#i could not stop thinking about this after drawing that

[thedanishcatgirl]

"You can't charm me witch!"

"Don´t be silly, we both know you where the one who charmed me. I have missed you so much. This castle just really isn´t the same without you. You must be tired after your long journey, want to retire to our chambers, and get out of that stuffy looking armour?"

Our chambers? What is she talking about?

"Sieze your lies horrid witch, I won´t fall for your schemes!"

"Sweetie, could you please stop that charade? It is not funny I have really missed you. It´s been 6 months since I last saw you and held you in my arms."

6 months. Why does that feel familiar? "Why do you keep acting like I know you, when whatever spell you tried to cast clearly didn't work?"

"Spell? Why would I enchant you, my husband, love of my life, the father of our unborn child? She says, now with tears in her eyes."

Something inside you aches at that, like seeing her this sad makes you hurt.

You are the chosen one! Don´t fall for her lies and crocodile tears. She is just stalling, trying to trick you. Attack now before it´s too late, A voice in the back of your mind says. You raise your sword, but as she draws back in suprise and fear, you notice that her belly is indeed quite round. If she really is pregnant, you can´t kill her. That´s wrong, surely they wouldn´t want to spill the life of an innocent baby.

It´s just an illusion, you must slay her before she calls her guards!

No, something is not right here. You have been trying to ignore your gut telling you it´s wrong, and the growing feeling of familiarity ever since you got near her castle. If it was a spell wouldn´t it require her seeing you? You try to think back to half a year ago, but your memories are muddled.

Focus Chosen One! Fufill your destiny!

The oldest clear memory you have are the royal guards informing you of your destiny, to rid these lands of the terrible witch queen. Why can´t you remember anything before that?

Nothing else matters. You have your duty and your purpose, that is the only thing that matters right now!

Your breaths quicken. Your mind is a mess, and there are too many thoughts and voices in your head, and you don´t understand anything, and suddenly you become aware of hands around you face.

"Oh darling, what have they done to you."

You wish you knew, or at least that your mind would stop hurting. It´s too much, and those hands are so gentle and you´re so scared, and tired, and don´t know what to trust anymore so when you fall into darkness you are full of relief.

You wake up in a giant bed, in a lavishly decorated room. Your head still aches, but not as much, which means you probably aren´t dead, which is suprising, very confusing and slightly annoying. Couldn´t she had let you free when you happily accepted it, instead of toying with you first? Perhaps she wanted to get information out of you first.

Or perhaps she wasn´t the lying one.

"You are awake! She says, stepping into the room with a tray of food. Are you hungry? I made your favoirites." At the concern in your face, she adds in a voice that sounds sligthly wounded. "I promise you it is safe to eat." She tears half of one of the bread rolls and eats it, before putting the tray closer to you. The smell is sweet and divine, and your stomach growls. You slowly reach out for the other half of the one she ate, almost on instinct. You haven´t eaten in a while, and never something that smelled so delicous.

Or have you? You barely remember anything about your life, and isn´t there something familiar about that smell, and this bed, and this woman?

What are you doing? It is obiusly poisened with something she is immune to!

Well if it is, then at least I will be spared any torture, you think as you put it in your mouth. It practicly melts in your mouth, and is so sweet and tastes like like, home and love, like something you can´t describe, and soon there are no more rolls on the tray.

She grins at you, in a way that fills you with warmth. "I´m glad to see you still like them. While you rested, I have searched all my tomes, and I think I have a way to give us some more anwers. If you would permit, I would like to try it."

"Why are you asking me?"

"Your mind has been forcefully tampered with enough. I couldn´t do that to you too, even if it should not do anything, but uncover what you have lost."

She is evil and dangerous, and you can´t trust anything she says!

She is the only one who can grant you answers and you know that. If they where the ones who took it from you they wouldn´t give it back.

No! Don't listen to the voice of her trickery! This is a mistake!

You need those answers, no matter the risk. With resovle in your heart, and tears in your eyes, you answer.

"Do it."

As she places a glowing finger of your forehead, your eyes close automaticly from the force of the veil in your mind being lifted, and all your memories overwhelming you. After an eternity gone in a blink of the eye, you open you eyes again looking tearfully into the eyes of your loving wife.

"Welcome back my love."

You, the chosen one, walk into the evil queen's throne room. The queen was sitting gloomily on her throne. She sees you and lightens up. She rises from her throne and kisses you. "Sweetheart, I am so glad you are back."

[tsuiioku]

જ⁀➴ ♡ A HEART ONCE BROKEN, NOW HEALED [VALENTINE'S DAY SPECIAL]

━ VALENTINE'S DAY isn't always for exchanging gifts with those you love. sometimes, it's about remembering those we've lost, and being thankful about those we've gained.

content. gn!reader. slight angst with fluff, cursing, mentions of suicide, slight spice (chuuya), reader is called 'beautiful'. fifteen + stormbringer spoilers (chuuya), dark-era spoilers (dazai). not proofread. 2.9k+ words. ⟶ features osamu dazai + chuuya nakahara (separately). author's note. wanted to do something fun for valentine's! nice to finally be writing again (i say, like this isn't my millionth hiatus).

would you like to see more content? fill out the taglist!

You didn’t expect DAZAI to do anything for Valentine’s Day. He had a certain edge to him as the holiday approached, and as much as you wished to celebrate with him, you decided against it. Perhaps you’d make another day, an ordinary day, memorable instead—a day for just the two of you. At least, that’s what you thought was going to happen.

But, of course, he managed to surprise you.

You had received a voicemail before you even awoke that morning.

You hold your phone to your ear, straining to hear his voice through the rushing wind.

“Hello, gorgeous! I have a super special surprise for you. I’ll text you the details. See you at 3!”

To the untrained ear, one would assume has was planning something sweet for the occasion. But there was this dangerous lilt to his tone—not mischievous or cocky in preparation for a prank.

No.

It was the same tone that told you he’d be standing on the side of a bridge.

You race there the moment you set the phone down.

If he’s planning something self-destructive, you’ll be there to stop him.

Arriving at a graveyard does nothing to soothe your nerves.

You pace along its pathways with no idea where he could be. It’s only through sheer luck that you spot tufts of brown hair hidden behind an isolated headstone.

“Dazai,” you pant, bending down to catch your breath.

He doesn’t bother to turn around, resting his eyes as he leans back against the grave, not flinching when you sit beside him.

You’d think he was dead if you didn’t know any better.

“Do you like it?” he mumbles. “The view is truly to die for. One day, I hope I’m buried somewhere just as beautiful.”

“One day that is far in the future.”

But you can’t argue with him.

The view is beautiful. Whoever lays here is cared for deeply, even after death.

The perfect place to house a weary soul.

“Do I have to ask?”

Dazai hums a familiar tune.

It makes your skin crawl.

“Who was he?” Your hands respectfully brush against the stone. “You’ve never been the type to seek out a grave that isn’t your own.”

He chuckles dryly at your not-so-subtle jab but surrenders to defeat. And you don’t know what that defeat means besides understanding that it’s a part of some carefully crafted plan. And you are inclined to believe you’ll not like how this one ends.

His bandaged hand smooths against the headstone’s surface, catching against its roughened texture.

"This is Sakunosuke Oda. He is the reason I left the Port Mafia.”

And he tells you everything. Everything.

The friendship forged between three unlikely men—the inevitable betrayal of one and the predictable demise of another. The only future left up in the air was his own.

But as he describes Oda—his closest friend, he claims—his voice holds a reverence you’ve never heard spoken from his lips. He draws a line between himself and the late man, holding him as a person so pure of intention, even with their shared past of blood.

Unlike him.

Dazai knows he is a monster.

He has committed crimes far more violent than you could imagine, all without an ounce of remorse. He used to revel in the rush of a bloodbath, the actions of his youth forever tainting his soul. He may not belong to the mafia anymore; his former allegiance simply resulted from bored complacency, but one thing remains certain.

He does not deserve someone like you.

Sometimes, you’re hard to look at. You remind him too much of the man buried beneath you, making his hollow heart ache. Neither you nor Oda are perfect people, but you both so earnestly try to be better—it was human.

And he wonders—if you stay with him for any longer, will you eventually become stained by the crimes he’s committed? Or will you end up like Oda, a lesson for him to reflect on in the lonely years to come?

He can’t stand the thought of either.

“You give him far too much credit.”

Like a record scratch, his mind halts, honing in on your voice as it melts into an unfamiliar, somber tone. One that holds so much raw honesty it makes him sick.

“I may not have known him, but if he was truly your closest friend, then it’s impossible he didn’t see what I do.”

He scoffs.

“Oh, really? And what’s that?”

You choose not to mind his sardonic tone. There would be a time.

“That you have potential far beyond what you envision for yourself.”

You take his hand, tracing abstract images in the bandages of his limp palm as you ignore his hardened stare.

“You have a particularly stubborn way of viewing things, even with your intellect,” you muse. “You craft roadblocks that only exist within the confines of your mind, limiting yourself to the future you think you deserve.”

And when you meet his gaze, your eyes sear through him.

“You’re not a good man. But you’re not as bad as you claim to be.”

Flashes of memory, of every life shattered and of every corpse trampled underneath his feet, beg to differ.

“If you knew the extent of what I’ve done, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

And in reply, you flick his forehead.

“You seem pretty set in thinking for me, Osamu.” Your voice is scolding but holds no bite. “I’d be offended if I couldn’t easily see why.”

And a whisper embeds a chill within his bones, seeping through the flesh and tingling down to his fingertips.

“Do you really think I’ll turn tail and run the second you revert to your old ways?”

His slackened hand seizes your wrist, almost bruising. Almost.

“You should if you know what’s good for you.”

He hopes to scare you.

To shake your unwavering resolve.

To fracture the foundation of those beliefs that lead you to foolishly place your trust in him.

But you laugh.

He tries to pull back, but you hold him there tighter.

“You truly don’t see how much you’ve changed. God, you are stubborn.”

His breath catches—you’re at once calamitous, the wild embodiment of a zephyr with no reins.

“But unluckily for you, so am I.”

Frosted flurries linger in the tresses of your hair, untamed strands framing the electrifying expression that pulses in the upturn of your lips and the brightness of your eyes. So wonderfully unpredictable, so woefully disastrous for a soul he never believes he deserves.

Only in this world is a snowstorm the key to thawing his frozen heart.

“I can’t deny I would’ve loved to meet him.” You lean against the stiffened curve of his shoulder. “Anyone who can manage to change your mind must've been remarkable.”

Every inch of him feels aflame, but he can’t bring himself to move.

“In life, people are categorized as one thing or another, and in death, their actions are simplified to an anecdote or forgotten entirely,” you say, an undeniable somberness returning with a softness as you let frost nip at your skin. “The best that can be done is to watch the results of their influence when they’re no longer here.”

And, for the first time, his hand responds to your repetitive ministrations with a subtle squeeze.

You smile.

He pauses at the deafened sound of a sniffle, lost in the sight of the tears that roll down your cheeks without a word.

“But I want to know everything.”

Your arm intertwines with his, fearing he’ll run at the first chance.

“Every sin that stains your soul mafia black, every mistake that convinces you that you can only be who you once were.”

He has made hundreds, thousands of mistakes—a running list tallied in his mind, repeated over and over on his worst days and subtly whispering reminders on his best.

How can he possibly taint you with even the mention of such things?

Your voice echoes in a whisper, only for him to hear.

“I want the chance to look at you, all of you, and still love you the same.”

He is stubborn, but so are you.

He allows himself to press one kiss against the top of your head, but he should’ve known. Indulging once only leads him to indulge again, and again, and again—he pulls you closer, dotting reverent, blistering kisses across your cold, heated skin. His lips trace the apples of your cheeks, marking the pathway of your tears with the devotion to soothe them.

“He would’ve loved you as much as I do.”

His voice breaks, but you say nothing.

Content to remain in his arms, comforted in the knowledge that you’ll always be one of the few who can change his mind.

Out of all the proposed plans for the day, you didn’t expect CHUUYA to ask you to meet somewhere far outside the city. It was weird waking up alone in bed with only a text on the phone with an address and time. But you went with it, not knowing what to expect.

You would’ve never guessed a graveyard.

It sits on a cliffside, enclosed by a canopy of trees that gives the sight a sense of privacy. The graves aren’t neat or well-kept, but for some reason, you have a feeling that is a measure of how loved the place is.

And there is Chuuya, sitting on top of a gravestone.

“Isn’t that a bit disrespectful?”

Chuuya’s attention darts away from the setting sun.

“Not like it matters,” he scoffs, jumping off of it. “Deserves it for being such a pain in the ass.”

But he doesn’t move to come near you, so you settle for glancing at the graves around you, full of unfamiliar names you are sure he recognizes. Some are far more recent than you assumed, but that brings you back to reality.

“Why’d you call me here?” Your face shifts into an awkward smile. “Not that I mind the scenery, but a graveyard isn’t quite the first thing that comes to mind when I think of a date.”

But you falter once you note the downtrodden look on his face.

You’re not stupid, far from it. You know him well enough to know when he has something to say—the way he fiddles with his fists as they’re tucked into his pockets, how his foot taps against the ground at an irregular tempo. Someone less knowledgeable would assume he is just agitated.

But you know better.

“Is everything alright?”

Your voice is soft—not hesitant, calming like a balm over a wound. It carefully treads through as you try to dissect the reason behind his demeanor.

He sighs.

“There’s something I’ve gotta tell you.”

And you don’t prod, simply nodding at him.

“Then let’s sit down.”

You find yourself with the perfect view of the sunset. Despite your earlier jest, this would be a beautiful date spot, but you don’t linger on the thought for long. You don’t want to be nervous but can’t help it. There’s a key difference between his normal stoicism and genuine seriousness.

And he is serious.

You fiddle with the grass beneath your fingers, trying not to overthink it.

Chuuya is careful as he sits down, not completely next to you, but close enough that he can see enough of your face. He feels the words clogged in his throat, instead taking in the sight of you in the glow of the setting sun. The most beautiful person he has ever laid eyes on. He watches for another fleeting moment as the ocean breeze tussles your hair.

But sunsets aren’t meant to last.

So, he delves into the details of this place—its significance in creating the man he is today. But he quickly skips the more unimportant details. These are stories he can tell you with ease. Some are a pain in his heart, yes, but it is a pain he trusts you with. One he knows you can handle—and pain he allows to be shared, even if momentarily.

The origins of his ability are a different story.

Those are more complicated than petty betrayals and mafia rivalries.

The descriptions of experiments are enough to chill you to the core, forcing you to swallow your nausea at the thought of them being conducted on the very man you love.

“Once that power is unleashed, my body is no longer under my control.”

He removes his hat, his gloved fingers straining around its edges.

“I become a beast hellbent on destruction.” His voice dips with an irritated edge, and you can guess the next few keywords before he says them. “And I’m forced to rely on Dazai to nullify it. That bastard enjoys showing up at the worst possible moment just to toy with me.”

You laugh a little, but he doesn’t have the heart for your usual back and forth.

“But without him, anyone in my path is in danger.”

That laughter fades into something silent, contemplative.

“And even if that doesn’t happen, there are many who would gladly give anything for a fraction of the power I possess, to the point that they would use anyone under my care as leverage. I couldn’t possibly keep count of how many die simply for being my subordinates, much less…”

He cuts himself off.

You are smart enough to know the rest.

So he waits, and he doesn’t truly know what for. He just knows what you should do. You should run far away from him and anything he touches. If you run fast and far enough, you can save yourself from the danger of being his.

His eyes catch the way your hands fidget, nervous, and he can’t help but feel the same.

“I don’t think I say it enough…” Chuuya’s eyes dart to the outline of your lips, a breath of cold air escaping them. “But you truly are the most resilient man I’ve ever met.”

He huffs.

He knows that stubborn tone of voice anywhere. But this isn’t some stupid argument over the best type of wine or an attempt to stop him from splurging on new clothes—he’ll shoot your stubborn attitude down for your own good.

“But you’re such a hypocrite.”

What.

He can barely hide his shock, and your fond, cheeky smile begins to sour.

“Do you honestly believe I wouldn’t brave that danger?” you sneer, your voice hot with anger. “I know you would if it were me!”

You whip your head around, your brows furrowed, and your lips curled into the beginnings of a snarl.

“So why the hell do you think I wouldn’t do the same?!”

He can’t quite come up with a response.

You are right.

If your roles were reversed, he wouldn’t leave. It wouldn’t matter to him if he lived or died as long as you were together. But this isn’t your reality, and you are in danger.

And he won’t stand for it.

“You’re in danger.” His voice is low, scolding. “If those bastards find out you’re with me, they’ll do whatever it takes to end your life. If something happens to you, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Do you regret them?”

He pauses, frowning.

“Who?”

“Them. Your friends.”

You level his gaze.

“Do you regret them?”

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Think about them.

He can still see them, or at least the flashes of what remains of them. Shells of the vibrant people they once were snuffed out with ease.

“If it wasn’t for me, they’d still be alive today.”

“That’s not what I asked,” you reply, the coolness of your voice raising goosebumps on his arms. “Do you regret them? Were those bonds not worth the grief that followed their passing?”

“Of course not!” he exclaims, his frustration palpable. “But that’s not the point.”

“Do you think they’d regret you?”

His mouth goes dry at the look you give him.

You are like an ephemeral, deadly storm. Your eyes match his in force and shine with the knowledge that you have him cornered.

And he cannot look away.

You are always beautiful to him—it amazes him how someone can be so breathtaking. But you have never been as radiant as you are now.

You take his hand into your own, holding it tight.

“Do you think I could ever regret you?”

He freezes.

Your fingertips are like fire as they trace the exposed skin of his wrist.

“You don’t consider the agency of the people you care for.”

He shudders as your lips brush his skin, your thumb inching beneath the fabric of his glove.

“Risk is a guarantee for every interaction we have. Especially when it comes to those we hold closest.”

You slip the glove off.

“But that risk is a two-way street.” You smile. “And if those friends are anything like me, then they’d agree with one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

His response is without power, and there is no fight left within him.

Your hand overlaps his own as it cups your face.

You squeeze gently, leading him to truly look at you.

“You’re worth that risk.”

He doesn’t know who leans in first, but before he knows it, his lips are on yours. You cannot be close enough, even as he pulls you onto his lap, groaning at the delicate touch of your fingers in his hair.

In this moment, he allows himself to forget.

The danger. The risk.

He allows the storm to weather him.

And as you part, heavy breaths passing between you both, he is forced to surrender.

“I hope you’re the last sight I ever see.”

If it is for you, it is worth the risk.

TAGLIST: @yonseibananamilk @suru1990 @honeymoon38 @saeandscaralover @coffeeofsamu @just-another-crack-artist @newnlovesjennie @snowsilver2000 @kai7196 @chyozai @rebel-finn @justcallmesakira @emyyy007 @mxxny-lupin @little-miss-chaoss @himikoslove @osameowdazai @deepseafragments @aureatchi @kelperspelt @squigglewigglewoo @lovesick-fairy @zyilas @ishqani @sillyspookycat

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[girlyhornywriter]

Pushing her buttons...

Imagine having a button you could press that magically makes you fatter, by like +1 pound. That'd be neat, right? I wonder where you would draw the line and finally stop pressing it.

I mean, the first dozen presses would just be so you can test if it's actually working. One or two probably wouldn't feel like much, but by the time you hit the double-digits of extra pounds gained, you'd probably feel the extra tightness in your pants. Maybe your shirt would ride up a little bit because your belly and tits have grown a little bigger, but it wouldn't be anything *crazy*. Even after 12 presses, you'd still basically feel the same. Maybe your balance would be a little off with the extra weight, but nothing you can't deal with. If you put a hand on your midriff, you'd notice it bulging out more, and that it's softer and fleshier than you're used to, but all in a good way.

Being realistic though, you wouldn't stop there, would you? You've dreamed of stuff like this. An opportunity to make yourself *so* much fatter is just too tempting for you to pass up. Maybe you'd try to resist the temptation for a while, but we both know you'd fold under the pressure and start pressing it again. Fast.

You'd get undressed and stand in front of a mirror so you could watch your figure swell with dozens of extra pounds of soft, pale blubber. You'd hold your belly in one hand while you press the button with the other. Press after press, you feel it push out just a little bit further. It'd feel softer and softer in your hands as your gut grows heavier and jigglier.

Now you're thirty pounds heavier than you started, and you're *really* starting to notice the results now. Your belly hangs over your thighs quite a lot further than you remember, and your ass is looking so fat when you get a good look at yourself from the side. Stopping now crosses your mind, but you quickly dismiss it; your tits might be bigger, but they're not really big enough yet, and you're still only at "BBW" size anyway. You can handle some more pressing.

Click by click, you feel yourself growing heavier. Your belly has gotten so big and blubbery that it starts to fold into two thick rolls, giving you a definite double-belly that you can't wait to show off to your girlfriend when she gets home. In the meantime though, you keep pressing the button. You've lost track of the exact number at this point, but you think you're somewhere around 60 pounds heavier than when you started (it's actually closer to 80). You look at your doughy belly and thighs being groped by your hand in the mirror, and notice how much pudgier and softer your hand is starting to look. Nothing is immune to the weight you're piling on, and that just makes you even hornier. You resume clicking it.

Another thirty pounds make their way onto your figure when you stop again, this time because your gaze drifted upwards towards your face. Your cheeks look so much fuller now, giving your face a decidedly rounder shape. Your double-chin is much more pronounced than it used to be; your jawline is completely buried under a thick layer of chubbiness at this point, and you can't help but smile about it. It feels so good to be so much more... *plush*.

You tell yourself that you'll give yourself twenty more presses, then you'll quit. But once you get there, you decide... maybe just a few more. So you press it *another* ten times. Then you notice how close your breasts are to touching when you're sitting down, and can't help but want to see them finally become big enough to rub against each other as you walk. So you keep pressing it. Not really paying attention to the number any more, just to your breasts, as they get heavier and softer and rounder with every click.

Finally, it happens.

Not your breasts touching, like you were waiting for. The chair you were sitting on breaks instead. You hadn't heard it creaking as your fat ass grew ever fatter and heavier with every click of the button. It just hadn't crossed your mind that your furniture had already been struggling against your mass before you got this button. Now though, it had finally given up...

You decided this was your sign to call it quits - you should dust yourself off and think yourself lucky that you didn't do something stupid and make yourself absolutely massive. You drag yourself up onto your feet with a lot more difficulty than you expected, then push the shattered remains of the chair aside with your foot. You check your ass and thighs for any damage, but aside from the massive amount of extra cellulite now occupying them, and the angry red stretchmarks that have suddenly become even more omnipresent across your body, you seem to be fine. You look down for the button, but can't see it anywhere among the debris. You look around the room, when you finally spot it.

Your girlfriend is in the doorway, holding it in her hand.

"I like what you've done to yourself, babe" she says with a smile, her gaze travelling up and down your now much fatter figure, eyeing your new curves and rolls with glee. She licks her lips. "I wonder how you got so big, so fast, princess... Could it be this, maybe?" She presses the button.

Maybe you could have denied the effect the button had just had on you, if it wasn't for the fact that at that moment, the panties you had been wearing finally gave up, shredded by your immense girth with an audible rip and leaving you exposed to your girlfriend in more ways than one. The smile on her face broadens.

"I think I get the picture... Well, shall we see what this thing can do?" She starts clicking the button as fast as her fingers are capable of. Ten pounds, twenty pounds, thirty pounds, you feel your body swelling with the extra mass second by second as she starts to giggle. You try to run towards her, but you're far too fat now to move so quickly, so all you can do is waddle gracelessly towards her as she easily evaded your attempts to grab the button from her hand. You reach the doorway and look down at your expanding body, in awe at just how much of the weight seems to be going straight to your belly rolls. Your thickening paunch slaps against your thickened thighs as you keep trying to pursue your mischievous girlfriend. She escapes into the living room, and you follow her, your steps growing heavier with every click that echoes through your ears.

By the time you corner her in front of the couch, the click count must be at 250 by now, and you're feeling every ounce of the blubber she has poured onto your body. You're exhausted and breathless from trying to catch her, and she can see you're close to collapsing. She speeds up the pace of her clicking, holding the button high above her head where you have no hope of reaching it. You make one final lunge, hoping to swipe it from her hand before you're too fat to stand...

But you miss.

You lose your balance and stumble towards the couch, where you drop heavily onto the straining frame. Your ass takes up far more of space than you're used to and you sink deep into the soft cushions, hearing creak as it settles under your immense bulk. Your girlfriend stands over you, victorious.

"I think that couch had a max weight rating of 800 lbs, didn't it? Shall we test that?"

As much as you struggle against your own fattened figure, you can't haul your fat ass and gut off of the couch. You're just too heavy, and only getting heavier as she presses the button over and over and over again. Your thighs press together even as you try to spread them as wide as possible; your belly fills your entire lap and just keeps spilling out further and further over the edge of the couch; and your tits keep swelling too, easily exceeding G-cups in size with no signs of stopping.

Eventually, inevitably, the couch gives way to your blubber-laden body. You sink down even further as the couch breaks right down the middle, leaving you in a V-shaped dip, helplessly trapped by your hundreds of new pounds of fat and cellulite. Your hands grope your thick rolls of flab and you feel a strange mix of horror and arousal at how soft and jiggly you are now, *all over*.

Your girlfriend looks very pleased with herself.

"I hope you're comfy, big girl, because you're not going to be doing much walking from now on. I was always hoping I could get you to fatten up for me, to turn you into my stay-at-home piggy, too fat to do anything but make herself even fatter. It was always just a pipe dream, but apparently, dreams really *do* come true...

"I'll let you stay like this until I can find us a bed that can handle the massive whale of a girl like you've become. Once I've got you settled there though, I'm going to give this thing a couple hundred more clicks.

"You'll be so helpless and useless, but don't worry, princess. I'll make sure you know how much I love every single inch of you."

[scoutofmymind]

Momma I request a prompt inspired by a song of your choosing (: I L Y

Couldn’t Make It Any Harder — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: mental health issues, mentions of past trauma, TorturedArtist!Reader, Empath!Luigi, Luigi says “go birds” after flipping off a woman, confused feelings, situationship, reader is just Very Confused in general, angst, eventual romance.

Wc: 5,107

I couldn't make it

Any harder to love me

Oh, one day, believe me

You’ll want someone who makes it easy

This has been floating around in my asks for awhile, and I wasn’t feeling practically inspired by any songs lately until Sabrina released Couldn’t Make It Any Harder and I couldn’t stop thinking about writing it.

This work was done quickly between my other ongoing Luigi projects, so I apologize for any inconsistencies or skipped backstory (you know I’m a backstory bitch) but I simply needed to get this out of my system, and remembered that an anon had asked me to write something based off of a song quite awhile ago!

Also, how could I leave you hanging on Valentine’s Day? Even if I’m posting this at 2 AM….

It's 8:30 AM at your usual coffee spot — that tiny café two blocks from Luigi's apartment where the barista always draws terrible attempts at latte art, and you’re still wearing yesterday's mascara, not because you've been crying, but because you spent the night in your studio, channeling your frustration into a new piece that's all sharp edges and bold strokes.

"I mean, we had a great time!" You're gesturing with your coffee cup, nearly spilling it. "We went to that new gallery opening, and he actually understood my rant about contemporary minimalism. Then dinner, drinks, great conversation — and now? Radio silence. Three days of nothing."

Luigi, sitting across from you, is trying not to smile at how animated you are, his laptop open beside him — he's probably got a Slack channel blowing up with messages from his dev team, but he rushed to meet you for this emergency coffee session, anyway.

The startup's dress code might be casual, but he always manages to look put-together in that effortless way that makes other tech bros look like they're not trying hard enough.

"Maybe I'm just-“ you pause, stirring your coffee aggressively, "too much, you know? Too loud, too passionate, too-"

"Stop," Luigi cuts in, closing his laptop and fixing his gaze on you again, "You're not too anything. You're exactly enough. So don’t even go there with me.” He massages his temples, “Too early for it.”

"I know that," you say firmly, because you do. "That's the thing — I like who I am. I like that I can talk about art for hours. I like that I get excited about things. I like that I feel everything so intensely. I'm not going to make myself smaller just because some guy can't handle it."

"Then don't," Luigi says, and there's something in his voice that makes you look up from the foam disappearing from your cappuccino. "The right person won't want you to."

"Exactly! And you know what? If Jake can't handle a woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to say it-“ you trail off, reaching for your sketchbook. You start absent-mindedly drawing on a corner of the page.

“Ugh,” Luigi’s face screws in mock disgust, “His name was Jake?”

Putting down your pen, you lean back in your chair with a frustrated sigh. "But then again, if I'm so great, why does this keep happening? Three first dates in two months, Lu. Three. And they all end the same way."

"You mean with guys who can't handle someone who actually has opinions?" Luigi takes a sip of his coffee, his fingers tapping absently on his closed laptop. A notification buzzes on his phone — probably his team wondering where he is — but he doesn't even glance at it.

"No, see, that's just it," you lean forward, your hands moving expressively as you talk. "They love it at first. They think it's so fascinating and refreshing that I'm 'not like other girls', or whatever." You roll your eyes at the phrase, hating the taste of the words in your mouth. "But then it's like they realize I'm actually serious. That I'm not just putting on some manic pixie dream girl act for their entertainment."

Luigi's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Heaven forbid you be a real person with actual thoughts and feelings."

"Right? And I know — I know I'm not too much," you say, but your voice wavers slightly. You start fidgeting with your rings, a habit Luigi's seen a thousand times when you're wrestling with something in your head. "But sometimes I wonder if-"

"If what?"

"If maybe I should just- you know.. tone it down? Just a little? Just at first?" The words sound wrong coming out of your mouth, and you can see from Luigi's expression that he knows it, too. "No, you're right, forget I said that. That's stupid."

"It is stupid," he agrees, but gently. His eyes catch yours across the table again, his gaze steady and genuine. "Remember that installation you did last month? The one about authenticity?"

"Yeah?"

"What did you tell that bag of bones professor who said it was 'overwhelmingly honest'?"

A smile starts to spread across your face. "I told him that was the whole damn point."

"Exactly." Luigi checks his watch and starts gathering his things — he's definitely late now. "So maybe the problem isn't that you're too overwhelming,” he pats the top of your head, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “maybe they're just underwhelming."

•

You're standing in front of your last piece, forcing a smile that feels like it's splitting your face in half, as another guest explains to you what your own art means.

Behind you, you can hear snippets of conversations that make your skin crawl.

It's a bit... aggressive, isn't it?

Not quite gallery standard... these nepo kids..

Experimental, but perhaps too experimental..

Your hands are shaking, so you clasp them behind your back. You've been doing this grim waltz for two hours — nodding, smiling, explaining yourself over and over to people who look through you rather than at you, and the gallery owner keeps shooting you these looks, these little disappointed glances that make you feel about two inches tall.

You catch Luigi's eye across the room.

He's been watching, you realize, while pretending to be deeply invested in a conversation with some tech entrepreneur who probably thinks art is a good investment opportunity, and he tilts his head slightly — a question.

You shake yours — you’re not okay.

"The brushstrokes here," the current patron is saying, pointing at your most vulnerable piece, "they're rather — well, chaotic. Unorganized. Muddy. It’s strange to see. Was that intentional?"

Something inside you splinters.

"Excuse me," you manage, your voice surprisingly steady for how the room is tunneling, how your fingers begin to tingle, how your lungs have lost the ability to draw in a full breath. "I need some air."

You make it through the gallery, past the whispers and the stares, past the owner who starts to say something about maintaining appearances, past the front desk and around the corner to the back alley.

Then your legs give out.

You're gasping, trying to remember how breathing works, your back against the cold brick wall. The dress — that stupid yellow dress that Luigi said was his favorite — feels too tight. Everything feels too tight.

You tear at your collar, needing air, needing space, needing- "Hey." Luigi's voice, close but not too close. "I'm here."

"I can't-" you choke out. "I can't breathe, I can't-"

"Yes, you can." He moves slowly into your space, hands hovering but not touching. "Look at me. Just look at me. I’m right here. It’s all good.”

You shake your head violently, sliding down the wall. "They're right. They're all right. I'm not- this- This isn't-" Each word feels like it's being ripped from your throat, bloody and raw and dishonest and horrific. They aren’t right. You know they aren’t.

"Bullshit." The sharpness in his voice makes you look up. He's crouched in front of you now, his tie completely undone, his eyes fierce. "They're not right. They're not even close to right. They're looking at fireworks and complaining about the noise. Old fuckin’ bunch’a assholes.”

A sob catches in your throat, half laugh, half cry. "That's a terrible metaphor."

"Made you look at me, though." His voice softens, his hands resting on your clammy shoulders. "Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe."

You try to match his exaggerated breathing, your hands still shaking. "I put everything into this show," you whisper after your second deep breath. "Everything."

"I know."

"And they just- they- they just-“

"I know." He shifts, sitting beside you against the wall, careful to leave space, but still your shoulders bump together. "But. Want to know what I think?"

You turn your head to look at him, makeup probably ruined, dress definitely stained from the alley ground, but you’ve already abandoned ship, you’ve waved your white flag — there’s no use in pretending you haven’t crumbled in a New York alleyway now. "What?"

"I think they're terrified of you."

That startles a real laugh out of you, “What?"

"You heard me." He's looking straight ahead, but there's something fierce in his profile. "You walked in there with your soul on full display, unapologetic and raw and real, and they don't know what to do with that. People like that, they're comfortable with art they can hang in their dining rooms and forget about.” You watch him blink, gathering the words, “Your shit doesn't let them forget. It makes them feel things they don't want to feel."

You nudge him gently, a laugh flaring your nostrils. "That's a lot better than the fireworks metaphor."

Now he does look at you, a small smile playing at his lips, his cheeks blushed crimson from the wine he’d gulped down just to make himself a bit more sociable. "Yeah, well, I've had three glasses of their overpriced wine. I'm feeling poetic."

Another laugh bubbles up, watery but real. You let your head fall against his shoulder, just for a moment. "I don't want to go back in there."

"So we won’t." He doesn't move, letting you lean on him, his head leaning atop yours. "Let's go get real drinks instead. You can tell me all the things you wanted to say to that guy who tried to explain color theory to you."

"God, he was the worst." You straighten up slowly, wiping at your eyes. "Did you see his socks?"

"I was trying not to."

•

You're standing at the open bar, counting the minutes until it's socially acceptable to leave, when Madison — a college friend you haven't seen in years, who always seemed to help herself to open bars beyond her means — sways over.

Her champagne sloshes dangerously close to your dress, but for some reason, you don’t step back.

"Oh my god, it really is you!" Her voice carries just a bit too loud, and you can feel a few heads turning in your direction. "I almost didn't recognize you without, you know-“ she gestures vaguely at all of you, that sick smile still on her blush pink lips. "All the paint and shit all over you.”

You take a long sip of your drink, hoping it would wash away the rising tide of anxiety in your core. "Good to see you too, Mads.”

"So,” She leans in conspiratorially, her breath smelling of booze and mid-tier champagne. “I heard about your gallery show last month. The one at The Maxwell? God, that must have been-“ She trails off, eyes wide with what looks like concern but feels like something else entirely.

Your hand tightens around your glass. "Must have been what?" Your lips tighten into a line, “It was an- an honor to have the opportunity.”

Words your father had always said to you growing up echo in the far depths of your mind; Honor and Integrity.

There’s a humility in it, in accepting such a nightmare as privilege.

"Well, I mean — I saw that article that was going around Instagram. About how you just up and left? In the middle of opening night?" She takes another sip of champagne, watching you over the rim with her big, stupid brown eyes. "Is that true? That you didn't even come back to collect your pieces? God, that's crazy!"

The word crazy hits like a slap, and you can still feel the panic from that night, the walls closing in as people whispered, pointed, discussed your work like it was a car crash they couldn't look away from and did nothing to aid.

"It's not exactly-"

"And after everything with Matt, and then Jason- ugh,” She shakes her head. "I mean, I get it. Using art as therapy. But maybe actual therapy would be — I dunno — you know, beneficial?”

"Madison-"

"I'm just worried about you," she continues, reaching for your arm and her fingers feel like serpents, coiling around your skin, suffocating you. "We all are. First the whole thing with your poor father — god, remember how he used to say you were just too-"

"Don't." Your voice comes out sharper than intended, your brows furrowed at her like she’d backhanded you. “Don’t you fucking say another word.”

Madison almost gasps, clutching her necklace. “See? This is what I mean. All this reactionary stuff. The anger. The intensity. Have you thought about getting help? My therapist says sometimes when we've been through things-"

The garden somehow feels too small, the fairy lights too bright, the music too loud. Across the room, Luigi is trapped in conversation with the bride's uncle, but somehow he must sense something because his eyes find yours, his head tilted at you, his usual question.

Everything okay?

This time, you look away from him.

"I’m going to leave this conversation before-“

"No, wait, listen." Madison's grip on your arm tightens, slithering, sneering, hissing. Fangs, poison. “That show — people were talking about it for weeks. How raw it was. How fucking uncomfortable it made everyone. One of the pieces — the one with all the broken mirrors? Someone said it looked like a cry for help."

You can feel your pulse in your throat. "It wasn't a fucking-“

"And then you just disappeared! Like, who does that, girl? Just leaves their own show? The curator had to pack up your pieces himself. That's what the article said. Is that true?" She may as well have a microphone beneath your trembling lips, taking on the role of some cheap reporter for a local shittalking magazine.

Of course she read the article.

Everyone read the article.

The one that called your work a disturbing glimpse into a clearly troubled mind. The one that suggested your artistic breakdown was inevitable given your history of emotional instability.

It was laughable, truly, and anyone that knew you well enough had known so much to be so very far from the truth.

"I had my reasons," you manage, but your voice sounds distant even to yourself. “I had reason for leaving the way I did.”

"Obviously you did. That's what I'm saying. Maybe if you got some help, you know, dealt with all this and found ways to properly cope-“ She waves her hand vaguely again, like swatting away a pesky fly. "Then maybe you could make art that's more you know.. accessible. Enjoyable. Less-“

"Less me?" The words come out before you can stop them. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t know, Madison. You haven’t seen a single one of my shows, haven’t shown yourself at any of my gallery openings-“ your cheeks burn red hot, your glass of wine discarded and your hands balled into fists. “You’re lucky I don’t fucking pop that smirk right off your-“

"That's not what I-"

“It is exactly what you fucking-“

“No, it’s not! Look at yourself!”

"Hey!” Luigi's voice cuts through the rising panic. He's suddenly there, solid and real. "Sorry to interrupt, but we have that thing that we have to get to-“ he loops his arm around yours, and he swears he can feel the heat radiating off of you, hot and quivering like a volcano deciding if it’s time to erupt just yet or not.

Madison blinks at him, her nostrils flared at the sudden interruption. It seems as though this is exactly the reaction she wanted, and was pissed the show had called curtains so quickly. "What thing?"

"That very important thing," Luigi says firmly, already guiding you away. "Great catching up. Green is not your color. Go Birds.” As he turns you both, he raises his middle finger behind your back — not because you needed defending, but because that's who Luigi is; all sharp edges and fierce loyalty, a guard dog with his teeth bared in your honor, though, you catch the gesture in a reflection, and something warm unfurls in your chest.

Not because you needed saving, but because he'd always take your side, no matter the circumstances. He didn’t need to know why you were barking at this girl he’d never met before — he already knew you had good reason to do it.

You make it to the venue's back garden before your legs give out, and the fairy lights blur through tears you refuse to let fall. "Did you— fuck,” Your voice shakes as you reach to wipe away the tears before they even get the chance to glide down your cheeks. "Did you actually hear what she was saying or just see it?”

"Caught the greatest hits." His jaw is tight, his hand resting on your lower back as he hunches forward, clearly concerned but approaching all of it carefully.

You can’t help but wonder then how many times you’ll find yourselves like this — Luigi rescuing you from yet another mishap, and that alone could become a new reason to feel sorry for yourself.

And him.

"The article." You wrap your arms around yourself. "She read the fucking article."

Ironically, you had originally taken the article well.

Too well, in fact.

You'd invited them all over — Luigi, Anna, Theo — for what you called A Reading of My Professional Obituary. You'd spent all day in the kitchen, channeling your grandmother's stress-cooking legacy; bouillabaisse simmering for hours, Tarte Tatin caramelizing to golden perfection.

The good wine came out, the kind you'd been saving for a real occasion.

Perched in your chair like it was a throne, wine glass dangling from your fingers, you'd performed dramatic readings of the choicest quotes. "Sources close to the artist describe a history of emotional instability," you'd intoned, affecting a pompous art critic voice that had Luigi choking on his wine. "An unsettling collection that seemed less like art and more like a cry for help.”

The evening devolved into a tipsy game of "Guess the Snitch" — everyone taking turns suggesting increasingly ridiculous candidates for the mysterious source. "It was Gabby, in the gallery, with the emotional manipulation!" Theo had declared, wielding his bouillabaisse spoon like a gavel.

But Luigi had watched you through it all — the way your hand shook slightly when pouring wine, how your laugh got a little too loud to be genuine, and how you'd spent three hours making a perfect French dessert like your life depended on proving you weren't falling apart.

"We all did." Luigi reminds you, his voice gentle but firm. "Christ, we turned it into dinner theater. Remember how Anna did that dramatic interpretation of ' the unsettling collection'?" His hand finds your knee, squeezing. "And it was shit. Not only was it shit — it was cowardly. Didn't even have the spine to name you."

You tilt your head back, using the stars as gravity's help against the tears threatening to spill. The fairy lights from the wedding garden blur into little halos. "I know, but — these people, Lu." Your voice catches, and you hate how it betrays you. "They believe it. They're all walking around thinking I'm some unhinged artist who needs to be sedated and locked away from sharp objects." A laugh escapes, but it's wet and hollow. "God, I wish I'd understood what that article would do. I wish-"

But there's no point in wishing.

The damage was done with surgical precision.

They hadn't needed to use your name — everyone knew exactly whose exhibition had opened at Maxwell Gallery on August fifteenth.

Yours.

•

The hotel room feels smaller with each passing hour.

You've mastered a careful choreography — sliding past each other in the narrow spaces, maintaining precise distances on the king bed as you both pretend to watch some mindless cooking show. But sometimes, despite your best efforts, you slip. His hand brushes yours as you both reach for the room service menu, your feet touch under the shared blanket; each accidental contact sends you recoiling like a startled cat, though you used to fall asleep during movie nights without a second thought.

When your knee accidentally bumps his as you shift position, you jerk away so violently you nearly fall off the bed.

"Okay." Luigi mutes the TV, turning to face you. "We need to talk about this."

"About what?" But you know exactly what, can feel heat creeping up your neck and it makes you want to run.

"About how we used to share my twin bed during college when you crashed at my place, but now you act like my skin is fucking toxic." His voice is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of hurt that makes your core ache. "Remember that road trip to Detroit? You slept on my chest the whole way back because the car heater was broken.“ he looks desperate, grasping at the last straws of you. “I feel like we hardly look each other in the eyes now.”

You stare hard at the geometric pattern on the duvet, picking at a loose thread. "Things were different then."

"Were they?" He shifts closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Or are you just scared they weren't?"

You get up abruptly, needing to put physical space between you and that question, the Chicago night spreading out beyond the window, a constellation of lights blurring through unshed tears; each one feels like a witness to this moment, to your cowardice.

"You know what changed," you say finally, arms crossed tight against your chest like armor. "After Maxwell, after the article, after everything became public consumption — I can't be that person anymore.”

"Why not?" His voice is closer now — he's moved to the edge of the bed, but he doesn't approach further. Giving you space while refusing to let you run.

Very classic Luigi.

A laugh escapes you, bitter and dry. "Because now everyone's watching. Waiting for the next shoe to drop. And you-“ You turn just enough to catch his reflection in the window, superimposed over the city lights. "You're too important to me, Lu.”

"So you'd rather just — what? Keep pretending?" There's frustration in his voice now, raw and real. "We both know that's not sustainable. Not when we used to-“ He trails off, and you recall the many countless nights on his cramped couch, your head on his chest, his heartbeat your lullaby to the most restful sleep you’d ever known.

"Maybe not," you admit quietly. "But it's safer than the alternative."

"Safer for who?"

The question almost knocks you off your feet.

Because he's right — this careful distance isn't protecting him. It's protecting you. From vulnerability. From the possibility of loss. From the terrifying reality that despite everything, despite all your jagged edges and dark corners, he's still here.

Still looking at you like you're something precious instead of precarious.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with all the things you're afraid to say, all the ways you're afraid to need him, and even more terrified of the way he needs you.

Eventually, you turn from the window, facing him. "It can't be simple. I won't let it be." Your voice catches. "I push and I pull and I keep everyone at arm's length until they prove me right by leaving."

Luigi stands slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal. "You've been trying so hard to make it impossible," he says softly. "Creating distance, convincing yourself I'll give up." He takes another step closer. "But loving you has always been the easiest thing I've ever done."

"Don't." The word comes out choked, your hand pressing against his chest in hopes that he’ll back away. "Don't say that when you know how complicated — how- how difficult-"

"Difficult?" He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, stood firm but not inching any closer. "You want to talk about difficult? Try watching you date other people. Try sitting across from you at coffee shops for years and watching you cry over them. Try fucking loving you quietly through every gallery opening, every crisis,“ his brows furrow, his nostrils flare, “you don’t get to tell me what loving you is like.”

Your breath catches as he reaches for you.

"You think you're pushing me away?" His voice is barely above a whisper, his hands finally cradling your face, tears dampening your cheeks that blaze with warmth. "I've been yours since that first night you fell asleep on my shoulder during finals week. Everything since then — it's just been waiting."

You clench your jaw, your heart a wild thing against your ribs. This tightrope you and Luigi have been walking for years — this delicate balance of almost-but-not-quite, of maybe-someday-but-not-now — has finally frayed beneath your feet. All those careful steps, those perfectly maintained distances, those nights of pretending your skin didn't burn where he almost touched you.

They’ve led you here, to this hotel room in Chicago, where the fantasy of staying safely suspended between friendship and something more has finally given way to gravity.

And what, you wonder, has Luigi seen in you to make him want to dive deeper into your chaos?

He's already witnessed the 3 AM phone calls when your mind won't quiet, the obsessive cleaning episodes that leave your hands raw and your apartment sterile. He's held you through the tears that come without warning, weathered the anger that burns hot and fast like summer lightning.

You're no manic pixie dream girl — you're the real thing, messy and unpredictable, with a heart that bleeds all over everything it touches.

He's either a storm chaser or a fool, you think.

Some hopeless beast tamer who hasn't realized that some creatures aren't meant to be gentled, that some storms leave nothing but wreckage in their wake.

But that's the thing — to Luigi, you've never been a storm to weather or a beast to tame. He doesn't look at you like you're broken machinery in need of repair, doesn't treat your edges like something to be smoothed away.

Instead, he's spent years matching your pace, stepping back when you needed space, stepping forward when you needed anchor. And now, finally, the weight of all that careful patience has brought him here — raw and honest in this dim hotel room, asking you to either meet him in this space between what you are and what you could be, or lay him to rest.

"Touch me," he says, the words falling soft but heavy in the space between you. His eyes hold yours, steady and sure, "Or let me go.”

The city lights paint his silhouette in gold and shadow, and you realize you've never seen him look so vulnerable, so stripped of the careful composure he always maintains. Your Luigi laid bare — not the patient friend, not the steady shoulder, but a man who's finally reached the end of his endurance.

"What if we break?" The question slips from your lips, small and honest, carrying all the weight of your fears that kept you at such a distance all these years — shattering to pieces, left broken by the man you’d loved the most.

Luigi's eyes soften, and something like a smile — sad and sweet and knowing — tugs at the corner of his lips. "Then we break," he says simply, his thumbs swiping away the tears that slide down your cheeks. "But I'd rather that than spend the rest of my life whole and wondering."

His hands haven’t moved. Patient, steady Luigi, who has never pushed but never fully retreated, either. Who has somehow found this perfect middle ground between staying and going, between asking and waiting.

And maybe that's what finally does it — the realization that he's offering you both beginning and end in the same breath. That he's standing here saying yes to all of it; the possibility of breaking, of shattering, of ending up with nothing but deadly carnage between you.

That he knows exactly what he's asking for, and he's asking anyway.

Your hand moves before you can think yourself out of it again, crossing the space between you like a prayer finally answered. When you cup his face, the scrape of stubble against your palm is both foreign and achingly familiar — like a song you used to know by heart, now half-remembered.

His eyes flutter closed at your touch, and you feel the slight tremor in his jaw, the way he leans into your hand like he's been starving for it.

His breath catches, shaky and soft, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. "There you are," he whispers against your palm, like he's greeting someone long lost, like you've finally come home after years away. "There you are."

His lips brush your palm once more before he lifts his gaze to yours, eyes dark with something between hope and heartache. "Tell me to pull away," he whispers, voice rough. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll go. I'll understand."

But his body betrays him — the slight tremor still present in his jaw under your touch, the way he's still leaning into your hand like he can't help himself. He's offering you an exit, even now. Steady, selfless Luigi, always making sure you have a way out, even when it's killing him to do so.

And that's what breaks you finally — not his touch or his words, but this endless capacity of his to put your needs first.

To stand here offering everything he has left and the chance to walk away from it.

His hand finds your waist, fingers pressing into soft flesh with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. That small sound seems to undo something in him — his control fractures, and suddenly he's pulling you down to him with a urgency that matches your own, your hands bracing against his chest, feeling the thundering of his heart beneath your palms.

"I've thought about this," he confesses roughly, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes heat pool low in your stomach, his thumb tracing a burning path along your hip bone. "Having you like this.”

You can feel the tension coiled in him, the way he's still holding back despite everything. Even now, he's giving you the chance to set the pace, to decide how far this goes. But you're done with hesitation, done with the careful distance you've maintained for so long.

You lean down, letting your lips brush against his ear. "Show me," you whisper, and feel him shudder beneath you. "Show me how you wanted me."

He moves with a swiftness that steals your breath, flipping your positions in one fluid motion. Now he's the one hovering above you, his forearm braced beside your head, other hand still at your waist.

The weight of him, the heat of him so close — it makes your head spin.

"Like this," he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. "Just like this." He holds you like you’ll run from him — just like he’s watched you run from everything before that doesn’t run from you first.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the way he's trembling slightly despite his strength. "I'm here," you whisper back, one hand sliding up to cup his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

[shoujoboy-restart]

Part of the reason why I kinda cringe at being people being hysterical about AI use. if you think it's THAT good at replicating real art then at the very least you should realize lots of artists are gonna use it for reference, photo bashing or trace and render it.

And "just record a speed paint!" A) not everyone has PCs with the hardware that can allow to use a screen recorder and their art software at the same time B) there's now AI that fakes speedpainting and depending on the process a person has for rendering it could very well look like it C) will y'all die if after making a assumption, realize it's just that and idk...leave people alone?

Plus there's AI users that actually edit, render, blend and know how to draw a thing or two, and if they aren't disclosing that I doubt the majority of you would be able to tell, specially when AI is getting good enough to replicate without glitches or deformities.

Generally, just stop being hysterical, if you are gonna need to persecute any art you see because a pixel isn't perfect and something is a bit too smeared, then maybe you can just ignore it until you find out if it's AI or not, and if you find out it's AI, maybe just leave them to themselves and what we consequences they will get for not being honest about it.

Being an artist on Twitter is unsustainable because a quote retweet accusing an artist of using AI will get more likes per view than the actual art.

[florencebirdsong]

Happy Valentine’s Day!

I just saw you’ve opened your requests for this day, so I have a request ;)

Witch!agatha x innocent!human!fem!reader, after AAA, Agatha falls in love with an ordinary human and for the first time in her life she is clumsy when flirting and approaching reader - that's how special her crush on this human is-

I ADORE your writing

Happy Valentine's Day! Thank you so much for the request!!

This is less clumsy and more awkward and stiff but I hope you still enjoy. She's just a silly billy who doesn't know how to handle her emotions :)

And thank you!!! That means so much <3

Valentine’s Day Event 2025

Tags: very slight angst, hint of dominating Agatha, ficlet

Agatha’s presence fills a room. Her eyes see through everyone she meets. She skilfully navigates everyone that’s thrown at her. There isn’t a person who’s properly met her who hasn’t been left with a strong impression. Except you. She barely looks at you. You’ve only ever managed to catch her in the corner of your eye, but even then it could just be in your direction.

You can’t figure out why and any one you’ve been brave enough to ask hasn’t either. Some have even said that it’s a good thing. You don’t understand how. You ache with longing every time you see her sharp smile directed at someone else.

It takes the sixth social gathering in a row where she has interacted with every one but you to find the courage to ask. It’s one of the rare occasions where it’s held at her place and you take advantage of the fact that everyone seems to leave all at once.

It feels strange to linger when the host doesn’t acknowledge you but you draw on every bit of courage you have to stay.

“Not rushing out?” Agatha says from behind you.

You jump in surprise and whirl around. Her face is emotionless. Not even the usual amusement from scaring someone displayed.

“I wanted to talk to you,” you say, gaze stuck firmly on the floor.

There’s a very long pause before she says,

“Alright,” and gestures at the purple lounge.

Instead of choosing another chair she sits next to you. You sit ramrod straight in your nervousness and you can’t help casting a quick glance at her every few seconds. She’s so close. 

She has been before, technically. When talking in or group or accidentally brushing up against you but that never lasts long and it’s never been just the two of you.

Her gaze has wandered over to the window. A curtain has curled back just enough for a peak at the moon.

“Agatha?” you ask, valiantly trying to hide how nervous you are. She hums vaguely, eyes still looking out the window. Swallowing hard, you make yourself continue. “Why don’t you like me?”

Her head snaps towards you. “Excuse me?”

You try not to cringe. You knew it had been a stupid question and yet you asked anyway. Now you have to try and survive her sharp words. One of the few times she looks directly at you and you can’t even meet her eyes. It’s a major loss, especially with what’s about to happen, but you don’t think you’d be able to survive seeing the annoyance or hate in her eyes when she insults you.

You flinch in surprise when she grips your chin and forces your gaze to meet hers.

“Me liking you isn’t the problem,” she says. Her voice is low and you try to brace yourself. “The problem is that I like you too much.”

Her nails dig slightly into your skin and your eyes widen in surprise. You don’t even get a chance to think of a response before her lips are against yours. It’s not a feeling you’re familiar with but you lean into her warmth eagerly. Agatha makes an encouraging sound that has you melting. It’s not long until her hands go from supporting to pushing and you find yourself being slowly lowered to lay down on the couch. You follow happily until you realise where this is going. You put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. She pulls back with a raised eyebrows.

“Have a different position in mind?” she asks with the hint of a smirk.

“Yes- I mean no- I- ,” you force yourself to take breath. She’s overwhelming enough from across the room. Having her so intensely focused on you is disorientating. “I haven’t…done anything like that before.”

You swear her eyes darken.

“That’s alright,” she murmurs as she leans closer. Your eyes drop to her lips. “I’ve waited this long for you. I can wait a bit longer.” She moves her hands again but instead of pushing you to lay down she pulls you into her. “I’ll take of you,” she promises.

[csprint]

he wants a baby

jackson wang x f. reader

jackson doesn’t think there’s anything he’s ever wanted more. he’s thought about it early in your relationship, when he truly realized that you’re the one. the one he could start a family with. and when he was sure of it, he was never afraid to share with you how much he wanted this. a baby.

he talked about it a lot with you. it became your regular pillow talk. “you want it too though, right? like, you think about it sometimes?” jackson would ask while holding your back against his chest in bed. his voice always got awfully quiet and soft during those moments compared to his normal tone.

you’d indulge him, tiredly listening or answering him in the best way that wouldn’t make him think having a baby is completely off the table.

he gets so excited, thinking about those things so far ahead. he made sure to promise you that he would take such good care of her. promised he’ll be there to watch her every step. and he was sure to use ‘her’ because he had the deepest feeling that your first child would be a girl.

“of course i do, jackson. it sounds so nice but.. just not right now. it’s not the right time.”

and he’d nod in understanding. your lives were just insanely busy, bringing a child into the relationship while things weren’t slowing down as soon as you’d liked it to, would probably bring more chaos than joy.

“but one day, right? we’ll have a baby one day, won’t we?” he whispered quietly in the darkness of the room, burying his face in your hair.

you pulled apart his hands from where his fingers locked over your stomach and brought it up to your lips, leaving soft kisses on the back of it. “one day.”

but as the weeks turned into months, that one day was never brought up again. after things had finally calmed down a bit, he thought that maybe you’d be the first to bring it up because he didn’t want to seem too desperate, (although he was) but you never did.

jackson silently planned things out to himself. it was going to be nothing but staying home and wasting time together. he even planned the day he was going to propose to you. not exactly in that order.

he was even convinced he was being given signs, just from a simple and innocent encounter with a fan who happened to be a new mother. she wore a white dress and all jackson could think about was what you’d look like in a white dress, post-birth glow.

the fat, rosy cheeked baby sat in her stroller, squealed in utter joy, easily entertained at the childish game jackson had initiated. a smile almost wider than his face came playing onto his lips, entranced and in complete awe of the adorable infant and her baby giggles.

jackson doesn’t think there’s anything he’s ever wanted more.

the night dragged on as it usually did. attending important parties with you because something’s always being celebrated. and then leaving before someone could convince him to take a private plane to another party in a different city.

when you made it back to your hotel room, there was just no way he could keep his hands off of you. kissing all over your face and neck, gripping each part of your body he possibly could and dug his fingertips into your plushy skin.

there was just no way he could stop himself. not when you’re so warm around him, your gasps and whimpers echoing in his ear. not when he’s so balls deep inside of you, his fingers gripping tight on the sheets, making his knuckles turn white.

“tell me when to stop.” he choked out, the vein running down the side of his neck looking prominent.

“w-why?” you didn’t want him to stop and you didn’t know why he’d ask that of you.

“cause if you don’t,” he groaned, hips snapping forward into yours, “i’m afraid i might put a baby in you.” jackson closed his eyes, not sure he wanted to see your reaction, and leaned his forehead against your shoulder.

the soft gasp you let out didn’t go unnoticed or the way you clenched around him, making him draw a sharp breath. he tried to get himself to stop, brought his rutting to a minimum but didn’t completely still inside of you because that would have been pure torture.

“okay.”

jackson sweetly whimpered when you tangled your fingers in his hair and gently tugged at it, making his head tilt back up. he looked at you with widened eyes and a slightly parted mouth.

“okay?” he repeated, wanting to be sure that he heard you correctly.

“yeah.” you shrugged. “i want you to put a baby in me.”

he was so blissful, removing himself completely off of your body and burying his face in his hands. you allow him to revel in it. even if he was too loud, putting you both at risk of getting kicked out. even if he was jogging around the room, nakedly, with his fists in the air, as if he’s won a boxing match. you didn’t mind if he basked a little more.

“we’re going to make the fattest, most cutest baby girl, ever.” you felt jackson’s body again, his frame fit like a missing jigsaw piece.

“what makes you so sure it’s going to be a girl?”

“i’ve got a really good sense for these things. trust me. you’re having a girl.”

your heart suddenly got overly emotional. he was so beautiful and you were in complete awe over his certainty. it didn’t take long for your gawking to finish before his lips were feverishly against yours.

he was so desperate, yet so slow, savoring the moment. the feelings that he caused to belly within you were unexplainable.

jackson lowered his mouth to your breast then took the nipple between his lips, pressing lightly with his tongue. you cried out – like your whole body was too hot and you couldn't breathe – bringing up a hand to trace his fingers across your other breast, but if he stopped you felt like you would die. you gripped his bare shoulders, holding on for dear life against the onslaught of sensations.

you gasped as he pushed into you for the second time, amazed by the electricity that rocketed through you. your legs wrapped around his hips of their own accord, seeking a better angle, searching for more. even now, he moved with grace, sliding in and out of you slowly and steadily. only his rapid breath, occasionally coming out in a strangled moan.

it’s pure torture how slow he is sliding into you but feels exquisite. you gently roll against him, moaning as he slowly moves in and out of you. the pace is keeping the orgasm just out of reach, keeping you on edge; desperately clenching around him and pushing your hips into his to increase speed. but jackson’s hands remain firm on your hips, controlling the movements. both of your breathing is heavy, both moaning loudly as the need to find your release hits an all-time high.

going so slow was hard for him as well, though. he couldn’t hold it for long but he also didn’t want to rush it. and he never liked cumming before you did. what kind of man would that make him? had to treat you right.

jackson dropped down to his elbows, leaning on either side of your face as he panted heavily, the foot of your heels digging into the curve at bottom of his spine.

“please, just a little harder…I need more…I can't…take it…oh god, jackson– “

he interrupted you with a hard kiss, hips rutting a little faster now. the rush of pleasure hit you, and your fingers grasped for purchase on his back, needing an anchor. it was almost unbearable, the electricity building where the two of you were joined, tingling down to your toes and making you lightheaded. jackson panted hot air against your neck, your lips, kissing you again and again, and the energy was building and building.

you looked at his face, knowing his was trying to hold on a little longer. maybe the realization had seriously hit him for real, this time. that this was it and he’ll probably be an actual dad like he wanted.

“jackson,” you panted, cupping his face with your hands, fingers wiping the sweaty hairs that stuck to his forehead, “it’s time.” you whispered.

and he nodded and replied, “okay.” his voice weak and strained.

you noticed his movements had grown more erratic, almost frantic, and the low grunt deep in his throat seemed to shudder down your spine and rocket down to where your bodies were joined.

"oh god," you breathed as the sensation overload finally seized you. your chest was tight and your nerves sizzled and your thighs clenched as the pleasure exploded and seeped into every cell of your body. he groaned, his forehead dropping down to your shoulder when your walls fluttered around him.

you fell into the aftershocks when he thrust into you one last time and cried out your name. you felt the rush of fluid inside you and reveled in the feel of his body shuddering in your arms. he trapped you under his heavy weight but the kisses he softly peppered along your neck and collarbone made you forget that it was hard to breathe.

not even mere seconds after, he started moving again, pushing even deeper, a whimper escaping your lips.

“j-jackson?” you stuttered, thighs tensing around his hips.

“one more time,” he grunts as he suddenly began to pound into you heavily even after he had already came, “just to be sure.”

[14dyh]

Clueless | H.Z.

Pairing: Hange Zoë x reader Summary: Your research partner, Hange, is clueless about romance. Or so you thought. Content: just fluffy research partners trope A/N: i survived college hell week so here you go. HVD HANGE LOVERS!!

"I didn't know you could walk slower," you remarked as Hange strode beside you. 

Early training was exhausting, coupled with the paperwork you have to handle after. Just thinking about it drains your energy.

Your ever-energetic Section Commander only beamed at you and responded, "Well, I have to match your pace more often now."

"Why is that?"

"Since we became research partners?"

Your head racked in confusion, gaze snapping back to them.

"Research partners? Since when?"

"I knew you still haven't read Erwin's notice," they said matter-of-factly, pulling a folded sheet of paper from their uniform. "He thinks your works are impressive and said we should work together on a new trapping device."

"That... sounds exhausting..." 

"Right! Exciting, isn't it?" Hange smiled, too deep in their excitement that they misheard you. You can never keep up with that amount of enthusiasm, try as you might. 

After pulling an all-nighter last night to organize files, your commander now wants to transfer you to the thinking team. Great. 

"When are we going to start?" you asked Hange. 

-

It turns out that working closely with Hange would present unexpected issues. You have no problem with Hange or the work itself as being with them brightens your day more than you cared to admit. Sometimes you wonder why they're so good at making you smile and laugh even at the face of mathematical formulas and complex design structures but that's a question for another day. Your real musings lie on the question of why they're so clueless about people hitting on them. Surely, the box of chocolates left on their desk with hearts scribbled all over it or the cadets swooning over them when they passed by the corridor weren't just people being friendly as Hange always liked to think. 

This present issue became more clear when Valentine's Day arrived. To think that your lot makes time to celebrate this event is amusing. You were with Hange the whole time that day, brainstorming and sleepless that you almost forgot about the day of love happening just outside your doors. 

"What if we try it? You know, outside?" Hange offered, sipping on their fifth mug of coffee. "See if it works?"

"Hange, it's a long-range weapon. And there are people outside," you muttered sleepily, yawning as you walked towards the window to allow some sunlight in. You drew the curtains and looked down. "People celebrating apparently."

"For what?" Hange asked absentmindedly, busy scribbling down a few ideas that you probably have to illustrate later. 

"Dunno," you yawned again, drawing the blinds back. "I'm sleeping. You can't stop me."

"Go ahead," they said, thumb pointing at the bed. "I'll wake you up later."

-

When Hange woke you up about an hour later, you hid under their pillows and bargained for another five minutes of sleep. 

"No, silly, we're not going to work. I brought something," their voice came, lifting the pillows you're hiding on. 

Their brown eyes beamed at you, holding up something as your vision cleared. 

Chocolate? 

No, not just that. They've got an armful of it. 

"Where on earth did you get all of that?"

"Outside the door," they muttered, opening one to munch on it. They offered you one. "Surprising, huh?" 

"Well, it's Valentine's Day." You only remembered about a minute ago. 

"It is?" Their eyes widened momentarily. "I thought it's tomorrow."

You laughed softly, taking a chocolate from their hand. "We've been staring at plans all week, we didn't know."

"About time," they spoke, sitting on the spot next to you. Their eyes met yours and for a moment, you were tempted to look away as if gazing any longer will melt you in a puddle. It's not helping that they seemed to enjoy looking at you more than anything else recently. "Let's have dinner. There's a new dinner just outside the quarters."

"Did, uh, did we miss dinner downstairs?" 

"Yeah... I forgot about it." A sheepish grin crossed their face. "Doesn't matter, though. It's only 9 PM."

-

It turns out that diners were occupied that day, couples swarmed the place as the buttery scent of baked goods wafted in the air. After the long queue, you managed to take back four sandwiches which you ate in your shared room. 

Hange sat on the bed next to you, scribbling equations, crossing them out, and starting over again. It was adorable how their brows crease when they think.

"Hange?"

"Hm?"

"Shouldn't you sleep?"

They smiled, "Later."

"Happy Valentine's Day," you mumbled sleepily, curling up next to them.

"You too." Hange's gaze lingered on your sleeping form, thinking of the reservation for two they booked yesterday.

They stayed up late that night, writing down equations, and dimming the lamp to allow you some sleep. They were asleep until afternoon slumped over their papers which you diligently put away when you woke up that morning. You only understood half of what was written, guided by Hange's short annotations on the page. It warmed your insides, knowing that Hange wrote these equations for your designs. The invention you're both working on felt more feasible and easier to envision.

- 

"It's working well, Commander," you reported to Erwin later that day when he asked about the device's progress.

"It must have been, huh? Hange knows how to gather a great team," he smiled amicably. "They specifically requested for you."

Your cheeks heated up, smiling warmly even on your way out of Erwin's office.

Hange was waiting in the corridor, notebook discarded and eyes lighting up when they saw you. They half-run in your direction, energetic and beaming as always as though they had enough sleep.

"Ready to go?" They asked, walking beside you.

"Where?"

That same charming smile you always notice creased their cheeks.

"Maybe the diner has a seat for two this time."

[ladygelfling]

Gonna try my hand at some of these. Writing mostly, as opposed to drawing.

1. The first time Rook killed someone.

-----

Tessora took the offered spyglass from Isabela and looked towards the entrance to the cave the Lords had come to explore. People dressed in rags and linked by chain were trying to bust through a rock blocking the cave mouth with pickaxes. Several men were shouting at them and Tessora recognized their clothing. Tevinter.

She handed the spyglass back to Isabela, her face reddening with anger. "Are we going to free those slaves?" Less than two years prior Tess herself had been a slave. Her new pair of swords had not been tested in actual combat yet. She had just had them made with the money she'd earned from their last excursion.

"Yes, but don't get bloodthirsty. There are a lot of mages over there. Don't get caught with your pants down. Be careful." Isabela warned.

Tessora grinned and nodded towards some of the other Lords of Fortune who were wearing the more traditional armor. "Some of us aren't even wearing pants."

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Shut up and try not to die, Tess. I'd hate to see all my training go to waste."

Their group had hoped they would have the advantage of sneaking up to the cave and surprising the Vints, but one of them failed to notice a ward and any chance of that leapt off the gangplank. Tess started to understand what Isabela meant about fighting mages. Spells were flying around her like arrows and she was leaping around scrambling for cover.

At the start of pandemonium, the slaves had been pushed together next to the entrance. Three men stood in her way. The larger one in the middle was obviously the leader. He had that same smug look of superiority that her master once had. That was where the resemblance stopped but Tess blinked once and suddenly it was her master standing there.

"You think you can stop us, knife-ear?"

Tessora heard nothing after that aside from a whooshing sound around her ears that may have been her blood boiling in anger. She sprang towards them, blades first.

Isabela had suddenly appeared and shouted a useless ,"Tess, wait!" before adding her own twin blades to the dance occupying the other two men.

Tessora only managed to be singed twice before attempting to strike him with her main hand, but he blocked it with his own dagger. In her impatience, she didn't realize that he wielded both magic and a knife. No matter, she thought. Two blades are better than one, right?

Where he had strength, she had speed and agility, and she could tell that he was tiring. One of his spells meant for her missed and hit one of the slaves instead, who cried out in pain. End him. Tess growled and advanced one last time, looking for the gaps in his armor. She found one and lunged, the blade cutting past cloth and skin into his stomach with a squelch.

His eyes widened and she took advantage of his shock to strike upwards through his chin with her other sword, it's blade coming out the top of his head. Panting, she yanked hard with both hands, freeing the swords and watched as his body collapsed at her feet.

There was complete silence for several breaths until one of the slaves started to chuckle. It slowly turned into a full on belly laugh. "The bastard is dead!" they shouted.

Tessora was still staring at the bloody mess at her feet. It suddenly hit her that she had never killed someone before. One of her fellow slaves that had joined the Lords at the same time as she, had thrown up immediately after their first kill. Tess felt fine. Satisfied, even. She would talk to Rowan about it perhaps.

Isabela came to stand next to her, after instructing the others to break the chains connecting the slaves and seeing to any injuries. "Kitten, that was fucking amazing." she heard her say. "But don't scare me by rushing into a fight like that where you're outnumbered."

Tess smirked and wiped the blood off her swords before sheathing them. "I make no promises."

"You're as bad as Hawke."

Rook Story Time Prompts

Tell a story or draw something based on the prompt you are sent/choose. You can try writing in character, as Rook, if you want! Have fun!

1. The first time Rook killed someone.

2. How Rook got their most prominent scar.

3. A time Rook got incredibly drunk.

4. A time Rook made a personal enemy.

5. Rook being seriously ill.

6. A time Rook was severely injured.

7. Rook being taught an important skill.

8. A time Rook argued with someone they care about.

9. Rook saying goodbye to a friend.

10. Rook attending a funeral.

11. Rook being recognized for an accomplishment.

12. Rook making a new friend.

13. Rook visiting a place they love.

14. Rook attending a celebration.

15. Rook breaking the law.

16. Rook falling in love for the first time.

17. Rook teaching someone else a skill.

18. Rook trying to impress someone.

19. A time Rook did something embarrassing.

20. A time Rook faced an overwhelming enemy.

FACTION SPECIFIC PROMPTS

21. GW!Rook undergoing the Joining.

22. GW!Rook encountering their first Darkspawn.

23. GW!Rook having a nightmare of the Archdemons.

+ New prompts just for Rook Thorne!

24. VJ!Rook disarming their first artifact.

25. VJ!Rook being attacked by the sentinels of Arlathan.

26. VJ!Rook exploring new Elvhen ruins.

+ New prompts just for Rook Aldwir!

27. MW!Rook tending to the gardens.

28. MW!Rook being inducted into the Watch.

29. MW!Rook exploring a new part of the Necropolis.

+ New prompts just for Rook Ingellvar!

30. LoF!Rook escorting an adventuring party.

31. LoF!Rook disarming a trap or solving a puzzle.

32. LoF!Rook fighting an aquatic enemy.

+ New prompts just for Rook Laidir!

33. Crow!Rook’s most dangerous contract.

34. Crow!Rook on an undercover mission.

35. Crow!Rook’s graduation from Fledgling to Assassin.

+ New prompts just for Rook de Riva!

36. SD!Rook smuggling people out of Minrathous.

37. SD!Rook participating in a large-scale act of civil disruption against the Magisterium.

38. SD!Rook breaking in somewhere to acquire vital information.

+ New prompts just for Rook Mercar!

& an expansion focusing on AUs!

[loves-alibi]

skyglow - prologue

pairing: ex-partner!simon riley x detective!reader summary: The 141 responds to a hostage call from an android. wordcount: 4.0k warnings: death, murder, murder of a child (the murder is not described), blood, vomit, injury, f!reader

series masterlist

November 04, 2177

Metropolitan Police are the first to the scene. Holotape has been set up around the townhouse, its projections flickering in the heavy rain.

"Are they already inside?" You ask.

Simon grunts, "No. The 'droid's waiting."

Simon lazily points to the front garden where— lo and behold —the family android is waiting, rain pouring down its still frame. The android is the one that called the police. It had reported a hostage situation. That was about fifteen minutes ago. You and Simon were finishing up a nearby call when the report came in. Now you'd just have to wait for the rest of the 141 to show up.

There's a knock on the passenger side window. Your head snaps over to see a cop, a few years older than you, chewing at his lip impatiently. He nearly jumps out of his skin when the tinted window rolls down to reveal Simon, inches from the poor guy's face. Who could blame him? Simon's not exactly the friendliest looking fellow. After working with him for three years and being his friend for just as long, it's still hard not to let your nerves get the best of you at the sight of his famous scowl.

"What?" Simon barks.

"'Droid's not lettin' us in," the cop says, voice raised to be heard over the constant pitter patter, "Says it 'as to consult with you first."

Simon nods and rolls the window back up. "Do we wait?"

You shake your head, "Let's talk to the android, get a head start."

Simon follows your lead. The crowd of cops part as they see you approaching, you'd like to think it's because they respect your position, but the way their eyes flicker above your head says otherwise. Through the thinning crowd you see the holotape, and before it an indignant-looking rookie. She stops you from crossing it with a hand on your chest. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Simon tense, his hands flexing by his sides.

"Only authorized personnel past this point, ma'am," she says, a self-congratulatory grin on her face.

"Oi," Simon draws her attention. In his hand is his badge. "We are the authorized personnel."

The kid looks like she doesn't know whether to shit herself or geek out. Unfortunately, she decides on the latter. Follows you and Simon through the holotape, she says,"The 141, right? It is an honor to meet you. I-I'd love to do what you all do one day. Do you have any advice?"

Simon sends you a cheeky grin. Are you gonna do it or should I?

She continues, "I mean, unless there are openings now. If so, I'd love to put my name—"

"Listen," you interrupt, "Now isn't the time."

She stares at you for a moment, waiting for you to keep talking. The kid is determined, you'll give her that. It takes a good thirty seconds for her to realize that you're dismissing her, and she retreats, tail tucked firmly between her legs.

"Were you like that when you were a rookie?" Simon muses.

"God, I hope not."

The android greets you and Simon with a polite nod. As it turns to you, you pause. Half of its jaw hangs off of its hinges. Shot off, if you had to guess by the subtle melting of the plastic around the damage. Whoever is inside is armed, though not well. Any well-respected gun is a dual-chamber, one holding specialized ammunition for androids, and the other holding normal rounds. While the android-specific ammunition can kill humans, the far-cheaper ammunition for humans can only partially damage androids. The android must have been shot with normal rounds if it was damaged so little.

It's a household unit, that much you can tell by its plain uniform. It's one of the more popular models, male in appearance with a young, pleasant face and bright blue eyes to compliment its dark, perfectly combed hair. At least, its hair is normally perfect. Its synthetic style is currently reduced to a wet mop, not that the android minds.

"Good evening, officers," the android greets. "I presume you're the specialists I am meant to speak with."

"We are," you nod to the open door of the house, just a few feet away. "What's going on?"

"At approximately 1900, Mr. Sterling locked himself, his wife, and son in the furnace room, located in the basement of the house. He has stated his intent to harm."

"He's the one that shot you?"

The android nods, "He has a pistol, I could provide the make, model, and year manufactured if—"

"No need," you turn to Simon, "Go tell them he's got a kid in there." Simon nods and heads back to where the officers have crowded around the holotape. "Has he listed conditions?"

"I am unaware of any."

"Any reason why he'd do this? Drugs?"

"Mr. Sterling does not partake in prohibited substances."

"Nothing?"

"As I said—"

"No coke, alcohol, blink?"

Androids don't take offense. They can't. It's not within their programming to feel anything that isn't the cold indifference of their code. However, as the android before you cocks its head, you think you've finally cracked the code on how to piss one off. "As I said, Mr. Sterling doesn't partake in prohibited substances."

A heavy hand lands on your shoulder. You don't flinch. "Price and the others are delayed. Heavy traffic."

"Can't they fly?"

The android responds before Simon can. "London traffic regulations prohibits motor air travel if rain conditions surpass 3.8 millimeters per hour, and—" The android pauses, its head tilting as it calculates, "We are currently experiencing rain of 4.7 millimeters per hour."

"Thanks, genius." You sigh. "We have all we need from you. You're dismissed. Sergeant Garrick is going to download your data once he gets here."

The android nods. It knows what you actually mean– that it'll be checked for cracks. That's Kyle Garrick's specialty— programming. Every case, he checks the involved androids' coding for possible cracks. Ideally, he would be here checking the android before you and Simon head in. Though, as the android walks away, its face blanking as it enters idling mode, you fear that's not possible.

You turn back to Simon. He's a mess, hair matted to his face and water clumping his eyelashes together. You can't imagine you look much better. Over his shoulder, you see the expectant eyes of overeager officers.

"We can't wait for them." You pull your watch to your mouth and utter into it, "Price."

After a moment, the watch crackles and from it emits a deep voice, "Go for Price."

"It's a hostage situation. Sterling's armed and with his wife and son. No clear motive. Possibly a mental crisis. Permission to proceed?"

There's silence on the other line. Then: "With caution, lieutenant."

"Copy that." With a hand on the watch, you end the call.

The townhouse looks like any other. While it's unfamiliar to the average London resident living in the residential high-rises, work has granted you the privilege to glimpse into the past. Few residential districts of London were able to be preserved over the last century. While London's climate-adaptation efforts were hailed by the rest of the world, the city is a shadow of the images painted of it in history books. Only the buildings deemed most culturally significant were saved from rising sea levels, with the rest being built over and forgotten by the masses. Mr. and Mrs. Sterling must pull in some major cash to afford a home in a coveted intact neighborhood.

Inside is even more impressive. The Sterlings' home has a warmth to it you long to find in your own flat. Christ, you take a deep breath through your nose. The air even smells like freshly baked bread. You could get used to a place like this. Unfortunately, there's a job to do.

Sweeping the floor turns out to be useless. All that's found are signs of a loving home, albeit a neat home. The android already said that the Sterlings were in the basement. Still, something tells you to sweep this place closely.

"There's nothing," Simon says, as though he's reading your thoughts. He places a picture of the family back on the bookshelf across the far wall.

"I know," you say. "Doesn't feel right, though. I mean… Sterling just snaps?"

Simon shrugs, head tilting towards the basement door, closed and begging to be explored. "We could ask him ourselves."

You take one last, long look at the living space. It disturbs you, thinking about how quickly Sterling was throwing his life away. What had happened? You reach for the doorknob, eyes still scanning the room, when fingers dig into the flesh of your wrist.

Simon juts his chin to the doorknob, mere millimeters from your fingertips. "Look," he utters.

On the doorknob is a smudge of pink, recognizable in an instant to any Londoner. "Blink," you sigh. "The 'droid said Sterling was clean."

Simon lets go with a shrug. He runs his fingers through the powder. It's stark against his alabaster skin. "New development, maybe. Did it mention any possible stressors? Lay-offs? Affairs?"

You shake you head. "Doesn't matter. Now we have an unstable perp."

Blink perps are always the most difficult to work with, often disoriented and confused. While blink provides users a feeling of euphoria, it comes at the cost of temporary short-term memory loss. In high energy clubs, it's a godsend. Partiers love the euphoria and the temporary ability to not have to worry about life. Out of the club though, it's a headache for you. Blink perps are more stressed, which leads to instability, which leads to violence. If Sterling was using blink for the first time, there's not telling what he'll do.

Not much is visible in the basement, but you peek a strip of light poking out from under what looks like a door. You glance at Simon over your shoulder. He nods and follows you down the stairs, steps as light as possible. From behind, you hear the sound of fabric rustling, then the click of metal. You pull out your own gun.

Pressing your ear to the door, you hear nothing. You reach for the doorknob, but before your fingers brush the cool metal, a harsh voice calls from the other side: "Don't bother! It's locked."

Simon is staring at you, head cocked to the side. You lift a finger up from your gun. I got this.

"Mr. Sterling, is everything alright? Your android is worried. It sent me to check up on you."

In the moment it takes for him to answer, a sniffle fills the air. A sense of relief washes over you. It seems he hasn't harmed his family just yet. Who knows for how long though.

"Can you unlock the door?"

More silence, then: "Why?"

"I want to help you," you smile, hoping that it makes you at least sound cheery. The truth is, your heart is beating faster than you'd like to admit. "I can't do that with the door closed."

Sterling goes quiet. You count the seconds. One… two… three… ten… twenty. Simon sighs, "We can't wait."

Your head snaps to Simon as you plaster a hand to his face. Simon looks confused for a moment, before his eyes also widen. As he stiffens, your hand remains pressed against his mouth, stubble ticking the sensitive skin of your palm. All you can do is pray that Sterling didn't hear Simon, or that if he did, he's too high to realize that he's outnumbered.

"You're not alone." Harsh. Accusatory. Aggressive. Well, shit. Your heart pounds in your chest. "You didn't say you weren't alone."

The door against your cheek thuds. Simon pulls your hand away. You jump back and cringe as behind the door, the sound of feet pacing across the floor becomes evident.

"Mr. Sterling," you keep your tone light, "I need you to stay calm."

"Calm? I'm calm! I'm very, very calm." The pacing picks up.

Simon leans into you. His breath fans across the skin of your neck, "What are we doing here?" He speaks softly, like he hadn't already compromised the safety of those hostages.

"Mr. Sterling, could— could I come in?" More silence. You place your gun in Simon's hand. He's looking at you like you've grown a second head. "I'm unarmed. My partner's gonna stay out here. I just want to talk."

Blood rushes in your ears, making it near-impossible to hear through the door. Nothing. Though, you suppose that's better than the pacing. It means Sterling's thinking, which means he's not hurting anyone.

You count again. One… two… three… four…

"O-okay." Bingo. "But just you! And no gun!"

"Just me. And no gun," you repeat. "I'm right outside the door. Could you let me in?"

"Where's the other guy?"

You glance at Simon, just a few feet back and scowling like a petulant child. Unfortunately for him, you're just as stubborn and you outrank him. He has no choice but to retreat to the stairs at the far end of the room, but not before taking your gun off of your hands. You nod at Simon once more in reassurance. His finger twitches on the grip of your pistol, though he makes no move to stop you.

"He's at the other end of the room, Mr. Sterling."

Silence. Only the sounds of your breathing and the shuffle of Simon's clothes as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then—

They're tucked into the corner of the room— mother and son huddled as close as humanly possible. Their sniffles are clearer now that the door's open, now that you're inside.

Sterling is the perfect image of a loving husband and father. Well-dressed, unassuming, and spectacled. You wouldn't look twice if you saw him on the street. Except, behind his glasses are eyes as wild as a caged animal.

"Hi, there," you smile at him despite the gun pointed square at your chest. Even with your bulletproof vest, a shot this close would not be pretty.

"You're a cop," Sterling accuses, his tone sharp, more angry than afraid.

"I work with androids," a truth by omission. "Yours called us to make sure that you were okay."

Multiple sets of footsteps thud through the door. The rest of the 141, you assume, confirmed by the familiar sets of voices that follow.

"What the hell is that?"

Sterling jabs his gun in your direction. From the corner of the room, his wife whimpers, "Oh God."

A mistake. The gun goes from you to her. Your eyes follow the direction of his aim, and fuck. Mrs. Sterling is draping herself over her son, her body trembling as she stares down the barrel of her husband's gun. The sight makes you queasy, but you suppress the feeling. There's no time for that.

"Honey," she pleads, "Put the—"

"Can you shut the fuck up?" Sterling takes a step in their direction. You follow frantically, and the gun bounces to you for a moment, but goes right back to Mrs. Sterling. "I need to—"

There's a commotion outside, louder voices. Price and Simon arguing. Their voices grow in volume until they're right against the door. Someone pounds on the door. Sterling glares at you.

"I thought your friend was gonna stay back," Sterling spits. "You lied."

You shake your head instinctively, "No, I never lied to—"

He lunges at you. Something hard slams against your temple, and the world goes black.

*****

Time is a fickle thing. Even more fickle when you've had consciousness ripped away from you. It feels like you've been laying on the ground for eons. Consciousness comes back to you in parts. First comes the recognition that you're alive— awake. Then the remembrance that you were knocked out. Finally your senses.

The shock of the cold floor is the first thing you notice. Then the painthat comes from being pistol whipped. Then the silence— that's what prompts your movement. It's tough. Your limbs don't want to listen to you, and when you try to push yourself up, your hands slip on something slick.

A deep voice curses, then softly calls your name. You pay no mind to it though, as you slowly manage to push yourself up to sitting. It takes a great deal of effort, and your head pounds the whole way up, but you manage. And—

"Oh shit." You mutter. The words tumble clumsily over your lazy tongue. Your sluggishness is as syrupy as the pool of blood that you sit in, coating your hands, your arms, torso, and— fuck —even the side of your face.

Someone calls your voice again. John Price, you dully realize as he appears in the corner of your vision.

"Whose…" you start, "Whose— oh."

It's funny how the body can process things before the mind. It's a primal instinct from the days where the two-legged beings we call humans were more beast than civil. They're helpful, necessary even. A child's cry. Fear of snakes. Fight-or-flight. Act first, then think. What that means for you, in this damp and cold basement, is that vomit, angrily acidic, bubbles up and out onto the floor before you can even process that there are not one, not two, but three motionless bodies before you, oozing blood into the very puddle which you are resting in.

Mr. Sterling— or what's left of him —is closest to you. His eyes are still open, glassy in the way that fresh corpses are, when you could easily mistake them for alive. There's no mistaking Sterling though, not with the bullet hole smack dab in the middle of his forehead.

You quickly fix your eyes back on the floor. A mistake. It's not just blood anymore, but a sickening combination of blood and half-digested mush.

"I—uhm… gonna…" You gag. For an awful moment, it seems as though you're going to vomit again. "…outside." You gasp finally.

John says your name again, softer. He places his hands on your back, keeping you planted on the ground. The ground covered in blood. The blood of Mr. Sterling, and his wife and son who he—

John tilts your head with a soft hand on your chin. You're looking at him now. His face is soft, so soft. You never thought he could look so demure. It does little to ease the ache in your chest. "Come help," he says to someone you can't see. John stands you up and moves you to another set of hands.

Simon. You recognize him by touch alone, soft, but undercut by the natural brutishness that a man like him could never escape.

He leads you up the stairs and back into the main floor of the house where a baker's dozen cops are searching. They freeze at the sound of the door creaking open. They do little to conceal their shock. While you can't see yourself, you don't exactly blame them. The right half of your face itches where the Sterlings' blood has tried into a tacky sludge. The rest of your body isn't fairing much better, blood and bile cover more of you than not.

You stop at the top of the stairs, eyes moving lazily from one officer to the next. As your eyes leave each one, it's like a spell breaks, and they go right back to whatever work they were doing, or they at least pretendto. You envy their nonchalance as much as you hate it.

The rookie's there too, the last one whose eyes you lock, but unlike the others you hold her gaze. Her mouth hangs wide open, and the evidence bag in her hand is entirely forgotten as she stares at you like some sort of sideshow attraction.

"So," you say. Her eyes widen. "You still want my advice?"

Simon pulls you away before she could stutter out an answer. "Come on," he coos, "Let's get some air, yeah?"

The air in question is cold, wet, and altogether not very pleasing. Simon sits you on the front steps of the house, on the side so officers can mill in and out as they please. He lowers himself down next to you, gently putting an arm around your shoulders. The half-hug is nice. Simon traces gentle circles on your shoulder. The feel of his fingertips is muddled by the many layers you don to keep warm, though it still soothes. You could easily lose yourself, but the stench of blood keeps you grounded. Keeps your heart aching and the tears flowing.

A gentle ding, pulls you to focus. Instead, Simon shuffles next to you. "Commissioner," he grumbles, holding his watch to his mouth.

"Price says you can answer—"

"One moment, sir," Simon covers the watch and gives you an apologetic look. "I'll be inside. Get me if… you know."

Without Simon, there's nothing to ward away your thoughts— your memories of what just occurred. That damp basement. The family in the corner. Of waking up in a pool of blood— their blood, still coating your entire body, soaking your clothes and skin and bones.

You vomit again, on the well-trimmed but muddy lawn of the Sterlings.

Between heaves, the sound of squelching footsteps approaches. "Lieutenant," a monotonous voice says. Great. The last think you want to deal with is the 'droid. "Do you need assistance?"

"No," you spit.

"Are you certain? I can provide medications to relieve any nausea. Or perhaps a sedative for emotional distress."

Distress. You tilt your head up to look at the android. It's squatting in front of you, perfectly stable on the uneven ground. The android's face is just as calm and cool as it had been earlier. It must know what happened, everyone knows. But it's an android. It doesn't— can't be affected by grief in the same way. It simply compartmentalizes it. The android's brain— processor —just takes whatever horrors it sees and converts it to ones and zeroes, letting it sit and rot in its memory unit until the android inevitably ends up in the landfill or nicked by some Old London junker.

You can't say you don't envy it. What would it be like to not have to feel? To care?

"Go away," you say. The android doesn't move. "I said go away!"

You throw a punch at the android. A proper right hook to its impervious face. It feels nice, a rewarding thing to do because it forces the damn thing to acknowledge that something is wrong.

Then it feels bad, quite bad. Painful, actually, as your fist slams against the hard plastic casing of the android and the layers of metal mechanisms underneath. During their career, the 141 has often mocked the many poor suckers who believed themselves strong enough to go toe-to-toe with an android. They don't understand how the machines work, how they're built.

Something fractures in your hand. Something important, no doubt, but that's a problem for later, because what you need right now is to curl up on the Sterling's wet lawn and scream. The latter you actually do, releasing a cry so carnal it makes your head spin.

The android doesn't ask if you need any more assistance. It observes you silently for a moment, unable to understand your pain, oblivious to the curse it is to feel. Finally, as though it stored all the data it needs from your outburst, the android nods cordially. "If you need assistance, lieutenant, do not hesitate to ask."

Its white shoes sink into the muddy lawn with each step, but the android moves as though its just any normal London street. Each step stains the canvas material more and more. Watching, you wonder just how long it'll take for the stains to come out.

[finelinevogue]

but what is she surprises aaron with flowers and a bath. where she’s looking after him but he’s like you need to be in here with me to be perfect. because this man never lets himself be taken care of 😭

aaaahhhh omg no i will cry this is so cute for v day 🥹🥹🥹🥹 okay let’s do it!

pairing - aaron hotchner x wife!reader

word count - ~1.5k

In your opinion; being married to someone does not mean you stop dating that person.

Your person happened to be the workaholic, grump, that is Aaron Hotchner. Not only is he the Unit Chief of the BAU in the FBI, but he is also more importantly your husband and father to three.

“That’s so pretty, Cassie-baby.” You cooed at your daughter who was drawing her dad a valentine’s day card.

Aaron does so much for his team at work and even more at home for you, so you decided to treat him extra special on this extra special day.

Cassie, your 2 year old, Dylan, your 5 year old and Jack your 10 year old were all sitting at the kitchen table perfecting their valentines day cards for their dad.

You had given yours to Aaron already.

“Mm.”

Aaron sighed as he felt your kisses trail over his exposed back. His face was shoved into his pillow, head turned away from you, as he was softly woken from his sleep.

“Morning.” You kissed him again, leaning further over his body so you could kiss his neck closer to his face.

“I love you, but why are you awake?” His voice was so low and muffled that it did something to your core.

“It’s valentines day.”

Aaron smiled in response. He of course knew what day it was, he just hadn’t expected you to wake up at 5AM just so you could tell him that.

He did appreciate the gesture though.

“I’ve got something for you.” You whispered into his ear, before giving his lobe a soft kiss and small bite. Aaron happily sighed at the feeling.

You handed him his card and told him that you were going to take an indulgent shower.

You watched Aaron flick on the bedside light about to open and read the card you had gifted him. He took pride in caring for things like this. That’s when he saw the clock on the bedside table.

4:45AM.

“Honey, not that I don’t love the fuss but you’ve woken me up 15 minutes early.” Aaron whined, because he did love his sleep regardless of how much he looked like he didn’t.

“Did I?” You asked, slipping off your pyjama top so you were bare, “Or did I just give us an extra 15 minutes to take a shower together?”

You left him to think on that question.

But you knew you made the right choice when less than thirty seconds later Aaron came up behind you in the shower.

Before you could go down that route in your mind, you returned to helping your kids out.

“Jack, that’s amazing bud.” You gasped. He’d drawn a picture of the whole family and labelled everyone too for good measure. “Uhh, who’s this?” You pointed.

“That’s our dog.” He explained.

“We don’t have a dog.” You said, confused.

“We will. I’m working on it.” He nodded and you had to laugh at the boy’s ambition. You no doubt probably would end up with a dog, because Aaron could not say ‘no’ to his kids.

Dylan was writing his name super neatly - for a 5 year old - at the bottom of his card.

“Wow, Dyl-man. You’re so clever.” You kissed his head.

“I know.” He smiled up at you.

“Daddy will be home in an hour, okay? So let’s finish these and then get our pyjamas on before dinner.”

<.><.><.>

When Aaron came home the first thing he noticed was how quiet it was.

Normally there was at least one child screaming, or dinner was coking, or even the TV was on for the kids to watch. This evening there was nothing.

“Honey?” Aaron called out.

He took off his blazer and hung it on the staircase, dropping his briefcase next to it.

He stood there for another moment, looking around the house and undoing his tie so he could place it next to his blazer.

“Y/N?” He called out again - more concerned this time.

He walked into the kitchen and noticed that the oven was on with his dinner being warmed inside.

The thing that caught his eyes though was the trio of cards sat on the table that were all addressed to him. He picked them up one-by-one and admired the drawings and writings inside.

He had really poor artists for children but at the same time Aaron believed they were all MOMA worthy.

Aaron fetched a glass of water after reading the cards, keeping them propped up so everyone could see. Now he wanted to see his family to give them all the kisses they deserved.

He went upstairs to the kids playroom.

It was there that he found everyone.

You were wall inside the massive fort that Aaron had helped Jack make last weekend. It was a wonder it was still standing actually.

The fort was huge and nearly spanning the whole room. It was a combination of random bedsheets and blankets, along with strings of tiny, hanging, fairy lights and fluffy pillows to cover the floor.

Aaron leaned against the door as he watched you read a book to your children. They were all in their pyjamas, tucked under blankets and wearing sleepy faces. Cassie was already asleep against your chest, but Dylan and Jack were trying their best to pay attention to you and the story.

“Room for one more?” Aaron asked as he knelt down in front of the fort entrance.

“Daddy!” Dylan cheered, perking up at the sight of his dad. Jack was the same, but Cassie was too asleep to notice.

“Hey, my buddies.” Aaron laughed as his sons hugged him tight. He hugged them back tighter.

“We missed you.” Jack said.

“I miss you too.” He kissed Jack’s head and then thought it was only fair he did the same to Dylan’s. He would kiss Cassie’s when he put her to bed later.

Aaron looked over his sons to where you were laid looking at them all - a loving smile on your face.

Aaron mouthed ‘I love you’ to you and you mouthed it back, before Aaron clambered into the fort and settled down for the rest of the bedtime story.

<.><.><.>

You sat with Aaron as he had his dinner.

“Was Spencer any better today?” You asked, drying the dishes that you had cleaned before.

“He was okay. He was okay enough to talk about the origins of beans for half an hour, at least:” Aaron chuckled as he drank from his water.

“Origins of beans?” You questioned.

“Don’t ask.” Aaron rolled his eyes, before tucking back into his dinner.

You were both happy to be silent in each other’s company as Aaron ate and you dried and put away dishes. The kids had been put to bed an hour or so ago, so it was just you two for the night now.

“Dinner okay?” You asked.

You came up beside Aaron and brushed a hand through his hair. His arm wrapped around your waist as he kept you close against him as he ate.

“Mhm. Lovely, thank you.”

You smiled as you accepted his politeness.

You bent over to kiss his head - something you as a family did a lot. Even Jack had started doing it to his siblings after seeing you and Aaron do it all the time.

“You need a shower.” You said, pulling back from his head.

Aaron pinched your side gently, “Love you too.” He said sarcastically.

“Oi!” You laughed.

“Supposed to be nice to each other today.”

“What? Just because it’s valentines day?”

“Yes.” Aaron finished his meal and twisted in his chair so you stood between his legs. His other arm came around your waist so you were trapped against him.

You steadily brushed his hair into formation after having ruined it a little when you’d messed with it before.

“I love you every day, not just because it’s valentines day.” You explained. “Do you?”

“Did you just ask me whether I love you every day?” Aaron scoffed.

“Well?”

“Sweetheart, there hasn’t been a day since I met you that I haven’t loved you. I just love you a little extra today.”

“Oh you do, do you?” You teased.

“Mhm.”

“Well if you love me that much…” You said seductively, leaning down as Aaron’s head tilted back in anticipation of kissing you. Just as you were about to kiss him you whispered, “… Then you can clean your own dishes.”

You leant back up and left Aaron hanging.

He raised an eyebrow in challenge over your actions and you knew that you’d pay for your teasing later. For now he could clean his dishes - alone.

You needed him alone in order to prepare the next part of his valentines day.

<.><.><.>

Aaron trudged up the stairs after turning off the lights downstairs and setting the alarm.

He unbuttoned his shirt a little as he reached the top, stopping at three when he focused on checking on his kids instead.

Each of them were sleeping when he checked.

They were all safe and that’s all that Aaron needed reassuring of.

He walked into your bedroom next and noticed you weren’t in bed reading like he had expected you to be.

He shut the bedroom door and called your name.

“In here.” You responded from the bathroom.

Aaron’s shirt was now all the way unbuttoned but he kept it on as he entered the bathroom.

He knocked as he entered to give you time to tell him to get out if needed.

“Yeah?”

Aaron watched as you checked the temperature of the bath water, which was filled with bubbles, before shaking off the water and rolling your sleeve back down.

The bathroom smelt like those calming bath salts Penelope had bought for both of you.

“What’s all this?” Aaron asked, gesturing to the bath and the warm glowing candles on the counter.

“Happy valentines day.” You smiled.

“Honey.” Aaron pouted as he looked from the room to you, standing there with a smile that would bring even the grumpiest of men to their knees. “This is for me?”

“Yeah. Enjoy.” You leant up to kiss his cheek as you tried to walk past him, but he caught your arm before you could.

“Woah, woah. Where are you going?”

“Uh.. To let you enjoy this.” You furrowed your brows.

“How?” He asked seriously.

“What?”

“How am I supposed to enjoy this, without you?”

His question made your brows soften and you couldn’t help but fall in love with him a little bit more.

“You do so much for us Aaron. Thought you might want a moment of peace.”

“Well you thought wrong, because all I want right now is you.” He leant down to kiss you, “And that bath.”

You laughed into the kiss he was giving you, “Okay then. You, me and the bath it is.”

[organic-bloodbath]

Heyyy I was wondering if I could request a little smt smt from you

I’ve just found out that National Shower with a Friend Day is today (I think its an American idk) and I was wondering if we could pretend its an international day and write a story about Kang Dae-Ho discovering it and asking his friend (reader) to shower with him 👀👀👀

Friends to lovers vibes yk

No pressure if you dont want to do this lol

Shower confessions

Dae-ho x Reader

Summary: A moment in the shower together takes a turn in your friendship.

A/N: I'm European so i had never heard of that before lmao. But i had fun writing it and i hope you have fun reading it ♡

☆☆☆

You and Dae-ho had been friends for the past 5 years. You knew everything about him and he about you – he was your best friend in your entire life. You were closer to him than with any other friend of yours, some people already thought that the two of you were dating but your friendship had always been completely platonic. Dae-ho had never implied or made it seem that there was anything romantic going on between you – or maybe you were just totally oblivious.

At the moment, Dae-ho was hanging out at your apartment, like he did almost every day. You lived only across the street from each other, so it took only couple of minutes to walk to your place. Often he'd rather come visit you or you him instead of texting or talking on the phone when you could easily come inside.

For Dae-ho, your friendship had been just platonic as well, nothing romantic, even though you would hug a lot and cuddle during movies at home. He saw you as his best friend, though during your entire friendship, he hadn't been in a relationship with any other girl. Neither had you with any other guy.

For your other friends? Everyone knew that the two of you were just in denial of your real feelings towards each other.

You were in the kitchen, cutting cucumber into pieces on a chopping board for a salad you were preparing to eat with your lunch soon.

"Y/N?" Dae-ho said by the door, making you lay the knife down on the counter and turn around.

"Hm?"

Dae-ho was unsure if he should suggest it or not, not knowing what you would think about it. He knew you were really close, but where would you draw the line?

"You heard what day it is today?" Dae-ho asked.

"Um, Friday?"

"It's the Shower with a Friend Day," he informed you. "It's pretty self-explanatory."

"Oh, really? That's a thing?" You raised your eyebrows. "Huh, I wasn't aware of that."

"Any plans tonight?"

"Well, i did plan to have a movie marathon in the evening. Where you are more than welcome as well, obviously," you told him and then smirked, putting your hand on your hip. "What, you want to shower together?"

"Well, it is an official day for that," he shrugged, trying to act all nonchalant and like he didn't really care. He wanted to make it seem like it was your idea.

"Hmm," you hummed, amused. "Well, i'm going for a run so i do need to shower tonight," you thought outloud. "And you're joining the movie marathon with me, hm? It'd be upsetting to eat all the food alone."

☆☆☆

You and Dae-ho had seen each other without clothes before. Many times when you were wearing only your bra and underwear and once or twice without any piece of clothing. You weren't worried about Dae-ho seeing your body, you weren't self-conscious and he had already seen you, though it was a couple of years ago. It wasn't a big deal - right?

After your run, you stopped by a store before going back home. You had to buy more shampoo, you had squeezed the last bit of the previous bottle. While standing by the shelves full of different brands and scents of shampoo and conditioner, for a few seconds your mind somehow wandered to one question.

What scent would Dae-ho like?

You didn't know why the question popped in your mind. Surely he didn't care what kind of shampoo you used. Your shower wasn't very large, but two people were able to use it, though there wouldn't be much space left. He would be close enough to be able to smell your hair when you were washing it. You knew he disliked coconut, atleast, but so did you.

Ugh, he wouldn't care, so it was whatever. You still chose one you hadn't used before, just to try it out.

☆☆☆

When you stepped into the shower behind the plastic curtain, joining Dae-ho already standing there, Dae-ho's gaze wandered on your bare body, but he quickly looked away when you stood in front of him and looked towards him.

You were beautiful, all of you, there was no denying in that. Seeing you without clothes on did fluster him a little but this wasn't the first time. He could see the small tattoo of a frog on your left hip, which was covered by your jeans or sweater most of the time, unless you were wearing a crop top during summer.

You turned the water on, letting it hit your head and back, leaving Dae-ho almost dry.

"Oh, right. I suppose we'll have to take turns," he said, but you grabbed his elbow and pulled him closer to you so that you were both able to get wet.

"Nah, we'll both fit," you chuckled. There was only an inch between you, but Dae-ho soon moved a step away after a moment when he had become wet enough to start washing himself.

You turned the water off as you started putting the shampoo on your hair. It was the new one you had bought from the store.

He took a small step closer to you again and for a second you were confused why he was leaning towards you, but he only grabbed his bottle of shampoo behind you over your shoulder.

"Have you changed your shampoo?" Dae-ho asked when you had rubbed enough of it all around your hair, sniffing his nose above you.

"How did you know?" you asked, furrowing your eyebrows. You doubted he had put attention on your hair product collection.

"It smells different than usually," he stated.

"You've smelled my hair?"

"I mean, not on purpose obviously, that'd be weird. But i do smell it every time we hug," he explained. You were shorter than him, the top of your head reaching just below his nose.

"Oh, right," you chuckled.

"I like it though," he blurted out.

"Well, i'm glad you do," you smiled, not knowing what else to respond to that.

You washed your hair and were about to start adding the conditioner, taking the pink bottle in your hand.

But then, the bottle slipped off from your hand when you were trying to squeeze a little bit of the conditioner out. It landed on the tiles right by your feet. You both looked at it and knew that there was very little room to kneel down on the floor without hitting the other person.

You and Dae-ho's gazed met.

"So, i suppose i'll have to go down to get it," you mumbled.

"I guess," he said, his cheeks turning slightly pink. "I can get it too."

"No, i'll get it," you shook your head. "Um, could you turn around for a second?"

He did as told and you kneeled down to grab the bottle, then getting back up, allowing Dae-ho to turn around again. However, you hadn't realised that as the bottle fell on the floor, it had stayed open and a little of the conditioner was spilled on the floor, making the tiles slippery.

Accidentally, you stepped right on the exact spot and slipped backwards. Dae-ho managed to grab you before you'd either hit your head on the wall or fall completely on the floor on your butt.

His hand was around your waist, your back against his chest. Sure, you had hugged him countless of times, almost daily, but you had always had your clothes on. Sure, you had seen him naked before, but you had never touched his bare skin before, besides his arms.

You were frozen on your spot, as were Dae-ho as well. You were suddenly extremely aware of every inch of his skin, his hand resting right under your breasts.

"Um," you mumbled and stood back up again, Dae-ho helping you. "Thanks."

"No problem," he stuttered. As you looked at his face, his cheeks had turned burning red.

You continued rubbing conditioner into your hair in silence, until moved to grab the body gel.

"Yeah, sure," he said and took the bottle in his hands.

"Could you rub this on my back?" you suggested. "I can't really reach all of it with my hands. You know, having this little space left to really move my arms around now."

You turned your back towards him and moved your hair over your shoulder out of the way. Dae-ho laid his hand on your left shoulder, taking it slowly across your neck to your right shoulder. His movements were so slow his touch gave you goosebumps on every spot he touched, tingles radiating all around your back.

He slowly lowered his hand towards your lower back, making sure not to miss a single area. The lower his hands wandered, the faster your heart started to race. His left hand was on your hip, fingers touching the frog tattoo, when he had reached your lower back and then he pulled his right hand away. You felt disappointment rise in your chest, wanting to have him touch you again. His other hand still rested on your hip though.

"All done," he said quietly and feeling his hot breath against your shoulder made you more aware how close he really was to you at the moment.

You stretched your neck to look at him over your shoulder, not turning your body towards him. Both of you had frozen still on your own spots, your bodies automatically pulling each other closer like magnets.

Dae-ho's heart was beating so fast it was about to burst out of his chest. He was barely able to breathe and had to concentrate on his breathing more than usual to stay calm. Being this close to you, having no distance between your bodies anymore, was making him crazy - absolutely insane.

Dae-ho wanted to know what you were thinking. He also wondered what would happen when you'd step out of the shower. Right now you were in your own intimate world which felt like being separated from the reality. It was only a shower, but having you this close to him and having this feeling inside his chest and stomach made it feel much more than just a shower – it felt almost magical.

"Could you wash my back too?" he asked quietly, breaking the thick silence lingering between you.

Your eyes were locked with each other, neither of you saying a single word in a while, only drowning into each other's eyes.

"Yeah, of course."

He turned around like you had previously, and you were now facing his back, which was a lot larger than yours. You took his body wash and started rubbing it across his shoulders and back. When you first laid your hand on his shoulder, he flinched a little.

"All done," you whispered, your hand resting on his shoulder, unable to let go. It was like your hand was suddenly glued on his skin.

Dae-ho eventually turned around to face you again, but you still kept your hand on his shoulder.

Eventually you managed to get out of your trance and turned the water back on, letting it pour on your body.

"Come on," you said and motioned him to come closer. "Hop in."

He hesitated for a moment until came to stand under the water, having barely an inch between your chests again like in the beginning.  He was about to lift his hands to wash his hair, but you stopped him mid-way, putting your hand on his.

"May i?" you asked, lifting your hands to hover over both of his ears, trapping his head between your palms. He only gave you a small nod, giving you the permission to start brushing your fingers through his short hair, massaging his scalp as the water poured against his head.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. You weren't sure if you had ever examined his face this closely, seeing all the smallest details clearly. You had always thought he was handsome, one of the most good-looking men you knew.

When you were finished, Dae-ho opened his eyes and looked into your eyes. Your hands had slowly fallen on his cheeks.

"Is it too weird to kiss you right now?" he asked softly, for a moment not realising he had actually said those words outloud.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and took a shaky breath in, until you gathered all your courage and pulled his face closer. You pressed your lips softly on his, the water still hitting your heads.

He kissed you back immediately, resting his hands on your lower back. As your kiss deepened, and his tongue found its way inside your mouth, you wrapped your arms around his neck.

"Oh, wow," you breathed out when the kiss ended and bit your lip.

"Yeah," was the only thing he managed to mumble.

"Why do i think we should have done that sooner?"

"Because we should have," Dae-ho chuckled. "Why don't we get your hair washed and we can continue that somewhere... dryer?"

You chuckled and nodded. "Good idea."

He started brushing his fingers through your hair, rubbing your scalp which made you feel so good. You looked into his eyes the entire time, loving to see him look so concentrated.

Dae-ho turned off the water, and both of you stepped out of the shower.

Eventually, you had to pull away to breathe.

When you had dryed yourselves and dressed up, before Dae-ho was able to say anything, you crashed your lips on his again. Your hair was dripping water on the floor, creating a small puddle by your feet, but at the moment you didn't care. Your hands explored each other's bodies, not able to get enough of the other.

"Could i, maybe, i don't know - take you on a date this weekend?" Dae-ho asked, still nervous even though you had kissed him twice already. "A real date. Not a platonic one, you know. More than just as friends."

A smile spread on your face. "I'd like that."

He smiled widely as well.

"I hope it's somewhere dry though this time," you suggested.

"So, you're not up to go swimming?" he asked jokingly, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, i'd go anywhere with you, but for our first date i'd like to dress up a little," you said. "You know, atleast put a shirt on."

"I'll plan something," he smiled.

☆☆☆

[gloomweed]

Eddie Loved Valentine's Day (eddie munson x bestfriend!reader)

a/n: I got the idea for this story last valentine's day, but I didn't finish it until today and I'm still not quite satisfied with it but I had to just get this out there already. This fic is more angsty than romantic, but it didn't feel right trying to shoehorn in some romance, so this is just how it's going to be.

summary: Eddie deals with some bad childhood memories on a valentine's day he spends with you.

w/c: 3.7k

Eddie loved Valentine’s day. Loved, as in, he used to. Specifically, when he was still in elementary school. Back then, the class would spend the whole day creating little mailboxes to hold all their cards. Decorating the recycled shoebox with stickers and markers, writing his name in big scrawling letters over the top. His mom would help him the night before, preparing the cards he was going to hand out. She would tell him how to spell each name, going one letter at a time. When she would ask if he needed help spelling his name, Eddie would hold out his little hand saying very confidently, “No, I know how.” Her voice was always gentle when reminding him ‘Eddie’ has a second ‘D’ after the first one.

Although there was little variety in the pack his mom bought from the store, Eddie made an effort to pick the card he thinks the recipient would like best. A Garfield card for Sindy, since she is always borrowing his orange marker. It’s her favorite color. An Odie card for Josh, since he spends recess digging with sticks and rocks. Something about wanting to find dinosaur bones. It would go like that until all the cards were signed, folded, and held together with little heart stickers.

The following day, Eddie would pass out all his cards and return to his seat to find his makeshift mailbox stuffed. In those days, he would get a card from every single classmate. He’d be filled with excitement as he opened each one. The puns and characters on the cards were fun to see, but really Eddie just enjoyed the thought that someone made him something. Some cards even came with a little candy. It was a fun day all around, and doing less school work was also a big plus.

After his mom passed, Valentine’s day kind of lost its charm. His dad said buying Valentine’s cards that kids were only gonna look at once and throw away afterwards was a waste of money and effort; however, that didn’t stop Eddie from participating anyways. He spent the night making his own cards out of notebook paper, drawing hearts and smiling faces on each one. Despite all the care he put into them, the finished product looked pretty messy. The cards weren’t all the same size, there were some misspelled words, marker ink bleeding through the paper, and since he didn’t have stickers, they were held together with regular translucent tape. Give him a break, he was nine. It wasn’t much, but Eddie put his heart and soul into it.

Once all the cards were passed out, everyone began digging into their boxes, reading cards and opening candy. “What even is this?” Eddie looked up from his pile of valentines to see one of his classmates holding up one he homemade, a disgusted look on their face. Another kid laughed. “Why does it look like that?” Eddie felt red, hot shame fill his cheeks as others began to join in the laughter. He sank further into his seat, wishing to disappear completely. Seeing Eddie’s name on the card gave the boy a target. “What’s the deal, Eddie? Couldn’t afford real valentine’s this year?” 

Eddie shot up from his seat. “No! My dad just forgot to buy them, is all,” he lied. “I just thought, you know, something is better than nothing, right?” His eyes darted between his classmates, hoping they bought it. 

“Next time, don’t even bother. It’d save us the time of throwing them away,” they laughed. It was then that the teacher made the announcement to return to their seats to resume the rest of the learning day. As Eddie sat back down he could feel the sting of tears behind his eyes. He put a lot of effort into those cards, only for his classmates to laugh at him and throw them away. His dad was right. What a waste.

That was the last time Eddie ever participated in Valentine’s day. Ever since then, he would spend the day doing anything else besides celebrating it. This year, he was at your house helping you get a head start on spring cleaning. You wanted to turn your life around, starting with a more organized living space. February 14th is as good a day as any to get started, and it wasn’t like you had any big plans. Which is totally fine and doesn’t depress you at all. 

Although he never told you exactly why, you knew Eddie didn’t particularly like the Hallmark holiday. You assumed it was because of how commercialized it had become since its inception. Of course it could be the matter of keeping up with his image. Soft petalled roses and candy hearts are pretty far from ‘metal.’ Whatever the reason may be, you hated the idea of your friend being alone on a day celebrating love, so inviting him to clean was the next best thing. While it took some convincing, eventually you coaxed him into it with the promise of beer and snacks.

You were both currently working in your bedroom. Eddie would hold something up and ask if you wanted to keep it or throw it away. Meanwhile, you sit on the hardwood floor creating piles all around you as you sift through the contents of your room. He did most of his work while sitting on your bed, a beer in his hand. 

Sometimes he would try on clothes you were feeling unsure of, saying that having someone model it would make it easier to decide its fate. Of course, this theory might have been successful if they actually fit him. The mental image of him in your too small knitted red cardigan is something that will bring a smile to your face for years to come. 

Running out of things to hold up to you, he looked in his direct vicinity and noticed a round tin by his feet, mostly under your bed. When you heard him gasp you turned to see what he had found. “Oh, that’s just my-”

“Cookies!” he shouted as he opened the blue butter cookie tin only for his face to fall in a confused frown.

You laughed. “Yeah, sorry. I reused that old cookie tin for my sentimental crap.”

Instead of delicious cookies, the tin was full of old birthday cards and handwritten messages left by people who cared about you. A letter from your now deceased grandmother, movie stubs from big releases, and Polaroid pictures of some childhood friends. Eddie smiled to himself. It was cute how you would keep stuff like this. From the outside, you didn’t look like the type of person to hold on to birthday cards from your 5th birthday. He looked at you with a playful pout, his eyebrows pulled together. “Aww. You do have a heart.”

Your offended face only made Eddie grin wider. “Shut up,” you laugh before grabbing the nearest stuffed animal and throwing it at him.

Laughing as he dodged your attack, he couldn’t stop some of the cards from jostling out. As he was gathering them back into the tin, he took a closer look at the one made of notebook paper. ‘From Eddie’ was written on the back in big messy letters.

Noticing his sudden silence, you stand to get a better look at what’s in his hands. You peek over his shoulder to see the valentine he hand made in the 4th grade. Immediately you become overwhelmed with embarrassment thinking Eddie was completely freaked out by the fact you kept the card so long, like some kind of stalker weirdo. Words vomit out of your mouth as you try to save your dignity. “Oh! That's- that's so weird! I can't believe I still have that. I thought I threw that out years ago. I’ll just take that back-”

Eddie instinctually snatches the card against his chest, his chin tucked in as he searches your eyes. When it's clear to you he isn't going to give it up, your hand falls limp at your side. Glancing at the card once more, he tries his best to keep his voice steady. “You kept this?” 

The change in demeanor feels unsettling. “Yeah, of course I did.” You look at your feet shyly. “It, uh, means a lot to me.” When you look back up, you see Eddie staring back with confusion.

You’ve gone through this scenarios hundreds of times in the late hours of the night when your brain just couldn’t stop running. How would Eddie react if he found out you kept something he made you when you were kids? The scoff that slips past his taunting lips was the last thing you expected from Eddie. He stands from the bed, looking down on you with a humorless smile. “This shitty scrap of paper means a lot to you?” The sudden scrutiny feels harsh and full of malice. You’ve never had the displeasure to be on the receiving end of Eddie’s anger, and from what little you’ve seen thus far, you hope to never face it again.

Shrugging like it was no big deal, you try your best to downplay your defensiveness. “Well, yeah. I thought it was really sweet of you.” You can’t stop yourself from squinting at him in confusion. “I’m sorry, are you mad at me for keeping it?” Why is he upset with you over this? It was given to you as a gift. You should be able to decide what you do with it without his approval. 

Despite being the one who asked the question, Eddie doesn’t really hear your answer, nor the following question. As he stares down at the messy writing on old, yellowed notebook paper, he feels his chest tighten in an overwhelming stifled rage. Having to be face to face with a reminder of his failure fills Eddie with so much self-hatred that he can’t think straight. It’s a reminder of his shitty dad. A reminder of his shitty childhood. It wasn’t fair. Every imperfect line and patch of bleeding ink stared back at him, mocking him. It all congeals to a point of no return in his gloomy head.

Eddie stares in silence for a moment too long and you can see the emotions shift in his face into something darker. “What are you-” You are cut off by the sound of a quick and quiet crunch, the paper crumpling in his first. It’s a knee jerk reaction that has you gasping at the sight, and Eddie immediately regretting. A piece of his heart shatters at the sound of yours doing the same. “Eddie!” Your high pitched squeal of anguish around the syllables of his own name has him filling with that same sinking heat of shame he felt all those years ago. 

Your hands dart at him, taking the paper from his grip as fast as it was destroyed. You do your best to smooth the paper back into some semblance of its former glory, but the creases on the old, thin paper still remain. It makes it difficult to see the handwritten words on the page, especially since your eyes are welling up with tears. You turn away from Eddie, too angry to face him. Too hurt to let him see you cry over this. Instead you kneel on the floor, slumping over the valentine you hold with the same delicacy as you would hold a baby bird with a broken wing.

Eddie feels his heart racing with anxiety. He didn’t mean to do that. He didn’t mean to make you cry. He didn’t mean to. All he wanted was to get rid of the stupid reminder, not ruin your priceless keepsake. Eddie stands there for a moment, unsure what to do with himself. He fucked up, he knows that, but he doesn’t know how to make it right. Your name falls from his lips in a stuttering mess. “I- I didn’t mean-” 

Whipping your head back to shoot him a teary eyed glare, you cut him off. “Don’t.” A sad shake of your head, “Just don’t, Eddie.” You didn’t want to hear how he was just trying to make some kind of joke. It wasn’t funny. It was just cruel. You turn back to stare at the ruined item in your cupped hands.

Eddie backs up towards the door, eyes wide and voice small. “Sorry.” You don’t say anything, but of course he doesn’t really expect you to forgive him. He leaves you be, silently making his way out of your house. 

On the drive home, he’s mentally kicking himself the entire time. Why did I do that? What is wrong with me? Why do I have to find a way to ruin everything? When he pulls into the gravel driveway of his uncle’s trailer, he cuts the engine and contemplates in silence.

He has to make this right. That valentine meant something to you. You kept that shitty scrap of paper for years while the rest of the class threw it in the trash where it belongs.  That has to mean something, right? You wouldn’t keep trash for this long unless it was important, right?

Eddie runs a hand down his face as he belatedly processed what you said about him. I thought it was really sweet of you. You thought he was sweet? The tiny compliment is enough to bring a flush to his cheeks, and it only makes him feel worse about the whole situation. It’s going to take more than an apology to make it up to you.

It’s a few hours after the incident when you hear a knock at the door. “Coming!” You yell down the hall as you race to answer it. Seeing your kind smile fall when you realize it’s him, Eddie feels like you twisted a knife in his chest. He’s holding a modest bouquet of flowers towards you, gaze struggling to meet your own. “Well, look who it is.” You lean against the door frame, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’ve got some nerve, Eddie Munson.”

Eddie huffs a sigh, his breath visible in the frosty February evening. “I know. I know I don’t deserve to see you, but you deserve an apology. I came back to explain myself. Not that I had any right to do what I did.” He looks up at you from under his lashes. “Can I come in so we can talk?”

There’s a pout on your lips as you consider. The flowers do look very pretty, and he was thoughtful enough to have your favorite color as the centerpiece. Getting flowers last minute, on Valentine’s Day no less, was likely no easy feat, making the gesture more grand than usual. You hum in thought a moment before finally taking pity on the man practically groveling on your doorstep. “Fine.” You step aside to let him in, looking reluctant to do so. 

Relief washes over him as you make room. The warmth of your home felt like a welcoming embrace upon his bone chilled body. Once the door is closed, Eddie outstretches the bouquet towards you again. “Uh, these are for you.”

Doing your best not to show how pleased you are, you take the flowers from him wordlessly. Eddie turns to walk towards your living room, and you take the moment to smell the sweetness of them while he isn’t watching. You sit on the couch, laying the bouquet on the coffee table for the time being. 

Eddie continues to stand, feeling unworthy of your comforts. It feels reminiscent of when he first visited your home. The awkwardness of being new friends was evident as he stood in the corner, waiting for permission to sit on the couch or even enter the room. Now it’s like he wouldn’t sit even if you asked him to. Eddie preferred to pace while he talked. He has too much energy to expel to be still.

You give him your attention finally, arms crossed again, waiting for the apology he owes you. He clears his throat, hands nervously wringing together. “So first of all, I’m sorry for ruining your valentine. And your Valentine's day, for that matter. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” He chuckles dryly, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “Shit, I wasn’t thinking at all. I just got caught up in my stupid bullshit. But I swear, I wasn’t trying to be an asshole. It was just-” You raise an eyebrow, not quite believing him yet. Eddie releases a breath like it was struggling to get out. “Seeing that valentine I made that everyone gave me shit for…” he sighs again, struggling to find the words. “It just brought it all back. I was a kid again being pointed and laughed at in front of everyone.” 

As he says this, your features soften when you recall what he’s talking about. You heard what some of the other kids were saying about Eddie’s valentines, but at the time you didn’t think he cared what they thought. He was always unapologetically himself to the point that the thought of Eddie being embarrassed or ashamed never even crossed your mind.

Eddie looks at you with a sad tilt of his head, wild curls bunching at his shoulder. “That doesn’t make it right, but I thought you ought to know why I did what I did.” He shakes his head dismissively. “It had nothing to do with you and I’m sorry I couldn’t control myself. I’m a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart.” He smiles ruefully, “but you already knew that.” His eyes dim a little at his self-deprecation.

You nod in understanding, a small smile on your face. “I appreciate your apology.” You weren’t sure if you were ready to forgive him just yet, and you wanted to be sure he realized that.

Although Eddie knew it wouldn’t be easy, he can’t help but feel disappointed he hadn’t earned your forgiveness yet. Regardless, he nods with a tight lipped smile in acceptance before reaching a hand into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. “I wanted to make it up to you,” he pulls an envelope out, “with this.” 

You blink owlishly at Eddie’s outstretched hand, surprised he brought more than flowers. Standing from the couch, you gingerly take the card from him, watching him for any signs of what it might be. 

As you open the package, Eddie is already explaining his reasoning. “Now, I know it’s not the same, and it doesn’t hold the same meaning as the original, but I tried my best to remake it for you.”

Pulling the card from the envelope, you gasp at what you find. The writing is much neater, the drawings more detailed, and even the paper feels like it’s made of thicker material, but there is no doubt that this is Eddie’s reconstruction of the card he destroyed. 

The premise of the card was the same. A penguin (your favorite animal at the time) wearing sunglasses, surrounded by icebergs with bubble letters saying ‘U R COOL’ after your name. The sketches are much more sophisticated than any nine year old could make. It was clear that Eddie had honed his art skills over the years by doodling in the margins of all his school work instead of paying attention in class. But it wasn’t what the card looked like that made it special. It was the thoughtful gesture itself. 

When you look back up at Eddie, he shifts on his feet uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. He’s unsure what to make of your expression. “So, uh. Do you like it?” Before you can answer, he’s already speaking for you with a defeated slump of his shoulders. “You hate it, don’t you? I’m sorry, I know it’s not-”

“I love it.”

His eyes go wide, genuinely surprised. “Yeah?” He perks up when he sees your beaming face. “Really?” Eddie lets out a small ‘oof’ when you crash into him with an enthusiastic hug. His chuckling rumbles against your ear as you hold him tightly. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

Parting from the hug, you admire the valentine some more. “And I do forgive you, Eddie. I just wish you would have told me what Valentine’s Day really means to you sooner.” You search his dark chocolate eyes. “We’re friends, right? You know I would never make fun of you like that.”

And Eddie did know that, but in that moment, he couldn’t rationalize his intrusive thoughts away. It’s easier to hear that you’re loved versus actually believing it. All he can muster is a shrug, unable to put his inability to trust into words. “Yeah I know.”

With his unconvincing answer, you try a different approach to get him to understand what he means to you. Wordlessly, you leave the room leaving Eddie standing there wondering what you’re up to. You’re back before he gets the chance to overthink your departure, a picture frame in hand. As you fiddle with the tiny metal prongs holding the backing in place, you begin to explain. “From now on, I’m gonna make sure everyone sees this.” You slot the valentine into the frame before securing the backing once more. 

You hang your trophy in the center of your living room wall. Once you’re satisfied with the results, you take a step back and admire it with your hands on your hips. “There. Now, anytime someone visits me, I can brag to them about the personal valentine you made me.” Looking back over your shoulder, you see Eddie smirking bashfully.

“Oh come on. No one’s gonna want to see that.” He gestures to the hand drawn image, but you’re already shaking your head defiantly.

“Too bad. They’re gonna have to. Matter of fact, I’m gonna require they marvel at it for no less than 60 seconds before they can even enter my home.” Your arms are crossed with a playful smile on your face.

Eddie chuckles and there’s a small pause as he appreciates you. “You’re such a dork,” is his mumbled response.

You point up at the framed doodled penguin adorned in shades behind you with an astonishing amount of confidence. “Not according to my best friend.”

He huffs an exasperated sigh. “That’s it. I’m taking it back.” Eddie starts towards the wall, reaching above you. “You’re not cool anymore.” 

Instinctually, you put your hands on his chest in an attempt to stop him, but Eddie isn’t one to back down. “No! You can’t!” Giggles bubble out of you as you try your best to stand your ground. “I am cool!”

[museincarnate]

Much like the Little Rabbit, her Saiyan companions seemed to be eagerly eating away at their delicacies, albeit at a faster rate than Tater; Saiyan appetites seeming to always be insatiable, no matter how much they consumed. For a moment, at the very least, the leisurely stroll allowed them, and hopefully Tater, a chance to take their mind off of the reason why they were traveling from sect to sect; the thought not wholly being cast off, but enough to lessen the immediate tension that likely lingered from it.

Llumia's slip, however, would catch both Torno and Shuen off-guard enough to cause them to stop chewing, and slightly tense up at the thought of what could happen, if it hadn't been stopped. Thankfully, the Lagomorph managed to play along with the Saiyaness's attempt to excuse the mishap, and avoid any sort of suspicion from anyone near the group of four. Sighs of relief temporarily escaped the Mighty Saiyan and Paradox Saiyan, while Llumia gave Tater a look of sincere gratitude and slight adoration.

"Y-Yeah... Glad I'm not the only one. I think talking to them would help with not referring to them casually, but I haven't gotten that chance yet." A sort of subtle openness into her relationship with Empress Scallia was given with that same, wistful tone, before she'd put that conversation aside and focus, instead, on making sure that her new friends were enjoying themselves. "Oh! They also have these kind of scary warrior masks, although I feel like those would sell better at an armory, or something." She'd offer a slight giggle, as she pointed to the aforementioned masks; allowing Tater to talk to her companions thereafter.

The Earth Representative's inquiry, coupled with the violet-haired heiress's attention towards those masks, would seem to draw the interest of the Royal Commander, as he stepped closer to observe the selection; his gaze shifting towards Tater, as he smiled at her. "I think that they'd appreciate it. You two should pick something out for Tazz and Yujin, if you'd like. For the sake of avoiding choking hazards for Hakkona and Yujin's daughter, I think a mask would be a safe choice." He didn't elaborate further, but it would also likely serve as a fun conversation starter, when his and Shuen's mutual granddaughter would become old enough to inquire about its origins.

After a moment, the Mighty Saiyan would get his hands on a golden, demon-faced mask, as his digits making contact with it revealed that it was made of wood, and not a metallic material; the golden hue likely just a coating of paint. Perhaps his royal lineage made him choose that particular one, but it mattered little, in the end; Shuen and Llumia almost making audible sounds of awe and approval, as he waited for his two companions to pick out their trinkets. The purple-haired Saiyaness didn't quite seem as interested in getting anything, herself, so she would just watch along with Torno, as the Little Rabbit and Hero of Hope likely pondered what they'd get.

Llumia would nod in agreement with the Lagomorph's own thoughts on how they'd met, while they all still waited just a bit longer for their food to be made; Tater's inwards thinking causing the Saiyaness to tilt her head slightly, since she couldn't quite figure out what her new friend was thinking about. Regardless, she was happy to have such nice, albeit unexpected company.

Once the Little Rabbit had realized that their food was ready to be picked up, and had gone to retrieve it, the vocalization of the order being theirs had the violet-haired heiress grinning rather excitedly; her familiarity with the food not at all lessening her eagerness to have it, as well as seeing her three new pals try it for the first time. Flapping ears from Tater seemed to be a positive indicator of her thoughts about the skewers, while both Torno and Shuen hummed positively at the overall taste of it, themselves. A soft giggle would escape Llumia, as she would partake of the skewers as well, before turning to lead her friends through the shopping district some more.

While she led them along, though, she couldn't help herself; making a giddy little comment about their reactions to the seafood from Empress Scallia's sect of Saiyans. "Sure sounds like you guys are loving it so far! What'd I say? A lot of people say it's the best seafood any culture of Saiyans have to offer!" Ahead of them, a quaint little trinket shop could be seen, while any shops or stalls in between didn't really seem like they were worth taking a look at, if Llumia's continued walking was anything to go by. Of course, a few sets of eyes would briefly look at Tater and her companions, before returning to wherever they were looking previously.

Once she'd managed to finish whatever she was eating before stopping at the trinket shop, the violet-haired girl would turn to face Tater, Torno and Shuen again; smiling rather sweetly at them, while she let them focus on consuming the food that they'd ordered. "This is the most popular place to get fun little trinkets, if you can afford them. Little emblems, cute little caricatures of notable figures, like m-" She'd stop herself, just as she likely had several thousand times over the course of her life; tensing up at the realization that she'd nearly addressed a certain ruler as her mother. While it was the truth, her illegitimacy as that ruler's child was still a rather controversial matter. "Empress Scallia. Heavens... I almost called her Miss, and not her regal title."

Pain seemed to lace itself into the words of the heiress, as she softly seemed to fidget with one of the little metal caricatures of Scallia; her gaze lowering from their fixated position on Tater and her Saiyan friends for a few moments. There were likely so many questions about their relationship that could be asked, that just weren't.

[lady-mole]

Alright, everyone ! As I initially planed, I am gonna tell you more about my love story with Lord Mole for Valentines day ! :3🩷

Okay, first of all, I started to fall in love with Lord Mole on July 2022, I even had a dream about him, and we were dating ! :o

Anyway, we were best friends at the time (he even told me his "darkest" secret), and we were spending a lot of time together in Strangetown ! :3

Unfortunately, I had quite a hard time realizing and accepting my romantic feelings for him, which is the reason why we only got married on November 28th 2024 ! x3🩷

So, what happened during more than two years ? I desperately searched for another f/o to marry. I really wanted to settle down and to have a fictional husband to stay by my side forever. But, since forever sounds like a pretty long time, I wanted to find THE "perfect profile".

Of course, I didn't work. The characters that got me interested were "too pretty for me" or "too complicated to live with", anyway, I was always finding some excuse, and at some point, I even felt like I simply wasn't made for married life, or for love ! xc

Except when I was with Lord Mole... During these two years, I occasionaly thought of him, and we even had a few dates together at Strangetown's saloon ! x3🩷

We grew even closer than before and, at some point, I just thought to myself : "no fictional character could ever make me feel the way Lord Mole does..."

I just couldn't entirely stop thinking of him and he was always the one to comfort me and to make me feel loved. 💕

Why did I fall in love with him, of all people from literally every other universe ?

Well, first of all, he is beautiful to my eyes, and I am not afraid to say it anymore ! x3🩷 (Even if I still have a hard time drawing his perfect body, damnit ! xC)

Then, his presence just makes me feel safe and home, I still can't really explain why, though...

How much do I love him ? Oh, you have no idea, he literally made me realize I am a woman, after all this time feeling like some kind of weird creature who can't even love properly... 💕

Anyway, more than two years later, I finally accepted the fact that, dang, he is the one I want to marry, and I confessed my feelings to him ! 🩷

We became a couple on September 28th 2024, and two months later, on my 24th birthday, we finally got married ! 💕💕💕

If my life was a TV Show, the audience would have probably been jumping with excitment, yelling "FINALLY SHE UNDERSTOOD THEY ARE MADE FOR EACH OTHER !!!!!!!!! I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS SINCE SEASON 1 !!!!! #Lordlady is finally canon !!! #Royal Fit forever !!!! #IF THE WORLD WAS ENDING !!!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉"

Anyway, soon after that, since I was finally married with my f/o, I wanted people to know it, so I create this selfship blog, and even if I was VERY, VERY nervous at first, I am so glad I met you guys, you are awesome and you made me realize how important my love story truly is, I also love to read about your f/os and your drawings are totally amazing (ooh ! I love your moodboards too !) :3🩷🩷🩷

I wish you the best with your f/os ! After all, you do deserve the best ! :3🩷🩷🩷

Happy Valentines Day everyone ! 🩷🩷🩷

🫶🫶🫶

Tag list :

@fictodreamer @vergils-beloved @fl0ralsxgar @zoroscanonhusband @arsene-fixates @cosmoproductions @xx-evilestyuri-xx @silver-heller @paulisperpostridie @milkmallow28 @eating-plastic @deepwatersiren @jpeg-indulgence @mr12xu @ryez-loveyz @ardhoniel-evenstar-fics

[jsmelodies]

The Next Chapter

Ending @sjmromanceweek with some pure fluff :) This is my interpretation of what comes next. I think Nesta deserves to watch Cassian chop logs in half with his axe (That’s it. That’s the plot.)

Summary: Cassian builds Nesta a house.

Read here on ao3

---

Nesta should have figured that their mating ceremony was going to end with Cassian acting like a half-feral beast. She couldn’t blame him entirely, though, when it was her smile that triggered it, causing his wings to spread wide behind him before snatching her off.

He’d offered a simple ‘sorry’ when his mind cleared while they flew. But she’d had enough of the ceremony as well, ready to spend the night with her mate, her husband, who held her close to his chest, even long after they’d landed. 

He held her like that all the way to their shared room, while the final song from the party lingered in her mind. She hummed it softly, the sound resonating against his chest, continuing when Cassian placed her on the plush bed.

She stopped when he kissed her. Took his time worshiping her with his fingers. His tongue. He guided her free hand to the membranes of his wings, showing her the right place to touch. 

Then, he settled himself between her thighs, moving inside of her until both of them fell into a mindless bliss. For a while, they could do nothing but cling to each other, a thin layer of sweat coating their bodies as they rested together.

Afterwards, Cassian reluctantly untied the ribbon around their hands. He threw on a pair of cotton pants, while Nesta pulled one of her nightgowns from his drawer.

She felt his presence behind her. His palms skimmed up her sides, drawing her back into his muscular body.

“I have something for you,” he said, before pressing a kiss to her neck. Her cheek.

“Do you?” she asked, turning around in his arms. Looked up, and saw his gorgeous curls framing his face as his throat bobbed.

Nervous. He was nervous.

He held a piece of parchment. A nice one, that he probably had to go into one of those fancy shops along the Sidra to get, folded in neat lines that had a wax seal holding it together. 

“What’s this?” she murmured.

He turned the parchment over in his hand, hesitantly offering it to her. “It’s…a mating gift, I guess.”

“Oh,” she said, her brows furrowing as she looked at it. No one had told her about this. It was another part of this fae existence that simply didn’t know about. Like suddenly having an extra limb that she’d gone most of her life without, then being expected to run a race on it. “Was I supposed to–”

“No!” he said, shaking his head. “No. Just—open it, Nes.”

He held it out to her with his battle-callused hand. She took the paper, running her fingers over the red wax seal. A small flame, centered in the middle, surrounded by a thin circle.

“This must be important,” she noted.

“Everything involving you is important to me.” Said so freely, so resolute that her mind was incapable of doubting it.

She lifted her eyes to Cassian, only for a second, before breaking the seal with her finger and unfolding it so she could read what was inside.

She’d seen Cassian’s handwriting before. A scrawl that he tried to force into being something else, more refined. On his rough days, she would watch him trace each letter carefully until it came out practiced. Perfect. Without a flaw.

In something as simple as his handwriting, she could see the years, the centuries, of insecurity that had wormed its way into his head.

So she knew when she wasn’t looking at Cassian’s handwriting. “Did you hire somebody to do this?” she asked, looking the letter over.

He shifted on his feet. “I wanted it to be perfect.”

She didn’t want to unpack that. As if something coming from him could be anything but perfect. He had a knack for it, getting her things that were so thoughtful that they were hard for her to accept. 

Indulging him, she read the contents of the letter. Scanned over them quickly at first, before almost doing a double take and reading the words much more carefully.

“Wait.”

“I know it’s not much, but–”

“You’re building me a house.” The words escaped her in a breath. And she couldn’t believe it, that he would…

“Well, you can’t really leave here, can you? I thought you might like your own place. Close to everyone, if you want. Or not. Whatever you want.”

It was everything. All those years of never having something that was truly hers, that no one could take away. Years of never having a proper home. That made this everything.

“You’re building me a house?” 

She lowered the letter, looking at her mate once more, and saw the apprehension creeping in.

“I can get you something else, if you want–”

She shushed him, her heart flooding with such a rush of emotions that she could barely contain it. Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer so that their chests were flush together. Close enough that she could see the short stubble on his cheeks, that she could lean in and kiss him again.

“You’re building us a house.”

The corners of his lips raised at the changed wording, and it was quite possibly one of the prettiest things she’d ever seen. Cassian didn’t cry very often, but tears were gathered along his lower eyelid, getting ready to fall.

He hugged her close, letting his chin rest on the top of her head. “Yeah, Nes. I’m building us a house.”

***

She chose a spot on the banks of the Sidra, well on the outskirts of the city. When she first saw it, the waters lapping along the shore, she knew.

Trees covered the area, creating a canopy overhead that extended all the way out into the water. It was close enough that she could walk into the city if she wanted, while she could also be woken up in the morning by chirping birds and Cassian’s gentle snores as he held her.

Peace. After everything, the two of them could live in peace.

And so it began.

Nesta thought it would be a far-off fantasy. Something Cassian would get around to eventually, not on the top of his list of priorities. Not that she would blame him—he worked way more than he needed to already, much to her disagreement. But here he was in the hours between training, between camp inspections, hauling wide tree trunks across the clearing. And quickly, more quickly than she could have imagined, a simple, two-story house arose from its foundation. Plenty of room for the two of them, and possibly more than the two of them, if they decided they were ready (many, many years in the future.)

One week ago, she moved. Into the bedroom with soft light coming through the windows. Into the living room with the stone fireplace, each of the rocks hand selected by her mate. Into the porch in the front, so she could see the water as it streamed by, sometimes with fish jumping into the air.

It was home. And this morning, only pure contentment poured over her as she woke in her and Cassian’s bed.

Nesta made a cup of tea in the kitchen, savoring the warmth in her palms before opening the wooden door. Cassian had put stained glass on the top, a mosaic of colors that he’d purchased from a local artisan.

She sat on the steps of the porch, a fuzzy blanket wrapped around her shoulders to ward off Velaris’ chill as it began its descent into winter once more. Cassian had covered her with it last night, after he made love to her until she was sated on their bed.

Cassian was a tough male to keep up with. Because he’d fallen asleep with her, becoming her companion in that dreamless rest until his body forced him awake at ungodly hours of the morning. It was the soldier in him, she knew, that had him waking up before dawn broke on the horizon. 

Cassian’s axe thudded through the wood and onto the platform. She’d been able to hear it earlier, the noise distant and muddled through the walls of the house. It had lulled her further into sleep with its steady rhythm, even when the warmth of his body had long faded.

He was hard at work, and she settled herself in place, content to watch.

Even in the chill, he’d forsaken wearing a shirt. A shimmer of sweat covered him, glistening over his tanned skin, covered with tattoos. His hair was tied back, and his wings stood at attention. She couldn’t help noticing the way they moved with each blow. Involuntarily, reflexively, as if they were creating some kind of counterbalance to the force he was exerting downwards. It was a rocking chair today. So she didn’t have to sit on the steps anymore, he’d said. Once he got all the pieces cut, he was going to sand them down, before bending them into shape.

She’d seen the meticulous motions of his hands. For him, it wasn’t just a skill. It was fully an art, one that he took great pride in.

He’d explained it once, telling her that five hundred years of existence lent itself well to having hidden skills. One of Cassian’s was working with his hands—crafting things where there hadn’t been anything before.

This was his first house. On his own, at least. He’d helped with the building before in Illyria, and knew how to ensure it was structurally sound. There had always been others, though, to help. But he’d been insistent on doing this all by himself, refusing any offers of assistance from Rhys and Azriel. And what a shame it was, that she was left to watch the rippling muscles of Cassian’s back as he brought that axe down, again and again.

“See something you like?” he teased, not yet turning to face her.

“Oh, just some wood that I’d like to get my hands on,” she muttered under her breath.

Cassian brought the axe down once more, effectively splitting the large log in half. Then he turned, his mouth forming a wide grin as he wiped the sweat off of his forehead. Every defined line of muscle was on full display as he took step after step towards her, amusement playing in his eyes.

“I didn’t know you had such an interest in carpentry, sweetheart.”

“I have an interest in a wide variety of things. Didn’t you know?” she said, letting coyness slip into her voice. “Especially when there’s a certain hulking Illyrian involved.”

He chuckled, wings flaring slightly behind him. Damn peacock.

When he reached her, he leaned down, lifting her chin so he could press a kiss to her lips. “Then maybe,” he murmured, “I’ll have to give you a private demonstration.”

Her heart fluttered swiftly in her chest. Still, she couldn’t get enough of him, and by the look in his eyes whenever they landed on her, he couldn’t either.

“You’ll show me what to do with my hands, right?” she asked innocently. With her pointer finger, she trailed a line all the way down his bare chest to the waistband of his pants. “And how tightly I need to…grip?”

He caught that stray hand by grabbing her wrist, bringing it up to his lips to put a kiss on her knuckles.

“Don’t be a tease, Nes. Not if you aren’t going to follow through,” he said in warning.

“And what are you going to do about it?” She knew she could only give him so much attitude before he eventually took things into his own hands. He was getting there, but not quite.

His eyebrows rose, still amused. “I could have sworn I fucked all the brattiness out of you last night. Seems I was mistaken. But by all means, keep doing what you’re doing—I’ll just be taking notes for later.”

She hummed, looking upwards and exposing her neck to him. “That was last night. I’m awake now.” She assessed him, pretending she’d come to some sort of conclusion before saying, “But, if you don’t think you’re up for it…”

She shrugged, closing the blanket around herself with her free hand.

He snarled slightly, nipping at her fingers before tugging her forward just an inch. “What did I say about not being a tease?”

She scoffed. “It’s not my fault you can’t handle me properly.”

That seemed to do it. The hazel vanished from his eyes almost entirely, leaving in its wake a black that looked near ready to devour her.

“Handle you properly,” he muttered to himself. 

He pulled her up in a swift movement, the blanket falling from her shoulders and exposing her to the cold air. “You remember that bed I built you? The one in our bedroom. I’m sure you know the one,” he said, his casual voice laced with something just a touch menacing. He leaned in to say into her ear, “You have one minute to get into it.”

---

Tag List:

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