#but you don’t have to criticise everything

[reasoncourt]

i just don’t think people who say taylor swift isn’t talented are serious people. like you can argue that she got to where she is because of her parent’s money and her white privilege etc. that’s totally true. and you can argue that there are many super talented artists who remain in obscurity for their whole career despite being absolutely way ahead of the game and more deserving of worldwide renown. all that can be true. and it’s worth having discourse about. but you lose me when you point to someone who is so clearly talented and say “she’s mediocre”. because she is obviously not mediocre. like idk. it just bugs me. because i think there are so many valid criticisms to make about people like taylor swift but it gets goofy when you call her talent into question

[ikol-loki]

not me posting Loki show fan content and immediately following it up with saying I don’t like it and then fan content and then criticism and then…..

[exopelagic]

ALSO TRANSGENIC TRIALS ARE JUST LIKE THAT SOMETIMES MAN PLEASE SHUT UP

[notlongtolove]

in my dream, i'm fixing your crutch

most nights, spencer wakes to the sound of your sniffles—unlike most nights, he doesn’t have to ask why. the reason is visceral, tangible—staining the sheets when the wound dressing wasn’t tight enough, seeping and pooling right between the both of you where an ocean of your guilt already lies.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: flangst hurt comfort

content: many mentions of wounds and blood. bc spencer was shot. jesus reid woo! established relationship spencer and bau!reader deal with the aftermath of spencer taking a bullet for her

word count: 2.8k

note: based on this ask! for my jesus reid sassy man apocalypse flangst fight and make up lovers... this ones for you! i actually loved writing this sm @esote-rika u wonderful genius u!!! inspired by this poem that she sent me! might be one of my new favorite fics ive written

a line: In the bad dreams, over and over, you’re saying you’re sorry. In the worst dreams, he’s saying he forgives you. 

“I’m sorry.”

Those were the first words out of your mouth when Spencer had woken up in the hospital. Before that, you'd been running on adrenaline, too focused on talking the unsub down. So certain—so sure—that he wouldn’t pull the trigger. That you’d be fine. That the father would be fine. And you were, mostly. 

Because a hard shove sent you both tumbling to the ground. No broken bones, no bloody wounds—Just a bullet in Spencer’s leg instead of yours.

He held your hand through the tears, fingers gentle as they stroked through your hair while you wept against the edge of his hospital bed. Told you I’d take a bullet for you, honey. Spencer always joked about that. Romantic once—now, not so much. It is not an honour you ever wanted to hold.

Crutches for a month. You’d been right there when the doctor ordered it, nodding, asking questions, voicing concerns. The two of you make do, as you always do. You move into his place, helping him with the little things. Because loving someone means loving them in health and in sickness. During the good times and the bad. Two sides of the same coin—But intimacy wears many faces. 

You don’t think you’ve stopped crying since you saw the blood soaking into the grass. 

You try to smile more when Spencer’s around. He says it helps—just as much as the medication, maybe more. So you do. More cuddles than usual. Coffee, just the way he wants it, because come on, the man took a bullet for you, the least you could do is not criticise his sugar intake.

But when he’s not there, the tears come. In the shower, where the water washes them away before you can. Waiting for the coffee to brew, blinking them back so they don’t salt the mug.

You whisper I’m sorrys into his hair when he falls asleep after the Doctor Who reruns, as many as he wants. Hope he feels it in the way your fingers card through his curls, lathering shampoo carefully. Hope he tastes it in the spoonfuls of breakfast you lift to his lips, even though his hands work just fine. Everything served in bed, of course, because that’s where he is.

Because that is where he has to be. 

I’m sorry. You don’t think you’ll ever stop saying it.

Most nights, Spencer wakes to the sound of your sniffles—Unlike most nights, he doesn’t have to ask why. The reason is visceral, tangible—staining the sheets when the wound dressing wasn’t tight enough, seeping and pooling right between the both of you where an ocean of your guilt already lies. 

Still, every night he does wake, he cups your cheeks with warm hands as he murmurs it’s okays. 

He’ll say it again at 2 am, when he’s inevitably forced to rewind the bandage himself because somehow, you never seem to get it right. Another tally mark on the growing list of ways you’ve failed him. 

And again at 4 am, when you shift too close in your sleep, bump against him, and wake to a sharp, stifled wince. Then the tears resurface, and the cycle repeats. God, you’re just a walking Murphy’s Law, aren’t you?

“Do you blame me?” you’d asked him one night, voice meek in the dark.

“You were in danger. I acted. I could never blame you.”

You replay that conversation more often than not. You love Spencer enough to believe that he means it—that in his mind, it’s the only truth that exists. The only truth that could ever exist. 

But you don’t think you love yourself enough to believe it, too.

You move to the couch after the first week. Couldn’t take another night of accidental touches, of hearing his breath hitch in pain and feeling—remembering— that you’d put him there. Spencer had protested, threatened to order an air mattress just to sleep beside you, but you’d won in the end. He needed space. Comfort. Proper rest to heal.

Mostly, you just didn’t want him to see you crying anymore.

The couch isn’t so bad. Smells just enough like him to let it lull you to sleep. Has pillows that are fluffy enough to clutch in your grip when he insists on showering alone for the first time. The couch is close enough to hear the bottle of shampoo hit the floor and the pause that follows when you both realise he can’t bend down to pick it up himself. It’s also far enough away that you hear only the muffled curses that escape him when he tries to dress himself after—Spencer hardly ever swears.

And again, the couch is far enough away that he can’t see you cry.

Intimacy is familiarity, carved deep.

It is not synonymous with love, nor does it innately mean romance. It is a vulnerability between two people, a connection that forms through time, a trust that builds upon circumstance. Intimacy is a blade that cuts through flesh and bone, never to be used lightly. It sees everything—what you are, what he is, what the two of you have always been. 

It’s the chaste kiss you press to his lips before leaving for the jet, van waiting down in the lobby. The long list of instructions, medications, emergency contacts scribbled onto paper—handed off to Garcia. The unanswered calls that drain your battery, each one landing in his voicemail. 

When you’re away, you dream of Spencer. You’re steadying his crutch, rewrapping his wounds, pressing gentle kisses over healing scars. 

In the bad dreams, over and over, you’re saying you’re sorry.

In the worst dreams, he’s saying he forgives you. 

Intimacy is something etched into the marrow of you, amidst the flesh and bone, through the ache and the aftermath.

“Spence?” you call from the doorway, one hand braced against the wall as you toe off your shoes. “You in here? Garcia said you decided to head home.”

A muffled shuffle from his office draws your attention. When you step inside, you find him perched in his desk chair, one hand gripping his crutch, the other stretched toward a book just out of his reach on the bottom shelf. 

“I didn’t decide to head home,” Spencer mutters, still not looking at you. “Garcia sent me home.”

You have to bite back a smile. “Garcia sent you home?” you echo, amused, crossing the room to retrieve the book from the shelf with ease. He returns your kind act with a heavy sigh even as you set the book on the table beside him.

“She was rearranging her case files. Said I was in the way.”

“Aw honey,” you coo, reaching out to fluff his curls. Normally, he’d lean into your touch, eyes going all soft with adoring affection. But tonight, there’s nothing. Your hand falls away, neglected. 

“Have you eaten?” you try, hoping hunger is to blame for his mood. He barely acknowledges the question, offering only a curt nod. 

“What’d you have?”

“One of those instant meals,” he mutters.

You frown. “I thought you hated that stuff.”

Spencer scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I’m in any position to cook now, am I?”

The window is shut but the study is ice cold. You knew he was upset when Hotch forbade him from coming along on the case. He had told you just as much, his frustrations only thinly veiled in the few text messages he’d sent. But whatever this is, you don’t understand why it’s suddenly being directed at you tonight. 

“Did something happen while I was away?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” The sarcasm that drips in his tone pools together at your feet. 

Most people work to live. Your boyfriend is not most people. He lives to work. The time he doesn’t spend solving cases is spent preparing for the next one—reading, researching, gathering knowledge for the inevitable moment it might be needed. You of all people know he hates being unoccupied. He’d explained it to you once, how much he detests idleness, the feeling of time slipping through his fingers with nothing to show for it.

And now here he is, sidelined. Left behind—with nobody else to point the finger at but you. 

Not Garcia for shoo-ing him out of her Batcave. Not Hotch for being a stickler for the doctor’s orders. Just you. 

“Is that it? You’re upset because Hotch didn’t let you come on the case?”

Spencer doesn't answer so you’re the one to take a step forward—both physically and metaphorically. 

“Spence, talk to me. What’s gotten into you?”

The laugh that leaves Spencer doesn’t really sound like him at all. It comes out sharp and humourless—Empty, essentially. 

“What’s gotten into me?” He exhales, shakes his head. “You mean other than a bullet?”

The breath you were holding slips from your lips, and for a moment, it feels like the bullet never left. It might as well have buried itself hilt deep, slicing through you and back out. Right now, you almost wished that were the case.

A bullet in your boyfriend is not a cross you ever wanted to bear but it is a cross you’re tied to carrying all the same. 

Maybe it had been easier in the beginning. In the holding of hands in the ambulance, in the moving of mugs to accommodate yours. But in the wake of skin and gauze, of antiseptic burning raw and sheets gripped in clenched fists—What is there to thank god for? 

Just a bullet. 

Just a wound. 

Just a bed too small to carry the hurt of two people. 

“Spencer.”

For a man with a limp, he moves fast. The bedroom door slams shut behind him and you’re left to stand there by yourself, guilt seeping into the floorboards under you. Thank god for the couch. 

You don’t dream of Spencer tonight. You don’t sleep at all. Which is why you hear it—the crutch slipping, the clattering against the wood of the floor. You tiptoe to the bedroom door, nudging it open.

“Hey, everything alright? Need your meds? Water? I can get—”

“S'fine,” Spencer says. His sigh is as heavy as it is exhausted as he bends down to retrieve his crutch. 

“Oh. Okay…” You hesitate, lingering by the door. “Goodnight then.”

“Sweetheart—” Spencer exhales, soft and uneven. “I—I… wanted to talk.” 

You swallow. “Talk?” 

“What I did—how I acted just now—that wasn’t okay. And I’m sorry.”

It sounds weird coming from him. Wrong, almost. A man who took a bullet for you shouldn’t be apologising. A thousand sorrys from you wouldn’t even come close to enough, and you’re certain you’ve already said more than that.

“You don’t need to apologise, Spence, you—”

“I do.”

He tries to stand. You’re at his side before he can, pressing him back down with a gentle hand against his shoulder as you take a seat by the edge of the bed too. 

“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I was frustrated. At Hotch, at Garcia, at myself. And I took it out on you.”

You nod silently, trying to understand.

“I’m not used to this,” he admits. “Being taken care of. Needing to be taken care of. It’s... hard. What I said before I left the room… I shouldn’t have. And I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

Spencer isn’t one to dance around words. He thrives on specifics. Tonight, he doesn’t need to name it. 

What’s gotten into me? You mean other than a bullet? The words have been reverberating in your skull since he said it. 

“Do you—” Your voice sounds hollow in your throat, shaking as it leaves you. “Can you forgive me?” 

Spencer’s seen you cry before. But the sight of you wiping away your own tears is not one he’s used to. He’s used to holding you through it, with soft hands, with light kisses. So, he takes your hand first, then coaxes your gaze up  to meet his. It’s the first time you’ve seen him smile since you’ve gotten back. 

“Angel,” he breathes, “there’s nothing to forgive. I don’t blame you. For any of it. Do you remember what I said the first time?” 

“I—yeah.”

“You were in danger. I acted. Simple as that.” 

In theory, it is simple. Bullets move at roughly 2,700 feet per second. To reach you first, Spencer must have moved at 2,701. 

It is not a lifetime of love of reflected in a single split second. It is a lifetime of love refracted, redirected—Love forced onto a different path the moment the bullet entered his body. Two sides of the same coin, wild violence amidst the intimacy. You see it day after day in the blood that trickles down his leg, in how his skin splits open in millimetres, in the way his body punishes itself for what his heart decided. 

It is agonising to see how softly he hurts. 

“I just—I’m so sorry, Spence. For this. For everything.”

“Honey,” he murmurs, “do you trust me?”

Your head jerks up. You sit straighter, wiping at your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. “Yeah, of course, Spence, I—”

“Then I need you to believe me when I say this.” He shifts, taking both your hands into his. He winces slightly but doesn’t let it stop him. “This? This isn’t your fault. Not at all. I need you to know that, baby. Okay?” 

You’ve never been one to hold back or stay quiet during arguments with Spencer. Especially when he’s the first to admit he’s wrong—And, being Spencer, that hardly ever happens. More than you’d like to admit, he’s usually right. But this is different.

Because Spencer is wrong. He shouldn’t have said it. But “shouldn’t” doesn’t make it untrue.

Spencer was shot. Fact.

You weren’t. Fact.

And you weren’t shot because Spencer took the bullet for you.

Fact upon fact, stacking too tall, pressing down hard, choking you out. 

“But it is though,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a cry. “Spence, if it weren’t for me—”

“Honey, there is no version of events where I would’ve ever let that bullet touch you.” He gives your hands a light squeeze. “None.”

There is an intimacy in knowing love, at its core, is a kind of violence. It is a body rashly moved by instinct before the mind catches up. It is the sacrifice of flesh before the heart has even finished deciding, of stepping into the line of fire before you’ve even realised that you’ve moved. 

With his heart, mind and body—That is how violently Spencer Reid loves you. 

Spencer has always been fast. Faster than the bullet meant for you. Fast to love, quicker to comfort—He presses a kiss to your cheek where the last tear falls. “I mean it when I say that there is nothing you could’ve done, or Hotch could’ve done, or the Unsub could’ve done that wouldn’t have resulted in me taking the bullet for you.”

“Well,” you start, voice still sniffly from the remnants of your tears, “the unsub could’ve just... not shot.”

Spencer blinks. For a second, he’s still caught in the weight of his emotions. Then, his lips twitch, a knowing smile breaking through as he rolls his eyes.

“Smartass.”

A small giggle bubbles out of you. You lift your joined hands to press light kisses into the spaces between his fingers, into the cracks of him that you can reach. He lets you. Spencer doesn’t remember the last time you touched him like this—Not careful, not afraid. Not like guilt kissed your fingertips before they ever touched his skin.

“Baby,” he mumbles.

“Hm?”

“I love you.” 

“I love you too, Spence.”

For the first time in weeks, you’re looking at him the way you always have. Not like a martyr you never asked for, carrying the weight of a sacrifice you never wanted him to make.

For the first time in weeks, you’re looking at him like it’s just him, and it’s just you. 

No bullet. No blood. Just him. Just you.

“Will you sleep in here tonight?”

You freeze. He feels it immediately. 

“Spence, I—I don’t know, I don’t want to hurt—” you murmur, blinking down at your interlocked fingers.

“You won’t,” he’s quick to reassure. “I just want you next to me. The sheets don’t smell like you anymore and I never sleep well without you. I wake up, and you’re out there, and it feels wrong. I just want to hold you. Please? It’s been days.” 

You’re helpless when he speaks like that. Besides, the man took a bullet for you—how could you ever say no to him again, for as long as you live?

So you nod, shifting closer, barely hesitating before crawling into bed beside him. After some readjusting, you hear Spencer exhale, feel his arm curling around you, slotting you against his side like muscle memory. For the first time in days, you let yourself be held.

His lips brush your skin as he whispers, “thank you.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading! likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: savior complex by phoebe bridgers inside your mind by the 1975

[oc-ology]

How to get past the fear of OC posting

People should create for the sake of creating but people post to engage with the community. However, posting can be intimidating and anxiety-inducing for a lot of people. It’s easy to say “do it scared” but much harder to put into practice. So, I’ve put together a few steps that lead up to doing it scared. These won’t work for everyone and this is meant more as general advice.

Step One: Why are you scared?

The first step is to figure out what about posting is scary for you. Oftentimes, it’s not as simple as “what if my post flops” or “what if people think I’m cringe”. Once you’ve figured out the surface-level reason, dig a little deeper. If your post flops, does that lead to you doubting the worth of what you’re creating? If you’re worried about what people think, is that because you’ve experienced judgement before or are worried your inbox will be flooded with criticism?

Identifying why you’re scared will not only help you understand yourself better (yippee!) but you can also then work on the source of your fears and anxieties at your own pace.

Step Two: Find ways to lessen your fears

One way of working through anxiety online is to find ways to mitigate the specific source of your fear.

Some fears have easier solutions than others. If you’re worried about people criticising your work, you can turn off anonymous asks (as most people are less likely to be haters when there’s a name attached to it) or turn asks off entirely, as well as limiting replies to those who have been following for a week. This way, if someone does want to be an unpleasant individual, it’s a little harder for them to do so.

A lack of engagement is a little harder to remedy. Here, the only real solution is to try and divorce the idea that engagement = worth. Remember why you’re creating an OC. Because it’s fun! It’s an act of creation! Because you want to find a community…? A community or OC friends will never just drop into your lap. You need to seek them out yourself. Look into discord servers, forums, tumblr networks (are they still a thing?), fandom events and exchanges, and most importantly: go out of your way to send asks/questions to others and build friendships with them! If you’ve got social anxiety like me, this is going to be a big challenge. Which leads to the next step…

Step Three: Start small

It doesn’t matter how small your first step is - so long as that step is forwards! If you’re nervous about OC posting, find the smallest thing about them and post it with the expectation of getting no notes. That’s right, I want you to go in and expect it to flop. Anything over one note is an automatic win. This first post isn’t about engagement - it’s about getting over the initial fear of posting. 

It can be tempting to just go right out the gate with elaborate explanations of backstory, lore implications, power levels, everything. But the trick really is to start small. Most people scrolling tumblr aren’t going to read a few thousand words on something they’re not invested in yet. TL;DR is a curse that I’m sure we’ve all fallen victim to. 

Instead, break up information about your OC into small pieces that can be posted one by one and have some kind of visual piece with it. People are usually more drawn to images than text. For example, which of these two things are more visually interesting?

What Perseus keeps in his bag:

Amulet

Tinderbox

A broken blade

50ft of hempen rope

25gp of silver powder

Waterskin

Rations (cheese, bread, sausage)

OR

Obviously this comes down to personal preference but a lot of people would find the illustrated version to be more interesting. You don’t need to be an artist to do this either! You could make a version of that example in photoshop or a similar program. Picrews, moodboards, edits, game screenshots and photography can all be used to add a visual element to your posts.

Step Four: Why am I still scared?

Fear is not easily stamped out. Anxiety is definitely the kind of thing that lingers. These steps aren’t meant to immediately make OC posting not-scary. That’s something that will only come with time as you get used to it. Again: Do it. Do it scared. Gradually, it’ll be less terrifying and in the meantime, you might be able to make a few friends who also want to talk about your blorbo.

[whoisrosiemiye]

i’m probably going to sound a little harsh but just know I’m saying this with love

you said you are pure consciousness, and yet you’re beating “yourself” up for not being able to enter the void, stressing about having to affirm/visualise for how many hours/times a day, stressing about the perfect scene to visualise, flipping every “opposing thought” that “you” have about your desires, and just limiting “yourself” in every way possible

have “you” ever stopped to wonder what pure consciousness means?

“you” said you are that aren’t you?

then why are “you” doing everything that you can to do what you already are?

why are “you” trying so hard to induce the void state when you’re the void itself? does that make any sense?

why are “you” trying to manifest “your desires” when you already ARE your desires?

why do “you” need to care about 3D/4D or circumstances?

why do “you” need to affirm or persist

why do “you” need to affirm or reprogram the subconscious mind? you literally just said you’re pure consciousness are you not?

then why are “you” trying to get something via the limited being, which is the human? to which you clearly aren’t

you KNOW that you’re pure consciousness, the INFINITE, UNLIMITED being, your true SELF and yet “you’re” doing everything in the book you can to get your desires as the human

why? is it that you don’t actually think that you’re pure consciousness? is it that “you” think you are this limited being? that you’re stuck at being this human character that “you’re” embodying?

disclaimer: this post is in no way criticising anyone for using these techniques/methods, this is just a reminder for those who are struggling to remember who they are

[fear-is-truth]

CHO SANG-WOO (조상우)

₊‧꒰ warnings ꒱ ‧₊˚ soft dom!sang-woo ۶ৎ age gap ۶ৎ s1 spoilers ۶ৎ nsfw 18+ . . . headcanons ˚₊˙⋆ ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊. ˚₊‧꒰ note ꒱ ‧ i was trying to be realistic so…

PRE-GAME

۫ ꣑ৎ he takes you to meet his mother early on—this is huge, considering sang-woo is a private person, and his mother is the only family he has. so if you meet her, it means he sees a future with you. she adores you, treating you like the daughter she never had.

۫ ꣑ৎ your parents simply love him. they can’t believe their child is dating a graduate from seoul national university. it doesn’t even matter that he’s a few years older than you—they brag about him constantly. “he’s a genius,” they tell their friends. “successful, hardworking. polite, too.”

۫ ꣑ৎ if you don’t like him smoking, he promises to cut back. never smokes in your presence, doesn’t lets the scent cling to his clothes when he comes home to you. he’s careful about it, rinsing his mouth before kissing you. if you catch him sneaking a cigarette on a particularly bad day, he sighs and stubs it out before you even have to say anything.

۫ ꣑ৎ sang-woo thrives on intellectual conversations, especially enjoys debating with you, because he finds your mind fascinating.

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s a perfectionist in every aspect of his life, including your relationship. sang-woo holds himself to an impossibly high standard, and sometimes, that extends to you—he doesn’t mean to be critical, but he has expectations, and when they aren’t met, he gets frustrated. he learns, over time, to be gentler with you, to let go of the idea that everything needs to be perfect.

۫ ꣑ৎ chronic insomniac. but if you’re beside him, if your hand is resting on his chest or your leg is tangled with his, he sleeps a little easier. on nights when sleep won’t come, he watches you instead.

۫ ꣑ৎ occasionally gifts you with expensive jewellery, but nothing gaudy. real gold and diamonds—elegant in their simplicity. he prefers to see you in things with longevity that won’t lose their value. doubles as an investment piece, not just accessories.

۫ ꣑ৎ no matter how busy he is, sang-woo never forgets important dates. your birthday, your anniversary, even the day you first met. he never brings it up in advance, but he always has something special planned.

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s disciplined, wakes up at the same time every day, drinks his coffee black, works for hours without rest. but for you, he bends—just a little. if you want to sleep in, he lets you, only sighing fondly when you roll over and wrap your arms around him, pressing your face into his back. “five more minutes,” you moan, and against his better judgment, he stays.

۫ ꣑ৎ not outwardly possessive, but he is a bit controlling. he won’t tell straight up dictact who you can and can’t see, but he will casually criticise them if he thinks they’re a bad influence. he won’t demand your location either, but will insist that you check in with him, just so he “knows you’re safe.”

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s very reliable (until he isn’t) at first, he’s the perfect lover. calls when he says he will, never forgets your birthday or anniversary, handles things efficiently. but as his debts mounts and pressure builds, there’s a certain tightness in his jaw when money is mentioned. he won’t talk about it. he won’t let you in.

POST-DEBT

۫ ꣑ৎ not emotionally available, prefers to keep things bottled up. when sang-woo is stressed, he withdraws into himself.

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s haunted; the investment failure eats him alive. gradually becomes distant, distracted, and hates when you ask questions about his finances. sang-woo lies—first to you, then to himself—because the truth is unbearable.

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s frustrated at himself, but it manifests in other ways—he snaps over small things, withdraws from conversations, goes through more cigarettes per day.

۫ ꣑ৎ still tries to take care of you. he won’t let you pay for things, even if he can’t afford them. he’ll miss meals before letting you notice that money is tight. his pride is too big to let you see how bad things have gotten.

۫ ꣑ৎ he hates that you don’t leave; he wants to tell you to go. you should be with someone who isn’t drowning in debt and in constant fear of the police. but he can’t bring himself to say it. instead, he avoids you, keeps you at arm’s length.

۫ ꣑ৎ if you ever found out about his debt, the man would break down—nobody is supposed to know. not his mother, especially not you. if you find out and don’t leave? he’ll be both relieved and devastated, because you should leave. and yet you don’t.

۫ ꣑ৎ he debates leaving you “for your own good.” he genuinely thinks you’d be better off without him. if you catch onto his self-destructive tendencies and reassure him that you want to be here, he just stares at you like he doesn’t understand why.

NSFW

۫ ꣑ৎ not the type to outright deny you, but when he’s teasing, it’s in an excruciatingly nonchalant manner. he’s busy, he says, without even looking up from his laptop. too much work, too little time—yadda yadda. he makes you wait, makes you impatient, until he finally shuts his laptop and pins you to the mattress as if he hadn’t been ignoring you for the past hour.

۫ ꣑ৎ doesn’t experiment much, because he knows what works and doesn’t see a reason to change it. but if you want to try something, he won’t shut it down, either. he’ll simply raise an eyebrow, consider it for a second, and say, “if that’s what you want.”

۫ ꣑ৎ doesn’t talk much in bed, but because he doesn’t see the point. he’s focused, too busy paying attention to you to bother with unnecessary words. at most, you’ll get quiet groans, maybe a low, approving hum if you’re particularly responsive.

۫ ꣑ৎ mostly vanilla sex. no elaborate kinks, except for the occasional bondage using ties (but it’s more for effect). he likes routine, and that applies to the bedroom too. sang-woo knows exactly what he’s doing and exactly how to get the reaction he wants out of you.

۫ ꣑ৎ when he’s stressed though, he gets rough; burying his face in your neck as he fucks you like he’s trying to forget everything else.. not intentional, just a byproduct of the pressure he’s under. afterward, when he realises how rough he was, he’s gentle again—hands smoothing over your skin, lips pressing on your temple as an apology.

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s a soft dom!!!! and you’re his pillow princess, whether you intended to be or not. he prefers to the one doing the work.

SQUID GAME

۫ ꣑ৎ he’s shocked to see you there. horrified, even. sang-woo was ready to do what it takes to win, but you weren’t supposed to be here.

۫ ꣑ৎ will not let you slow him down. sounds cruel, but sang-woo is in survival mode. he will help you, but only as long as it doesn’t jeopardise him.

۫ ꣑ৎ if it comes down to a split-second decision—you or him—sang-woo doesn’t want to think about what he’ll choose.

۫ ꣑ৎ tells himself he doesn’t afford to love you under the deadly circumstances. but when he closes his eyes, all he sees is you.

pic creds to AESTHCORE_276 on pinterest

 fear-is-truth 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[pboogerswbb]

SO IT GOES - chapter 12

Paige Bueckers x oc Warnings: language, drinking, sexual content (smut), paige being down so bad, incredibly long and dialogue heavy Wordcount: 8.9K A/C: this is dedicated to that anon saying they're sick, i hope you feel better!! also this is so dialogue heavy i'm sorry if it's not that fun to read and idk how this turned out so long but here we are!! hope everyone is well as always leave me thoughts in my inbox i love that shit!! okay bye <33

-

Before London

“Kiran! Kiran!” My screams echo around the airport as I run towards my brother, without a care in the world of how it might look to other people. I approach him fast, able to recognise the goofy smile and his tired eyes any time any place. Thankfully I wore sandals today, I wouldn’t have been able to run like this in heels

“You’re a lunatic,” he laughs as I crash into him, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug. Kiran’s comforting hand rubs my upper back. I loved Dallas, I loved my job, the people here were amazing. But one thing was missing, and that was my brother. I wasn’t used to being apart from him for so long. I had been his protector, his best friend the second he was born - not that he had much say in the matter.

“Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you’re here!” I gleam out of breath, pulling back and looking at that familiar face staring back at me, features similar to mine yet sharper, broader. Kiran looks around us slightly embarrassed, some of the surrounding people staring with warm smiles.

“Relax Izzie you’re causing a scene,” he whispers, but I don’t care, too giddy to be close to my baby brother again. I bounce up and down, giggling and squealing with excitement.

“I can’t believe you’re hereeee,” I sigh in a sing-songy voice, looking at my brother whose green eyes stare into my face.

“Hollup,” he grins and pulls back, looking at my feet. “You’re wearing… flats?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s early, couldn’t be bothered with heels.”

“And you haven’t done your hair?”

My brows furrow in annoyance, and I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m trying to avoid using heat on it, why are you nagging like mum?”

“Why are you getting offended? It’s just unlike you.”

So like us to get into an argument the first minute of seeing each other.

“If I wanted to be criticised I would’ve bought a ticket back to London.” I scoff, looking everywhere but my brother to let him know I’m unhappy with him. He takes a deep sigh in frustration before calming himself down.

“Alright, time out,” he groans, knowing he would never win. He knew I always had to have the last word. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, it’s just not like you Iz.”

I suppose he was right. In the past two months I had grown much more relaxed, sure I was still uptight but for some reason everything just seemed easier, lighter. Like I didn’t have to be so high strung constantly. I didn’t always have to be in control. That sometimes it was okay for me to let my waves down or go to the grocery store in leggings. Or to eat dessert before dinner or to sleep in on a Sunday - all things Paige had taught me.

“Fine, let’s just forget it,” I mumble, unwilling to apologise or admit I had maybe overreacted. “C’mon, my friend’s waiting.”

Paige had been insisting all week that I let her drive me to the airport, but after what almost blew up to be our first argument I reminded her that if we wanted to keep this a secret that would have to include not telling Kiran. I also didn’t want to get my brother involved in something that wasn’t going to last in the end. I know he’d get far too excited about the possibility of having a future “sister-in-law” in the league. I couldn’t risk getting his hopes up. It was already dreadful work trying to keep mine realistic.

So instead of getting a cab, I had agreed for Trey to drive us. It was polite of him to offer, though Paige was convinced his intentions were far from chivalrous. 

“Who’s this guy again?” Kiran asks, pulling his large suitcase and unzipping his hoodie, already feeling the Dallas heat hit him.

“Just a coworker,” I explain as we step out, Trey leaning against the car with a bright smile once he spots us.

“Kiran! Welcome to Dallas!” He grins brightly, introducing himself to my brother with a firm handshake and an overly friendly expression - something I had grown accustomed to during my months in the States. My brother though, not so much, a little taken aback but still polite as always. 

We pack into the car and I let the boys sit in the front, leaning against the cool leather in the backseat as Trey points out different landmarks of the city for my brother.

“So you’re staying for how long?” Trey asks.

“For a little over a week,” I reply for my brother - a habit that I had always had.

“You gotta come see a game man,” Trey smiles, hands holding the wheel with relaxed ease.

Kiran nods, looking back at me. “That’s the plan. Need to get those courtside seats.”

I scoff, letting out a dry laugh. “Courtside? I don’t know how influential you think I am but you’ll take whatever seats I can get you.”

“Oh so I travelled all the way to America to sit in the back and not be able to see anything?”

“I’ll get you binoculars.”

Trey laughs, shrugging. “Everyone gotta experience courtside at least once bro,” he murmurs. “You should ask Paige, Zari.”

Only hearing her name come out of someone’s mouth is enough to make my cheeks flush red, as I toy with my fingers on my lap, clearing my throat to pull myself together.

“Uh, I don’t know,” I chuckle awkwardly.

“Oh c’mon, she’d love to help you out,” Trey encourages me, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. “You’re like two peas in a pod anyway.”

“You are?” My brother turns back to look at me, surprised by this revelation. 

“Not really.”

“Pshh, please,” Trey laughs. “They’re basically inseparable, thick as thieves, those two.”

“Wh- Why didn’t you tell me?” My brother who never forgot to mention what a huge fan of Paige he was (and how attractive he found her) asks, clearly offended.

“We’re just coworkers, that’s it,” I get a little too defensive for the lighthearted conversation. My brother doesn’t pick up on it though, too excited to find out that his sister is friends with one of his favourite players.

“You have to introduce us,” he insists. “She’s coming tomorrow right?”

“She’s coming tomorrow,” I groan, leaning the back of my head against the seat. I had invited my coworkers and some of the team over for dinner and drinks to celebrate my brother being here.

“Everyone’s coming! We love your sister here,” Trey smiles, reaching back to squeeze my knee. The gesture almost makes me jump. “She’s been my saving grace, dunno where I’d be without her.”

“You’re too kind Trey,” I reply as we pull up to the front of the apartment building.

“Nah, just honest, beautiful.”

My brother glances at me and the dark haired man sitting in the driver’s seat with a curious smile before leaning back in his seat, looking around the city.

“I can’t believe I’m meeting Paige Bueckers tomorrow,” he murmurs almost to himself. “I need to plan an outfit.”

“Kiran…” I warn him, growing irritated at his fawning. “She’s not Beyonce.”

“Yeah but she’s just as fit.”

Trey laughs, shaking his head. “Oh man, I don’t think you’re her type.”

“Told you,” I add humorlessly, becoming more annoyed.

“I’m sure I could make her change her mind,” he grins arrogantly. Immediately, I smack the back of his head, telling him to quit.

“Ow!”

“You’re disgusting,” I complain, watching Kiran rub the back of his head. 

“I was taking the piss, don’t get upset.”

I roll my eyes before forcing on a tense smile. “Anyway, thank you for the drive Trey and I am sorry for my little brother.”

“Nah it’s nothing, just let me know if I can do anything else okay? You need help tomorrow let me know.”

“Oh, I won’t! Thank you th-”

“No, no, I insist,” the man interrupts me. I hated being interrupted, especially by Trey. But he had a habit of doing that so I tried to be understanding. Kiran though, knowing how much I despised it, looks at me nervously. But I simply smile, opening the car door.

“Okay Trey, thank you.”

I climb out as he and Kiran dab each other up, my brother following after and grabbing his bags. As Trey pulls into the lane my brother looks at me.

“Are you and him going out?”

I let out a laugh, thinking he’s joking. But my brother keeps staring at me with the serious eyes of my father. So I raise my brows, shaking my head. Me and Trey? Never. Why does everyone think that.

“Absolutely not, he’s my coworker,” I scoff, walking into the building and calling an elevator.

“He fancies you,” Kiran murmurs with a grin. “Nice guy… A little too nice.”

“Why does everyone think he fancies me?” I snap, stepping into the elevator with my brother at my heel. He’s fanning his face, pearls of sweat already forming in the back of his neck.

“You weren’t joking about this heat,” he sighs looking at me. “Look, just be careful with that. I don’t want what happened with Jas-”

“I can take care of myself,” I say sternly, the sound of the metal key sliding into the lock of my apartment door marking the end of that conversation. Kiran knew better than to push my buttons.

I watch as my brother enters my Dallas apartment, mouth slightly agape as he looks around, kicking his shoes off and neatly setting them against the wall by the door. It felt strange, my two lives merging in this way. A piece of London coming together with my secret life in Texas. 

I follow behind Kiran as he takes steady steps along the corridor towards the living room. It’s like I’m seeing my home for the first time in a long time too. What was empty and impersonal just a month ago had become homey and decorated with effort. Framed black and white posters on the blank wall behind the TV, patterned pillows sitting pretty against the grey couch, a baby pink glass vase filled with the white lilies from Paige. The wooden shelf the blonde put up for me is filled with literature and plants. All of a sudden it surprises me, the way I had turned this apartment I thought I might despise forever into a home.

“This is nice,” Kiran admires, fanning his face once more. He walks over to my colour coded schedule hanging off the wall, reading it thoroughly - the current week colour coded green for Kiran.

He lets out a laugh, pointing a finger over messy handwriting in the corner.

“What’s this?”

I walk over, cheeks flashing red the second I realise what he’s pointing at. Underneath his fingertip, it reads: When’s my name getting on this schedule?

Kiran looks at me with a grin as I sigh, shaking my head. 

“Iz, just tell me you’re seeing Trey, there’s no shame in that.”

“Dude, I’m not,” I groan. “It’s just my friend playing with me.”

“Sure,” he says, but I can tell he doesn’t believe it. Rolling my eyes I turn around, walking to the kitchen to get him something to eat. Fine, he can believe what he wants. I suppose it was better for him to think I was with Trey instead of Paige.

-

“I never liked that cologne,” Lou says, absentmindedly dribbling the ball along the hardwood. I shoot an easy three, wiping the post practice sweat off my forehead.

“Bro you’re crazy,” Arike laughs, wiping her hands on the towel resting on her broad shoulder. “It smells so good.”

“Nah, it smells bad. Tried it the other day and had to wash it off my wrist.”

“Well actually Izzie said colognes smell different on different people,” I tell the girls, my tone softening as it always did when I mentioned the girl. “Sumn about the oils on your skin.”

I miss the quick glance Lou and Arike give each other as I lean down to grab my water bottle, throwing my head back to chug it down my throat. 

“Yo, whose playlist is this?” Lou asks, the sound of a SZA song playing in the background of bouncing basketballs and squeaking sneakers. 

“Mine, it’s fire right?” I grin, tossing the ball between my hands. “Izzie loves this song,” I tell the girls, butterflies growing in my abdomen thinking about the way we were listening to Pretty Little Birds just the other day, making out in my car. 

“Bro…” Arike laughs, shooting a deep three.

“What?” I ask, confused by the way the girls were snickering together.

“Nun,” the girl murmurs, looking around the court. Everyone else had gone home besides us three, lingering not so much to practice but to spend time together. “I gotta figure out what to get Lala for her birthday.”

“When’s her birthday?” I ask, brushing blonde strands off my face.

“In a week, my Gemini girl,” she hums, wiping sweat off her neck.

“Izzie’s a Leo.”

“Bro!” Arike and Lou groan together, bursting into laughter. I start laughing too, but truthfully I got no idea what they’re finding so funny.

“What?” I ask, slightly annoyed.

“You just can not shut up about her huh?” Lou chuckles, looking at me. To my horror I realise that the entire day I have been bringing her name up in every conversation, always finding a way to snake her in. Truthfully, I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t think of anything else. Just her.

“Bro, no ‘s not like that,” I laugh, rubbing the bridge of my nose in embarrassment. “She just knows stuff. I just be listening.”

“Are you listening to us tho?” Arike teases, walking over and shoving my face playfully. I blush, rolling my eyes.

“Aight, enough.”

“Ohhh she down bad,” Arike taunts me, laughing as she points my face out to Lou, red as a tomato. “Look at how red she is.”

“No, you just being bullies,” I complain, though there was no hiding it. I knew she was right. “We’re just friends.”

“Rightttt,” Lou chuckles, sharing another amused glance with Arike.

“Bro, what?” I ask, sitting down on the hardwood and grabbing my phone.

“You guys are not as slick as you think,” Lou laughs, Rike nodding in agreement.

“Forreal, she be eyefucking you mid practice.”

I nearly choke on my water.

“Yooooo, you trippin,” I complain, eyes widening as I look around the court to make sure no one could hear. The girls share another glance, snickering again. I check the time, realising I need to get home if I want to look presentable for the dinner party. For Izara.

“Shoot, I’mma need to go get ready,” I murmur, climbing up from the floor and grabbing my stuff.

“You nervous meeting her baby bro?” Arike asks.

Yes. I hadn’t slept last night.

“Nah,” I chuckle. “It’s cool, I’ll see y’all tonight.”

-

You have to be joking. I rummage through my bag once again, pulling out hoodies and towels and socks. Nothing. My hands feel the pockets of my shorts for my keys but they’re nowhere to be found.

“Shit,” I murmur to myself, looking around the apartment stairway as if it might help me figure out a way in. There wasn’t one. Not without my keys, which I clearly didn’t have with me. I really didn’t need this today, I had been on edge all morning, nervousness twisting in my stomach as I thought about meeting Kiran. I had to make a good impression. I just had to. 

Digging for my phone in my pocket, I dial the number for a locksmith. But as my finger is about to press call, the screen goes black, flashing to be charged as if taunting me. “Are you kidding me,” I groan rubbing my face.

There was no other choice, so I make my way down the flight of stairs, smoothing my slicked back hair that had gone frizzy at practice as I knock on the door. Quickly it opens, familiar eyes staring back at me. Though they’re not green, more like hazel, still sharp and wise just like Izara’s.

Kiran is a mirror image of her sister, if not for the wide jaw and broad shoulders and the stubble covering the lower half of his face. He also didn’t look nearly as intimidating, a softness on his face the way Izzie’s face relaxed only once when she slept.

“Oh shoot, hey,” I murmur surprised, immediately offering my right hand for him to shake. “I’m Paige, you gotta be Kiran.”

The boy’s brows rise and lips part as he takes it in. Paige Bueckers, in the flesh.

“Oh I know who you are,” he chuckles in a friendly way, shaking my hand firmly. “Big fan.”

“Who is it?” Izara’s voice shouts from the kitchen, gentle steps approaching as she peeks around the corner to the front door. The nervousness in my stomach settles the second I see her face, her green eyes widening.

“Paige,” she gasps, walking hurriedly to me and Kiran as if not wanting to leave us alone for a second. She’s wearing a striped apron over her knitted set, though her makeup and hair are done in preparation for the night.

“Hey Izzie, I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice softening as I speak to her. “I locked myself outta my apartment.” 

I want to kiss her, to wrap my arms around her like I always did to greet her. But I knew in front of Kiran we are only friends. It was killing me.

“Did you call a locksmith?” Kiran interrupts, clearly eager to be a part of the conversation. His eyes never leave me, feeling too starstruck in the moment.

“Phone’s dead,” I chuckle awkwardly. Izzie looks from me to her brother, back to me. We’re both awkward, unsure how to act under the watchful eyes of Kiran.

“Go knead the dough,” Izzie commands her brother, pushing him towards the kitchen.

“B-but,” he starts but just like me. he has no choice but to listen to the dark haired girl.

“Go.”

Wordlessly, doing his best not to protest, Kiran turns the corner and goes into the kitchen. Izzie turns to me, wrapping a quick arm around my waist. I press a silent kiss on the top of her hair, my pounding heart slowing down the moment I feel her flush against me.

“Missed you,” I whisper, praying Kiran can’t hear. “I’m sorry for this.”

“No gorgeous, it’s perfectly okay,” Izzie reassures me. “You wanna borrow my phone?”

-

“Wait she lives right upstairs? Why didn’t you tell me?” Kiran complains but I shush him, wrapping the pasta dough to let it rest in the fridge.

“Because you’re embarrassing me,” I hiss, pushing him out of my way. Paige is in the other room, talking to the locksmith, her voice muffled through the walls.

“Iz why didn’t you tell me you were like… actually good friends?”

I roll my eyes, shutting the fridge door. “We’re friends. That’s it. Coworkers.”

“She calls you Izzie… She gets away with that?”

“She prefers it.”

“No one calls you Izzie but me and like… your best friends,” my brother points out. I shrug, turning to him.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you were gonna be weird about it,” I whisper, listening for the blonde girl making sure she won’t overhear us.

“I won’t be!”

“You’re being weird right now!” My voice rises a little, but I quickly remind myself to be quiet. “Look, Paige is cool. She’s been a good friend to me. That’s all, end of conversation.”

“She’s hotter in person,” Kiran grins, I shove him hard enough to let him know I wasn’t playing around.

“Quit. She’s gay,” I scoff, beginning to chop up some onions.

“How can you be sure?”

Oh if he only knew.

“I’m sure,” I complain, growing irritated and even slightly jealous at my brother’s remarks about Paige. “Just act normal, for once. Please.”

Just as he’s about to answer, the blonde walks around the corner, a frustrated smile stretched across her face.

“Well, bad news,” she groans, walking over to me absentmindedly - our bodies like magnets, pulling to be close each moment. “They not coming till tomorrow.”

“Are you joking?” Kiran asks, laughing and leaning against the counter. Paige nods, shifting on her feet, pushing her cuticles back. An anxious habit she has. It’s then I realise, she’s nervous, looking around the ceiling, biting the insides of her cheeks.

“Wish I was,” she murmurs. “I’mma call Rike and ask if I can go over to theirs.”

“Well, you could stay here, right Iz?” My brother asks. I want to kill him. Not because I don’t want her here. But because I don’t know how long I can keep myself under control with her around. I could already feel my body aching to touch her, to press close to her.

I glance up at Paige whose blue eyes and staring down at me, soft and pleading. I know she feels just as I do.

“Of course you can stay,” I murmur, my voice involuntarily rising and softening. 

“Yeah?” Paige asks, her voice a soft hum as if it’s just us two at this moment. I nod, my cheeks turning rosy. 

“I need to shower,” she says. “And change.”

“I washed the button up you left here,” I coo, “and you have those black shorts here you could wear them.”

“Thank you Iz,” she murmurs. “Dunno what I’d do without you.”

Kiran clears his throat and suddenly I’m brought back to earth, Paige takes a step back realising she’s probably leaning over a little too close.

“Go shower,” I tell Paige, trying to hide the shakiness in my voice.

“Yes ma’am,” the blonde says, leaving with a slight smile to both me and my brother.

“Oh, the towels ar-”

“I know,” Paige shouts from around the corner, disappearing. Avoiding the gaze of my brother, I begin to chop up the onions and carrots, my eyes locked on the chopping board. But I see from the corner of my eye Kiran looking at me curiously. Fuck, I guess we’re being pretty obvious. I’m sure he’s already noticed.

“I’m about to have a sleepover with Paige Bueckers,” he gleams in a quiet voice, his face sparkling. I let out a deep breath, too relieved to even scold him. My dear little brother was bright and kind and gentle - and completely oblivious at times. Thank God.

-

I stand in my towel in Izzie’s bedroom, looking at my shirt hung up in her closet. It looks right, her clothes next to mine, the white and baby blue striped shirt fitting perfectly with the cream coloured dress beside it. It’s too hot to get fully dressed, so I put on my white sports bra and the black denim shorts, my boxers peeking out just a little. As I’m checking myself in the mirror, Izzie steps in, eyes glancing at my bare abdomen.

“Oh sorry, I should’ve knocked,” she mumbles, closing the door behind her.

“No mama, it’s okay,” I reassure her, watching her walk over to the closet and pull out my shirt, smoothing over it carefully.

“I ironed it too,” she tells me, and my heart nearly bursts from the lilt of her voice.

“Thank you,” I murmur, walking over and snaking a hand around her waist, like I’d been dying to ever since I stepped in. Izzie’s eyes flutter shut, breathing immediately growing heavy. All this sneaking around was somehow getting both of us more hot and bothered.

“I- I’m done with the food, I just have to set the table,” she whispers, exhaling loudly as I lean down and pepper soft kisses along her neck. “I have to get dressed.”

“Lemme help.”

“Paige…” she hums, a feeble attempt at resistance while her body submits, head tilting to give me more space. My hand feels the curve of her body, finding its way to the band of her knitted pants. I had been dying for this, for her.

“Kiss me,” I plead, voice turning whiny. “Please Iz, kiss me.”

She doesn’t hesitate, turning to face me and wrapping her arms around my neck as she pulls me down for a hungry, heated kiss. “You’re driving me crazy,” she whimpers into my mouth as she kicks her pants off. My knee quickly finds its way between her thighs, pressing into her clothed core.

“Missed you so bad baby,” I nearly cry out, touching her everywhere, her legs, her waist, her arms, her face. I couldn’t get enough. Just one night spent apart had been torture.

“Iz where are the napkins?” Kiran’s voice suddenly cuts through our joint panting, making us both stop in our heels.

“Uhh, hold on, I need to change,” Izzie shouts through the door, flustered. I chuckle a little, wiping my lips to dry them from the girl’s spit. “Go show him,” she silently commands, pointing at the door.

“Yes ma’am,” I whisper, grinning and stepping out. Kiran is standing outside the door expectantly, eyes widening when he sees me. He’s not very tall, around the same height as I am. He looks at me for a while, studying my face.

“You okay, you’re a little red?”

I feel my cheeks burn even hotter at his question, just hoping he wasn’t as bright as his older sister.

“Uhh, yeah, was a hot shower,” I chuckle awkwardly, walking to the kitchen with the boy. “How old are you anyway?” I ask to change the subject.

“Oh I’m 22,” he answers. I nod, automatically opening the correct kitchen drawer for the napkins. 

“Here,” I murmur, handing them to Kiran.

“Huh.”

I turn my eyes to him curiously. “What?”

“You know where the towels are, where the napkins are, you call her Izzie… You must be really good friends with my sister,” he says, leaning against the counter. I was always a bad liar, so I decided it would be better to be honest - as long as it wasn’t too honest.

“Yeah, she’s awesome,” I smile to myself, watching Kiran reach for plates. “No not those ones,” I tell him, pointing to the second set on top. “She uses those for guests. You know how she is.”

“Oh, trust me I do,” he laughs. “Grew up with her.”

I chuckle. “She always been that…”

“Uptight?”

“I was gon say particular.”

The laughter from Kiran is enough of an answer, making me grin too.

“You know, she didn’t even tell me you two are friends,” he says as we walk the cutlery and glasses to the dining table. I stop, furrowing my brows. Why would she try to hide that? Maybe she was more private than I thought. But not even telling her own brother that we’re friends seemed a little strange.

Kiran notices, grabbing the wine glasses from my hands. “Don’t take it personally, it probably has more to do with me than you. She thinks I’m a fan.”

I chuckle, beginning to set up the plates hoping whatever I was doing would be up to Izara’s standards. Likely not. “Well are you?”

Kiran rolls his eyes, looking like a carbon copy of his sister just for a fleeting second. “Well I mean, you play tough! I can’t deny that.”

“Yeah, top PG in the world,” I joke, knowing that the start to this season had been horrible. It was better to joke than to show how I really felt. I tried to be grateful for the path God had paved for me, but I just didn’t understand why it had to be like this. 

“Absolutely not, that’s Magic,” Kiran argues, watching as I set the table.

“Over Steph?”

Kiran thinks for a while, about to answer when Izara steps out of the room, in a cream coloured halter neck dress, making her skin glow even more than usual.

“Steph is the best point guard of all time,” she interrupts, finishing the conversation for both of us. “Paige, could you zip me up?”

I watch her, breathless, before realising I was definitely doting and should probably stop.

“Uh, sure,” I gulp, walking over. Izara turns her back to me, pulling her hair to the side. Flashes of the nights spent together fill my head, memories of the way that back looks in the dim light of her bedroom when she’s bent over for me. I breathe heavily through my nose, my hands nearly shaking when I fumble with the zipper, slowly brushing my fingers against her skin as I zip upwards. It kills me not to lean down and press an open mouthed kiss on her shoulder, Izzie’s perfume in the air taunting me.

The girl feels it too, I can see it from the goosebumps forming on her arms and the irregular way her chest is heaving. 

“Uh, Kiran used to play actually,” she says with a gentle voice to interrupt the tender moment.

“Oh, forreal? You should come shoot some ball with us next week,” I suggest, glancing at Kiran who’s obliviously fluffing the pillows on the couch just like his sister does.

“Yeah, he’s not that good,” Iz teases, her breath hitching a little as my hands linger on her neck, bringing her hair back from her shoulder.

“Yeah, well Paige hasn’t been doing too hot either,” Kiran jokes, my brows rising and an offended smile growing on my face.

“Kiran!” Izzie scolds, and it warms my heart how genuinely offended she seems for me. I laugh, rubbing my jaw.

“Nah, he clocked me lowkey,” I chuckle, Kiran sitting down on the couch and laughing. I sit down next to him leaning back, manspreading as always. “You play Fortnite?” Classic way to bond with anyone’s younger brother.

“Oh good heavens,” Izzie murmurs, fixing the way we set the table which, unsurprisingly, wasn’t up to her standards.

“Sometimes, haven’t for a bit though,” Kiran answers.

“You and Iz should come play sometime next week. I got a playstation,” I suggest, wanting to do anything to win him over. I needed him to like me, badly.

“Oh, good luck getting that one to play,” Kiran points at Izzie, whose face is scrunched up in concentration as she refolds the napkins for each plate for the fourth time.

A smug grin spreads on my face. “Oh she played with me.”

The boy’s jaw falls slack as he looks at his sister, a shocked look on his face. “Iz?”

The dark haired girl grins, rolling her eyes. “I had no choice, I lost a bet.”

“What bet?”

The bet when Izara didn’t believe I could make her cum in five minutes. I did it in three. Our eyes meet, a knowing smirk on both our faces. My cheeks turn hot as I chuckle awkwardly, looking to the ground.

“Just some bet,” Iz murmurs. “Now both of you, go change. Guests are gonna be here any minute.”

“Yes ma’am,” me and Kiran answer in unison, getting up from the couch without hesitation.

-

“Bolognese in a white dress. I’m impressed,” Lala jokes as I set the plate down in front of her, a piece of garlic bread on the side.

“Oh I’m ready to change any moment I spill,” I laugh as Paige emerges from behind me with more plates, placing them in front of each guest. She had insisted on helping me, hovering around me eager for anything to do. I found it incredibly endearing. 

Everyone is gathered around the dining table, my coworkers and some of the team I had grown close to all welcoming my brother with open arms. As much as the Texas hostility felt overwhelming at times, at this moment I’m grateful for it. Kiran is sitting between Trey and Arike, engaged in a lively conversation about UK rap, which the girl seems uneducated on. I’m not sure whether to warn her that my brother can talk about any topic for hours, so she should just stop before it starts.

“Could you-” I start but Paige is already turning around.

“The wine and the beer?”

I smile contentedly, chest fluttering as I watch the blonde girl already know what I needed without needing me to finish a sentence. Me and her go around, pouring drinks around the table before settling opposite of Arike and Lala, the older woman smiling at us knowingly. Of course she knew, there was no hiding anything from her I had realised these past couple months as we became closer friends.

“This looks fire,” Arike gleams, about to dig in. But Lala stops her.

“You should say a few words, Zari.”

Not again. What is it with Americans and their stupid speeches? I freeze, trying to maintain my composure. I hadn’t planned for anything to say, my palms beginning to sweat at the idea of an impromptu speech. It was badly reminding me of my arrival to Dallas, and the way Paige had saved me. As if reading my mind, the blonde stands up beside me, grabbing her bottle of beer.

“Uhh, welcome everyone, it’s nice seein’ y’all,” she starts a little flustered. Arike snickers, giving Lou a look. I turn to Paige, watching her glance down at me with a smile. My mouth stretches into an approving grin, feeling butterflies in my stomach for the way the blonde girl just knew me. Just knew when she should take the reins and lead me once in a while. It felt good to be known.

“Iz- I mean Zari, she savin’ her voice so she can yell at me later for fucking up this speech later,”

Laughter. She always knew how to make people laugh. I laugh too, which makes the blonde beam with pride.

“I think I’m speakin’ for everyone when I say we’re all really grateful for this little lady right here,” Paige continues, her hand coming to squeeze my shoulders. Sparks spread down my body, as I bring my hand over hers, patting it.

“I know  if it wasn’t for this woman right here I’d be eatin’ McDonalds four times a week,” she chuckles, pulling her hand away after lingering for as long as she possibly can. “We’re so lucky to have her here in Dallas with us, not just tonight but always.”

I chew on my lower lip, my heart pounding in my chest. I want to stand up and kiss her, to hold her forever and never let go.

“So thanks Kiran for letting us borrow your sister. She’s… a blessing,” she smiles, pointing the glass bottle towards my brother who’s smiling up at her. “Uh, anyway, to Izzie. Oh, and welcome Kiran.”

My cheeks burn red as the blonde sits back down, cheering my wine glass with her bottle. I can’t help it when my hand comes to rub her broad, muscular shoulders over the pale blue shirt that made her appear tanner than normal. She looks gorgeous, a wide smile across her face eager for praise.

“You’re so sweet my love,” I whisper to her as the clinking of glasses and bottles fills the room. Paige beams, leaning over and kissing my cheek in a way that could be seen as platonic - but I know better. I can feel the emotion and intent behind it, the way she lingers just a millisecond longer than a friend would.

“Yo, this is so good,” Arike groans as people pass around the parmesan, taking turns grating it onto each plate.

“Iz always made the best bolognese,” Kiran says, setting his napkin neatly onto his lap just like me. I smile happily at the compliments, grating parm onto my plate, and then to Paige’s. I had cooked for her enough times to know how much cheese she liked. My brother, Arike, Lou and Satou stare at us unbeknownst to me, as Paige mutters a quiet thanks. Lala’s hand is quick to swat at her fiance, signalling her to stop her snickering.

I hear the blonde chuckling to herself, watching my brother closely as she takes bites of her food.

“What are you laughing at?” I whisper as the noise and hassle around us fades into a distant hum, the room moving on without us, leaving us slipping into our own little world.

Paige grins, pointing discreetly at my brother who’s meticulously folding the corners of his napkin.

“He’s doin’ that thing you do,” the girl laughs quietly, leaning closer to me. I smirk realising she was right, but can’t keep my eyes on Kiran sitting opposite us when I feel Paige’s hand on my bare knee underneath the table, the ring on her thumb cool against my warm skin. Licking my lips my eyes lock on Paige, who’s leaning back on her chair and sipping her beer, jawline prominent as she throws her head back. She’s engaged in a conversation with Lou sitting next to her, a blonde strand falling on her face from her bun. Without thinking about it I reach over and fix it for her, the simple but intimate gesture making her squeeze my knee and bring her hand a little further, fingertips digging into my thigh now.

-

We play this cat and mouse game the entire duration of dinner, a glance here, a touch there. It takes all my self-discipline not to allow my hand to travel up and up her silky thigh. But I resist, both of us spending the evening talking to everyone but each other, but we know that we’re both on fire, burning and aching to love on each other.

“Oh gosh, I’m so full,” Izzie complains to Arike and Lala, leaning back on her chair. Without much thinking, I grab the fork from my empty plate and begin to pick at Izara’s leftovers - a routine we had grown into in the past month. She finishes my coffee, I finish her food. 

“This was so good, seriously,” Satou praises as Arike reaches for a second helping of garlic bread.

“Delicious Zari, you’re a very good cook,” Trey smiles in a sickly sweet manner, pissing me off. Everything he did pissed me off. I could see through every trick. He had been talking with Kiran all night, interrupting any conversation I had with him. I knew he was trying to win over the little brother. He would never win over Izzie though. He would never make her cum in just three minutes. No, only I did that.

“Thank you everyone,” Iz smiles, looking around the table, her green eyes lined with black stopping on me, lashes fluttering. Suddenly she bursts into a laugh.

“What?” I ask, my mouth full of spaghetti.

The dark haired girl giggles, suddenly grabbing hold of my chin and leaning over with a napkin.

“Oh darling how’d you manage to do this?” She says with a stifled laugh, wiping harshly at the corners of my mouth and chin. My cheeks grow rosy and hot, from embarrassment but also from the way she’s leaning over, the plunging neckline of the dress accentuating her round breasts, nevermind her nails digging into my chin like they sometimes did when she pulled me into a kiss. With an internal groan I force my gaze to the corner of the room, trying to rid the filthy thoughts in my head.

“I dunno, I’m just a messy eater,” I joke, raising my brows and it’s Izara’s turn to blush as she pulls back, shoving me away by my jaw playfully.

“Yooo,” Arike, who's been watching us closely with Lala, laughs to herself. So much for being secretive I guess. To my horror I notice Kiran in the corner, eyeing us suspiciously, but shrugging as he opens another beer.

“Shut up,” Izzie says sternly, shaking her head in disapproval.

“Yes ma’am. Whatever you say.”

She grins, letting out a heavy exhale through her nose before speaking. 

“Would anyone want more to drink?” she offers, standing up from her seat. Like clockwork, I do the same.

“I’ll help.”

Trey stands up too, beginning to pile up plates. I wanna strangle him.

“I can help too,” Trey suggests, but I yank the plates from him as gently as you could yank anything, a blank smile on my face.

“Don’t worry bro, small kitchen.” Not really, but I did not need him trying to win my Izara over. Not now, not ever. It was my job and right to serve her and take care of her. Not his. Mine.

I carry the load of dirty dishes into the kitchen where Izara is opening another bottle of wine, a hint of a blush on her cheeks from the alcohol. I watch her scrunched up concentrated face, leaning against the counter with the beer bottle between my lips, taking a long sip. She doesn’t turn her head to look, she knows I’m watching, she can tell by the way it burns her skin.

“You gonna follow me around all night?” She asks, a teasing lilt to her voice. I chuckle dryly, walking closer to help her with the bottle. I might not drink wine but had many practice rounds before hanging out with the dark haired girl. It would’ve been embarrassing if she had found out I didn’t know how to open wine bottles before. My fingers brush over hers, sending sparks everywhere.

“Someone gotta look after you,” I murmur, the discussions from the dining table now merely muffled noises. The silence stretches unbearably, our heavy breathing the only sound as I work the bottle, Izzie’s arm brushing against mine and tickling. With a deep sigh, the dark haired girl turns around towards the sink, beginning to wash the plates, one by one. Finally popping the bottle, I follow her, boldly taking steps towards her until I can feel the heat of her back against my front.

“Why you always gotta be on dish duty?” I ask with a whisper, reaching around her and putting the plates down from her hands. She’s impossibly still, trying not to let me know how much my closeness affected her. Though the goosebumps on her neck were visible, telling me just enough.

“I like taking care of people,” she hums.

“My turn to take care of you ma,” I say softly, turning off the sink. “You got sumn on your neck.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm,” I nod, slowly leaning down as my chest presses into her upper back, my nose brushing the curls on her neck to the side. “Right here.”

I wet my lips before they land on the skin of her neck, Izara’s perfume making my mind spin as I leave gentle kisses on her. She whimpers silently, the curve of her ass fitting perfectly against my hips. I feel a familiar ache growing deep in my stomach, a burn that could only be satisfied by one thing. 

As my slow hands are about to land on Izzie’s breasts, footsteps rapidly growing closer force me to take a step back. It’s as if I’m prying myself away from the girl, whole body aching with how badly I need her.

Kiran, holding two empty bottles of beer, turns the corner and smiles.

“Well hello.”

“Havin a good time?” I ask, clearing my throat when my voice comes out hoarse.

“Ohh yeah it’s great,” Kiran grins, wrapping an arm around Izzie’s shoulders. She’s still gathering herself, green eyes locked into mine. “Heard you’ve been taking good care of my sister.” 

We both pause, Izara’s eyes widening. Kiran is oblivious though, reaching for a new bottle of beer. I hand it to him, heart pounding fast in my chest.

“Arike was saying how you drive her everywhere so she doesn’t have to take cabs.”

I let out a deep sigh of relief, chuckling awkwardly and shrugging. “‘S nothin, she’s good to me too.”

“Ohhh her best friends are gonna be jealous when I tell them what a good friend you have over in Dallas,” Kiran teases Iz, poking her face. I can see he’s a little tipsy, growing much looser like his sister with alcohol. 

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” the girl groans, pushing his brother off her playfully. Kiran sips his beer, looking at us two. 

“So, what are the sleeping arrangements?”

Me and Izara share a look, unsure of how to play this in a way that will make sure we’ll end up in her bed together by the end of the night. 

“I’m playing, of course you’ll sleep together,” Kiran chuckles. “You can stay up and have a sleepover and talk shit about everyone like girls do.”

A nervous laughter fills the kitchen as me and Iz glance at each other. “Why don’t you go back in the living room,” she says, guiding Kiran away from the kitchen. “I’ll come after I get a drink.”

“No, go sit down. I’ll pour you one,” I tell Iz. She turns to me, nearly resisting. But I give her lower back a gentle nudge, nodding towards the living room. “Go relax ma.”

-

I greet the last guests bye, closing the front door with a glass of red wine - not for me of course, but for the girl leaning back on the couch. I walk to the living room, handing it to her. A gentle smile of approval is all I get and need for a thank you, it being enough to make my ears burn.

“Tired?” I ask gently, my hand petting over Izzie’s dark hair. She shrugs, taking a sip of the red wine letting it paint her lips. My fingertips touch against her neck, on the spot I kissed before, the faint taste of her lips still on mine.

“A little,” she whispers. I know what that means. She wants to get into bed, but not to sleep. Kiran is a little tipsy, digging through his suitcase for pajamas with his back facing us. I take the opportunity to reach for Izara’s hand, and kiss it softly. She hums happily, finishing her wine with a long gulp.

“I’m going to bed,” Izzie yawns loudly, making a big scene for her baby brother. 

“Me too, but gotta play Fortnite tomorrow, yeah?” I say, following behind her trail like I had been all night.

“Oh for sure,” Kiran grins, first hugging me, and then her sister. Guess he was more tipsy than I thought.

“Good God, have some water,” Izzie complains as we step into the bedroom, closing the door behind us both.

For a moment we merely look at each other, and only then I realise how badly the burn in my abdomen had been killing me all night. She still looked flawless, though the wine and the company had made her cheeks glow red and eyes grow tired. We get ready for bed together, standing side by side brushing our teeth, taking turns washing our faces. I lean back, letting Izara take her time with her detailed, 12 step skincare routine. It doesn’t bore me, matter of fact I could’ve watched her all night. If it wasn’t for the way my core ached for her.

It all felt so incredibly domestic, her brother sleeping on the couch, the way we had done the dishes together, scrub and dry, scrub and dry, over and over. The way the foam had spilled all over her lips as she leaned over to spit the toothpaste out of her mouth, the way she stared into the mirror to comb through her dark thick hair, letting me catch a glimpse of her inner world. It made me feel special.

“Could you unzip me?” Iz asks, voice hoarse and raspy from talking all night. Without hesitation I walk over, my long fingers pulling down the zipper carefully. I lean down and press a soft kiss onto her upper back. I could get used to this.

I undress too, into my sports bra and boxers, before sliding underneath the sheets. I watch closely as Izzie turns off the lights, the street lamps providing enough light for me to see the dress drop onto the floor, a strapless bra and a matching white thong underneath. I lift the covers for her, never looking away. I couldn’t dare to.

Silently, we turn to our sides, noses nearly touching from how close we are to each other, simply breathing each other in. Our bodies are buzzing with the stolen touches and hungry glances of the night, something about trying to keep this hidden making it all even more ecstatic. Izzie traps her lower lip under her teeth, green eyes gazing into me desperately. I can’t stop myself. I inch closer, nose pressing into hers, her hot minty breath lingering on my face. And then I kiss her, like I had been dying to.

It quickly grows from gentle and loving to intimate and raw. I roll on top of Izzie, beginning to kiss her neck sloppily. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the pure lust, but both of us were getting needier quicker than normal, my teeth nibbling on her long, beautiful neck, probably leaving a mark or two. I couldn’t be bothered to care.

My hands make quick work of her bra, pulling it off and chucking it somewhere on the floor. She’s breathing heavy now, legs wrapping around me. My large hands feel her up everywhere, her breasts, her waist, her hips, her thighs, silky smooth everywhere. 

“Fuck,” I whisper, leaning down to trap one of her breasts into my mouth. Izara’s back arches, my lips wrapping around her nipples and sucking, making my boxers grow impossibly wet. “Perfect tits.”

My fingertips travel down her stomach, to the band of her satin panties, dipping underneath just slightly. Iz breathes out loudly, looking at me with furrowed brows.

“What about Kiran?” She whispers, her hips squirming in a way that lets me know she might cry if she doesn’t get this.

“Just gotta be quiet,” I answer comfortingly, raising my head to face her. “You can do that for me, right baby?”

She nods eagerly, a cocky grin spreading onto my face. “Good girl,” I whisper, pulling her panties down. She’s soaked, already dripping onto the sheets. I have to bite down onto her  shoulder when my fingers dip into her pussy, making a loud squelching sound as I swirl in her folds. Izzie gasps, but I cover her mouth before she can make noise.

“Oh my poor baby,” I whimper into her ear, nose nuzzling it gently. “You been this wet for me all night?”

“Mhmm,” Izzie nods desperately as my fingertips rub slow and sloppy circles on her puffy, soaked clit. I feel my own pussy throbbing at the way she had been dying all day, needing me so badly. I just wanted to take care of her.

“Lemme make it better,” I murmur, speeding up my movements. “Lemme help baby, it hurts don’t it?”

The girl nods, her eyes rolling back as my fingers rub in fast, tight circles, more precise than before. I feel the way her body’s tensing and flexing underneath me, her pleasure growing each second. She’s impossibly wet, and I pray Kiran can’t hear the squelching sounds nevermind the quiet whimpers coming from her.

“Gonna make you feel so good baby, gonna make it all better,” I coo, a high pitched gasp leaving Izzie when my fingers slide into her tight cunt with ease from how slick she was.

“Shh, gotta be quiet mama,” I remind her, kissing on her neck and breasts as I pump my fingers into her. She’s pulsing already, throbbing around my long digits that are curling against the soft tissue inside her, right at the spot that made her gush around my fingers. Should’ve put a towel down, but right this moment, I couldn’t care less.

“Paige,” she whispers, muffled against my hand covering her mouth. She’s close, but I’m not done, my mouth watering already like it had been all night. So I replace my hand with hers and begin my descent. 

I kiss my way down, throwing the blanket off from top of me and her, spreading her legs wide open. She’s really soaked, I can see it even in the dim light of the room. A groan escapes my mouth, watching the way my fingers slip in and out of her with ease, her pussy stretching around them perfectly.

Suddenly, Izzie’s yanking my hair and my lips wrap around her clit, tongue circling it at a rapid pace. She’s squirming, legs shaking but I don’t care, pinning her hips down as my fingers pump into her at an incredible speed, my tongue making quick work of her. Her grip tightens in my hair and her cunt pulses around my fingers desperately. She doesn’t need to tell me, I know she’s cumming.

So I keep going, adding a third finger as my tongue moves back and forth fast, my eyes rolling back from how good she tastes. Izzie’s body tenses up, pussy growing tighter and tighter around me like it never had before. Her whimpers are muffled, but obvious, but both of us are too far gone to care.

“Paige I-” she whispers with a high pitched voice, and suddenly she begins to tremble and shake, tugging at my hair as she finishes all over my face. Perhaps it’s not right to pray to God in moments like these, but I plead that behind the bedroom door her brother’s fast asleep, entirely oblivious to what I was and had been doing to his dear sister.

-

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[thoughfullovercreator]

Sorry not sorry. But some people need to read this.

Tw: when I am employing the word « delusional » I am not referring to the medical definition of it.

What I am going to be saying is going to be disliked by some. But I don’t care.

I am going to be talking right now about a phenomenon that I’ve been seeing ever since I started reading mangas and watching animes and it has always bothered me.

And guess what ? I am not the only one being bothered by that, which reassures me.

The problem is the following:

Each time there’s a genuine friendship between two male characters or even two females in a manga/anime, people dirty it by gluing on it, their own fantasies and making it somewhat romantic/sexual, by inventing a « sexual tension » between these protagonists.

Always happens in the anime/manga universe.

…and I am going to tell you why it’s a problem/bothersome situation for many :

The problem is that it renders the story less deep and genuine and more people are influenced in thinking that, a male character, by being nice to another male (same for females), is romantic or whatever.

Like some of y’all are sexualising everything. Get it together.

This is, most of the time (actually 99% of the time but okay), LITTERALY delusion because the authors have never, ever meant for their characters to be viewed as anything but genuine friends/acquaintances..

It distorts the story for nothing and, in my opinion, it is disrespectful to the creators of the manga, to just take their characters and create a quiproquo on it. Sorry not sorry to say it.

As an example, let me take the « Dazai x Chuuya » fans.

The readers go as far as totally disregarding the fact that, Dazai, since literally the first episode, has implied that he was not attracted to guys. On top of that, he’s kinda depicted as the guy who likes women (/is low-key a womaniser). Never, ever was there anything that would make him attracted to Chuuya as a male.

(It also happens for JJK and others… )

Therefore, you’re disregarding the genuine and complex aspects of a potential friendship and understanding between the characters, to glue on it what you would have wished it to be : a romantic or sexual attraction. It’s a projection of what YOU would have WANTED it to be.

Simple example for BSD: Asagiri himself has said that there is nothing between Chuuya and Dazai, that they really don’t appreciate each other.

Now for all those who think that they like each other: it’s fine but that means that there’s something you´ve misunderstood in the story. Go back to it and try to analyse better the interactions and contexts. It’s fine really cuz, it could happen to anyone to misunderstand something, I am not criticising. Just signaling a risk.

It is actually immoral to distort a character’s sexuality like what ?! It becomes a habit and people do it also for celebrities. It’s kinda going too far.

It’s not for you to decide.

When it’s « not a big deal » for some, it could actually represent a big deal for many. And make many people uncomfortable.

Respectfully :

You wanna do your fanfics ? NO PROBLEM really ! be our guests ! but do it in the context of a fanfic, after putting on a disclaimer, as a respectful gesture for the creators of mangas !

(On the other hand, when people write « character x reader », it doesn’t distorts the original story cuz Y/N just doesn’t exist).

BUT rubbing it down our throats without any context as if it was a general truth provided by the creators, that « these characters are in love/sexually attracted to one another » NO. Keep it for yourself or your group of friends if y’all agree on it.

Again, many many people feel as uncomfortable as I, regarding this. It’s kinda also getting out of hand.

It’s getting out of hand especially when I see fandoms like the Black butler fandom where they imagine a « sexual tension » between Sebastian that is an adult and Ciel that is 13 !

Like it or not. I am not sorry for being respectful and realistic.

And I am encouraging everyone to talk and expose that, because this is not fine.

Some decency is needed :

Not everything is okay with what people are doing on the internet. You can have your « dirty thoughts » but don’t expose them, not everyone wishes to hear about it. Some things have to stay between you and yourself.

Kids/ teens :

And kids/teens (all those below 18) y’all need to get off your phones a little and go play outside or meet your friends (for teens ig) if you don’t wanna end up in depression at an early age or with extremely poor social skills.

At least take a real book like ones at the school library and learn things. Instead of learning how to .. by reading explicit content cuz you never listen when we tell you that a certain one shot is +18.

Again, I am not sorry. I am pissed.

[bellenotthebeast]

Hello.

I want you to listen. Don’t scroll away because of the buzz word ‘Lando’.

Listen.

This has gone beyond hate for Lando. This about all the drivers.

This is about treating drivers respectfully. This is about your parasocial relationships with the drivers. This is about you reading into everything they say.

This is about the F1 media taking clips out of context because they don’t want a race they want a drama.

This is about you taking those clips and not bothering to find the original source, and taking it to fuel a hatred for someone you don’t know.

This is about you hating on a new driver because you miss the old one.

This is about you sending hate to fans of a driver you don’t like.

When I dislike something I scroll- I ignore, because it’s not worth my time. Why should I let the social media algorithm think I like the video because I watch it? I block a person I dislike. I don’t go onto their account and spend time out of my life to comment.

But unfortunately the amount of hate I’m seeing it’s getting hard to ignore it.

Haters and fans. Opposite end of the spectrum, still on the same spectrum.

You’re still thinking about the guy you supposedly hate. You talk about him under other driver related posts, you make it your entire personality.

You make it toxic.

The difference in drivers is what makes the sport fun. I’m friends with people who have other favourite drivers. What we do is we talk about the race. We talk about how their driver did really well and what mine could’ve done better. We have fun.

Because it’s the sport that bonds us.

I don’t send death threats to them. People have become so obsessed with other peoples lives and it shows.

A driver can’t say he feels lonely without getting jumped on for it. A driver gets asked his opinion after a high adrenaline race, one he feels he didn’t do well and he sounds a little bitter. Of course he’s going to. Yet you read into it.

He celebrates and you read into it.

And then dislike them when they decide not to do anything anymore.

You criticise them for the mistakes they’ve already owned up to and refuse to even acknowledge the good they’ve achieved.

New fans get scared to join because they worry everyone will hate them. Which kills the sport in turn.

Lando. Max. Every single driver on the grid do not know you. And you do not know them. You know of them. You do not know them.

You do not know what they do or who they are the moment they’re away from the cameras.

You do not need to like a driver. Nor do you need to dislike them. I don’t dislike drivers, I just have drivers I favour a bit more than others. Because why would I hate them?

I dislike some of the things they do- during the race. Of course. I’m bitter after a race doesn’t go well. I’m a fan of the sport.

But that’s as far as it goes.

I do not care for their personal life as it’s theirs, nor do I care for what minuscule thing they’ve done.

If you don’t feel called out, then good- I’m not talking about you. You’re the good ones. If you are feeling ‘attacked’ then perhaps it’s time to rethink what you want to spend limited time, that is your life, on.

We only have so many minutes in our lives to actually live. So live it. Don’t spend it on hating on others.

Good day/night. 😊

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 17

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: does anyone mind the slightly longer chapters? I feel like I keep accidentally adding scenes in and I’m not sure if it’s too much? Anyway, regardless of length, I hope you enjoy! 🧡💛

word count: 8,024

-Part 16- -Part 18-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Was that necessary, Mor?” 

Neatly groomed brows narrow over hard amber eyes, stood at the edge of the room, still cast in shadow before walking to be stood closer to the bed that’s been pushed so it’s beside the open window. 

“Stay out of it, Az,” Mor murmurs, arms folded over her chest, eyes cast downwards. “You should be focusing on getting better.” 

Azriel is quiet for a bit, his gaze weighing on her but she makes no move to look at him, a hint of anguish in her normally bright expression. He sighs, shifting against the pillows as he glances out the window, inclining his head a little as a light breeze washes over him, sending silky strands of hair fluttering up from his brow. 

“You know she didn’t do it to hurt you,” he says, watching as the clouds shift in composition in the sky, small dots flying in the distance as they arc and dip with the winds. Hazel eyes flick back across the room, but Mor’s head is still lowered, her expression resentful. “You know you were being cruel.” 

“And you’re in a position to criticise me?” Mor replies quietly, hard amber piercing into him. “You’re the reason this became such a mess. You should have said something. There’s no way you couldn’t have noticed.” 

“I made a mistake,” he concedes reluctantly, holding her gaze. 

“You made more than a mistake, Az. Now we’re all hurting because you—”

“Mor,” Azriel interrupts. She stiffens but doesn’t yield, that look of reproach returning to her expression. “You can’t lash out at us whenever you hurt,” he says thickly, still watching her. Silence stretches between them, centuries worth of history pulled taut in the quiet. 

“What does Rhys think?” Mor diverts, successfully switching subjects. Azriel sighs, leaning back into the pillow, “about which part?” Mor’s brows narrow a little, “all of it, I suppose.” Azriel’s jaw works, glancing briefly out the window again to peer up into the sky, the winds calling to him and his wings move subtly at his back, repositioning themselves against the large stack of cushions placed to prop him up. 

“He’s furious that it got this far,” he replies, features carefully neutral as he answers the question. Amber eyes observe, offered insight through those years of friendship that others might struggle to pick out—the guilt he feels for failing. Not just her, or Mor, but Rhys and Feyre. For inadvertently allowing a situation to unfold where his brother would be forced to remember those months…years of grief after his family was slaughtered. After his sister was murdered. The whole situation is dredging up unwelcome memories, for all of them. They can’t let another one be lost. 

“He wants to know how Eris even got to her in the first place,” Azriel admits, glancing warily at Mor to gauge her reaction. “You don’t know?” She asks, pushing past the tightness in her throat at the mere mention. But the Shadowsinger shakes his head. “There wasn’t really time to ask,” he supplies quietly. She wasn’t really even in the right mindset to be asked. 

“What about Cassian?” Mor queries, but Azriel shakes his head. 

“You know I won’t tell you.” Because to know Cassian’s thoughts on the matter would likely be to know Nesta’s, and that isn’t the kind of emotional intimacy any of them would be comfortable with. It’s strange how emotions intermingle like that, how swiftly things can complicate themselves when new figures are added to the equation. 

A beat passes, then Mor’s shifting on her feet. “You know, there was a time when we shared everything between us. Wasn’t that easier?” She asks neutrally. 

“Mor,” Azriel warns lowly, causing Mor’s upper lit to curl slightly. 

“Don’t take that tone with me, Az,” she mutters, resting her full attention on the injured male. “Don’t act like you’re completely blameless.” 

“Assigning blame won’t fix anything,” he replies shortly, hazel eyes losing a little of their softness. “I’m sure that narrative suits you well,” Mor counters sharply. “I think you’re glad that I said those things to her so that you have a chance to redeem yourself by condemning me. You’re the one who started this whole mess, so—”

“Mor.”

“Shut up, Az,” Mor hisses, warmth vanishing from her face, eyes hardening as shields rise. “Don’t you dare try and twist what happened. You made mistake after mistake because you were too busy chasing Elain, and too busy ignoring what you didn’t want to acknowledge by hiding behind your work instead. At least I had a damn reason. What was yours?” 

Azriel gives nothing away, his expression cold and blank. 

“I tried to help her, I reached out my hand and offered her a chance. And she repaid that by going to Eris,” Mor hisses, unable to help the stark pain that bleeds into her fury. “She could have come to any of us. It’s more than we ever had, and yet she ignored it. Then tries to pretend it away? I’m not immune to that. If she can’t even be bothered to care about my pain why should I give a damn about hers?” Mor breathes, eyes feeling hot as the words gush out. “It is nothing compared to what we endured.” 

————

You manage a small smile as Madja enters your room, Elain closing the door behind her as she takes a seat at your bedside. 

“How are you feeling this morning?” Madja asks as she settles in the chair provided for these visits, a kind look on her face that you know you should be grateful for, but it’s difficult to summon anything when you know she can’t do anything. All this is, is documentation. An observation to see what happens to you. Because it’s undeniable something is happening. 

You swallow thickly, but nod your head. “Good, for the most part,” you answer, truthfully. “I’m still feeling generally fatigued, but I wouldn’t say it’s particularly interfering with my day? I’ve had some pains in my stomach and back though, but I think they’re just…you know…” Madja raises her brows in question, silently asking you to continue. Heat rises beneath your skin and you avert your gaze, hands wringing together beneath the duvet. 

“Would it be more helpful if it were just the two of you?” Elain suggests carefully, and teeth push into your lower lip. Then you give a small dip of your head, too embarrassed to look her in the eye. But she doesn’t seem to mind, telling you’ll she be a few rooms over, and will return once the examination is done. Madja looks patiently at you, a kind expression on her features that soothes you slightly. She’s a healer, surely she’ll have seen and heard worse… 

You clear your throat, peering into your lap to avoid looking at her. “I think they might just be…” you trail off, glancing at her then gesturing vaguely to your stomach, hand hovering over your abdomen. There’s nothing impatient in her smile as she speaks, “your cycle?” You snap your eyes away, a flush of mortification rising to your skin, shoulders tightening as you stare into your lap but force yourself to nod. 

“It’s perfectly fine to speak about that with me,” Madja says gently, “it’s a normal occurrence with females, there’s no need to be embarrassed about your own body. There’s nothing wrong with it.” You nod again, just to try and appease her, but in truth you’re desperate to escape the subject. “I’m sorry, I just— I find it hard to believe you aren’t…uncomfortable, discussing such topics.” 

“Well, I’ve been a healer for most of my centuries in this realm,” she says calmly, and you can imagine that kind expression on her features, peaceful and infinitely patient. “I’ve worked during both wars, not to mention helping with your sister’s pregnancy. There’s very little that could ever cause me discomfort in regards to how the body works, so you don’t have to concern yourself.” 

You shift again in the bed, but manage to nod your head. Madja seems to be satisfied with the response, smile broadening, and a slight bit of tension is relieved from your shoulders, breath easing into your lungs. “So you’ve been experiencing some abdominal and back pain?” She questions, and you nod again, feeling a little useless. “Can you describe it to me?” She asks, and you swallow thickly. “I…it’s like a dull ache in my back, near the base of my spine but a bit to the right. Then it’s quite sharp in my…abdomen. It doesn’t happen often, but I thought I should mention it…” 

“I don’t think you should be experiencing any pain at all,” Madja replies. “And may I ask when you’re next due for your cycle?” You look away briefly before again meeting her gaze—nothing to be embarrassed about, she’d assured. “In about three months,” you answer quietly. 

Madja nods in approval, and you begin to relax back into the pillows. “And have you noticed any bleeding at all?” She asks gently, and you freeze in the bed. 

“No,” you answer hurriedly, without thinking, “no. Not from— No.” 

“Alright,” she smiles calmingly, “anywhere else? You have some scabs on your hands, isn’t that right?” Your throat rolls but you nod, releasing your tight grip on your nightgown, bringing yourself to raise them from beneath the duvet so she can examine them. “And these bumps,” she inquires, “can you tell me how long those have been there for?” You blink, trying to remember—they’ve been there for months it feels like, but it can’t have been that long, can it? How long has it been since you first told Azriel?

“I think…” you hesitate, unsure of yourself, “maybe a month? Two? They don’t hurt, but they do sometimes…bleed.” 

“Okay, would you mind if I had a look at them?” She requests, and you silently offer her your hands for her to take. That tingling warmth feathers beneath your skin, as if the flesh has fallen asleep, and you watch curiously as she probes along your knuckles, examining your palms, grazing your wrists. “And may I look at the area you experienced the pain in?” She asks, and you stiffen but nod. It’ll be the same thing as last time, you hope, and that wasn’t too bad since she had managed to work through the fabric of your night gown. The duvet is rolled back and you sit straighter in the cushions so she’ll have better access. 

“Can you point out where exactly you were feeling the pain?” She requests, and you gesture to a horizontal strip of skin below your middle. “It was the sharpest here,” you answer, “but I sometimes get a small ache further to the left or right.” Madja doesn’t reply, her expression showing concentration as she moves her hands across your stomach, gently pushing at the parts you’d mentioned as that warmth settles pleasantly into you. You can’t help as your attention drifts to your own hands, how flaky and lumpy they are in comparison to her tender set. It’s so dry, small scabs where blood had leaked from…you wish at least the bleeding didn’t happen. So many pairs of gloves you have to wash repeatedly to make sure there aren’t any stains. 

It’s become such a normal part of your life it had slipped your mind that pain shouldn’t be a normal part of it, nor the bleeding. 

The bleeding… 

A cold feeling washes over you, like you’ve had ice tipped down your spine as you remember the scare you’d experienced in the Autumn Court. 

If Madja notices how you’ve frozen, she doesn’t mention it, but a slow feeling of slippery dread unspools in your stomach as you recall the blood you’d noticed when visiting the washroom one morning. You’d thought it was your cycle—the slight pains had added up and the night sweats had made sense—but then nothing had happened and you’d forgotten about that blood. 

Nausea churns in your stomach, a district feeling over lightheadedness overcoming you and you force the calm breaths into your lungs…deep, and steady. You choke on saliva and your palm flies over your mouth as you twist your head to the side, coughing. 

Madja glances up at you, brows slightly pulled together from concentration. “Have some water—are you remembering to keep yourself hydrated throughout the day?” She asks, handing you the glass that rests by your bedside table. “For the most part,” you answer after taking a few sips. Madja pauses briefly, a look of consideration passing behind her eyes before speaking, “would you mind if I checked your lungs? It’s likely nothing, but might as well be sure since I’m here, don’t you agree?” 

You blink at her, looking slightly perplexed but you suppose there’s no harm in it, so you nod your confirmation, handing her back the glass before settling into the cushion. That familiar warmth tingles in your skin as she tentatively lays her fingers just below your collar bones before pressing down a little firmer and making her way from one side to the other. Her features remain set in an expression of concentration and she returns to the tops of your sternum before going a little lower. You tense, but understand she’s performing a medical examination. 

“Can you sit upright a little more? I’d like to search a little lower, just by your ribs,” she adds, seeing your startled expression. You nod, understanding, sitting more upright independent of the cushions. “Now if you can raise your arm?” She requests gently and again you follow, raising your left arm so she has access to the side of your ribs. The tingling sensation returns and you think you can feel as it searches through your body, though it doesn’t feel invasive like you had expected. 

Madja’s fingers pause, before she’s pressing noticeably firmer and you have to steady yourself so she does upset your balance. The sensation becomes more acute, able to feel as the tingling feeling concentrates near the middle left of your lower ribcage. When she retracts her hands she looks a little confused. 

“Is everything okay?” You ask nervously, uneasy by her expression. 

“There’s what feels like a small lump connected to the tissue of your left lung,” Madja explains calmly, and you nod your head. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to try and purge it. I haven’t seen it in any other patients, and there’s no reason for it to be there—it isn’t a natural part of your body. Would that be okay?” 

You nod your head—if she’s found something wrong with you, that sounds promising…? And if she thinks she can…purge it, that seems even better. 

“Alright, if you lean back into the bed to keep your upper body relaxed that would be perfect,” she guides and you settle down. “Okay, I’m going to apply my magic to the growth. You might feel a sudden heat or a ticklish sensation but if you can avoid coughing that would be helpful,” she explains, and tension rises in your chest as she again puts her hands against the side of your ribcage.  

Sure enough, a sharp heat fills a spot on your lung, and you press your lips together to prevent from coughing or inhaling suddenly despite the abrupt tickle that’s manifested in your throat, an intense itchiness in your lungs…an itchiness growing in the tips of your fingers…growing hotter…and hotter…beginning to burn, and… 

Madja pulls away, a gentle smile on her face, “all done. You did well not to start coughing in the middle there, it helped make the process much easier for me.” 

“So, it’s gone?” You ask perplexedly, hand gingerly rising to press into your ribs, testing as you inhale. Sure enough, the tickling feeling has gone, and so has the tightness in your throat, suddenly feeling much clearer. Like when you’d had a cold as a human, feeling the distinct relief once you were able to breathe freely again, having to become reliant on inhaling via your mouth rather than nose. One never appreciates how seamlessly their body works until it’s compromised.

Madja smiles, “it’s gone.” 

A hesitant smile makes its way across your mouth, peering down to where you hand is settled. 

Maybe it isn’t as bad as you’d been telling yourself. 

————

Golden eyes gleam from within the home, the scent of rosemary so familiar emotion swells in your chest. 

“Hey, Bas.” 

He pauses briefly, and you hesitate, waiting to see what he’ll do. Then he’s shifting in the doorway, opening it wider cautiously as he take you in, taking up most of the entryway. “You’re back…” he greets, but the note of caution in his voice has you hesitating again. But you push a small smile to your mouth, remembering yourself. “I’m back,” you agree, nodding your head slightly, “how… How have you been? Everything okay?” 

Bas is silent, simply watching you with an indistinguishable look and you resist the urge to move beneath his attention, instead waiting it out, wondering what he’s thinking. 

“Where were you?” He asks, catching you a little off-guard with the question. You hadn’t really considered he might question where you went. “I was… I visited another Court. Temporarily. Just to see more of the world, I guess…” You peer up at him—he isn’t moving from the doorway, remaining blocking it instead of inviting you in like you’d anticipated. Things feel strange, to how you remember them. “Is everything…okay?” You hedge. 

“Is everything okay?” He repeats softly, as if to himself. His golden eyes regain awareness, pupils tightening as they look at you. “Why don’t you tell me?” 

It’s enough to have you faltering, temporary confidence stumbling as you peer up at him questioningly. “I…what do you mean?” You ask, unsure what he’s asking after. 

“I mean, why did you disappear like that, huh? You just— went. Without telling me where, without telling anyone where, apparently. Do you know how dangerous Prythian can be? Especially for someone like you, and you just decided to leave? What were you thinking?” Bas asks, his patience steadily slipping as he speaks, thoughts pouring from his lips. “Someone like me?” You repeat faintly, pinning him with a look, “what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re smart. Not strong,” he answers succinctly, but bluntly, “you should know what sort of creatures are out there.” 

“That didn’t seem to bother you the night I left,” you counter, a note of disbelief in your voice. 

“Because you’re smart,” he repeats as if it’s obvious. “You’re smart, so I assumed you’d make a smart choice. Not just go out into Prythian on a whim. You don’t even know how to fight. Do you understand what could have happened to you?” 

“Bas, I’m fine,” you reassure, trying to understand his temper is coming from a place of concern. “I…I went to meet someone. I didn’t just go out into the wilderness, you don’t need to worry,” you explain, knowing it’s best to keep the details vague. 

“You know your family came to visit, right?” He asks, again catching you off guard as you stare at him. “No,” you answer, quietly, “I didn’t. Who—… What happened…?” Bas shifts in the doorway, settling to lean against the threshold of the entrance, and a small grain of relief passes through you at the distinctly familiar gesture. “Azriel visited first, and I told him he wouldn’t get anything out of me because I had decided to trust that you knew what you were doing. And you know what he told me?” Bas asks harshly, shaking his head and not waiting for reply. “He told me I was interfering with Court affairs, that withholding information might result in the High Lord personally questioning me. And I still didn’t tell him anything.” 

“I…I’m sorry, Bas,” you manage, guilt at last beginning to rise in your chest, head lowering slightly. “I’m…thank you. For trusting me.” 

“I’m not done,” Bas says quietly, but firmly, causing you to glance up at him questioningly. “He came back, that time with Mor.” There’s no way for you to conceal the pain and conflict that passes through your expression. Even if you could, even if you knew how to hide your emotions like that, you have the distinct impression he knows you well enough he’d be able to see through it, and the thought is surprisingly uncomfortable for you. Knowing someone so well they could see through your lies…that kind of vulnerability… 

“She was the one who convinced me to admit I had no idea where you’d gone. She was clearly worried, and I had to look at her and tell her how you hadn’t trusted me enough to say where you’d be going, but that I had decided to trust you enough that I’d been fine not knowing.” His voice has lowered, becoming rougher, and your shoulder slope with shame. “Can you understand that? To realise you’ve been deceived by someone you cared for like that? To admit that to people who had been smart enough to know better?” 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, raising your eyes to meet his, gloved hands wringing together. “I didn’t mean for it to seem like I didn’t trust you. I do.” 

“Then where were you?” 

You raise your head to look at him, then. Heart sinking because—you can’t tell him. You’re in enough trouble as it is, with Rhys, with Mor, with Azriel. Probably with your sisters too, they just haven’t shown it yet. You can’t cause more problems. More problems for them is more consequences for you, and you have a long list of things to make up for. Dauntingly long. Almost unbearably… “Bas…I…” 

“Can’t tell me?” He finishes, his tone telling you it’s exactly what he anticipated. 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” you say softly, holding his gaze imploringly. “You know I trust you. That I’ve told you things I could never—… That I could never tell anyone else…” 

“Then why can’t you tell me, huh?” He asks, a touch more gentle, sounding as helpless as you feel. 

“Just…I need you to…”

“Trust you?” He scoffs, shoulders jerking in an unnaturally sharp movement. 

“You’d made it sound like they didn’t care about you,” he says quietly, and you look at him wearily. “I thought you were on your own, you know.” Like me, is what he leaves out, but you can hear it clear enough. “I have my ma, and you have your sister, but beyond that I thought you had no one but me.” And I had no one but you—again, you can hear those words he’s not saying. “That we were going to be there for each other because we understood what it was like. But they care for you.” A strange sense of shame settles heavily on your shoulders, and your head lowers, but you don’t look away. 

“It was obvious,” he murmurs, his brows curving almost imperceptibly, a kernel of pain passing behind sharp golden eyes. He sighs, shaking his head, pushing up from the doorframe and you watch silently as he begins to draw the conversation to a close. “I won’t begrudge you of that. I’m glad you have people. Family. But I…” You lied. 

“I don’t—” You say abruptly, rushing into speech, hurting without thought, just needing to explain yourself, even if it opens up something you aren’t ready for. “They don’t,” you breathe. “I—… It might look like they do, you might know they do. Maybe they really, actually do.” You stare up at him, feeling that emptiness lethargically blink itself awake, mouth yawning open in preparation to begin swallowing you down again. Pulling you into that inescapable state of overwhelming darkness. “But I can’t believe it,” you whisper, feeling as your eyes fill with wetness, and something hot spills down your cheek, another following when you blink to clear it away. “I can’t…” you breathe, trailing off. “It doesn’t matter what happens, Bas. I just—…I can’t believe it.” 

“And I should believe you?” He asks quietly. 

You stare at him helplessly. There’s nothing else you can say. You’ve tried to convince him, you’ve been as honest as you can physically tolerate, and it…it just isn’t enough. You aren’t enough. 

Your heart doesn’t plummet like you’ve learned to anticipate. Instead a vague feeling of disappointment calmly soothes your skin, glum pessimism setting in as the high emotions fade into watery greys. Desaturated, and bearable. 

“I don’t know what else to say,” you tell him quietly. 

“Just tell me the truth,” Bas asks, golden eyes showing his hurt. Another case of betrayal you’ve brought upon yourself. 

Would it be unfair to ask his forgiveness? 

“I’m sorry,” you give as your answer. There’s nothing else you can say. 

Bas’ eyes dull slightly, and you understand how you’ve let him down. 

His jaw works, looking away briefly before returning his attention to you. “I’ll see you later.” 

————

The wind breezes through you as you walk along the cobbles, the sun long since dipped down beneath the horizon, leaving a chill in the air that manages to sink through the silky orange material of your scarf. 

You can’t bring yourself to try and tackle the emotional conflict with Bas yet. You’re drained, and tired from the past months—maybe longer—and you don’t want to put yourself through more self-inflicted sadness. If you really need to release some bottled up emotion, you know you’ll have no choice in escaping it. If you have the option to keep yourself from hurt, you’ll take it. At least for the moment. 

Bas had said he’d see you later—you have to trust him. As a friend, as someone who’s been there for you, and you for him—you have to believe you’ll be able to fix this. There’s good in the world, Feyre had told you, you just have to trust that you’ll find it. Even if it’s seemingly alluded you until now, in the moments you’ve needed it most. 

A silhouette seems familiar in your peripherals, a distinctly fae sense recognising the shape, or…something, of the figure, and you glance over. 

Cassian raises his hand in greeting, his expression clear and untroubled as he walks over to where you’ve paused, wings kept neatly tucked at his back to keep them from bumping into things. “You know, I’ve been told you’re supposed to be staying in bed,” he greets in his deep voice, tone similar to one someone would use when catching another doing something they aren’t supposed to, but considering joining in anyway. It’s very him, in a way. 

“I…” you begin, about to mention Bas, but then decide otherwise. “I’m feeling okay today. I thought a walk might be nice. Fresh air’s supposed to be good for you, right?” You ask lightly, volume low. Cassian’s quiet for a beat, unnervingly sharp hazel eyes weighing into you calmly. Then he sighs, shrugging his shoulders a little before shifting on his feet, making to turn around, to lead you somewhere. “I suppose I can’t fault you for keeping things to yourself.”

You watch as he turns, obviously expecting you to go with him, but the moment caught you off guard. “…keeping things to myself…?” You hedge, managing to get your feet moving to walk a little behind him, not particularly wanting to go with him but knowing it would be unreasonable to turn away. Especially after all the trouble you’ve caused—like having such poor control of your—

You halt abruptly, staring up to the cliff-face that contains the House of Wind. Sure enough, even from so far below, you can spot the large break in the rock-face, able to pick out what had been your bedroom, and the sides of the rooms either side of it. You feel as the blood drains from your face, shock icing your body as you’re unable to look away—you caused that. “Something wrong?” Cassian asks, calling back to you a few steps away. 

Words have left you, unable to figure out what to say, mind struggling to wrap around all of it. Another thing to make up for, and that one’s pretty big, too…your shoulders slope as you stare at the hole blown out of the rock. The damage you’ve probably caused the interior too… How much will it take to repair that? Isn’t the building itself old? Even to fae standards? 

How can you ever make up for something like that? 

Cassian walks back over to you when you don’t reply, pausing at your side, hands on his hips as he follows the direction of your gaze. “Pretty impressive,” he says conversationally, “you’ve got a way to go before you can manage an entire building, though.” Then he pats you lightly on the shoulder, wing curving round your body to get your legs moving as you’re pulled away, view with the House broken. 

“I—…” you choke out, “did…did I do that?” You manage hoarsely, looking up at him as your feet start moving one in front of the other, subconsciously wary of bumping into his wing. “Sure did. Blew right through that noise cancelling ward Feyre put up,” Cassian answers, keeping his attention ahead as he leads you through the city streets, people automatically making way for the familiar face. “I told her she’d been slacking off in practising her magic,” he murmurs under his breath, but you aren’t paying much attention, too overwhelmed with debt to really engage. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, feet hesitating as they move over the cobbles before stopping firmly, shoulders bunched as you glance up at him. “I’m so— I didn’t mean to make such a mess— I just— I just didn’t— I didn’t know what to do. And I thought he was going to—”

“It’s okay,” Cassian says firmly, standing in front of you so there are less places to look away to. “It’s Rhys’ anyway. You don’t need to apologise to me.” 

“But…it was given to you,” you hedge, staring up at him—and if it’s still Rhys’, that’s so much worse. So, so much damage. 

“Would you feel better if someone was angry with you?” He asks seriously after a moment of pause. You freeze, startled by the question. “…what?” 

“Would it make it easier?” He repeats, watching you solemnly, “if we acted how you’re waiting for us to?” 

You stare at him, struggling to pull together a reply, startled from the strange clarity of his questions. Seconds pass and all you can do is look at him, too afraid to answer—not of him, but…something. 

Cassian breaks the connection, glancing away, half turning his body to face the direction you’d been walking. “Maybe that question was too much,” he says, almost to himself. He sighs, eyes closing briefly, before he’s glancing at you, wing opening as if to guide you along again. “Come on,” he says, voice having lost that solemnity, back to the familiar timbre, “we’ll be late.” 

“Late?” You manage as you somehow get your body to fall into step beside him. “What…where are we going?” 

He looks at you strangely, as if the answer’s obvious. “Dinner, of course,” he replies, returning his attention to the streets ahead, sure enough taking the path that will lead directly back to the River House. “They’ll start without us if we aren’t there on time.” 

“Dinner?” You ask, feeling lightheaded. Too many new components being dropped on you for you to entirely keep yourself together. You swallow thickly, fumbling for excuses because you can’t do a dinner as you are—not after yesterday. “I’m not feeling too great, actually,” you say hoarsely, “besides, if I eat this late I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it…” you trail off, realising he probably doesn’t want to hear about you throwing up meals every now and again. 

“Madja’s told us you need to keep your strength up,” Cassian replies, and you’re unsure if he’s intentionally chosen a counter-argument you’d have trouble escaping or whether it was  inadvertent. “Eat what you can—it’s important during recovery, even if it might feel insignificant, or pointless.” You glance at him again, that strange feeling creeping into your chest at his wording—is it some kind of intuition that’s leading him to say these things? 

“…Will everyone be there?” You ask quietly, trying to calm yourself as the River House comes into view, not far away now. “Az will probably want to eat in his room,” Cassian answers neutrally after a temporary pause, “but everyone else will. You’ll be sitting besides Elain.” There was no reason to add that on. 

You can’t manage it, but you can’t figure a way to escape. There’s no out you can find—saying you aren’t hungry, or you’re tired won’t get you out of it, he’s already said to just eat what you can meaning you have to have at least a bite or two. But the idea of sitting with all of them, when everything is still so unclear…You can’t. 

The River House looms before you, and you can swear you feel a cold sweat appear on your back, hands turning unnaturally clammy, so accustomed to the skin being dry and flaky that to feel the dampness on your palms has slippery discomfort roiling in your stomach. 

Cassian walks up the steps, hand settling on the door, and you watch in motion slower than usual as he begins to turn the handle.  

A slight breeze blows, pulling strands of your hair forward, as if trying to push you into the House, and Cassian pauses, door opened only a few inches. Beats pass, but you keep utterly still, both wanting the moment to end but also desiring nothing more than to run from the oncoming meal. 

Strangely observant hazel eyes flick over a broad shoulder, meeting your own set and you tense, hairs rising at the nape of your neck, getting that same feeling you’d had when speaking with Rhys, that he can somehow see through you too clearly, like you’re too easy to read. Fearing what he’ll be able to find before you’ve had the chance to discover it. Watching you fumble in the dark for something that was so easy to locate. Struggling with a problem embarrassingly simple to decipher. 

“You don’t need to be scared,” he says, holding your gaze. Are you really that easy to see through? But then he continues, and the surrounding world warps a little. 

“You have a right to be at that table as much as any of us,” he says, those keen hazel eyes remaining steady. “Keep that in mind, when you go in.” 

Then the door’s opening wider, and the smell of a hot meal wafts out into the night. You trail behind him, latch clicking at your back, following as he makes his way to the dining room. He had believed the words he’d told you, that you were deserving of a seat at their table. You can’t really bring yourself to believe it, but his sincerity has shaken your ground a little. 

His expression shifts when he rounds a corner, brows rising as his lips part in a broad smile, voices rising in greeting and you can see why Feyre treasures his company. He’s surprisingly gentle, oddly perceptive. 

They probably all already knew that, though. It’s your fault for casting roles on them before really even getting to know them, assigning characters after only a handful of proper conversations. If only you’d made the effort to step out of your own little circle, maybe the circumference wouldn’t be as strangling as it’s become. 

If you’d stepped out sooner, could you have been first choice? 

But, glancing again at Cassian, his profile captured in a look between irritation and affection, turning the corner into the dining room and seeing the scrunch of Feyre’s brow as she replies to whatever he’d said…no. It wouldn’t have mattered. 

But it’s not the end of the world that you weren’t made that way. 

————

It’s good to see her smiling again, he thinks. 

With the past months having been so draining, the symptoms of her restlessness only exacerbated in the last few days given the turmoil they’ve all been thrown into, it’s good to see the light in her eyes gleaming again. More than just good, but there isn’t quite a word right enough to express the soul-deep relief he feels at seeing her smile. A strange conviction that everything will be okay now that she’s on the way better. 

Her ears twitch once before she’s shooting him a half-glare, having felt his gaze roaming over her. “Family dinner, Rhys,” she snaps under her breath, but he can see the heat in her eyes, the silent agreement that’s exchanged in the brief moments their gaze locks, and Rhys’ mouth curves suggestively, his brows rising in feigned ignorance. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he murmurs, looking down at his mate with an intensity he knows she adores. And yet she lightly smacks his thigh anyway. 

“I’m serious,” Feyre warns, that heat dissipating as Cassian picks a seat at the table, dragging the feet across the floorboards with a grating noise that’s thankfully drowned out by chatter while a smaller figure quietly follows after him, taking one of the two remaining open seats. Unlike Cassian, she lifts her chosen seat from the floor, trying to keep as silent as possible and blend into the background as she sits beside Elain. “Don’t scare her off,” Feyre murmurs under her breath. Rhys hums compliantly, eyes twinkling as he spends a few extra moments looking at his mate. Moments he thinks he might at long last be beginning to lean into.

“Where’s Mor?” Cassian interrupts, and Rhys reluctantly shifts his attention to his brother, who has taken the seat opposite Feyre. He sometimes wonders if Cassian choses moves like this intentionally, whether they’re conscious decisions or whether these actions result from a wish to have his family united. Cassian isn’t like himself or Az, wasn’t taught to conceal his emotions as they were—well, in his own case it was taught. For Az it was a matter of survival. 

“Taking supper up to Az,” Nesta’s voice cuts through the previously enjoyable atmosphere, the noise similar to recognising the hiss of steel being drawn within a temple. A few centuries ago, his ears might have twitched at the distinctly unpleasant intrusion, but Cassian’s eyes have already left his own to seek out the icy silver of his mate’s, softened at their edges. 

“More than just supper,” Amren comments, one space over to Rhys’ right, sat at a corner seat. “She took an entire bottle of wine with her.” Laughter rises, and Rhys allows his attention to briefly sweep over across the table where the two sisters are involved in conversation, as if there’s no one else to speak with. He supposes one of them might very well believe that, and with a fraction of a thought swiftly removes the precautionary enchantment of the silverware so they won’t vanish if she reaches for them. 

At least she’s there, though he’s fairly confident Cassian has something to do with it. Rhys can picture how the light in Feyre’s eyes might flicker learning she had found a way to shut herself away in a house where avoiding others was almost impossible without intent. No amount of luck or coincidence would keep her entirely hidden. Especially over meals. 

Violet eyes return to his left, feeling the familiar ease that settles through him at the reminder of Feyre’s presence. A deeply-treasured reprieve from the strain and stress that’s been thriving amongst them as of late. 

————

“How was the check-up with Madja, by the way?” Elain asks, using one of the large wooden spoons to shift a few roast potatoes onto her plate. 

You nod slightly, lips pressing together in a small smile that you hope is reassuring. “Good, for the most part,” you reply. “I think she still wants to observe what happens for now, but she did…do something, which might have helped?” It reminds you of the lightness in your lungs, the strange openness of your throat and you instinctively take in a deeper breath, basking in that odd clearness. Elain hums in question, silently offering you the spoon for potatoes, but you shake your head politely. “I’m not sure…I don’t think dinner is the best place to discuss those check-ups,” you say quietly, a half-smile on your mouth. Elain’s lips curve, eyes gleaming as she nods in agreement, “you’re probably right.” Then she glances across the table before returning her gaze to yours, a new, preempted question already rising to her mouth. “What are you going to eat?” 

The smile on your lips becomes strained, gloved hands shifting in your lap as you keep the orange, silk scarf pulled over your arms to conceal the wretched skin. You wish you’d at least had the chance to change before coming here—your mind will mostly be preoccupied with making sure none of them are forced to see the state beneath the silk. “If I’m honest, I’m not really that hungry…” you hedge, but Elain gives you a look that tells you she won’t stand for it. Although it comes from a place of care and love, you can’t help feeling a little suffocated. 

“Just have a couple of bites, okay?” Elain reasons gently, “Madja’s told us it’s good for you to eat, it’ll help you recover.” 

“Apparently Madja’s been saying that a lot,” you mutter under your breath. 

“Madja’s a highly respected healer,” Amren cuts in from across the table, her eyes sharp as they pierce into you. “If she’s said you should eat, you should eat.” 

You aren’t sure if you imagine the way the noise level seems to drop at that, but the familiarly dull pain of humiliation flickers across your chest, ashamed to have sounded so ungrateful. Your head lowers a little, unable to think of a reply as your hands wring together beneath the table, tucked away in your lap. 

“Unless you really feel sick,” Elain interjects a little defensively, her hand subconsciously placing itself on your upper arm in what you’re certain she intends to be a comforting gesture—in truth it causes your flesh to ache, but you keep your mouth shut. “I’m sure I can manage a bite or two,” you get out with a small smile and you hate that you know it won’t reach your eyes, so keep your head slightly ducked as you put a few potatoes on your plate. You can come down later, once everyone’s gone to bed if you’re still hungry. 

A beat passes, and Elain shifts at your side, a fresh smile on her face, trying to brighten your mood—you dip a little lower at that, that she feels responsible, but if you don’t pull yourself together she’ll keep doing it. “How did you and Cassian bump into one another?” She asks, reaching for something else on the table that you don’t look at. Cassian doesn’t make to answer, so you have to, feeling the distinct weight of the table’s attention. “Just coincidence, I suppose,” you reply, managing a faint smile, keeping your eyes on your plate as you slice one of the roast potatoes in two, steam wafting up from the hot centre. 

“Went out for a walk?” Elain asks. There’s an almost unnoticeable tone of relief in the question—you probably wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t as close to her as you are. Is that how easily she can pick out your own thoughts? “Fresh air’s probably good for you, right?” She says smiling, causing your own lips to curve at their edges fondly. “I think so,” you murmur in reply. 

“Have you had a chance to read any more books recently? I haven’t seen any in your room…I could get some if you want?” Feyre speaks from across the table, and you bite down on the way you want to shrink into yourself as the conversation is drawn over to you. “I haven’t, and it’s fine, thank you. Have you been painting recently?” You ask, swiftly shutting it down and shifting the conversation back to her, hoping you’ll be left out of it now. 

Rhys’s attention flits over her a split second before something passes behind Feyre’s eyes, but she swallows and nods. “There hasn’t been as much time as I’d like, but I’m finding moments,” she answers, but goes no further. You’re glad she’s still getting time to herself in spite of being High Lady and more importantly, a mother. You can’t imagine how difficult it must be if it’s taking up that much of her time…and you probably hadn’t helped…she’s been visiting each day… You should have succeeded. 

The passiveness of the thought catches you a little off guard. Since when had thoughts like that become so habitual? So flippant? You spear a piece of potato with your fork, bringing it to your mouth. It was just a fleeting thought, it’s fine. Weird things happen in the mind anyway, as long as you don’t mean it, you’re okay. 

“Would you…” Feyre’s asking, “be interested in joining me? We could have an easel set up in your room?” 

A part of the potato goes down the wrong way as you hear the question, hand grabbing the napkin as you cover your mouth, coughing. You clear your throat when you’re done, making sure to wipe your lips subtly as you pull the napkin away, sipping on the glass of water to help clear your throat. Once you’ve recovered, you remember her question. 

It would be nice. Really nice, actually, but… “it’s fine, please don’t worry. Painting’s your thing, and I think…personal, to you. Besides, I have my books,” you excuse, heart sinking a little, but it’s for the better. She’s already short on time anyway, she needs to keep that for herself, even if you can’t help but want it. 

The same look passes behind her eyes, and you now wonder if you can’t figure it out because…because you might no longer know her well enough. 

“It’s probably for the better,” Rhys announces, bringing the moment to a swift end, “Feyre’s nude models would probably upset your delicate sensibilities, anyway.” 

Your eyes widen and you nearly choke on air as wild, ferocious heat swarms your features, staring ahead, bewildered. 

Rhys grins as a fuming Feyre smacks him on the shoulder, indignant rage lighting her eyes. “Lies! All lies,” she snaps, before sparing you a somewhat apologetic glance. “He’s joking, obviously,” she reassures, shooting a glare Rhys’ way at that last part. “His humour’s apparently a few centuries out of date.”

“Speaking of things on the old side,” a golden voice calls from the hallway, parading into the dining room in heels tall and thin enough to potentially run someone through. “Rhys, is there another case of this stuff? Az wants some more.” 

The High Lord rolls his eyes, amusement clear, Feyre settling at his side, feigned anger dissipating as if it were never there, her eyes twinkling again. 

“We all know you finished off the bottle before you even reached Az’s room,” Amren snipes, thickly-jewelled fingers sparkling as she nurses her own glass, laughter rising from the table. 

“Oh, like you’re any better Amren. You could polish off bottles of blood in the time it took me to eat an appetiser,” Mor replies, heels clicking across the floor as she sweeps through the room in a flurry of vibrant red and stunning gold, taking her seat opposite Elain—between Amren and Rhys. 

One seat and across from your own position. 

The meal fully commencing now all able players are assembled at the table. 

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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[vigilskeep]

when you first start the cousland origin, you can have some conversations with arl howe, teyrn cousland, and duncan that shed some interesting light on the political situation in ferelden. it’s definitely the origin where you get the most context on the rebellion and on cailan and his father. while howe isn’t exactly the most trustworthy of sources, he is also one of the most openly critical of cailan that we have access to, which i think is worthy of interest

howe remembers maric with what the toolset describes as “genuine fondness”: “your father hasn’t spoken of our time with him? that man took care of his friends. as they say, he was large as life and twice as tall!” i think we should pay particular attention to that man took care of his friends.

what howe’s talking about is a really important aspect of kingship, where you win the consent and enthusiasm of the nobility for your rule by offering rewards like wealth, land, and prestige to the loyal. kingship is always less stable than it’s portrayed, and this is one of the ways that kings must essentially sell to the nobility that answering to them is worth their time, which would be especially important in ferelden given everything we know about its culture. fereldans believe someone only has power when it is given by the loyalty of those below them, who have the right to freely rescind that loyalty. the dao codex says that “the sight of [fereldan kings] asking for—and working to win—the support of ‘lesser’ men is a source of constant wonder to foreign ambassadors.”

i suspect howe is remembering a maric fresh from the victories of the rebellion, who was able to reward those who had followed him with the spoils of those victories. at the end of the stolen throne, we see that in the final days of the rebellion, maric was killing those who had betrayed his mother to the orlesians even when they arrived under truce to meet him on holy ground. in dao, we see no lingering orlesian nobility except for those who married in and continue to be met with marked hostility. i think we can safely surmise that maric elected to make no conciliatory measures and give everything to those who had followed him; with the orlesians on the run and his people out for blood, he was in a strong enough position to do so, and it certainly served to win the fond memories of men like howe.

by contrast, howe goes on to say, “it’s too bad cailan isn’t half that.” the toolset notes establish very clearly that it’s the same issue, elaborating on howe’s thoughts: “bitter turn, i don’t get as much from the current king”, and “disdainful, i have no use for him, he does me no favours”. this isn’t a minor character detail, if howe’s last words when killed by the player are anything to go by. “maker spit on you... i deserved... more...” whatever it is that howe feels he should have been given, by the crown or anyone else, it characterises his actions and his defining treachery.

it’s in these same conversations that we see another side of this demonstrated. there are two points where howe can openly criticise the king, and bryce immediately admonishes him for both. one even has the toolset note: “speaks sharply, as a lord to a lesser man, not a friend to an equal”. it definitely comes across that way; the way he tells howe “that’s enough” is not far off the voice he uses when the player, his child, displeases him. bryce can’t tolerate any criticism of cailan, as the couslands in dao are ardent supporters of the king. to venture some hc, i suspect that this is not merely royalist fervour, and that howe’s resentment for having been given less is matched by bryce’s awareness of the precariousness of having more.

over the centuries, the theirins have consolidated their power and eradicated almost all the teyrns (the noble rank that is second only to the king). with the only other lingering teyrn being loghain, who is essentially part and parcel of the royal family, the couslands stand alone as the only real rivals to theirin power within ferelden. there are rumours that bryce was once considered for king instead of the theirins; he too could have decided to believe he “deserved more”. but unlike howe, and perhaps understandably given his strong position and happy growing family, he is satisfied with what he has. he will not take the risk of even the slightest challenge being made within his hall

(i expect that bryce’s satisfaction with the current situation further spurred howe’s dissatisfaction to its heights, given the complicated cousland-howe history and the fact that he was expected to accept a friend he had fought beside as a superior for the rest of his life.)

i don’t think howe’s judgement on cailan is likely to be without basis. we don’t hear about any victories the young king has to his name, from which he could have passed around spoils. (to be fair, cailan had harder luck than maric in this regard. a king who raises a successful rebellion gets to bring glory and prestige to everyone who follows him, whereas a king trying to rebuild after that rebellion mostly gets to bring, uh, taxes probably. especially on wealthy centres of trade like howe’s amaranthine, one might assume.) cailan also takes a far more diplomatic approach to the question of orlais, which perhaps predictably did not win over many nobles of howe’s generation. it makes sense that cailan’s strongest supporters would instead be men like bryce who hope for things to simply continue, peacefully, as they are. perhaps in another world where cailan had won the battle of ostagar, he might have earned wider respect. (you could actually argue on this basis that there’s more sense and purpose to cailan’s glory-seeking than he usually gets credit for.) but howe already acts before ostagar, which can only demonstrate his certainty in cailan’s failings at this point: his belief that even if cailan could win, he would not be stable enough to pursue justice for the couslands

[voxina]

JADE has recalled her stint on The X Factor, saying she didn’t know anyone who came away from the show without “some sort of mental health issue”.

The singer-songwriter featured on the talent search programme in 2011 and joined girl group Little Mix when she was 18 years old, an experience she has reflected on in a new interview with The Independent.

The ‘Angel Of My Dreams’ singer admitted that being on The X Factor involved adjusting to “pretty fucked up” things, namely sharing bunk beds with other female contestants, regardless of age.

“Even at 18, I knew there were people who weren’t mentally well in there, keeping everyone up at night,” she said. “I don’t know if there was even security outside the house. It’s scary to think about now, but I was too young to realise that at the time.”

Her comments come after many entertainment world figures have demanded more protections be put in place for young artists following the death of One Direction star Liam Payne, who auditioned for The X Factor during the same series as Thirlwall.

Although she didn’t address Payne’s passing directly, she did mention thinking the series “had to end” after its 2018 conclusion.

“I don’t think that kind of show can exist any more. We’re in a different place now,” she added. “We wouldn’t put someone that’s mentally unwell on a TV screen and laugh at them while they sing terribly. The concept of a joke act on a show is just cruel.”

She said the concept was “all very Roman empire” while joking that it was the “best training ever” for her to enter the music industry. On a more sombre note, she continued: “I don’t know anyone that’s come off that show and not had some sort of mental health issue on the back of it.”

Thirwall also admitted to feeling “conflicted” about criticising the show. “It changed my life,” she explained. “I was from a very normal working-class family up north, I had tried sending demos in to labels, I’d gigged all over, I was doing everything I could to make it, and I needed a show like that to give me a chance.”

She continued to say that she’d guess “five per cent of the people that went on there have come out of it not unscathed, but having survived; the other 95 per cent have suffered in silence.”

Reflecting on how people readjust to normal life after participating in something like The X Factor, she said: “How do you go from being on that show to back to your nine-to-five? How do you get signed to the label, think you’ve made it, and then once your song doesn’t hit the Top 10, you’re just dropped? It’s so savage, this machine that we’re a part of. Even back then, we knew how lucky we were every day that we were still signed.”

[Full article]

[unpunishablelamb]

hiiii!!!!! ও Im not sure if you still post creepypasta headcannons but I really liked the headcannons you gave the creepypastas, it's really nice to realistic headcannons, if you want I was wondering if you could do headcannons for the friendship of the reader and ticci Toby 0_o

(If I made any typos or used bad grammar I'm really sorry (◞‸◟ㆀ) )

Realistic Ticci Toby headcanons (SFW+NSFW)

A/N: Okeyy so for the friendship headcanons just ignore the NSFW part! I just decided to combine your ask with multiple anon asks who requested relationship/NSFW headcanons🫶🏻

SFW

-First of all he isn’t the one to settle down. He has a bad past with people and it’s incredibly hard for him to trust so he prefers not spending a lot of time at your place, if he ever goes there at all

-He’s basically homeless and probably squatting in abandoned places outside of smaller towns so if you ever want to spend a little more time with him it’s there or in the woods

-In contrary to popular belief i don’t think he is shy. He is very wary and kind of feral so physical touch is a hard one with him

-He is touch starved to some degree but then again he’s become so callous due to everything that has happened, that he won’t initiate or reciprocate for a long time. He won’t push you away either though

-I think if you ever share a bed/mattress with him, you might be woken up with a hatchet to your throat or a hand wrapped around it. At least in the first few months of your relationship, simply because he’s not used to having anyone around so he panics when he gets startled and his fight instincts kick in.

-Despite everything, i do think he’s very thoughtful once he warms up to you. I can imagine him leaving you things like rocks or trinkets he finds which remind him of you

-He’s really possessive no doubt. Hardly anyone has treated him with the smallest amount of kindness, and now that you’re in his life he won’t settle for less ever again.

-I can definitely see him being the type that wouldn’t let you get out of the relationship/ friendship alive in case you ever want to leave him. Either you stay with him or he kills you. Of course it would be hard for him to do since he “loves” you but the thought of you being with someone else, leaving him to rot, is much harder

NSFW

-I don’t think he’s had experiences before you which doesn’t make him shy but even more greedy

-I think it would take him a long time to trust you enough with something like that. He isn’t reckless or sleeps around but he wants to know that you won’t backstab him (literally)

-He knows how sex works, he’s not stupid and he’s watched campers in the woods do it, thinking they were being sneaky. Of course he couldn’t help imagining it was him and you

-Now that you conditioned him to get used to a certain degree of affection and physical touch he expects more, of course he does and you love him after all right?

-Let’s hope you’re ready to sleep with him when he wants you because i do think he’d pressure you into it

-I don’t think it’d be him getting physically violent but he’d try to make you feel bad for him, try to blackmail you, manipulate you etc.

-If that doesn’t work maybe he would wait until you’re asleep, start sliding his hand under your shirt and do his thing

-I think he’s decent in bed, clumsy at first and he’s so pent up that his pleasure is all he can think about at first.

-If you do criticise him make sure to be gentle about it, he’s insecure and he will get mad easily thinking you don’t want him but he does like you please you after all and he enjoys having you show him what you like

-Hickeys. Everywhere. Good luck trying to hide them because it will look ridiculous but he can’t help it. He has to make sure others know you’re not available

[browneyedb]

Your Knight In Shining Armour.

warnings; kiss. reader is bit tipsy. reader and Sevika have more friendly like relationships. also author’s first language is not english so please when you’re criticising my work don’t be so harsh on me, i try my best. this is pretty short. no smut. MEN DO NOT INTERACT. just two lovers being loving.

summary; how could one cold and drunk night end up for princess and her knight? what desires could become real in a moment, moment where lovers can finally let their guards down and be weak for moment? be loved?

“now, how men have you kissed?” “very few” “but you offered me a kiss, why?” “such a foolish reason, I’m afraid— I just wanted to kiss you”

Sun has been down for pretty long time, but people were still up. ladies in beautiful, and big fancy dresses, and men are inn suits. everything seemed to be perfect, and it probably was. if not kingdoms princess who drank more champagne than she should’ve had.

“miss be careful” said Sevika while keeping her eyes on you walking barefoot, since your heels were too painful. stomping with your feet on the grass walking to your castles backyard where was your favourite spot — castle’s garden. garden where were all of your favourite flowers. you loved sitting there and reading, or hiding from your parents sometimes.

Sevika sighed and shook her head. you’re anything but quiet; laughing when you definitely shouldn’t be, making little jokes about one of your fathers friend who’s legs are so short, or making faces when you didn’t like someone or something. you could fall asleep easily on a meetings, and was so bubbly that it could make people around you uncomfortable.

so for Sevika, your knight it was hard to keep up with you since you’re her responsibility and one thing goes wrong with you it’s immediately her fault.

“what, knight in her big and strong armour can’t keep up with just little princess?” you said mocking while walking backwards. you were smiling ear to ear, holding laughter. your parents will put you somewhere in a dark room and keep you there until your death if they find out that you sneaked out from ball and drank alcohol. it made Sevika not just angry, it made her blood boil. “miss you should go to your room and sleep, your parents will be really angry if they’ll see you like..this” Sevika tried to convince you, but it was clearly obvious that you wouldn’t listen to her. you were having too much fun to give up so easily. so you pout your lip pretending to look sad and furrowed your brows.

“i’m princess here so we do whatever I say, now I say catch me if you can!” suddenly you grabbed your big, long beautiful dress with your palms and ran towards garden with loud laughter echoing. Sevika stood there for moment watching how little breeze played with your hair, and how you yelled ‘catch me, c’mon’ while laughing with wide smile. Sevika groaned and rolled her eyes before running after you.

you looked from your shoulder and sticked your tongue out, “you won’t catch me!” that made Sevika speed up. you two probably looked very childish and stupid, running everywhere while both smiling stupidly. then you hid behind one of the many trees in little forest next to garden. your back was pressed against tree, while you were biting your lip so you wouldn’t giggle or laugh out loud. you were out of breath and your chest kept rising in that stupid corset that that didn’t give you any chance to take whole breaths. you heard Sevika calling out your name, and that made your hear beat two times harder.

you decided to check where she is and turned your head to the right peeking slightly, but suddenly from your left side something jumped in front of you and grabbed your shoulder. when you yelped and turned with wide eyes you saw Sevika with her stupid grin, that showed her teeth’s gap. “this is unfair, you weren’t supposed to find me!” I groaned furrowing my brows and gently hitting her chest. that only made her grin get wider and chuckle at you, she was clearly enjoying her little victory over you. “you probably cheated” “I caught you and won, admit that princess” you looked back at her and your face slowly softened. you bit your lip looking at her through your lashes.

she looked so mesmerising under moonlight. her sharp facial expressions softened, lips parted slightly and her grey eyes looking at your so calmly and relaxed. this was rare, since Sevika wasn’t someone who would be like that, she was always tensed, ready to fight and always looked angry. almost like she wasn’t scared to let her guards down with you.

“we probably should go miss, your parents can’t find you outside at this time” she whispered, but both of you remained still. see, this wasn’t something you usually felt, but this was definitely you thought about before. ever since you saw Sevika and she became your knight, you couldn’t stop thinking how she would feel, her hands, her lips, her skin. you often caught yourself just thinking and wishing you could hug her, to feel that heart to heart moment. but it was wrong and forbidden. how wrong that could be, wish to be hugged by someone you admire, someone you feel safe with? thought of having to marry some man, live rest of your life with him, and never able to actually feel loved or loving someone felt ridiculous and overwhelming.

Sevika opened her mouth to say something, ready to leave, she took step backwards, but you quickly pulled her back pressing your lips against hers. your palms were on her cheeks holding her closely. Sevika’s eyes were wide open staring at your closed ones. you pulled away, cheeks red and lips parted. you stared at Sevika for moment, waiting for any reaction. it was really short kiss, but you could feel how it made your heart quicken and whole body burn.

“Sevika, I—I’m sor..” you were interrupted by another kiss but now it was Sevika who pressed your back against tree holding your face in her hands. you placed your palms on top of her hands and closed your eyes slowly. second kiss was more sensual and hungry. you parted your lips invitingly and Sevika quickly deepened kiss. you couldn’t even feel nights breeze anymore, you felt like your body was burning hot. you wrapped your arms around her neck pulling her closer and she placed her hands on your waist. you could feel her quickened heartbeat, standing there chest to chest.

you could get caught any moment, but you didn’t even think about that. your head was empty, and only Sevika’s lips and body against yours mattered. you wanted to stay like that forever, never let her go. there weren’t any words to describe her, to describe how you felt.

all you knew was that you’re in love.

[elainsgirl]

what’s really unfortunate to see is Feyre and Rhys not being deserving of basic enthapy, instead of acknowledging their grey moments - they get horrible accusations & insults thrown at them which doesn’t align with their true characters.

Feyre deciding to send Nesta to the H.O.W, it must have been a tough decision to make. She left Nesta alone, paid for Nesta’s entertainments but when it came too much and she realised her sister truly needed help - Feyre put her foot down and sent her off. Could it have been handled better? Sure. But at its core, Feyre wanted to do what was best for Nesta, she wanted to help. Yet instead of appreciating and understanding Feyre’s decision her antis jump to the worst possible conclusion. “She wanted to control Nesta!” “She’s a hypocrite for acting like Tamlin!” “She was being emotionally abusive towards Nesta!” Rhys keeping the truth about Feyre’s pregnancy from her - can you imagine how lonely, desperate and helpless he must have felt? How he had to struggle between telling his wife that she and his baby might die and then having to watch his soulmate be burdened and stressedd during a high-risk time or keeping it to himself bcs its his load to carry, he feels responsible to make everything right. All in all, yes he should have told Feyre and he’s right to be criticised for what he did yet his antis take it too far, “He wanted to control and manipulate Feyre!” “He was scared for himself” “He only wanted Feyre to carry his heir! He used her as a breeding mule!” And then instead of admitting that Rhys himself was stressed and struggling- they act as though he was laid back, enjoying life and more concerned with making his sister in law life more miserable.

Feysand don’t get empathy by the majority of the fandom- instead people assume the absolute worst of them and craft this narrative around them thats so far from canon its ridiculous.