancer, perhaps, but human. Like everyone else."

Wrong. So wrong.

You're not like everyone else. Not like him. Not dirty. Not broken. Not wrong.

Taehyung shakes his head. Once. Twice.

Seven times.

"Taehyung?" Dr. Bernard leans forward. "Are you still with me?"

Words scatter like roaches when light hits them. He can't catch them. Can't form them. His tongue feels swollen, useless. He manages a nod.

"I'm not concerned about you seeing someone dance twice," Dr. Bernard clarifies. "That's perfectly normal. I'm interested in how intensely it seems to have affected you."

(not normal never normal nothing normal)

"You helped her pick up some cotton pads. That's a kind gesture, not contamination."

Taehyung's hands curl into fists. Dr. Bernard doesn't understand. Can't understand. Hasn't seen you. Hasn't felt the wrongness of his existence next to yours.

"Not..." The word scrapes his throat. "Not kind."

"No? What was it then?"

"Necessary." Another word claws its way out. "Had to."

Dr. Bernard makes a note. The pen scratches paper. Seven scratches. Taehyung counts them.

"Had to protect her from the dirty floor?"

Taehyung nods. His chest tightens. The room shrinks. Twenty-seven tiles. Focus on the tiles.

"Taehyung, I've known you for three years. Your contamination fears typically center on yourself—protecting yourself from outside dirt. This seems different."

Different. Yes.

Everything is different now. The world tilted when he first saw you through that grimy one-way mirror. Tilted further when you walked into the store. Spoke to him. Looked at him.

"Let's back up," Dr. Bernard suggests. "Tell me about finding this mirror."

Taehyung's eyes close. Behind them, he sees the storage room. Dust motes floating in stale air. Cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly. The wall that wasn't a wall.

"Cleaning." His voice barely audible. "Needed bleach."

"For the store?"

A nod.

"And you found this mirror in the storage room?"

"Back room." The distinction matters. "Not main storage. Nobody goes there."

"And through this mirror, you could see into the ballet academy next door?"

"Practice room." The words come easier now. Focused on facts. Not feelings. "Empty usually. But not then."

"And you saw this dancer practicing."

"Yes."

"For how long did you watch?"

Taehyung's fingers twitch. "Twenty-seven minutes."

The truth slips out before he can stop it.

Dr. Bernard's eyebrows rise slightly. "You counted?"

"Always count."

"And then what happened?"

"Manager called. Had to go back."

"But you returned the next day?"

Shame burns his cheeks. He nods.

"And then she came into your store?"

"Before closing." The memory floods back. "Accident."

"The cotton pads?"

"Yes."

"And you helped her."

"Had to." His voice cracks. "Floor is dirty. She's not."

Dr. Bernard studies him. "Taehyung, when was the last time you spoke to someone outside of work or these sessions?"

The question catches him off guard. He blinks. Tries to remember. Can't.

"This connection you feel—" Dr. Bernard chooses his words carefully "—it might be intensified by isolation. Human beings need interaction."

(not human not normal not worthy)

"I'm not suggesting anything inappropriate is happening," Dr. Bernard continues. "Just that your reaction seems disproportionate to two brief encounters."

Disproportionate. As if there could be a proportionate response to witnessing divinity in a convenience store.

"She's clean," Taehyung whispers. The only truth that matters.

"Everyone seems clean to someone who feels contaminated, Taehyung."

Taehyung flinches. His vision tunnels. The twenty-seven tiles blur. His breathing quickens.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. Too fast. Too shallow.

"I think we should focus on your isolation in our next session," Dr. Bernard says, glancing at the clock. "And perhaps revisit your medication dosage."

Taehyung doesn't respond. Can't. Words have abandoned him completely now.

His mind retreats to the only safe place it knows—counting. Tiles. Breaths. Heartbeats.

Seconds until he can leave this room with its wrong-then-fixed floor and return to his apartment where everything is arranged in sevens and nothing beautiful exists to be contaminated by his presence.

Dr. Bernard sighs. Not impatient. Sad. "Our time is almost up. Is there anything else you want to tell me about these encounters?"

Taehyung stares at his raw hands.

What could he possibly say? That when you looked at him, really looked, something inside him recognized something inside you? That for one brief moment, he felt seen instead of invisible? That helping you felt like prayer?

He shakes his head.

"Alright." Dr. Bernard stands. "Same time in two weeks, then. And Taehyung?" He waits until Taehyung looks up. "Try to talk to someone. Anyone. Even just to ask the time or comment on the weather. Human connection matters."

Connection.

As if someone like him could connect with anyone.

Especially someone like you.

The session ends. Taehyung leaves without speaking again. Steps carefully over the divided tile. Twenty-seven now. Better. Not perfect.

Like him.

goal: 250 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @billy-jeans23 @calmyourtitts7

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

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celestiamour · 2 days ago

Note

Hi!! I saw that you had open requests for conclave, so I wanted to ask if you could make more Thomas Lawrence x fem reader smut? Maybe a needy Thomas or something, people don't write about him enough 😞

TYSM<33❤️💕

🎨 anon- since now:)

ft. thomas lawrence x f! reader — conclave

╰₊✧ the spirit is weak and the flesh is willing┊0.8k words

contains: smut!! dom reader & sub lawrence┊slighttt dubcon, succubus reader, mention of erectile dysfunction & references to his age, blowjobs, all happening in a dream, snowballing

➤ author's note: hii new nonnie!! something short for now since i’m getting ready to write all of those conclave fics in the poll plus all my squid game requests, but i look forward to seeing you in my inbox more often to thirst for this loser mwahhh (also this is kinda similar to the previous fic i wrote but oh my god i love torturing him)

as most people do, thomas has a few rituals he performs before going to bed: cleaning any clutter that may be in his room, showering and brushing his teeth, reading scripture and saying his prayers (specifically reciting psalms 91, he always makes a point to remember)— all typical things clergymen do before resting. however, there are a few other things he does that seem strange, even for a man like him.

he makes sure everything is in place, checking obsessively before taking a breather. his home is anointed with holy oil, a mixture of olive and other essential oils which were blessed and smeared in little crosses over all the surfaces of his home. there’s a crucifix hung in every room, maybe even two if it’s more spacious. salt lines his doors and windows wherever there may be a crack.

he does everything he can to keep demons away while he’s in his most vulnerable state, but he still fiddles with his rosary before hesitantly drifting off to sleep, feeling like a child who is scared of the monsters in the dark. in all honesty, the monsters with sharp fangs and glowing red eyes in storybooks would be better than what he’s dealing with. at least then, he would feel less guilt and wake up feeling something other than shame for what has been happening in his dreams.

for the past four and a half months, you’ve been showing up in his dreams a few times per week, a winged creature with little horns on the top of her head and a pointed tail. a succubus who was looking to feed and chose a man who had dedicated his life to the church, which was against all you stood for. it wasn’t a coincidence, no, you chose him because you thought it was funny to taunt a man who was required to stay celibate for some sick, sadistic reason. you’ve even called him cute on multiple occasions, finding it adorable all the things this old man will say and do in an attempt to ward you off at first.

sometimes you wear lace, other times you wear latex. it’s always scandalous and leaves little to the imagination, but that always gets him more flustered than if you wore nothing at all. you tease him, caressing his face with the back of your hand, telling him all the things you want to do to him, asking him if he was having more fun serving god during the day rather than spending time with you at night, but you never force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do.

no, the best part is when he finds himself backed up in a corner, his hardened cock stirring in his trousers in ways that he thought were no longer possible, and the scent of your perfume making him dizzy with lust. the best part is when he cracks like glass, whispering a few pleas before outright begging for you when you pretend you can’t hear him.

it’s the most satisfying sound really, the sound of a man giving in to his most carnal desires and pathetically allowing stings of “please” to slip past his throat as you give him what he wants. it’s almost like he forgets what he’s made his entire life’s purpose the moment your mouth is on him, running your tongue along his length and teasing his tip while alternating between long and kitten licks. despite his age, he finds himself acting like a teenage boy again due to his inexperience, cumming in your mouth after barely two minutes like a loser.

he takes several deep breaths before opening his eyes, wincing at the slight overstimulation when you slowly loosen your jaw and let go of him with a ‘pop,’ the little string of drool connecting your swollen lips to his tip makes you smile before abruptly standing up and kissing him with aggression, so much so that he wakes up with a start with sunlight leaking into his bedroom.

thomas can still taste you, your sweet spit mixed with the saltiness of himself. the recollection of the nightmare makes him feel feverish, pulling the sheets off only to find his underwear sticky with evidence of his release. he takes a cold hard shower and prays before leaving his house, making a mental note to figure out another way to keep you away from him at all costs possible.

you can’t tell if he’s more stupid than he looks or is simply in deep denial. he can do all he wants to his house and say all the prayers he wants, but his mind is like an open portal for you to waltz into. despite everything he says and does, he’s just as weak as any other man to temptation, and his secretly perverted mind is more than willing to let you enter no matter how much he would deny it.

#📜. her works #thomas lawrence #thomas lawrence x reader #thomas lawrence smut #conclave #conclave x reader #conclave smut #hierophilia

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elixirfromthestars · 3 days ago

Text

I read the warnings and yet, I still got whiplash when we went form the fluff to angst 🤧🩷

More under the cut ᯓᡣ𐭩

Her chuckle is low and tender, like a secret between friends. She pats the counter with a weathered hand. “When you’ve been with someone as long as I have, you don’t wait for birthdays to say you’re thinking of ‘em. Time’s a fragile thing, sweets—especially these days.”

^ Very wise woman 👀 I love her aura 🙂‍↕️✨

Your jaw tightens. One eye twitches, a betrayal of calm. “He’s fine,” you answer, too quickly. “We’ve been writing.” Half-truth. Whole ache. She beams at the news, unaware—or choosing not to be.

^ Half-truth. Whole ache. Wooooow that got me right there 🥺💔

You stand frozen, jaw clenched, hands still lifted mid-air like you can rewind time if you just don’t move. Then— The bell rings again. A sharp, metallic jingle. Unexpected. Unforgiving.

^ The way that this would be my last straw 💀 I would close for the day 😂😅

“You’re not looking too hot, Dottie.” That voice—husky, teasing—strikes your spine like a tuning fork. You don’t need to see him to know who it is.

^ We all know who that is 🤭💗💗

A strong hand snatches yours, jerking you forward and into the solid wall of his chest. His hands find your shoulders, steadying. Anchoring. The heat of him seeps through your apron, and your breath stutters from the proximity. You don’t dare look up. Not yet. The chest beneath your cheek shakes with a soft laugh, and even now—off-balance, embarrassed—it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve heard all day.

^ The way I would melt in his arms the moment he held me 🫠💕 1940s Bucky just has this charm to him that would absolutely ruin me 🤭

One hand tips your chin up gently, guiding your gaze to his. Those blue eyes—stormcloud and silver—crinkle with mischief, and you feel the floor give way beneath your knees all over again. You swear you’ve seen them enough times to be immune. You are not.

^ I’d never be immune. Ever. I promise you that. 🥹🩷 My lovely, what a beautiful way to describe his eyes, I love the picture you painted with your descriptions!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼

“Instead, you branded me with a nickname every grandmother in Brooklyn answers to.” “Ah, but ours is special,” he pouts. “Just between me and you.”

^ I guess if it’s all ours and it’s special then it’s okay or whatever 😗💖

The dancing scene was too cute, I could not pick just one part like the whole thing was so adorable 🥰❤️ The dancing, laughing, off key singing—it was all such a perfect way to break the ice of seeing each other again after everything. 🫶🏼 It was also just a sweet moment showcasing the dynamic between these two and it made me love them so much!! 🩷🩷 And the image of 1940s Bucky being so happy and carefree—ahhhhh I’m in love!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼

“You idiot,” you snap, half-scolding, half-awed. “You ruined your uniform.” “You look worse,” he counters, smiling despite it all. He rises, dusting himself off. Then his hands—warm, worn—cup your face. Everything stills. “I’ve missed you.” It takes you a beat to answer. “I’ve missed you too.”

^ Omg 🥺❤️‍🩹 Both of them must have been in agony waiting to see each other again ☹️

His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Too quiet. “Steve went down in a German aircraft.”

^ Oh no… 💔

And still, he keeps going. Not for you—for himself—like he’s trying to force the words out before they strangle him. “He called from the cockpit before it happened. Didn’t say goodbye. Just… made a promise to his girl.” His voice falters. “You could hear it—how scared he was. He knew he wouldn’t make it.”

^ Bucky must’ve felt so helpless when he heard Steve’s voice as he went down omg I’m sobbing 😭💔

His eyes flick to yours—something raw and ugly and breaking just beneath the surface. “He saved me,” he says, almost like repentance. “Twice.” You try to soothe. “And you would’ve done the same for him.” He laughs. Cold. Hollow. “Would’ve. Could’ve. Doesn’t mean I did.” His voice drops. “I watched him jump on that plane. I heard him choose to die. And I let him.”

^ Oh nooooo 💔 Please don’t blame yourself omg 😭

“What’s not fair,” he chokes, “is he’s gone. And I’m not.” He doesn’t fight the sob that tears from him, doesn’t hide the way he folds under your touch like a man unraveling at the seams. You hold him as he sinks, your arms catching the weight he’s been carrying alone.

^ The fact that Bucky is going to get his happy ending eventually, but it doesn’t include Steve is actually so devastating to me— I’m going to go and cry in a corner for a little bit 😭💔💔💔💔

You let him cry. You need him to cry. Because this is the cost of surviving. Of being the one left behind. And you would rather carry his grief than let him carry it alone. Because he’s here. He came back in pieces, but he came back. And you will love every shattered one.

^ Such a bittersweet ending 🤧🩷 Bucky has to mourn and grieve Steve, but thankfully he has the reader there for support, strength, & comfort all meanwhile loving him until he’s whole again 🥺❤️‍🩹

Oh, my lovely, I have to first and foremost compliment your writing because omg you write so beautifully!! 🩷 The way in which your prose paints such beautiful images through your details and metaphors makes for such a wonderful read and I absolutely adore it!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼 I went through bit of whiplash there from the fluffy dancing to the angsty reveal of Steve’s death—and now I need a couple tissues because wow 🤧❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 Thank you so much for writing this for my writing challenge, I’m so happy it was able to inspire you!! 💖

just the headline, doll: fleeting augustine. (bakery au) starring... post-war!Bucky Barnes x f!baker!Reader storm ahead, sweetheart: a flip-switch of fluff to angsty. mention of Steve's canon ‘death’. topics of loss, grief, silent comfort. inked just for you: 2,284 a word from yours truly: a bit of a longer piece to sandwich in between the daily drabbles. inspiration pulled from @elixirfromthestars's cafe writing challenge! i started this on my main blog back when the challenge first opened, ambitious in wanting to make it a longer piece that delve into more of a 'August' by Taylor Swift vibe between the characters, eventually... (hence the title that i got too attached to, to change), but i heavily siked myself out. better late than ever & just in time for my heal-write journey. hope you enjoy! ♡⋆｡°✩ -rrinnie

“How much for fresh strawberries?”

Mrs. Cardinal’s voice lilts across the counter, soft and honeyed like sun-warmed tea. Her eyes peer at you from over the rim of her glasses, the corners crinkled with a smile that carries decades of warmth. She looks down at the paper catalog, her fingers brushing over the glossy image of a frosted cake as if it were something sacred.

You return her smile, one corner of your mouth hitching higher than the other. “Eighteen cents for the full top, six for decorative placement… but for you? I’ll cut it in half. Sound fair?”

Her breath catches with delight. “Bless your soul,” she coos. “My husband loves the darn things. I’ll take the full top.”

You nod, scribbling her request on the order form, the scratch of your pencil soft against the hum of the ovens. “He’s a lucky man,” you remark, eyes still on the paper. “Can’t remember the last time someone came in just because. I’d wager it’s never happened.”

You offer a quiet nod, your smile faltering just slightly. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“Oh, it’s true,” she insists, her voice turning fond but firm. “You’re young. This place keeps you busy, I can see that. But if you’ve got someone—someone who makes all of this make sense—you hold onto them.”

You lift your gaze to her, polite, appreciative… but the smile you give her is hollow at the edges. That topic always finds its way to you, carried on the backs of women who see too much.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why her next question lands so heavy.

“How’s that friend of yours? The sergeant.”

You reach for her arm, fingers warm against her sleeve. “When would you like to pick this up?”

She hums, tilting her head in thought. “Tomorrow at noon, dear?”

“Perfect.”

You tear the carbon copy from the pad and hand it to her. She cups your hands in hers, gratitude spilling from her like petals from an overripe bloom. Then she’s gone, out the door with a flutter of her shawl, and the bell above the entrance chimes one last, gentle note.

You sigh, swiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, the kitchen’s heat pressing against your skin like a second body. The scent of baking croissants coils through the air, a thin consolation. You slip behind the swinging door, half-ready to disappear into flour-dusted solitude.

You reach for a tin of sugar balanced precariously atop a bag of almond flour—just a quick tidy, just to feel in control of something—but the moment your fingers graze the edge, the whole tower of ingredients gives out beneath your touch.

Flour erupts like smoke in the air. A bag bursts open on impact, powder dusting your shirt, your arms, your lashes. Sugar scatters in a crystalline spray across the floor. A metal canister rolls under the counter, clattering in protest.

You stand frozen, jaw clenched, hands still lifted mid-air like you can rewind time if you just don’t move.

Then—

The bell rings again.

A sharp, metallic jingle. Unexpected. Unforgiving.

“Shit,” you mutter, voice low with guilt as the word slips. “Coming! Just a minute!”

You push up from your crouch, white dust blooming from your apron like snowfall. The floor groans beneath your step, flour slick and treacherous beneath your boots.

“You’re not looking too hot, Dottie.”

That voice—husky, teasing—strikes your spine like a tuning fork. You don’t need to see him to know who it is.

You spin, startled, your foot catching the edge of a flour pile. Gravity pulls, sharp and cruel—

But it never lands.

You don’t dare look up. Not yet.

The chest beneath your cheek shakes with a soft laugh, and even now—off-balance, embarrassed—it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve heard all day.

“When a girl says ‘one minute,’ she usually means from outside the swinging door,” you mutter, your voice tight with residual panic.

One hand tips your chin up gently, guiding your gaze to his. Those blue eyes—stormcloud and silver—crinkle with mischief, and you feel the floor give way beneath your knees all over again.

You swear you’ve seen them enough times to be immune.

You are not.

“Lucky I didn’t wait,” he says, stepping back just far enough to take in the disaster of flour and sugar. He whistles, low and unimpressed. “Jesus, Dot. You sure this isn’t a cry for help? I know some gals who swear nursing’s their true calling.”

You roll your eyes. “Hilarious.”

He follows you to the broom, walking backward like a devil in uniform. When you reach for it, he beats you there, grabbing it with a smug little flourish.

“Just looking out for you. Should’ve said something after you put Dots on a cake,” he teases, his distaste for the gumdrops evident by the scrunch of his nose. He rests his chin atop his stacked hands on the broom’s tip.

“Instead, you branded me with a nickname every grandmother in Brooklyn answers to.”

“Ah, but ours is special,” he pouts. “Just between me and you.”

You hold out your hand. He feigns compliance, then snatches the broom away, sauntering toward the radio perched on the shelf.

“Bucky—don’t you dare.”

He shushes you with a finger to his lips, twisting the dial. Static crackles, and then—guitar, soft and lazy like a summer afternoon.

He turns. Broom raised to his lips like a mic.

“I’m gonna buy a paper doll that I can call my own…”

You groan, backing away, but he follows. Swaying. Singing. Off-key and utterly relentless.

He catches you by the waist the moment you’re within reach, pulling you in with an easy strength. You press against his chest in mock protest, but the smile curling your lips betrays you.

“A doll that other fellows cannot steal,” he croons, the melody curling from his mouth like campfire smoke, warm and familiar.

“Let me sweep,” you protest, half-hearted and breathless—before a sudden squeal escapes you as he lifts you clean off the ground, spinning you like a record.

“And then the flirty, flirty guys,” he sings, voice dripping with exaggerated charm, “with their flirty, flirty eyes will have to flirt with dollies that are real—”

“Sing with me!” he laughs, cutting off his faux vibrato with a grin so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“When I come home at night, she will be waiting,” you deadpan, rushing the line like you’re trying to outrun the song itself. You toss your head back in mock defeat, groaning as he twirls you right through the minefield of flour and sugar. “Bucky, you idiot!”

“She’ll be the truest doll in all this world!” he bellows, now fully off-key and entirely unapologetic, relishing your exasperation.

“I’d rather have a paper doll to call my own…”

He dips you low, grinning like a fool, pointing the makeshift microphone to your lips. His eyes are sparked with mischief as he juts his chin toward you, brows raised in expectant encouragement.

“Than have a fickle-minded, real live girl,” you sing in surrender, shaking your head even as your lips twitch with laughter.

“Beautiful!” he declares, lifting you upright and twirling you with flourish as the music swells. He spins you out with a theatrical flare, launching into a sloppy, exaggerated swing routine. You burst into laughter, and the sound only spurs him on—he kicks through a puff of flour like it’s part of the choreography, his every move more ridiculous than the last.

“Your boots and trousers!” you gasp, pressing both hands to his chest in a futile attempt to stop him. He only grins wider, undeterred, spinning you faster than the music can keep up.

Flour kicks up with every misstep, but his joy is uncontainable—reckless and radiant, impossible to resist. His laughter rings out, infectious enough to melt any scolding you had planned. Just as you’re caught in the pull of it, his arms sweep beneath you again, and you’re lifted in a dizzying whirl.

Then the floor decided it’d endured enough abuse.

You feel the moment his balance falters—see the flicker of panic in his eyes just before his shoe skids across the floor and the broom clatters down beside you.

And then you’re both falling.

Your body collapses into his with a startled yelp, and his back hits the floor hard enough to shake the cabinets. A sharp thud, a choked grunt—and suddenly, you’re tangled together in the wreckage of sugar and song.

He groans, half winded, half laughing, breath hitching through coughs and fractured chuckles. You scramble upright, flustered and flinging flour from your clothes, but he stays down, one knee bent as he props himself up with an elbow.

With his free hand, he rips the visor cap from his head and tosses it into the mess around him, the gesture as dramatic as the rest of his performance. The last bars of the song warble through the static of the radio, comically triumphant.

You lurch for the dial and spin it down before the next tune can start, your heart still racing as silence spills into the room.

“You idiot,” you snap, half-scolding, half-awed. “You ruined your uniform.”

“You look worse,” he counters, smiling despite it all. He rises, dusting himself off. Then his hands—warm, worn—cup your face. Everything stills.

“I’ve missed you.”

It takes you a beat to answer. “I’ve missed you too.”

But something shifts.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker, a change in the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes drift past your shoulder like he’s watching something no one else can see. The air pulls taut between you, as if it senses what’s coming.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Too quiet. “Steve went down in a German aircraft.”

Your brows knit, confusion tugging at your features—but he doesn’t give you time to ask.

“A Valkyrie,” he adds, hollow. “One of theirs. He intercepted every bomb meant for American soil. Saved everyone.”

Your mouth parts. No sound comes.

The world narrows, the kitchen shrinking around you, suddenly too small to hold the weight of what he’s saying.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s a ghost of a protest, thin and useless. You know better. You can see it in his face. He doesn’t need to be believed—he needs to survive saying it out loud.

“He thought it was over. Thought he’d make it back. But the Valkyrie was still locked on course for New York. No backup. No way out. He just… accepted it. Like a man who’s known his whole life he was on borrowed time.”

His lips twitch—not a smile—something else. A wound reopening.

“He got what he always wanted. Fulfilled his duty right to the end. Like a soldier. Like a hero.”

Your hand finds his arm, fingers pressing in like you could anchor him here. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

His eyes flick to yours—something raw and ugly and breaking just beneath the surface. “He saved me,” he says, almost like repentance. “Twice.”

You try to soothe. “And you would’ve done the same for him.”

He laughs. Cold. Hollow. “Would’ve. Could’ve. Doesn’t mean I did.”

His voice drops. “I watched him jump on that plane. I heard him choose to die. And I let him.”

“Don’t,” you say, the word trembling with the weight of everything unspoken. “Don’t do that to yourself. It’s not fair.”

“He was Captain America,” Bucky says. His tone isn’t reverent—it’s bitter. Blistering. “And I’m what’s left.”

You step forward, unable to bear the space between you any longer. His face is hot under your palms, flushed with grief and guilt, tears already brimming and unshed.

“What’s not fair,” he chokes, “is he’s gone. And I’m not.”

He doesn’t fight the sob that tears from him, doesn’t hide the way he folds under your touch like a man unraveling at the seams. You hold him as he sinks, your arms catching the weight he’s been carrying alone.

His fingers fist in your apron like a drowning man clinging to shore. His body trembles against yours—not with weakness, but with too much feeling crammed into a frame never meant to bear it all.

And when he finally breaks, when the sobs come rough and ragged against your collarbone, you don’t shush him. Don’t try to make it okay.

You let him cry. You need him to cry.

Because this is the cost of surviving. Of being the one left behind.

And you would rather carry his grief than let him carry it alone.

Because he’s here.

He came back in pieces, but he came back.

And you will love every shattered one.

#elixirscafe #starsoverbrooklyn #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you

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angelichughes · 2 days ago

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Hi, my lovelies. I know I have absolutely no right being on here and by all means, please don't feel obligated to welcome me back with open arms because I definitely am not deserving of that in the slightest. In fact, if you were to decide to block me, please don't hesitate to do so as your feelings and emotions towards me are completely valid and reasonable, and I'd never want to be the one to make you feel otherwise. I want this site to be nothing but your comfort space and something you're able to rely on for your happiness, and if you were to decide to block me in order to receive that, I'd truly want nothing more because you're extremely deserving of that.

Everyone's reactions, emotions and posts towards the situation was and always will be valid, reasonable and respectable. What I did was extremely hurtful and harmful towards so many people and the community as a whole and I'd never want to make it seem like you were in the wrong for saying the things you did. If anything, I needed it to be spoken about and I'm forever thankful for those who did end up speaking on it because I certainly needed the reality check and the reminder that what I was doing was only hurting those around me.

I could try to sit here and give you a list of reasons to try and justify what I did, but the truth is, nothing I could ever say could ever take away the amount of hurt, pain, frustration and disappointment that I've caused and I know that. I knew the decisions I was making were wrong deep inside of me, but I let my brain push those thoughts into the back of my head, anyways and I should've never let that happen in the first place. I shouldn't have went against what was right, and I shouldn't have ignored the possible outcome by doing what I did. I desperately wish I could turn back the clock and undo everything I've done because I never wanted to hurt so many people who never deserved that. The only person who deserved to be hurt in the end was me based on my own actions and my own wrongdoings.

I made a ton of wrong decisions while previously being on here, and I feel as if running away was never the solution because I should've dealt with the consequences, I should've accepted the backlash because I only did it to myself and I knew that actions had consequences, and I should've stayed to make an apology to everyone I left hurt and disappointed rather than decide to make an apology through someone else. You didn't deserve to see an apology from me through someone else's blog, you deserved to see an apology coming from me personally, and me doing that was beyond immature, selfish, and ignorant all around because you all deserved far more than that.

I hold a lot of regret for not only deactivating and running from the problem, but for also doing what I did continuously. I not only hurt so many people by my actions, but I also damaged a community I've come to know and love with everything in me. My heart hurts so deeply for those I've hurt, and none of what I did was ever worth everything I've caused at the end of the day, and I'll never forgive myself for not fully realizing that on my own terms. It's extremely unfortunate that it took others to speak on how wrong it was to have me fully grasp that and come to reality again. It shouldn't have taken others to realize, I should've came to the realization that what I was doing would only end up hurting others right from the beginning rather than continue on.

Being on Tumblr was never about putting out content after content in hopes of receiving a little bit of attention. It was never about how many notes I got, it was never about how many followers I had, and it was never about how much attention I was receiving in order to escape for a little while. It was about the people I've grown to love and adore on here, it was about getting to talk to those who have the same interests and opinions as me when it came to our boys and hockey in general, and it was about spreading kindness and love to those who needed it.

I wanted to take the time to express just how much I truly love and adore each and every single one of you sweet, beautiful people, whether you were anonymous or not. There was never a moment where I was never not beyond thankful for all of the love and support that I received. You all brought me so much genuine happiness in such a short amount of time, and unfortunately, I took that for granted and I was entirely selfish, and I feel so fucking awful that I let it get to that point of completely ignoring any and all morals.

I started to use Tumblr as a way to escape from the reality and I relied on it way more than I should have. I escaped through the attention and through the distraction of the internet, and I know now that was never a healthy choice to do. At the time, I had a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that people loved me for who I was rather than the blog I ran. I was just entirely focused on love for my blog that I didn't even think about the love people had for me as a person. I couldn't fully wrap my head around it because I found it hard to love me as a person, but I can't thank you enough for making me now realize that I was always loved and cared for who I was as a person.

Please know that I truly do love and appreciate those who have shown me nothing but love and kindness when all of this happened a while ago. I appreciate your kindness throughout all of this more than you'll ever know because I know I was never, ever deserving of any form of kindness thrown my way, but please know that it truly meant so much to me that you decided to still show that you cared about me despite everything I've ever done.

I know a lot of people came to my blog and my inbox looking for comfort, warmth and kindness, and that's all I ever wanted to bring on this site because that's what Tumblr was truly all about. It was about bringing others happiness by simply talking with them, making fun, silly little posts and being whimsical about our boys, and I can't kick myself harder for taking all of that for granted. All I ever wanted to do within this community was to talk about our favorite boys and to just interact with those who wanted to talk with me.

I hope me saying all of this doesn't make it seem like I'm asking to be welcomed back or that I'm asking for any form of forgiveness or sympathy in any way because I know for a fact that I'm the last person who deserves any of that. I'm definitely not expecting to be welcomed back by any means, but I just hope that I'll be given another chance to prove myself to those who would want to. And for those who don't, I'd never ask you to do otherwise. I just hope that those of you who can't forgive me can know that I genuinely never meant to cause you any level of hurt in any way, shape or form as you were all nothing but kind to me during my time here.

I know I've burned some bridges with a lot of people and I've learned to accept that as it was because of my own actions and I can only continue to learn and grow from it each and everyday. I know that by deciding to come back will only provoke a lot of unsaid things because of me previously deactivating and for all the things I've done, and I want you to know that I deeply apologize if I bring back those hurtful feelings by being on here again as that's the last thing I'd ever want to do.

It's extremely important to me to use this opportunity to be able to properly apologize to those who I've hurt, those I've disappointed, and those I've upset because you all deserve an apology although I wish I could do far more than that because I know an apology can only do so much to heal the wounds that I've left, and I'm so sorry that I'm not able to do more than just that. I might never be able to apologize enough, and of course I completely understand if you can't accept my apology, and I hope you know that I'd never ask you to do so. All I can hope for is receiving the apology from me personally can mean something, even if it's just a little bit.

I've used this time to fully acknowledge and comprehend my behavior and the wrong actions I was continuously making, and I can only hope that I can bring nothing but genuine happiness, kindness and warmth from here on out with both my blog and my presence rather than create damage and harm as I did previously, and I hope that I'm able to have that chance to show you the person I am now rather than the person I used to be. I truly miss having the opportunity to talk with those who wanted to talk, sharing new and old content of our boys, and getting to express the love and admiration I hold for not only the boys and this sport, but for you all as well, and I hope that I'm able to do so.

I just want to be the blog that people can come to share their thoughts, concepts, edits, ideas, tweets, pictures, videos or anything really with me. I want to be the blog that you'd love to come to when it comes to thirsting over or yearning for our boys as I genuinely would love to talk about them and hockey as a whole. I want my blog to be a comfort and safe space to those who need it, and I want to be the blog you can feel completely comfortable coming to about absolutely anything with no fear of judgement whatsoever. It was an absolute honor and privilege to be able to talk with those who wanted to talk to me, and I hope that I'm able to do so once more.

I truly want to prove to those who decide to listen that I've done a lot of self reflecting since this has happened and I've completely changed and grown for the better. While my personality hasn't changed and I'm still the same Brynn in that aspect, I hope that I'm able to prove that I've acknowledged my actions and I've worked on myself, deciding to leave that version of me in the past and fully moving forward with nothing but good intentions, a good heart, and a good mindset.

Of course, I know words are just words and that I have to prove that I've changed rather than try to explain that I've changed. I know to some, this will all seem like an empty promise and that's okay. I completely understand that and I have no one to blame but myself. I know it'll take time because words can only do so much, but I hope that there will be some people who decide to stick around and be patient along with me as I navigate through this journey of proving myself through actions rather than through words.

To those who have taken the time to read all of this when I know you certainly didn't have to, thank you. Thank you for deciding to stop by and for reading what I had to say even after everything that's happened. I hope life has been treating you nothing but kind because there's nothing more I want than for you to live the beautiful life you deserve, and I truly hope that I can do what I was originally supposed to do: spread kindness while indulging in our boys with you all as I'd love nothing more than for you to get to know who the Brynn is today, rather than who sweetestdesire was.

#brynn speaks .𖥔 ݁˖

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agirlwithglam · 2 days ago

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My Doll Archetypes💋👛🎀

everyone gets played a deck of cards, so why not use that to your advantage? in this post, the cards i'll be looking at is more internal, personal/ characterising.. so i took @thevirgodoll's doll archetype quiz because i found it extremely cool and potentially helpful for understanding myself a bit more. and for funsies. i took the quiz just 5 times and also asked chatgpt to help me with using this information to the best use/ potential. these are my results:

i got the barbie doll 4x and the lover doll 1x

the barbie doll

i got the barbie doll archetype 4x so its probably the one thats most like me. i love pink, and girly, feminine stuff. i'm not always super extroverted but i do find myself at some times happy to be around people, and at sometimes would rather be by myself. i do get quite sensitive and emotional and my escape from reality is usually books, writing or watching tv shows (the basics lol). also the alter ego part is so real because i can switch up when the moods there lol.

🎀 the parts of the barbie doll that are so me 🎀

♡ i love pink and girly stuff ♡ hyper feminine ♡ emotional & sensitive sometimes ♡ playful energy ♡ i like to shift personas/ have alter egos ♡ escapes from reality into fantasy worlds ♡ colourful & spanky ♡ "people's champ"

🎀 other baddies with this archetype: 🎀

⭐️ thevirgodoll uses Nicki Minaj as the case study for this archetype. im gonna be honest with you guys, im not super familiar with Nicki Minaj as i may be with other artists, but after a bit of research, im am so obsessed with her vibe and hypergirliness, and love her music! she definitely has an obvious hypergirlyness, confidence, and baddie-ness to her brand and thinks very highly of herself which i adore and would love to embody that vibe more. how can i apply this to me? for me personally, i should definitely channel/ let out that baddie cool confident girlyness out a bit more without a single care of other people's opinion. i would also like to not be so afraid doing the things that i want and i like.

⭐️ Ariana Grande, in my opinion, is a great representation of the barbie doll archetype. unlike Nicki Minaj, she has a more softer feminine vibe about her instead of a more aggressive confident kind. her baby pink colour scheme, high ponytail, and the way she speaks and sings gives off the girly, barbie vibes! how can i apply this to me? after watching Ariana's whats in her bag video, something i loved so much is her soft, cool, playful energy. it was obvious that she was comfortable and happy with herself which reflected in the way she spoke and moved. i would like to have that quality of happy bliss and playful energy!

⭐️ Cher Horowitz from clueless. i love her love for fashion and her kind, well intentioned heart. she always only wants the best for herself and for others and is the sweetest! her belief she can do anything is the best and i lowkey envy her naivity and blissful ignorance because it means that she doesn't overthink at all about what happens around her <- and thats what i would like how can i apply this to me? so, as for not overthinking, whenever i catch myself going into those habits, i'd like to adopt that quality of naivity/ the bimbo mentality and stupidly question every single overthinking thought that doesn't serve me. this doesn't mean that i don't pay as much attention anymore because i know the ability to feel deeply is extremely valuable, as much as it may hurt; but how i'd love to sleep blissfuly at night without a single doubt or care in the world. also, her well intentioned, pure, innocent qualities is something that i do have, but would like to channel to the fullest more often.

🎀 summary/ agenda: 🎀

fiercely myself and confident in my authenticity

i know i'm cool and fun and a good person. if someone else doesn't think so, okay, who are they first of all?

i know that i may be an acquired taste, as thevirgodoll put it, "if someone doesn't like me, they need to acquire some taste, and if they don't, its their loss." love that.

i won't stop being shining beacon of light and happiness. it depends on who the person is; if someone doesn't want that, i'll get out of their way, but if its a close loved one, i will always be there for them. (honestly it all depends on the situation, but i'll still never dim my light.)

while being fiercely confident, i also want to add a certain playfulness to my branding. i mean, i already find so many things funny so shouldn't be that hard

pure, good intentions only.

bimbo mentality- doesn't give into doubts or overthinking behaviours

should i try meditation??

🎀 NOTE: one more thing; i don't want to limit myself to a certain stereotype or list of qualities, which is coincidently one of barbie's qualities! ; having alter egos. the idea of having to cage myself under a list of qualities to define myself, i personally find limiting and a tad scary. i love to change my vibe and who i am pretty much day to day, because one day i could feel super hypergirly and pinkpinkpink, but another day i lean towards bella swan, downtown girl aesthetic. but i ofc i still have the core of who i am- which i may not be too sure of now but i can't wait to discover and create!

the lover doll

the lover doll is so definitely me! the lover doll qualities is a lover of love, full of love, wants to be loved and wants to love, and wants more than anything a soft life. to me, a 'soft life' isn't really a quiet one, but, as i said earlier, its one where i go to bed happily without my stomach turning in anxiety because x said y in a certain way. we are sensitive, and feel and think very deeply which is a blessing but can also be painful at times.

aspects of the lover doll that are so me

♡ i love love. i love loving people, i want to be loved, i am so so full of love ♡ i love romance and romantic gestures ♡ i may have an anxious attachment style.... ♡ definitely a hopeless/ hopeful romantic ♡ daydreamer

other baddies with this archetype:

⭐️ thevirgodoll used Marilyn Monroe as a representative of this archetype. she writes that Marilyn Monroe 'effortlessly personifies the captivating essence of the lover personality archetype, exuding an irresistible allure that enchants and mesmerises all those who behold her.' Marilyn has an enchanting aura, charisma and dazzling beauty that draws in people effortlessly. Marilyn's original name was Norma Jean, but then she created the persona Marilyn Monroe to become a completely new person! she used visualisation/ daydreaming to completely transform herself, the way people saw her and her life. how can i apply this to me? before going to bed, i can work on my self concept and start shifting my mindset and thoughts to serve me. personally, i don't desperately need this right now and i'm pretty happy with the way i see myself, but you could use affirmations or simply shift the way you think and perceive yourself entirely.

⭐️ i feel that Lana Del Rey is one of the ultimate lover girls. while i do assume lover girls to be more of pastels, bright colours, Lana Del Rey is part of the more darker coloured, deeper, side of it. i love Lana so so much and it is no lie that she has curated a very specific persona and her brand is very easily distinguishable. she has a certain nostalgia, poetic aesthetic, sometimes tragic. she leans into these qualities of her which makes her extremely magnetic, to the right people. since her branding is so specific and kind of targeting to a certain group of people, the people that do get attracted towards this brand are the right people for it. how can i apply this to me? i do want to keep my bubbly, upbeat nature but from Lana, i can learn that the more i am that, the more i lean into who i naturally am and who i naturally like to be, the more i will attract people who will be the absolute best fit for me.

⭐️ Bella Swan from the Twilight trilogy!! idc if people think its cringy, i love twilight so much. and i LOVE Bella, i feel like i definitely relate with her so much- esp in the awkward bits. Bella has an aura of mystery, and quietness which may make her so magnetic to the people in her school and to Edward. how can i apply this to me? of course, i still want to maintain my girly bubbly playful nature, but also for people who are more naturally quiet, or when i feel a bit more introverted at times, i'll let myself be introverted and simply gaze at the world without forcing myself to interact with it.

🎀 summary/ agenda: 🎀

"assume your life is already on the way to its peak, and live as such" - thevirgodoll

find the safety that comes from being loved by others, in myself.

being unapologetically me.

start to view myself as a treasure, as a prize.

never stop loving, never stop loving deeply just because some other person isn't capable of loving like you.

enchanting, magnetic aura

dazzling beauty- that comes from the inside. from being pure.

also need to realise that not everyone deserves to experience my presence or energy because some people can simply not comprehend it.

use my emotional depth/ ability to feel deeply to my advantage to make people feel more loved and seen.

don't feel the need to extroverted and bubbly 24/7, if i feel more introverted, and i don't need to, i won't necessarily strain myself and i'll take the time to fill my own cup.

i loved writing this sooooooo very much, and im actually thinking of making this (re)branding a series! what do you think? anyways take the quiz its so much fun to see what type of doll you are <3

as always, you can support me by BMAC.

with love, xoxo, Vanilla!

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ask-postcrash-curly · 2 days ago

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…sorry about earlier. I heard the familiar accent of the man I love, Lieutenant Simon Ghost Riley, and as you know, ya boy has very little self control. Anyways, good thing I whirling candy’d Anting before he said anything mean… or… cancelled my shipment of monster energy to my mind gas station……

anyways….

…so ghoooost….. ghost……

I’m sorry now that he’s here he’s the only thing on my mind. Trying my hardest not to start yelling and shaking rapidly…

My little cutie patootie…. siiiiiigh…. That was a wistful sigh btw. Look at ‘im…. I love him….. even more than I like Swansers and kezzle wezzle….

My super cutie plushue too……..

ack! Sorry, anyways. Anyways…

Uh… ‘s been awhile since I did music things. I should send in some music things…

Anddd one of my favorites… again

Pretty sure these songs are all in my playlist called ‘Got a bowner 🎀’ and this is the picture

alrighty… later big C, love ya, platonic kisses, imaginary hugs.

I never know what the hell you're talking about, Ting.

Ghost?? Right, I'm assuming you don't mean "haunt you later" Ghost, so— who??

Shit, what happened to his face? He's got less skin than I do.

Okay, let's never use those nicknames again.

Aww, wait, that's adorable. Death? You seeing this? Ack!

Yep. These are very Ting songs, to be sure. I really do like that last one... I wish that playlist name and picture surprised me at all.

Alrighty. Love and mind hugs to you, Ting. Talk soon.

#curlyposting

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vestaclinicpod · 3 days ago

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Audio Drama Sunday - 11th May ✨

The sun is SHINING in my city and it’s so good to lay about and listen to my fave shows!!

🌲 @hellofromthehallowoods (190) Oof this episode was action-packed. I adore Buck and Hope’s little unspoken conversation, it’s so lovely to see how they interact. But the Countess got hurt!! I’m really hoping she can regrow a wing in a lizard fashion … if you catch my drift… And yay, Olivier!!!!! He’s back, babey!! 🌩️ The scene in the chapel was so beautifully written, but my stomach is in knots trying to work out what will happen next. There was the ?prophesy that Nikignik would be the one to usher in the Black Eternity? (Have I imagined this??) Are the other indescribables going to blame this on him? So many of my fave characters are near to this abbey, I want them to be safe!!

🧳 Travelling Light @monstrousproductions (45) me 🤝The Traveller: melancholy cured simply by seeing a bird. I actually really wanted The Traveller to go to choir practice, but I'm so glad they found some solo peace!

🍎 @notquitedeadpod (XLV) “I’m a thing so terrible that monsters cower from me. And I am sitting at your feet.” Actually just take my heart out of my chest, it would be less painful. God damn, these two. I wonder if Cosette is Inna’s daughter, the petit fleur who will remain so forever?? This season is so good already!!

🎃 Waiting For October by @monkeymanproductions (7.5) This was suuuuch a good monologue!!! What a good time in the story to get into Yvonne’s head. My heart hurt so much hearing about her parents and how pushing through has been trained into her.

🔮 @spiritboxradio (1.30-31) Ghost maker . . . hmm. Sam was SO close to remembering something! Also, those kitties definitely know more than they can vocalise…

🏘️ @shelterwoodpod (8-11) I continued my Shelterwood listen this week! I’m actually a little bit fond of the stroppy toddler house! Somebody get it a snack! (Just maybe not a Nick shaped one!) I’m looking forward to hearing Solomon’s reaction to the Nick footage - things are about to become very serious in the real world!!

Have a delightful week, everyone! 👋

#audio drama sunday #podcast recs #hfth spoilers #travelling light #not quite dead #waiting for october #spirit box radio #shelterwood

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ruinix · 16 hours ago

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An update nobody ask for.

I am doing better now after I slept during the afternoon and a light dinner. Thank you for everyone who reached out. I love you all.

I've locked away what happened in my mind. I hope I forget about it soon like how I still couldn't remember great chunks of my past. Sorry for the details I shared in my announcements. Just me trying to convey my thoughts and how my brain worked. Please don't use anything I've said--the experiences I shared--against me. Those are things that were hidden and locked away in my head but come up when I felt vulnerable.

Anyway, we got a request format now. Tags are still listed in my directory. A guide to filter out any tags is always up. These are all linked in my pinned.

Although, anon asks will stay off for now. Sorry for that lovelies. I know not everyone is comfy with sending any kind of asks or requests or yaps outside of anon. However, it is what it is.

I am also working on a few blurbs and drabbles. I still got a backlog of requests so of course, they will not be following the request format.

Although, dark fics will take a pause. The whole issue had brought up my own personal issues that even I can't write about it when I know writing them will give me my sense of control back. Don't worry. I will be fine.

Again, thank you all. I adore you. Sending all of you soft forehead kisses. 🙂‍↕️

#ruinix yaps

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a-stars-art-blog · 4 months ago

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#3 for those two ace attorney gays you're always drawing 🥰

#3 Something in canon you dislike

YOUUUU knew what you’re doing…making me say something bad about my darlings that totally never did anything wrong-

ANYWAYS…

Barok - do I even have to say it?? Do I REALLY even have to say it??

That’s the easy and obvious answer so I’m gonna say something else.

Wish he had some more variety in his animations. Most of the time, they’re pretty subtle. Only the slightest of movements. Very boring.

Albert - I am actively struggling to think of something…he’s just too silly!!!

I mean, the way he stubbornly kept self sabotaging his trial for the sake of his hypothesis is understandably annoying. But I kinda admire his dedication and I kinda like the trope of characters loving their creation to the point where they’ll sacrifice themselves for it. It says a lot about the character which i appreciate. It’s kinda sad actually.

And actually for both-

The fact they don’t keep in touch for 10 years is pretty upsetting :((( we don’t get reasons why but it’s not hard to assume of VERY plausible reasons why. It’s just a shame they consider each other close personal friends but didn’t write to each other.

But at the same time, it’s actually cute that they can still think deeply of each other after all that time

#barok van zieks #albert harebrayne #doing this with these characters was actually pretty difficult bc with Barok #while he is a very important character #his big flag IS BIG AND OBVIOUS bc they made it 95% of his character so thinking of anything else was a challenge #I guess the stupid details on his outfit too…#and Albert is a defendant in an ace attorney game…so we get him for a bit and then he becomes very irrelevant #in his own trial #they played him very safe #there’s definitely things to dislike about the guy #but I happen to love and adore those things #with some help of some wonderful analysis I’ve read here #I feel like I can’t say anything that isn’t silly like #‘oh he lives in Germany so he likely doesn’t visit often’#or #‘why the fk does he walk like that in the opening 2-3 cutscene. that little freak’#but I actually adore that part #he is a little freak but I say it affectionately

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sweetieviktor · 7 months ago

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viktor x lab partner! reader (headcanons + tiny scenarios)

summary: working with viktor and jayce is all fun until you start wishing your lab partner was well.. your partner.

content warning: minor spoilers about season 1, arc 2 and fluff!!

author notes: im sorry for the waiting!! life has been chaotic and im pretty busy doing things but i've managed to finally write down this adorable request yeey! hope you like it :D

» working with the hextech genius and piltover’s golden boy surely wasn't an easy job. high expectations, sleepless nights, doing experiments and calculations all day...

» at first, it was difficult to blend in as part of the group. jayce and viktor had been good friends for a long time now, and being added as a scientist alongside them in their own lab seemed like something experimental, almost incorrect.

» but things soon started to fall into place. and just like two plus one is equal to three, in the late hours was the time you all could be more free, more like your true selves. maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but it finally felt like there was a little place for you after all.

» whenever you needed to breathe a bit of fresh air and they were too focused on some research, you would go out and get them lunch on your way back. when you return to the lab, jayce would welcome you with a side hug and such a big smile that it could possibly blind you, while viktor would thank you with a little nod and a ghost of a smile on his lips.

» on these lunch breaks, it was common for you to talk about anything and everything that came to your minds at the moment. the hextec, politics and the council, how chaotic or abnormally normal life has been, literally whatever.

“i swear, i can't stand councilor hoskel anymore! why does he never listen to me but when mel says the same thing, then he is all ears?” jayce said while running fingers through his hair, smothering the mess to it place again.

“maybe because you can't verbalize things as good as her?” viktor suggested, tilting his head to the side, taking a bite of the cookies you've got for them earlier. “eeh, i mean, she works at the council for quite a time, right? you're still new to it.”

it was true, of course, but there was one thing they didn't consider yet. “or maybe you just ain't a woman!”

“surely a smart remark, i must say.”

“NO!”

» of course there were times where you could be more relaxed, but almost everyday was the same: calculation, experiment, malfunction and all again. it was frustrating, but worth it. after all the failed prototypes and explosions (so many explosions), now it is finally working.

» also, going on all nighters is a common occurrence (but jayce can't work through the night, because in the day time he needs to attend on the council and can't be late, so the boy needs to sleep early) and when this happens, you often go get you and viktor a mug full of coffee and then continue working on whatever you've been up to.

» oh, and the hexcore. magic and science at once. runes and mathematics all together, the almost impossible and so ethereal dream.

» to be able to study it this close was one of the best things that happened to you, to see, understand and manipulate hextech was incredible. the soft blue light it casted on the lab walls was beautiful, but to see it shine against viktor's skin was a delightful sight.

» his disheveled hair, dark circles, cheek bones. all of the shadows in the right places. the shining amber eyes, his nose and, oh, janna, his mole, the one just above his lip. it drives you insane. like it was luring you into locking your lips on his.

“why are you looking?” he asked, still focusing on the source of the light in front of him, molding its runes, the core moving along it. “studying?”

“yes, yes!” your tone more high pitched than you intended to. shit. “just studying the... hexcore.” you tried to remain your voice at a normal level again, inhaling and exhaling to calm down.

pulling his goggles up, he let his head fall back, laughing, “i'm just messing with you,” he looked at you from between half closed lashes, smirking, “good to know you like to study this.”

» the stealing glances, the absolutely profissional soft touches, the desire for something more, something you couldn't quite have. godness, if you could use hextech to solve your love equation, you would. maybe it would be easier to focus on work with a little magic.

» but it was so hard to focus while he kept looking at you like this, calling your name so sweetly, brushing his fingers on yours whenever you handed him something. you were head over heels for him but why does it seemed so hard to just tell him how you felt?

» again, this love equation was a confusing one, but you wished that the cup of sweet milk you left alongside a little sticky-note saying “you + me = date?” for him to find on his workplace was enough to be called a confession.

» now, you were almost ready to head home, but first you needed to look for jayce and update him about the research you've been working on lately.

» and after doing so, you headed towards the academy's lockers, unlocking yours, sending the same sticky-note you left on the lab flying to the pale ground. when you picked it up, you noticed some words written just below yours. “this is an easy one! the answer is yes. so... at the coffee shop near the academy, at 4pm? – v.”

#—swe writes #arcane #lol x reader #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #league of legends x reader #lol #machine herald #ohhhh god i swear i loved writing this #like omgggg its so adorable what #also thanks again to my dear friend #who needed to listen to me complain for like 10 days straight #bcs there was so many things happening all at once and i wanted to write bUT I COULDN'T #i was mad but now its fine :))#love u dear friend <33 #i love vik so much i swear #please keep sending requests of him ((or any other character #please please i would love to keep on writing those

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