#how we feeling about chapter 4?

[naffeclipse]

Gregory seeing Y/N with a mer:

Y/N seeing Gregory with a mer:

[beaulesbian]

(more wano spoilers, ch. 1003)

was this the first time zoro saw the outcome of luffy's gear 4?

because as i remember, the first time luffy used it to this extent was in dressrosa against doflamingo, and only law and the pirates helping luffy to wait until he got the second wave of his strength back saw it. but at that time zoro was in another part of the city.

he probably isn't sure how this gear works, only sees that luffy run out of steam, and thanks to law that he needs about 10mins to get back up. so the only thing zoro can do is immediately move to protect luffy and get him away from the next big attacks

luffy even thanks him ;-;

then kaido wants to chomp down luffy

and zoro gets angry, 'don't you dare go eating our captain!!' and thanks to enma he actually manages to slash through kaido's scales, something that was impossible before

(so proud of him. and this was all after he's been a few moments ago struck by big mom's lightning.- it shows how much he did get stronger since skypiea, where he took some bad lightning damage too but he couldn't fight after that.)

and then still goes to cover and protect luffy ;-;

[alyimoss]

anyone else inexplicably fucked up by the very existence of "its raining somewhere else" as a track?

[acourtofquestions]

“She had no magic to wield, save for the keen eyes of the goddess at her shoulder and an uncanny ability to remain unnoticed, to play into expectations.”

[kuwupikaa]

[sabraeal]

Desert & Reward, Chapter 17

[Read on AO3]

“Now, now, Mister, no need for roughness,” Obi laughs as Sir shoves him out the closest door, the night sky unfurling above them. “I promise, I’m quite tame. Look, I haven’t even bit any hands tonight.”

If he leaves off just how many tempting morsels fluttered right in front of him, well— it’s nothing Sir hasn’t already guessed. By the hunted expression clinging to that chiseled jaw, it seems His Highness’s loyal hound has had more than a few temptations of his own.

Air hisses through Sir’s teeth, more a relief of pressure than a warning, the harsh line of his shoulders deflating from forbidding to fatigued. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked. What did you do to get on Kihal’s bad side?”

Truth be told, Obi’s never quite sliced that knot himself. He’d been wallpaper when she’d come that first time, a shadow that clung to Miss’s heels, and she’s been kind enough to tender him a few perfunctory ‘hellos,’ when their paths had crossed. But they’d gone to Yuris— twice, by his count; once to chase down the source of that perfume, and another just after she’d landed her title as countess— and each time she’d gotten her hackles up.

Not by any fault of his own, of course. Sure, he’d poked around a few places that not even Miss’s smiles could grant them entry, and he’d been more than a little popular with some of the local girls who didn’t mind a man with a little mystery and more than his fair share of scars— but that’d all been winks and words that went down as easy as the swill her father’s men had in their stills. No, what really seemed to get her goat was that despite her determination to dislike him, she never quite manage it.

Which is a bit more complicated an answer than Sir’s probably expecting to hear, so instead just he shrugs. “Today, or in general?”

Sir’s mouth thins— shame that Miss Kiki isn’t here to appreciate the way that sternness sharpens the lines of his face— hands hooking on his hips. Obi settles in; whatever lecture annoying the future Lady Laxdo has inspired, it’s sure to be a doozy. "You’re bearing up all right, aren’t you?”

It’s not until his mouth clicks shut that he realizes his jaw dropped at all. “C-come again, Mister?”

Sir grunts, agitated but— miraculously— not at him. “It’s all right if you aren’t, Obi. I know this isn’t what you’re used to when it comes to parties.”

The number of titles on his guest list could fill a library large enough to keep Miss entertained, but that’s hardly new. Between rubbing elbows with the royal family and her newfound position as the North’s darling, they’ve been invited to and ducked out early from all the Clarines’ most exclusive soirées. But that’s not what Sir is driving at.

“It’s a bit bigger than the stag night.” Twice as big at least, but the last thing Obi needs is Mister bringing math into the equation. “And that thing was already huge. Gotta say, sir, your little fireside chat and tipple didn’t set me up with the right sort of expectations.”

A wayward muscle in that impressive jaw twitches. “It wasn’t supposed to.”

“Maybe I should have gone to Miss Kiki’s,” he sighs wistfully. “That might have prepared me for being a lord. You know, since between the two of you, you’re really sort of the lady of the—”

“You could just say ‘I’m fine,’ you know,” Sir manages, strangled. “No need for…”

His hand waves, helpless, somehow managing to encompassing all of Obi at once, while also implying that his personality’s part of the problem.

“I appreciate the thought, Mister.” He digs his finger into the knot that’s been bugging him since they shoved him into this monkey suit, turning his smirk into a grimace. “But this isn’t my first fancy shindig, and something tells me it won’t be the last. I’ll survive.”

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t,” he grunts, leaning a hip— well, thigh really— against the balustrade. “It’s just…it’s one thing to be at one of these parties and just be part of the…er…ambiance, I guess. And it’s a whole other thing altogether when what everyone’s looking at is you.”

His fingers clench a little tighter. “It’s not so bad.”

Sir’s gaze hardly wavers as he asks, “Is it?”

“Y-yeah.” The lie drags bile up after it, washing his mouth in its sour taste. “You know me, Mister, I live for attention.”

His arms fold, testing the limits of his coat seams. “That is what you like everyone to think.”

Haah, he should have known better than to try to pull one over on Sir. The men might have called him an honest fool when he’d still been just one of the Royal Circle’s knights— hell, Obi’d called him all that and worse during that whole fiasco after Sereg— but Mister had a way of seeing right to the quick of a man.

“I didn’t like it much either,” Mister admits. “Still don’t, really. But I’m more used to it now than I was back then. It was terrible when we got married— I thought a look might real and truly kill me if they got me at the right angle.”

“Unlike you, I didn’t run off and ruin His Majesty’s engagement party,” Obi drawls, giving his eyebrows a good waggle. “Really, Mister, how’s a man supposed to recover when a knight rides in to rescue a lady right in front of—”

“T-that’s not what I’m talking about,” Sir blusters, the tips of his ears a painful pink. “You’re just trying to change the subject.”

Obi’s mouth thins, an easy thing to twist up in a smile. “I appreciate the concern, I do, but you don’t have to worry about me, Big Guy. I know how to put on a show when I got to.”

“If you say so.” Sir claps him on the shoulder; a few years ago it might have made his teeth rattle, but after almost half a decade walking Wilant’s walls and being fortified by their hearty stews, he barely stumbles. “Just bear it for a little while longer. I’m sure Zen will find a way to get you out of this before…”

Sir’s mouth works, not to find a word but a grimace. Which is fine, really. Obi doesn’t need them, not when he’s been thinking it all this time— before she finds out.

“Right.” Even he can tells his smile doesn’t hang right on his mouth, but that’s not important, not when Mister’s the only one around to see. “Hate to have the young miss exposed to anything so…disagreeable. Not when she’s already having to put up with all this nonsense.”

“Obi.” Sir straightens, brows knitted up with concern. “That’s not what I—”

“Don’t worry, I know what you were trying to say, Mister.” Even if he was too kind to actually say it. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I might go—”

“Why, is that—?” Earl Seiran waves from the garden path below, smile as large as Miss Kiki’s isn’t. “It is! My dear son and the man of the hour! Just who I wanted to see.”

“My l— sir,” Mister manages, flustered. “I didn’t see—? I mean, I didn’t know you had left the ballroom. Just a moment, I’ll—”

“No, no, dear boy. Just give me a moment!” His walking stick taps on the marble, casual rather than crucial. “We’ll come up to you.”

“We?” Sir echoes, and that’s when Obi sees it— the messy tangle of black that had faded into the garden’s shadows.

“Oh,” he mutters, mouth already tugging into a sneer. “Just who I wanted to see.”

*

“What a lovely party,” Seiran gushes as he draws near, delight evident in every click of his heels. “Truly, the wedding of the season, for all that it isn’t supposed to have happened. Or, I suppose, should have happened earlier. Ha!”

If a duke does not lower his head to a count, it only follows that a marquis won’t either, but Obi’s far too practiced at keeping his to risk any less than a nod. A deep one, almost deferential. The man who survived raising Miss Kiki doesn’t deserve any less. “You’re too kind, milord.”

“Nonsense!” The earl waves his hand, and for a moment, the similarity staggers him. He’s only met Kiki’s dad a handful of times, but each time it’s like that— brief flashes of a movement so familiar he could draw the angles of it with his eyes closed, but that smile instead of a scowl makes them as different as night and day. “If only we had such an excuse to celebrate more often.”

“Maybe you will soon enough, my lord.” The earl might brighten every balcony onto which he walks, but his companion casts a pall over the company keeps. And by the way Lugis’s mouth twists, wry and annoyed all at once, he knows. “You’ve already gained a son. Maybe he will be kind enough to oblige you with a few grandchildren to name.”

That snake ends the sentence too early, but his flash of teeth finishes it: if he can locate his dick well enough to use it.

Sir stiffens behind him, hand hovering just above his sword’s hilt. “Hisame…”

“An excellent point!” Seiran laughs, one well-manicured hand reaching to clap Big Guy on the shoulder. He withers noticeably. “Though I suppose my good-son would wish us to speak of this where he might not hear.”

Sir’s neck flushes so red Obi could swear he sees steam. “Or not at all.”

“Oh, come now. You may be too modest to suffer us speculating, but surely you cannot protest the process.” There’s times where Obi has wondered how a man as easy-going as the earl had could had a hand in honing a girl more to a dagger than a daughter. But right now, as the Mister’s eyes roll heavenward like losing consciousness might be a mercy, and all the man does is grin— well, he can see the shape of it.

“Just think of it.” That snake looks pretty amused for a guy who framed a man for murder and nearly toppled a whole country just to play fake fiancé. “If His Highness’s courtship proceeds as promised, then perhaps his own joyful occasions will not be much behind yours, Sir Mitsuhide.”

Sir doesn’t get wistful the way he used to— or at least, Obi hasn’t caught him going around hanging himself over balconies and heaving those world weary sighs. But something in him catches on joyful occasions and—

And it’s just Sir and him who know that’s not likely to happen. Seiran’s lord and lady might get up to whatever they like behind closed doors— and if he knows Kiki, she will— but there’s not likely to be any royal issue, not any time soon. Not from Zen, at least. He’ll find some way to put off his wedding, same way he used to put off popping the question, and in a few years and some creative paperwork, they’ll get their happy ending, just the way they were meant to.

Seiran might smile as he puts a hand on Obi’s shoulder, giving him a squeeze that makes this night almost feel real, that he is the man Miss wanted to see at the altar— but one glance at Sir’s grimace is enough to remind him that he’s just here to keep Master’s seat warm. A placeholder, until something better can be arranged.

“You boys should take more care with His Highness’s stag night, however,” Seiran instructs, suddenly stern. “All these little fêtes are fine and good— and I’m sure His Majesty will see to it that his brother has one becoming of his station— but it is all quite…sanitary is it not? For such an occasion, a man wishes to be out with his comrades, celebrating his nuptials with all the happy abandon—”

“I must thank you for traveling all this way, my lord,” Obi blurts out, receiving Sir’s grateful look with all the graciousness a knight taking a rescued maiden’s kiss. For all that he’d love to lord the knowledge of her father’s sowing of wild oats or what not, he doesn’t actually want to hear the details. At least right now, when the Big Guy’s two shades of red away from spontaneous combustion. “Can’t have been easy on such short notice.”

“No niceties for me, my lord?” that snake hums, so smug his forked tongue might well flicker through his lips. “Have I not traveled far enough?”

Obi’s smile bears more teeth than good will when he says, “I wasn’t aware it was that far from His Highness’s coattails to here.”

Sir snorts, loud enough Seiran spares him a curious glance before adding, “Not at all, dear boy. I had plenty of time to settle my business before starting my trek to the palace. Though I suppose were I north enough to get those early autumn squalls, three weeks might have been a far narrower window than I would have liked.”

“T-three?” Obi blinks, fingers numb at his side. “Three weeks?”

Three weeks. He’d known about this for three days. And by the way Sir starts to fidget under his stare, he might be the only one.

“I must say, it was quite the surprise to see Forzeno step up as your guardian.” Seiran laughs, shaking his head. “I was of the impression that man didn’t leave his lab for anything more than an opportunity to fund it. How did you even manage to meet?”

“Ah, well…” His fingers dig into the meat of his shoulder, the familiar flash of pain grounding him. “It’s  not much of a story. Turns out some of his rock collection showed some promise in cracking open a little conundrum they’d all been working on, and Miss convinced” — coerced, really, but who’s counting— “him to come give them a hand.”

The snake huffs out a laugh, one of his narrow eyebrows hitching a ride to his hairline. “And he adopted you for simply standing around?”

Lata probably would have, if it meant dodging a dukedom. Good thing the geezer didn’t think of it sooner. “That’s because His Majesty thought ‘messenger’ wasn’t a good enough title for one of his brother’s buddies. Slapped me with a ‘sir’ and let me loose up in the North. By the time Lata got his hands on me, I was biting the ankles of my betters.”

Seiran’s mouth slides into a sly curve. “I can see why that might have endeared you to a man like him.”

“Don’t know if I’d say endeared so much as enraged.” Or embarrassed, more likely, but that’s not something he’s going to admit to when Hisame Lugis is standing around, grinning like his knighthood is the funniest joke he’s ever told. “I thought I was doing just fine, but apparently I was ‘the Royal Circle’s greatest shame’ and I ‘can’t serve His Highness with that sort of sloppy dress.’ So then he decided he was my knightly mentor, and…”

He lifts a shoulder. That’s that, it says, or maybe, it is what it is.

It doesn’t seem like Earl Seiran hears it, though. “If you had needed for someone to vouch for you name, my boy, you might have told me!” His mouth pinches, the same way his daughter’s does when he calls her name. “I would have been happy to call you son.”

“Oh, er…” Obi coughs, searching for the politest way to say, I don’t think that sentiment would have been unanimous, sir. “That’s a…uh…generous offer, my lord, but, er…”

“You already have an heir,” Kiki deadpans, appearing from just behind her father’s shoulder. “Don’t get greedy.”

“Kiki, my dear,” he laughs, holding out his arm— one she summarily ignores, brushing past him stand next to Sir. “I always thought you would make a wonderful older sister.”

“Hear that, my lady,” Obi hums, leaning close enough for their elbows to nudge. Naturally, of course, not because she’d caught him aiming at her side. “I could have been your little brother.”

“You’re a year older than me,” she reminds him, right before latching onto him with her iron grip. “I hope you can forgive me, Father, for stealing him away.”

“Darling,” he sighs, “must you call me that? Surely ‘Daddy’ would be—?”

“No.”

“Papa?” he tries, undaunted. Kiki only sighs.

“What, no apologies for me, Lady Kiki?” The snake slithers closer, smirking when Sir stiffens— but he doesn’t dare slink a step further. “I was talking to the marquis as well.”

“When it comes to sorry behavior, you are so far in debt that an apology from me could only dig you deeper,” she warns him, not even a hint of humor. “I thought I might save you the inches.”

Had that advice fallen from Obi lips, no doubt they would have heard that snake’s rattle. But from Kiki, it only tilts his smile to a more rueful pitch. “How…considerate of you.”

“Why, I do believe I see your brother, Sir Hisame!” Seiran remarks, just too loud to be casual. “Shall I go pay my respects? I haven’t seen him since…”

Since Sir so publicly scuttled their engagement— and, almost as a side note, revealed that the snake himself had taken part in Touka Bergatt’s attempted coup. That even as he hobnobbed with His Majesty’s guests, he was still in that bastard’s pocket.

Lugis’s mouth widens, smile all teeth. “I’m sure he bears you no ill will, my lord. He knows a thing or two about having willful heirs of his own.”

“Quite,” Seiran chuckles. “Still, you’ll come with me, won’t you? Perhaps ease over this small bump in our relationship.”

Funny. If he committed treason, Obi hardly thinks they’d all wave it over as a small bump.

“Ah…” The snake’s on his back foot now, sly eyes rounding as the earl advances on him, seizing his arm. “I appreciate the invitation, my lord, but I’ve hardly spoken to Lord Obi—”

“As my daughter says, Lord Obi is being stolen away.” Lugis winces under the strength of Seiran’s grip. “Let us leave them to it.”

“But—”

“Come.” The earl doesn’t quite take the snake out for a drag across the veranda, but it’s close. “I am so looking forward to renewing your brother’s acquaintance, after all.”

*

Obi blinks, watching as they disappear into the ballroom, arm-in-arm. Or rather hand-on-arm, by the way Lugis is trying to dig in his heels.

“Huh,” he murmurs, casting a look the long way up to Mister’s stern mug. “I didn’t know your dad was so buddy-buddy with Sir Hiss-a-lot.”

“Earl Seiran is being circumspect,” Sir replies pointedly. “He may not like Sir Hisame, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be nice.”

“Hey, I’m nice to people all day long.” Obi presses a hand to his chest, scandalized. “And I don’t like half of them!”

Kiki snorts. “Doubtful.”

“I am!” Where he came from, being nice meant no one drew blood. A low bar, but after every day he’s stuck in this madhouse having to play lord, he’s starting to see the wisdom in it. “Anyway, thanks for the rescue, Miss Kiki. I guess I’ll just—”

A hand grips his shoulder, as strong as any shackle. It’s not Sir’s. “I wasn’t kidding about you being needed.”

“Me?” He turns to her, wide-eyed. “Really?”

“Of course. It’s dinner time, and you’re the groom.” She glares back at him like he’s stupid. “Don’t tell me you didn’t write a toast.”

His jaw drops. “Ah…”

“You.” She fixes him with a meaningful stare. “Are going to owe me.”

[organised-disaster]

Aight @baxieblur-turnip and @randosfandos y'all know the drill here it is

SNOWBIRD: CHAPTER IV

I stare at the ceiling. It's quite nice. Wood panels. Inoffensive. I count the scratch marks in it, then the proper holes.

I've just nicked it more than I've actually hit it. I don't especially try when I throw my knife. It used to be Otto's. I feel bad launching it at the ceiling, but it's what I do when I'm bored.

I retrieve it from my drawer. I flick it open and close a few times, running my thumb over the dimpled texture of the green handle while I study the ceiling. I can almost see the shape of a face...

I throw the knife up into a blank spot. It makes a tiny scratch. Not enough force. It sails back down into my hand. I catch it easily, the blunt side of the blade slotting seamlessly between my fingers.

Again. It thuds into the ceiling, between the boards, and I almost think it's going to stay there. It slides out, however, rotating to be blade-first. It pierces the pillow next to my head. How unfortunate.

Again. A thunk can be heard as it stays put. I stand to retrieve it, my bed creaking in protest. The ceilings are not especially low, but Otto's knife is easily within my reach.

It comes away too easily. Not enough force, once again. I stay standing instead of lying down again. I look at the knife in my hand.

I could stop. I could stop damaging the ceiling over and over again, and I could stop blunting the knife. I should stop.

I am only breaking things. No, not even breaking. This is nothing.

This is just more purposeless damage. I am just stabbing the ceiling, the ceiling that can not die, or feel it at all. This is an exercise in futility. I am satisfying nothing.

The sound the knife makes as I personally drive it into the ceiling is very satisfying indeed.

I step off my bed, landing silently on my floor. I allow the knife to say in my ceiling. I don't need it, anyway. I have other, much sharper knives. Better knives.

I pass my empty wall. The spot with four holes in it as if something was once displayed there stares into me, accusing me. I face it, staring back. I blindfold it by displaying Sera's gift. Yumi's warm, grey eyes now bore a hole into my skull, but it's a marginal improvement.

I shut the door quietly behind me. I don't care about the noise I make, but I don't need to be loud. It would feel too small.

My footsteps echo in the empty hallway. There used to be photos in this house. Filling the walls. There also used to be laughter.

The one photo left sits alone on the mantle. I know what it looks like, of course. I wasted many days staring at it.

Yumi is approximately seven. My mother is desperately trying to keep a hold of her, obviously tired but still smiling. Yumi is wearing a large grin, several teeth missing, as she seems to yell and reach toward the photographer.

One of her hands is pushing my mother's face to the side, slightly squishing her smile. My father is holding me, smiling at my mother and Yumi rather than the camera. I look grumpy.

It was taken in winter, so we are all wearing warm clothing. I look adequately cared for, with a knit beanie and fluffy green jumpsuit covering all of me but my face. My father's puffy jacket is an equal green. Yumi's brown sweater matches the one our mother is wearing. Yumi had to be wrestled into that sweater.

It's a lovely, lively photo, full of warmth and happiness. It reflects nothing of what we are now, though. It's almost like looking into a broken mirror.

You know what's supposed to be there, what it's supposed to look like, and it just doesn't. You can tell what it was. You can tell what it did. And it will never be what it was again, even if you fix it.

It's far more complicated than a broken mirror, though. We've lost all but two of the pieces, and one is so dirty and scratched that it's functionally worthless. We don't even have the glue to put those two pieces back together.

I hate the year-old girl in that photo. I hate her dissatisfied frown and barely visible black hair. I hate her chubby, tiny, tightly balled fists. I hate her innocence. I hate her ignorance.

I'm not looking at the photo now, though, so there is nothing immediately in front of me to hate. At least until I reach the mirror. But I already know what I look like. I will just ignore myself, like always.

I wash my face for the third time today. I should apologise to Sera. I should also never speak to Sera again. I should also lie down in the sand and wait for the ocean to claim me.

It's unclear what order I should take those actions in. Logic states that the ocean will take up far more of my time than begging for Sera's forgiveness and exit from my life.

I do not like logic. It is normally against me. I don't really want to talk to Sera right now, either. I don't want to talk to her, full stop. She'll come to me, talk to me, convince me to talk to her. She always does.

Of course, the Reaping is soon. I have several hours to kill. Normally, I'd spend this time with Sera. It would be tense, and there would be something inherently sad about it, but we would have each other. And that would be how we held each other together.

But not today. I won't lose this. I don't lose. It isn't something I do. I don't need Sera. I need her like I need a gaping head wound. I need her like I need the knife in my ceiling. Gods, I hate that knife.

I hated Otto's urgency as she pressed it into Yumi's hands before pressing an equal kiss to her lips. I hated my father's soulless eyes as he dropped a box of Yumi's things on my lap. I hated the message at the bottom of that box.

I hate that message.

I twist the tap violently enough that it must have bruised my hand. What a shame. The tap drips for a moment, then realises it's done with its job and ceases. The ensuing silence is decidedly agitating. It is broken by the sound of the door creaking open.

I will not look in the mirror. I will not acknowledge who is staring back at me, and I especially will not acknowledge who is behind me. I bring my hands behind my head, gathering my hair into one area.

I make sure to keep my eyes closed. I slide my hairband off my wrist and wrap it once, twice, three times around my ponytail until it is tight and stays in its place just behind where my head curves. I drag the towel across my face, mildly hoping it'll miraculously turn into steel wool.

I push past the man with the unshaved face and uncombed hair. I do not speak to him. He has missed his chance. He lays a hand on my shoulder.

The father makes some semblance of an attempt to speak to his daughter. The daughter coldly brushes away her father's hand.

My gait is not hurried, but most would fall behind. I don't know where I'm going. I suppose I'll find out when I get there. More people are around now. Most of them are Peacekeepers.

Preparing for the yearly slaughter, of course. It's a miracle Annie won the last. The poor girl snapped like a twig the minute Moor was beheaded. I don't blame her.

We were... not friends. Never friends. I knew her. It wouldn't be right to say that I know her. But we interacted, and I didn't hate her. She's how I knew him.

I remember how she trembled in the chair she looked too small in when her other friends rushed in to wish her luck and comfort her. He would have loved to, but mentors aren't allowed to.

I don't envy her. Or him. Nothing good came of their victories, aside from the food parcels for District Four. He's off in the Capitol being treated like an object, and Annie is... hopefully still breathing.

Perhaps I should visit her. There was far too much screaming coming from her house in Victor's Village for a woman who lives alone the last time I tried to check on her, though. It's best that I stay away.

Seth is about her age, I believe. They've never once held a conversation, but Seth has a way of speaking without his voice. He is very regular with his visits to her.

He looks almost identical to his sister. Messy blonde curls that spill easily into his eyes and tie themselves into knots around his ears, dulled-gold irises, a constellation of freckles across his nose and cheeks, a solid, strong build. One of their very few physical differences is his facial hair, which isn't much more than some thicker patches of fuzz at the moment.

I'm told he's very handsome by his many fans. I don't see it. He's just a male version of Sera, so feasibly I should be able to see it, but it just doesn't appear to me. Perhaps it's his lack of everything that I find sweet about her. Sera's face in my vision every day for almost two decades could have warped my perception of what "good-looking" is...

Most people assume Seth is mute or deaf or both, but he turns when someone talks to him, and he responds with a mumble or vague noise if I ask him something.

Seth is... strange. He's oddly fascinated by seaweed and the like, wasting all his free time poking at samples of it pulled up of fishing trips. He doesn't feel anything until it's applied tenfold, and even then, it doesn't appear to bother him. He'll just stare at people if they talk to him.

He talks to his friends the most. They adore him. It's understandable, with his inexplicable odd charm. It was easy to assume at first that they were just acting like they liked him because they found it funny.

They're genuine, though. They gather, the five or so of them, without him occasionally. I once walked past them as they were talking, and he was mentioned many times.

They talked about how odd it was that he knew so much about seaweed, but changed it immediately by talking about what he knew and how interesting it was. They discussed if they should bring Seth along to an event, mainly debating if he would enjoy it. One of them mentioned a rock Seth had given him, holding it out and praising it.

I don't consider myself jealous. It made me wonder for a moment if that was how the people who knew me talked about me when I wasn't present. I felt relieved for a moment. I am not one to try to deny facts, however.

I'm not blind. I saw the glares Seth's friends gave me.

One of them was Otto's younger brother, Oswald. She had two, him and a boy named Fayrouz, who's now about thirteen. He hates me now, but I would sometimes see him when Otto came over to talk to Yumi.

I remember her fairly well, although I didn't know her as greatly.

Otto loved green and wore a lot of it. Mainly deep sages, but I'd occasionally see her wearing an almost blindingly lime shirt. She was one of the fishers and had the build to match. Her burnt umber skin was lined with scars, especially her hands, and her whole body rippled when she flexed.

She had distinctly sharp features, much like the Esthel twins. Unlike them, though, her caramel-colour gaze could easily cut diamond. Her face was also more square, drawing attention to her high, ever-bruised cheekbones. She would always wear her black, curling hair in a low ponytail.

Oswald and I talked a little then, while our sisters were busy with their schoolwork and their gossip. He's a nice enough guy. Or, he used to be, anyway. He has a lot of friends. Sera is one of them.

He's very fond of her. She's ushered me out of her house so she can talk to him before. It makes sense. He detests me, and Sera likes him for some reason, so she keeps us separate.

Mechi sometimes brings up how Ozzie being alone with Sera doesn't bother me, but them being alone does. I don't really have anything to address that. I can't really take him seriously, I guess. I know I'll never have to worry about Sera preferring him to me.

He looks just like Otto. His hair is curlier than hers, and he keeps it cut short, but very similar. His eyes used to have her same piercing quality, but now they smoulder when I look at him. He didn't use to try to look like her.

It's for the opposite of the reason I keep my hair long, I'd imagine.

When Yumi died, it was like his older sister had died all over again. But at least there was someone he could rightfully blame. He likes it when we're partnered together in training. Especially when weapons get involved. He never wins, but he doesn't care.

Yumi's swap was considered "a shock" and "a display of friendship." Mine was called "a tragedy" and "unjust" and "stealing."

Otto loved Yumi deeply. And then Yumi was called, and Otto couldn't imagine life without her. So Otto took Yumi's place without a moment's hesitation. Yumi was comforted and consoled, and Otto was mourned as a dead woman.

Yumi cared for me. And then I was called, and Yumi felt that I was her responsibility. So Yumi took my place without a moment's hesitation. I was scowled at and disregarded, and Yumi was mourned as a loss.

It's not unfair, not exactly. Yumi was all kinds of excellent, but Otto was different. Colder, but still as caring. Less patient, but still as willing to listen. She gave solutions when presented with problems.

I remember her voice being smooth and warm. Much like someone else's. I didn't cry at her funeral, either. Rumi Erudite doesn't cry.

There was so something so utterly tragic about Otto.

It doesn't matter, not anymore. She's dead.

Ah. So my destination was the beach. Logical. It's nice this time of year. Victors will often stop here on their tours.

I don't feel anything when I sit down in the sand, just ahead of where the waves lap at my feet. I don't want to get saltwater on these shoes. And I don't like the way the waves move. I don't like the way they're getting closer to me.

Some part of me laughs at that. They're waves. They can't be malicious. They can't be cunning. They can't be evil. They can't... hate...

I shake that away and shuffle further up the beach.

It would be nice if I could feel what I felt three hours or so ago. It would also be nice if I could describe that feeling. It's childish that all I know is that I feel it with Sera, childish that I know nothing of my own emotions.

I wish my appreciation of the sunsets and sunrises wasn't linked to Sera. I wish my best memories didn't involve her. I wish that I didn't feel short of breath when she laughs.

I wish, I wish, I wish...

How childish. How naïve. How old am I, really? That I'm stuck wishing and hoping and whining? I hate that. I hate it all. I hate Sera.

I stare out into the ocean. I normally try to identify the boats on the water, but it's all been put on hold for the Reaping. The ocean surface is empty. It's slightly odd. It's very much non-standard, but it isn't alien.

It's sort of like when the birds all fall silent and leave the skies when a storm is brewing. It's not like it isn't normal. It's just not a good sign.

No boats means a child of District Four dies.

I remember when Sera would come home from storms. If she was caught in one, it'd be because they blew in before they could react. I'd wrap a blanket around her shoulders as she laughed about how she had been thrown overboard and hauled back on more than once.

I've noticed a pattern with Sera. Every time something bad happens to her, she just... starts joking. It's like she can't take it seriously. She refuses to acknowledge her own injuries. I'll usually have to drag her over to Cod. The only time she's taken herself there was when she accidentally cut off part of her ring finger while chopping carrots, and even then, she still tried to deflect it as okay for about thirty seconds. She worries me sometimes.

One night after a storm, Sera didn't laugh. She knocked on my door and waited where she would normally just let herself in. Even when I answered, she just stood in front of the door, dripping wet from the pouring rain with her head hanging. I could barely hear her when she asked to come inside.

I wonder if it's possible to purge memories. The ones after Yumi's death are all blurred. Those aren't gone, though. I want them gone entirely, so I wouldn't even know that I was remembering them strangely.

Alas.

The ocean's calm, at least.

"Rumi." I jump slightly. The newcomer's soft voice surprised me, somehow so much louder than everything else. I glance at the sky instead of her. The light's changed. I have no idea how long I was staring out at the mostly-flat ocean.

I identify her by the stitching at the hem of her shirt as I turn to watch the ocean again.

"Figured I'd find you here," Mechi says vaguely.

"Yes, well..." I respond, equally non-specific.

There is more silence. I assume Mechi is admiring the sea.

"You made her cry, you know," she says after a few minutes.

"Okay." Mechi sighs.

"Showed up on our doorstep," she furthers.

"Okay." Mechi shifts next to me.

"She was bawling her eyes out about how she upset you. She blames herself for every little thing you do, you know."

"That seems like her problem."

"Gods, Rumi, don't you care? You're her best friend," Mechi says, irritated. I finally turn to her so I can glare at her.

She's exactly as she always is. Blank. Mechi does not show her emotions much. It's not deliberate, I don't think.

"Why should I care about what Sera blames herself for? Why should her issues be mine, too? When did I agree to that?" Mechi flexes her hands.

"When you became her friend, that's when," she says, maintaining her composure. I turn away from her. Mechi sighs again. "It's sort of difficult to calm her down when she gets like that, you know." I do know. I've known Sera for longer than she has. I hate it when people act like they know her better than me.

"She loves contact, yeah?" Mechi continues. "Likes having her hair fixed, likes being hugged, likes being held. She loves to have somebody wrap their arms around her." Mechi pauses for a moment. "Affection. From someone she trusts. That's all she really needs."

There's another long pause between the two of us.

"To make her feel safe again. You know how it is."

She's saying all that like she did it. That's all oddly intimate for someone who's just her friend. Mechi's not close to her like I am. I'm the only one who's allowed to do things like that. That's what I do with Sera, not her. That's ours, not hers. And I don't like what she's implying with that snarky little last comment. The sand crunches in my clenched fists.

"You're too cruel to her. You're on a good path to lose her, you realise." She really thinks she knows what she's talking about, doesn't she? "I can tell when she's upset. I can tell when she's scared. I know how she gets when you get angry."

Oh, of course. Because Mechi knows everything, apparently. She acts like this sometimes, like she's the smartest person in all of Panem. She acts like she's so much better than me.

Sera doesn't "get" anything when I'm angry. She knows it's not really her fault. It's not even directed at her most of the time. I always apologise to her afterwards, too. I hate to see her upset. Which I recognise better than Mechi.

Mechi doesn't have any right to assume things about me and Sera. She knows far less than I do. And she's making me angry. I bet she's doing it on purpose so she can lie some more and say that I'm always like this. Fine then. If she wants me to be angry, I'll get angry.

"Really?!" I snap at her. She doesn't flinch. "You really have the audacity to say that?! I've known Sera for fifteen years! You've known her for - for not even a third of that! Do you think you're even remotely capable of knowing her like I do?! Do you really think that you - "

"She says you scare her sometimes," Mechi says levelly, cutting me off. "She says you aren't really yourself."

I don't scare Sera. We're friends. She's not scared of me. She knows me. Maybe... maybe once, years ago, I did scare her, but we talked about that! And besides, she'd tell me if she was afraid of me. She wouldn't tell Mechi instead. She wouldn't hide her feelings from me. She wouldn't betray me like that.

I know Mechi's lying. She's doing it to make me angry. Sera would never betray me. Sera would never say that I'm not myself. She knows me. She knows who I am. She's the only one who does.

Mechi is a liar.

"You've got an excellent tactic right now, actually," she says, still daring to speak. "You're absolutely awful to her, then you tell her you care about her and act so sweet about it." How dare she. How dare she. I'm not. I'm not anything she says I am. I'm nothing she says I am. She's everything she says I am, if anything! She's the -

"What, are you just going to sit there and get redder?" Mechi prods. She's waiting for me to come to any kind of a conclusion on my own. I have a conclusion for her. I have so many conclusions for her, and right now, a lot of them end in her blood decorating the sand.

"You don't know anything about us!" I shout, going in the least violent direction. "I care about Sera! More than you ever could! And I -"

"You're doing such a great job manipulating Sera, Rumi."

She's so pretentious. She's so smug. She's so proud of herself. She thinks she knows me. She thinks she knows Sera. Sera is my friend, not hers. Sera spends the most time with me. Sera is mine.

She's mine, all mine. Mechi should give in. She's mine. She's not Mechi's, she's not Tyra's, she's not any of those stupid boys', she's definitely not Ozzie's. She's mine.

"That's why she's afraid," Mechi says, so quietly. I must have said all that out loud. I don't care. It's true. She knows it's true. And she knows she's lying.

Something breaks. Some restraint I was keeping, it's gone. She thinks she can say all that. All that without consequence. She thinks that because she's just oh so important, she can do whatever she wants.

I wasn't raised to take disrespect like that. I wasn't trained to tolerate attitude like hers. And I won't.

I strike her, hard. It knocks her over, and she cries out. I stand. She rubs the side of her face. She looks up at me. Where have I seen that expression before..?

I don't care. I don't care.

"Stand up," I snarl. She's afraid. She's cowering at my feet. She didn't expect to be hit.

Something tugs at me, at the back of my mind. I ignore it. I demand that Mechi stands up again. This time, she obeys. I hit her again. It doesn't... do as much this time.

I hit her with just as much force. I think.

I punch out at her again, but she brings her guard up and blocks it. I am abruptly reminded that Mechi has had nearly identical training to me. She sends a violent blow into my cheekbone, causing me to tear up.

I punch her in the teeth on my rebound. Her hand instinctively flies to her mouth. I take my opportunity and kick her knee, knocking her down.

I bring my own knee violently into her face.

It doesn't occur. So I bring my own knee violently into her face.

Don't I? She's at the perfect angle for it. It would probably break her nose. So I bring my own knee violently into her face.

But I don't. I stand. Useless. Mechi looks up at me. She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth, stepping up and away from me. Her face softens.

"I can tell you aren't trying," she says quietly. She doesn't even have a lisp. "You don't really want to hurt me. You're just angry."

"Shut up," I hiss. There's a good, cold fury in my voice. Mechi's expression is one of pity.

"You only did that because you hate that what I said was true."

How many times do I have to tell her? How many times do I need to bruise her? How many times do I need to split her lip?

She is a liar. I love Sera. I don't hurt her. I hate hurting her. I don't mean to. I mean it every time, and I regret it so much more every time. Something in me always whispers that she deserves it. Something in me is wrong. Some part of me is broken.

I must be doing something stupid with my face.

"You need to go talk to her. She loves you, Rumi. And you keep on breaking her heart," Mechi says, her voice weak and wavering. I mishear what she says next. I must've.

Because otherwise, Mechi just said that Sera is going to die.

Mechi wipes one of her eyes.

"I tried to talk her out of it. She said she didn't have a choice." Something icy spreads in my chest.

"She's rigged the Reaping, Rumi. For you. It's going to be her. I don't know why. She could have done anything else." Mechi is lying. Again. She must be lying. She must be. The ice creeps up my spine.

"Does she have a death wish?" I demand, although it's more desperate and pathetic and on the verge of tears than actually demanding. Mechi laughs, cold and hollow.

"Same thing I asked her," she mutters. "She didn't tell me. She just gave me this sad smile." I grab her, seizing her by the collar. The ice reaches my arms. I will not let go of her until she tells me the truth. Mechi reaches up to try to free herself, her hands landing on my wrists.

"I don't believe you," I hiss, more strangled than I would have liked it to be. It's true. I don't believe her. I won't believe her. I don't want to. Mechi shakes her head.

"It's what she told me, Rumi," she says, voice low.

My veins freeze over.

"It's my fault that she knew," Mechi says, shame colouring her face. "I overheard a guy we know, I forgot his name, bribing Papa to rig it to be you." Mechi squeezes my arms tighter.

"He accepted. Because he's shameless," she mutters angrily. "So I told Sera, because what else was I supposed to do? Let her watch you die?" she spits. Her words boil with anger and resentment.

"She got him to make it all her name," she says, some of the hate leaving her voice to make room for defeat. "He wouldn't listen to me when I asked him to just drop the whole thing."

Tears drip down her face as her posture weakens.

"He hates the Kaishurrs. He was basically being paid to kill one of them," she says. "I don't know what she's planning to stop you from volunteering, but Sera's smart. She's going to be in the Games." I release her, staggering back. I am cold. I am unnaturally cold, on this nice, warm morning.

The ocean laughs at me.

The ice does not release its horrible grip as my body starts to move. Mechi moves out of the way as the beach rushes past, the sand giving way to earth and the earth giving way to concrete.

My chest tightens. I can't breathe.

My feet carry me forward. I can't see. All I can hear is my heart hammering in my ears. And Mechi's awful words, echoing over and over again.

She's going to die. She's going to die. She's going to die. She's going to die, and it's my fault.

I can't go fast enough. My top speed is not fast enough. I am not strong enough. I can't save her. We're both going to drown.

Blood is spreading through the water like a grim plume. Rain is cutting into us like knives. I can't save her. I can't save her. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can'tIcan't. Ican'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan't.

WhyisnobodyherewhyisnobodyhelpinguswhyisshenotbreathingwhyamIuselesswhyamIworthlesswhycan'tIsaveherwhywhywhywhywhypleasepleasepleaseI'msorryI'msosorrypleaseopenyoureyespleaseplease -

A scream tears at my throat, but it comes out as a stream of bubbles, and comes back in as suffocating, surrounding water. Every desperate, sprinted step hurts. Everything hurts. My clothes feel heavy. Seawater burns my eyes and nose.

We will drown. We will drown, and it is my fault. She hadn't insisted. I had a choice. We will die. I am drowning. I am drowning. I am drowning.

I can't breathe. I can hear the ocean. Crashing waves. Dragging me down with no remorse. No mercy. No care.

Water roars in my ears. It hates me. It's always hated me. It let me feel safe for a long time, so I'd let my guard down. So it could kill me. It's docile when I see it, when the sun shines.

It shows me its true nature when it storms. It shouts at me, comes for me, hungers for me.

I fear it. Not when I am not alone. It doesn't dare touch me when I am not alone. But I know how cruel it truly is. It hates.

It consumes me. It swallows me whole and does not notice. It does not care what it is doing to me. It does not care how it seeps the life from me.

I can't move fast enough.

She comes into focus. Her face. Her head. Her mouth. The blood around her. The blood on the docks.

She turns to face me. I see her eyes widen. Through my pain and my rain and my desperation, I see her.

My arms come around her body. We fall to the ground. The solid, dry ground. I fall into blood-spoiled blonde curls and the forever poisoned scent of petrichor and saltwater and rotting wood and blood and exposed bone and desperate screaming and tear stained cheeks and regret and pain and lasting injuries and warm nights and happy embraces and death and love and loss.

I'm sorry, I tell her. I'm so sorry.

[yujikuna]

i am fighting for my life as a jjk fan and i swear to god if i see ONE MORE domain expansion in this fight i will really truly lose my mind. grow up and just punch each other to death with your fists im so tired.

[eijiroukiriot]

if there's one thing i know it's that this kid would want you to vote for kirishima eijirou in my hero academia's World Best Hero official worldwide popularity poll. and i know that because really not a lot has changed i still want you to do that now. in fact you can do it once a day. let's rep our boy!!

comic retelling of this weird thing that happened to me yesterday. i’ve definitely had better moments

[not-mary-sue]

Alright, to ao3's soon to be arriving Wattpad Refugees, a basic guide to general user culture:

1.) Unlike Wattpads vote system that let's you like each chapter, the ao3 equivalent kudos only allows one per work. Everyone is generally quietly annoyed about this. To engage with each chapter, you're heavily encouraged to comment. Trust me, it makes people's day.

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3.) 'No archive warnings apply' and 'user has chosen not to use archive warnings' mean two very different things. No archives warnings means the work is free from any content that could require a warning tag (character death, graphic depictions of violence, non-con, etc). User has chosen not to use archive warnings means it could contain any of the warning content, be it hasn't been explicitly tagged. Treat it like an allergen. No archive warnings apply is allergen free. User has chosen not to use archive warnings, may contain traces or whole chunks of the allergen. If you're likely to have a bad reaction, maybe don't take the risk.

4.) Speaking of warnings, ao3 has very few restrictions on the type of work that's allowed. Whatever your personal thoughts or feelings on that are, thats how the site is. You're likely to run across some dark subject matters and a lot of people are uncomfortable with reading that. You're well within your rights not like these works and have your opinion on whether they should be allowed, but harassing the authors of such works (or any works) is more likely to come back on you than them. Ao3 operates on a strong policy of 'don't like, don't read'. Use the tagging system to your full advantage to only engage with the kind of works you want to see.

We look forward to welcoming you all and seeing the fantastic works you create. Happy writing!

[gachaparadise]

finishing up the Loufu story chapter and it's making me feel insane (positive)

[azelletown]

im so glad this series got big and now i finally get to read it but also this is going to destroy me by the end of it huh

chapter 38 absolutely fucked me up, this shit is just real, i've been in situations and arguments exactly like this (minus the dragon sister and all) where i've lost what i thought were friendships because i had finally failed one too many social awareness checks

especially these panels had me pause and take a second

like, laios' point of view of their friendship was so nice and sureau, instead of being honest, bottled it up because he applied his assumptions of social awareness onto laios who then couldn't have ever known something was wrong

harmless examples of things i used to do and can talk about here: in middle school i would tap my fingers onto my desk to the rhythm of whatever song was in my head, and at the end of the 4 entire years we spent together, one of my friends lashes out at me about how i'm annoying everyone with it, and then more of my friends and other classmates would start telling me and scolding me about that and all the other habits i had that were annoying them as if those were things i were doing to purposefully piss people off. i even had a teacher yell at me seemingly out of nowhere because i'd lay head on my desk in her class and she apparently always took it as me being rude and "falling asleep" ??? in highschool i mispronounced a guy's name for 2 years until he called me a dick for it even though he never told me how to pronounce it correctly!!!!! i would also stare a lot, all the time, but again people only told me after so much time had passed that they just got mad at me

it got so bad that i started to minmax most of my social interactions, and i still do it with most of my IRLs to this day

i was literally hit with the Laios to Kabru Pipeline

Anyways this manga is peak, the show is also peak, go read/watch the neurodivergent dnd lesbian cooking show, i feel like im going to have a LOT to say about kabru in the future chapters

[izadi234]

Forget me not

-Warning: Contain yandere themes, neglected! gn!reader, mention of low self-esteem, the writer's first language isn't English.

Yan! Batfamily x gn! reader

Chapters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 (You're here)

Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 2

The moment you retreated to your room Alfred's gaze hardened as he looked at the kitchen door through which you had left.

With a sigh he returned to making breakfast, however, something couldn't stop going around in his head.

Why?

Why do you have to leave?

Why do you have to leave ME?

He doesn't blame you. Your "family" has done nothing but ignore you and push you aside on more than one occasion since you arrived at Wayne Manor. And if it weren't for him, Bruce wouldn't have remembered to pay for your needs and education.

No. He could never blame you for your decision, but he can blame Bruce and your brothers. He had never felt such anger for them, not even when Martha and Thomas died at the hands of that cruel man. But that never had a solution, but this did. His family has a solution and he was going to fix it for you and for you. To always have his ray of sunshine at his side.

He wasn't going to lose you without having fought a war.

But for now, he had to stay calm. He sighed once more and finally relaxed as he served breakfast on the plates. He has to talk to Duje after you told him about your decision.

He had to think with a cool head. As he had told Bruce many years ago: "Fear doesn't make you think clearly" and not only was he scared of his little ones going out into the world alone, he also had anger built up. And he was going to use those two feelings to his advantage.

It was not for nothing that he was a very feared soldier during the war.

You were in your room as usual texting with a friend when Duke knocked on your bedroom door before coming in.

"Hey (name)!" said Duke happily who sat on your bed while you sat at your desk

"Oh hey Duke!" you greeted him with a smile anyway "How was school today?"

"A little boring, but at least it's Friday now" he chuckled

"And you? How was your day?"

It's now or never.

You sighed and got up from your spot to sit next to him on your bed.

"I have something to tell you Duke…" you put a hand on his shoulder

"And what is it?" He asked worriedly seeing your seriousness "Don't tell me it's something bad"

"No, it's nothing bad. At least I don't consider it bad" you started to say "But, Duke, I've decided to move out of the mansion"

"…What?…" he said in a quiet tone of voice surprised by your words

No, it can't be…

"I know it's sudden, but I can't stand this place" you sighed "I want- No, I need to start over without being in the shadow of others"

You turned to look at him and caressed his cheek.

"But this doesn't mean we won't see each other again. We'll be able to talk and keep in touch" you offered him a smile

Without saying anything, Duke hugged you and nestled his head in the crook of your neck. You put a hand on his neck and caressed him.

"Just… Don't forget about me…" he said after a few minutes of silence.

He pulled away from you and wiped away some tears that threatened to fall from his eyes.

"I could never do that, brother," you wiped one of his eyes with your thumb.

After that emotional conversation, you and Duke spent the afternoon in your room talking and watching movies on your laptop. However, Duke's mind was still on that conversation.

There was no chance that you would leave him. He had to find a way to prevent you from leaving his side.

The week you moved went by so fast that when you realized it, you were already taking the last box with your belongings out of the mansion.

You looked back at that mansion one last time and felt like that little kid again who arrived with fear and excitement to what he would call home for years. But soon your face darkened as you remembered the suffering you had experienced there. Without thinking twice, you turned around and got on your motorcycle, but not before securing your last box. You started the bike and left Wayne Manor.

You hadn't said goodbye to Alfred nor Duke but you left a letter on both of their beds wishing each of them the best, thanking them for everything and giving them the phone number of your second cell phone in case they needed something or just wanted to check on you. However, you didn't leave anything else, not even an address. You wanted to completely erase the Waynes from your life, you wanted to erase the fact that you were a Wayne too. You wanted to forget them so much that you turned off the cameras in the mansion for a period of time so you could take out your things in peace, so that no one would see the license plates of your motorcycle that you had been keeping at a friend's house and whose motorcycle was registered.

If nothing else, you had developed the same paranoia as Bruce and decided to take every measure to avoid being located. You even thought about going to live in Metropolis or Star City but the rent and sale of apartments there were much more expensive than in Gotham. Maybe when you earn more money once you finish college.

But for now focus on your present.

Before it is taken away from you.

When you got to your apartment you let out a sigh that you didn't know you were holding. You looked around, there were some pieces of furniture that came with the apartment like a leather armchair that was a little worn but looked pretty new, a wooden bookcase, several coffee tables, some pots and kitchen stuff. The only thing you had to buy was your bed but your best friend did you the favor of giving you a headboard for your bed as a gift of independence and you only bought a mattress. It wasn't as comfortable as the one you had in the mansion but at least you had things you could consider yours. NOT thanks to Wayne, but thanks to your efforts.

You put the box on the kitchen counter and before going to your room you saw several boxes.

Damn... You hadn't thought about how lazy you were going to be when you had to unpack.

That same day you left, Alfred had returned from going grocery shopping. At that time of the morning you and he used to spend the morning together, while you were in your online classes, he did the housework along with the food. Between the breaks you had between classes you used to go see what he was doing in the kitchen and you were his personal taster.

Now that you were on vacation, you spent more time with him because Bruce, Tim and sometimes Damian went to Wayne Enterprises, Dick and Jason weren't usually at the mansion and Duke, Cass and Stephanie were training in the Batcave or with their friends. For that same reason Alfred was alarmed when he called your name and you didn't answer.

He quickly went up to your room only to find it completely empty. His heart raced and he started to sweat lightly.

You couldn't have left so quickly, right?

He went down again and checked all the rooms in the big mansion and found nothing. Only his own room was missing. As he entered he could see an envelope of your favorite color on his pillow. He approached and read it.

In the letter you apologized for not saying goodbye to him in person but if you did you were more than sure that you wouldn't be able to leave. You also left him a private cell phone number where he could call you and you wished him all the best.

It had been a long time since Alfred felt the need to cry but without realizing it he had already shed a few tears. He couldn't believe that his little one was already gone.

After having shed a few tears, he quickly wiped his eyes and composed himself. No, he couldn't cry because you were going to return. He was sure of that.

However, he would let you enjoy your independence a little before implementing his plan for you to return home to your family. With him.

But first he'll have to talk with Duke.

Helloooo! I hope you liked the second chapter! If you did leave a heart and i'll see you in the next one. I kind of think this chapter is kind of bland but the story is just begining. This are the first impressions of you leaving the Manor but soon enough the rest of the family will appear.

Thanks you for reading!

-Izadi <3

TAG LIST

@eyeless-kun

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 4

in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader are interrupted at the most inopportune of times. he calls you on the first night of his case. dirty talk turns into a hard conversation. we get a glimpse into spencer's past, and we finally learn why he's so hesitant to sleep with you.

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: dirty talk, phone sex/mutual masturbation, softdom!spence, obligatory he talks u through it, lots of graphic discussions of sex, established relationship, angst (sorrryyy!) a/n: so remember how i said you'd need the bonus chapter to fully appreciate/understand this part? i was wrong!! it will come in handy probably in the next part tho:) also idk how these parts keep getting so long im sorry! anyway, i love you all so bad. thank you for bearing w/ my craziness. PLEASE let me know your thoughts on this part!! i adore hearing from you!! kisses

(also special thank you to @fliesforeyes who convinced me phone sex w/ spence could be done!! i will link his phone sex blurb here :)) thank u binx!!

“Three million six hundred eighty four thousand three hundred thirty two times fourteen million seven hundred sixty one thousand nine hundred seventy one.”

You’ve lost count of how many stupid math questions you’ve asked your human calculator boyfriend, just to see if he can actually do them. Spencer is silent for a second, and you think you’ve finally stumped him. 

“That one is complicated.”

You sit bolt upright in his bed, looking down at him and pointing an accusatory finger. His brows raise at the manic look in your eye. 

“You don’t know.”

“I do know. I meant it would be hard to explain if you aren’t a math person.”

“Bullshit!” You scoff, “you don’t know!”

“It would display on a calculator as five-point-three-eight-eight-E-thirteen. It’s a really big number.”

“Oh, really big, huh?” you mumble, searching for your phone blindly in the sheets and scrambling to open the calculator app. “Um… what numbers did I say?”

Spencer repeats them back to you and you press the equals sign. 

You look at it. 

And then you set your phone down. 

“I was right, huh?” he smiles up at you, probably reveling in your pouty wrongness. 

Too proud to admit it, you collapse on top of him, burying your face in his shoulder. 

“I don’t like this game anymore. What the fuck even is an e? Why are we doing algebra?”

Spencer laughs, brushing your hair aside. 

“The e stands for exponent. It’s to the power of ten.”

“Ever heard of a rhetorical question?”

“Yes, I have.”

It’s hard not to snort even at his dumbest jokes. 

“You’re annoying. Let’s do something else.”

You roll over onto your back again, letting your head flop over to look at Spencer, whose hair is exactly the right amount of messy after a long day, falling in impossibly soft waves over the perfect lines and contours of his face. Despite lounging, he’s still in his suit from work—he’d left Quantico and immediately picked you up. There were no solid plans for the evening, so after both of you pretended that you wanted to go out for a while, you ended up back at his apartment. 

He looks good. Almost too good. 

“Something like what?” he smiles lazily, reaching over and tracing his fingers over your cheek. 

“Something… naked?”

His grin widens and he shakes his head. 

“Me naked or you naked?”

Pretending to think about it, you roll your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“Mm… why not both?”

“Hm. Why do I feel like I know where this is going?”

The mattress sinks underneath your elbow as you prop yourself up, dropping your head over Spencer’s to kiss him. 

“Because you’re so smart, and you think it’s a great idea.”

He entertains your kiss for a moment. Just a moment.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Because I am!” You finally give in to your impulses, tangling your fingers in his hair and looking at him meaningfully. “It doesn’t make any sense for us to have not had sex. I don’t care about any of your weird, cryptic moral reasoning.”

He grabs your wrist carefully. 

“It is not moral,” he scoffs. “We haven’t even talked about it yet.”

“Really? Because I feel like we’ve talked about it a lot.” 

He begins to reply, but you realize you don’t want to get into a debate over whether you’ve technically talked about it yet. “I don’t even care! If that’s all that’s standing in your way, then let’s talk about it. Right now.”

Spencer sighs, his eyes darting between yours as he reaches up to cradle your cheek. 

“Fine. But I have things to say you’re not going to like.”

“So business as usual?”

He rolls his eyes. You allow yourself a tiny self-satisfied smirk, forever relishing in his poorly-hidden soft spot for your constant teasing. Spencer ignores this. Which is probably for the best. 

“I know you probably won’t see it this way, but—sex is different than everything else we’ve done so far. It can be really fun, obviously it feels good, it facilitates deeper feelings of connection—that’s all true. Which is why, in my opinion, it’s incredibly important that you be selective with who you sleep with. Because it’s so easy to do something you regret, and sex is vulnerable. It should always be with someone you trust and—and… care about.”

A pink flush stains his cheeks like watercolor as he stumbles over the last few words. It makes your heart flutter against the confines of your chest.

Maybe best not to think about the absence versus presence of certain four-letter words and what they may or may not mean. You’ll move on to more pressing matters and pretend like it doesn’t ache just a little in your whole body. 

You cover his hand with your own. 

“Are you going to break up with me anytime soon?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, filling with genuine horror and confusion. 

“What? No!”

“Are you going to cheat on me?”

“Absolutely not, I—”

“Then I’m not going to regret it. Issue resolved. Moving on.”

“Honey, I just want you to be 100% sure that I’m what you want.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, flopping onto your back once more. “I have begged you to sleep with me on multiple occasions. We have been dating for months and I liked you even longer before that. I think about it literally every time I see you. I don’t know how to be any surer.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you study the imaginary pattern on the ceiling. The rebuttal you’d been anticipating doesn’t come—instead, the mattress shifts next to you. Spencer enters your field of vision, now leaning over you with a little smile on his face that gives you butterflies. 

“Every time?”

“…yes, every time,” you agree, voice considerably thinner than it had been a moment ago. Spencer glances at your lips as he speaks. 

“Interesting. And what is it that you think about exactly?”

You groan again, attempting to roll facedown, but he pins your shoulder to the bed. The way he’s sweetly kissing down your cheek and jaw is infuriating because you know it’s a false pretense. 

“Ugh, I don’t know! Don’t make me answer that!”

“You said if talking about it was all that was standing in my way, we would talk about it. Now I want to talk about it. Come on,” he says, voice low and cloying against your throat as he attempts to tease the answer out of you. “Tell me what you think about when you think about us having sex.”

You let out a shaky breath at the feeling of his lips skimming your neck, hating how easily he can reduce you to this. 

“I… I always wonder what it will feel like. Sometimes I wonder if it will hurt.”

Spencer sighs, interrogation by way of seduction momentarily forgotten. You silently curse yourself for saying something so un-sexy. 

“It might, sweetheart. That’s one of the reasons we’ve held back. I… really don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even know if I can.”

You grab his face in both hands, forcing him to look at you with more confidence than you feel. 

“Sometimes I worry about it, too. But I like you a lot more than it scares me. I still want to.”

He kisses your palm. 

“You’ll be okay. It doesn’t hurt for everyone, and even if it does, you’re resilient.”

“Exactly. So you have to get over yourself.”

Spencer laughs like he wasn’t expecting to, eyes sparkling as he regards you.  

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe I do.”

He’s smiling again as he leans down and kisses you—a slow, lingering thing which tastes like spearmint as you part your lips for him. 

“Please?” you whisper against him after a long moment. He hums, keeps kissing you. 

“What is it that you think you want? You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Tell me,” you beg, chasing his lips. “Tell me what you’re going to do with me. We can talk about it. This is talking about it.”

Spencer exhales deeply, wedging a thigh between yours. Immediately you clamp around it, trying not to grind against him too overtly. 

“You want to know what I’d do to you?”

“Yes—” you paw at his jacket. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you from pushing it off. Your heart pounds. 

“Well… we both know how anxious you get,” he muses, pressing his lips so delicately to your fluttering pulse-point in emphasis, and then back to your mouth. His thigh pushes harder against you to supplant the absence of his lips as he speaks, though he kisses you sporadically and between sentences. “You’re hard to get out of your head when you’re nervous, you know that? I watch it happen. One minute you’re with me, and then you start overthinking, and getting self-conscious. The only thing that seems to relax you is letting me touch you—so first I would touch you like I’ve touched you before. I’d make sure you know how pretty you are and how good you deserve to feel.” You whimper inadvertently at his words, arching into him and grinding against his leg as he pauses to kiss the sensitive soft spot below your jaw. “You’re going to need to be really ready to let me in. Do you know what I mean by that?”

As he asks, he pushes his thigh against you harder. Your body responds immediately, arching into him and seeking more friction. When you squeak, he takes it as a no. 

“I mean I need you relaxed and wet. You’ll excuse my crude language.”

You pull at his tie, breathing heavier now and so turned on it’s almost painful. 

“What are you gonna do after that?”

“What else is there to do but fuck you after that?” he breathes. “You want me to tell you how I’d fuck you?”

Something about it makes you whine salaciously. You’ve heard him curse—you’ve even heard him talk about fucking you. But it feels more real now; when it’s low in your ear and you’re covertly undressing him and he’s pushing your shirt over your stomach promisingly. 

“Yes, please.” 

He hums against your jaw, nipping and brushing his lips over the skin as he considers. Leaves you waiting. 

“I would have to take my time with you. You’ll be overwhelmed. I know you think you won’t, but you will. I’m going to have to be so, so careful with you, angel. It’s going to drive me insane. But it will feel good for you.”

“Why careful? I don’t want that.”

He chuckles. A chill runs down your spine. 

“Yeah, you do. You’re going to want me to be careful when I’m—” he pauses, pressing his thumb to your bare lower tummy and dragging up to a spot below your belly button. He presses down lightly again. “Right here. Approximately.”

The surface of the sun has nothing on the temperature of your skin in this moment, as you writhe underneath him in both arousal and embarrassment. Mostly, burning need. You feel almost sick with it. 

“Please don’t make me wait anymore. Just do it, please, Spencer. I need it to be you, I don’t want it to be anyone else. I promise I’m ready.”

It’s silent for a moment. Your heart quickens. You sense his walls wearing away, his instinct to keep you intact for god knows what reason crumbling. He’s finally going to give you what you’ve been begging for. 

Spencer opens his mouth, eyes glimmering—

And then his phone rings. 

You both freeze—he melts dejectedly before you do, more accustomed to an ill-timed phone call and realizing the finality it can present. 

He’s breathing heavily against your neck, as if maybe whoever it is will just hang up. But the phone keeps ringing. 

“I’m sorry.”

Your stomach sinks as he sits up, grabbing his phone from the side table and rubbing circles on your inner thigh as he answers.

“This is Reid,” he says, lackluster. 

If you wanted, you could hear what Penelope is saying—but you don’t bother listening. It’s going to be a case. Spencer is about to leave. The details are his problem. 

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the mattress and not speaking for a moment, just continuing to rub your leg apologetically. Watching you almost mournfully—taking in your disheveled hair, your likely blown-out pupils, the shirt pushed almost over your chest. 

“I have to go right now,” he finally manages with a heavy sigh, gently pulling your shirt back into place. 

You sit up, shedding all the hopes that had been building for the evening, and try to sound chipper—though all you feel is bitter disappointment that goes deeper than you understand. 

“I know. Go ahead, I can get a cab home.”

He frowns, running his hand over the back of your hair. 

“I don’t love the idea of you standing on the sidewalk waiting for a car in this part of town so late. Do you just want to stay here for the night and go home tomorrow?”

You force a smile. Great. So you’ll be spending the night in his bed after all—just without him. 

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you are feeling particularly grateful. 

Soon you’re walking him to his own door. Both of you come to a stop in front. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs again. 

“Spencer, it’s fine. It’s your job. You don’t need to apologize. You were very clear about this part when we started dating.”

“I know, but… it’s easier in theory than in practice.”

You smile. If Spencer is a reflection of you, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. His hair is still messy from your fingers running through it and he’s missing his tie. You hope all his coworkers see and feel bad about taking him away from you. 

But it’s not their fault. You just want someone to blame. 

Instead you mould yourself to his body, wrapping around him like you belong there. He returns your embrace, pressing his lips into the crook of your shoulder and rubbing your back in that way he always does with you. 

In that moment, your affection for him becomes so profound it’s like a chemical reaction—everywhere he touches burns and you love him so fucking much it aches in every inch of your body the way your muscles do when you have a bad fever. Love is the most terrible of afflictions, you realize. It is a fever dream. It’s every fiber of your being screaming to tell him how you feel, to beg him on your knees not to go because you love him like a child loves a parent or a bee loves honeysuckle or the ocean loves the horizon. Pared down to your most basic components, the barest version of yourself, you require him. Your soul needs his soul. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?” 

It’s nothing more than an absentminded hum against your skin. 

“I…”

Should you be looking him in the eye when you say this? Should you say it right before he has to leave? Just because you say it doesn’t change the fact that he’s about to be gone for several long days. Maybe this is a terrible time to admit something that suddenly feels so true and so consequential. 

He senses your internal conflict, pulling back despite your resistance and holding your face between his hands. 

“You what?” He murmurs, soft eyes bouncing back and forth between your own. Fuck—you feel so observed, now. Like he can read your mind. 

“I forget.”

FUUUUUUCK. 

Spencer blinks. Processes. You watch the disbelief crystallizing over his eyes like ice freezing over a lake. 

He knows. 

He knows you didn’t forget, and he probably knows what you were going to say, and he’s going to tell himself he was wrong to spare your dignity. 

Everything hurts when he kisses you. You wonder what regret tastes like. 

“Well, let me know if you remember.”

It’s too gentle and at the same time he can’t hide the edge with all the tenderness in the world. You nod as if in a trance, already looking forward to dissociating as you lie in bed and stare at the dark ceiling.

Two small goodbyes are exchanged, slightly stifled now, as if shared between drunk strangers who have sobered up and are mutually embarrassed about how candidly they’d interacted before. 

You close the door behind him, doing up all the locks, and meticulously flick every light switch in the apartment off before climbing into his bed—though you don’t really feel like you deserve to be there anymore.

But perhaps this is all an overreaction. It’s not like you owe it to him to say I love you, or anything—it was bad timing, anyway. And why can’t he say it? In fact, why hasn’t he said it? 

Maybe you have it all wrong. 

Maybe he doesn’t feel that way about you. 

You fall asleep before you allow these questions to make you sick. 

24 hours go by. 

24 hours go by and you really had meant to leave his apartment—it was just that you woke up late, and your phone was dead so you couldn’t call a car, so you charged it while you made breakfast, and then you ate, and then you decided to take a shower and wash your clothes, and then it was two in the afternoon and you hadn’t left yet and you decided to walk to the store and replenish the groceries you’d used up. 

Maybe you got a bit distracted looking at flowers and other beautiful things at the market and by the time you got home it was 5:00, so you decided to wait until seven to skip rush hour. And then eight, just to be sure. 

Before you know it, it’s midnight, and you’re dozing off in his bed again (teeth cleaned with the brush you’d bought at the store—maybe this whole situation hadn’t been entirely unwitting on your part.)

Throughout the day, you tried to let all your anxiety about the previous night melt away. If it’s something that needs to be addressed, Spencer will address it. Everything will work out in the end. That thought is how you’re able to doze off. 

You’re almost asleep when your phone lights up and begins buzzing on the side table. You wince as your eyes open, not adjusting well to the harsh bright display and unable to discern who’s even calling you at this hour. Stupidly, probably because you’re half asleep, you answer without checking. 

“Hello?”

Your voice is groggy, quiet with sleep. 

“Shit, did I wake you?”

“Spence?” you whisper, stomach flipping at the sound of his voice on the other line. You feel caught, still sleeping in his bed. 

“… yeah,” he chuckles. “Did you not check who was calling before you picked up?”

“I was asleep,” you pout. “Kinda.”

“Okay. Go back to sleep, honey. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

You sit bolt upright, phone balanced between tense fingers and speaking directly into the microphone. 

“No! No, I’m awake. What’s up? Why did you call?”

A longer stretch of silence—you’re too sleepy to comprehend what it might mean, though never too sleepy to worry about it. With a pang of pain, you recall your strange goodbye, the words you hadn’t said. 

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he sighs. You frown, staring at nothing in particular in the pitch black room. 

“Oh. Is everything okay?”

“As much as it can be.”

“Right.”

More quiet. You chew on the inside of your cheek, stricken with a sudden feeling of awkwardness that you haven’t had with Spencer in a while. 

“I’m sorry… I don’t really know what to say.”

“That’s okay,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice which makes you feel a bit better, “why don’t you tell me about your day? Or you can absolutely go back to sleep, if you’re too tired.”

“Don’t ask me about my day,” you whisper, flopping down on the bed once more. Shame seeps into your voice. He laughs. 

“What? Why?”

“Because if I tell you you’re going to think I’m super weird and you’re going to break up with me.”

Laughter tapers off into gentler tones. 

“I already think you’re super weird. It’s actually one of your most attractive qualities.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. 

“But it’s like… borderline crazy.”

Immediately, he replies, “for better or worse, I also frequently find myself attracted to crazy.”

“Thank you for calling me crazy and super weird,” you grumble. 

“I also called you attractive twice. Tell me.”

When his tone takes on that easy, assertive quality, and it’s sort of raspy and low because it’s late and he’s been talking all day, and you can hear the lazy smile on his face—you imagine him laying on his hotel bed, arm slung over his eyes in the dark as he grins into the microphone—you have a very difficult time saying no. 

“Fine. Guess where I am right now.”

“Um, I would hope you’re in bed?”

You smile to yourself, basking in the victory of successfully throwing him off his game even slightly. 

“Guess whose bed.”

Silence. 

“What an interesting question.” That cocky smile, the low drawling is back, and you chew on your lip, ignoring the shiver that runs down your spine. “If it’s not mine or yours, we’re going to have issues.”

“But if it is yours? You’re not going to call the police on me?”

“Why would I call the police? To tell them there’s a pretty girl in my bed and I don’t want her there?”

“To tell them your psychopathic girlfriend broke into your apartment and might be holding hostages there.”

Spencer laughs; a brittle, drawn out thing, flat and quiet as the desert.

“If you were a psychopath, calling the cops would be a waste of time. I would handle you myself.” The idea of being handled has your thighs clenching. “But—yeah, don’t invite anyone else in.” More humor finds its way into his voice, momentarily relieving some tension that had sneakily begun to build. “Having people in my space makes me anxious.”

“But not me?” Your whisper is half flirtatious, half insecure. Spencer’s reply is soft, as if he’s picking up on this from hundreds of miles away.

“No, not you. You are always the exception.”

“Good,” you say, cheeks aching as you half-bury your warm face into his pillow. “Because I made myself really comfortable. You have a nice shower, by the way.”

Spencer groans. 

“You’re killing me.”

“What? What did I do!”

“Don’t talk to me about my bed and my shower. I might start to think you’re intentionally being a brat.”

“You asked me about my day! I’m just telling you what I did!”

But you’re also intentional teasing him for sure.  After a pause, he sighs in defeat. 

“You’re right. I did do that. Tell me what else happened.”

“Well,” you begin, all too eager, “I had to put my clothes in the dryer after I got out, so I borrowed some of yours. But then they were way comfier than mine, so after I went to the store I put them back on, and—”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” you frown. 

“Tell me what this is.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

Lying to a profiler is usually pointless. 

“I’m not stupid, sweetheart. Tell me why you keep talking about my shower and my bed and my clothes.”

Caught red-handed. Your skin heats up. 

“I don’t know. I miss you.”

He hums in a way that blurs the line between sympathetic and patronizing. Even through the phone you can feel the bass of it in your bones.  It changes the frequency you’re vibrating at. It’s hypnotic. 

“But that’s not really why you’re being intentionally provocative, is it?”

“No,” you admit quietly. “I’m still upset you had to go last night.”

“So you’re frustrated and you’re taking it out on me?”

Your brow furrows. Well, when he puts it like that…

“I’m not taking anything out on you.”

“I think you are. And I don’t appreciate that, because I’m on your side, honey. Do you think I prefer being in a hotel bed by myself or being in my bed with you?”

Somehow, he makes you feel like a scolded child. But he makes it appealing in ways you don’t understand. 

“Your bed with me,” you murmur, skin prickling with the coldness of his absence even as you curl under the blanket. 

“Right. So why don’t you tell me what I can do for you right now, instead of punishing me for things that are beyond my control?”

“I wasn’t punishing you,” you mutter. 

“No? You weren’t intentionally talking about using my shower and sleeping in my bed and putting on my clothes so that I’d have to think about what I can’t have right now?”

“I—”

“Believe me when I tell you I have been thinking about what I can’t have, all day. Your efforts are entirely redundant and you can’t say anything about yourself that is even close to as dirty as the frankly disrespectful thoughts I’ve been having about you for seventeen hours.”

The lack of air is making you so dizzy your vision goes gray at the edges. 

“What… what thoughts?”

“None that you need to concern yourself with.”

“You can’t just say something like that and then not tell me!” you insist. He’s obviously giving you a taste of your own medicine and it’s fair but it doesn’t mean you have to like it. 

“I can do whatever I want,” Spencer corrects cooly in a way that pisses you off beyond belief because he’s right. It triggers some adolescent immaturity within you—a desire to get back at him, so to speak. He wants intentionally provocative? He can have it. 

“Fine. Then so can I. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it even if I could.”

“Spencer,” you warn. “If you don’t tell me what you were thinking I’m gonna—” you look around the room for ammo. “I’m gonna look through your nightstand!”

“Go ahead. I’ll warn you, it’s not very interesting.”

“Sounds like what someone who has something hide would say,” you mumble, crawling across the mattress through tangled sheets and using your phone flashlight to open the drawer. 

Spencer is patient and silent as you take in its contents—a small blue leather-bound notebook (full of what looks like Russian), a fountain pen, a glasses case, various kinds of vitamins, and—

“Spencer Reid,” you say, dragging out his name and pretending nothing is fluttering in your stomach, “what are these?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see what you’re referring to.”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Oh, I have one. But I’d like to hear you say it.”

You realize you may have gotten yourself in deeper than you meant to by going through his stuff. Well—they don’t say karma is a bitch for nothing. 

“What are you doing with a box of condoms?” 

He chuckles and you feel it in your whole body, warm as you stretch across his mattress and eye the box like it might jump out at you. 

“Those are years old. I’ve used three since I bought them.”

“Don’t tell me that,” you whine. “I don’t wanna think about all the other women you’ve seduced.”

“You wanted them to be for you, huh?” 

You flush. Honestly you hadn’t even thought about that. 

“I… I don’t know. I kind of just assumed…”

It’s silent for a second and you frown, realizing you hadn’t even considered protection when you’d imagined sleeping with him before. 

“You assumed what, honey?” he asks, voice soft. 

“It’s dumb. I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me anything. I’m not going to think it’s dumb, I promise.”

You chew on your lip, letting your eyes unfocus on the box as you muster the courage to be honest. 

“Whenever I imagined it… we didn’t… use anything.”

The words make you cringe even as you’re saying them. So does the quiet that follows. 

“When you imagine us sleeping together, we don’t use a condom?”

“Ah!” The phone drops to the mattress as you cover your ears and roll onto your side, curling into yourself once more. “You didn’t have to say it! You make me sound so weird!”

“It’s not weird,” he laughs, because he can probably imagine exactly what you just did, “I just wanted to make sure I was understanding you. That said… we would definitely use protection.”

“Do we have to?”

The quiet words take even you by surprise—and they seem to stun Spencer as well. Several false starts are punctuated by a sigh as he gathers his thoughts. 

“We really should, baby. That’s the kind of thing we need to take seriously.”

“But you’re… you’re good, right?”

Thankfully he picks up on your meaning. 

“I am. I wouldn’t touch you if I weren’t.”

“And I’m good. So...”

“Hm. And has anyone ever explained to you where babies come from?”

You groan in frustration. 

“Spencer, I’m being serious! There are ways to negate that.”

“Honey,” he murmurs, “I understand that. But it would be irresponsible of me to say yes. We can talk about it in the future, but—”

“I’m telling you it’s already dealt with. The chances of an accidental pregnancy are slim to none.”

The new information hangs in the air for a moment until Spencer speaks—to your surprise, his voice is low and humorous. 

“That is… good to know. But even so—I’m setting a dangerous precedent if I always let you get exactly what you want.”

“Is it such a bad thing that I just wanna—I wanna know what it feels like? You don’t want that?”

“That’s not what I said. I want to know exactly what you feel like. I’m just hesitant to give in so quickly because it makes me look weak.”

You laugh breathlessly, caught between being turned on by the first part of his sentence and amused by the sarcastic second half. Your thighs clench and your hand absentmindedly wanders between them. 

“You know what I was thinking about?” you ask. Spencer hums curiously. “I was thinking about when you let me, um… when you let me touch you how you touch me.” He hums again, but you can hear the amused curve of a smile in it now.

“When you had your mouth all full of me and you looked so pretty?”

“When I—yeah,” you agree, too caught up to deny his compliment as your fingers brush your most sensitive spot through clothing. “And  how you got me all messy after. And I was wondering what it would feel like… inside me.”

He sucks in a breath. Your legs brush against each other and you twist slightly as you pretend like you’re not touching yourself just a little bit. 

“You want me to come inside you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, brain short-circuiting at the way those words sound in his voice. 

—

On the other side of the line, Spencer isn’t doing a fantastic job of thinking clearly either. His dick is half-hard already and it’s only getting worse with each little noise you make that you don’t seem to realize you’re making. 

“Really? That would be very messy, baby. I’m surprised that’s what you want.”

“But I really want it,” you breathe. He’s not even looking as he slips his hand under the waistband of his pajamas and palms himself, his other hand rubbing tiredly over his face as his phone rests on his chest. This was not how he intended for this call to go, believe it or not—but he’s here now. 

“Yeah? Is that why you’re touching yourself right now?”

You go silent—which is more or less exactly the reaction Spencer had been expecting. Patiently he waits for you to deny it, in three, two—

“’M not.”

Now, he could explain how he knows that’s a lie. How your breathing pattern changed, and your voice got softer and airier, and how you started speaking with smaller words in fragmented sentences. But he doesn’t feel like explaining any of that. 

“I know that’s not true,” he murmurs. “You know what? It wasn’t fair to get you all worked up last night and then leave. I don’t want you frustrated, honey. I want you to do whatever you need to do.”

You make a little gasping noise, and Spencer can imagine the way your back would arch when you did it. His own hips buck slightly as his dick twitches under his fingers. 

“Where are you touching?”

“Um—over my clothes.”

Cute. 

“Go under them for me. Tell me how it feels when you’re touching yourself like that.”

It takes a moment, in which all he hears is the rustling of fabric, until you’re whispering, “feels… it feels good. I wish you were here.”

He inhales, freeing his cock and squeezing the base. 

“I know. Just listen to my voice, pretty. I’m right here.”

Spencer allows himself a few slow tugs as he imagines what’s happening in his bed. You make a squeaking noise, like a held-back moan, and his eyes screw shut. 

“I need them inside,” you whine, and he knows you’re referring to his fingers—the ones currently stroking his own leaking cock. 

“You can use your own, just give yourself a minute first. Remember what I said about needing to be ready?”

“I am ready—” judging by the surprised chirp you interrupt yourself with, you’ve proven yourself right. What surprises Spencer is the weak sound of disappointment you make next. “Spence, it doesn’t feel the same.”

“We’re different sizes, honey. Your hands aren’t as big as mine. But you can still make it feel good.” 

He almost says, 90% of the nerves in the vaginal canal are located in the lower third—in other words, within approximately 2.36 inches from the opening, which you can most certainly reach—but he refrains. He’s not sure if that’s good dirty talk. 

“You have a really sensitive spot about three inches up, right in front. It’s going to feel a little different than the rest of you when you touch it. I want you to try and find it for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe, ever-eager to please even from a great distance. There’s a quiet moment. “I can’t—I don’t think I can r—oh,”

The moan is so pretty Spencer can’t help speeding up the motion of his hand, hissing slightly as his fingers brush against the angry tip with every pump. 

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah,” you whine, a weak, high-pitched thing. “Oh my god.”

“Be gentle,” he warns with some effort as his own hips jump slightly. “You’re really sensitive there. If you’re not careful you’ll make yourself sore.”

“I don’t care—holy shit—” the way your voice rises and tightens to a squeak at the end has Spencer moaning as he fucks his fist. A black hole forms and warps time, turning every minute into a second and every second into an infinity until he has no idea how much time is going by. He drags his thumb over the tip, smearing precum over his cock and whining as his jaw drops at the feeling. “Oh my god, Spencer,” in that same strained, high voice. “’M gonna—ah!”

He gets the general sentiment. 

“What, baby? You’re gonna make yourself come all over your fingers? Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Mhm!”

“Yeah, I bet you are. It feels good, huh?”

“Yes,” you cry. 

“See? You don’t need my fingers to feel good. Mine barely fit, you know that? I have to hold your fucking hips down whenever I put my fingers in you because you can’t stop squirming. I don’t know how you think you’re going to take my cock.”

“Spencer!” 

He knows. 

“Come, baby. Let me hear you.”

The delicate sounds you make as you bring yourself to orgasm tip him over the edge of his own—grunting as he comes all over his fist. 

“Jesus,” he strains under his breath, the word dragging out into two long syllables as his hips buck involuntarily and cum drips down his knuckles. He’s lightheaded and he’s created a mess and it all happened so quickly. “Fuck,” he breathes, a rasping chuckle as he reaches for the towel he’d dropped on the bed after his shower earlier. “You conscious over there?”

“I’m conscious,” you slur, breathing heavily. “I’ve never had an orgasm by myself before.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” Spencer smiles, wiping his hand off and making sure he’s otherwise clean. “You should be. I am.”

He’s barely kidding. 

“I’ll be proud when I can do it without your help,” you tease. 

“But I’ll always want to help you with that.” His already warm face flushes further as he goes over what he’d said. “Sorry I was so vulgar.”

You laugh. He blushes even more. 

“Are you? I think you secretly love being vulgar.”

“I don’t know why! I have no idea where it comes from. I would never speak that way in any other context. I should probably work on that. Sometimes I look back on the things I say and I’m genuinely appalled.”

“Well, don’t stop on my account. Personally I enjoy it.”

“Yeah, I think I’m corrupting you. You probably shouldn’t enjoy it.”

The truth of it weighs heavy on his mind, but he’s pretty sure his voice alone doesn’t betray that and you can’t sense it through the phone. 

“Oh, my god. Do not do that falling on your sword shit. I like being corrupted by you. If you stop I’ll be very upset.”

“Well god forbid you get upset,” he teases gently. Idly he wonders if the reason he’s suddenly feeling so depressed is because his cortisol levels were already high from the case, and then he jarred his system with an orgasm, spiking his dopamine and ultimately causing it to plummet without the oxytocin release that post-coital physical contact would usually provide. 

Or if it was something else. It could also be something else. 

For the millionth time, he wishes he was with you. Part of him also wants to go to sleep. But mostly he wishes he was with you. 

—

A comfortable silence settles over the conversation. In the ditch between words, you’re mapping constellations in the texture of Spencer’s ceiling. If you squeeze your eyes almost shut, you can imagine it really is the night sky. You can imagine he’s really here. 

You think about what he said—his apparently mindless vulgarity. Did it mean anything? Or was he just rambling to get you off?

“Spencer?” you murmur. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

He sounds earnest, perhaps a little tired, as he replies, “always,” through the little metal rectangle on your chest. He likes me and my questions are important to him, you repeat to yourself silently as you work up the strength. 

“If Penelope hadn’t called, last night… were you going to have sex with me?” 

Your lip tastes like his toothpaste as you chew it. Spencer sucks in a breath of air like he’s about to speak—and lets it fizzle out like foam on a carbonated drink. 

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, lamely. “That wasn’t my plan, but you can be extremely convincing when you want to be.”

“But why can’t it be your plan?” It’s an almost whine, pouty and childish—but the next words are quiet and pained. “Is it something I’m doing wrong?”

“No, no! It’s not you. You’re perfect. It’s—it’s complicated. It’s a me thing.”

Such trite words—such a ubiquitous, simple excuse sounds almost comical from his mouth when you know he’s capable of all the eloquence in the world. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s ridiculous. 

“Okay. Let me simplify this for you,” you begin with an uncharacteristic assertiveness that surprises even you. “I want to have sex with you. Either we are going to have sex or we’re not. So your future branches in two diverging paths. In one, we have sex, and then we keep having sex. In the other we never have sex ever. If you want to ever have the privilege of fucking me, then we just have to do it. Otherwise it simply will never happen. And I’m not eternally patient, Reid.”

Go me, you think, slightly breathless from your monologue. 

“Watch your mouth,” he says dryly. Something about the chastisement makes your stomach flip and your whole body tingle. “When you talk to me you call me Spencer. I will also accept Doctor Reid.” You wrestle down a smile, refusing to let him change the subject. A delayed sigh from him sobers up the conversation. “You know what I want. I’ve been very clear with you about that. But…”

“But…?”

Another sigh. A deeper, shuddering sigh, like his breath is searching for balance. Like Spencer is in a precarious position for which he was unprepared. 

“But—but to be completely honest… I worry that you’ll regret choosing me. And I know virginity is a social construct and I’m not implying that your worth will somehow be diminished if we have sex but regardless of my views on virginity as a construct, having sex for the first time can be weird and scary and it’s incredibly intimate and I don’t want you to regret your first time like I regret mine because you chose the wrong person.”

The words come at you so rapid-fire it takes you a moment to process them. And aside from all the ways you want to reassure him that you will not regret choosing him—that you could never, ever regret anything about him—one thing stands out. 

“You regret your first time?” 

Something between a scoff and a sigh travels through the line. You can tell he’s not annoyed at you for asking so much as he’s flustered himself with all his own words as he occasionally does. 

“Yeah. Yes. Sometimes I do. The person—she didn’t… like me as much as I liked her. And I was really, really in love with her, and she knew that and she knew she wasn’t in love with me—or maybe she was, I don’t know—but my point is, when one person likes the other more than the other person like them, things get complicated. And however you feel about me—that’s fine. It’s fine. I don’t want you to feel bad if we don’t feel exactly the same way about each other. I understand that this is newer for you, it’s different, I—I just don’t want us to do something we can’t undo because I don’t want to relive that. And I’m not saying it will never happen but I just don’t want you to make this choice when… when right now, I think we’re in different places emotionally. Regardless of that, I want you to choose the right person. I don’t want you to choose me and then find out that we feel differently after we sleep together and leave you feeling like you signed up for something you didn’t understand. I’m sorry. Maybe telling you this is selfish. But I’ve been thinking about it and trying to ignore it and I think I just have to be completely honest.”

Your ears ring like Spencer just fired a blank right into the microphone. Like you just got backhanded across the face and now you have the world’s worst case of whiplash. 

Every finger is numb and your blood is so cold it feels blue as it slithers thick through your veins. 

What you want to do is scream. What you want to do is go back to last night and stop yourself from almost telling him I love you, slap yourself and keep your cards a little closer to your chest. Because now he knows, and he doesn’t feel the same. 

You want to scream bloody murder. 

But when you try, when you unhinge your jaw and part your chapped lips and expect a bellow to come hurdling up the corridor of your throat with so much force it rattles your bones, all that falls out is a small, “oh.”

Maybe that’s worse. 

Spencer doesn’t reply. You hate yourself for feeling obliged to fill the silence. 

“I didn’t realize you…”

I didn’t realize that you don’t love me back. 

I didn’t realize I like you more than you like me. 

I didn’t realize you’d tell me to masturbate in your fucking bed and then drop this not even five minutes later. 

If Spencer Reid was able to talk to you over the phone with the same amount of affection and familiarity as always, like everything was still okay, knowing you love him and he doesn’t love you the whole time, he is not who you thought he was. 

“I’m sorry,” he lamely says again, like it could ever help. 

More silence. Now you can’t bring yourself to speak, so Spencer does. 

“I realize how awkward this is. I really didn’t mean to put you in this position. Especially not over the phone when I—god, I’m stupid. I’m sorry. But can we—can we talk about this in person when I get back? Please?”

Is that what grownups do? Is the proper etiquette for him to take you out to dinner and explain why he’s not in love with you? Is he going to break up with you?

What does one even wear to a breakup date?

“Okay,” you whisper. Your eyes sting, your everything stings, like you’ve been wrapped in a shroud of briar. Sheets that were soft a moment ago feel like sandpaper on open wounds. You feel like an open wound. 

Spencer sighs. It’s a sound of relief that confuses and hurts you even more. 

“Okay. I—okay. Thank you. Um—I’ll let you go back to sleep, now.”

“Okay,” you repeat—as if any of this were okay. But you can’t keep being that stupid girl who feels it all so much harder, who loves easily and begs to be loved in return, too naive to assume that someone who treats her so kindly might not reciprocate her feelings. It has to be okay, because if it’s not, you’re silly and dramatic and you’re just proving him right. 

“Goodnight,” Spencer whispers, and you can’t help but feeling that it’s the last time you’ll ever hear those words from his mouth while you’re in his bed. And he’s not even fucking here.

So you pull the blanket a little higher. You let your tears stain his pillow because they’ll be invisible by the morning. It will be like they were never here. Like you were never here. 

“Goodnight.”

-

part five

[acourtofquestions]

Golden flame danced between her fingers.

Elide recoiled, and the fire vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"My name is Essar," the female said softly. "I am a friend--of your friends, I believe."

Elide said nothing.

"Cairn is a monster," Essar said, taking a step closer. "Stay far from him."

"I need to find him."

"You played the part of his mistreated lover well enough. You have to know something about him. What he does."

"If you know where he is, please tell me." She wasn't above begging.

Essar ran an eye over Elide. Then she said, "He was in this city until yesterday. Then he went out to the eastern camp." She pointed with a thumb over a shoulder. "He's there now."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's not terrorizing the patrons of every fine establishment in this town, glutting himself on the coin Maeve gave him when he took the blood oath."

Elide blinked. She had hoped some of the Fae might be opposed to Maeve, especially after the battle in Eyllwe, but to find such outright distaste...

Essar then added, "And because my sister--the soldier you spoke with--told me. She saw him in the camp this morning, smirking like a cat."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because you are wearing Lorcan's shirt, and Rowan Whitethorn's cloak. If you do not believe me, inform them who told you and they will." Elide cocked her head to the side.

Essar said softly, "Lorcan and I were involved for a time."

They were in the midst of war, and had traveled for thousands of miles to find their queen, and yet the tightness that coiled in Elide's gut at those words somehow found space. Lorcan's lover. This delicate beauty with a bedroom voice had been Lorcan's lover.

"I'll be missed if I'm gone for too long, but tell them who I am. Tell them that I told you. If it's Cairn they seek, that is where he shall be. His precise location, I don't know." Essar backed away a step. "Don't go asking after Cairn at other taverns. He isn't well regarded, even amongst the soldiers. And those who do follow him... You do not wish to attract their interest."

Essar made to turn away, but Elide blurted,

"Where did Maeve go?"

Essar looked over her shoulder. Studied her.

The female's eyes widened. "She has Aelin of the Wildfire," Essar breathed.

Elide said nothing, but Essar murmured, "That was... that was the power we felt the other night." Essar swept back toward Elide. Gripped her hands. "Where Maeve went a few days ago, I don't know. She did not announce it, did not take anyone with her. I often serve her, am asked to... It doesn't matter. What matters is Maeve is not here. But I do not know when she will return."

Relief again threatened to send Elide crumpling to the ground. The gods, it seemed, had not abandoned them just yet.

But if Maeve had taken Aelin to the outpost where they'd lied that the Valg prince had been contained...

Elide gripped Essar's hands, finding them warm and dry. "Does your sister know where Cairn resides in the camp?"

For long minutes, then an hour, they had talked.

Essar left and returned with Dresenda, her sister. And in that alley, they had plotted.

Elide finished telling Rowan, Lorcan, and Gavriel what she'd learned. They sat in stunned silence for a long minute.

"Just before dawn," Elide repeated. "Dresenda said the watch on the eastern camp is weakest at dawn. That she'd find a way for the guards to be occupied. It's our only window."

Rowan was staring into the trees, as if he could see the layout of the camp, as if he were plotting his way in, way out.

"She didn't confirm if Aelin was in Cairn's tent, though," Gavriel cautioned. "Maeve is gone--Aelin might be with her, too."

"It's a risk we take," Rowan said. A risk, perhaps, they should have considered.

Elide glanced to Lorcan, who had been silent throughout. Even though it had been his lover who had helped them, perhaps guided by Anneith herself. Or at least had been tipped off by the scent on Elide's clothes.

"You think we can trust her?" Elide asked Lorcan, though she knew the answer.

Lorcan's dark eyes shifted to her. "Yes, though I don't see why she'd bother."

"She's a good female, that's why," Rowan said.

At Elide's lifted brow, he explained, "Essar visited Mistward this spring. She met Aelin." He cut a glare toward Lorcan. "And asked me to tell you that she sends her best."

Elide hadn't seen anything that came close to pining in Essar's face, but gods, she was beautiful. And smart. And kind. And Lorcan had let her go, somehow.

[pshbites]

LOVE ON AiR

SYNOPSiS » two podcast groups, both equally popular on the internet, start interacting with one another. however it isnt how fans want it to be.. OR yn sees sunghoon hating on lauryn hill and accidentally starts an entire fanwar with him.

PAiRiNG » sunghoon x fem!reader

FEAUTRiNG » all of enha, giselle of aespa, txt briefly mentioned

GENRE » smau (social media au), fluff, angst, enemies to lovers (barely), chronically online humor, romance, podcast au, influencer au, HEAVILY inspired from suburb talks and under the influence podcasts, SLOWBURNN

WARNiNGS » profanity, suggestive humor, kys/kms jokes, lots of pop culture references (im chronically online im sorry), drinking, drugs, fanwars, yn haters (BOOOOO), stalking (sorta?) manipulation (NOT FROM SUNGHOON OR Y/N) changes every chapter.

STATUS » completed — (08/03/24) to (10/26/24)

PLAYLiST » your eyes only - enha, after midnight - chappell roan, ex factor - lauryn hill, kiss me - dpr live, read your mind - sabrina carpenter, 3005 - childish gambino, poison poison - renee rapp, thirst - dpr live, just a little bit - enha, daisy - wave to earth, nouvelle vague - wave to earth, thinkin about you - frank ocean. (got carried away .. 😁)

AUTHORS NOTE » BIGGG thanks to my bestest friend ever, my fav british person, @lqfiles , ily so so much and thank you so much for helping me with this process. teaching me how to work tumblr like i was a grandma even tho im only 2 years older than u and making this AMAZING cover (isnt she talented), i love u sooo much more than words can describe, you annoying brit (endearing) 🫶

TAGLIST CLOSED!

written chaps in blue

🔴 RECORDING..

teaser (read first for context!!)

profiles i & profiles ii

1) call my phone a vibrator the way it keeps buzzing

2) YAP CENTRAL EP.135: alpha male podcasts?!

3) first hate thread. feeling nervous

4) pussy slay queen!

5) okay alpha

6) ROUND TABLE EP.149: perfect pitch :o

7) 1 down 3 to go

8) what the fuck is a ynhoon

9) YNXOXO VLOG: night out w/ won and riki

10) wet and bothered

11) just a normal tuesday

12) jungwons evil arc

13) YNXOXO VLOG: cafe date with my girls <3

14) the battle of thirst traps

15) twitch streaming era

16) YAP CENTRAL EP.136: did social media ruin relationships?

17) second interaction: kinda scared

18) fuck skater boys

19) park sunghoon v. round table

20) riki emo era: OVER

21) sunghoons side hoes

22) ROUND TABLE EP.150: we traded phones?!

23) bro define: friend

24) spidey sense

25) on my cellular plan i pay for?

26) YNXOXO VLOG: night time routine + surprise!!

27) a face i would kiss

28) collab of the century

29) YAP CENTRAL EP.137: has love lost its meaning?

30) eyes don’t lie

31) operation: ynhoon (postponed)

32) crybaby

33) operation: ynhoon (BACK ON)

34) chat is this a date yes or no?

35) boss baby jay

36) boyfriend

37) soft or hard?

38) what da heck *tyla voice*

39) YNXOXO VLOG: ice skating! | vlog w/ a special guest!!

40) love is on air

UNCUTS

1) operation: get riki ip banned on twt

2) try not to blow up challenge: FAILED

3) JAYS KITCHEN: my friends trying to help me make food blindfolded. (spoiler: it’s a fail)

4) YNXOXO VLOG: my boyfriend does my makeup voiceover !

5) YAP CENTRAL BLOOPERS: riki kat and yn patreon ad

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