#he would never do anything bad (he would never)

[luveline]

hi jade! I remember a while back you wrote a drabble about hotchner!reader having a really bad panic attack and Spencer and Aaron helping her at the hospital, and it gave me a lot of comfort to read it. would you be interested in writing something about Spencer and Aaron taking care of hotchner!reader as she adjusts to her new meds?

—Spencer and your brother, Aaron, take care of you when your new prescription gives unexpected side effects. fem (adopted) 2k

When things got quiet at home, you’d get tense. 

Your apartment is silent. No whir of the heating, no washing machine clatter, no voices. You sit on the couch with your legs pulled up, turned to the armrest with your cheek pressed to the seat's backing. Your phone is in your hand at a low percentage. You’ll get up to charge just as soon as you can remember what you’d wanted to be doing in the first place. 

Spencer was going to call you. He’s sweet, really. You didn’t expect for love to feel easy; you never thought someone could like you without allowances. You’re quiet sometimes, your nerves are shot. You ask for reassurance too much, too often, and you don’t believe them when they’re given. 

You aren’t smart, or funny, or particularly hard-working. 

But Spencer loves you, you’re almost certain. Or maybe he’s just content to be half happy. It wouldn’t surprise you if he called you to break up with you —what use have you been to him lately? You’re tired everyday. You can’t sleep, you can’t eat, you never want to go out. You can barely make it through the working day. 

Your phone beeps in your hand. 

Outside, it says. If Spencer’s there, please make sure he’s fully dressed.

You manage to smile weakly. Aaron saw Spencer once getting out of the shower, and he was dressed, thank you very much. You hadn’t done anything salacious as he might’ve assumed from the situation, just showered together, but Aaron always lets you know before visiting now. 

Doesn’t ask, by the way, but you don’t actually want him to. He’s like, the only good thing in your life beside Spencer. 

Aaron lets himself in and finds you immediately. “Hey, honey,” he says. 

He slipped into the affectionate older brother role not long after meeting you, and he’s been worse since you were in the hospital. Which is to say, gentler with you. 

He slips a bag of groceries onto the counter. He pans around the room. It’s cleaner than usual here, but none of the lights are on, nor the TV. You can see him notice it. 

“You okay?” he asks, pulling groceries from the bag. He’s brought milk, bread, eggs, and fresh soups from the nice store nearby. “It’s quiet in here.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Yeah? Any wobbles?” 

He’s asking if you’ve had a panic attack or anything like it, but for the last few days you’ve felt veritably numb. “I’m okay,” you say. 

You should bring up your symptoms. Clearly, lexapro either isn’t right for you or the dosage is too much; you’re a zombie these last couple of days. Medications don’t always work straight away, so for a time you’d felt like your script was useless, serving only to make you nauseous, but the sickness has finally gone away. 

He opens the fridge to put away the groceries. He’s sliding the bread into your bread box when he says, “Honey, aren’t you gonna answer that? Your phone?”

You blink down at your phone. Spencer’s contact glows in front of a green background. 

You click answer and pull it to your ear. “Hello?” you ask softly. 

“Hey, angel. How are you feeling today?” 

You clear your throat. “Fine.” 

“I was thinking I’d come over?” 

“You’re outside?” you ask. 

“How’d you know that?” 

“Must be something in the water.”

“I’ll come up now. I brought some things for dinner.” 

You manage your first laugh that dreary day. It’s nearly normal. “Okay. I might not have room.” 

Spencer promises to be up quickly and disconnects the call. You lift your chin to find Aaron already looking at you. “Do I look okay?” you ask. 

“Beautiful, don’t worry.”

“Is this an ambush?” you ask. 

“Not an intentional one. Can I make you something to drink?” 

He’ll make you something you like, you trust. You try to sit properly on the couch before Spencer gets here, rubbing under your eyes, checking there’s nothing on your t-shirt and sweatpants. It might not matter if there were, you know Spencer thinks you’re pretty without makeup or fancy clothes, but he doesn’t necessarily have to be truthful about it. 

“Aaron,” you say, before you can forget, “did… was Jack’s soccer okay?”

He passes you a mug, squeezing your shoulder lovingly. “It was great. I’ll show you the photos.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t go.” 

You were supposed to. Spencer even drove to pick you up, but he got here and your meds weren’t working and your heart was beating wrong, so you stayed home. 

“It’s okay.” Aaron looks like he wants to hug you, but he doesn’t. “Nobody’s mad at you for that.” 

“For other things?” 

“Nothing.” 

Your door opens again. Spencer bursts in with two things, a brown paper bag of groceries and a bouquet of flowers. It’s a pretty huge bouquet, as they go, white and pink flowers, cornflower blue chrysanthemums spotted throughout, the end of his scarf stuck in the flowers and his coat unbuttoned in the struggle. “Hey. Hi, Hotch.” 

“Spencer,” Aaron says, which is strangely warm. 

Spencer shoves the bouquet aside to see you. “Hi, you okay?” 

You force yourself to stand. It’s obvious you’re not feeling right, your head whirring, but you have to make sure he still wants you. “Spencer.” 

He puts the bouquet down. The groceries next. “Angel,” he says, meeting Aaron’s eyes quickly, then back to you, where he smiles sympathetically, “How long have you been feeling like this?” 

You’ve only taken a few steps toward him when he catches you for a hug. It’s nice and polite, but not without tenderness. He doesn’t pull your weight in like he would if you were alone, but he holds your back and sits a quick kiss against your cheek as he pulls away. 

“I don’t really know, a few days?” you suggest. 

“You could’ve told me. Or Hotch, you know?” 

“I know, I was going to, just–” You press your hand to your eyes. “Didn’t really notice it was happening.” 

“Don’t get upset,” Aaron says, coming to join you both in the kitchen. “It’s alright. Spencer isn’t scolding you, he just wants you to know we’re here for you no matter what happens.” 

“I don’t feel like myself,” you say.

“That’s okay,” Aaron furthers, holding you by the shoulder, his hand settling behind the nape of your neck, “we can talk to your doctor again, this isn’t permanent. We’ll talk to them today, if it’s what you need.” 

“I’m sorry. Not many people have such an adverse effect to lexapro, I was hoping you wouldn’t be an exception,” Spencer says. 

To your surprise, Aaron answers for you, “You couldn’t have known. This is just something we’ll have to keep doing together.” 

Someone sits you down. Aaron warms his fancy soups and toasts the bread he brought, making a plate and bowl for each of you without asking. Spencer barely balks. You manage another laugh, for which you’re rewarded with two smiles. 

Aaron can’t stay much longer, having to pick up Jack from Jess’, but he offers to come back. You decline, not wanting Jack to see you feeling as depressed as you are. He promises to call the doctor tonight and leaves in a rush. He must’ve stayed longer than he should’ve. 

Spencer is more forthcoming with soft touches once he’s gone. He didn’t eat much but neither did you, pushing the plates across the coffee table. He’s still wearing his coat. 

Fond, you reach for his chest and begin slipping buttons from the eyelets. “You’re staying, right?” you murmur. 

“If you’ll have me.” 

You open his coat and push it away from his shoulders. He dressed fancy even when he’s not going anywhere, it’s so strange, the button up and the tie and the sweater vest, all of it, but you love it. You run your hand down his vest. He lets his head dip forward. Not for kissing, just to be near. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“Just feel wrong.” 

“It’s not really a good idea to stop taking the lexapro now. It’s technically an antidepressant, and your body won’t adjust well.” He holds your waist as you hold his. “But this is weird, huh?” 

“Feels weird.” 

“Short term, uh, I think we should just try and make sure you feel alright today. Is there anything you need?” he’s murmuring, rubbing his thumb into the soft of your stomach. “I can get anything. Or we can do anything.” 

“You don’t have to… worry about me.” 

“Are you kidding?” he asks softly.

“We haven’t been…” You trail your hand to his stomach, where it stays. “I just don’t expect you to deal with this, you didn’t sign up for this.” 

“I don’t think that’s true. I had no idea what I’d find out about you or what you might go through when we first met, but I wanted to find out. I wanted to take care of you then, and I do now,” he says simply.

“It’s not good timing for me to be like this.” 

“Stuff happens all the time. I wouldn’t want to wait for you to be perfect before we met.” He smiles genuinely. “Not that you’re not perfect.” 

“I really feel like I’m not even me.” 

“You’re you,” he says, dipping so close to you that you can’t see his face anymore, just his skin.

You slouch into his chest, coaxed by long, lithe arms cradling you, as kind as anyone’s ever touched you. He smells clean, your nose finding its way to his stiff collar. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. 

“You don’t have to be. Nobody wants you to be sorry, okay?” 

It’s a new feeling. Spencer spends the night with you on the couch and doesn’t for a moment seem like it’s something he doesn’t wanna do. You end up laying on his chest, his fingers drawing lines like a meandering figure skater up your back. Twirls and loops, long laps around your spine. When your phone rings, he’s nice enough to click answer and hold it to your ear. 

“Aaron?” you ask sleepily. 

“Hey, honey. I’ll be by tomorrow to take you back to Dr. Chester’s office, alright? If you don’t want to keep taking your lexapro, don’t. But if you can manage it, take another tonight, and we’ll figure out the new plan after your appointment.” 

“Okay,” you say, feeling very small. “Thank you for doing that for me.” 

“I’d do anything. Jack says he loves you, he’s making you a painting of yourself. He’s very good at the colours.” 

“I bet he is,” you say loudly. In the background, you can hear Jack’s pleased little thank you. 

“Do you want to talk a while?” he asks.

“That’s okay, Aaron, I’m half asleep on Spencer right now.” 

“Good, that’s good. Tell him to take good care of you, okay? Or I won’t be happy.” 

Spencer laughs above your head. “When is he ever happy?” he jokes in a whisper. 

“Shh,” you say, giving Spencer a light shove. “He says he will.” You swallow a lump, as you’ve had to do all day, but it isn’t rawness that colours your voice now. “I love you. Thank you for, uh, calling the doctor. Thanks.” 

“I love you too. I’ll leave you to sleep now. I’ll come at eleven, alright?” 

“Alright. See you tomorrow,” you say. 

Your voice is weak. Spencer pulls the phone away and hangs it up, tossing it without force onto the coffee table, before wrapping his arm around you snugly. 

“It’s gonna be fine,” Spencer says. “You’ll see, things aren’t going to be like this forever. It’s statistically impossible.” 

“Ooh,” you croon, pressing your tired face back into his chest, “I love when you talk statistics to me. Tell me more.”

He draws shapes into your back, his voice a murmur as he starts to talk. 

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hiii Author :D this is actually my first request, but could I ask for homocipher (especially my bb MR Crawling 🥺) when you kiss them for the first time pls and thank u 🙏

Mr Crawling

Sweet boy is giggling, blushing and kicking his long ass legs after staying unsettlingly silent for five minutes.

He’s on cloud nine the moment you pressed your warm lips against his as sweetly as you did. He didn’t know what that thing you were doing exactly, kissing was a foreign concept to him but all he knows is that he wants you to do it again and again for eternity.

Kissing this cutie is a little sloppy when he’s trying to imitate you, but you can’t get mad at him when he’s smiling and giggling in happiness that he got to reciprocate the happiness you give him.

Seriously this man has become ten times more clingy as he’s smothering you in hugs while chirping and purring in your ear, nuzzling his face against your own.

Mr crawling will double, no triple you in affection and you’re legally not allowed to move until he’s done kissing every inch of your face and neck. He just wants to make you happy and if kissing is one way to do it then Mr Crawling will do it continuously and it’ll never get old.

He will honour the kiss forever and ever and ever.

Mr Scarletella

Captain of the S.S Delusional over here.

You’re not helping his obsession with you. Not one bit after kissing him lightly as now he fully thinks this is you accepting his love and affection, letting him inside your heart as your one and only.

So have fun trying to get him off your back when he’s muttering shit like ‘mine. Love. Mine. Love. Mine. Love’ under his breath as he towers over you as you realised that this man was near inescapable.

And I mean he’s inescapable the moment you gave him that innocent little kiss on his lips. He’s smiling to himself as he runs his fingertips over his lips, still feeling your own there as his mind creates scenarios where your sat in his lap, kissing him to your hearts content and confessing your love for him.

So if you thought he was bad before, he’s fucking worse now and there’s little chance of escaping him. So good luck with all that, you will need it.

He won’t do anything to his lips in fear he’d wipe your kiss away, he’s savouring it and has the memory framed in his head as his most precious moment.

Mr Silvair

Kissing is a concept he’s not privy to and so he’s seeing this as a potential experiment he could delve into deeper.

All for science is the motto for this dude I’m afraid. Mr Silvair doesn’t feel much outside of that and an occasional warmth that he pushes aside frequently.

He’ll probably ask you to do it again, not because he wanted you to but because he’s curious as to how each and every kiss feels, believing that each one has a different meaning behind them. He’d might even indulge in what sort of stimuli could trigger you to made such a bold move on your own accord.

So to him it wouldn’t mean as much as it would for you unfortunately but that’s not going to stop him from asking for more kisses, and or creating scenarios where kissing him was the ultimate goal, and all for science experimentation.

Totally not to satiate the need to feel the warmth those kisses gave him if only briefly. 👀👀

Mr Gap

This dude doesn’t want a kiss, he wants your heart and not in the romantic sense.

You kissing him felt weird and he didn’t know whether to like it or hate it. So he mostly stays indifferent.

Seriously he’ll experience the kiss, scrunch his face up and still ask for your heart. Affection doesn’t exist within this dude at the slightest, and if it did it’s not by very much at all.

So kissing him wouldn’t exactly do much and he wouldn’t bother to reciprocate either, he’s still as fuck too so you might as well be kissing a stone statue.

Seriously. I’m not joking. I wish I was but I’m not.

[no-144444]

guilt tripping- o.piastri

summary: oscar asks something of you that you know you can't do. you do it anyway and it ends in you two almost breaking up. almost.

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! chronic illness! reader

a/n: hey yall, I just broke two ribs (lol) and got diagnosed with a chronic illness (lmao) so I might not be posting as frequently- just dealing with it physically and mentally so yah 😹

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“I don’t know if I can go,” you sighed, feeling even worse. 

“That’s alright,” he assured you, but you could hear the way his excitement depleted and his mood lowered. 

“M-maybe I can work something out, I don’t want to leave you alone,” your guilt grew everyday, this wasn’t healthy for either of you. 

“I don’t want you over-exerting yourself,” he spoke softly into the phone. “I’ll just ask mum if she has any friends that want to go or something. She always brings a million people with her.”

“I don’t want to leave you hanging Oscar. Melbourne is a big race. I’d be happy to come over like a week before, and then come to the race once I’ve had a few days to heal,” you bargained. A 22 hour connecting flight was not something you’d ever wanted to do. You couldn’t do it. You knew the pain would be too bad, yet you still stood there, offering it anyway. “And then I’d come for the race on Sunday, or just small bits on all the days.”

“Really?” his voice picked up, excited now. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure Osc, I love seeing you race,” your smile was more of a grimace than anything, but still, the guilt in your chest lessened as you listened to Oscar speak animatedly about the race weekend, while your anxiety ran through the roof. You couldn’t do all the things he wanted you to do, you never could. This had been a problem at the beginning of your relationship, every time he’d plan a date that wasn’t dinner or a movie, you’d have to break the news that a 15 kilometre hike wasn’t something you’d be able to do on a whim. Things like that took planning, physio, and preparation. Your chronic illness was no joke, and had limited you since you were a teenager. In the past few years he’d gotten much better at everything, from helping you with your physio exercises, attending pilates classes with you, knowing what to do on bad pain days, and always looking out for you in public. You knew he was just getting away with himself, and you didn't want to disappoint, so you agreed to it all, hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be a bad week of pain or flare-ups wise. 

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You got into Melbourne and sobbed when you got in the car. Thankfully, it was Hattie picking you up, so she just held your hand as you silently cried, the joint and too much to bear. You went straight to bed as Hattie explained to the rest of the house that you were exhausted, and Oscar took it at face value. You usually get extremely tired after long days, and you’d just had a 22-hour day of travel. 

“I’ll go check on her-” he started, desperate to see you but Hattie cut him off. 

“NO!” she squeaked, trying to not sound suspicious. Oscar raised an eyebrow. “She’s really tired and she’s already gone to sleep.”

“Yeah, well I’m tired so I’m going to bed,” he explained, stretching then yawning. 

“Osc,” Hattie sighed, knowing she had to tell him. “She’s not… alright. She can’t do 22 hour travel days like you or I can. She has Lupus and she’s still trying to figure out her medication, so it hurts all the time. She cried from the airport to here, all to support you because you asked her to, and she feels guilty every single time she can’t say yes. She’s done real damage to herself by coming here. I want you to understand that, do you understand that?” 

Oscar nodded, because the other option was breaking down into tears. Yes, he’d felt guilty that he couldn’t be there to take care of you while travelling, and he knew he was asking a lot of you when he asked. The guilt settled deep in his stomach and made him nauseous, but still he continued on to his bedroom where you were sleeping peacefully. He could see the puffy eyes, the red nose, the open bottles of medication on the nightstand. He wrapped an arm around your waist, another in your hair and pulled you as close as possible, whispering teary sorrys into your ear. 

When you woke up the next morning, you knew what you had to do. This wasn’t fair on either of you, and you needed to make a change. You quickly (but silently) got up, and started to leave the room, but Oscar grabbed ahold of your hand before you could leave. 

“Please don’t sneak out on me,” he begged, sitting up. He looked wrecked, puffy eyes, red rose- had he been crying? God, had you made him cry? 

“Osc, what’s wrong?” you asked, concern clear as day on your face as you cupped his face with your hands.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I knew I was asking too much when I asked you to come here, I’m so sorry.”

Your heart tightened in your chest. “Osc, I’m alright, I was just tired last night and-”

“Hattie told me,” his voice was deep, deeper than usual, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your hand. “And I’m so sorry.”

“Osc, I could’ve said no if I didn’t think I was able for it,” you tried to reassure him but he shook his head. 

“Y/n, you did say no and I didn’t take it as an answer,” he scoffed. 

You were stunned into silence. “I think we need to have a talk about us, Osc.”

He nodded, taking your hands in his. 

“This isn’t fair on you. I know I can't control my illness, and neither can you. It sucks, but it’s a fact. I wish I could be there for every single race and cheer you on with the other girls, but I can’t. It’s not in the cards for me right now, and I don’t know when it will be. Oscar, I love you so much, and you’ve been with me through everything and I know you deserve someone who can always be there for you, and I’m not that person right now. I love you but I know it’s not enough,” You finally looked at him and he was biting his lip as tears streamed down his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head and stood up, dropping your hands as he paced his bedroom. “You know how much I love you, don’t you?” he asked and you nodded as you held back more tears. “So you know that I still feel your support even when we’re in different time zones or on different continents, right? You know that I value you being in as little pain as possible more than being at the barricade after a race, right? You know that I fucking love you more than I love racing, right? Y/n, I’ve been here the entire time, since we were 14 years old. You’re the reason I get in the car, you make me better, all the time it’s just you. I plan on being with you for my whole life, Y/n. I want to be there for everything. I plan to sit there through every appointment about medication until you find the one that actually helps you, I plan on being there for every day where you don’t feel up to it, I plan on being there for you, always. I never want to let go of you, and yeah, it is nice to be able to see you after a race, and I know that because fucking facetime exists. If you still want to break up because I fucked up by asking you to come here, go ahead, but don’t ever think that I’m without because I’m with you. I am so in love with you, Y/n. I mean it. I want to marry you one day, I want a family with you, I want to be old with you so we get to reminisce on the good ol’ days and make some more while we have time. ‘The good ol’ days’ will be the days I spend with you. More than any race win, more than any trophy, or than anything. My favourite part about a race weekend is coming home because I know no matter what my result was, you’ll be there with open arms, loving me anyways. You’re more than enough for me.”

You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him, crying into his hoodie as he held you. “I love you too.”

After a few moments of both of you calming down, he finally spoke. “Can you forgive me for being such an asshole?” he asked, wiping his eyes. 

You nodded, a small smile on your face. “I can, can you forgive me for being such an idiot?”

He chuckled. “You’re no idiot,” he picked you up and gently placed you back on the bed lying beside you. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.”

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[alchemistc]

Buck's halfway through his third cup of startlingly bad coffee when Josh pushes the door to the breakroom open, looking mildly concerned in the half second before someone else looms over his shoulder.

He's too numb to do much more than take another sip of coffee as he watches Josh usher Tommy in.

The door clicks shut behind him. Buck wonders for a moment if Tommy's ever actually been to the new dispatch headquarters before. If he ever went to the old one, charming grin on his face while he waited for Abby to finish up so he could take her out, drive her home while her car was in the shop - but no, Tommy would have worked on it himself, maybe.

Had Josh recognized him, that first time, with half of his soot on Buck's face, and just never said anything?

The silence is tense. They're in a fishbowl, no room to lash out even if either of them wanted to because more than half the people working in this place can see them if they just tip their head to the side.

"How can I help?"

It's - his voice is strained, scared, worried. Buck doesn't have a single guess as to how he knows. Maybe Bobby. It's the only person he can think of who would have -.

Buck snorts. "I rebounded with a serial killer who just kidnapped my sister and my baby niece or nephew. I don't - I'm not sure what you want."

He glances up just in time to see the end of Tommy's grimace. Good. He's not sure how much more disastrous of a choice he could have made to try to get Tommy out of his system, but at least it hurts him to know. At least...

"Do you want me to go?"

Buck can't remember anyone asking, before. Usually they just... leave. Get up, walk out, disappear. Tommy bubbled Buck five times in three months. Buck went through seven bags of flour before he drove Eddie to the airport.

His voice shakes on his "No," and Tommy is there, all of the sudden, his hand hovering just over Buck's shoulder, like he realized halfway there it might not be welcome. "Do you still think I need to keep looking for someone better than you?"

It'd been seeing Tommy out with a guy that'd prompted him to stop fucking baking and make an effort to just...get over it But with Eddie away, and the rest of the 118 so wrapped up in their lives, there weren't a whole lot of outlets for that. And it's been easy to willfully misinterpret Tommy's breakup speech. Or - interpret it in the most hurtful way possible.

"Is this what you want to do right now?" Tommy asks, even and measured. "Will this help?"

"I want my sister back!"

Tommy takes a step back. His hands shift to his pockets, and Buck just wants -

"Why are you here?"

He tips his head up. Holds Tommy's gaze. Tommy flounders in a way Buck's never seen before.

He looks - tired. Good. White Henley under a flannel Buck had always told him brought out his eyes. The jeans Buck had stolen once or twice because they made his ass look good. His hair's grown in at the sides, and the sprinkling of greys are more obvious than the last time he'd seen it this length.

"I just... didn't want you to be alone."

Tears threaten at the corners of his eyes. He wants to laugh, but he's terrified if he starts he won't be able to hold in the fear. "When did that change?"

Tommy gnaws on his cheek. "You have so many people, Buck. You have -."

"I don't want emotional repression Tommy here, so if you're just here to keep me distracted until someone else can be here you should just... go."

Something flashes in his gaze. Anger, maybe. Terror.

"Please let me stay."

It hurts, to hear it. It hurts to hear the trepidation in his voice as he says it. Buck just wants to pull him in, tuck his face into the curve of his neck, soak in the warmth of his arms.

Buck spends too long staring at his knees. Long enough for Tommy to shift, to sigh, to nod his head decisively out of the corner of Buck's eye.

The word is stuck in his throat. Has been for months, since Tommy looked at him with teary eyes and walked away.

"I won't be able to let you go again."

He's already half turned away. Buck can only see half his expression as his eyes dip closed. He swallows. Nods, again.

Buck can't watch him push back through that door, so he stares at the toes of his boots until his vision starts to blur.

A second pair of toes swim into his eyeline. A hand shifts through his curls, snagging on knots, digging towards his scalp, and he can't quite bite back the sob. The arms that reach for him are warm, big and familiar, and Buck gives himself over to the panic and the fear that have been clawing at his chest for hours now. Tommy says something - whispers it into the air above Buck's head over and over, but Buck can't - he just -

He presses his face into Tommy's stomach, digs his fingers into the back of his shirt, sucks in horrible, gasping breaths. It's not enough. Nothing will be until he's got Maddie in his arms.

But it's more than he had an hour ago.

"Stay," he manages, and Tommy's fingers curl around Buck's neck and hold.

[froggiewrites]

May I request some Luffy smut? Maybe including some aphrodisiac of some kind or influence from a devil fruit- I don't mind! I'd just love to see your ideas

I am SO sorry this has taken so long, thank you to everyone who's sent in requests for being so patient. Life has been kicking my ass this month so badly I haven't even been able to read any fanfic, let alone write it. Fingers crossed that the end of November is kinder than the beginning!

I'm really excited to have finally finished this request, I'm a big sucker for sex pollen/aphrodisiac stuff so this was really fun for me! Also, this was my first time writing for Luffy, so I hope I did him justice!

Need

Pairing: Luffy x Reader

NSFW

Summary: You find your Captain in dire need of a little help. What kind of friend would you be if you didn't provide? Warnings: Smut, Sex Pollen/Aphrodisiac, Oral Sex (Reader receiving), Vaginal Sex Word Count: 1.8k

You should have known something was wrong when the ship was quiet. The Thousand Sunny is never quiet. There’s always the sound of clashing metal, of excited voices, of a song dancing its way across the deck. But you don’t hear a single noise outside of your door, nor do you see anyone as you pad your way outside. 

You knew that you were docking soon, that your crew would leave to explore the island, but you didn’t expect them to leave without waking you up. You had been on night watch last night, so you certainly needed the rest, but you’re not used to them not at least momentarily waking you to let you know where everyone’s going.

Your surprise and confusion only grows as you hear someone crashing through the brush, and you see your Captain emerge, sprinting precariously toward the ship as though he’s being chased.

“Luffy?”

He doesn’t answer as he continues to rush forward, launching himself up onto the Sunny. Luffy stumbles onto the deck, teetering dangerously towards the railing. Before you can rush to catch him, his back hits the wood, and he lowers himself to the ground, legs splayed out. You can’t even tell if he can see you until he murmurs your name. He’s dripping with sweat, his face red.

You kneel down between his legs, leaning forward to try to get a good look at him. You can’t see any visible injuries, but clearly something is horribly wrong. “Are you okay, Luff?”

“No.” His voice is nothing but a whine, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “Need…something.”

“Something?”

Luffy glances around, pout on his face. “Something. Dunno what.”

You reach out to rest your hand on his forehead, which is burning so hot you almost pull it back in shock. He leans into your touch, giving off a soft hum. “You have a fever. Do you know what happened to you?”

“Nothing happened. We were all exploring, and we split into groups, and then…hm…I ate that fruit Zoro picked.”

Oh god. Zoro’s not exactly a botanist, or a survivalist, and for a single moment you believe with every fiber of your being that your dear friend has accidentally poisoned your captain. “What kind of fruit was it?”

“I dunno. It was sweet. And red.”

You sigh. “That doesn’t narrow it down at all. God, you would think that eating one mystery fruit in your life would be enough for you.”

His indignation beats out his discomfort for just a moment. “The first one went really well.”

You guess you can’t argue with that. “Can you remember anything else about it? We can rule out any devil fruit since you haven’t…exploded.”

“It was warm. And it made me wanna come find you.”

That makes you pause. “It…made you want to find me? Like specifically me?”

“Yeah.”

You have a bad feeling about this. “Do you know why you wanted me?”

He squints in concentration. “To…make it better.”

“How?”

He grabs your hand and places it back on his face. The sound he makes is borderline erotic. “Like this. This helps.”

The warmth against your hand, the moan that escapes your captain, the tent you can see growing in his pants, it all starts painting a very troubling picture. A very tempting one, but troubling nonetheless. “Luffy, are you warm anywhere in particular?”

“My stomach. And lower.” He pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you and burying his face in your neck. His nose nuzzles against you, and he takes a deep breath, inhaling your scent and sighing. His hands gently massage against your hips, reveling in the feeling of your skin beneath his fingertips. “You’re soft,” he murmurs, lips brushing lightly against you. You clench your thighs involuntarily, a move you hope he doesn’t notice.

“You’re—ahh!” One of his hands moves up to your breast, squeezing your breast through your shirt, and he moans again at your squeak. “You’re not in your right mind, Luffy! I think that fruit was—ah!” His hand slides beneath your shirt, then your bra, and finally he pinches your nipple. 

“Come closer.” His voice is thick as he pulls you onto his lap. “I think this is fixing it. Feels nice.” He jerks his hips, and you can feel his hardness rub against you. You try to keep your moan inside of your mouth, but when you do, he huffs, and ruts into you harder.

“Luffy!”

He grins. “That’s better.” As his hand begins to slide down the front of your pants you finally come to your senses and grab it, stopping him in his tracks. He blinks at you, a little clarity coming back to his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“You–you’re clearly under the influence of something, and I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want–”

“I want it.” The hand slides slowly down further. His voice grows hungrier, more desperate. “I need it.”

With the way he’s looking at you, pupils blown out and cheeks flushed, you believe him.

“Well if you really need it, I’d hate to deprive you, Captain.”

He grins, and before you know it, you’re pinned to the deck, your shirt and bra removed, Luffy’s teeth pressing insistently against your chest. He shoves his hand unceremoniously between your legs, making a small noise of satisfaction against you when you squeal. His fingers slide against your clothed clit, sending a shiver up your spine and slowly building the heat in your gut. He hums quietly, “It’s wet.” He looks up at you. “For me?”

You flush, before nodding quickly. You can’t bring yourself to look at him out of fear you’ll combust. You can see the sweat sliding down the muscles in his arms and chest, his tongue peeking out of his mouth as he pants. He looks even better than you’d ever dreamed, his eyes radiating a hunger than you never expected to be directed at you.

He quickly slides down your pants and underwear in a single motion, and in your surprise you press your thighs together, shielding yourself from him. He practically growls, “Stop that. Wanna taste.”

He pries your thighs apart, diving into you with the same enthusiasm he does everything else. His tongue laps at you with reckless abandon as he sloppily takes everything you’ll give him. His hands pull you impossibly closer, his nose brushing against your clit as his mouth explores. When you moan, he laughs against you, the rumble of it spreading across your sensitive skin and making your thighs tense around his head. You worry you’ll suffocate him, drown him, but he doesn’t seem to mind losing to you.

You can feel the tension building in your body, your legs shaking as you come closer and closer to your peak. Your hands grip the grass beneath you, one second away from ripping it out of the deck entirely. Some part of you is hyper aware of the fact you are out in the open, where anybody could see or hear, but the rest of you is lost in the pleasure of the moment, in the feeling of your Captain’s tongue against you. So you don’t try to stop your back from arching as your climax grows nearer, nor do you make any attempt to hold back your cry as you cum on your Captain’s face.

He pulls away from you, his face dripping, his pupils blown out, and his lips upturned into a dazed smile. You can’t bring yourself to look away as he slowly licks his lips, savoring every drop of you. Without a word, his mouth crashes into yours, and you can taste yourself on his lips. His hands roughly force down his pants, exposing his weeping cock to the cold air. He lets out a borderline whimper of relief against your lips, before pulling back just long enough to whisper, “Get ready.”

“Lu–ah!” He thrusts into you in one smooth stroke as his lips once again insistently press against yours, stealing your breath away. You can feel every inch of him as your body welcomes him in, clenching around his length. He moans into your mouth, the sound deep and wanton. He gives both of you little time to adjust before his hips are rocking, chasing the release he’s been so desperate for. He’s moving so quickly you’re surprised he was patient enough to even wait this long. His hands are borderline bruising on your hips, his teeth clacking against yours as your kiss grows rougher and rougher, as your dear friend and Captain pounds into you with the fervor of an animal in heat. 

You can feel his muscles tense under your fingers as you pull him tighter. His breaths grow more ragged with every moment, and as he finally pulls away from your kiss you get to see the beautiful sight of the dam breaking as Luffy finally cums. His face is filled with a mix of relief, exhaustion, and affection as he gives a final few thrusts, your own climax coming not soon after. He collapses on top of you, and the weight is more comforting than crushing, though it steals your breath away anyway.

“I was right.” His voice is sleepy and slow, and you can’t help but picture the faces of your friends as they find you stripped bare and pinned to the deck below your Captain. Sanji might have a breakdown.

“Right about what?”

“I needed you. You fixed it.” His hand comes to rest on the back of your head affectionately, and he places a comically loud smooch on your forehead.

“So you’re all cured?”

“Ye–” He hums, and you can see an idea take him as his face scrunches up and his eyes shift away. “No. I think we’ll need to do this again.”

You can’t keep the smile out of your voice as you respond. “Oh yeah? How many more times, do you think?”

“I dunno. A lot. It could take a while.”

You laugh. “You know, I think we can do this as many times as it takes.”

He lets out an overjoyed laugh. “Awesome!”

“But first we should get inside before anyone else gets back. I don’t really want them to see me like this.”

He nods, quickly scooping you up and carrying you in the direction of his cabin. Before you can say anything else, you hear the voices of your crew coming closer, and you quietly urge him to rush.

You only get a moment of relief before you hear Zoro’s confused voice.

“Whose clothes are these?”

Your panic is quickly overshadowed by Luffy’s booming laugh rumbling through his chest, spreading the same infectious joy that he always does. The embarrassment is worth it, just to hear such a wonderful sound.

Tag List:  @pandora-writes-one-piece @shy-writer-999 @saturogojosgirl @dreamcastgirl99 @tochillwithamockingjay

[dogsplayingpoker]

Ok weird it wasn't letting me reblog this properly. Anways hiiiii

I did read it (over a year ago when i reblogged this) and that isn't what I said, or my criticism of his point and, overall, the neo-liberal ancient-contemporary comparative perspective that Devereaux is routinely writing these articles in. It would be silly to be fully Pro-Rome, sure, but I'm not really accusing him of that persay. I do still think his general perspective is a silly and factually inaccurate one and disagree with it, so I therefor disagree with the arguments he makes starting from this perspective. In particular, I think that no matter how much he claims to actively be against it, Devereaux and the many historians that follow his same playbook end up: 1. romanticizing (I previously said "admiring," which may have been where we got mixed up) Rome by claiming it was a ghastly horrific slave state (true) while also being unable to help from looking to "the good parts" with a kind of breathless nostalgia, and here, overtly for guidance. This is of course a pretty common issue for classicists, unfortunately, including professors of mine that I've generally really respected. Usually the "good parts" = freedom of religion in occupied territories, civil rights afforded to slaves (+the way that pre-Race slavery functioned differently in general), and exactly what Devereaux says in the title of the article, i.e. their "Notion of authority" being likened, often, to a gentle but firm father figure who knows whats best for his children. It is absolutely hilarious to me how often historians, even ones that claim to have left-wing values, can believe in the noble pater familias rule of the romans with a smile and a tear in their eye. Does anyone else here remember 'the white man's burden'? Did anyone see that weird tucker carlson speech where he talks about daddy coming to spank the disobedient little girl that (assumably?) was supposed to be the Biden government? Anyways. Writers try to isolate only that there was religious self determination (in occupied territories of an expansionist empire), that they Ruled the horrible violent imperial war machine Fairly, and then don't even hide the fumble when they get to the slavery part, proudly saying YEAH, they were ENSLAVED, sure, and that's BAD, BUT........ This all ties into issue two, or the underlying issue:

2. Devereaux is a liberal American historian that is either unable to appreciate the full context of the country he lives in OR is actively obfuscating it AND/OR accepts it and thinks its just peachy outside of a few stubborn issues like police brutality and the like which he thinks can be handled in a vacuum by throwing enough good old fashioned liberal values at them. He fails to view issues from a systemic lens and therefor thinks anything he doesn't like is a weird flaw coming from some outside source. In that article (and I can't find this specific article again on Foreign Policy to pull examples from, I'm sorry) he was trying to 'learn from rome' for the sake of America. Even if he's saying Rome was a heavily flawed society, he is saying our empire can still learn a good thing from their empire. I disagree with that. I disagree with the empires staying empires in the first place, or that empires are things worth saving, or that they're even possible to save. My argument is also that we should actually definitely not look to Ancient Rome for advice on law enforcement, or indeed any of our policies point blank period. I personally think this kind of Rome-USA compare and contrast exercise is always fnny because the writer also never seems to reckon with how much we already, fundamentally, ARE Rome-- in all the worst ways, and in the ways he's claiming we can 'learn' from them. We already have. We've been romanticizing and following in their footsteps very intentionally the whole time, just as others were inspired to follow in ours in a horrific timeline of gore and human atrocities. Devereaux, per his website, is really into classical liberalism, liberal democracies, private property, free-market capitalism, and John Locke. (https://acoup.blog/2024/07/05/collections-the-philosophy-of-liberty-on-liberalism/). We simply have really different perspectives on politics that also inform how we view and would choose to write about things as historians.

I think this quote from that blog post on liberalism is especially funny in context: "And of course Cicero himself never fully absorbs the implications of his philosophy: a wealthy Roman slave-holder, it never occurs to Cicero that perhaps he daily violates the natural law by keeping people in bondage." Devereaux himself never fully absorbs the implications of his philosophy: a white well-to-do professor in an elite seat within American Academia, it never occurs to Devereaux that perhaps he daily violates the individual freedoms of liberalism by rationalizing and hiding away the dark parts of a fundamentally unjust empire relying on the slave labor of prisoners, the indentured servitude of sweatshop workers worldwide, the slaughter and subjugation of millions of in the global south and the underclasses within the empire itself, and the theft and hoarding of the world's resources. But okay. Cicero bad, John Locke good. Got it. My argument would of course be that they are both bad, both equally ignoring the reality of the society they lived in and their places within it. Devereaux is starting his argument from an already catastrophically flawed point of view that forces him to look past things like 'context' whenever it becomes inconvenient. He has to say in the post multiple times that like yeah, sure, Locke's view of who counted as a "person" worthy of having things like "rights" was, um...narrower than ours today, but he was still correct because I like him (and it's totally different from how other people cited, like Cicero, were incorrect hypocrites). Ignore the slavery and colonialism, same old same old, it is still correct and not at all laughable to claim that the United States was a nation formed on a defining principle of inalienable freedoms for every single person. He mentions that those things were obviously bad but doesn't see them as truly conflicting, more as growing pains. He even says the founding father's misogyny and racism (towards the enslaved specifically: indigenous people, and therefore the ACTUAL founding principles of the US colonial empire, go completely unmentioned) "[...] represented betrayals of the principles that otherwise document: the crime was common, the hypocrisy was special." American exceptionalism who? Obviously if he was saying we should instate a more 1:1 ancient roman government that would also be ridiculous. But my point is that he's asking the wrong questions about the society we have and what's wrong with it in the first place. He is often wrong about Rome and near-universally wrong about America.

Despite Sparta’s reputation for superior fighting, Spartan armies were as likely to lose battles as to win them, especially against peer opponents such as other Greek city-states. Sparta defeated Athens in the Peloponnesian War—but only by accepting Persian money to do it, reopening the door to Persian influence in the Aegean, which Greek victories at Plataea and Salamis nearly a century early had closed. Famous Spartan victories at Plataea and Mantinea were matched by consequential defeats at Pylos, Arginusae, and ultimately Leuctra. That last defeat at Leuctra, delivered by Thebes a mere 33 years after Sparta’s triumph over Athens, broke the back of Spartan power permanently, reducing Sparta to the status of a second-class power from which it never recovered. Sparta was one of the largest Greek city-states in the classical period, yet it struggled to achieve meaningful political objectives; the result of Spartan arms abroad was mostly failure. Sparta was particularly poor at logistics; while Athens could maintain armies across the Eastern Mediterranean, Sparta repeatedly struggled to keep an army in the field even within Greece. Indeed, Sparta spent the entirety of the initial phase of the Peloponnesian War, the Archidamian War (431-421 B.C.), failing to solve the basic logistical problem of operating long term in Attica, less than 150 miles overland from Sparta and just a few days on foot from the nearest friendly major port and market, Corinth. The Spartans were at best tactically and strategically uncreative. Tactically, Sparta employed the phalanx, a close-order shield and spear formation. But while elements of the hoplite phalanx are often presented in popular culture as uniquely Spartan, the formation and its equipment were common among the Greeks from at least the early fifth century, if not earlier. And beyond the phalanx, the Spartans were not innovators, slow to experiment with new tactics, combined arms, and naval operations. Instead, Spartan leaders consistently tried to solve their military problems with pitched hoplite battles. Spartan efforts to compel friendship by hoplite battle were particularly unsuccessful, as with the failed Spartan efforts to compel Corinth to rejoin the Spartan-led Peloponnesian League by force during the Corinthian War. Sparta’s military mediocrity seems inexplicable given the city-state’s popular reputation as a highly militarized society, but modern scholarship has shown that this, too, is mostly a mirage. The agoge, Sparta’s rearing system for citizen boys, frequently represented in popular culture as akin to an intense military bootcamp, in fact included no arms training or military drills and was primarily designed to instill obedience and conformity rather than skill at arms or tactics. In order to instill that obedience, the older boys were encouraged to police the younger boys with violence, with the result that even in adulthood Spartan citizens were liable to settle disputes with their fists, a tendency that predictably made them poor diplomats. But while Sparta’s military performance was merely mediocre, no better or worse than its Greek neighbors, Spartan politics makes it an exceptionally bad example for citizens or soldiers in a modern free society. Modern scholars continue to debate the degree to which ancient Sparta exercised a unique tyranny of the state over the lives of individual Spartan citizens. However, the Spartan citizenry represented only a tiny minority of people in Sparta, likely never more than 15 percent, including women of citizen status (who could not vote or hold office). Instead, the vast majority of people in Sparta, between 65 and 85 percent, were enslaved helots. (The remainder of the population was confined to Sparta’s bewildering array of noncitizen underclasses.) The figure is staggering, far higher than any other ancient Mediterranean state or, for instance, the antebellum American South, rightly termed a slave society with a third of its people enslaved.

[help-itrappedmyself]

Dead on Main short part 2

This was not supposed to be this long. It just kept getting longer, just kept going. I found a cut-off point eventually, but there may actually be a part 3 to what was supposed to be a very short little piece. Whoops. (part 1)

Jason never had the time to be concerned about his words when he was young. Neither did anyone else around him. His dad couldn’t be bothered with anything to do with him, and Jason would have been surprised if Willis actually knew what his words were. His mother was more confused by them then anything else, and even then that was only in her rarer sober moments.

Then Jason moved in with Bruce. Dick wasn’t around much when he lived in the Manor. He had just started tolerating him when Jason had died. Dick probably knew what the words were, but they had never discussed it with each other, and Jason couldn’t begin to guess what his opinion was on them back then. 

Bruce used to entertain his fantasies of trying to think up different scenarios his words could be said in, both of them trying to make the funniest good outcome. It became a game they played when bored on stakeouts, obviously keeping the contents of the words private while playing. To be fair, there were a lot of good and funny scenarios. But they lived in Gotham, and Jason had experienced enough of the world, even at that young age, that he understood the likeliness of a bad scenario.

And then he died. And he didn’t think about his words for a very long time. Too busy training and plotting. Busy coming back to Gotham, enacting his plans and building a criminal empire. He barely remembered them himself until he was back in Gotham, operating as the Red Hood, with a trail of bodies behind him.

Assassin training, heads in a duffel bag, counts of arson, and leader of a gang, Jason was not the same kid he used to be. There were few scenarios in which his words could be said that he couldn’t come to understand. And he was at a point in his life where he could find room for a soulmate again. He was settled, secure as the anti-hero of Crime Alley, tenuous agreement with the Bats and all. He had even been by the Manor to have tea with Alfred. 

Arkham breakouts were old hat to everyone in Gotham. Citizens bunkering down, and Bats readying themselves to round up whoever made it out this time. However, this was the first Arkham breakout since his plan with Bruce and the Joker failed. The first since his agreement with the Bats to use non-lethal means. When Jason heard that it was the Joker that had broken out, he planned to kill him, truce be damned.

The Bats could probably deduce that, it was too soon into the truce for any real change to have been made. And this was the Joker. So now it was a race to see who could get to him first. 

Luckily (in this instance), Jason’s base is much closer to Arkham than the Bats. So while they are all stuck driving in from the better parts of town, Jason is already chasing the Joker down alleys. 

Joker is laughing, practically skipping away as if this is a game, and Jason almost loses him as he turns a corner he didn’t see. Jason can hear the Joker laughing, starting to speak. Probably to taunt him again. Then the sound cuts off with a choke and a thud.

Jason turns the corner to see Joker laid out flat, nose bleeding and neck at a funny ankle. A choked breath escapes him, and he looks around to see a man leaning against the alley wall.

The man’s hands are shaking, breaths choppy, and there's a bit of blood on his right hand.

Jason takes a deep breath, which causes the man to look at him out of the corner of his eye. Jason takes in the scene again. And then again, hardly daring to hope even with the evidence in front of him. 

“Is he dead?” Jason asks softly. The man turns to face him, and Jason takes a glove off and slowly, hesitantly, checks the Joker’s pulse.

“Look, in my defense…” The man trails off, looking to the heavens for a moment. “I really fucking hate clowns.” 

Jason, hope fully settled in as the Joker remains still and lifeless on the ground, pulse non-existent against his fingertips, almost laughs. Then his brain does a record scratch. Rewind. Replays the words ‘Look, in my defense’ over again, head shooting up to look at the man who just killed the Joker. 

Jason takes his other glove off, standing. He takes a step towards the man, pushing up his sleeve. The man seems nervous at his advance, watching him warily until Jason uncovers the words on his arm. The cover falls to the ground behind him as he takes another step forward. 

The man’s eyes light up in realization, and he also rushes to push up his sleeve. One more step forward and they are right in front of each other. Arms held up, brushing together as they show each other their marks.

Left forearms pressed together in the space in front of them, one reading ‘Is he dead?’ and the other “Look, in my defense.’. 

The man laughs and Jason takes in the sound of it, the happiness in his eyes as he looks up at him. Jason slowly reaches up to remove his helmet, domino still on underneath it, and lets it fall to the alley floor as well.

“You’re amazing.” Jason breaths out, hand reaching up to cup the stranger’s, his soulmate’s cheek. “You have no idea what you’ve just done for me.”

“Little bit of manslaughter.” He laughs. “Didn’t think it would be received this well.”

Jason smiles in response. “I would worship you for this, if you’d let me. I will never stop thanking you.” 

“Oh.” The man gasps, breath hitching. Jason, one hand still on his cheek, thumb stroking underneath his eye, places his other hand on the man’s waist and backs him up to the alley wall. Deliberately slowly, watching the man as he takes a deep breath, licks his lips, and lets himself be moved.

“Tell me your name and I’ll start right now.” Jason whispers.

“Danny.” The word is breathy and low, only heard due to Jason’s close proximity. 

“Danny.” Jason repeats his name like an anthem and a prayer. Prepared to give his life for this man already. And then kisses him, pressing his lips to his softly, reverently. Wanting to hold this moment forever.

[jasvtsc]

beau arlen x innocent!reader.

warnings! mdni! smut. pillow riding. beau watching the reader. mutual masturbation. guided masturbation. age gap. fingering. fem!reader. innocent!reader. softdom!beau. slight corruption (not in the bad way tho). most likely grammar mistakes.

word count! 1.8k

dating the sheriff was definitely… exciting.

beau was older than you by A LOT, but it wasn’t one of your main concerns. he treated you right. he loved you to the moon and back…

and he was just so fucking hot.

the first time you saw him, your panties literally experienced their first flood.

sure, you had a few boyfriends, but it was never– that. his piercing emerald eyes, his broad shoulders, his handsome features and the way he carried himself. you were in awe and so much frustration, trying to figure out what was happening to you.

so when somehow you did end up dating him? yeah, it only got worse.

you had your own waterfall whenever your eyes landed on him. whether it was him trying to fix his truck with his sleeves rolled up, him manspreading and leaning back in his chair whenever you came to visit him in his office, or every time he was putting on his hat — you were a mess.

and the fact that you never had sex before only made it worse.

a few boyfriends? it never went past the phase of innocent kisses and holding hands shyly as if you were both carrying some kind of disease. growing up in a sheltered house definitely didn’t help. church every sunday, no boys allowed in the house after dinner, curfew and absolutely NO SEX BEFORE MARRIAGE!! it was one of the main rules in your home, and it stressed you out to the point where you weren’t even thinking about trying to at least pleasure yourself — you were scared that it’d be some kind of sin and your soul would be dragged to hell.

you were a good christian girl.

but that changed as soon as you started dating beau.

date someone your age, they said. nahh, you were in for the good ol’ cowboy with that strong drawl and a few silver streaks in his hair.

however, you couldn’t help but be scared. you literally knew nothing, and he already had so much experience. it was actually kind of intimidating for you. you were scared that maybe you wouldn’t be able to satisfy him enough or you’d do something wrong. that’s why you’ve been trying to avoid any intimacy at all cost.

and beau didn’t notice at first. he wasn’t with you for your body or physical pleasure. he was with you because you made his heart beat faster and charmed him with your cute little smile on your pinky lips with those sparkly eyes.

however, he did notice it at one point. well, more like he assumed it from the beginning. he knew you were innocent and that you’ve never really tried anything– you couldn’t keep anything from him even if you wanted to. also, you wanted to make sure he knew what he was in from the beginning. and fuck, was he going to hell for trying to make you lose some of that innocence. but he just wanted what was best for you– and that was helping ease some of your frustrations cause you were clearly a walking time bomb.

but how did he figure it out though?

well, after coming back from one of your dates, beau was driving you back to his place, his hand draped over your bare thigh because of how high your lavender sundress rolled up, giving it light squeezes from time to time. however, he decided to get more daring and slowly made his way up with his fingers. you didn’t seem to notice, too caught up reading something on your phone. but then, you widened your eyes and looked at beau, who had the same expression on his face as you. why? his fingers brushed against a damp spot on your panties.

it made his heartbeat falter, and he blinked a few times. so you did get excited around him. that’s why, as soon as you got to his place, he practically crashed his lips on yours, slamming your back against the wall and gripping your thighs tightly, lifting you and making you wrap your legs around him. he groaned and rubbed his already rock hard erection against your clothed core, making you gasp into the kiss.

fuck, that was getting serious.

“beau, i—“ you broke the kiss and looked at him with wide eyes like a deer caught in headlights. and just by that, he knew you were scared.

“i know, baby. i know,” he reassured, stroking your cheek with his knuckles, a soft smile on his lips. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t feel ready for, y’know?”

“but i want to. i just don’t want to do… that serious stuff yet,” you whispered and looked around as if someone would hear. beau chuckled lowly, then moved a strand of hair out of your face and cupped your cheek.

“then what do you want to do, darlin’? i’m all–“ but then he cut himself off and smirked as he got an idea. “you know what, actually, i know what we’ll do.”

with that, he carried you to his bedroom. he put you gently on his bed and gave you one of his pillows. you looked at him dumbfounded, tilting your head back, a faint pout on your plush lips that just made his cock strain against his jeans even more. fuck, he just wanted to know how it would feel if you were to su— not now, beau.

“we’ll try something new, ‘kay? something easy so you don’t freak out. do you trust me, baby?” he asked, stroking your hair. you nodded, looking at him like he was your everything, which made his heart warm up with even more love for you. he smiled and kissed your forehead. “good girl. now, get on that pillow and show me what a skilled little rider you are,” he patted your ass and then moved away from the bed, sitting down on an armchair nearby.

and once again, you were dumbfounded. “huh?” you asked, watching him manspread, his hand draped over his thigh and the massive bulge in his pants.

damn, you got even wetter.

this sight itself was enough to make you start moving your hips. slowly, you moved back and forth, trying to ease some of that feeling that pooled in your lower abdomen. and beau, seeing that, smiled widely, palming his crotch with his right hand, biting on the left one as it was formed in a fist.

“yeah. keep goin’. just like that, baby,” he praised, adjusting himself.

your mouth was practically watering because of that. you picked up your pace, grinding more fiercely against the pillow, enjoying the way your pussy was gliding on it, the fabric of your dampened panties only adding to the delicious friction.

soon, small gasps and pants started coming out of you. you moaned quietly and closed your eyes, your head tilting back. however, you were quickly reprimanded by beau and his stern voice.

“nuh-uh. eyes on me, baby. i want to see your pretty face when you ride that pillow,” he almost growled, the ache in his pants making him feral.

immediately, you obeyed, his dominance adding to your arousal. quickly, you tilted your head and looked at him. but when it was harder to keep up with your movements, you decided to shift. so you moved, and now, you were facing him while grinding your heat against his pillow.

beau groaned and palmed his dick harder. however, when that didn’t work, he huffed and unbuckled his belt. then, he unzipped his pants and lowered them down with his boxers, his massive cock freed from the refrains. you widened your eyes even more, letting out a whimper that made his erection twitch.

you bit your lower lip and observed him intensely as he stroked himself a few times, spreading the leaking precum and then pumping his cock to match the pace of your grinding.

“yeah. grind that little pussy on my pillow. imagine my face laying there after tonight, getting a good whiff of how desperate you were for someone to teach you how to pleasure yourself. i bet you’re gonna be humping your pillows more often now, am i right, baby? like a little puppy in heat,” he chuckled, licking his lips. then he spat on his hand and moved it back to his huge cock, pumping it even more aggressively.

“now, move your hand down, baby,” he instructed, watching as you obeyed his every word. “yeah, just like that. good girl. you’re so good f’me, baby, do y’know that?”

you whimpered, again.

“you make such pretty little sounds. jesus christ,” he panted and squeezed his dick harder. “now, move your hand under your panties— just like that, and rub your clit,” you were mindlessly listening to every word he was saying. as soon as your fingers landed on your swollen bud, slipping beneath the soaked fabric, and applying just a tiny bit of pleasure, your body jolted up and you gasped loudly.

beau grinned and increased the pace at which his hand was moving. “you’re doing so well. i’m so proud of you, baby. move your fingers faster.”

at this point, you weren’t grinding the pillow, but your hand as your fingers moved aggressively over your engorged clit. you were panting more frantically, your eyes wide and glazed from the pleasure.

and the sight of beau coming, only made it worse. his cum shot up on his shirt and hand, making him grunt lowly. he eased himself from his climax, seeing that you were struggling to get some relief. so he decided to take matters into his own hands.

he got up and kneeled on the bed, basically yanking you on your back. he tore your panties off and replaced your fingers with his, his calloused thumb rubbing your clit with experience. and then, you moaned loudly, arching into his hand as he snuck his fingers between your slick folds, propping your entrance. you almost screamed when he put his finger inside you, rubbing your velvety walls.

“fuck, you’re so soaked,” he groaned, feeling his cock get hard again. “yer gonna cum? f’me?” he asked with a smirk, adding a second finger.

and that was enough to make you come hard for the first time in your life. you moaned loudly, pressing your heat to his rough hand as your juices flooded his calloused palm. he kept whispering praises, helping you ride out your pleasure until you were spent, trying to catch your breath with the fucked out expression on your face.

beau smiled and moved his fingers out of you, making you whine in protest at how empty it suddenly felt. he licked his fingers clean and hummed in contentment.

“delicious. however, next time, you’re riding me.”

and to seal the deal, he grabbed his hat from the edge of the bed and with a playful smile, he dropped it on your head.

a/n: sooo yeah, my first smut ever💀 y’all better lmk what you think cause i have no idea if it’s good or not

༄♡tags: @beausling @titsout4nicholas @deanswidow @deansbite @aileenunfiltered @figthoughts @fitxgrld @a1ecmcdowell @hrtsoldierboy @10ava01 @angelicp0etry

[dykedvonte]

One of my mutuals opinions is the "bro code" thing, that Curly is one of those guys who wouldn't care about the victim because the perpetrator is his friend and I'm really banging my head on the wall like that other anon. I've only played through the game once but Curly's behaviour/reactions etc read completely different from the "bro code" thing and I have to wonder if my mutual and I even played the same game.. like the constant digs at him from Jimmy, his body language in his face reveal and so on like you mentioned in your post. While this game is a little different obviously, it kind of reminded of a point in Alice Madness Returns that makes it very clear that Alice's pain blinded her to the abuse of the other children and her failure to act earlier because of it. Curly is guilty of a similar inaction but it doesn't change the fact he was a victim of Jimmy too. I don't think I can look at it any other way because both of these games have really stuck with me.

I genuinely think it really is the idea that people want a simple easy to blame problem and the idea that the only relatable victims of abuse are those that "surpass" it or do a lot to help others. When it comes to victims, especially those that don't fit the typical demographics, who either accidently perpetuate it, enable it or aren't ideal in some way shape or form, people jump to ignore what they went through as it's easier than dealing with those conflicting sentiments.

The bro-code conversation in Mouthwashing stems from a concept I generally dislike that there had to be something about Curly that made him meet or keep being friends with someone like Jimmy. I think people genuinely underestimate how many like decent and good people just know an asshole or are friends with someone who is really bad outside of their view/established dynamics. The game makes it clear none of the inaction against Jimmy is because of a lack of care, it is a lack of understanding from the privaleged postions they have as men to not have to worry about what Anya does/went through and the type of extremes men like Jimmy will go through to cover it up. They are all too preoccupied in their own strifes.

Another thing I see being oversaturated the idea that you have to be a freak, misanthrope or have a disorder to do the thing Jimmy does. The game is an escalation, it's a spiral that I don't see people comment on that Jimmy was not likely having the mood swings and episodes of rage/frustration we were seeing in the game. This is after they all start experiencing the worst moments in their lives that he got THAT openly bad. Of course, this is just my interpretation but much like in real life, people that go to extremes like that usually live mundane lives. It's a pressure cooker affect to where the stress made them pop. It's self inflicted but still the case.

I really think people need to be more willing to acknowledge that not everything needs to be an extreme or in black and white or easy to understand. It doesn't need to be happy or have an answer or solution, especially in the cases where the abused sadly helps perpetuate what they experience. It's not he should've known better from experience or shouldn't he have known what could've happened because victims tend to not like to think in matters of the worst. Not to mention, especially in cases of abuse where it feels so personally directed that you don't expect to happen to someone else.

[ventique18]

Malleus really wouldn't want to create dreams for everyone because his reason for doing this entire incident is rooted in love. And controlling others by forcing them into dreams they don't want is not love. While it's true that the characters end up realizing they don't want those dreams, that's the keyword exactly. Realizing. Their dreams are the easiest way to escape from their current biggest problem, and so they created a dreamscape where they don't have to worry anymore.

Malleus cares a lot about others and generally just wants them to find happiness, sometimes even at the cost of his own comfort. You can clearly see that in the way he just lets his knights find their purpose in protecting him, even when he himself feels a bit suffocated by the attention. You can see this in the way he made himself favor humans even when everyone else around him hates them, because Lilia loves Silver and Silver is a human and disliking Silver would make Lilia sad.

He's a bit callous because he doesn't know how to make others happy the normal powerless way, but the fact is that he's one of the characters who actively DOES NOT want to be a bad person. In fact he's always trying his best to be a good person. Everything he does is because he thinks it would make others happy. Being controlled as the sole heir to their bloodline did not make him happy, so he probably doesn't like the idea of dictating others' lives even if it's just a dream.

And I think that'll play a huge part in Book 7's conclusion. He'll probably fall apart when he realizes that he causes suffering when all he ever wanted was to make others happy. Just like usual, he could never do anything right even with that much power.

[rebelssvy]

fuck buddy

ushijima x reader

- just a thought i had!

pure smut, sex.

sometimes his practice was just too hard. playing at a professional level is just soooo competitive. of course it was never that difficult for him. but it can be frustrating sometimes.

he just never gets that much time alone. having a high level of pent up tension within him. he’s a quiet guy and doesn’t let it show that much. well, that is untill he met you.

you came to one of his games and you stood out among the fans. he noticed you in a heart beat. but after the game was over and nothing happened. he chose to walk his separate way from you.

well until you ran into the professional at a coffee shop. it was sudden. and even crazier when he came up to you and said,

“you came to my game, correct?”

it left you in shock that he approached you first.

ever since then you guys have gone out a couple times. once it became more of a routine,things often would get escalated and result in sex.

bad practice? he’s coming over to fuck.

coach yelled at him? he just wants to see you.

he messed up a receive? he’s making you cum on his thigh.

and so here you were, getting pounded by him doggy style because they lost a non league game. of course the game didn’t really matter. but losing was losing. and ushijima hated losing.

he kept mumbling on about how he played good enough that they should’ve won. and how his teammates made to many mistakes.

“ushiiiii! i can’t- keep going” you screamed out. you had already came once and your second was approaching fast.

he’s usually more vanilla then anything. but today somthing awoke in him. you were clawing at your sheets. practically drooling against the fabric.

he suddenly flipped you around and started pounding you in a new position. missionary, except he had your legs pressed to your chest.

“oh my god” you moaned out to him.

“i’m so sorry dear i just- i can’t help my self right now.” he grunted out pushing himself in and out of you.

“it’s ok-!” you scream out again. bringing one of your hands to his wrist and the other to your clit.

once he notices the circles your rubbing into yourself he swats your hand away to do it himself.

you start clenching yourself around him. breath getting sucked out of your lungs.

“oh yea, goood girl.” he says while feeling you clench around his length.

your orgasm hits you like a truck. your legs wrap around his torso. making him his your deepest angle.

he lets out some grunts before pulling out.

and then he does somthing he’s never done before…

he finishes on your face

still fucked out of it, you don’t even realize when he’s done.

with a low guttural groan he says.

“so pretty”

……………………………………………………………………………

- ushijima brainrot.

- this might’ve been a little much idk. i’m going insane

- he eventually asks you to be his gf don’t worry

[a1ecmcdowell]

all the times mechanic!dean was humbled by bimbo!reader - 18+

★ ˚⋆

dean was convinced, a lot of the time, that not a single coherent thought existed in the white noise of your brain, just accepting that you were one of those girls with a pretty face to her legacy. it wasn't a bad thing. he'd never admit it, but seeing your face light up when he explained something to you was one of his favorite looks on you - the glimmering wide eyes, the o-shaped part of your glossy lips as the pieces clicked into place.

other times, he was floored by the capacity of that pretty little head and the information it held. completely floored. you never said anything with malice either, or chastised him for not thinking in the same way that you did. just stated the things like fact, typing away on your pretty pink iphone with your pretty pink manicured nails, not even looking up to see that you'd taken his breath away.

there were a lot more of these instances than he cared to admit. he was a proud, prideful kind of guy, often convinced that it was his way or the highway.

until you came around.

he'd started a list on his phone, of some of those times, cementing them into a vault of your history. maybe he'd show it to you on your wedding or something cheesy like that, that he knew you would love. or maybe he'd keep it to himself, as to not humble himself further.

when you'd called a car's failing engine a "tummy ache", and that was how he figured out that the cause was the owner putting in the wrong gas.

the first time you talked him into trying on your panties, and he'd tried to deny it heavily, and you'd said, "it's just clothes." and it was so simple but he'd never thought of it like that. like holy shit, yeah, it's just clothes.

when you'd tried to hook up with him at his work, in the backseat of his car no less, and dean desperately tried to keep some semblance of professionalism at his job, and you were like "who's gonna see? no one comes here." and he proceeded to fuck you into the leather with, you guessed it; not a single customer to see the fogged windows and the rattling frame.

you got him to start saying things are cunty and that's not even the humbling part. the fact that he could not fucking stop himself from calling everything cunty when you were around was.

when you'd called the stars "little suns" and now every time he looks at the night sky, he can't help but think if you're looking at the little suns too.

he'd been staying late trying to finish a car and you'd gotten upset and told him "who's gonna need their car this late?" and yeah. who the hell was? he made it home in five minutes and made up for his time away.

he told you that one day he'd take you to meet his family and you called them the witch burners with the straightest face he'd ever seen. yeah. they did do that sometimes. but don't say that to their face.

sometimes his old habits would kick in and he'd start doing everything for you, like he did growing up with sammy, and you remind him every time that you were his baby but not his baby.

he joked that you were baby vers. 2, and you'd said, "you can't call everything you park yourself in baby." he started calling you princess immediately after.

he'd grabbed your hair once when you were bent over during sex and you whirled around so fast he honestly thought you were going to kill him. like there was more fear in his eyes then than there was in some of the hunts he did before he retired.

when you insisted in front of his coworkers that, no, you did not want to drive your car if he was there to tote you around already. like, fuck him, honestly, for not assuming you would want to be chauffeured. he was still living that shit down.

"no, dean, i'm not blowing you right now, this is a chanel lip gloss." right. because he was supposed to know what that meant. "i am not wiping chanel off with a paper towel, dean." tell chanel to get off her fucking high horse, thanks!

he tried to be romantic once and put his hand on your thigh while driving and you glanced down with a pout and said, "your filthy oil hands :(" with that exact sad face. he didn't know how else to convey the utter devastation in his typed list without the fucking emoticon. you'd have thought he ran over your baby or something.

notes, guys ... i fear they are rent free rn. something ab grumpy/sunshine in any form is going to do it for me every time.

tags ( if some of these dont work im gonna run up and down the street butt naked on god ) @titsout4nicholas @deans-yn @dipperscavern @devoursweetly @jasvtsc @panickedbitch @t3l3vangelism @jensenacklesfan69 @manicjk @mkendlic @hischrrypie @deanswidow @figthoughts

[halfmoonaria]

what i can’t say

pairing: tara carpenter & female reader

summary: tara wants the only person she can’t have, but she’ll do whatever it takes to change that —even if it means risking everything.

word count: 10.7k

author’s note: yall don’t forget to wish me a happy birthday this friday on the 22nd!

Tara wasn't used to hearing the word "no."

Growing up, she'd mastered the art of getting exactly what she wanted, whether it was a toy, a treat, or just a little more attention.

All it took was a well-timed look, a hint of a pout, or a small scene in a public place—not that she ever felt bad about it. After all, it always worked, and it always felt worth it.

But more than any toy or treat, Tara always seemed to have what she wanted most: you.

Her best friend since... well, since you both were small enough to think scraped knees were the end of the world. You'd been there from the start, the friend who laughed with her, who stood by her through every phase and whim.

Tara didn't have to beg or throw a fit to keep you close. You just were. It was like you were woven into each other's lives, and if anyone asked, she'd say you'd always be there—like you were something she'd managed to keep just for herself.

If anyone asked, Tara couldn't quite recall a time before you.

You were there in every memory that mattered, the friend who understood her quirks, finished her sentences, and knew every dream she'd ever had.

You were inseparable, not just in the way kids cling to each other, but in the way people do when they know they'll never quite find someone who gets them like this again.

You shared everything with your clothes, midnight snacks, and every embarrassing crush you'd ever had.

You laughed together about the silly things you thought were love back then, sharing conversations about who you'd marry someday and who had the best smile.

Although. Tara was always a little quieter during these talks, listening more than sharing, and you never thought much of it. That was just Tara, after all, always keeping a bit of herself back, tucked away in her own mind.

But when it came to your middle school crush, she never missed a chance to tease you, brushing him off as if he wasn't as special as you seemed to think.

She'd laugh and tell you he wasn't as funny as you made him out to be, or that his smile really wasn't anything to write home about.

To you, it was just typical Tara, always finding a way to poke holes in the things you liked.

You didn't notice how her smile faltered when you gushed over him or how her gaze turned a little sharper, though even she didn't fully understand why.

It left her with an uneasy feeling, the kind she could never quite explain, that made her want to change the subject whenever she could.

And as time passed during this time, it seemed like your crush only grew, and so did the way you talked about him.

No matter how many times Tara brushed off your comments or tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, you still lit up whenever his name came up.

Brian.

Brian slipped into conversations almost daily, whether it was about the way he made everyone laugh in class or how he'd held the door for you that morning. And each time you brought him up, Tara felt a pang of irritation she couldn't quite explain.

She never told you how much she despised Brian, but the feeling ran deep. It gnawed at her whenever you mentioned him, and even though she tried to brush it off, she found herself disliking him more and more.

The worst part was, she couldn't understand why. It wasn't like you weren't allowed to like a boy—that was just part of life, after all.

Whenever she hinted at her frustration with her mom, she'd hear the same thing: it was normal, fun even, to have a crush, and Tara would experience it too someday.

But she hadn't. She'd never felt that way about any boy in your grade, no matter how many times she tried to convince herself she should.

It confused her, and in a way, it confused you too. You'd always laughed off the fact that Tara never seemed to "crush" the way you did, teasing her about how she'd figure it out someday.

But whenever you'd gush over Brian, Tara would just sit quietly, trying to ignore the strange knot in her stomach that seemed to tighten with every word you said.

Time went on, and those middle school crushes never quite faded.

Brian only seemed to grow more attractive, transitioning from the shy boy you liked to someone who was effortlessly charming, with a confidence that made everyone notice him.

Back then, you'd have called him "cute," but now, there were new words—hot, gorgeous—terms that made Tara roll her eyes every time they left your mouth.

But you still felt that rush of excitement when he was around, that same giddiness you'd had since you were ten, only now it felt a little more real.

Tara, on the other hand, hadn't changed much when it came to relationships.

While others around you both dated, broke up, and fell in love, she stayed quietly distant, brushing off questions and teasing about why she never seemed interested in anyone.

The truth was, she didn't really know why herself. There was a part of her that felt left out when you gushed about Brian, when your other friends talked about crushes or brought dates to dances. She tried to tell herself that she just wasn't interested yet, that maybe someday she'd feel what everyone else seemed to.

But as the years went by, Tara started to realize that maybe she was different—and she couldn't shake the strange sense of frustration that came with that realization, especially whenever Brian was mentioned.

Somewhere along the way, as high school turned into something more serious, so did her thoughts about you.

Tara didn't want to admit it at first—not to herself, not to anyone. The idea crept up quietly, unexpected and unwanted, like some shadow she couldn't shake.

The way you'd laugh at something silly, the familiar warmth of your hand in hers, or the way her heart would skip when you'd throw an arm around her shoulders. It all made sense now, but it was a sense she desperately didn't want.

When the realization hit her, it was like she couldn't breathe.

There was this tiny voice in her mind that whispered, almost cruelly, You're in love with her. Tara's immediate reaction was to shut it down, to deny it with everything she had. This couldn't be right. She wasn't in love with you.

That wasn't what best friends did. She told herself she was just confused, that maybe it was normal to feel this strongly about someone you'd known your entire life.

But every time she saw you look at Brian—every time you said his name with that sparkle in your eyes—it felt like a punch to the gut, and there was no denying it anymore.

The more she tried to reason with herself, the clearer it became. And that terrified her.

She couldn't let herself feel this way about you. You were her best friend, the person who knew her better than anyone else.

The idea of telling you—of you finding out and looking at her with pity, or worse, disgust—made her stomach twist. She could already imagine the awkward smile, the way you might back away, laugh it off, or even leave her behind. It would shatter her, and she knew that.

And so, she decided then and there that this secret would stay with her.

She'd lock it away, bury it so deep that even she could forget about it someday. Telling anyone—even her parents—wasn't an option.

Not only did she fear their reaction, but she knew they wouldn't understand. To them, you were her friend, nothing more, and the thought of losing you, or of anyone making her feel like her love was wrong, was enough to keep her quiet.

But keeping quiet wasn't easy. The secret felt like it was burning a hole through her, consuming her thoughts and leaving her frustrated in ways she couldn't explain.

She wanted to be around you, but every moment with you felt like a reminder of what she could never have, and it only made the ache grow stronger.

She was angry, scared, and hopelessly in love with the one person she could never tell.

So she became skilled at hiding the depth of her feelings, putting on a mask that had somehow become part of her daily life.

She played her role well, acting like nothing had changed between you both.

At school, she kept her gaze casual, listening to you talk as if she didn't want to lose herself in the way your lips moved.

During sleepovers, she'd lie next to you, forcing herself to focus on anything but the warmth of your arm just inches from hers.

And at parties, now that you were both old enough to go, she'd laugh and dance alongside you, all while pretending her stomach wasn't in knots from the way you looked at her under dim lights, a playful grin lighting up your face.

It was like living with a constant tug-of-war inside her, balancing between wanting to be near you and needing to keep her heart steady.

She'd perfected the art of nonchalance, even when you made it nearly impossible. When you got excited about something—eyes wide, laughing about some small victory—Tara would have to swallow down the urge to reach out, to brush a strand of hair from your face or lean in just a little closer.

The hardest moments were the little things, the 'normal' things, like when you'd give her an easy, carefree compliment, your eyes warm and sincere.

She'd feel the blush rise to her cheeks, and she'd quickly look away or laugh it off, hoping you didn't notice the way her voice wavered.

And when you held her hands, like you always did, squeezing them to give her a little boost of courage, she'd act as though it didn't send her heart racing, as though she wasn't fighting the impulse to hold on tighter.

Every smile you threw her way, every moment you lingered too close, she had to act like it didn't make her insides flip.

She trained herself to respond with that same easy smile, to pretend she didn't feel like the air had been knocked out of her whenever you looked at her like she was the only one in the room.

It was a constant game of pretending, a battle against herself that she had to win every single day.

And as much as she tried to hide it, each touch, each laugh, each simple, familiar look left her more tangled in her own emotions.

She tried to tell herself that these things were just... normal. Friends did these things all the time, she told herself, even if everything in her felt far from normal.

But no matter how many times she told herself that, her resolve was starting to crack. She couldn't help but notice her jealousy flare up when she saw you talking to other people, especially Brian.

Then, one Tuesday at lunch, you dropped a bombshell that flipped her world just a bit more.

She leaned back, half-focused on your conversation with the others at the table, when she saw you walking toward her with a grin so bright it felt like it could light up the whole room.

Tara felt her heart jump at the sight, her thoughts immediately swept into the excitement that was clearly radiating off of you.

You barely took your seat before bursting with excitement. "Tara!"

Tara's smile matched yours, though a part of her already felt a small pang of unease. But she pushed it aside and leaned in eagerly, mirroring your excitement. "What happened?"

You practically glowed as you told her, "He sat next to me in class today." Tara's chest tightened, but she held her expression steady, keeping that casual, easy smile.

She already knew who you meant—you didn't even have to say his name. It was in the way your voice softened, how your eyes sparkled with excitement she rarely saw except when you were really, really happy.

She couldn't stand the sight of it. Seeing you so... in love, so giddy, felt like a punch she wasn't ready for.

You practically glowed, your whole personality seeming to shift as if you were that younger version of yourself again, like back in middle school when every new crush filled you with wide-eyed excitement.

Except now, it wasn't an innocent schoolgirl crush; it was real, and you were already slipping further from her reach with each passing second.

Tara kept smiling, but inside, every bit of her was tangled up in knots.

You'd never look at her like that. Never talk about her with that bubbly, uncontainable happiness. The thought clawed at her, a reminder she could never push away.

She was your best friend, sure, but she'd never be the person who made your cheeks flush or your heart race. And somehow, knowing that made it even harder to keep that same easy smile on her face.

"And?" she asked, hoping her voice didn't betray her, even as she felt a knot forming. She listened as you recounted every word, every laugh you'd shared with him in that class.

Then you dropped the real news, your eyes sparkling. Your grin only widened. "And then, right before class ended, he asked me to go with him to that party next weekend."

Tara's heart sank, yet she barely let the smile slip. She forced herself to open her mouth in surprise, eyes wide, like she was just as thrilled as you were. "Really?" she said, trying to sound as shocked and happy as you seemed, her voice just a bit too bright. "Did you... did you say yes?"

Of course you did. Tara felt stupid for even considering asking you that question.

But you didn't seem to mind, you just nodded eagerly, your whole face lighting up. "Obviously!"

"Oh, wow. That's... that's great, actually," she said, her voice a little too steady, but it was the best she could manage.

Inside, though, she was unraveling. You were actually going with him. It shouldn't have been such a shock—after all, this was what you wanted, right?

But knowing that you'd be there, dressed up, all smiles and laughter... with him... felt like a lead weight sinking in her chest.

She could already picture it, the two of you in some dimly lit room with music thumping, Ethan leaning in close to say something to make you laugh, you smiling up at him like he was the only person in the world.

The thought of it made her throat tighten, her mind racing with feelings she didn't even want to name.

"Are you excited?" she asked, her voice coming out just barely above a whisper. She hoped you wouldn't notice how strained it sounded, how much effort it took just to ask.

You nodded, your smile impossibly bright. "Yeah, I mean... I didn't think he even noticed me like that, you know? But now... maybe he does."

The way you said it—hopeful, almost in disbelief—cut deeper than she wanted to admit. Maybe he does. Those three words stayed in her head, echoing louder with each second.

She was supposed to be happy for you, and maybe part of her was, but mostly, she just felt hollow.

Because even though you'd never know it, she'd been looking at you the way you were looking at him, longing for that same chance to mean something more to you. And now she was faced with the awful reality that she might never get that chance.

Swallowing down the bitterness, she forced a tight-lipped smile. "You'll have a great time, I'm sure."

But even as she said it, a part of her was already wondering if she'd do something she'd regret. The thought of watching you fall for someone else—someone who wasn't her—was more than she could stand.

And as much as she hated to admit it, she knew she'd do almost anything to keep you from slipping away.

Your eyes brightened again. "You should come with us!"

Tara's heart twisted at the invitation, feeling both flattered and devastated. Of course you'd want her there, being the good friend you were—unaware of what it did to her to see you light up over someone else.

Forcing herself to stay casual, she shrugged, managing a small playful smirk. "I'm not exactly great at third-wheeling."

Her voice sounded steady enough, but inside, it felt like she was clinging to the last threads of composure.

She couldn't stand the thought of watching you fall for him right in front of her, yet the idea of saying no, of letting you go without her... that hurt, too.

Maybe if she was there, she could stop whatever was beginning to grow between you and him. Just maybe, she thought, she'd find a way to keep you by her side, where you'd always belonged.

Her mind spun, the smile on her face frozen, all she could focus on was the sinking realization that she might actually lose you.

Until now, she'd convinced herself that her feelings for you were something she could handle, something she'd eventually learn to live with. But now, with Brian's name hanging between you, that quiet acceptance shattered.

She could see the way this might unfold, each painful step already clear in her mind.

She'd watched enough romance movies to know how these things went, and as much as she wanted to push the thoughts away, they crept in, vivid and unrelenting.

First, you'd go to the party together, and maybe he'd make you laugh so much that you'd find yourself leaning in, your hand brushing his.

She could already picture the two of you on future dates—sharing secrets over a quiet dinner or standing too close on some sidewalk, your face lit up in a way that made her stomach twist with envy.

And worse, she could imagine what might happen after those dates, how one day soon he'd reach for your hand, and you wouldn't hesitate to hold his back.

She didn't want to picture it, but the thought seeped into her mind anyway, filling her with a fierce, unfamiliar ache.

The image of you wrapped up in his arms, whispering into his ear, or—even worse—laughing with that same joy you always shared with her, but this time meant for him, made her chest feel hollow.

The thought kept spiraling, her mind betraying her with scenes she couldn't bear to picture.

You, with Brian, alone, closer than she'd ever be, maybe even leaning in for a kiss.

She imagined his hand brushing your cheek, the two of you getting so lost in each other that you forgot everyone else around you—including her.

The jealousy was sharp, hotter than anything she'd felt before.

She hated the way it took over, the way it made her feel small and powerless, like she was losing something that had never even been hers to begin with.

And then, a terrible, aching thought hit her: she might never get to be close to you in that way.

She might never get to be the person who held you, who kissed you, who made you laugh like that.

It wasn't just about watching you fall for someone else—it was the crushing realization that you might never look at her the way you looked at him.

Maybe it would be better if she came along?

The idea took a root in Tara's mind, an unexpected, half-formed plan that both excited and unsettled her.

If she went to the party with you and Brian, it might give her a chance to keep things from moving forward between you two.

She could play it off as tagging along to "keep an eye" on you, to make sure you had fun—and stay close enough to step in if Brian tried anything. It was risky, maybe even a little desperate, but what choice did she have?

At least if she was there, she'd know exactly what was happening. She wouldn't have to lie awake later, imagining him whispering things in your ear, pulling you close, stealing the attention she wanted only for herself.

She could keep you safe from all that, and maybe, if she was careful enough, find subtle ways to draw your attention back to her, where it belonged.

In her mind, it sounded almost justified. A "protective friend" sticking close to make sure you were all right. But the truth simmered beneath that excuse—she knew this was more than friendship, that she wanted to keep you to herself in ways you might never understand.

If Brian was going to try to win you over, he'd have to do it with her there, watching his every move, ready to swoop in the second things started looking too cozy.

And maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to make sure that night ended with you still hers—still looking at her with that easy, trusting smile that had always been her anchor.

Her chest tightened at the thought of it, the chance to stay close to you a little longer, to stave off the reality she dreaded.

If you didn't have the chance to fall for him—if she could prevent that—maybe she'd finally have the time and courage to make you see her the way she saw you.

You nudged her lightly, snapping Tara out of her thoughts, leaning in with that familiar, hopeful smile that always made it so hard to say no to you. "Come on, Tara. It'll be fun—just this once. Please?"

Tara's chest tightened at the way you looked at her, like her answer actually mattered to you. It made something inside her ache, the way your face lit up with excitement, completely oblivious to the storm brewing in her mind.

She should've said no. She wanted to say no.

But the thought of watching you leave without her—without knowing what might happen between you and Brian—made her stomach twist painfully.

And now, thanks to the idea she'd let herself entertain earlier, the thought of staying home didn't feel like an option anymore.

That plan, desperate and reckless as it was, had already taken root, and no matter how much a small part of her whispered it wasn't right, she couldn't let it go.

What if she stayed behind and missed her chance to stop something from blossoming between the two of you? What if she sat in her room, alone, while you fell for him right in front of everyone? The mere idea made her skin crawl.

But going wasn't any better. If she went, she'd have to watch you fawn over him, maybe even see you with him. And that thought was enough to make her want to bolt from the room. Yet here you were, looking at her like her presence actually mattered.

But why? Did you think she needed convincing, or was there some part of you that truly wanted her by your side? Her stomach churned at the thought.

She hesitated, her fingers brushing the hem of her shirt as she tried to keep her expression neutral. If she said no, you'd go without her, and that stung more than she wanted to admit. But if she said yes...

Her mind spun with the possibilities. She didn't even know what she'd do if she went—how far she was willing to take this twisted plan of hers. But what she did know, with a growing certainty, was that she couldn't stay behind. Not when the thought of Brian pulling you closer was enough to make her chest burn with jealousy.

Your face shifted slightly, your brows knitting together when she didn't answer right away.

"Tara," you pressed gently, your voice dipping into that teasing tone you always used when you were trying to coax her into something. "Come on," you pressed again, your grin widening when she hesitated. "You have to come. It won't be the same without you."

It won't be the same without you.

Those words sealed it, though not in the way you meant them to. Something twisted and desperate bloomed in her chest, making her pulse quicken.

You didn't even realize it, but you were giving her exactly what she wanted: a reason to stay close. A reason to be where she could see you—and control what happened between you and Brian.

"Fine," she said at last, forcing a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But don't complain when I tell you it sucks."

The way your entire face lit up at her answer sent an ache through her chest. Her stomach fluttered against her will, a mix of longing and guilt tangling together in a way that made it hard to breathe. She hated how much it affected her, how happy you seemed just because she'd agreed to go.

She looked away quickly, pretending to focus on something across the room, anything to avoid the way your joy sent another wave of guilt and longing through her.

She knew it wasn't right—none of this was. But she couldn't let it go. Not when her plan had already started to take shape. Not when the thought of Brian having you was enough to make her reckless.

Because no matter how hard she tried to tell herself this was just a party, just a stupid night out, deep down, she knew she wasn't going for the music or the fun.

She was going because if Brian thought he was going to win you over tonight, he was dead wrong.

___

"What about this one?"

Tara looked up from where she was sitting on the edge of your bed, her gaze drawn to the shimmering fabric you held up against yourself. It was a short, fitted dress, one you'd clearly been saving for a moment like this.

The way Tara sat there, watching you flit around the room, sifting through piles of clothes you'd pulled from your closet.

It reminded her of when you were younger, back when the two of you would raid your moms' closets, parading around in oversized heels and dresses that pooled around your feet. You'd giggle uncontrollably, striking exaggerated poses in front of the mirror.

But this wasn't dress-up anymore.

Now, the clothes were your own—real, grown-up outfits that fit you perfectly, accentuating curves and edges Tara wasn't sure she was supposed to notice. It wasn't just playtime; this was your life now. And tonight, you weren't dressing up for laughs or pretend tea parties.

You were dressing up for him.

Her eyes flickered briefly over the dress before settling on your face. You were beaming, the excitement practically radiating off you as you turned to the mirror, holding the dress against your body.

She should've said something. A simple "looks great" or even a teasing "a bit much, don't you think?" would've worked, but the words caught in her throat.

It wasn't the dress—it was the way your whole body hummed with energy, the way your smile was just a little too wide, your movements a little too quick. Tara saw it all, and it was like watching you wear your feelings on your sleeve.

The way you twirled the dress in front of the mirror, the way your hands moved restlessly as you smoothed down imaginary creases—it was all too familiar. She knew exactly what you were feeling, even if you didn't say it out loud.

Did Brian? She doubted it.

He didn't know the little things, like how your voice got higher when you were nervous or how you couldn't stand still when you were excited. He didn't know the way your lips pressed together when you were thinking too hard about something or the way your shoulders tensed when you wanted something to go perfectly.

He didn't know you, not like she did.

"What do you think?" you asked again, snapping her out of her thoughts. You turned, holding the dress out at arm's length, giving her a better look. "Too much? Not enough?"

Tara forced a smile, her heart twisting as she watched you. "I think it's... nice," she said carefully, her voice steady even as her stomach churned.

Nice. The word felt like a betrayal. It didn't come close to how she really felt—how beautiful you looked, how much she wished those bright eyes were sparkling for her instead of someone else.

"You think Brian'll like it?" you asked, your tone innocent, but the question struck Tara like a punch.

She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of your comforter. She wanted to tell you Brian didn't deserve you, that he wouldn't know how to appreciate all the little things that made you you. But instead, she kept her tone casual, masking the storm inside her.

"I mean... yeah," she said after a pause. "It's hard not to like you in anything."

Your grin widened, lighting up the room in a way that made her stomach flutter. You didn't notice the tightness in her smile, the way her eyes lingered on you for just a second too long.

"You're the best." you said, turning back to the mirror.

Tara's chest tightened, a quiet ache settling beneath her ribs. She glanced away, forcing a small smile as she leaned back on her hands.

She let her fingers dug slightly into the comforter as she watched you move across the room again, this time heading toward your closet. You sifted through the hangers with an almost frantic energy, pulling out one piece of clothing after another until something caught your eye.

"This," you announced, holding up a sleek black skirt and a tiny top with delicate lace accents.

Tara blinked, her focus shifting from the faint hum of her own thoughts to the outfit in your hands. The skirt was just short enough to grab attention, and the top would clung to the curves in all the right places—your curves, she couldn't help but think.

Her stomach twisted again, but not with the same bitterness from earlier. No, this was something else entirely. She couldn't stop herself from picturing you in it, couldn't stop the way her mind immediately conjured the image of you standing there, all done up, looking effortlessly hot and completely out of her reach.

She swallowed hard, tearing her gaze away. "You're not wearing the dress?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

"Oh, I am," you replied with a grin, holding the outfit closer to her. "This is for you!"

Tara froze. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe, her chest tightening as your words sank in.

She had been so caught up in watching you, so wrapped up in her own spiral of emotions, that she had momentarily forgotten she was actually going to this party.

"Me?" she echoed, her brows furrowing slightly as she tried to act like the idea of dressing up didn't make her stomach drop.

You laughed softly, stepping closer to hold the outfit up against her frame. "Yeah, you! Come on, Tara, you can't just wear that." You half-pointed to her attire.

Tara's eyes darted to the mirror, catching a glimpse of herself in her usual hoodie and jeans.

She had planned on blending into the background tonight, just another shadow in the corner, but now you were holding out a version of herself she wasn't sure she wanted to confront.

"It's... a little much, don't you think?" she murmured, her fingers brushing over the fabric.

"Not at all," you said, undeterred. "Trust me, you'll look amazing.

The way you looked at her, so excited, so hopeful, made it impossible for her to argue. The truth was, she didn't want to blend into the background—not really. Not if it meant letting Brian win.

"Alright," she said finally, forcing a small smirk as she reached for the outfit.

You grinned, clearly thrilled, and the sight sent her heart fluttering all over again.

As she stood up to take the clothes in you, the weight of the night ahead settled on her shoulders again. She knew this wasn't about the clothes or the party. It was about you—about keeping you close, about holding onto the part of you that still felt like hers, even if it wasn't.

And as much as she hated to admit it, she was willing to do whatever it took to keep it that way.

Tara pulled the clothes from your hands, her fingers brushing yours for just a second longer than necessary before she turned away.

She hesitated only briefly, her eyes darting to the bathroom door, but then she decided against it. It wasn't like this was anything new. You'd seen her change plenty of times before.

Slipping off her hoodie, she pulled the top over her head, the soft lace brushing against her skin in a way that felt oddly delicate, almost foreign.

The skirt followed, the fabric snug around her waist and flaring slightly at her hips. When she finally turned back toward you, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

It was strange. She didn't recognize the girl staring back at her right away—not entirely. The clothes fit her so well, so effortlessly, that she felt a flicker of something unexpected: pride.

She looked... pretty. Not in the same way you did, with your radiant energy that drew everyone in, but still. Pretty enough.

Her heart jumped a little at the thought of you seeing her like this, of you noticing her in the way she always noticed you. She didn't know why she wanted that so badly, but the hope curled tightly in her chest, warm and persistent.

You looked up from where you'd been smoothing out your own dress, and your reaction was immediate. Your eyes widened slightly, and then your face lit up in that effortless way that always made her stomach flutter.

"Tara, oh my god, you look so good," you said, your voice soft but genuine, carrying none of the over-the-top excitement you sometimes used when joking around. This was real.

Tara felt her cheeks warm under your gaze, her fingers automatically reaching to adjust the hem of the skirt, as if she could somehow shield herself from the weight of your words. She tried to play it off, shrugging casually. "It's just a skirt," she mumbled, but her voice lacked its usual bite.

"It's not just a skirt," you countered, stepping closer. "You look amazing. Seriously, this is perfect for you."

Your words were kind, almost too kind, and Tara wasn't sure how to process them. There was no teasing, no playful edge, just an earnestness that made her chest feel tight and achy.

She glanced away, pretending to focus on her reflection again, but the warmth of your approval lingered, sinking into her skin like the lace of the top.

She wanted to feel good about it, to let herself bask in the way you saw her, but the nagging thought that this wasn't for her—that it was all part of your excitement for Brian—kept her grounded.

Still, the way you smiled at her, so unreserved and so entirely you, made her feel something she hadn't in a long time: seen. She wished, just for a second, that you were saying all of this for the same reason she wished you would.

You spun on your heel, nearly tripping over the pile of discarded clothes strewn across the floor in your excitement. Tara's breath caught for a second, her hand twitching instinctively like she was about to reach for you, but you caught yourself, laughing it off as if nothing had happened.

"You need to clean your room before someone gets hurt," Tara muttered, though her tone held more amusement than annoyance.

You ignored her, too caught up in the moment as you reached your makeup table, rifling through your collection with a kind of chaotic precision.

Pulling out a palette, you held it up, the colors catching the light as you grinned at her. "What do you think? Want me to do your makeup?"

Your voice was so full of unfiltered excitement, your smile so wide it made her stomach flip. Tara hesitated, her fingers brushing the hem of her skirt as she glanced at the palette in your hands. She wasn't really the makeup type—not like you were—but the way you looked at her, like you were just waiting to make her feel special, made it impossible to say no.

"You don't have to," Tara said finally, though her voice lacked conviction.

"I want to!" you insisted, stepping closer, the palette still in hand. "Please, Tara? I promise I'll keep it simple. Just a little something to go with the outfit."

She sighed, feigning reluctance as she sat back down on the edge of the bed. "Fine."

You grabbed a chair and pulled it in front of her, gesturing for her to sit. "Alright, let's make you even more stunning."

Tara rolled her eyes, though the faintest smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she leaned forward.

___

The buzz of the party hit you as soon as you stepped through the door.

Music pulsed through the house, the bass vibrating in your chest as voices overlapped in a cacophony of laughter and shouted greetings.

People crowded the space—groups gathered near the kitchen, couples pressed close against walls, and a few brave souls danced in the living room, already letting loose despite how early it was in the night.

You glanced over at Tara, catching the way her shoulders stiffened slightly as the noise and energy enveloped her. She'd been quiet on the drive over, her fingers drumming against her thigh in a way that let you know her nerves were kicking in. But she'd never admit that, not to you.

"See?" you said brightly, bumping her shoulder with yours as you stepped further into the house. "I told you this would be fun."

Tara gave you a look, one that was half-skepticism and half-amusement, as she tugged at the hem of her skirt. "Yeah, we'll see about that."

Your laugh was warm and easy, a sound that somehow made the chaos of the party seem less overwhelming. You reached back to grab her hand, pulling her through the crowd as you made your way toward the kitchen. The feel of your fingers around hers made something in Tara's chest twist uncomfortably, though she forced herself to ignore it.

The kitchen was just as packed as the rest of the house, but you managed to snag two drinks from the counter, handing one to her with a grin. "Alright, party rule number one: stay hydrated."

Tara raised an eyebrow, glancing at the cup in her hand. "This is definitely not water."

"Details." You waved her off, your playful smirk making her stomach flutter in that maddeningly familiar way.

Before she could respond, a voice called out from across the room. "Y/N! There you are!"

Tara's grip on her cup tightened as she followed your gaze, her stomach sinking when she saw him—Brian—making his way toward you. His smile was wide and easy, the kind of grin that would make anyone else swoon.

But Tara wasn't anyone else.

"Brian!" you said, your face lighting up in a way that made Tara's chest ache. She stepped back slightly, letting go of your hand as he drew closer, though her eyes never left you.

He didn't deserve that smile.

Brian's gaze flickered to her briefly, his smile faltering just a bit. "Tara, right?"

She nodded, her expression neutral as she took a sip of her drink. "That's me."

If he noticed the edge in her tone, he didn't comment on it, turning his attention back to you instead. "You look amazing," he said, his eyes raking over your dress in a way that made Tara's jaw tighten.

You beamed at him, clearly pleased by the compliment, and Tara had to look away, her hand gripping her cup so tightly she was surprised it didn't crack.

This was going to be a long night.

And it most definitely was.

As the night went on, the party only grew louder and more chaotic. People drifted in and out of the circle you, Tara, and Brian had settled into, friends of his joining the conversation with easy smiles and casual jokes.

You made a genuine effort to include Tara, always pulling her back in when she started to fade into the background, but it was clear who held your focus.

Brian.

He stood close to you, his arm brushing yours as he leaned in to talk over the music.

You didn't seem to notice—or maybe you did, and you didn't mind. Either way, the proximity between you two only seemed to grow as the minutes ticked by, and Tara couldn't stop watching.

Every time you laughed at something he said, her chest tightened just a little more.

You weren't doing it on purpose. Tara knew that. She knew you didn't notice the way her jaw clenched or how her fingers drummed against her cup.

You were just being you—kind, bubbly, and effortlessly charming. But watching you with Brian, seeing how much of your attention he was soaking up, felt like a slow, relentless sting.

She hadn't expected it to bother her this much.

At first, Tara tried to play along, chiming in when she could and taking small sips of her drink to distract herself.

But then Brian's friends started joining the conversation, their loud energy making it harder for her to keep up. You were still trying to include her, turning to her every so often to ask her opinion or flash her one of your brilliant smiles, but it wasn't enough.

Not when you lit up like a damn firework every time Brian said something that made you laugh.

Tara tipped back her cup, finishing it quicker than she probably should have. She wasn't much of a drinker to begin with—she never really liked how it made her feel—but tonight was different. Tonight, she needed the edge taken off.

"Want another?" you asked, noticing her empty cup.

She hesitated, but before she could respond, Brian offered. "I'll grab her one. Be right back."

She opened her mouth to say she didn't need another, but he was already walking away.

You smiled after him before turning back to Tara, your expression so full of effortless warmth it made her stomach churn. "You having fun?"

She forced a small nod, her grip tightening on the plastic cup. "Yeah. It's... fine."

You didn't notice the strain in her voice, too caught up in the energy of the party to catch on.

By the time Brian returned with her drink, she'd already decided she wasn't going to overthink it. She took it with a quiet "thanks" and drank just enough to feel the buzz set in. It wasn't much—maybe two drinks total—but Tara was short, and she always felt the effects quicker than most.

The alcohol didn't drown out her frustration, though.

Every laugh you gave Brian, every time you leaned in to whisper something to him, only seemed to magnify it.

And you? You were oblivious. Still trying to keep her in the conversation, pulling her in with the same ease you always had. But she could feel the gap widening.

Tara's foot tapped against the floor as she shifted her weight, her eyes flickering between you and Brian. She should've left, should've wandered off to another part of the house to escape this torturous little triangle, but she stayed.

Because if she left, she'd have to admit to herself why she couldn't handle this.

So instead, she took another sip of her drink and plastered on a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"You okay?" you asked, your voice cutting through her thoughts.

"Yeah," she said quickly, her words sharper than she intended. "I'm fine."

But she wasn't. And as the night wore on, that became harder and harder to hide.

And after an hour, or maybe even more.

The alcohol was definitely working its way through Tara's veins. She could feel it, the familiar warmth spreading through her chest, making her limbs feel looser but her thoughts louder.

The edges of the room blurred ever so slightly, but her focus on you was sharp as ever, almost painfully so.

You were giggling at something Brian said again, your hand brushing his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Tara had been watching you both like a hawk all night, trying to play it cool, but the subtle touches, the shared smiles, the way your eyes sparkled when you looked at him—it was getting under her skin.

She clenched her jaw, tipping back the rest of her drink as if it might drown out the frustration bubbling inside her. But it didn't.

It wasn't just the alcohol making her feel reckless, though it didn't help. Tara was desperate.

Desperate to do something—anything—that might shift the balance back in her favor. But how? She wasn't like Brian. She didn't have easy jokes or effortless charm. And she wasn't like you, all soft laughter and open smiles.

So she sat there, stewing in her own silence, searching for an opening she couldn't find.

Then she turned her head for just a moment.

A distraction—a loud burst of laughter from somewhere across the room. She glanced over, barely processing the source, and when she looked back...

Her heart stopped.

You and Brian were kissing.

It wasn't shy or hesitant. It was full and unguarded, like something out of the movies. His hands rested lightly on your waist, your fingers clutching the front of his shirt as though you were afraid to let go.

Tara's first thought wasn't sadness. It wasn't heartbreak or even surprise.

It was rage.

Her body went rigid, the plastic cup in her hand creaking under the force of her grip.

Because of course this wasn't a problem.

Why would it be?

You weren't hers. You'd never been hers. You were allowed to kiss boys, especially the boy you'd been crushing on for as long as she could remember. It wasn't like you were breaking some unspoken rule. She had no claim to you, no right to feel betrayed or blindsided.

But God, it felt like a betrayal.

Her rational mind tried to reason with her, repeating the same useless mantra: This isn't a problem. This isn't a problem. This isn't a problem.

But the other side of her mind—the side that had been clawing its way to the surface all night—was screaming the opposite.

It was a problem. A huge one.

The anger burned through her like a wildfire, consuming every rational thought as it spread. It started in her chest, hot and heavy, before curling into her throat and setting her teeth on edge. Her nails dug into the soft plastic of her cup until it crumpled under her grip, a sharp crack breaking through the buzz of the party.

And still, she couldn't look away.

She hated it. Hated the way his hands touched you so easily, like he'd earned that right. Hated the way you kissed him back like you'd been waiting for this your whole life. Hated how he got to have what she wanted so desperately without even knowing how much it mattered.

Her breaths came quicker, each one catching in her chest as if she couldn't quite fill her lungs. The alcohol amplified everything, stripping her bare of the filters she usually relied on. Every raw, unspoken feeling she'd buried for years was rising to the surface now, and there was no stopping it.

She wanted to scream.

To grab you and pull you away, to tell Brian to get his hands off you, to do something.

But she didn't.

Because no matter how angry she was, no matter how much she hated what she was seeing, there was a part of her—a small, quiet, agonizing part—that whispered:

You're not supposed to feel like this.

So instead, Tara sat there, her body tense and trembling, her nails biting into the palms of her hands. She didn't even realize she'd crumpled her cup until the sticky remnants of her drink dripped onto her lap.

And still, she couldn't look away.

Eventually you pulled back from Brian, cheeks flushed and eyes slightly glassy from the alcohol coursing through your system.

A small, almost dazed laugh escaped your lips as you glanced at him, then turned to find Tara in the crowd. She hadn't moved from where she'd been watching, her posture stiff and her eyes fixed on some indistinct point on the wall—anywhere but you.

When your gaze landed on her, your smile widened, bright and unrestrained, like you hadn't just set her entire world on fire.

Tara's chest tightened, the molten frustration inside her bubbling hotter with every passing second. She couldn't stop her thoughts, couldn't silence the storm brewing in her mind.

You stumbled a little as you reached her, still grinning like a fool, your energy infectious to everyone but Tara. You leaned close, tipping forward on your toes, your voice loud but slurred enough to betray your tipsy state.

"I think he kissed me," you said, as if it hadn't been entirely mutual.

Tara felt something snap.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms so hard she half-expected to draw blood.

She couldn't speak, couldn't trust herself to even try. If she opened her mouth, she was sure she'd yell or say something she couldn't take back. Worse, she might cry—and that wasn't an option.

Her silence stretched on, but you didn't seem to notice. You were too lost in your own world, your thoughts spinning with the buzz of the alcohol and the remnants of Brian's touch. Tara's silence didn't matter, because you filled the space with another easy laugh, leaning closer so she could hear you over the pounding music.

"I need to use the bathroom," you said, your lips brushing near her ear. The warmth of your breath made her stomach twist. "Wanna come?"

Tara's mind scrambled for an excuse, her mouth dry as she fought the urge to say something reckless.

"No," she said finally, forcing her voice to sound casual, detached. "I think I'm good down here."

It wasn't true. She wasn't good down here, or anywhere else in the universe at that moment.

You gave her a light shrug, your expression still full of that easy joy that made her want to scream. "Okay! Be right back!"

You disappeared into the crowd, weaving your way toward the bathroom, leaving Tara standing there alone.

The second you were out of sight, she exhaled sharply, her hands shaking as she reached for another drink she didn't need.

She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the anger, or the ache of jealousy threatening to overwhelm her. Maybe it was all three, swirling into something she couldn't control.

But one thing was clear—she couldn't keep this up. Not tonight. Not with you and Brian. Not with her chest full of feelings she couldn't name and didn't want to face.

Tara's eyes burned as they landed on Brian, standing not far from where you'd left him. His posture was easy, relaxed—too relaxed.

He stood there like nothing had happened, chatting casually with a couple of his friends, his hand lifting a red cup to his lips like this was just another night. Like he hadn't just kissed you.

The most beautiful girl on the planet.

Tara felt her stomach twist painfully, her grip tightening around the drink in her hand. How could he be so unbothered? So unaffected? He wasn't grinning ear to ear, wasn't puffing out his chest or gushing about how lucky he was.

He wasn't laughing with joy or smirking proudly like any sane person would if they'd just kissed you.

How was he not telling everyone in earshot about what had happened? How was he not reeling from the fact that you—you, with your blinding smile and endless energy—had given him even a second of your time, let alone your lips?

Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as she stared at him, her anger bubbling hotter with every second he stayed calm. Her hands itched to grab him by the collar, to shake him and demand he act like he understood the weight of what had just happened.

Did he even realize how lucky he was?

Did he know how many people in that room—how many people in general—would kill to be in his place? To have even the tiniest fraction of your attention, let alone that?

Her vision blurred, and it wasn't from the alcohol. Her chest felt like it was about to implode, like something inside her was trying desperately to escape, and she didn't know how much longer she could keep it together.

Brian's laughter snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts. He was laughing at something one of his friends said, his expression light, carefree—unbothered.

Tara nearly saw red.

She downed the rest of her drink in one go, the sharp burn doing nothing to dull the fury roaring in her chest. How could he be like this? How could he act so normal, so indifferent, after kissing you?

How could he not be overwhelmed by the fact that you'd chosen him, even for a fleeting moment?

It was insulting. Infuriating.

She wanted to march over there, to grab him and make him feel the way she was feeling. She wanted him to hurt, to ache, to boil with jealousy the way she was.

But she couldn't.

Because none of this was his fault.

The real issue—the one she didn't want to admit—wasn't Brian. It was the simple, heartbreaking truth that he could kiss you without consequence.

He could have you.

Tara wasn't sure what happened next.

What she was thinking when it happened, or if she was even thinking at all. Maybe it was the anger—burning hot and uncontrollable—making her body move before her brain could catch up. Or maybe it was the alcohol, buzzing in her veins and drowning out every voice in her head that might've told her to stop.

All she knew was that one second she was standing there, glaring at Brian like he'd committed some unforgivable sin, and the next, she was storming toward him.

His friends noticed her first, their chatter faltering as they shifted awkwardly under her sharp glare. But Brian, oblivious as ever, didn't see her coming. He was mid-sentence, that stupidly calm look still plastered on his face, when Tara grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him down to her level.

The movement was forceful enough to knock the air out of both of them, and before he could even process what was happening—before she could process what was happening—she pressed her lips against his.

It wasn't soft.

It wasn't sweet.

It was messy, rough, and fueled by a cocktail of rage and desperation. Her hands fisted his shirt tightly, holding him in place, her nails biting into the fabric. Brian stiffened for a second, shocked, but then his hands hovered awkwardly near her waist, unsure of what to do.

Tara didn't care. She didn't care about his reaction, about his hesitation.

Because this wasn't about him.

It wasn't about his stupid, clueless face or the fact that he'd kissed you without giving it a second thought. It wasn't about him being unbothered or unaffected.

This was about her.

Her anger, her frustration, her absolute inability to sit there for another second and watch him act like kissing you was nothing.

The kiss deepened as her grip on his shirt tightened, pulling him even closer. She wanted to erase the memory of you from his lips, to replace it with her own. To make him feel something, anything, the way she was feeling.

But it wasn't working.

If anything, the kiss only made it worse.

Because no matter how hard she pressed, no matter how desperate her movements were, it didn't feel right.

It didn't feel like you.

And that thought was like a punch to the gut.

Brian made a soft, surprised noise against her lips, his hands finally settling on her hips, but it only made her angrier. How dare he hesitate now? How dare he act so unsure, like he didn't know exactly what he wanted when he'd so easily taken you from her just minutes ago?

Her chest heaved as she pulled back slightly, her lips still brushing against his, her heart pounding in her ears.

His wide eyes stared at her, confused and more than a little alarmed. "Tara—" his voice laced with bewilderment, but she silenced him with another kiss, pressing harder, needing to cut him off.

She didn't want to hear his voice. She didn't want to hear him try to make sense of this, because she didn't have an explanation. This wasn't about him.

It wasn't about you either—not entirely, at least.

It was about her. About the way she felt like she was unraveling, about how every smile you gave Brian felt like another thread being yanked loose, every laugh you shared with him felt like a blow to the chest.

She didn't know how to make it stop, and the only thing her mind could come up with was this. She didn't have to think when she was kissing Brian. Didn't have to feel the jagged ache of watching you be so happy with someone else.

This wasn't about him.

But it was all she could do to stop herself from falling apart completely.

And Tara wasn't sure what was happening anymore.

Brian hadn't pushed her away. He hadn't stopped her, hadn't hesitated for even a moment after that first surprised noise.

No, he'd leaned into it. He'd kissed her back with the kind of intent that only made her angrier, made the fire in her chest blaze so hot she thought she might combust right there.

Because it wasn't supposed to go like this.

His hands slid from her hips, pulling her closer, pressing her tighter against him, and she hated it. Hated the way he responded like this was exactly what he wanted, hated the way he kissed her back like she wasn't just a replacement for you.

And worse than anything, she hated herself for not stopping it.

His hands moved lower, gripping her ass, pulling her even closer, and she felt herself clench her fists tighter into the fabric of his shirt.

She didn't know if it was the alcohol buzzing in her veins, numbing her better judgment, or if it was the anger still consuming her every thought, but she didn't do anything to stop him.

She should've.

But she didn't.

Because in this moment, it wasn't about him. It wasn't even about you. It was about the chaos she felt boiling in her chest, about the way she felt like she was spiraling further and further out of control.

Brian murmured something against her lips—she didn't catch it, didn't even try to—but his hands stayed firm on her, guiding her, pulling her toward the stairs.

And she let him.

Every step felt like she was wading through quicksand, her mind shouting at her to stop, to push him away, to pull herself together. But her body wasn't listening. She didn't know if it was the heat of his hands on her or the fog of alcohol clouding her better judgment, but she let him lead her.

Because stopping meant facing the truth. And Tara wasn't ready to do that.

Not yet.

She'd barely registered how they ended up in the room. One second, she was being pulled up the stairs, Brian's hand gripping hers tightly, and the next, they were in a dimly lit bedroom, the door clicking shut behind them.

Her heart was racing, but not from excitement. There was no thrill, no anticipation, just a gnawing sense of wrongness she couldn't shake. Yet she didn't stop it. She didn't stop him as his hands found her waist, as his lips trailed down her neck. She didn't stop herself from responding, from letting this spiral further than it ever should have.

It was mechanical, empty, and every moment felt like it was happening to someone else. Brian's touch wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't what she wanted. His lips weren't the ones she craved, his hands didn't spark anything but an aching hollowness inside her.

And yet, she let it happen.

Because, for a fleeting second, it felt like power. Like control. Like maybe, just maybe, if she could take this from him—take you from him in some twisted, nonsensical way—it would hurt less.

But it didn't.

Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word she barely heard, only drove the knife deeper into her chest.

When it was over, the silence was deafening. Tara lay there, staring at the ceiling, her body still and her mind racing. Brian shifted beside her, saying something she didn't hear, and the sound of his voice made her stomach twist. She felt nauseous, disgusted—not with him, but with herself.

What had she done?

Her chest tightened as she fought to keep her breathing steady, refusing to let him see the tears threatening to spill over. It hadn't helped. It hadn't made anything better. If anything, it had only made everything worse.

Because no matter what she did, no matter how far she went, it would never be enough to make her stop wanting you.

Afterwards Tara laid still, the dim light of the room casting shadows that felt too heavy, too oppressive.

Brian was beside her, breathing evening out as if nothing monumental had just happened. As if this was just another casual moment in his life.

Her mind, however, wouldn't stop.

It wasn't Brian she was thinking about—not the way he'd touched her, not the way he'd looked at her. No, every thought clawed its way back to you.

She pictured you in the bathroom, probably still staring at yourself in the mirror, giddy and flushed. She could almost see your smile, so wide it was infectious, and the way you'd probably tilt your head, trying to relive every second of that kiss.

You'd been dreaming of that moment since second grade, scribbling his name in the margins of your notebooks and lighting up every time he was near. Tara could already imagine how you'd be practically glowing, heart racing with excitement as you ran your fingers over your lips, trying to make the feeling last.

She wanted to hate you for it. But she couldn't. She never could.

You'd come out of that bathroom with a smile so bright it could light up the whole house, your hopeful eyes scanning the crowd as you made your way back to the spot you'd all been standing. And what would you find?

Nothing.

Tara wasn't there. Brian wasn't there.

She could imagine how your smile would falter, confusion settling in as you looked around, searching for the two people who were supposed to be waiting for you. How long would it take for the excitement to drain from your face? How quickly would hope turn to disappointment?

The thought was like a knife twisting in her gut.

And yet, she still couldn't make sense of why she'd done this. Why she'd let it happen. Because it didn't feel like she'd won anything. She hadn't taken Brian away from you. If anything, she'd stolen something from herself—something she could never get back.

Her chest tightened as the realization hit her like a freight train. She hadn't wanted him. She hadn't wanted this.

She'd wanted you.

And now she'd ruined everything.

[spatialwave]

Hello my love. It’s my 24th birthday today and only one of my friends remembered so I was hoping for a lil pick me up.

How about ~

luring your lover back to bed with kisses & kisses while sitting in your lovers lap

With our dear Viktor?

I love your work 🥹🤎

OH MY GOODNESS! Happiest of birthdays to you, love!!! I’m so sorry that you’re feeling down on your special day. I hope this adds a bit of sparkle to your mood! ❤️

pairing: viktor x gender-neutral!reader word count: 712 tags: mdni! sfw, fluffy, kissing, super sweet, viktor is a bad boyfriend but makes it up to you, takes place between s1 act 1 and act 2. notes: ask came from this prompt!

“You’re working too hard,” you pouted, talking through a hard candy that rolled around your tongue–sucked on long enough that you could bite into it and swallow down the sweet strawberry flavour. You sat atop Viktor’s desk as he studied one of the hextech crystals. The rigid orb rolling between his fingers.

It was the early days of their research, and he had taken a steep nosedive into the work, allowing it to consume him. So much that you hadn’t had so much as a kiss from him in days. 

“Not hard enough,” he retorted, sighing as he placed the crystal carefully onto velvet fabric to keep it stable. The last thing he needed was to replicate the explosion that had destroyed Jayce’s apartment.

He looked back down to a tome he borrowed from Jayce, fingers brushing against the paper as he read over histories of runes. Yet again, ignoring you.

“Do you know that it’s been exactly sixty-two hours since you last kissed me, and thirteen hours since you even touched me?” You whined, kicking your legs out as they dangled freely.

Viktor flickered his gaze to you, raising a defensive eyebrow, “it hasn’t been that long.”

“It has! I’ve been keeping track,” you were adamant, sitting upright again with a puffed chest, “why would I lie?”

He blinked a few times, gathering his bearings – at a loss for words, guilt rising up the back of his throat. He’d never been anything less than a great partner to you, and here he was ignoring you shamelessly. 

Viktor sighed, shifting to turn his body toward you and reaching over, so his hand could rest over your thigh as you sat on his desk, “I’m sorry.”

The touch on your thigh kick-started a heat inside you, your heart thumping against your ribs. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you shrugged coyly and moved from the table to shift into his lap. The sudden movement caused the table to jerk slightly, and Viktor panicked, stilling your hips with his hands as he looked at the crystal—making sure it remained undisturbed.

You looked down at him, jutting your bottom lip out. Your arms strung lazily around his neck.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, a dusting of pink colouring his pale cheeks.

You rolled your eyes playful as your hands lifted to his hair, brushing through the brunette strands. You sighed dramatically, “it’s okay, I guess.”

That brought a smile to his lips, nimble fingers dipping under the hem of your shirt, “all is forgiven?” He asked, leaning toward you.

“Mostly,” you breathed, closing the remaining distance as you two shared a long-awaited kiss. You hummed against his lips, savouring the touch you had been craving for so long. Viktor’s own impatience hadn’t gone unnoticed, feeling the way he rolled his hips against yours and how his nails scraped at your skin.

It sparked an idea.

After your tongue licked at his bottom lip invitingly, you pulled back completely. Satisfied at the way Viktor watched you with his big, gold eyes. Silently, you slid from his lap, and he chased your lips. You’d gotten him up out of his chair, his hands reaching for you as he moaned into your mouth, before you broke the kiss for a second time.

“What are you doing?” He groaned as you stepped back, huffing.

You giggled, chewing on your bottom lip as you reached for his hand, acting as his support as you pulled him for a third kiss. Four hands explored each other’s bodies as you led him backward, slowly and carefully, as your kisses brought him all the way to the bedroom–careful with his limp.

Viktor had been so lost in tasting the strawberry on your tongue that he gasped when you spun him around and pushed him back onto the bed. He blinked up at you, lips parted and shuddering, as you crawled back over and straddled his lap.

“Do you still like hextech more than me?” You asked coyly, hands slowly unbuttoning his academy-issued vest.

Viktor smirked, shifting to lean up on his elbows. “Do you want a serious answer?”

“I hate you,” you whined, but he was quick to laugh and pull you down into a kiss that rightly shut you up.

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

Hey chat...

I literally have so many scenarios in my head it's killing me

Could you do a scenario where the reader shields Isha from the blast (or whatever) which results in her on the verge of death. How will jinx deal with it? And how will she save her

(I'm trying to cope with the loss of my baby Isha 😞💔)

Sure! Here ya go but probably sucks, haven’t wrote one of these in a while! Enjoy!

Heading photos made by @diana-foggy-master !

Sacrificial

You could only process what the girl was thinking when her small feet started running past you helping Jinx off the ground.

The familiar act was so hard to miss. It was like watching Powder all over again all those years ago the night everything went wrong.

You couldn’t handle it again.

“Jinx? Jinx- I’m so sorry.” You apologized to your lover on the ground. Jinx looked at you, confused with her face having splatters of blood drops. But she was so confused. What were you sorry for?

It only clicked when she saw you running after Isha into what she knew she would never get you back from.

“No- no!” Jinx cried out, getting up with the look of horror on her face when you ran. She tried reaching for you like you did her all those years ago, only to fall short. She lost you.

She lost you before you even got to the girl.

Isha was right within your grip, tears falling from your face as you knew you wouldn’t be coming back home to your lovers and your bed.

“Isha!” You yelled, reaching for her as she kept running, shoving gemstone after gemstone into Jinx’s gun.

“(Name)! Isha! No!” Jinx cried, trying her best to get to the both of you as Isha slid to the ground, moving just like Jinx taught her to as she finally got to Vander.

Jinx was caught by Vi, crying and blubbering as her heart and chest constricted at the thought of you leaving her with her mind.

What was she gonna do? She couldn’t fix this once it was done.

Isha had barely mimicked Jinx back at her, the little finger gun motion breaking your head. Isha wasn’t dying. This wasn’t how she was gonna say goodbye.

Isha lifted the gun to Vander, and by the look on his face as he saw you nearing you could tell he had no control over this. Just like back then.

Isha had barely closed her eyes, and you saw the smile on her face. She looked almost content to die. Like it was a release. You felt bad for taking it from her.

She barely pulled the trigger when you grabbed her, pulling her to your chest and curling around her.

Isha’s eyes shot open, panicked for a split second as she tried to push you away and out of there. But you were older. Stronger. The way you wished when you were younger to be like Vi.

You barely managed a smile to Isha as you held her, and even years later she could still hear your voice and see your smile as you whispered in her ear.

“You’ll be okay. Take care of her for me, will ya?”

The gun went off.

And you were gone.

The reaction was immediate. Isha didn’t feel you anymore. She was cold, your arms around her gone as she finally opened her eyes after praying to whatever god there was that you were okay.

Nothing.

Not anything of you was left behind.

All she heard was Jinx’s wailing, and her little heart dropped to her stomach at the realization.

You were gone.

Because of her. Isha took you from Jinx.

“Isha! Why- why would you do that?!” Jinx cried, even though she knew you’d hate to hear the words coming from her mouth but she couldn’t stop herself.

She pushed Vi off of her, running to Isha out of relief and anger as she searched for you to come up with nothing.

She grabbed the girl by her shoulders, crying and blubbering as she sobbed.

“Why would you- (Name)?! (Name)!” Jinx cried, yelling it out as she searched for you.

Isha had no idea what to do with Jinx’s anger but cry with her as she felt your absence.

Jinx wasn’t able to process this, and Vi could only watch as the one thing her sister held dear to her heart from when they were kids, you, was gone. Just like that.

Jinx’s sobs turned to wails as she felt her heart being ripped from her chest. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

You were supposed to be okay. Vander was supposed to come back. They were supposed to stay and be happy. Vi could even be there.

Jinx had her family back, and now it was all gone.

Her wails kept going, she gripped onto Isha cause she would be damned if she let her out of her sight for her to be taken to.

Her head fell to Isha’s shoulder, the girl's cries mixing with her own as Isha’s little fingers gripped onto her.

Jinx and Isha crumbled together on the floor, crying and sniffling and sobbing. What happens now? What comes next?

How can anything come next…when you’re gone?

[quillcraftconquer]

Simon, who never wanted a dog. He didn't mind dogs, always stopping to give them a quick pat on the side, and he didn't mind his friends' dogs coercing him to toss a ball for a couple of hours. He just never envisioned himself owning a dog. He spent too much time away from home, and god forbid if anything happened to him, who would even take his dog? 

Still, despite all of his unanswered questions, when he met the tan, leggy stray on a mission that followed him around like he already owned it, he couldn't help but feed it scraps from his dinner, let it sit too close, talk to it whenever everyone else went to bed. 

It wasn't a cute dog. Its body was nicked with tiny scars from its time spent on the streets, and Simon was well aware of the bugs running through its scruffy fur. Its legs were far too tall for its body, accompanied by a small, pointed head with ears too big that stood up when something caught its eye, or drooped comically low when he was relaxed. 

Price complained relentlessly about the “damn dog” that followed Simon to every dinner, whining and scratching at the door when they went to bed, always under their feet while he was trying to walk around the base. It wasn’t until he walked into the showers, making eye contact with Simon and Gaz knelt on the floor, the damn dog enjoying the last remnants of hot water and the empty box of flea medicine tilted against the wall that he knew it was a losing battle, the dog was going to stick around. 

Simon, who didn't want a dog, but spent more money than he had on anything else to bring it home, buy it a nice bed, and a thick leather collar. 

It wasn’t until he stood in the vet's office, watching you run the metal tag through the engraving machine with his information on it that he realized the dog was his. Simon told himself he came here because you were nice to his dog, not commenting on his unique looks or bad behaviors, and how your eyes didn't linger on the dog's scars (or his, foregoing the masks when he did stop in.)

You, of course, didn't mind Simon’s gruff exterior, the way he mumbled ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to your questions, but talked extensively when it came to his dog.You laughed at the way Simon’s nose crinkled when you discussed neutering, or different training methods. You said nothing when Simon would always answer “Not my dog, just a stray.”, but always paid for the best food, treats, and care, almost as if he was convincing himself the dog wasnt going to stick around (because what did in Simon’s life?)

You especially didn't mind when Simon brought up boarding, stating he had to leave for a few weeks. You jumped at the chance, determined to show him that his dog could learn just a few house manners. You let him drop the dog off at your home, gave him access to the cameras, let him survey the yard. 

And if you had known, you wouldn't have minded the late nights Simon was halfway across the world, laying on some shitty bed with security cameras pulled up, watching the dog- his dog- take its signature 3 circles before plopping down on the outdoor couch next to you. 

It was for the dog, he told himself. It definitely didn't have to do with the too tight, too short christmas pajamas you wore in, yes, June, (he had to check the calendar, feeling like he had somehow missed 6 months of the year.) It didn't have to do with the way your fingers lazily dragged over the dog's fur, or the way you pinched the bridge of your nose when the dog tore up another cushion Simon would replace. 

Simon’s thumb punched the side of the phone, the screen darkening as he laid it against his chest, eyes staring up at the darkened ceiling.

It was just about the dog.