#either way i think it didn't turn out too bad!

[beautifullilacsky]

Babygirl. We have come so far.

Today, your thoughts turned around to the past. They shook hands with the way we used to treat ourselves. It started off on a note I'd never expect it to start off of, though; look at that picture of me, the one in the natural pool in Madeira. The first time I looked at it, I was truly surprised and shooketh. "Damn, I look thin", as to which niklas said that that's how I always look, I am, in fact, thin. I didn't count, but I think I asked him at least 3 times. "Do I truly look like this?" He did say that the angle might be making me look extra thin, but yes. Suddenly, it all clicked. How to him, I can seem so fragile. So fragile that he'd always let me walk first on hikes to make sure the pace is okay, always carrying the backpack himself. The way he is scared of hurting me, like, physically. The picture looks like a tiny, thin, and fragile girl. Yeah tbh, she also doesn't look particularly strong. You can see her collarbones. Her ribs. Her shoulders. Tbh, she also looks a bit like a petshop. I do think the gopro did something with the angle there, u can't tell me my head is out of proportion to my tiny body, lol. My point is. Today, I was doubting whether or not I should eat those cookies. After thinking if it'd make me thick, I remembered. I am v thin, more weight wouldn't be so bad.

I never expected to truly feel skinny. Or well, 'too skinny', at least. To think I could gain some weight; it wouldn't be a problem. That is very new to me. After 25 years. Some of those years being spend hating my body and my belly and feeling overweight, even if my teacher even told me that being underweight is dangerous, her eyes seemingly insinuating the obvious.

Yet here I am. This one picture. And tbh, the other pics or videos of this vacation, don't have the same vibe. So I do think it's the angle. And maybe a bit of a fishbowl effect. Either way. It got me thinking. And suddenly I was thinking of it again: boobs. I am also reading 'the 7 husband's of Evelyn Hugo', who seduced men with her big boobs. Somehow, booby enlargement came to my mind again. Why? It's been so long. I have learned to love my boobs, yet this blast of the past came into my head. Actually,.. it is just a thought. It is actually nice. A reminder of where we came from.

How I hated my body in the past. And here I am. Loving every single part of it. Frankly, I love my boobs the way they are. Sure, they might not be super big, but I don't need to hold them when I run or sprint down the stairs. Sure, they are soft in the middle instead of pointy, but I think it's fascinating how certain temperatures, moods and touches can change that. Sure, they don't touch, but at least it also won't create a hot brew in there or trap my clothes inbetween or underneath my boobs. Honestly, they are truly perfect. (Even the little pimple on there right now. Even though I am a bit scared; is it truly a pimple? It should be, it behaves like one for sure.) I can cup one into my hand; it is a perfect fit. As if they were made to be held so gently and smoothly. So filled with love. So, ... true. My hand can touch all of its beautiful creases. They don't overflow my hands, nor do I need to search to find them. Sure, some might have bigger boobs, but not everyone likes that. Some people get attention just because of it. I am truly happy to be able to say that a lot of people just like me for my personality. The looks are for sure also there, but at least my boobs don't get eye-fucked or objectified. I am myself. Perfect the way I am. And I am grateful to be this exact way. I think my boobs are adorable, they are cute, and truly. Truly beautiful. Thanks boobs, for being w me always. And I'm sorry that I didn't see the beauty of you guys for a part of my life. I am happy that I do now, since a while. Love u, boobies. Lol.

Anyhow. I wish to send myself love letters. See this is a loveletter to one of the bodyparts which I was insecure about in the past. Let me show them some true love, which is exactly what they deserve.

[koenigami]

fucking finally. tags : pure fluff, fem!reader, childhood friends to lovers trope wc : 1,5k synopsis : one single word is sometimes enough to change everything a/n : oh how i missed writing for my baby boy

"Come on, set for me!" Bokuto's heavy arm hooks around your neck as he pulls you into his side, the grown man looking at you with big bright puppy eyes. "Pleeaaase, Y/n."

You sigh at his antics, and eye the net across the street. Initially, this was supposed to be a calm evening walk with your best friend after you had picked him up from practice. Yet, you must admit that it is your own fault for thinking that you can combine the words "calm" and "Bokuto" in one coherent sentence. The weak smile you offer him as you exhale defeatedly is enough for him to sprint over to the sand volleyball court, and pull a ball out of his duffle bag.

He guides you to the other side of the net, enthusiastically explaining how to toss him the ball, how to dig it once he hits it, reminding you to keep a proper stance -

You scoff. As if you haven’t spent half of your free time observing him like a hawk during games and practices. You wouldn’t call yourself good at volleyball per se, but for an amateur you’re not too bad either.

And so your little play time goes on like this for a little while, the ball flying back and forth between the both of you. And before you know it the sun has almost set, painting the sky in a reddish orange hue.

"Kou, it’s getting late. I think we should head home." You tilt your head as you pout at him, stuffing your hands in the back pockets of your jeans. You'd be lying if you said that you weren't a little out of breath.

"Hm? Don’t tell me you���re already tired." He grins mischievously. You know what he’s doing, because if there’s something worse than his puppy eyes, than it is him using your ego against you. He watches you flip him off before you get back into position as he mumbles to himself. “That’s my girl.”

The dull sound of Bokuto’s palm slapping against the ball sounds through the empty court as you watch it hurtle towards you at a speed that you usually only get to witness from the sidelines. With the little reflexes that you have, you manage to duck and dodge the ball. It whizzes past your ear like a bullet before it slams into the sand, right before the end line.

Besides the few birds chirping and cars passing by, you don’t hear any other noise as you stare at him, shock clearly written all over your face. "Damn." Bokuto rubs the back of his head sheepishly, a nervous smile stretched over his face. He fucked up. "What a service ace, huh?"

And that’s it for you. The exhaustion that you’ve been feeling after such a long day turns into irritation, and you don’t even offer him a last glance when you simply turn around and stomp off.

"Shit." He quickly gathers his stuff and hurries after you, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he clumsily makes his way across the sand. Were you always this fast? "Y/n, wait. I swear, I didn't realise I hit it that hard!"

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him deflate visibly when he eventually catches up with you. He pleads for your attention, to look at him as he talks to you and apologizes, or at least acknowledge his presence. Yet you simply look ahead of you and do none of those things as you keep a petty pout on your face. All while trying to ignore his way too adorable face.

"Oh, come on. I said I was sorry." He all but nearly whines while he wildly gesticulates with his arms as if to prove his point. Something about the way you're ignoring him doesn't sit right with him. If it were anyone else, he'd probably laugh about it but when it comes to you? Bokuto's not sure how to explain it to himself but your cold shoulder feels like a bullet wound in his chest. You, who always laughs at his silly antics and remarks. You, whom he has the best insider jokes with. You, who has never made him feel like being too much.

"Babe!"

It slips out of his mouth, and he briefly has to check his surroundings to make sure that he's not in a fever dream. Because why the heck would he say that? His wide eyes fall to his hand and the way it shakes the slightest bit before he cards it through his hair and down his face. All those years, he managed to keep his silly little crush at bay, since having you as a friend in his life is better than not at all. Yet, all it took was one single slip up to ruin everything.

He fails to notice that you have long since frozen in place, the gears inside your head turning as you wondered whether you might have heard him wrong. You have not.

"What was that?" His eyes are focused on the ground beneath him, though he can't help but cringe as he clearly discerns the teasing and mischievous smile in your voice. Of course you won't let him off that easy.

"What was what?" He laughs nervously, rubs the back of his neck, and you notice how his eyes seem to wander without ever meeting yours. All your previous annoyance has faded away at the sight of Bokuto standing there, nervously playing with the cords on his hoodie, and reminding you a little of his younger self.

You bite back the growing smile on your face as you walk back towards him and step into his field of vision, not giving him a chance to escape you. Because something inside you decides that this is probably the only chance you'll get.

Your heels raise off the ground as you lean over towards him. So close to him, you notice how good he smells. He must have taken a quick shower after practice. Warm, a little prickly from the light stubble along his jaw, and so so right. That's how the short peck you give him feels before you're already walking backwards with a bright grin on your face while eyeing his shocked expression.

A laugh bubbles up your throat when you see realisation hit him of what you just did. Yet you don't expect him to recover so quickly, because your laugh soon dies down as he shoots you his own challenging grin before taking slow tentative steps towards you.

Then you run.

Your hear his loud stomps as he's immediately on your feet while calling out to you, boasting about how you can't just do something like that and run away, about how he's going to get you, that you can't run forever. And you know that you can't. You've tried for so long to escape your feelings, and this time it seems like you failed big time. And apparently so did he.

"Kou, wait no!-" Shrieks and giggles sound through the almost completely empty street once he catches up with you right in front of your apartment building. His hands wander all over your sides, your stomach, your neck- Once Bokuto ceases his tickling assault, there's nothing left but the sound of your quick breaths, chests heaving quickly while you both just stare at each other with adoration, longing, relief. So many emotions and neither of you is sure what to do with them.

"Shit, I think my heart's going to jump out of my chest." He admits with a sheepish chuckle, and grasps your hands as he guides it up to his chest. Your palm slides over the soft fabric, and then you feel it. It's beating so fast that you wonder whether it should worry you. "Can I-"

His words die on his tongue as the tiny little voice of reason inside his head tells him that it might be too early. Maybe it's neither the time nor the place, and another tinier voice in his head, called insecurity, tells him that you're just playing with him, that-

And for the second time that evening, you take his breath away when you mould your lips against his, ever so softly and gently as if you yourself were testing the waters and making sure that this is truly something you both mutually want. But his eagerness is proof enough. His tongue leaves a wet trail along your lower lip while his hands grip your waist tightly in a way that makes it seem as if he was scared that you'd slip through his hands and disappear forever into nothingness.

Only when your lungs start to burn with the lack of oxygen, you eventually part, still so out of breath yet maybe a little more maddly in love than before.

"So- babe, huh?" You tilt your head and speak so quietly as if you were telling him a secret. His fingers smooth down your hair, trying to tame the strands that have been messed up by the wind, and during his little attack.

"Oh, you have no idea." Bokuto rasps, his nose wrinkles the slightest bit as he shoots you a handsome grin before his lips find their way on yours again. He's finally got you, and he's sure to never let you go.

[dark-konohagakure2]

hii i love ur work smm <33 do u think u could write an obito x younger sister reader where he still becomes evil but he watches over in the village as the years pass and notices kakashi getting too close, so he kidnaps her and reminds her who she belongs to <3 thank u

tw: incest, brother/sister, noncon, stalking, jealousy, possessiveness, semi-public sex, kidnapping, quickie, manipulation

All characters depicted are 18+

Obito still possesses a deep resentment for the Hidden Leaf Village, and just reality itself, but there are two things that keep Obito spying on the village; Rin's grave, and his younger sister. Obito still has some semblance of love and protectiveness towards his sister, even if she is all grown up now and able to be on her own, Obito just wants to make sure that she's alive and well, as long as she isn't getting involved with the wrong crowd that is.

He's checking up on her one day when Obito gets his worst fears confirmed, his sister has fallen in with the wrong crowd, the worst crowd possible; Kakashi. Obito is enraged, wondering why she would involve herself with Kakashi of all people, she knows damn well that Kakashi was (and still is) his biggest rival, so why would she be getting so friendly with him?

The Uchiha can only reach the conclusion that she's either malicious, getting involved with Kakashi just to spite her dead brother, or she's forgotten about him, about her own brother, the one whose supposed to be the most important man in her life, and Obito just won't let that slide. He's going to make sure his sister learns two thing: that he's still alive and kicking, and that she belongs to him entirely.

He'll snatch her up the very second she's alone and vulnerable, didn't he ever tell her not to walk alone at night? He's disappointed in his dear sister's carelessness. She has no clue who this mysterious masked man grabbing her is, and it takes her a moment to realize who he is even after he removes the mask due to his scarring, but when she realizes that it's her presumed dead older brother, she looked horrified, especially since Obito looks pissed.

"I can't fucking believe you! I leave for a few years and you decide to jump ship to Kakashi of all people?! I think its time to show you who your real big brother is!"

He'll start dragging her away with the intention of taking her to his hideout, but she's struggling and screaming her empty little head off, she's being much too loud and annoying for Obito's liking. He'll take a little detour, one that will shut her up nice and quick. He'll shove her against a nearby tree, covering her mouth with one hand and holding her wrists with the other. He'll hiss at her one last time to keep her mouth shut before he begins to undo his pants.

Obito is normally very gentle with his sister, seeing her as delicate and helpless, but his judgement and rationale is greatly clouded by his anger at the moment, so he'll be anything but gentle as he rips off her panties and forces his cock into her without any preparation or consent. He might apologize to her later, and she has to forgive him, they're family after all.

Normally hearing his sister scream and cry would make Obito upset, even if it is muffled by his hand, but Obito has become nothing but normal since his supposed death, and instead of being saddened by the sight of his sister in pain because of him, it turns him on, his decency and morality seems to have died along with his old self.

He's in a bit of a rush, so Obito will dump his load into her pussy rather quickly, consequences be damned. He'll make a half hearted attempt at apologizing to her as his spent cock slides out of her cunt, but it's clear he doesn't exactly mean it, he just doesn't want her to completely hate him, but he'd be fine with her fearing him, it makes her more obedient that way.

"Don't be like that, this is just a punishment for your bad behavior. Now stop whining already, let's go home so I can make you feel better, like I used to..."

Of course when he says "home" he means his dark and dank cave he calls a hideout, but he can make it comfortable for her, if she's good. If she's an extra good girl, then he might even give her the privilege of having her own bed instead of being forced to share his.

[nicohii]

fortnight.

Pairing: Bokuto Koutarou x Reader

Genre: Angst, Hurt to Comfort, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers (as usual)

Summary: you love him, it's ruining your life. inspired by taylor swift's fortnight.

Sometimes you think to yourself how you caused your own misery. It's not like anybody forced you to come clean with your feelings with him. And it's not his responsibility to return your feelings either. You promised yourself you'll tell him and deal with the consequences maturely - that went well- because now you can't even be in the same room as him. Trying to escape the corridors the moment you see a flash of white hair.

What can you do? There's still a sliver of pride in you that doesn't want to show him how fucking miserable you are in the aftermath because god knows he'll feel so bad about it and that in turn will be another weight in your chest.

Your phone buzzes against the lacquered wood. Vibrations echoing against the smooth surface, flashing a familiar number that you practically memorized by heart already, yet had not called for a while. You let the call die out on its own not bothering to pick up.

Ever since that honest, rejection, per se, a rift started to form, try as you might not to. It's your fault and you know it, but you want all your feelings to at least settle down before properly facing him again. Damn, you fucking loved that dude since you can remember, why couldn't you just have swallowed it down.

"I'm really sorry. I think... I just don't see us being more than the best of friends, you know? "

The way he said it didn't help too. His golden eyes were actually pleading, like he didn't want to even say what he said. His breathing uneven. His hands, as big as they were, fidgeting. He has that look on his face like he wants to take back all he said just because of the look on your face. So you put on your face together in a way that will make him at ease. Make him believe that it's fine (it fucking hurts a lot). And you pat his back (it stings).

"I understand, we'll always be the best of friends."

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

Life goes on after that. A few years maybe. Some friends go on to other countries, some friends go back to rest roots and settle. He goes on to compete in a few Olympic games and international competitions.

He still calls from time to time, tells you how he's doing. You see some tabloid news about him, different models. They look good together. He looks better. He's an Olympian, of course he does.

You realized that in the moments that everyone had been moving on, you're stuck. Spending the years being faithful even if there is nothing promised, following Koutarou's footsteps, that you have dedicated everything for him; that you have forgotten what it's like to live not for him.

That plans for Koutarou aside, you don't have a single plan for yourself. In a desperate cry in a temple on a quiet holiday, begging for a sign, bargaining, and promising to listen (as if that rejection wasn't a clear message enough back when you were in high school); a call for a work overseas arrives. You take it without any hesitation. Taking the earliest flight, taking whatever life you have left here, very few shreds of dignity, and a somehow healing heart.

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

He still reaches out, small talks, asking how you have been. You learn how to forget replying. It's work, it's the time zone. Little by little. Maybe life isn't all about him.

You still see news, less tabloids and papparazzi shots, and just more on campaigns and game updates. Tetsuro and Akaashi rarely mention him too aside from necessary.

In the rare days where he managed to catch you online, and you respond, he mentions the idea of a visit when you mention having no time to go home. It has been a long time.

"Maybe I can go see you? "

You're far too busy to hear any undertones than the usual him. Innocent Kou, you muse, and rest assured that whatever you might respond will just be taken as it is and no hard feelings.

"I'm not sure Kou. Depends on the schedule. I may not be here always."

(You're on remote work and flexitime but he didn't need to know that)

It's a decline he knows. Sucks really, he was hoping you'd say yes. You usually say yes.

What happened to 'You're always have a home here' ?

What happened to 'You're always welcome here'?

Sometimes, in the days when he feels a little bit to much, overstimulated and tired of the life of fame he has chosen, his mind automatically thinks of you. Phone involuntarily in hand and scrolling to a familiar number. Tries to call it (even if overseas call cost a lot, and that's fine he can pay) but feel a pang of something unexplained when the call is not picked up.

"Oh yeah, yeah I get it. It's fine you must be busy."

He tries to counter himself. Bullshit, he can book a tour if you were busy, you can go to work, and he'll wait for you to get home, nothing wrong with that.

You tells him you need to go. That you can continue to catch up soon. But you both know if he doesn't start, nowadays, you never do.

Maybe that's what distance does, he thinks.

Maybe that's what trying to get away from the masochistic tendencies for him meant, you think.

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

It's the off season months. News of MSBY players not renewing their contracts has been dominating the news. Hinata Shoyo opts to play for Brazil. Sakusa opts to sign with Italia. No news of other starting players -- and Bokuto is still at a cross roads. He has a few options-- to renew of course, a position with another European team (Italy with Kageyama and Sakusa; Poland with Ushijima) , and an offer from a country where you, but you don't need to know that too. No one does.

He remembers asking his sister. If she has been in contact with you. Apparently she does. He is not that dumb to not be able to put two and two together.

"Maybe she's making her own peace, you know?" She lightly says.

Still, he stares at their conversations, not really as long as they were before, only sometimes when you wished him luck. Other than that, it's like... What? One sentence answers before you say good bye for work?

He wants to feel betrayed and mad. Was it really that unforgiveable not being able to reciprocate to be punished like this? But is he really the only reason? People just drift apart, he guesses.

"I just thought it would be a better closure than this. Like I'm not some dude you just cut off that easily, because we're different", he types one day, out of frustration when he saw Akaashi's phone screen notify of a familiar number.

He deletes the message on his own phone before he even has the balls to send it.

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

Life is better. You tried to bargain, got what you wanted and you're doing better. Walking alone with zero thoughts but dinner is refreshing. How long was it? You hate to admit it, but, you're starting to forget his face now or at least the little details of it. You can't forget that day of course, but it doesn't really hurt like before. You've learned to forgive, you love him of course, you never won't, but you've also made peace with it. You're here if he needs you, he's there when you do, you'll stay whatever he wants to be and life will be life.

You spoke to soon apparently.

Because the oxygen feels a little too scarce, your chest banging when you see a familiar mountaineering backpack and tufts of hair facing away from you and checking back and forth on what seems to be an address from his phone. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet in front of your apartment door. He's bigger; still has his passport on his hands.

He just got here. That's obvious.

"Kou? " You softly call and he turns around. Eyes wide, and you hug your groceries tighter, gripping your keys tighter. He's here. You want to deny it but the swelling in your chest becomes obvious. You miss him. A lot. So much.

"Hi." Is what he only says before pocketing his passport in a desperate attempt to move because your eyes are freezing him. Maybe he shouldn't be here. Maybe he should have called first.

"I just.. I was just passing b- I really didn't think... I... Japan has really been overwhelming."

There is a sound of defeat and sadness in his voice and you feels sorry for him. But how about you? He overwhelms you but at the same time, you know that deep down you would have done the same. You place your groceries down the hall and open your arms to him, he looks like he's about to cry, the wetness in his eyes are obvious as he goes to you, trying to tuck himself in you. You feel wetness in the sides of your neck and a sniffle. He almost squeezes the life out of you, breathing you in. There's a lot of things he wants to say but all that comes out are hiccups muffled by the collars of your shirt. He feels you hug him back tighter, trying to soothe his back and rocking him back side to side.

It goes on for a couple more minutes before he subsides, but he doesn't budge. You gently pry him off of you, his face in both of your hands, his eyes red, puffy and tired looking at you tenderly,

"I get it. Come on in. "

[wizardsix]

bioware either writes a trans man and allows the player to invade his privacy out of nowhere or writes a buff nonbinary character and makes it their whole personality. just stop. I'm fed up with it and I'd rather have a game w no trans rep than butchered trans rep and forced allyship.

there's absolutely no need to use our modern terms in a fantasy setting. its very weird and jarring and shows how little bioware cares. it's not difficult to make up their own words or just talk about it in a more natural way. you'd think for a fantasy world that has made up languages they could easily make up a word to describe genders and sexualities, so what's the issue? why don't we get the same care everything else (supposedly) does? like how come no one uses the words gay or lesbian or even bisexual but it's easily implied through dorian saying "I prefer the company of men" and sera's "we have too much in common bc we both like women"???? how come they can say that in a way that doesn't break immersion but taash has to go crazy about gender and write "trans/non-binary/genderfluid/agender all so so super valid I am affirmed" on the walls??

I get what they were trying to do with taash's story but it's not executed well at all especially with that fucking misgender scene. bioware I can assure you most people won't dissolve when they're misgendered. saying sorry or just correcting yourself and moving on is ok. its preferable actually. we don't need a character to stop the conversation to give a speech about how misgendering is bad and apologizing is also bad and act all white knight for us. it's embarrassing. like if I didn't know any better id say they were making fun of us. that's how fucking bad this writing is.

I'm sorry to the people who just accept the bare minimum, but it IS cringe and annoying to have our existence watered down to "trans" and "valid". why can't we just fucking exist without being turned into freakshows to gawk at. trans people deserve better representation than this caricature. we deserve basic fucking respect. our existence is much more complicated than cis people could ever understand and I'm sick of people pretending to care.

[storiesforallfandoms]

a perfect world ~ jack chambers;don't worry darling

word count: 2122

request?: no

description: in which she finds out that their picture perfect world is not as perfect as it seems

pairing: jack chambers x female!reader

warnings: swearing, use of y/n, kind of an au where jack isn't an incel but he still does the bad thing of taking the reader into the simulation, jack tries to gaslight the reader, kind of a dark fic if you think about it but not super dark

masterlist (one, two, three)

Jack knew something was wrong the moment he walked into the house. It was the quiet that tipped him off. It was never quiet. Usually the place was filled with music. Either the soft lull of the radio, or his wife's humming, or both.

This time, though, the house was eerily quiet.

Jack came around the corner to find his wife stood at the kitchen counter. She had a glass of wine in her hand, with the bottle next to her on the counter. She was staring off into space as she took a sip of her wine, her movements almost robotic.

"(Y/N)?" Jack said, cautiously. "Love, are you alright?"

(Y/N) didn't respond at first. She took a long sip before slowly placing the glass down. Jack's worry was growing further. Not only worry for his wife, but worry for himself. If something was seriously wrong with her, then it would result in demotion, or worse, from Frank.

Finally, (Y/N) turned to face him. Her face was so calm that it scared Jack. When she spoke, her voice was also eerily calm.

"I know about Victory."

Jack tried to laugh off the comment. "My job? Of course you know about it, love."

"No," (Y/N) said, shaking her head. "I know what Victory is. I know why we're here, Jack. And what you did to me."

Jack's blood ran cold.

In his fear and anxiety, Jack started laughing again. (Y/N)'s face was still blank as she looked at him.

"I don't know what you're on about," Jack said. "I didn't do anything to you, besides put a ring on your finger."

(Y/N) chuckled, but there was no true humor behind it. "Well, yes, you did actually do that. But you didn't do it the way we've been telling the story, did you?"

Jack started to walk away. He was trying to seem nonchalant, but the panic was starting to overwhelm him. He didn't want (Y/N) to see his panic, otherwise he wouldn't be able to convince her that she was wrong.

He stopped when (Y/N) called after him, "How long do you intend to keep me in this simulation?"

Jack spun around before he could stop himself. "You are crazy! Do you hear yourself? You're talking crazy!"

Emotion was finally showing on (Y/N)'s face. It quickly went from shock to anger. "You're going to call me crazy? When you're the one who has me hooked up to a machine and making me play happy little housewife?!"

"You don't know what you're talking about!"

Jack couldn't help but quickly look around in panic. There was no way Frank was listening in on their private conversations, right? This wouldn't get back to him, would it? He needed to stop (Y/N) before things got too loud or somehow their neighbors noticed the arguing.

He tried a more calm approach, saying, "Love, I don't know where you got this idea. We are not in a simulation, you are not hooked up to machines. I'm sorry I called you crazy, but you have to understand that is how everyone will react when they hear you saying this."

(Y/N) pulled away as Jack tried to reach for her. "I got this idea when I went to the Victory headquarters."

Jack backed away from her. No, she couldn't have been to the Headquarters. None of the wives even knew where the Headquarters was, and they wouldn't be able to even go out that far.

Except for Margaret, but Ted wore he had her under control.

They locked eyes, silently daring the other to make a move. Jack had lost any sense of confidence he had mustered seconds ago. He felt like everything was about to slip from his fingers. Everything he worked so hard to build for him and (Y/N), all gone in the seconds it took for her to utter that sentence. Meanwhile, (Y/N) had gone back to looking emotionless. She didn't even realize how much she was about to lose.

When Jack didn't break the silence, (Y/N) took it as her opportunity to explain, "I was on the trolley and it broke down. The driver told me it would take some time for it to be fixed, so I offered to just walk back to town. But, oddly, the driver started trying to convince me not to get off. He was very adamant about staying on the trolley. I was a little put off by how insistent he was on it, but I thought he was just worried for my safety."

Jack felt himself unconsciously clenching his fists. The damn trolley driver. Couldn't he have been a little more subtle?

"I did stay on for a while," she continued. "But it was just the two of us, and I knew I'd get home quicker if I just walked. So I did. When the driver wasn't paying much attention, I got off and started walking. But we were in the desert, and none of us wives have ever been out that far, so I was a bit lost. I found his building I've never seen or heard of before. I knew I shouldn't go to it, but...my curiosity got the better of me."

Jack felt as though he was going to start crying. Even though he already knew the answer, he asked, "What did you see?"

"Nothing," (Y/N) responded. "Not at first. Not until I touched the building. Then I saw the truth. All of it."

Jack winced.

That's it. There's no denying her when she saw the building.

The truth was that (Y/N) was right: she was hooked up to a machine that was putting her in a simulated perfect 50s town.

In the real world, Jack and (Y/N) were really married. They fell in love young and married right after they graduated university. Everything was great, until Jack lost his job. His company was on a fast downwards spiral that resulted in a number of employees getting terminated, and Jack was one of the unfortunate ones. (Y/N) was still trying to get a job within her field of study, so she was working a minimum wage retail job. While Jack was unemployed, (Y/N) had to carry the financial burdens, and that made Jack feel awful and useless.

Then he discovered Frank and Victory.

Frank promised a perfect world and a perfect life. All Jack needed to do was work for eight hours a day, as well as all the other men within their town, for Frank; for Victory. It was a small price to pay for him and (Y/N) to live their dream life.

And now all of that work was ruined. Frank would take care of (Y/N) for finding out, whatever that meant, and Jack would be exiled from Victory.

He had to sit down.

He lowered himself into a chair at their dining table. (Y/N) was still watching him. He wished she would just do whatever she planned to do; scream, break things, go right to Frank and tell him she knew about everything. Whatever the plan, he just wanted her to get it over with. The unknown silence was killing him.

"Why?" she finally asked. "Why did you do this?"

"For us," Jack said. "So we could live a better life."

"What was wrong with our life before?"

Jack scoffed. "Seriously? (Y/N), we were struggling. I was unemployed, you were working a shitty job. You were pulling all the financial weight, and I hate that all of that was on your shoulders."

"So instead of talking to me about your feelings, you hooked me up to a machine and put me into a simulation without my consent?"

Jack hung his head. There was no way to paint that part in a good light. He hadn't brought up Victory because he was afraid (Y/N) would reject the idea, and he couldn't take their real life for much longer.

"I just wanted to take care of you," Jack said, his voice small. "You were doing it for so long, and you never complained even though I know it was tough. I didn't want you to do it anymore, and Frank offered the perfect life for us."

He heard (Y/N)'s heels clicking against the tiled kitchen floor as she approached the table. He couldn't look up at her as she leaned on the table, basically towering over him.

"What happens if Frank finds out that I know?" she asked.

Jack shook his head. "I don't completely know. He just says he takes care of it."

"Did he take care of Margaret?"

He didn't ask her how she knew that Margaret had known the truth as well. It was probably pretty obvious now that she knew. Instead, he just nodded. "And he told Ted that if he didn't get Margaret under control, then he'd be fired from Victory."

"So, if Frank finds out, this is all over for both of us?"

He nodded again. He had a feeling he knew where she was going with this. She'd go tell Frank that she knew the truth about Victory, even though it would be a risk for her to do so. But the risk would be worth it if it meant Jack was fired from Victory, sent back to the reality that he was trying to desperately to save them from. Once they were back in their own reality, (Y/N) would no doubt divorce him as well. He'd deserve it, of course.

"Then I'll just have to get really good at keeping a secret."

Jack's head shot up quickly to look at (Y/N). There was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, and there was something in her eyes as she looked at Jack.

"What do you mean?" he asked, dumbly.

"I mean, what you did was very fucked up. Like, extremely fucked up. Next time you're making big decisions like, I don't know, putting us in a fucking simulation, maybe talk to me about it first. But, with that being said...I'd be lying if I said I preferred our real life over this one."

Jack was stunned. This was not what he was expecting at all.

(Y/N) gestured for Jack to push his chair back. When given enough room, she sat herself on his lap and put her arms around his neck.

"We can't stay here forever," she told him. "We have real bodies that need to be taken care of, and families and people that will worry if we just disappear. But, it's hard to give up on this life. It's so...perfect."

"So what are you saying?" Jack asked.

"I'm saying we put a cap on how long we stay here. Give it...I don't know, another year. We let ourselves be happy, be worry free. Then, however we have to, we get out of here and we get to working on making our reality just as perfect as the simulation is."

"You'll have to go back to work."

She nodded. "I know. But I'm not opposed to working. I did get a whole degree so I could work my dream job, after all."

Jack put his arms around her. He wanted to pull her in close and not ever let her go, but he couldn't just yet. "Why?"

She furrowed her brows. "Why what?"

"Why aren't you more mad? Why aren't you going to tell Frank so that I get in trouble? Why do you want to stay here...stay with me?"

(Y/N) gave him a look like she thought he was being incredibly stupid before cupping his cheeks. "Because I love you, you idiot. And, like I said, the way you went about doing this was very stupid and wrong, but I know you did it because you love me, too. As long as you can agree with my deal, I don't see any reason to be mad and want to leave you."

Jack finally allowed himself to kiss her. It caught her off guard, which made her giggle against his lips. Every memory he had with her, both in the real world and in their simulation, came rushing back to him.

"I agree," he said. "I'll do whatever you want, I promise."

"Right now, I think I want to make love to my husband in our super cool retro bedroom," she told him. "Just to make sure I don't forget how to do that when we get back to the real world."

Jack smiled at her. "Oh, don't worry love. I won't let you forget."

[fastestmanalive333]

The Time Stream. Warning: Fragile

By fastestmanalive333

Bart was shock; he couldn't believe his eyes. It never occur to him the consequences of his time travel would be this bad. But he had been wrong. Very wrong.

It had all began a few hours ago in Bart's history class. They had been studying the prehistoric eras, and had to do a project on these times. Not a problem, unless you were Bart, whom's attention span lasted for about thirty seconds before something else came into his head.

The day ended. Back home, he quickly changed into his Impulse costume and zoomed out. But a millisecond before he reached the door, Max stopped him. "Where do you think you're going Bart?" he asked in a serious tone.

"Uh, out to save the world?" Bart tried to get away from Max, but his grip was too strong.

"Yeah, right. I saw your homework on the table, and I want you to start it right away."

"Fine, O.K, I'll start it right away,"

Max let go of Bart, and he started to climb the stairs, but then vibrated through a nearby wall and got outside. "Bart, come back here right now," Max shouted, but Bart was travelling at top speed. Max realized he had no idea of where he was going, so gave up trying to get him back.

Bart didn't know where he was going either, so he just ran around Manchester looking to see if anything was happening. Nothing was, so he ran to the Young Justice cave instead. Hardly anyone was there except for Red Tornado and Robin.

"Rob! Red! Hey!" he shouted to them.

"Hello Impulse," said Red Tornado.

"Hey Bart. What's up?" Robin asked him.

"Nothing much. Anything wrong in the world?"

"Well, nothing much for us. The Justice League's on something big, and..."

Robin was interrupted by snoring. "Bart, wake up!" he shouted next to Bart's ear.

"WHOA! Sorry man, but that was sort of boring."

"I only said 12 words!"

"Exactly." Robin sighed, and went over to the cave entrance. "Hey Robin, I gotta ask ya something!" Bart shouted to him.

"What?" Robin called back.

"Will you help me with my homework?" Bart said hopefully.

"Do your own homework," came the response.

Bart sighed. He had to find a way to do his project on time. If only he had been listening or...hey, was that a mushroom growing by the computer?

Bart snapped out of it. He had to concentrate. Think, Bart, think. He got it. All he had to do was go through time back to prehistory, write some things down, and he would get a good grade for sure. It was a great idea. He'd done it before, he knew what to do.

Bart began to run. He started off at a normal speed for him, then faster, then faster, then faster and faster and faster andfasterandfasterandfasterandfasterandfasterandfasterandfasterandslowerandslower andslowerandslower and slower and slower and slower and slower until...Bam!

Bart landed in a pile of dirt on the ground. He brushed it off his costume and looked around. He could hardly see anything that interested him. If this was prehistory, where were the dinosaurs? He pulled out a piece of paper and a pen that he'd got to write down the stuff Robin might have told him if had bothered to help. He scribbled down 'Nothing of interest happened during this time'.

He put the paper away and was a bout to go back to the future (Yes, I know it's bad but give me a break!) when he tripped over a quite large reptile on the floor. "Stupid lizard," he muttered, and kicked it. It landed in a hole full of funny-looking liquid. Bart couldn't be bothered to think about what he'd just done, and speed off back to the present day for us.

Which brings us back to the beginning. Bart had got back and saw an amazing sight. All of the people had been turned into half-human half-reptile mutant thingies. He screamed, but regretted it. All of the mutants heard him, and went after him. Luckily though, it was just like the video game 'Lizards from the Planet Reptilion' (What a corny title), a game he had got the highest score on. He dodged the lizards, and decided to go back in time and stop himself from kicking the lizard (Now it's getting a bit complicated.)

He sped up again and ran back to the past (I'll skip the whole 'fasterandfaster' thing 'cos I can't be bothered to do it again) and was back in the past. He looked around and saw himself. He looked really handsome, he thought. But he then saw the lizard and got back to the matter at hand. He zoomed over and picked up the lizard before it got in his way.

He had done it. He had saved the world from himself. Bart had stopped Bart. Wait. Did this mean he was a hero or a villain? He didn't think about it and ran home. He would have to use a...shudder...book to do his project. Oh well. The End. Thank you for reading.

[foodtruckery]

cart holy fuck i am NOT NORMAL about this AT ALL. i am "surprise i wrote 3600 words in one sitting" not normal about this. i am so sorry.

Ford hears the door to his lab open and puts his face in his hands. 

He doesn't have to look to know who it is -- nobody else stops by, unannounced, without so much as a knock, after all. But he also doesn't want to see Constance's face when he breaks the news to her. She's going to be devastated, and it's going to be his fault.

Not for the first time since he started working on this latest compound, Ford deeply regrets having produced the first one.

It's his own fault, he knows that. Even if he hadn't meant for all of this to happen, he has only himself to blame. Stan hadn't asked him to spend two and a half weeks obsessively formulating a topical ointment that would reduce the visibility of cellulite.  He did that himself, unprompted. All because his sister had been a little upset.

But she wasn't just a little upset, was she? a traitorous little voice whispers in the back of his mind.

Stan had never cared enough about locking a door, and after so many years of sharing so little space, she had a distressing lack of concern for being seen in her underthings by her brother. Ford would complain more about that if he wasn't--

Well.

Walking in on Stan half undressed wasn't a novel occurrence, was the point, no matter how certain base functions of his physiology always wanted to treat it as such. What was novel, however, was walking in on Stan scowling at her reflection in the single full length mirror the apartment housed. And not her angry scowl, either. It had been an expression that Ford recognized, one that he knew meant Stan was upset by something but found being angry about it easier.

He didn't have to ask. He didn't even have time to offer up a performative apology for interrupting before Stan asked:

"Do my thighs look bad?"

Ford distinctly remembers the question because he'd been staring at the reflection of those thighs when she asked it. Luckily, so had Stan, so she'd missed the way he turned as red as her work blouse. She'd been standing with her back to the mirror, twisted around to get the best view of the back of her thighs. Her completely bare thighs, uniform skirt tossed haphazardly over the back of a chair and the cut of her panties horribly narrow.

"Wh-What?" Ford croaked.

"My thighs! Do they look bad?" Stan had asked again, turning away from the mirror to turn her 'upset but pretending to only be angry' scowl on him.

Ford remembers swallowing down all the things he'd wanted to say -- about how her thighs were perfect, about how much he'd always wanted to feel them, wanted to see the way they'd look and how much they would give with the divots of six fingertips pressing against them. Other things he'd thought about pressing between them--

"Since when do you care what I think of your thighs?" Ford had asked instead. "Didn't you tell me last week you'd bought shorts specifically to, ah, show them off at the roller rink?"

Stan had grabbed her lower lip between her teeth and, graciously, turned back around to look at her own reflection instead of the increasingly uncomfortable state Ford found himself in.

"....Yeah, I guess I did say that."

"Then why do you think they look bad now?"

Stan huffed, planting her hands on her hips and pushing her lower lip back out in a way that drew entirely too much attention to it.

"I didn't!" she said firmly. And then, with uncharacteristically less certainty, "I don't."

That had finally shaken Ford out of his decidedly unbrotherly attention. "Stan?"

"Ugh, it's so stupid," she said, turning away from the mirror to snatch her skirt off the chair. "Some grody spaz at work said I had cottage cheese thighs."

"What?!"

"I know, right?" Stan had laughed while yanking her skirt back up, but there wasn't any humor in it.

Ford frowned. "It's not like you to let one ignorant customer get to you like that," he said, and the silence that followed, Stan's pointless fussing with the waistband of her skirt, had been telling. "...Was it more than one customer?"

She'd shrugged, still not looking at him. "Group of 'em. All got a laugh outta it."

"Stan, I--"

And then she'd tossed her hair out of her face and flashed him the gap in her teeth. He remembers her lips forming the shape of a smile but her eyes had been shiny, the skin around her neck and ears ruddy with embarrassment.

"Eh, don't sweat it, Sixer! I'm not gonna get bent outta shape over a couple of wannabes taking potshots at the waitress."

But she had, and Ford knew she had. He knew it in the way she wore stockings to work the next day and how she chose jeans instead of her new shorts to go skating in. He also knew, with less immediate evidence but with the same certainty, that it wasn't just a shitty comment from a stupid customer at the diner that was upsetting her.

It was being on the other side of the country and still having stupid customers at a diner. It was so much of her being pressed into so little space, carved out in the margins of Ford's college experience. The Stan that still believed they would sail away from New Jersey together would have found a whole tub of cottage cheese from the cooler and upended it on those idiots.

The Constance that had been sent with him to Backupsmore was folding in on herself more and more as the days dragged by.

Ford knew he couldn't fix the second problem, the bigger one. And he also knew that creating a cosmetic to reduce the visibility of her cellulite wouldn't necessarily fix the first problem, either. But it felt like the very least he could do, to give his sister a shield. A bit of her confidence back. 

To the chagrin of their mother, Stan had always been loudly and unapologetically confident in her body and the attractiveness of that body. The idea that something as ridiculous as the texture of her thighs could be unspooling that core tenant of her?

Absolutely not.

So Ford had spent the next two weeks taking every advantage of his chemistry labs and his star pupil status, studying and mixing and studying and mixing. It had been over two weeks away from his personal projects and had cut tremendously into his time to prep for the third theoretical physics elective he'd been considering. But the look on Stan's face when he'd finally handed over the unassuming little tub of ointment had been well worth every minute spent pouring over cosmetic compounds.

He wasn't surprised that it worked. After all, he never would have given it to her if it hadn't. But he was a bit surprised by how well it worked. Or at least how well Stan insisted it worked. Honestly, the back of her thighs were just as appealing as they had ever been. And when she'd grabbed him by the wrist and yanked one of his palms to land entirely too high on the back of her leg, supposedly to feel the new smoothness of her skin, Ford truly hadn't been able to feel anything beyond how warm and soft she was.

He also hadn't heard a damn thing she'd said while his hand was glued just under the curve of her buttocks, barely two fingers away from the scalloped edge of her panties. He couldn't remember what Stan said, but he absolutely remembered how stark the emerald green of her underwear had stood out against her skin.

And when Stan had beamed properly up at him, showing off the gap between her teeth and the bright, hopeful shape of her eyes, and asked if he could make more, how could he say no?

He'd missed the part about selling the stuff. He'd missed it right up until Stan turned their tiny dinette into an impressive packaging station, all pleasantly pink boxes and customized logos and flyers boldly inviting women to "MAKE A RACKET."

".....Constance this...this is a racket," Ford had protested weakly when she explained the business model -- Mary Kate and Avon if they were run in as tight of a loop as Amway.

And she had grinned at him over a mess of pink and white shredded filling paper. "Exactly! That's what makes it funny," she'd said. "But don't worry, we're gonna market it like one of those ‘well behaved women rarely make history’ kinda slogans."

"We?"

"Of course! Someone's gotta make the product," she'd said, easy as you please. And when Ford had displayed some visible sign of hesitation, she'd stuck that lower lip out at him. "Oh, c'mon, Sixer. I already got four girls at the diner who want in after I showed 'em how good your stuff was!"

And then, softer, picking at the crinkled strips of paper between her bitten down nails, "If it doesn't work out, I promise I'll drop it. But I just...wanna try something different, you know? And I can't do it without ya. Please?"

And that's when he'd realized that maybe, just maybe, he could fix the second problem. The bigger one.

How could he say no?

But that had been nearly eighteen months ago. And now, hunched over his desk with his palms pressed hard over his face, Ford knows he should have said no. Because Stan had been so good at it. She had taken that little tub of cream, gotten a veritable gaggle of women hooked on it and convinced that gaggle that they should have a flock of their own. Once all of them had gotten accustomed to beating back basic biology, it was hard for them to go back.

And then Stan started cutting product size, raising kit prices, and introducing new merchandise to keep them on the hook without forfeiting an inch of her profit margins.

But the new merchandise was carefully selected and strategically introduced. Over half of the MAKE A RACKET catalog didn't do a single thing it advertised. They were largely white label products, purchased at viciously negotiated wholesale prices, and resold with a cheerful pink logo and an exorbitant markup.

And yet, Constance Pines had a devout, cult-like following of bored, suburban women who swore they saw results with every product, and who convinced other, gullible suburban women to pay into the funnel.

Because some of the products did work. The cellulite cream had never lost popularity, and it was regularly pointed to as proof of the effectiveness of the whole bunk catalog. Alongside it, their hair thickening oil and line-reducing eye cream (which was just a smaller amount of the cellulite cream but colored pink) produced real, noticeable results. And so long as Stan had one legitimate product she could throw in for every five or six scams, the triangularly shaped market under her continued to grow.

And that was exactly the problem.

He hears Stan making her way further into the room, her shoes clicking louder than normal, like they're out to drive the nail into Ford's proverbial coffin on his behalf. He slumps further in his seat and wonders if he still has time to slink completely under his desk. Maybe he can buy himself a few more hours before he has to admit that he can't do it.

And that's the double-whammy, isn't it? It's bad enough that he's going to disappoint Stan, that he has to tell her that he doesn't have the new product he'd promised for the winter catalog -- the Christmas catalog.

But he also has to admit that he's failed.

Either oblivious to his mounting dread or simply unwilling to give him a graceful out (either is possible with Stan), he hears her come to a stop on the other side of his desk.

"So, whaddya got for me, Poindexter?"

He swallows, twice, before he can make the words come up. He doesn't lift his head. It's a coward's choice, he knows, but it's the one concession he allows himself. Without a proper hit to drive sales and pull in new "Racketeers" through the Christmas season, the likelihood of MAKE A RACKET maintaining its trajectory falls off a cliff. He's going to single handedly force his sister back into her waitressing uniform, and it's going to kill him.

"....Nothing," he says. He intends to be blunt and to the point, but he finds he's whispering to the desktop instead.

"Huh?"

"I don't...Stan, I don't have anything for you," he admits, voice and spirit meek. "I can't make it work."

Ford hears her shoes again, circling around the desk, and he manages to catch a brief, blurry glimpse of them - heels, she's wearing heels, oh god since when? - before he screws his eyes shut. And there's shifting, and he's painfully aware of the warmth of her next to him.

Even still, the hand brushing over the top of his head makes him startle.

Stan plucks off the glasses that have been jammed halfway up his forehead, setting them down with a soft click. And then her fingers come back, stroking lightly through his hair. She's been keeping her nails long lately, the tips delicately painted and questionably sharp. It takes more willpower than he cares to admit not to lean into the scratch of them against his scalp.

"That why you've been holed up down here for three days, smart guy?"

He makes a pathetic, wounded sound for being so easily called out.

Stan snorts softly next to him, and he really can't see what there is to be amused about. He can't even properly appreciate that, when she shifts, it feels like she's sitting on his desk by his elbow.

"Well, I see a whole lotta bottles down here, Ford. What's wrong with 'em?"

He sighs, opening his eyes to stare down at the desk -- and out of the corner of his eye he can, in fact, see a curved, charcoal shape that's probably Stan's slacks.

"I can get the formula to reduce fine lines, and I can get it to provide about twelve hours of pigmentation in six colorways."

Stan gives a curl on top of his head a sharp tug. "That's what I asked you for, dummy."

"But," Ford stresses, sighing. "The texture is...wrong. I can't maintain the degree of fine line reduction with a gloss texture. It keeps coming out too thin."

He feels Stan shrug beside him. "Okay? So I call it a lip oil instead. Is that really what you've been moping over?"

Ford shakes his head miserably, and this time when Stan runs her fingers and her long nails through his hair, he does lean into it.

"It...it has a..." he rubs one of his hands down his face before dropping it to the desk. "Numbing effect. On the lips. I can't get rid of it."

The hand in his hair doesn't stop stroking, but Stan does hum quietly above him, thinking. He swallows, hard, and risks glancing up at her.

He swallows again. Harder.

He wishes he had his glasses on.

The charcoal color he'd caught a glimpse of had not been a pair of the tapered, smart slacks that Stan's been wearing lately. It's a suit. It's a slim, short skirt that, sitting on his desk with her legs crossed the way she is, has ridden so far up her thigh that he swears he could make out the color of her panties if they were crossed the other way. Or if he leaned back at the right angle.

Her matching blazer is narrowly cut, exaggerating the divot between her waist and hip in a way that makes Ford desperately want to reach out and fit his hand to it. It's so narrowly cut, in fact, that Ford is temporarily struck stupid -- he does not remember Stan having such a distinctly hourglass shape around her soft midsection, but there is a very clear angle being created with her clothes.

It takes entirely too long for him to realize that there's a corset underneath the blazer. He can just barely make out the boning without his glasses. But devastatingly more distracting is the way that all of Stan's significant curves have been shifted. Stan's...bossom has certainly never been lacking by any means, but cradled in something more structured than her cheap bras and bracketed by the crisp lines of her lapels...

Ford's mouth is horrifically dry.

It is also, apparently, hanging open, because when Stan finally looks down at him, she takes her hand out of his hair and chucks the underside of his chin with a smirk.

"You're gonna catch flies, Sixer."

"I-- Sorry. You look, uhh...n-nice?"

Stan laughs at that, a round, boisterous sound that doesn't fit the sharp little suit but absolutely fits the round, boisterous shapes of her. "Really? Cause you kinda said it like you're not sure I do."

"N-No! No," he says, grabbing his glasses and shoving them back onto his face hard enough to twinge the bridge of his nose. "You look....really nice," he says, mortified by how breathless he sounds.

But he can hardly help it, not when all of Stan's soft, blurry edges have suddenly snapped into perfect clarity. The sharp lines of her suit, the tauntingly high hem of her skirt, the exaggerated shape her cleavage makes above the corset. And now, with the ability to notice the details, he can see the faint edge of her pantyline through her skirt when she shifts, and the delicate gold chain tracing the swell of her breasts where it's looped around her neck.

"Aw, thanks," she says, her tone teasing. "I'm gettin' my picture taken for the new fliers, so I figured I should zhuzh it up a bit, y'know?"

Ford doesn't but he nods anyway.

The mention of the fliers, though, remind him that he's miserable. He snaps his eyes away from the necklace and, with difficulty, past the very plum shape of her lips.

"Constance. Without this lip product--"

Her fingertip touches his mouth and Ford goes very still, unable to help glancing down towards the pointed, red tip of her nail.

"Just nod yes or no, Sixer," she says, leaning towards him in a way that makes the chain slide over her chest and pool against the crease where her breasts are tucked tightly against each other. "Since it's a lip product an' all, is it edible?"

Ford furrows his brow and tries to open his mouth to explain the nuance of that, but Stan raises a second finger and presses them both against his lips to stop him. "Just nod," she repeats.

He considers it for a moment, unsure what this has to do with anything. It certainly isn't food grade, but a lip product does have to assume a certain amount of consumption. And he's fairly confident that there's room for a few adjustments that will put them more safely in the "edible" category. So he nods.

Stan flashes the gap in her teeth at him, her smile bright and delighted, and he immediately misses the feeling of her fingers when she takes them away. "Perfect!"

"But...Constance, that doesn't address the numbing factor," he protests.

"Good! Don't change that at all, that's gonna be the selling point," she says, hopping off the desk and doing a horribly distracting little shimmy to get her skirt back down the generous shape of her thighs. His palms itch to find the skin she'd let him touch before.

"I don't understand how that won't be a turn off for potential customers," he manages to argue, briefly irritated by her nonchalance, though it’s hard to track that feeling under everything else.

Stan spins around on her heel to face him. Ford had no idea she was this adept at walking in high heels. Even if they aren't terribly tall, it's impossible for him not to notice the way they elongate her legs and make her stand just a touch higher than he's used to looking when she comes down to chat at his desk.

"You leave the messaging to me, Sixer," she tells him, reaching to straighten the edges of his sweater vest. And then, before he can prepare himself for it, she swoops down and presses a plum colored kiss to his cheek, just a hair too close to the corner of his mouth. Just close enough that he'll be able to touch the tip of his tongue to the stain later.

"I knew I could count on you!" she says when she pulls back, the clicking of her heels already taking her away from the desk, her voice laughing on its way across the lab. "Don't worry! I guarantee you there's a huge market for a lip oil that might numb your throat a lil' if you swallow it, if ya catch my drift!"

The lab is achingly quiet when Stan leaves. And Ford is left aching and quiet in return. There's a spark of relief that he has not, in fact, ruined his sister's multi-level marketing scheme. But it's hard to relax into that relief when he can still feel the slip of her lipstick against his cheek and the drag of her nails over his scalp.

Groaning, Ford puts his face in his hands and does slink underneath the desk this time.

Please, I have so much love for your fem!stan, please tell me your thoughts about fem!mulletstan, or fem!drifterstan. I once read a fanfic where Filbrick kicking out Stan was just a scare tactic, I imagine he’d have the same sentiment for a female Stan as well, but he’s too prideful to go get his little girl after it backfires and she doesn’t come back home.

Meanwhile, Stan’s determined to prove she’s just as capable as any boy after years of being undermined for being born a girl! Even so, she’s not above using her feminine wiles to sling her FDA acknowledged merchandise, after all sex sells. Eventually she soon realizes that sex does indeed sell.

OOOHH Anon, tesoro, SAPESSI! You have no idea how happy your messages makes me, because you’re enabling me to YAP about my favorite topic, that I’ve been thinking about A LOT. Thank you so much! WARNING: Stancest is ALWAYS implied/established in my musings. The following lucubrations are no exception. In general, I think fem!Stan would get punished way less harshly than his canon male counterpart. Not that she’s coddled or untouchable- Constance would get hit occasionally, if she acts way out of the line, by both parents. But, I personally don’t think kicking her out would ever be a thing- not even as a threat: Given the time period/culture, the (horrible) assumption that throwing a teen boy out would not only be a punishment, but also a formative experience of sort- to make him self-sufficient- would NEVER be expected to apply to a girl. On the contrary: Constance would be perceived as someone that could NEVER be self-sufficient. Not only because she’s the “gentle sex”, but also because she’s a weird, off-putting dunce of a girl, unlikely to get picked by a wealthy enough- or even honest man that would take care and provide for her. If we were talking about a version of this universe where the machine accident happens like in canon, Constance would receive a slap across the face, as a punishment for what she did, and a particularly heated, demeaning tirade from Filbrick, imo. Now, that said--- I have two main favorite divergences, I’ve toyed with, for fem!Stan's future:

1) A version where Constance did destroy Ford’s machine, on purpose, in a fit of anger, because she’s subconsciously trying to get kicked out: rationally, she is aware how hard and scary it would be to run away from home, and that her family would look for her. But, if they HATED her, not only they wouldn’t feel bad, they’d also take the very hard decision for her, of cutting her out. But, what happens is that- they DO act like they despise her- but still, they won’t kick her out! It’s an outcome so painful and so humiliating, it’s the final straw that makes Constance snap and run away- to basically become drifter!Stan. And, Ford’s resentment and hatred, in this version, not only comes from Stan taking away his chance to go to his ideal College, but also because she abandoned him! Off to live her indecent, dangerous life with some biker- probably- when if, had she been patient for a few years- had she truly loved him as she said- Ford would had been the one to provide for her- spoil her rotten, even. Like, this is a universe where Ford was THE only eldest son, with an implicit duty to be his sister’s protector, and if you add in he’s been in love with her, too… In the 10-years-later reunion, Ford would have this incel-like feeling of pain and humiliation- because his baby sister at his door is wearing a miniskirt, and her hair is cut so short, and it’s evident she’s not that innocent anymore. But still, as tired and battered by life as she is, Constance would still NOT be begging Ford to be her savior and mer-- and let him take care of her! [Complicated incestuous tension ensues].

Version number 2) Constance accidentally destroyed Ford’s machine, just like in canon- but doesn’t get kicked out and- since she’s a girl and Ford is more protective and softer, after some silent treatment, he forgives her. And actually, he uses what happened to his advantage, to coax Constance into following him to Backupsmore: "it’s gonna take him so much more time to become successful, now that he’s relegated to that college, meaning he and Stan would end up separated so much longer! She’d have to remain at Glass Shard Beach all alone, for ages! But.. if she followed him, she could get a job, a room apartment of her own, and… nobody would know them, over there. They could even date in secret." And, Constance would hesitate, because she dreads an unfulfilling future as her brother’s accessory, but also, she is in love with him, and she inevitably internalized part of the sexism she’s been subjected to for most of her life, so… she accepts. Even pumps herself up, gaslights herself into thinking it’s gonna be a fresh, exciting new start, away from her shitty small town. And indeed… Even if the twins enjoy the relative freedom of their romance, far from home, inevitably Constance feels unsatisfied, like she just switched the background, but she’s still working as a waitress, doing nothing she truly loves, or feels good at. That’s when I like to imagine she ends up messing it up big time, by joining an MLM or something, in attempt to find her own success lmao. AND, it’s complicated, because she does find out she is actually GOOD at selling shit to people. This is her true calling! But, the business was scummy as fuck- to an illegal degree- and she ends up arrested for the first time. And, escapes from prison for the first time. Stan is a chaotic disaster, impossible to contain, in every universe. To make it short, once again the story goes back to its tracks, and Ford and Stan separate dramatically. Now, this version actually had a VERY angsty ship-focused sub-divergent version with Fiddleford involved, and a very jealous Ford. But I don’t even know if you’d be interested in that, so I’ll stop here. ++++ I do love that part of your ask, about Stan realizing she can use her sex-appeal to her advantage... To imagine her seducing people into helping her/condoning her schemes is so fucking sexy~ I will think of a specific scenario, because damn.

[meandmypagancrew]

In My Gif Era - Journey to Fearless

↪ Teardrops On My Guitar

she'd better hold him tight, give him all her love

look in those beautiful eyes and know she's lucky 'cause

he's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar

the only thing that keeps me wishing on a wishing star

he's the song in the car i keep singing, don't know why i do

[ot3]

Out of curiosity, it okay to ask what you thought of Good Omens season 1 or do I need to come back with a warrant?

Honestly my thoughts on good omens season one are incredibly uncomplicated. I watched it when it first came out and remember almost nothing about it. It was fine inoffensive television that did not do anything to either compel me or bother me enough to take up permanent residence in my brain. I have no critiques for it but I have no praises either.

[simptasia]

mum and i were almost not able to buy our house because a real estate lawyer heard us casually say i'm autistic and alarm bells went off in her head, because she believed that meant i wasn't mentally capable of understanding what i was signing up for

[the-golden-ghost]

I started 2023 thinking it was going to be My Year and then it utterly sucked ass for the entire thing and I got nothing accomplished that I wanted to.

In spite of that I still feel kind of hopeful for 2024?

[beeseverywhen]

I mean like. Not to bring the mood down but... you guys know that's because American media is everywhere right? Like the world is unable to avoid some version of American accent on a regular basis. Of course ppl find it easy to mimic. This is absolutely not restricted to ppl in the UK, its really common for ppl who learn English as a foreign language to have perfect 'American actor' accents (cause the reason everyone's so good at the American accent that's expected of them as actors is cause at large there's little distinction between regions in the 'Hollywood accent' that ends up on TV and films and stuff. You guys have massive regional differences in pronounceation, but what makes it on to TV (in 9/10 cases) is a very standardised version of American English.)

But yeah. It's not just actors lol. Most British ppl can speak in a passable american accent, as can loads and loads of people worldwide. I'm not saying this to be like 'you should feel guilty! 😡' but it does always stun me when Americans are unaware of the impact their country has worldwide on all versions of English (and even on use of native languages. Many countries are using English more and more over their native languages and dialects , and yeah, historical colonialism has had an impact there.)

But in the last few decades things have progressed way way faster and that, is thanks to the impact of anglo/american/ect lead capitalism. I'm in no way dismissing the impact the UK has on this, but in recent years, its the US that is largely pushing that train .While the UK and several English speaking commonwealth countries are very involved in this kind of capitalist imperialism, there's a reason that more and more people are speaking American English. Not one of the many UK dialects, not Australian English, or NZ English. Across the world more and more people are increasingly speaking in the same standardised american dialect that's in so much of the media you export. Hollywood based media, with that standardised accent/ dialect and the standardised 'normal american life', has a stranglehold on the world and I just find it crazy that a lot of you guys don't even know.

It's stupid stuff like. So many countries are importing american cars and are widening their roads/ changing town planning to account for it (this is less of a thing in the UK but I see it more and more when I travel). Its the food becoming avaliable everywhere. Its the influence that for profit healthcare has even on countries with socialised health systems. Its houses being built to account for American style appliances. Fashion trends. Worldwide, everything is slowly evolving to be closer and closer to this 'American standard' which honestly? I really don't think actually represents the lives of real American people either. You've been turned in to products, the system has taken an unrealistic snapshot of 'American life' and it's being sold to you all day in day out, but it's also being sold to the rest of us. It's being pushed on us all.

Kids in the UK go through phases of talking only in American accents. Anyone born later than the 90s is carrying round 2 sets of spelling and vocab, cause we're all so used to the American way, that you barely know which one you're using half of the time. In the UK we have always had really strong regional accents yeah, and dialects differ between areas that seem tiny to you guys, I know. But like. Those dialects are being lost cause all UK accents are evolving to become closer to this standardised american and yeah not great, but at least we share a language! US American society is largely rooted in the same foundations as UK society, largely we have the same flaws! But oh my god. What about the rest of the world.

It's global. This impact continues to be seen, steamrollering ahead, in places that had completely different starting points. UK culture isn't that dissimilar to that of the US, so we aren't losing nearly as much as cultures that had something completely different. So much is being lost.

Languages and dialects and everything else is just being wallpapered over so we all meet the same ideal of the 'American life' and it's not even real! It's just a product based on how ppl were actually living in the US, manipulated until it's the most marketable mould. You guys are victims of it as well but like. It's based on your culture so you don't lose as much if you conform to it. Just like how in the UK, if we conform, we lose more than US, but nowhere near as much as countries that had languages, dialects and cultures that were so so different to UK/US culture. The less like the US, your starting point, the more there is to lose.

And look. I said it to start with. I'm not having a go. That's not what this is. But you guys really need to be aware, you need to make an effort to understand the impact that this plastic Hollywood american culture is having on the rest of the world. You need to actively look for it, and make an effort to not pay in to it. Because when Americans see other cultures represented in media and say its not relatable, when you guys go on holiday and make no effort to learn local customs, and try and pay in dollars and spend your time abroad like you're still in America, when you see cultural differences and immediately argue that the American way is better and of course everyone should have giant cars and never dry laundry outdoors and live in American style homes, without any kind of critical thought. Just 'this is how we do it so why wouldn't everyone else do it this way. This is the only way. The American way is obviously best.' When you guys do that you are individually feeding in to this absolute bulldozing of cultures (including American ones!) to allow for better marketability.

It isn't any one individual American citizens fault that things are the way they are, and you guys are victims of the same system, but you need to have some self awareness when it comes to the fact that as individuals you are unknowingly, helping driving this forwards and as individuals, there are things you can do to limit your personal impact (and no arguing that you have no culture is not it!!! Being all self deprecating doesn't do shit. Take some responsibility and accept that individual Americans didn't create this system, but currently, individual Americans really are doing their bit to keep promoting it, to keep pushing it on the rest of the world.

And I've already rambled for an age so I'll stop here but I just want to make clear as an ending note here, that this really isn't about piling on Americans and being all 'boo it's all America's fault. They should apologise. Their culture isn't worth anything.' Not at all this is the opposite of that. The fact that millions of Americans have been convinced you have no culture, all while a mimicry of American culture is plastered on to the rest of the world, and while you as individuals are encouraged to help that happen, often without even realising what you're doing; is a crime. You've been wronged, as have we all.

And America is not the problem. The problem is imperialism and it didn't start with you guys. It started in Europe, and Europeans, particularly British ppl, have a responsibility to push back and be self aware, take some fucking responsibility and not inadvertently keep feeding in to that system, just as you guys do. The US didn't start the fire, imperialist capitalism is a fire that started burning long before the United States was even considered, but its on all of us, to do what we can to not feed that fire. And right now? You guys are the face of it.

This idea of what America is, is the face of imperialistic capitalism, and that means that even if you don't mean to, you guys are feeding that fire more so than the rest of us. You're responsible for spreading it, more so than the rest of us. And if you don't step up and take responsibility, accept that you're gonna get it wrong sometimes and you need to try to do better; if we don't all do that. There will be nothing left. They'll paper over it all, the lives of real Americans just as much as those in Scotland and India and the Netherlands, and 100 other cultures, that are at risk, thanks to this fire, that's currently, largely coming from America.

So yeah. It's absolutely not just on you guys and ppl who act like there's no racism or wealth divide in Europe or anywhere else for that matter are complete idiots, however, this Americanisation of the world (and I hesitate to call it that. Because its not a representation of real American lives. Its simply wearing an American face.) Its real. It's happening.

And we don't tell you about it to make you feel guilty (those of us who aren't dicks at least) ,we are telling you. We are kicking up a fuss. Because it isn't fair. It's not right and while individual Americans ignore that and refuse to take responsibility where they can (small apples. We aren't asking for you to call a violent revolution in our names. Just take some time to learn about the rest of the world. Stop assuming America is always right and examine your biases. When you find them. Stop personally pushing them.) , while that is happening, as individuals, you are contributing to this. It's not even altruism. This system is hurting Americans too. It's hurting us all. All we ask is that you do what you can to not personally contribute, and keep an open mind, be aware. That's all any of us can do.

when a british actor does an american accent everyone’s like “i didn’t even know they were british until they were on colbert.” but when americans do a british accent everyone’s like “they’re supposed to be from east cocksford but their glottal e’s are north dicksford. shameful.”

[dekuneho]

reason ☆ ( thirdyear!katsuki x reader ) suggestive — your boyfriend breaks up with you, and katsuki doesn’t waste opportunities

The first fact Class 1-A learns about you is that you have a boyfriend.

Well — had. And now you’re third years, and it’s safe to say that you should’ve broken up long ago.

You had him since middle school, but they never met him. Your dynamic shifted from the perfect picture of high school sweethearts to something more toxic since you got into UA — 1-A, no less. Yuusei didn’t pass the UA exams and called you insensitive for asking him to come meet your ‘fancy hero friends’ while he was from some low-profile school, and back when you had sympathy for him, it was difficult to be peeved at his blatant jealousy. He had a compelling, teary face.

“That’s called manipulative,” Sero says.

“He was really insecure,” you confess. Not that it makes it any better. He was manipulative because he was insecure — but that wasn’t all. He’d been that way long ago. There was a different turning point.

Kirishima gives a gentle, understanding pat on the back. “We were busy enough as it is. But now we’re about to graduate; of course you started thinking more about your future.”

“And you got the perfect ending — a future without him!” Ashido cheers to that. You take a long, long, victorious sip.

Right. After your breakup, you phoned Ashido about it, unaware that she was out with the rest of your friends, but it wasn’t like you were on speaker. Ashido gasped and shrieked, and the rest continued in her apartment, bottles of fancy wine that probably came from Bakugou lined up on the table.

Bakugou had been silent the entire time, sitting on the far edge of the couch across yours. You didn’t even think he’d come along. He’d always been coldly indifferent when it came to anything related to Yuusei. He doesn’t offer a single word; you expected him to call you stupid for dragging it this long when you entered the room. He just stared, ruby tracing your every step.

“So? What made you snap?” Kaminari asks, nestling into the cushion beside you, slinging an arm over your shoulder. You feel like a prey as Bakugou’s gaze holds on Kaminari’s arm for a moment too long. “What shit did he pull this time?”

Bakugou had been the reason for your breakup, and it almost feels like he knows exactly that.

Yuusei despised him. Bakugou is the physical embodiment of everything Yuusei failed to be, and you were friends with him. It really didn’t help that Bakugou has an ego and can back it up; Yuusei didn't have either.

Yuusei was in a heated argument with a classmate, and you got irritated by his voice drowning out even your music at the loudest volume. So you got up, buried your feet in your outside shoes, and glanced back.

“Hey, I’m going out.”

Yuusei was already having an awful day, and came the bottled-up aggression that made him spit in seething venom: “What, don’t tell me you’re going out to fuck Bakugou behind my back again?”

You paused from where you had been tugging your jacket sleeves up your arms. And then, unadulterated fury. The rest is history.

But that’s embarrassing to admit to your friends. They’d ask why Yuusei would even bring Bakugou up — why he is even a recurring argument in your relationship. It wasn’t just Yuusei that was the problem. Somewhere buried deep that Yuusei could feel was your shame, the one that knew Yuusei wasn’t just threatened by Bakugou because of one thing.

“He was having a bad day,” you say instead, and the mendacious excuse slips so easily. Back then, you thought it was because you needed to defend Yuusei; now, it was because you feared them also knowing the truth. “And I realized I just couldn’t — uh, anymore.”

“Yeah,” Sero, Kirishima, Kaminari, and Ashido agree together.

Bakugou finally shifts from where he’d been unmoving, ducking down to fill his glass. “‘least you learned your fucking lesson.” His gaze flicks up; the intensity makes you feel so shameful. It coils in your gut. “Forget the losers who can’t handle themselves. Go for the best.”

Coming from him. Is he flirting? This has to be flirting, right? Every word he says feels so charged, blatant with intent.

“Whoa, fresh on the market and you’re already saying that? Give it a few months, at least,” Kaminari laughs, followed by some, but you and Bakugou aren’t laughing. You’re stuck in this weird staring competition — looking away feels like admitting defeat. Feels like you’d straight up confess that yes, it’s you! You’re the fucking reason why!

“Yeah,” you mutter, though you’re not sure if it’s in response to Kaminari or Bakugou’s. You drag on another sip but feel as sober as a judge. You feel like you’d need ten more before you could even deal with whatever shit Bakugou is pulling.

“Cheer up, baby,” Mina coos. “You know you’re a catch. Yuusei will know exactly what he lost.”

“I don’t care about him anymore,” you say, which is the complete truth. “I’m getting shitfaced because I feel like I’m about to make a very bad decision.”

“Um?” Kirishima voices worriedly. “Do we need to take you somewhere?”

Bakugou stands abruptly, jingling his car keys in between his fingers. “Come on.”

“Are you drunk?” he asks before you can even pretend to open your front door.

“I only smell like it, but I really am too clear-headed for this,” you swear.

The moment he pins you to the wall and buries his mouth into yours, you know you are gone. This is what Yuusei had been fearing, what you’d been hiding — and fuck, it feels so good. He kisses like he’s starving like he’s been holding back for as long as you are. The shame comes spilling out soon after.

“I just got broken up with,” you say in a futile attempt to ease your guilt. “Hey — Katsuki, do you even—”

“I know what I’m doin’,” he says, mouthing over where your jaw and neck meet. "I know you want me."

“God, this is so fucked up,” you say, trailing off in a whine that really says a lot about you. “I’m an asshole. You’re really good at kissing — Katsuki—”

“Try three years of patience and tell me again what’s more fucked up,” Katsuki rasps, breath searing a mark on your skin, inciting a shudder that came down from your toes to your dizzy head.

“You were waiting for Yuusei and me to break up?”

“I get what I want.” Katsuki pauses, his eyes flicking up, arresting yours for a breath. “And he was a dick. Was bettin’ since year one.”

You curl a strand of his untamed hair, unwittingly charmed. “Sorry for making you wait.”

He responds by capturing your lips in a kiss, prying your mouth open with his, licking in, biting, pulling, grinding, and —

Katsuki softens his hold on your hips, pushing off. “Hey.”

You pant. Wow, you think, lightheaded, you don’t think you’d ever been kissed that well. “Hey,” you exhale over his mouth.

Katsuki bears his forehead heavily down on yours. “This isn’t some one-night stand rebound bullshit, you hear me? I didn’t wait three years just to get my dick wet — we’re doin’ this shit, got that?”

“I know,” you say, smiling. “You’re the best of all of them, right?”

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

edit: I'm writing a full fic for this! Rigor Mortis, college au fic, read here.

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice. 

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window. 

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman. 

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment. 

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara? 

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning. 

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach. 

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was… 

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying . 

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist. 

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!" 

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring. 

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask. 

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him. 

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep. 

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him. 

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class.  She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely. 

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day. 

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it. 

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo. 

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it. 

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course. 

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself. 

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall. 

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure. 

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself. 

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here. 

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video. 

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen. 

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all. 

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners. 

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you. 

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs. 

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-" 

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please." 

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers. 

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall. 

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home. 

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions. 

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night. 

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy?? 

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water. 

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there. 

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway. 

You wince."...F-Fine?" 

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?" 

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice. 

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further. 

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together. 

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand. 

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee. 

"You look… wet." 

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze. 

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed. 

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression.  His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds. 

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?" 

He's got a hand on your arm now,  The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details. 

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy. 

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside. 

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word. 

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?" 

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too." 

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same. 

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way. 

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost. 

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand. 

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza? 

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal. 

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy. 

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats. 

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought. 

"Yeah?" 

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-" 

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!" 

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway. 

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-" 

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips. 

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you. 

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand. 

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close. 

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile. 

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side. 

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular. 

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?" 

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it. 

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty. 

"Huh. I guess they do." 

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums. 

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name. 

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch. 

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ." 

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest. 

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-" 

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own. 

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name." 

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing. 

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-" 

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together. 

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest. 

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts. 

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck. 

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum. 

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth. 

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin. 

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt.. 

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara. 

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?" 

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?" 

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction. 

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach. 

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel." 

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth. 

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue. 

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole. 

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue. 

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off. 

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily. 

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him. 

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him. 

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs. 

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck. 

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should. 

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head. 

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily. 

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

_

_

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

_

edit: the full fic xx

[elizzsush]

Fae Courting Rituals | TWST

Diasomnia Dorm X Reader

Lilia X Reader, Sebek X Reader, Malleus X Reader, Silver X Reader

---- Fae are typically taught from a young age certain courting rituals. (Non-Human courting rituals part 3/3)

Note: Was going To add silver to this list. (I know he isn't a fae, but he was raised by one) but was too tired to write for him)

Savanaclaw Ver. | Octavinelle Ver

Sebek:

He starts following you around for some reason.

Seriously, one day he just woke up and decided to not leave you alone. It helped that you guys shared a bundle of classes together.

You had no clue how you befriended the green hair boy. You weren't complaining though, in this school, where everyone is so set in their ways, you liked having the extra layer of protection that was the loud half fae: Sebek.

He was loud and denies it however, whenever you point out he follows you. He claims to not having even realized he was doing such a thing. "I would never follow around a mere human!" He shouted out his claims with a red face.

It could be true. He did get somewhat spacy sometimes if you'd believe it.

He had a packed schedule, or so he claimed, yet he always found time to be around you. It made a warm feeling blossom in your chest, well, of course before he used this time to rant about Malleus. "Wakasama is the most kind and fit ruler of-" He'd ramble, you'd sigh; put your face in your hand and lean a bit closer to him. You enjoyed hearing him so passionate, even if it was... constant.

He didn't have an off switch, that didn't have to be a bad thing.

Plush, you didn't hate his voice. Not that you'd be as loud about your likes as he was for his.

Though you were pretty positive your friends... and most of the students at NRC were in fact sick of his voice. People have also noticed he is more vocal around you.

Which is… a good thing?

The oddest thing happened once. At one point when the two of you were relaxing in ramshackle. A bag of popcorn and a shitty TV you got on sale at Sam's shop. He wasn't being loud for once in his life, instead his attention was focused on the screen.

You two were sitting pretty close together when, he had grabbed your hand and laid his head on yours. Was he... cuddling you?

You couldn't help but smile and continue to watch the movie. You didn't want to comment on it, you knew if you did, he'd probably get up, make a huge deal out of it (with a red face), and leave.

He started rubbing his forehead against yours before he finally pulled away like it never happened. It was oddly affectionate.

You didn't even think he knew that he was doing it.

He began to do these affectionate things while he was focused on something else. Either it be a show at the movie nights you organized with him, or if he was studying a bit to hard with you.

Your friends wondered how you even managed a movie night with the loud boy but you just shrugged.

Eventually, you had to face it: You really like Sebek.

You really liked this brash boy with a thick skull.

You knew however, even if he did like you back. He'd never admit it, let alone go out with you.

It left you with this odd feeling. A dull pain that ranged from a small ache to feeling like Throns were wrapping around your heart, piercing the organ in your chest.

You tried not to let that get you too down. Instead, you watched him across the lunchroom as subconsciously he blew bubbles into his drink, his green eyes finding yours...

So yes, you'd listen to his rants. You'd go out of your way to hang out with him, you'd enjoy his company while you could.

Because you knew, sooner or later, he'd realize it too. The same reality you had to face. And...

well...

He wouldn't face it.

He'd probably turn you away and never speak to you again. And you'd be fine with that. Even if you didn't want to be because you...

Well, let's save that for another day.. "Hey Sebek, lets hang out!"

"I suppose I can make time for you, Human!"

Lilia:

He was out to get you.

You noticed it. Almost everybody noticed it. You just didn't know what you did to him! He'd pop up everywhere and scare you! Right before disappearing away.

This counted as bullying, right?

You were starting to get... slightly paranoid.

You enjoyed Lilia's company, you really did. But you were tired of constantly looking over your shoulder. So, you started to avoid him, just a bit.

Your own personal revenge for the paranoia.

Now, Lilia has lived a long life. He knows what he's doing and is just having fun. He liked you, he did, but he probably isn't going to be that serious about this. He's in it for the vibes.

So when he see's you avoiding him... he well... He serenades you from outside ramshackle.

He makes his intentions very clear with a love song!

A boombox in Sebek's hand, and a tired Silver who followed along because... well Lilia was making Sebek hold a bomb box and traveling in your direction.

Lilia song his heart out for you. "Everybody loves somebody sometime!~ And although my dream was-"

"It is 2am!! The perfect will go out with you tomorrow!" Grim shouted out the window with a grogy done with it tone. After you threw a pillow at them.

NOTE: Sorry this one is short but I have a hard time writing for Lilia

Malleus:

What do you mean? You started courting him first. Very brave of you indeed child of man. He had even commented on it while you handed a piece of treasure!

That was... well, it was a cheap polished rock. It was well... shiny...?

It started very small. He accepted your gift and was expecting a bit more to be honest. Not even he was exactly sure how this courting would work out; he was prepared to be the one to pursue you!

Initially, he sat back and relaxed. Enjoyed the small sense of harmony you two already had and assumed you guys were dating.

Why would he not? He accepted your courting gift, he assumed their were more to come, the next step up to this would be marriage and he wasn’t sure you were ready for that.

However, you noticed this. You were so confused. He’d began to call you “beloved.” Which was a 180.

When did you two…? Huh??

He’s also been more clingy. Not on the sense he’d follow you around but in the sense of a mountain of handwritten letters and the actual sense that he’s in your personal space when you two do hang out.

So… the two of you are just dating now? “Beloved, you haven’t been responding to my letters. Did I do something?”

“Oh, sorry I just haven’t… quite finished all of them.” You glanced at a room that was empty at one time. Now it held a pile of letters.

This was an exaggeration, they’re were a lot but not a whole room full… yet.

Extra??? Silver:

It started like most seedlings of love, with a dream. A simple one, you were sat beside him, the two of you quiet and happy in each others company. The birds sang as you hummed beside him. The boy was content, more so then he had been in his life.

Then, like it was second nature to both of you. You two shared a kiss, and then he woke up.

Usually, he tried not to lose himself to sleep. But tonight all he wanted was to go back to the dream world and hold you. As soon as the realization crossed his mind however, he woke up even more. Had he ever been this awake? “Am I in love…?”

He, not knowing what to do. Went to Lilia, whom was enthusiastic with this news.

You know when parents find out their four year old has a crush? That’s Lilia, except Silver isn’t four. Every time they see you Lilia shoos Silver off too hang out with you. Sadly, with no prior love life to speak of, silver goes along with it.

Though he is embarrassed about it, he hides it well enough.

“Does Lilia think you like me?” You asked all to happily once, hiding your own happiness behind a giggle at the absurd situation he found himself in.

“Uh, yeah…” he’d just smile at you, his head laying on the lunch table as he was about to go to sleep. he loved to see you laugh even if it was somewhat at his expense. However, Sleep tends to escape him when he was near you. Not that he didn’t feel tired, but he didn’t feel as tired. He couldn’t feel angry about it, in fact he was happy about this. It was like you were some temporary cures for his illness.

Lilia would also insist that Silver gift you things. To show he can provide for you, the Silver hair male couldn’t disagree. So, he’d find things that might fancy you.

His bird and squirrel friends also helped him in his venture to gain your affection. Often leaving flowers at your doorstep and small shiny things.

One day you saw the birds and Squirrels run up to your doorstep, one flower at a time, make a gorgeous bouquet.

You made sure to thank him and his animal friends after that.

In return you'd try and make things for him, find things around he or the animals would like. Nuts for squirrels, seeds for the birds, and a deep red rose you plucked from Heartslabyul during the end of an unbirthday party.

He stayed awake for longer than he ever had that night, staring up at the rose in the dark while his dormmate slept. A smile on his lips as he examined every detail of it.

Ace would call it cheesy. The relationship between the two of you was something out of a romance movie he'd say in a more teasing way. Something like, "Is it Tuesday or Wednesday he's going to chase after you to an airport?" and then roll his eyes. You tell Ace to shut up while looking away with a face as red as riddle's hair.

It was after a test, you pulled your test paper out of your bag ready to check your score after preparing for disappointment when a blue bird swopped down and took it!

You cursed and chased after the bird, rushing past students and looking crazy, eventually you ended up in the forest next to the school.

You were sure you looked ever crazier than you had been running in the school halls, because now you had leaves in your hair, and your shoes were all muddy now...

Eventually, the birds placed the test paper, face down on a certain boy's chest. "Silver... Are you asleep?" You smiled and knelt beside him, a small smile on your face. Rolling your eyes at the perpetually sleeping boy. You sat beside him for a moment taking a deep breath before you grabbed your test.

You almost preferred it this way, to have him here, even if he wasn't fully here. It helped your nerves somewhat. An even bigger smile graced your face as you turned the paper, and a large B was printed at the top.

Standing up, you gifted your friend a small kiss on his forehead and wandered off back to school.

Well, you were stopped by a small, sleepy voice. "Y/N...?"

___________________________

Note: It was this or clean my depression room... Anyway, I want to expand on Sebek's small scenario because I know if it was its own imagine I could make it really good.

Would ya'll enjoy that...?

ANYWAY, these small series is competed! (Unless...?) Thank you for reading them and thanks for reading the note. Not a lot of people do that. Myself included.

I have a hard time writing for Diasomnia...