#i don't think the words exist to describe how i feel right now

[theemperorsfeather]

Made myself beyond incandescent with rage by looking up 2-bedroom rental costs back in Portland and comparing the income necessary for that to mine. And my income is not terrible!! But I could not afford that!

Not that the discrepancy is anything new, and not that it impacts my housing costs (I am not leaving my house or moving back to Portland) or life or whatever, but, you know.

Facts to keep tucked away into my back pocket.

[goldkirk]

as I'm going back over my past history and items and journals and years, I come across all sorts of things, like the pencil I saved from that so-precious memory from second grade, and a pair of flip flops I've been missing for two years, and [checks notes] the modern-high-school-AU-kidnapped-by-a-serial-killer story I wrote in late high school jdfsjdfsjkjlksfd

[always-just-red]

Hii! I've seen some Pregnancy scenario with LaD's men, but I have this HC-- personally for Sylus. That when fem!reader got pregnant, he didn't really understand how the Pregnancy hormones work, until he experienced one and he got confused how he should act or react because it's feels like he's walking on landime, one wrong move/word, she'd throwing tantrum or being sulky at him

I've heard from my Friend who got pregnant before, when she craving something and her Husband showing any form that he can't fulfill what she's craves, she felt her heart broken, and she'd sulk and acted as if he just cheated on her. The problem is, she always craved something that didn't even exist at that moment😂, she's craving certain type of Mango while it's not even that Mango season, so nobody selling it. He literally being desperate to negotiate with her cravings

So... Can I request a scenario smiliar like that? It doesn't have to be mango, or any foods. Just... how Pregnancy hormones or Cravings could make Sylus got frustated lol

Aaaaa anon this is adorable, thank you! We love making Sylus suffer in cute and harmless ways. He's always asking for trouble, so let's give him some! 😌💅

Something Sweet

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: Sylus knows how to get what he wants. Getting what you want might be a little more tricky...

Genre: fluff!

Warnings/Additional tags: female!reader, IMPLIED pregnant!reader (pregnancy not actually mentioned or described- just hormones being hormones ✌), established relationship, canon pet names, a lil bit of roleplay because Sylus refuses to leave his Mystic Adventure era

| Word count: 2.1k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Sy, d’you know what I’m craving right now?”

“Always, sweetie.” Sylus doesn’t look up from his book. “Not now, though. I’m tired.”

Morning sunlight streams through the gaps in your living room curtains, casting pale yellow shapes over the floor. A shard of it has been inching over the sofa towards Sylus, the sharp edge now grazing the side of his face. He shifts, ever so slightly, away from its touch. His eyes are open but heavy.

“No,” you scold, leaning forwards to swat at him with your book. “That’s not what I meant, you narcissist.”

He chuckles with his usual low timbre— his gaze still not lifting— and the sound is deeper for how close he is to sleep. He wants to give in to it, you can tell. When he turns a page, the movement is languid, soft. You’re losing him.

“Sy,” you say again, then with more of a whine: “Sylus.”

His eyes flutter closed as he draws in a deep breath. His hand raises, his fingers stretching to pull his reading glasses from his face. They’re set down on the arm of the chair beside him, along with the book, and he turns to you with a smile. “What are you craving, sweetie?”

You rest your book on your stomach. Your legs are stretched out over Sylus’s lap, and his hand finds one of your feet, massaging an ache from it as you begin your speech. “Do you remember that café we used to go to? The one we found when it started raining in the park that day? We didn’t think it was open, but then the owner knocked on the window and said we could—”

“Yeah?” His hand moves to your other foot.

“Well, they make these—”

“Macarons.”

“You remember?”

His smile widens like he remembers vividly. “Kitten, how could I forget? I’m still jealous of that sweet little treat. You’ve never made that face for me, and believe me—” he wiggles one of your toes— “I’ve tried.”

That had been one of the only times you’d truly caught him off-guard, back when your feelings for one another were unnamed and uncharted. The rain had been drumming against the café window, and you’d heaved Sylus’s damp coat from your shoulders— giggled at the raised eyebrow and the sarcastic ‘…thanks’ he’d given in turn. One hot drink later, you were lifting a pastel pink macaron to your lips, taking a delicate bite and failing to stifle a tiny, almost euphoric moan.

You remember realising yourself: blushing profusely and expecting some remark, some ridicule, but none ever came. Sylus’s eyes were wide, dark, fixed upon your still parted mouth.

After a few of the longest seconds of your life, he’d dragged the plate with the rest of the macarons away from you and muttered something about how you had better not do that again.

“They’re still the sweetest things I’ve ever tasted,” you tease now, just as you’d wrestled him for that plate back then, set on eating every last macaron.

He makes a hmph as he idly runs a finger over the part of your foot he knows is ticklish. His expression is distinctly grumpy, but it falters as you laugh and try to writhe away from him.

You’re quickly out of breath. “Sylus?”

“Mmm?”

He glances up at you and you smile sweetly, head tilting. “Please?”

His coat on a rainy day. The entire plate of macarons in the end; he’s never been very good at denying you anything. For the first time since you’d stirred him from his book, however, he appears genuinely regretful. “You’re forgetting something, sweetie,” he murmurs gently. “Why did we stop going to that café, hmm?”

You shrug.

“It closed, kitten,” he sighs. “Months ago.”

“What?”

Not only did you already know that— you actually visited the café on its final day. The owner was telling you stories: he was moving somewhere warmer, closer to family, and he needed all the funds he could get. Sylus had snuck an obscene amount of money into the man’s tip jar whilst you acted as a distraction. You both had fond memories of that place; it was nice to make one more.   

It's all coming back to you and you’re struck by a wave of nostalgia. You want to go back there. You can’t go back there. It doesn’t exist anymore, and you’ll never taste sweetness like that again.

Your mouth has gone dry.

“Sweetie?” Sylus prompts, because he notices you’re far away. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” your voice wobbles, “I just really wanted… I mean, I really needed one of those—”

“… Macarons?” he finishes for you.

You burst into tears, and one day, you’ll tally this as another time you took the man by surprise. His face drops instantly— lost, for a moment— before he slides your legs from his lap, allowing him to lean closer. “No, no, no,” he coos, “don’t cry, kitten, please. I didn’t mean to… well, I didn’t realise…”

He doesn’t know what to say, and he always knows what to say. He set you off with a single word and now he’s stuttering like sentences are all possible landmines. He tries his luck again, putting a foot forward: “Listen to me. I’ll go to the store. Would that be alright? Or perhaps there’s another café that could—”

You explode: sobbing even more viscerally. Your whole body shakes with it.

Sylus has frozen. He watches on helplessly as you cry, blabbering about the macarons you can’t have and the café you can’t return to. Across the room, even Mephisto has hunched down on his perch, though he issues a few, spirited squawks, maybe in solidarity with your breakdown, or maybe in protest of it.

It’s like a catalyst. You cry more: burying your face in your hands because what the hell is wrong with you? It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal, so why do you feel sick? And then there’s Sylus— your Sylus, devoted and adoring— and here you are, punishing him for something beyond his control.

You look up from your hands, desperate to apologise, but he’s gone. More shards of sunlight paint his empty seat and catch all that’s left of him: a few crow feathers, glistening like onyx. Mephisto is gone too, and the room is quiet, save for you snivelling and feeling sorry for yourself.

“Sylus?” you call out into the empty morning.

It isn’t his fault, not really. You wouldn’t want to be around you, either.

…

Something brushes over your cheek, and your tired eyes open.

The sun has ebbed back behind the curtains and the ceiling light has taken its place, casting artificial highlights over everything in reach: the coffee table, the closed-up flowers at its centre and a mug of tea that’s gone cold. Sylus is in front of you too, backlit and soft like a daydream, and he—

He left you.

“Sy?” you whisper warily, because the context is coming back to you slowly, piece by piece.

“Hey,” he coaxes, voice as honeyed as whatever’s turned the air sweet.

You blink, rubbing sleep from your eyes and relishing the warmth of his hand on your face. Then you slap his shoulder. “Hey, really? That’s all you’ve got— hey?”

He’s kneeling for you— on the floor, beside the couch— so you can meet his eyes. He settles his chin thoughtfully on the edge of the seat, his nose almost touching yours. “What would you prefer, sweetie?” His lips are close to yours too. “Good evening, my beloved? Greetings, my queen?”

“How about sorry?” you snap, because he isn’t cute and he isn’t charming.

He pouts. “Why sorry?”

“Because you left, Sylus!” You sit up straighter, and your phone tumbles out of your lap. Its screen is still lit-up from a few hours ago, showcasing a very one-sided conversation and a rant you never actually sent, because it’s still in the text box.

You vaguely recall writing it, so you try to snatch the phone from Sylus’s hand as he plucks it from the floor. He’s more alert than you. More co-ordinated. He keeps it out of your grasp as he reads the unsent message, an eyebrow raising.

It was a lot of things— colourful, creative— not entirely tasteful. “My, my, your highness,” he tuts, “so this is the treatment your valiant knight receives for undertaking your quest?”

“You’re not valiant,” you rebuke, and you manage to wrestle your phone from him. “You’re—”

“A heartless prick,” he finishes casually, quoting your message with a chuckle. He takes your free hand and kisses the back of it, refusing to let you pull away. “And whose fault is that, I wonder?”

“You can have your heart back.”

“Nope. You’re stuck with it, sweetie. With me, too. Now—” he sits back on his knees— “would you please ask me about my quest?”

The analogy is lost on you. You sit fully up, looking down at him. “What quest, oh valiant knight?”

His lips form a smirk; he just loves when you play along. “Close your eyes.”

You do— whether you’re queen or not. You hear him shifting aside, and then there’s a snap of his fingers. The air changes, warping like thick, liquid smoke, and you know he’s using his Evol. “Open,” he commands.

And there on the coffee table, freshly teleported, is a plate of macarons the colour of cherry blossoms. As if anticipating the comparison, Sylus pulls a handful of pink petals from his pocket and blows them up into the air so they can spiral down on the scene. He watches them. Then you. “Ta-da,” he proclaims, his tone dry but full of humour.

You’re prone to hyperbole nowadays, but this is without a doubt the best thing you have ever seen.

“Sylus,” you gasp in disbelief, “how did you—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says; the story isn’t for today, and he’s very, very tired. A few weeks from now he’ll tell you about how he tracked down the contact information of the owner of the old café. How he spent an hour on the phone bargaining for a certain macaron recipe, and several more hours in the kitchen, trying to get them perfect. “Now, they might not be exactly the same, sweetie. But I did try to—”

You surge forwards, capturing his lips in a kiss. It��s so impulsive— so reckless— that you almost tumble down from the couch, but he catches you, steadies you, and your hand is gripping the soft of his hair as he kisses you back. Slowly, his mouth not leaving yours, he lifts you back into your seat.

“Easy, sweetie.” His voice is low as he pulls away, and though he turns his face from you, you can make out the blush on his cheeks. He settles back into his kneeling position on the floor. “I have one more surprise for you. Do try to control yourself.”

He retrieves a small, complete flower from his pocket, albeit one a little dreary from its journey. Sylus smiles triumphantly as he holds it out to you, and he was right; you do want to throw yourself at him. Instead, you take the flower and lean forwards, tucking it behind his ear before he can protest. He’d tilted closer to help you, and he sits back with an exasperated tsk when you’re done.

“It suits you,” you grin.

He yawns. “Everything does.”

You don’t want to get into trouble, so you shimmy to the very edge of your seat and carefully— showing tremendous restraint— reach out to take his face in your hands. “You’re amazing, Sy. Thank you for doing all of this for me, but…”

“But…?”

“I missed you. I like macarons, yeah,” you smile, “but I’d much rather have you.”

This time, he can’t hide his face and the way it goes pink, like the blossom behind his ear. His cheeks are warm beneath your palms. “You couldn’t have said that before I spent the whole day—”

His voice is strangled as you keel towards him— slow and deliberate— to thread your arms around him and pull him into a hug. He tenses for a moment, then wraps his arms around you too: holding you tightly, keeping you from falling any further. You can feel his hand stroking your back and he hums as you give him a gentle squeeze.

“Such a lovely moment, kitten,” he muses, your head on his shoulder. “I do hope it’s sincere, and not— say— an excuse for someone to get her paws on the macarons behind me.”

There’s another moment of quiet.

“Don’t be silly, Sy,” you retort, but your mouth is full, your cheeks are stuffed, and not a single word of it is intelligible.

[xxchumanixx]

Glimpses

Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings/Tags: fluff, angst, Bucky (yes, he's a warning), reader has the ability to show other people images in their head (does that make sense?), otherwise not described, spoilers for fatws

Word count: tba

Authors note: To be honest, I've been working on this for months, bit by bit. I didn't have much time to write or post something lately, and somehow, the motivation went with it. But I love this man to no end, and I had to finish this (for my sake, too). Im not a hundred percent happy with it, but we're just gonna roll with it.

I hope you enjoy it.

It gnawed at you, gripping you with a hand made of iron, it's icy fingers sending chills down your spine.

How could she do this to you?

Someone you once envied for being related to Peggy Carter, one of the founders of SHIELD, maybe one of the coolest persons to have ever existed.

Now, you couldn't help but pity Sharon Carter.

Sam nudged your foot with his, ripping you out of your thoughts. "What's up with you?" he wanted to know, brows furrowed.

Blinking at him, you tried to grasp what he was talking about, before shaking your head with a sigh.

"When Sharon was pardoned, I heard her say something I don't know what to think of..." you mumbled, biting your cheek. Sam rose a brow in return, Bucky's furrowing.

You were sitting in a private jet, a small table in front of you, with Sam sitting diagonally to your right and Bucky to your left.

"When she came out, she dialed someone, saying something about super soldiers being off the menu, weapons and 'should be something for everyone'." you recited what you had heard her say.

You had been there to congratulate her, welcome her back. But, when she stepped out the building, immediately dialing someone, you hid back in the crowd, carefully listening.

Yeah, eavesdropping wasn't nice, but something urged you to do it.

And you had been right.

"Nah," Sam made, shaking his head with a chuckle. "You must have misheard her."

Licking your lip, you shook your own head. "No, I know what I've heard."

Sam's brows furrowed, eyes trained on you. "Y/N, I'm sure you just misheard her." he repeated his words softer.

Eyes widening, your mouth was agape. "Sam-" you started, but he cut you off. "No, Y/N-" "Sam!" with a yell of his name and a slam of your hand on the table, you locked eyes, letting your power whir to life.

You could see your own eyes change color in his iris, energy flowing through you, as you forced him to see what you've seen.

Sharon left the building with a smile on her face, radiating confidence. Pulling out her phone she dialed a number, slowly walking further down the steps.

"Start lining up our buyers." she spoke into the phone, seemingly not caring enough to watch her surroundings for anyone listening. "Super Soldiers might be off the menu, but we're about to have full access to government secrets, prototype weapons, you name it. Should be something for everyone."

With that, she left, leaving you speechless.

With a gasp, you let go of Sam's mind, rapidly blinking to get the dry feeling out of your eyes.

Sam stared onto the table, swallowing. His hands trembled slightly, whilst Bucky grew impatient.

"Can I see?" he wanted to know, eagerly leaning forward in his seat. It made you chuckle, despite the dread in your stomach.

Letting Bucky enter your mind, was something different.

You weren't able to control your powers a hundred percent, which would be a risk, when letting someone in. There could be emotions or flashes of memories that could seep through, something you didn't want.

Especially not with him.

You had been in love with him for a while now, but never dared to make a move on it. Not, when he was so far out of your league.

Swallowing, you nodded hesitantly.

Locking eyes with Bucky's blue ones, you let your power come to life again, heart pounding faster.

You showed him the same thing you showed Sam, trying your hardest to concentrate only on the memory of Sharon, nothing else.

Slipping back out of it, you blinked rapidly, whilst Bucky sat frozen in his chair.

Shaking your head, you felt it deep in your chest, slowly making its way up - luckily for you, you had cut the connection already.

It was a memory you cherished deep in your heart, one of your favorites. It was Bucky, smiling happily.

Most of the time his smile didn't reach his eyes, not like it should have. He wasn't as carefree, at least not until he teamed up with Sam.

He was lying on the sofa in Sarah's house, Sam's sister. The kids had been playing with the shield, whilst Bucky was still sleeping on the couch.

You had been sitting at the small coffee table, able to see him, but he wouldn't see you at first glance.

When he woke up, softly calling out to the kids with a smile and a peace, they panicked, putting the shield back into its bag.

It had you smiling into your mug, quietly chuckling, as you sipped your coffee.

His smile was real, beautiful and rare. His eyes sparkled with joy, sunlight catching in them, highlighting the blue of his iris, as he leaned back into the cushions.

It showed the Bucky he was back in the forties, slowly peeling away layer after layer of his hardened shell.

Closing your eyes, you willed the memory away, slowly shaking your head, to get rid of it.

When your eyes opened again, looking back up at Bucky and Sam, Bucky's eyes were glued to your face.

His brows were furrowed, deep in thought. His mouth opened the slightest bit, but it closed again, like a fish.

Your own eyes widened the slightest bit, belly churning, as you realized.

The faint line connecting your minds - it was still there.

Your breathing fastened, fist clenching, as you looked at Sam, trying to come up with something to pull him into a conversation - but your mind was as blank as a wall.

Seriously, now you were able to think of nothing?

Your hands began to sweat, as you tried your hardest not to burst into tears. It was exactly what you had feared to happen, not being able to control it.

Mostly the reason you never really let Bucky enter your mind, fearing what he might find.

"Do you think-" Sam started, but cut himself off with a shake of his head. "That she's the power broker?" you returned, eager to flee into this conversation, but it was over just as fast as it had begun. "Yeah."

Bucky didn't say anything, eyes fixed on his hands that were seated in his lap.

Sam sighed, one hand swiping over his face. He was tired, you could tell. Being the new Captain America wasn't easy.

"Excuse me." you mumbled, standing up, before heading out of the room and towards the bathroom, where you locked yourself in.

You choked on a breath, fighting the tears, but soon losing. How could you be so careless? You should have known it wouldn't end well, letting him enter your mind.

But it would have been suspicious not to show him, either.

You could only hope you'd get out of this unscathed.

_____

Sam cleared his throat in discomfort, fist clenching on the table.

If he hadn't known your memories were true, he would have brushed it off with a laugh. He'd worked with Sharon before, and she never seemed like someone who would turn on her own people.

How long, til she would turn on them?

Eyes lifting, they met the side of Bucky's face. He was quiet, more than usual.

"How can she do this to us, after all we went through?" Sam asked in a mumble, ripping Bucky from his thoughts with a "Huh?".

Brows furrowing, Sam tried to analyze the man he didn't want to call friend, even though he'd become exactly that over the past few weeks.

"What's up with you?" he asked, frown deepening. Sure, Bucky had his moments where his thoughts drifted off, but not like this.

Not when you just basically fled a minute ago.

Bucky shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "I don't know." he gave back, forehead wrinkling in thought.

Hell, if he could only make sense of what he'd seen.

"What happened?" Sam dug deeper, having noticed how long you two had been silent when showing him what you'd seen.

It took longer than he thought needed to.

Bucky wiped over his face.

It was like he switched bodies with you when that memory of yours slipped through. He could feel everything.

Every little emotion.

"I-" Bucky was searching for the right words as he suddenly stood. "Excuse me."

He followed into the direction you'd taken off to, causing Sam to frown even more.

He stopped in front of the bathroom door, softly knocking before the courage could have left him.

"Y/N?" he called out, heart beating unsteady. "Can we please talk?"

You flinched, perched on the toilet seat as you desperately wiped at your face. "Why?" you called out, giving your very best to sound neutral.

You could hear him hesitate, the little sounds that left his mouth that he himself didn't even notice. "Please?" he then just asked, fingers drumming on the door.

You hesitated as well, not sure if you should open the door to face your imminent death of shame.

With a heavy sigh you got up, though, shaky fingers fumbling for the lock, taking a moment longer to unlock it before it was pushed open by Bucky merging into the small bathroom, cramping the space even more.

You stumbled back, colliding with the sink.

"What was that?" Bucky wanted to know, eyes on yours, searching them for anything that gave him an answer. "What?" you gave back, deciding to act dumb.

Maybe he wouldn't notice.

Of course he would, you idiot.

His brows furrowed, a look of confusion and bewilderment crossing his features. "You know exactly what I mean, don't play dumb now, Y/N!" he shot back, not amused.

See?

Told you so.

You swallowed the lump that somehow didn't want to budge, blocking your airways. "I- I don't know." you stuttered out, mentally cursing yourself for being so reckless to let him enter your mind in the first place.

Bucky frowned even more, not sure whether to believe you or not. After all he had felt it, not sure if he really wanted to know, though.

He didn't dare to hope.

You inhaled shakily, trying to force your heart rate down, to calm yourself a little.

Easier said than done.

"Are you sure you don't know?" Bucky pressed, voice tinged with something you couldn't place. "Because I'm sure I didn't imagine what I've seen or felt."

You flinched at that.

He knew, he knew for fucks sake, and there was no way you could have made him believe that it was nothing.

To be fair, you wouldn't have believed yourself, either.

No one would feel immense happiness, content, and warmth just because of a person they saw as a friend.

Come on.

You swallowed, averting your gaze. There was no backing out now, not when Bucky literally blocked the exit with his presence and muscular body.

"You- you felt it." you mumbled, biting your cheek as your cheeks warmed up slightly, gaze glued to the floor.

Bucky huffed, searching for words for a moment. How was he to explain what he felt?

"It- it was like I was back in the forties." he began, licking his lips. "I felt content, happy. And then I saw this... this memory of yours from me. I didn't know you were there, I didn't see you. What does this mean?"

He sounded desperate, and you didn't know whether it was because he didn't want your feelings for him or if it was the exact opposite.

Your name fell from his parted lips when you didn't answer, and had you looked up into his cerulean eyes, you'd seen the desperation, too.

"I can't tell you." you eventually mumbled, biting your cheek raw. "What? Why?" Bucky gave back, eyes widening before he frowned. "Y/N, what does this mean? Please, tell me!"

You looked up at him, your own brows furrowed in a frown.

Why did he want to know so badly?

"You know what it means." you gave back, doing your best not to avoid his gaze this time. His lips parted a fraction before he shook his head. "No." he said. "I want you to say it."

You heart stumbled once more, threatening to burst from the pace it was going at.

Did he want to have something to laugh about? Did he want to make a fool of you?

Swallowing, you shook your head. "No." you breathed out. "I can't."

His gaze hardened slightly, blue irises growing darker. "Say it." he repeated himself, not going to back down.

He'd rather go back to HYDRA than let this opportunity, this chance pass.

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head again. But before you had the chance to decline once more, he said it again, this time louder. "Say it!"

"I have feelings for you!" you blurted out loudly, his agitation causing you to crack and slip up.

Suddenly, the room grew eerily silent, the ringing in your ears blocking out his harsh breathing. His heart was racing way too fast for a man his age, and he forgot how to breathe for a moment.

He had hoped to hear these words, after all they were the only logical explanation, yet he was speechless. Didn't know how to react.

It's never like it is in your dreams.

Especially not when a dream suddenly comes true.

You shrinked back mentally and physically, his lack of response unsettling. It made you more nervous than you already were, hands sweating as you desperately tried to keep your shit together.

Why didn't he say anything?

When you wanted to push past him, and out of the small bathroom, his metal hand wrapped around your wrist. Your sudden movement had broken him out of his stupor, and he simply couldn't just let you go.

Before you knew it, he had tugged you back in front of him, his lips pressing against yours in a searing kiss.

It wasn't gentle, it was hard and rushed, as he tried to somehow tell you what his vocal cords weren't able to at the moment.

You gasped for air, not prepared for being hauled back and kissed breathless like that.

Bucky greedily took the invitation that wasn't one, his tongue pushing inside your mouth, exploring it before it tangled with yours. Your arms wrapped around his neck, his own around your waist as he tugged you closer.

You tasted sweeter than anything he'd ever tasted in his life.

Gasping for breath he let go of your mouth, eyes closed as he leaned his forehead against yours.

"Don't go." he breathed out shakily, arms wrapping tighter around you like he was scared you'd suddenly vanish if he let go. "Please. There's so much I need to tell you. So please, don't go. I need you, Y/N."

You watched his lashes flutter as he inhaled shakily before his eyes opened. His words had your heart beating faster again, leaving you wanting more.

"What? B-Bucky-" you started, confused because you were so sure he'd reject you.

"No." he cut you off, holding your face in his hands. "I love you."

There it was, out in the open. His most vulnerable moment since HYDRA and he delved into it headfirst. "You have no clue how much I love you, how much these words and these... glimpses mean to me, doll."

You inhaled shakily, every emotion rushing through you at once.

"I just never thought you'd feel the same, deem me worthy of someone as angelic as you."

Your heart ached at his self-deprecating words.

"Bucky," you breathed out his name, shaking your head in his grip. "You're far more worthy than you think you are. You deserve everything good and more."

He grimaced slightly, still not used to being a normal human again. "That's an argument for another time." he said, sending you a crooked smile.

He didn't want to fight right now, not when he much rather wanted to pepper your skin with kisses. And that he did. He kissed everywhere he reached, ignoring your giggles of protest before his lips met yours, silencing you.

It was a feeling that quickly got you addicted.

After a few moments, you broke the kiss, and he placed your head on his chest, inahling your familiar scent.

"Was it intenional?" Bucky wanted to know after a few moments of savoring your warmth, arms circled around you.

It felt really good to hold you like that.

You grimaced slightly. "No, of course not." you gave back. "I can't always control it. Besides, I never thought you'd want me."

"Why?" he asked, confusion lacing his voice as he pulled back slightly to look down at you. "Because I'm weird." you explained, blushing as you averted your gaze. Bucky huffed, using his finger to tilt your chin back up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Baby, weird is my second name." he gave back softly. "Maybe I need a little extra weird."

You wanted to respond something, how you would love to be his extra portion weird, as it suddenly knocked on the door loudly.

"Hurry up, I need to pee!"

Tag List:

@ava @sapphirebarnes @skywalker0809 @freyathehuntress @queenslandlover-93 @judig92

[yet-another-heathen]

On conditioned whumpees...

Y'know, I think one of the things that people get wrong with conditioned whumpees is their rules. Specifically, when a whumpee was in long term captivity/training and they later get released or escape.

Most people write them as latching onto a caretaker or new whumper, and begging for new rules so they know they're doing something right. A new set of laws to live by, a new framework to behave to.

And that's... not really how conditioning works.

Conditioning means automatic reactions. Your body doing something that was trained into you without consulting your brain first.

There is no decision making. There is no choice. The trigger hits, and you are immediately performing the correct action regardless of anything else.

You're told to kneel? Your knees have already hit the ground. You're supposed to be standing in one part of the house when a certain noise is made? You've launched into movement before you even realize what you heard.

These rules are woven into the fabric of your body. And they are insurmountable. The conditioning overrides emotion, internal conflict, hesitation, beliefs, wants... everything.

Your whumpee may very well hate what is being done to them, and after the moment has passed they're cursing themself and their whumper. They're still a person on the inside. And that person is still very much alive. Most of the time, they will have some level of awareness that what's being done to them is wrong. They'll be angry. They'll be hurt. And they will hate that there is nothing they can do about it.

But the next time that trigger occurs, the response still hits them exactly the same.

So now take your whumpee out of that situation. They ran away, were rescued, were sold. They got out. Now they're with new people, a new caretaker, a new whumper. Or they're on their own and trying to make their own way in the world.

But those conditioned responses are still there.

There's no turning them off. You don't just replace them with new rules. They are in your every fibre. They have been built into the very framework of who you are.

The next time someone says the word "kneel", your knees are on the ground again. No matter where you are, or who you're with. The response happens before you can stop it. If they don't know why, everyone looks at you like you're insane. And you feel like you are.

Deconditioning is an agonizing process that takes more effort than I can even begin to describe to someone who's never experienced it.

Every time they hit that trigger, that response will still be there. Over, and over, and over, and over.

Breaking those rules down takes YEARS. And it is a constant effort that the whumpee has to choose to undergo every single time. Progress is measured milimeter by milimeter. You're told to kneel, and you kneel. You're told to kneel, and your mind catches up with the fact that you already did it— but a little sooner than it did before. Then a split second sooner. Then as you're doing it. Then you feel the impulse just before your knees hit the ground. Then you have a split-second of resistance before you go down. On and on and on and on, inching toward progress despite the fact that you're fighting with all your might. And that progress is anything but linear.

You don't just start obeying new rules. You don't latch on to your caretaker's new way of doing things and drop everything that you were conditioned to do before. These rules don't just get replaced.

Conditioning is not a belief system. It's a flinch response. Programmed deeper than the instincts you were born with.

You can be ordered not to obey the old command, and moments later when the trigger comes, you will anyway. Because in conditioning, the action comes before the choice.

These rules, these laws of your existence, come above everything else. And if your new whumper wants to replace them, they are going to have to beat the new rules into you so often and so severely that the pain becomes stronger than the old conditioning. At which point, the newly desired response will very, very slowly start to take over.

You're not swapping out new rules. You're layering new, worse conditioning on top of the old. And your brain will spend time stuck in that split-second between both responses before one finally grows stronger than the other. And even then, the change will not happen quickly.

That is what your conditioned whumpee is up against. That is what makes it such a horrible—HORRIBLE— and powerful tool.

[bunnyyyuu]

includes: f! reader, aged up! best friend yuuji, cheating, cunnilingus, breeding (kinda), anal mentioned, bad idea mistakes made. not proofread at all

yuuji is the best best friend anyone could ever ask for.

you're sobbing your eyes out? he’s there to rub your back and hold your tissues. you're having health problems that are waaaayy too embarrassing to tell a doctor? he’s doing extensive research to try to figure out how to help you. you're super drunk and throwing up? he’s holding your hair back, whispering how it's all gonna be alright. you're super hungover? don't worry! he has just the thing. you post a picture of yourself? he’s your number one hype man, leaving an insane amount of comments about how you came, served cunt, ate without leaving any crumbs, and left. the point is: he is the best.

unfortunately, however, most guys aren't the biggest fan of girls with a boy best friend. but don't fret! yuuji will be there to comfort you about feeling lonely. after all, he's always here for you.

oh! fortunately, however, you finally find yourself in a relationship with a guy that just adores you, and doesn't give two shits about yuuji as long as he doesn't pull anything. and, of course, yuuji would never pull anything.

not-so-fortunately, however, after over a year of dating, your amazing boyfie is gone on a work trip for months.

you have needs! needs he’d usually be fulfilling! how could he leave you like this? all alone! it's so sad, truly. your hands or measly toys will never feel as good as the real thing.

naturally, tmi has never once existed in you and yuuji’s friendship. so you end up on a call with him, yakking his ear off about how desperately you need a dick appointment. you just keep going on and on and on about way too many details of the sex you so dearly miss.

“and he's so good with his mouth!” you continue, not even giving yuuji the opportunity to respond, “like, there's no way i can do that to myself! uuuuuggggh—when’s he coming home?” you're pacing your bedroom, getting almost antsy, as you blab.

yuuji’s on the other line, just giggling occasionally, letting you ramble all you want. but, suddenly, something pops into his head.

“oh, god, he does this one thing with his tongu—”

“why don't i help you out?” the words are rolling out of his mouth.

why you agreed is unbeknownst to you, but yuuji is down on his knees on the floor of your apartment in less than fifteen minutes nonetheless.

of course, you'd never cheat on your boyfriend! that's not what you're doing! this is just a favor, right? a friendly little thing. yuuji doesn't want his best friend to be all sad and frustrated. he just can't bear to see you like that any longer.

your pussy is prettier than he imagined (yes, he’s imagined her before—one too many times you've bent over in a too short skirt and almost accidentally flashed him or a few too many pairs of pants that hug her too tight and you somehow how don't notice). he stares for a moment up at your leaky cunt in what must be awe once your pants are pulled off and you're lazily spreading your legs apart for him on the edge of your bed.

he’s not gonna tell you he thinks you're pretty. well, not now. obviously, you're ethereal—he’s told you before—but, when he's inching his parted lips toward your swollen clit, he’s gonna keep his mouth metaphorically shut.

his eyes flutter shut in unison with yours as his tongue flattens on the underside of your little bundle of nerves. your hands slap into his hair, it's shorter than your boyfriend’s, but it’ll do. his hands hold your legs far enough open with his big hands while he absolutely loses himself in your pussy.

this wasn't his first rodeo, but your taste, your cunt, your everything is far from anything he’d ever had before. perfect is the only word he knows to describe it, but even that doesn't come close.

he's moaning maybe more than you are as he laps at the sap oozing out of you. his dick feels like it's being suffocated in the strict confines of his sweats and boxers; he's not sure he's even been this hard before.

though, he knows this isn't for him. he can go rub one out when he's left you satisfied, but he has to get you satisfied first. this is just a favor for you.

but, when you're squirting down his throat shamefully quick, he can’t help but help the sadness that he’d have to go so soon. you're convulsing and mewling out incoherent words that sound suspiciously close to yuuji’s name. your mind feels a mess. you hadn't cum since the last time your boyfriend was home (which felt so long ago now, even longer than it had been), but something was telling you it wasn't enough.

he pulls away to do something—wipe your juices that were trickling down his chin, say something to you, or get a rag to clean you up—but his actions are interrupted with an almost lightning fast reflex shove on the back of his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt again. for the first time since he started, he glances up at your face, all sweaty and plastered with the most beautifully erotic look.

“yuuji,” you breathe out, completely forgetting what you’d half-heartedly mentioned about not wanting to use his name so it didn't feel so intimate, “wan’ your tongue in me.” your words are lewd, words yuuji never expected to hear from your mouth, especially directed at him. his cock twitches a little in its cotton prison, pre-cum oozing from his pretty pink tip and leaving a dark spot in his boxers.

he can't say no to you.

he dips his head lower, the tip of his nose pressed just below your clit as he tentatively presses his hot tongue into your hole. you're squeezing around him instantly with a grip that his him worried you might suck his tongue out of his mouth. you can't help but to throw your head back and moan all too loud while gripping his hair harder than you’ve ever gripped anything in your life.

he's practically just french kissing your cunt, no real direction or plan considering he’s just as lost in your pussy as you are in his mouth, but it brings a sense of nirvana to you anyway. it feels like your soul has left your body, replacing any sense of self with some sort of sex fiend who wants yuuji.

maybe it's the lack of recent adequate stimulation, maybe it's the fact that's is yuuji, maybe it's something else entirely, but, either way, you are a mess. hiccuping through shrill moans, legs shaking and thrashing, eyes bolted shut, knuckles turning white from your grasp on yuuji’s pink locks, pussy throbbing. you’re not sure you’ve been such a desperate, horny creature of a woman ever in your life. but, is the explanation really necessary? not when you start grinding down on yuuji’s face, no.

you're swiping your slick soaked folds up and down over his nose, moaning and whimpering when your clit rolls over the slope just right. it's even more heavenly when yuuji shoves his tongue further inside you, sending vibrations up into you with a groan at how you humped his face.

when you're suddenly cumming on his face again, with a sharp “yuuji!”, you’re sure your brain is all gone. any sense of rationality, of anything at all was gone. you should be worried about how wrong this is, how the old lady whose apartment is next to yours that’s way too invested in you and your boyfriend's relationship will definitely ask why you were screaming another man's name. but, you're not. you're not worried about anything but your best friend and his magical mouth.

his brain's out the window too. which is why he doesn't think twice before crawling on top of you and latching his lips onto yours. he's tugging his pants and boxers down with such fervor while his other hand gropes your tits and pushes you down on your bed, the same bed you’d gossiped and giggled in with the man on top of you. you can taste yourself on your lips, but it doesn't make you cringe like you thought it would—though you're a little too focused on the absolutely delightful kiss you’re sharing.

“i know you said that i’d just be eating you out,” he mumbles against your lips between heavy kisses once his cock is finally free, “but, please.”

you don't even remember what you said at this point as you nod dumbly.

he practically moans at the permission alone. he holds the base of his dick and swipes the tip up and down your sopping folds, only pulling away from your kiss swollen lips to stare at the lewd sight. you don't look, letting your head roll back and tongue loll out of your mouth.

the second his fat tip is pushing past your weakened ring of resistance, he's moaning like a bitch in heat. he can't decide whether to let his eyes roll so far back he can see his brain or ogle the filthy scene between you two. he listens to the delectable, unfiltered noises that bubble out of your throat without so much as breath between, and it only fuels the fire of need in his stomach.

he's thought of you before. he couldn't help it, who could? on nights of pumping his fist when his imagination ran too wild or he ran out of porn to watch, of course the most important girl in his life would pop up. bent over with your face stuffed in the pillows, pretty cunt glistening with your wetness on full display for his eyes. or your plump lips (that your boyfriend always got to kiss, how unfair) wrapped around his cock, hollowing your cheeks and holding only the most orgasm inducing eye contact as you take him down your throat expertly. or maybe even his cock using your ass while his fingers plunge in out of your pussy, amorous and perverted sloshing sounds filling his ears—

oh, yeah. reality.

he’s only about halfway in, and the sheer girth of his cock as you arching you back and writhing in place. it would hurt if he didn't make you cum oh-so hard twice in a row. he pulls his hand away from his base to roll his shaky thumb over your abused clitty, earning a sharp hiss from you. though, it goes unnoticed.

everything is unnoticed by yuuji right now. he could barely tell you his own name with the way your hole is sucking the dear life out of his cock. condoms? what are those? your boyfriend? who’s that? any woman other than you? doesn't exist.

tears are forming in your hazy eyes once he bottoms out, the feeling of being so full registering you nothing but a personified mess of pleasure. yuuji was clearly bigger than your boyfriend, not by much length wise, but he was much thicker, stretching out your gummy walls.

he doesn't give you much time to recover (not like you want it anyway) before he's slamming in and out of you. your basically limp body bounces up with each mean thrust of his hips, drilling his cock so perfectly up into you. his thumb is still lazily circling your clit.

it's not long before he's practically begging to cum. with all sense long disappeared, you agree, feeling on edge again yourself.

he mumbles a thanks as his pace grows impossibly harder and sloppier, reaching an previously undiscovered spot deep inside you that has you breathlessly gasping out little “ah! ah! ah! ah!”s with each ram against it. your clenching around him, trying to milk him for all his worth as your release washes over you a third time.

as you coat his cock and hand and add the puddle of your juices under your ass, he stops his aimless thrusts to force his cock so deep inside you that you see nothing but stars—it's like he's trying to get you pregnant. hot, sticky cum fills you up to the brim, overflowing your cunt.

and it's as he finishes oh-so deep inside your pussy, tip kissing your cervix, that he mutters three words. words he’d said to you before, words you’d said back to him, though in much different contexts. after long, heartelt talks, after a really great stress relieving hangout, when you're hanging up the phone, when you just want to appreciate your best friend. but, this isn't one of those times. he's filling you with cum, saying,

“i love you.”

[yestrday]

: ̗̀➛ NOT THE EXCEPTION . yan! isagi yoichi / gn! reader

you were the fool for thinking that he'd be the only sane one in a team full of batshít crazy athletes. now he has you cornered, and the look in his eyes tells you that you should have never underestimated a wólf in sheép's clothing.

+ happy happy belated birthday to the love of my life bbg (who shan't be named) AND happy new year to everyone!!

( HOW DO I WRITE KISSING SCENES????, forced kíssing, dúbcon, n/sfw mentions, mánipulation, hárem mentions [bc it's not yester without a hárem] )

You don't know why you thought he was the exception.

Maybe it's because, in a team full of egoists, Isagi seemed to be the only one to treat you like his equal. Shidou drapes himself all over you and leaves you icky with his séxual comments, Rin cooly glares at you and barely acknowledges your existence, you could nearly faint at the mere glare of Kunigami, and Bachira likes to play rough with your body as he clings and begs for your attention.

That's not even the complete cast. Even people like Nagi, Reo, and Chigiri came with their own set of problems. But not Isagi. You had thought it would never be Isagi. Sure, he had a tongue and attitude on the field, parading around his victory with a smug smirk and spitting poíson at opponents and teammates alike. Yet that side of his seemed to completely disappear whenever he stepped out of the field, his prédatory gaze softening into a fond look whenever you bounded up to him to congratulate him on a well-earned victory. He never tried your boundaries or let his touch linger like the others did.

He was a gentleman through and through, and thinking that was your first mistake.

Your second mistake was being alone with him in your living room. He's still wearing that soft expression and kind smile, but his hands are gripping your wrists too tightly.

"[Your Name]." He says your name in a hushed whisper, bringing up your trembling wrist to his lips so he can press a kiss on a new bruíse. You watch with wide eyes as those plush lips touch your skin and permeate an icy feeling of doom through the veins. His gaze meets yours.

"Don't you think I did well today?"

Though your gut is telling you that something isn't right, you're still a fool smitten with the gentle image Isagi had portrayed himself to be. You find yourself slowly nodding, entranced by those blue eyes that never look away from you.

"Why do you think so?" He presses another kiss on your wrist, before loosening the bruising grip so he can trail kisses up your arm.

"... Your metavision is still as keen as ever," you whispered. The television screen is reflected in his eyes, news of Japan's newest victory flashing on the screen. You can't look away. "You expertly led the others to victory; you instigated all the right chemical reactions for the perfect shot." You lick your dry lips. "... You were amazing."

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder, massaging your bruised wrist like he wasn't the one who left that mark. "You're not echoing Ego's words, are you? I want to hear your own thoughts, not that slimy bastard's."

"M... Maybe," you admit, tense with his grip on your shoulder tightening. "I don't know much about soccer, but I meant every word. You were amazing, Isagi, you really were."

His grip softens, you're still tense, and he hums contentedly. "Right. I was amazing. I devoured every single bastard on that field and left them gasping." Your hair tickles your ear as he pushes them back. "So, don't you think it's a bit unfair?"

"... What is?"

"That I have to share my trophy with the others." His hand feels cold on your neck. "Can't I have one thing to myself? [Your Name], look at me."

You follow. He smiles that gentle smile again. He thumbs your lower lip like a lover.

"Kiss me."

You read romances all the time. They had always described it as hot, passionate, fiery. But maybe you took fiction too seriously. Real life is always different, and the ice in your veins is proof of that.

You draw closer, breath hitched, and mustering all the courage and swallowing down the unease in your heart, you press your lips on his.

There is no fire like the ones described in the books. There is a heavy pit in your stomach. Is this what they call butterflies? You tremble under the scrutinizing gaze of Isagi, eyes still open even with your lips on his. Soon, he closes his eyes too and you feel his lips smirk against yours.

Returning the kiss, he pulls you in closer and takes your everything in deeply. You can't pull away, you don't pull away. In this very moment, he's devouring everything you can offer— for now, physically; soon, mind and spirit. You wince when he bites down on your lip, not even trying to be gentle about it. You flinch backward from the pain, but his hand on the small of your back allows you no escape.

"Kiss me back, baby," he whispers between kisses. "You're my trophy for the night."

You kiss with less passion than him, too nervous about making him happy. You match the softness of his lips with yours, lapping at his tongue like how he does. He laughs when he pulls away, finding amusement in the blushy and nervous look on you.

"Gosh, you're so cute," he sighs, grinning at you. It's no longer friendly, those lips. A bit swollen from your kitten bites, the way he's smirking at you feels too... smug. "Too cute. Those bastards won't have any chance now that I've devoured you."

You gasp when his hand tightens on your hip, and you shoot him a nervous look. "I– Isagi, what are you...?"

"C'mon, [Your Name], how could you possibly not have seen it?" He chuckles. "Bargin' into the locker room every time we're half naked, in those cute shorts, and you think that not one man in that room would think about taking you on the fuckin' bench? Think, cutie. But you've always been wary of them, good thing. They think they can devour you by intimidating and belittling you? Those fuckers don't know shit."

He catches your bottom lip between his teeth and laughs at their stupidity, vibrations buzzing your lip. "First, you gotta sweeten the trap with honey, you know?"

You are reflected in those captivating blue eyes, fluorescent lights illuminating your paling features. Taking you in again, he devours your lips once again, caring only for the taste of victory on his lips and your sweet sounds on his tongue.

Another victory snatched.

[ponderingmoonlight]

would you be able/want to do something with gojo where him and the reader are both teachers and are in an established relationship but the student (aside from megumi) don’t know and start trying to figure out who gojo’s in a relationship with? i feel like gojo would either mess with them or be honest that it’s you but they just don’t believe him cause. yk. it’s you?

Hey, thank you so much for that great request, it was really fun to write! I mixed it up a little with an already existing fic of mine, I hope you don't mind. Let me know what you think <3

Part l to this fic can be found here

Gojo going nuts when his students don't believe him that you are his wife

Pairing: husband!Gojo x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,5k

Synopsis: When Satoru wears his wedding ring for the first time in front of his students, Nobara can't help but wonder who he's married to. But when Gojo confesses it's you, his students just don't believe him.

Warnings: language, sad Gojo lol, this is an absolute comfort fanfic so there you go if that's what you need today, read part l if you haven't yet <3

Tags:  @arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld @dazaisdick @hellkaiserinphoenix  @lauv4chuuya @shadowfoxey @starlightanyaaa @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen @magalimachete @mokoartpost @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut  @mynahx3

„Itadori!“ Nobara hisses through gritted teeth.

“Did you just see that?”

“What do you mean?”, Yuji remarks with doe-eyes, gazing up at her with no clue what she’s even talking about.

“That ring on Gojo-sensei’s finger, you idiot”, she barks back at him while frantically running to the door in order to catch one last glimpse at him.

“Is he by any chance married, Fushiguro?”

Megumi signs to himself, staring at Nobara in nothing but annoyance. That talk from last week where she literally forced you to describe Gojo still doesn’t sit right with him. Of course, Megumi knows about your relationship. After all, he’s been with both of you for many years now, witnessed countless times how Gojo caresses your cheek gently in the darkness of privacy, how he calls you “darling” around the house and passes out on the couch next to you 10 minutes into a movie. And even though both of you never talked about this whole marriage being private thing, Megumi simply refuses to talk about your love life – even with his friends.

“I have no idea. But maybe minding your own business will help with your complexion or something”, Megumi bites back.

All of the sudden, Nobara smacks the back of his head hard.

“Hey, that’s pretty mean, you don’t have to be so rough!” Yuji complains in an instant.

“Both of you, shut up. I will just ask him when he returns. Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“There are actually a lot of reasons not to tell you…”

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH FUSHIGURO!”

“Huh, what’s going on here? I’ve been gone for a minute and you’re already smacking your heads?”

Casually, Satoru sits down behind is desk, long legs stretched out in front of him while nipping at the coffee you just made him. Oh, how much he loves to pay you a small visit during work. Just to be assured that you’re fine, that the second years don’t get on your nerves while training them. He just loves to adore you from afar. Yes, and the minute he gets home, you’re all his and his alone.

“You’re wearing a ring on your finger”, Nobara suddenly blurts out.

Satoru tils his head to the side, gaze wandering over his wedding ring. While he normally never wears it in fear of losing it during some stupid mission, today is your anniversary. The urge to proudly show off his ring became much greater than any anxiety. Also, today is a teaching only day and he’ll return home with you by his side after this lesson is over. The things he has planned for both of you tonight…He smirks to himself, joyful like a child when thinking about the surprise that’s waiting for you at home.

“Gojo-sensei!”

Megumi’s urgent voice rips him out of his daydreams.

“So what? A ring has many meanings”, Satoru replies calmly.

You never talked about this. While you seem to silently agree that showing each other affection at Jujutsu High isn’t what you want and that you are keen to keep your relationship private, you never talked this through. Last week when you described Satoru Gojo so well as your favourite type of men, you never said his name once, probably turned completely red when Yuji mentioned it so casually.

“Yeah, like being married for example!”

“Maybe I am, who knows?”

Satoru intertwines his fingers behind the back of his head, smirking at Nobara who is close to lose her mind widely.

“Maybe you should leave him alone…”, Yuji suggests in hushed tones.

“Maybe you should shut up, Itadori. This is far too important to let it slide!”

“You are way too dramatic about this.”, Megumi comments dryly.

“You guys just don’t understand the magic behind this!”

“So you want to know what this ring means?”

Nobara’s eyes light up in an instant, filled with so much unveiled curiosity that Gojo can’t help but wonder why she is never this invested when it comes to learning.

“Please tell me!”

Let’s see what happens.

“This is my wedding ring. I’m married to (y/n) for three years by now.”

Thick silence, utter speechlessness. The expression on Nobara’s face is so priceless that the urge inside Satoru to take a picture and show it to you later almost becomes unbearable.

“What’s up, Kugisaki? Did you see a ghost?”

“There’s no way in hell this is true”, Nobara mutters into Yuji’s ear, which earns a serious nod from the pink-haired boy.

Wait, what? Satoru furrows his eyebrows while gazing at the girl in front of him in disbelief. What did she just say?

“Why on earth couldn’t this be true, huh?”, he barks at her, hands clenched into fists.

“(y/n) is a real sweetheart with great taste. I just don’t think she would get involved with someone like you. Also, she said that she likes muscular man. And she never wore a ring”, Nobara explains briefly, earning a death stare from Satoru Gojo himself.

Both Yuji and Nobara eye him up and down, critical expression plastered on their faces while whispering unclear things into each other’s ear.

Satoru is on the brick of losing it. Did his students just suggest that you are too good for him? And that he’s not muscular!?

“I am muscular!”, he cries out.

“Megumi-chan, tell them I’m married to (y/n).”

If the ground would be able to swallow Megumi whole, he would take that offer in an instant. They already discussed this stupid matter for over 10 minutes now, when will the lesson finally start?

“Don’t drag me into this. Just do your job”, Megumi mumbles in annoyance.

Of course, Satoru is very aware of the fact that you are striking gorgeous, popular even beyond the boundaries of Jujutsu High. Damn, even here there might be some men who’d want you. But he is the strongest, he is good-looking, he is funny…Why on earth wouldn’t you be married to him?

“See? Nice try Gojo-sensei, but we don’t fall for your shit.”

He can’t believe his ears, face so red that Megumi slides back in his chair just in chase.

“You brats have absolutely no idea what love actually is! I won’t let you tell me who I’m married to or not!”, Satoru spits at his students, catching the attention of you.

Huh, what’s going on inside that classroom? You were on your way to grab some cursed weapons to show Maki, but the way your husband’s furious voice is heard through the entire hall makes you stop in front of his slightly opened door.

“Why are you screaming around here, Sir?”, you question, gazing at Nobara in confusion as she almost breaks down in tears from laughing her ass off.

“(y/n), darling, tell my students that you are my wife!”, Satoru demands.

Is that why he’s so stressed, because he wanted to tell his students that the both of you are married? What is going on here?

“I already told him multiple times we don’t believe him. Last week you said you like muscular man-“

“I AM MUSCULAR!”

You desperately try to hold back a laughter, the stressed out look on your husband’s face being enough to let a little giggle escape your lips. How on earth did that topic even pop up? Your gazer wanders to the wedding ring on his cramped finger, heart filling with warmth in an instant. Oh, he really wears it.

“Maybe he’s wearing that ring only for attention…”, Nobara whispers into Yuji’s ear.

“This is getting ridiculous”, Megumi comments.

“Why don’t we all just calm down a little? Your lesson started 15 minutes ago, why are you still arguing around?”, you playfully throw at your husband.

Despite the fact that you want to throw yourself in his arms right away, you keep your cool composure. This is what he gets for picking on you last week. You’ll make him suffer just the way he did it to you.

“You are supposed to help me with this!”, he complains.

“I am supposed to work right now”, you reply sweetly before turning on your heels and closing the door.

You can’t hold back any longer. Tears start to tickle in your eyes, that priceless look on his face. Oh god, you can’t stop laughing. This evening will definitely be entertaining.

-in the evening-

“Hello, stranger”, you playfully greet your husband as soon as he returns from work, blue orbs almost piercing through you.

“You are supposed to help me! Why didn’t they believe me? I’m I really that much of a downgrade compared to you?”

That little pout forming on his delicate face warms your heart in an instant.

“Maybe it’s better this way. I like to enjoy my time with you in privacy. Nice try though”, you playfully remark, your hands gently running through his soft white hair.

Suddenly he grabs your legs, pulling your body up in the air while all you can to is shriek and laugh out lough. He carries you into the bedroom, letting your body fall onto the soft mattress.

“I will make you pay for not helping me out today you traitor.”

“Then I’m happy to be a traitor.”

[anne-bsd-bibliophile]

"You can't go around judging people on first impressions. That's how mistakes get made." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Honjin Murders

"The police investigate footprints and look for fingerprints. I take the results of these investigations and by piecing together all the available information logically, I am able to reach a conclusion. Those are my methods of deduction." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Honjin Murders

"The Killer had submitted the problem of a locked room murder and dared us to solve it. It was going to be a battle of wits. Perfect. Challenge accepted! If it was brains and logic and wit that were required, I was ready to do battle." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Honjin Murders

"In our world there are some things so dreadful, so terrifying that you would scarcely believe they existed. They are things that common sense and accepted practice would dictate are impossible, but they do exist. Out of reason... that's right. It's a mad state of affairs." - Yokomizo Seishi, Death on Gokumon Island

"Yet, while his unchanging gratitude and devotion to the priest's family were certainly commendable, Sahei failed to realize that everything - even gratitude - has a limit that should not be exceeded, and that his excessive gratitude toward the Nonomiya family would embroil his own kin in a series of bloody murders after his death." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Inugami Curse

"Thirty years can weave strange patterns in the tapestry of life." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Inugami Curse

"With the blind spot that had been hindering his thought process finally removed, everything had fallen into place for him with great speed. All day yesterday, he had been stacking building blocks of deductive reasoning in his mind, with the result that now he had reproduced the entire complex structure of the mystery." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Inugami Curse

"Were it not for the events that I am about to relate, doubtless my life would have continued in that impoverished, humdrum vein. But one day a spot of red was suddenly split on the grey of my life: I embarked on an adventure of dazzling mystery and stepped into a world of blood-chilling terror." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Village of Eight Graves

"Nothing is more frightening in this world than ignorance and stupidity." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Village of Eight Graves

"The events I am about to describe are filled with such darkness and sadness, are so cursed and hate-filled, that not a word I write can possibly offer the faintest glimmer of hope or relief. Even as the author, I cannot predict what the final sentence will be, but I fear that the relentless dread and darkness that precede it may end up overcoming the readers and crush their very spirits in its grasp." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Devil's Flute Murders

"Everyone here is a bit twisted somehow. All they feel for each other is suspicion, resentment and fear. I couldn't tell you why that is. It's as if they're all just waiting for their chance to stick the knife in. As if they think that if they don't, then they'll be on the other end of the blade." - Yokomizo Seishi, The Devil's Flute Murders

Yokomizo Seishi has also been added to the BSD-Bibliophile Online Library!

You can find more information about Yokomizo-sensei on the following pages: List of Books in English Quotes and Facts Collection Fun Facts Author Connections

[mister-tom-a-dildo-lover]

I think a certain amount of etiquette is lost on people in fandom nowadays.

Just in general, but specifically I'm focusing on Tomarry/Harrymort right now because it's relevant my present issue.

I follow Tomarry/Harrymort content on here and Twitter. I am not always active, and I'm not always reacting to every single thing I see. But I see a lot of things and I keep my mouth shut most of the time.

In these past couple of months on Twitter, it's become really annoying to witness this particular subset of the fandom because people make posts that are not-so-subtly shading Tomarry/Harrymort writers every day.

People are so obsessed with how much they love the character and how much they love fanfiction that is true to the character, where they sound just like their canon self and don't seem any different, that they spend their days tearing down depictions of Harry Potter in fanfiction, that dare to stray away from abused, snow-white-angel, Quidditch-obsessed jock.

Many people seem to have forgotten that in the actual story, Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort would not get together. We ship two crack ships. They are things that have no hope in hell of ever happening in the canon story. To even write for Tomarry/Harrymort, we either have to change a few details, leave out a few details, or try to rework the existence of some details so they hit differently and make the pairing make sense for each individual fic.

This fandom purity nonsense has ended up with a lot of recent posts dogging on different kinds of HP tropes over the years and affecting authors.

A few weeks bacl it was 'the era of creature fics was cringe'. And then it was followed by a long list describing certain scenarios in certain stories that used these tropes, and I could immediately pick out which fics inspired these descriptions. There were people in the replies and the quotes land people who took screenshots to post to their own accounts to say shady things(including naming fics specifically!) without others being able to easily access them from the OG post itself.

I, personally, have outgrown creature fics in HP, and I'm not interested in reading them anymore. But I'm not sitting here making lists attacking the tropes involved in them. I'm not sitting here saying that they were stupid and corny, and they were the most unHarry Potter-like writings ever. And I'm not the one out here making the people who wrote those stories and get to see these kinds of comments coming from people in their fandom, feel bad.

IDK, but when So-So sees people bringing their 6-year-old fic up in a post dragging tropes in Tomarry/Harrymort fics, and they suddenly get the urge to just delete their fics entirely and not bother with the fandom anymore... maybe y'all need to learn how to word things better. It's really not that hard to say you're not into a specific thing anymore without having to drag other people down.

[cy-cyborg]

It will never not be frustrating to me that amputees appear in fiction ALL. THE. TIME. and yet they're almost never acknowledged as such. The Cyberpunk genre is especially guilty of this: amputees and prosthetics becoming a normalised part of life are a defining part of the genre/aesthetic and yet no one even consults with any amputees about how we get represented there. Most writers in those genres don't even consider that giving your characters cybernetic arms and legs means they're an amputee.

CW: Ableism, dehumanisation

This makes it REALLY uncomfortable to engage with stories in the genre because another common aspect of cyberpunk is the idea of losing yourself and becoming something distinctly not-human anymore because you have too many cybernetic augmentations/implants. Shadowrun even has mechanics for this, which state if you get too many prosthetics, which is what cybernetics are 9 times out of 10, your character becomes a monster. These mechanics and discussions surrounding "how many robot bits make you not human anymore" are really, really uncomfortable when you remember this isn't something that's unique to a far-off future setting. Those people you're discussing the humanity of already exist. They're called amputees. If you reframe the question as "how many amputations can you have before you stop being a person" I hope you can see why an amputee like myself is not going to feel safe around you or in your fandoms.

And it's a shame, because I REALLY want to like Cyberpunk. I really, honestly do. I love the aesthetics, I love the idea of big corporations being the villains and the anti-capitalism at the heart of the genre, and I love the idea of prosthetics being not only destigmatised, but desirable. When written from a disability-inclusive lense, it honestly has the potential to be an incredibly uplifting and empowering genre. but as the genre stands right now, it's actively hostile to the very folks who are usually the stars of its stories: amputees, all because people just refuse to acknowledge us.

Cyberpunk isn't the only genre guilty of this, it's common all throughout sci-fi as a whole, but Cyberpunk is the only one where it starts becoming a serious issue due to its rampant dehumanisation of a real group of people. In other sci-fi settings, it's just kind of annoying and while it can be a form of erasure, it's not usually harmful, just...frustrating. Fantasy does it on occasion too, think pirates with a hook and a peg leg, but nowhere near as much.

If you, as an author or creator, use any of these words to describe a character or their tech in a sci-fi setting:

cybernetics/cybernetic enhancements

bionics

robot limbs

cyborgs

augmentations

You are probably writing an amputee. Please, at the very least, acknowledge it, and be mindful that those are real people who actually exist, not just a fantasy group you can speculate about.

edit:

I originally posted this article on my old Tumblr account and lot of people commented/reblogged to tell me that originally in cyberpunk, the "less human the more robot bits you have" only applied to people who opted for their limbs to be replaced by cybernetics, because it was seen as "renting out your body to corporations for money" but people who had to get cybernetics out of necessity weren't impacted. The thing is though, I really don't think that makes it better, for a few reasons. For one, where do you draw the line at "opting" to get a cybernetic prosthetic? This isn't a black and white thing, even in real life. Most amputations are done out of necessity, but there are situations where it's not the only option, just the best one. Talking from personal experience, I lost both my legs below the knee as a baby, that was a pretty clear cut case, I had a blood infection and gangrene and they had to act fast. But the infection caused lasting side effects and impacted my physical body's development and growth. By the time I got to my early 20's it was causing a lot of pain in my right leg, in my knee specifically, and when I got a bone infection in the end of that stump, I chose to have the whole thing amputated up to the knee. They only needed to take a few inches off the end of my stump, but I asked them to go higher, because of the ongoing issues in that knee, issues that would have been made worse by the shortening of the leg. I choose to remove the whole thing, knowing the joint was degrading and I probably would have lost it later in life anyway. Even if it was salvageable, it would mean much more surgery, and I've had enough of those. A boy I played wheelchair basketball with was born with a partially formed leg, it was half the size of his other leg and he wasn't able to use it al all, it was just dead weight, so he opted to get it amputated too for convenience and so he could use a prosthetic on that side. I worked with a girl who's hand didn't form properly in the womb, resulting in a normal palm, but tiny "finger nubs" (her words) with no bones inside. They weren't actively harming her usually, but she opted to get them and the top of her palm amputated after an incident at work where we were tying balloons and one of her nubs got stuck in the knot. She decided to get them amputated because it meant accidents like that would be less likely, and she could use a prosthetic more comfortably. All 3 of these are considered "optional" amputations, so would people like us be penalised in your setting? does it make sense that the technology in your setting can tell the difference, or that corporations would care about the how and why? Even stepping away from medical grey areas, if your character opts for a cybernetic arm because the corporations will financially reward her, and she's struggling to put food on the table without that help, is that really optional?

Don't get me wrong, I do think that idea could work but it would take a lot of work to do well, and most works I've seen don't do the work. Even if they did though, it doesn't change the fact that most modern uses of this trope don't mention that bit or actively ignore it. It doesn't matter in most cyberpunk works I've seen if the amputation was optional or out of necessity, they still are more prone to being seen as "less human" and in most of the sci-fi writing communities I've been part of, the authors are genuinely shocked when I ask them to remember "people with cybernetics are real people already, they're not some far-off-distant future fantasy group, they're just called amputees". Like it didn't even cross their minds. These are the people creating the works in this genre. Even if it wasn't the original intention of the genre, it's still an issue in the modern version of it. Edit 2: Elaborated a little more on why I don't think the "only people who choose it" argument works in the edit. Also, please stop telling me that old cyberpunk doesn't have this issue, I literally address that in the post lol.

[bearw-me]

Hiiii!!! Would you mind doing headcannons / a fanfic where Husk has a crush on the reader and one day they ask him if they could cover being a bartender for a while to give him a small break (and to chat with Angel Dust and Cherri Bomb bc they are sitting at the bar too) and he agrees, not thinking that they would actually be able to make any drink or anything, but they actually end up being a phenomenal bartender (yet has never told or shown anyone until now), and it make him flustered as he has an even bigger crush on them now (which he thought was literally impossible). Thank youuuu!!!! 💖💖💖 (Also I love ur work 💖✨)

I cant describe in words how your request made me feel lmao! and thank you so much! ( i could talk about this dynamic all day ♡♡♡

𝐀 𝐅𝐞𝐰 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐔𝐩 𝐌𝐲 𝐒𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐯𝐞

𐐒 includes : husk x gender neutral! reader, cherri bomb, angel dust 𐐒 cw : drinking/mentions of drinking, swearing, fluff, mutual pining, reader and husk are flirting so hard smh 𐐒 summary : Husk could use a break from the bar, so you offer to take up the job for the rest of the night! 𐐒 word count : 1.7 k 𐐒 note : ah, husk + his drinks (guys! husk! with a bartender! is!) my heart is liquid now

The night sure was lively now that Angel Dust and Cherri Bomb came (literally) crashing through the front door.

You smiled, resting your head in your hands as you watched the two from the end of the bar. "Those two must be a handful for you," you teased, letting your eyes flit over to the grumpy old cat you adored.

He managed a smile, glancing over at the two who were downing shots like tomorrow didn't exist. "Yes they are," he mumbled.

"So why'd you come over here Whiskers? You know I'm still working on my drink."

"You know I gotta keep my customer's satisfied," his voice teased back- just as smooth as the whiskey he poured- how charming, you thought. "Can't leave you here all by yourself."

You nodded, feeling a blush creep over the tips of your ears and nose.

Although, you couldn't help but notice. . .

Husk, the charming gambling cat who bartended for the hotel, a cat you could've sworn- or hoped- wanted your attention most nights. . . stared at the pair across the bars edge with a tired eye.

You quietly followed his gaze, humming as you pondered the next move.

"Why don't you pour yourself a drink? On me," you slid your card over the polished wood, only to be stopped as soon as it hit the edge of the bar. Husk's fingers pushing gently against yours.

"It's bad luck for a bartender to drink on the job."

"Is that so? Sounds like superstition," you teased, sadly tucking the card into your pocket.

Doesn't usually stop him from doing it, you moped.

"Hey baby! You can buy me a drink, no strings of course!" Angel called over to you, bringing shameless attention to his chest and biting his lip.

The bar laughed with him, spirits deliciously high tonight now that the couple had joined.

You were glad for the change of pace, "You know what?" You pulled the card out again, raising three fingers so that Husk knew how much to pour "I will buy you that drink Angel."

Cherri and Angel celebrated by downing a shot each, the young overlord herself yelling into the air with glee at the score.

Your gaze lingered over to the two, the sounds of vodka and juice being poured next to you. "Husk?" you asked, not really turning to look at him.

"What's on your mind?"

You waited until the sounds of pouring stopped, little freckles of juice sticking to your hand. . . then you turned to him, a little unsure in what you were asking "This drinks for you."

With a gentle hand, you tried to stop him from sliding it over to you, and responded just as fast as his denial "Let me run the bar for the rest of the night!"

His confusion morphed into the classic doubtful Husk you knew: always keeping his guard up.

"Oh really," he rasped, leaning over the bar to hover right next to your face.

Maybe he was trying to intimidate you, or try to see through you. . . but you tried not to flinch at the challenge, watching his dark eyes narrow "And what do you get out of this?"

You shrugged, a dumb smile popping onto your lips "Time to sober up? How hard could it be?" you purred, relishing in the fact that Husk had recoiled from you.

Sitting across the bar, head cradled in your hands, smirking at him.

He sighed, letting his eyes roll "Alright, fine but-"

Before his sentence even finished, you were right next to him at the back of the bar, staring with a pep in your step at all of the liquors, juices, and garnishes he actually had back here.

"Hey I didn't say you could-"

"Sorry Husk," you pushed him out of the area, feeling a little unwelcome or foreign on this side of the bar.

I mean, you both did, but it wasn't an entirely bad feeling-yet.

"Heyy, the old kitty came to play with us!" Cherri teased, watching as Husk awkwardly took a seat next to the two.

"Finally!" Angel groaned, throwing an arm over Husk and pulling him into the fun.

"On second thought, I don't think this was a good idea," Husk unfurled himself from Angel's grasp.

"Come on Husk, you deserve a break!" Angel insisted.

"Yes! Here are the shots!" You laid the three previously poured shots onto the countertop, eagerly watching as Cherri and Angel picked theirs up, waiting for Husk to join them.

The old cat eyed the shot, the red liquid glimmering quite nicely against the bars wood-top, and back the the pair of smiling faces that awaited him "Fuck it, I could use a drink."

When he smiled, you felt it like your own, proudly watching as the unlikely trio threw the drinks back with a hiss.

"So, what'll it be guys?"

Cherri sighed, slinking over the bar with a devilish grin "Hate 'ta hound ya on your first day, but what can you make?"

You shrugged, the confidence of being behind the bar (and the previous drink you had) voiding any concerns or anxieties you would've had. "What kind of drinks were you thinking?"

"More fucking shots bitch!"

You smiled "Dirty hookers, jagerbombs, lemon drop shots. . . maybe a kamikaze?"

"Oh~" Cherri put a hand on her chest, feigning flattery, "Fucking all of 'em! And throw in a few snake bites for me!"

"Just the dirty hookers for me, doll."

The pair of deviants giggled, marveling at the bars newest bartender and talking to each other whilst you familiarized yourself with Husks' bar.

He keeps it well stocked, you thought. Speaking of which. . .

As you rummaged around for the appropriate bottles, you could feel a familiar burning at the back of your neck.

Husk was staring at you.

You blushed, trying not to make eye contact by busying yourself with this new found task. "What's with the face, Whiskers?"

You heard him grunt, "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"You an alcoholic or something?" he clarified, the sound of him running his empty shot glass against the table lying underneath Cherri and Angel's conversation.

You hummed, not really answering until you had everything set on the bar. Five shot glasses on either side, you took the two bottles in hand flipping them upside down with a smile.

The three watched with amusement as you flipped one bottle high up, counting in your head the number of ounces you were pouring with the other while catching the bottle just in time.

Husks stomach was doing flips, watching on with a mix of anxiety that you'd break something (or god forbid hurt yourself) and the fact that you were actually. . . laughing.

The alcohol in your hands, whiskey, rum, vodka- anything- flying between your hands with the debonaire smile on your face.

Every movement, every flip, every spin. It all looked-

Husk caught himself, throwing his gaze to the side and moping. Trying hard not to think about anything.

"Here you go!" You slid the shots over to the pair, sure that it'd keep them busy for a while. . . or at least a few minutes.

"So what'll it be, boss?" You leaned over the counter, solely focused on him now, with that smug smile on your face. . . or maybe you were still a little tipsy.

"Boss?"

"Sure," you shrugged "Your gonna pay me after right?" You laughed when his face dropped, assuring him it was a joke. "Come on Husk, its time for you to be served for once, what kind of drink do you want?"

He seemed to freeze, the little pieces of fur on the back of his neck standing up like he was full of static. "Anything, I just need a drink," he said honestly.

Back to the same tired Husk, you smiled, chest filled with warmth. He looked, or he seemed. . . well you didn't actually know. Did he like that you were behind the bar?

You grabbed him a bottle of beer, easily wrenching the bottle cap off with the metal opener.

Husk took it into his hands faster than you could set it on the bar, tipping the bottle back so far that the dark green glass shone in the hotels light.

"I guessed you really could've used that drink," you sighed, feeling a little guilty for not doing him this favor sooner.

"Chug! Chug! Chug!" Angel and Cherri caught on as Husk nursed his bottle to almost empty.

You smiled, albeit a little bittersweetly, and turned back to the bar in order to make him something you figured he'd like to try.

With new found 'confidence', Husk blearily eyed your back, a sinking, fluttery feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. Watching you clean the glasses, something he did all the time, it looked. . . magnificent when you did it.

The night continued without a hitch.

You watched from behind the bar as the three laughed. Yes, Husk was laughing, bottle in hand and letting Angel Dust push him around playfully, daring the two of them to come gamble with him sometime.

It filled your heart completely, he looked really good with a smile on his face. . . And every now and then you'd catch him staring at you, almost as if he were proud.

To be fair, the thought almost made you fumble a cocktail you were making for Angel Dust.

"You know, your pretty good at this," he complimented you, in that glorious drunken heaven he was in. The quiet purrs coming from him was enough to convince you of that.

"Here," you offered, sliding a small silver tray with two shots and limes on it his way "on me."

He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound as fine as the drinks he served you. "No, I couldn't drink two-"

"This one's for me," you pointed, taking the slim glass between your fingers.

"Drinking on the job is bad luck," he slurred.

"Are you kidding me? This is the best luck I've ever had! Come on," you insisted.

Husk's face, while already burning from the alcohol, was flush with nerves, a little smile on his face from the feeling it gave him. "Thanks."

[hildegardladyofbones]

Something I've yet to rant about is the inherent sadness and misery of post-tribunal disco elysium. Of course it will *feel* different each time depending on the outcome, but I think I had one of the worst one of all. Everyone fucking died, I didn't have a gun, and I failed all but two skills checks. One of them had a 97% success possibility, so it was almost impossible to fail *that one*. Safe to say it was a shit show. When Harry wakes up, Kim is tired. He is running on his last drop of fuel and he is *so* close to done, but he is Kim Kitsuragi, the entire RCM's finest, he doesn't give up. Still, the air in the post massacre streets of Martinaise feels thick with defeat. Everyone has fucked off, closed off. People are only left with a burning memory and the task to accept what happened, because there's nothing to be done now. The choices you've made snicker at you trying to accept the consequences now. You will never know if you made the right decision.

Not only that, but this game doesn't let you forget for a second, that Harry is severely wounded. When he sleeps in the flak tower it is mentioned multiple times that his wound is bleeding, the game makes a point to comment on how his pelvis hurts, how it's hard to run... and in the final cut scene, the Finale, Jean outright says that Harry is actively bleeding everywhere. This game doesn't let you forget what the character has been through, wounds don't heal when the health bar is full.

Harry has been a broken man from the beginning, not even the beginning of the game, but the post-tribunal gameplay doesn't play along to his madness anymore, it has given up on the fanfare. The tie stops talking and something within me compelled me to turn down on the out-of-pocket replies. It didn't feel appropriate anymore and honestly, it didn't feel like the same game anymore. All that is left is the death and misery present all around him, not contained to inside him anymore. Martinaise is a district that has had to go through the worst, but *it* has learned to cope. Now it just needs time to get back on its feet again. But Harry... Harry is down low, but he's still going. He's not going to take the time to get back on his feet until he's forced to, I think. This pitiful relentlessness only highlights how truly fucked everything in the moment is.

Disco elysium is truly a wonderful game for portraying this misery so bone-chillingly. It forces you to feel the last bit of hope they chased. The ending, the confrontation with his past, can only be described in a word I don't know the English translation for. I don't think it exists.

Õõvastav. The ending is exactly that. Harrowing is the closest word I could think of.

[gravityrises]

The Virtues of Stanford Pines

Summary: I've seen people accuse Ford of doing horrible things on one side, and people defending his actions on the other side. But how about we turn the tables and talk about all of the good Ford has done. (At least, that was the plan.)

Word Count: 2813.

Spoilers: Gravity Falls series, Journal 3, The Book of Bill, Lost Legends, thisisnotawebsitedotcom.com

1. He's incredibly hard-working:

Just because someone is smart doesn't mean they don't put a lot of effort into studying and Ford definitely did. It's mentioned twice just in "A Tale of Two Stans," when he tries to convince the college board to give him another chance and when he describes his years at Backupsmore.

And it doesn't stop at intellectual pursuits. In Journal 3 Ford says he exercises daily, despite having always hated physical activity.

Anyway, I don't think anyone is going to argue this point, so let's leave it at that.

2. He's supportive of his friend:

There are going to be a few controversial takes, but I truly believe that Ford was trying to be a good friend to Fiddleford. Now, there were fights between them, and Ford did say quite a few insensitive things both to his face and in the Journal. But overall, I don't think he ever intended to hurt Fiddleford, and he definitely appreciated his friend's company.

When Ford invited Fiddleford to work on the portal, he wrote in the journal: "He (Fiddleford) has sacrificed so much to come to my aid. He has temporarily left his bride and their young son... he has abandoned his own professional aspirations... I must do my best to make him feel at home.... I am off to the store for some banjo strings and microchips!" (quote shortened, because I'm lazy) Clearly, Ford cared about his friend and wanted to make him feel welcome.

He also compliments Fiddleford's "brilliant mind," "amusing quirks" and scrupulous work ethic, by saying "I double-check my equations. He quintuple-checks!"

And I hear you, didn't he claim the complete opposite in the series? According to him, Fiddleford "was wasting his talent trying to make personal computers", right? Well, if we ignore the fact that the creators weren't 100% consistent in their writing, here's how I would reconcile those two statements. Ford thought (erroneously) that his friend's research wasn't important in the grand scheme of things, but it was important to Fiddleford personally. And can you really blame Ford? He was about to demostrate the existence of other dimensions and create a gateway that would allow us to visit them. If something like that happened irl, it would've been a groundbreaking discovery, altering our very understanding of the natural world and how it works. Meanwhile, laptops, at least in Ford's opinion, were just "heavy, slow journals." Still, he knew this work was important to Fiddleford, and he wanted to accommodate that. Hence, his trip to buy microchips (and banjo strings.)

Ford tried (and unfortunately, failed) to help Fiddleford deal with his anxiety. In Journal 3, he mentions teaching Fiddleford some meditation techniques and going to the Carnival, so that Fiddleford would enjoy "a day of relaxation." In the Book of Bill, Ford feels guilty about not getting his friend a gift and decides to throw a surprise Christmas party instead. This was also an attempt to cheer Fiddleford up after his fight with his wife.

"But Ford didn't take Fiddleford's anxiety seriously, and it ruined his life." Okay, let's say you're right. Remember, Ford was raised in the 60s. A time when mental illness or just mental distress were looked down on. What was he supposed to do? Suggest Fiddleford goes to the therapist? I mean, they were studying paranormal creatures, if Fiddleford told those stories to a therapist who didn't believe in these things, there would've been a really high chance of misdiagnosis. Should Ford have simply fired Fiddleford? Well, that wouldn't have been very nice. Also, there is no need to infantilize Fiddleford in the first place, he's a grown-up person capable of makind his own decisions. If the job is too stressful, if the relationship doesn't work out, he has every right to leave, because his life and mental well-being are his responsibility. Instead, he ignored Ford's warnings and decided to use the Memory Gun and start a cult. It was, by the end of the day, Fiddleford's decision. And it's tragic. It really is. No one deserves to lose their family, their mind and their sense of self. It's something Ford feels guilty about, because whether it was intentional or not, he did indirectly contribute to Fiddleford's downfall. That's why, when they finally reunited after 30 years, Ford apologized to Fiddleford. And according to Journal 3, Fiddleford dissmised his apology, leading Ford to say that "Not only is this man's mind superior to mine, but he has one of the biggest hearts I've ever seen."

3. He has no reservations about helping others out:

There's a reason why Ford's the first person people turn to, when there's a problem. He has both the desire and the skills to help people out. Using Dipper's idea, he stops agents from investigating his family. He goes above and beyond just to change a lightbulb in the kitchen. Though morally questionable, he did give the kids a mind control tie with the intent of helping Stan win the elections. In the comics, Stan turns to Ford when Mabel's face is stolen and when Stan himself is cursed by an old chest.

And that's how things were in the past too. In "The Pines Boys in: The Jersey Devil's in the Details", Ford defends his brother, twice. First, when Filbrick accuses Stan of stealing the gold chain from his pawn shop. And then, when the Sibling Brothers offered Ford to let him keep the monster and become famous in exchange for photos that would prove Stan's guilt. And just to add an incentive, they threatened to frame both twins, if Ford didn't comply. Obviously, it didn't work.

According to thisisnotawebsitedotcom.com, that's also how he became friends with Fiddleford: on the very first day, he spent nine hours helping his new friend prove his theory. And in the Book of Bill, when Ford learns that Bill's home dimension was destroyed by a monster, his immediate reaction is to offer help with hunting it down.

Whenever someone's in distress, Ford really wants to help them out, and I don't know about you, but to me that doesn't sound like someone lacking empathy.

4. He's got no qualms questioning the status quo:

In Journal 3, Ford mentions traveling to Northwest Manor to confront Old Man Northwest with evidence of his family's deceit. Instead, he was met by young Preston, who wasn't impressed with his speech and forcibly escorted Ford from the premises.

Also in Journal 3, Ford wanted to debate politics with Reagan. Make of that what you will.

Now this one is more of a conjecture, but in the Book of Bill, this is how Bill compliments him: "Guys as smart as you come along once every century, and they scare the pants off of authority figures!" This lie wouldn't have worked, if it wasn't what Ford actually wanted.

And of course, learning that his former "muse" is one of the most feared beings in the entire multiverse, didn't stop Ford from going on a quest to defeat Bill. Even after witnessing other creatures shriek and cover their ears at the mere mention of Bill's name. Which leads me to my next point.

5. Calling him determined would be a massive understatement:

Forget his sleepless nights at college, forget his extensive research in Gravity Falls, Ford has spent 30 years, let me repeat that again, 30 years traveling across dimensions and looking for a way to destroy Bill Cipher. I haven't even been alive for that long! From the little we know about those years, they were anything but easy. In fact, Ford describes them as "frightening, exciting, cruel, and strange." (And of course, the guy actually does use the Oxford comma in his writing. Who would've thought?) Let me stress that Ford was under no obligation to continue his quest, maybe he could've found a quiet dimension to settle down and live peacefully, in fact, that's something he contemplates while visiting A Better World in Journal 3. But he decides against it. Not because he didn't want to, he literally says that he wanted to revel in his parallel self's success. Not because defeating Bill would get him recognition. It wouldn't, at least not in his home dimension, where no one is even aware of the danger. No, he didn't stay, because his own conscience wouldn't allow it. Ford just couldn't break his vow from 30 years ago, it's as simple as that.

And what does he do, when his plans fall apart? Does he even consider giving up? Of course not! In fact, he ends his tale of interdimensional travel with the following sentence: "My resolve to defeat Bill has never been stronger." It's almost comical, watching him throw anything he can think of at Bill and see what might stick. His battle in the Nightmare Realm was interrupted? He jumps through the portal to stop Bill's forces from entering his dimension. The portal created an interdimensional rift? He tries to contain it. Bill threatens to get his hands on the rift? This time Ford has two ideas: he tries to encrypt Dipper's thoughts and creates a mystical barrier around the house. The worst happens and the world is about to end? Well, get in loser, we're going to shoot Bill with Quantum Destabilizer. Ford misses and is captured? Not to worry, there's a Zodiac prophecy, we can give that a try. It doesn't work, because two grown men can't put aside their grievances for just a few seconds, gosh that scene is so frustrating to watch. Well, here is another idea: one can erase Bill with a memory gun as long as he's in someone's mind. I don't know what else to say, Ford really did his homework, when he set out to destroy Bill.

6. He has the patience of a saint:

Wow, now here's a controversial take. Remember Stan's "Beep boop. I am a nerd robot. That's you. That's what you sound like," which Ford just laughs off. Yes, that's what siblings do all the time. And yes, this teasing does come from a place of hurt. Stan was feeling like "the stupid twin," "a dumb idiot who screws everything up," so Ford felt like he just had to put up with this. But it's still hurtful to be mocked for your interests. It really feels like their relationship was already a little strained even before the Science Fair Project Incident.

What about the fact that he was the first to stop the fight in "Dungeons, Dungeons, and more Dungeons" and suggesting Stan might actually have fun, if he joined their game?

Or all the snide comments Stan made, when they reunited during Weirdmageddon, including "Well, he's lost his mind" and "You really think some caveman graffiti is gonna stop that monster?" All of which Ford simply ignored. Yes, he did correct Stan's grammar under the worst of circumstances, I agree, but you know, everyone has their pet peeves.

What people often forget is just how difficult it is to be a kind person, when you're stressed. It is much easier to treat people with respect and understanding, when you yourself are doing fine. So is it that big of a surprise, that someone who's under pressure, sleep-deprived and/or in pain might be more prone to outbursts? And we know how traumatic Ford's experience of being bullied as a kid was, how much suffering Bill put him through, how difficult his years on the other side of the portal were and how much pressure he was under, trying to prevent a literal end of the world. It's ironic that the people who blame Ford for his lack of empathy, really don't show him any empathy themselves.

7. Even under torture, he didn't reveal the equation that would've allowed Bill to take over the world:

Do I really have to spell it out? Look, as someone who was on the verge of mental breakdown from a simple toothache, I have nothing else to say other than: This is admirable. And he did it to protect the world that, need I remind you, wasn't particularly kind to him. On the same note, he just never joined Bill in the first place: not in the 80s, and not during Weirdmageddon.

"Oh, but he's the one who started the Apocalypse, so he kind of deserved it." Seriously? No, I mean it, are you being serious? Is that something you would say to a person suffering from diabetes type 2, that it's their fault for eating too many sweets; or to someone with liver cirrhosis that they deserve to suffer because of their alcohol addiction? Because this is neither appropriate, nor helpful. Talk about kicking someone when they're down...

8. He's fiercely loyal to his family:

I think the way Ford compliments his grandniece in "The Last Mabelcorn" is very revealing: "You've protected your family. You're a good person, Mabel." His very definition of a "good person" is "someone who supports and protects their family." Which is... interesting to say the least, considering that Ford has spent a very long time away from his family and completely alone. But it does sound like something he aspires to. That's why he goes out of his way to help his family out, whenever they're in trouble. (See point 3 for more on this.)

When Bill threatens the kids, Ford is willing to risk the entire universe for a slim chance that they might be spared. It's a cruel Trolley Problem, which once again proves just how much he values his family. Still, this is some Fate/Zero level angst and I don't want to talk about it more than I absolutely have to. Let's finish this up with something more lighthearted.

9. He's never lost curiosity and childlike wonder:

This! This is what made me fall in love with the man and why I'm wasting my time writing this nonsense in the first place. This allconsuming excitement, when he finds a new anomaly to study; this seemingly endless energy, when he explores new places; this pure joy, when he gets to play DD&MD with Dipper! I don't know how to talk about it without gushing.

Ford obviously loves games, and not just DD&MD. He plays chess with Bill. He mentions being great at charades in the comics. And what cracks me up the most: during Weirdmageddon, when Pacifica compared the Zodiac to a game of hopscotch, not only did not Ford get offended, but he replied: "It would be a pretty fun game of hopscotch." Ford, darling, the world is about to end, is this really the best time to contemplate a hypothetical game of hopscotch? Also, you've just been through something traumatic... Forget it, you've been through 3 decades of traumatic experiences, can you at least have the decency to become a tad more cynical as you age, like the rest of us. I guess, mirth really is the mail of anguish. (It's from Emily Dickinson's poem and the quote means that some people act cheerful to hide their suffering.)

Also, something Ford doesn't get enough credit for, mostly because people usually focus on his academic achievements, but he is quite creative. He draws incredibly detailed sketches not only depicting various anomalies he encounters, but also whatever happens in his life. (Probably off-topic, but I find the implications of that karaoke page so funny. Think about it: the guy sobered up, looked at the incomprehensible nonsense he had written the previous night and thought: "You know what? This could really use an illustration.") Also don't forget that he canonically plays piano. Yeah, if I were Stan, I'd be jealous too.

And of course, that's why he's so passionate about science. Sure, part of him wants the fame and recognition that would come, if he makes a big discovery, but you can't deny that he genuinely enjoys learning new things. And that he enjoys sharing them with whoever is willing to listen.

In conclusion, I'm not trying to say that Ford is perfect in every way and has never done a single wrong thing in his life. To be honest, that would've made him a really boring character. So, yes, he is flawed, and misguided, and sometimes insensitive. He's made a lot of missteps because of his upbringing, personality and, as many have speculated, neurodivergence. But I really take issue with people saying Ford's a bad person, when he clearly isn't. Ford is and always was a good person, and by the end of all the trials he became a better person. One who understands that the only way to success is cooperation, not being a lone vigilante. That it's not a weakness to ask for help or to need help in the first place. And that a sea otter shared is a sea otter halved.

That's strange... why did I write that?

[fernpetals]

The Night is Dark #1

Masterlist

Yandere Constantine x Reader

Oh, the night is dark and full of terror. It is true indeed. But you do not need to fear, you darling little thing. You have John Constantine by your side.

John Constantine whom the evil fears just slightly, thinking twice before attacking him. The man, who refuses to put a tag into whatever you two share, yet. But he is the first one to ask if you have reached your place safely, and on rare occasions, he isn't the one dropping you. He is the man to fume if another man as much as smiles at you.

John Constantine whose dark eyes softens just a bit when he looks down at you. His hands reach out to his pocket a he fishes out a packet of nicotine instead of the cigarettes, and every time he looks at your eyes, proud and twinkling under the downtown LA street lights, his heart swells a little bit more.

There are words spreading about you at Midnite's. Hushed whispers, side-eyes. But for now, no one dares to mess with one who has returned from the grasp of the Devil himself.

it makes you a little sad every time Constantine refuses to acknowledge what you two share. Something electric, something pure...

Maybe pure from your end. Constantine is almost ashamed of the nasty thoughts he has about you. Almost because this feels so natural, and perhaps the only thing that feels right about this world. He loves the feeling of your skin pressed against his. On the nights when you are a bit too drunk (you get drunk so easily, it is hilarious for him, but as long as you are under his supervision), he loves the way your lips feel against his, you respond without any question about the true nature of your relationship. It is complicated. He can hold you close without the fear of questions.

Questions, questions, and so many questions.

You ask too much and understand too little.

Can't you see? The moment the wrong kind of people know what you mean to him, they will come after you? Can't you see, he is cursed, doomed to be alone all his life while he drags himself through his miserable existence, searching for a way to save his soul?

Of course, you don't see it. Why would you still want him otherwise?

He cannot bring himself to see that you love him for what he is—in the mirror, he sees a doomed man, but to you, he is the love of your life.

Constantine is a coward. That is why when you drunkenly profess your love to him, he simply scoffs and tucks you to bed like he cares like he loves you back. But in that moment, when he can barely hold back his tears, he does admit it. He loves you too much, for a time too little left.

He thinks you have no memory of the previous night, and acts typically like himself--- detached, unbothered, and the asshole that he is.

But the thing is, you remember everything.

And you confront him about last night---you remember how his lips felt, you remember his soft eyes when he professed his love to you---you remember feeling like you won in life.

But the morning, he denies that on your face

"Do not delude yourself. You were dreaming. I simply tucked you in, silly girl. What were you on? Drugs?"

His words sting you in ways you cannot describe

It is like the final thread breaking after many blows of denials and disappointments. The thread has been pulled many times, and just as you feel like you have reached the top, holding on to it, Constantine snaps it. And you tumble down. Hard.

He is straight-faced, but you like he is laughing at you, mocking you. You cannot listen anymore. you hear everything yet nothing registers in your mind. it's like his voice is a muffled background noise.

Something in you withers. You realize that you have been waiting at an abandoned station---there will be no train coming for you. Ever.

"I need to go home. Bye."

You are surprised at the stability of your voice, even though there is a yawning pit forming in your stomach, and it is sucking in everything good in you and every comfort, every ounce of confidence, even emotions.

"Hey, I spent my morning making breakfast for two---"

You are too focused to care. Too focused on your escalating heartbeat and moving toward the door. Fast.

Once out and sitting in the subway, you allow the realisation to sink that the final blow that has broken your heart was delivered this morning, by none other than the very man you have always anticipated to deliver it, to break your heart. What you did not anticipate is the gut-wrenching pain that comes with the realisation, the acknowledgement and acceptance.

Constantine and you have no future together.

And it is time to give up.

(Do not worry, there will be a part 2)

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Broken Chords: The hardest part is who we are.

Hozier x fem!reader

Author's note: okay, so in my mind, Y/N an actress BUT please feel free to imagine her however you like.

Summary: After his concert in New York and a private moment shared in his dressing room, Y/n and Andrew are confronted with the reality of their situation, and one party isn't willing to go on like that.

Warnings: SMUT/NSFW, Angst

Part 1 Part 2

He’s determined that they can never be anything more than whatever they are right now; two people that exist in each other’s orbit without ever truly meeting, wound up in something that hurts too much to be worth it but feels too good to let go of. It's like a blade in a clenched fist, splicing through flesh and grating bone. It's like a full-bodied port in the dead of winter.

Exes with benefits? He knows that its the best term to describe their state of affairs, but it makes Andrew feel so twenty-something.

They’ve unofficially adopted some sort of arrangement that involves ignoring the elephant in the room and enjoying each other's company just enough to get by; since Y/n left Ireland after the wedding – and their tryst at the hotel – they’ve seen each other exactly three times. First, it was two weeks later, when he was in Manchester for a night while she was, then again in Los Angeles when her meeting with a director coincided with his meeting with another songwriter for a collaboration. And now, tonight, in New York. He’d heard from a mutual friend she's going to be home for a few weeks – because after nearly five years of being mixed up with each other, so many of their friends are shared – asked his manager to run her tickets to his show at The Bowery.

And of course, she came.

He spots her when he’s in the middle of one of the new songs, one he wrote about her. Because even if they’re mostly over, she’s usually at the front of his mind when he puts pen to paper. A stray comment on his part has led to word getting around about how most of the upcoming album is about an ex, and now he feels a little guilty about saying that so freely after he struggled to talk about their relationship when they were still in it.

He wonders if she's heard about his little slip up, if she's as mad at him as he is at himself.

She’s standing at the railing guarding the mezzanine and there’s a plastic cup in her hand, he doesn’t even have to be there to know what’s in it. There are probably gonna be pictures tomorrow, paired with speculations, because people have been speculating for years. But he’ll play them off, and so will she. It used to be a point of contention for them; Y/n was growing tired of hiding, so much so that she said it felt like an insult. Things are different now, though;

Tight lips and dodged questions are encouraged, especially by her. It's almost as if she's ashamed, Andrew thinks, and as much as he tries to not take it personally, he can't help the way his heart does an awkward twist when she says something like; "I just don't think anyone should know what we're doing, you know?"

Would being with him again really be that bad? Andrew avoids asking himself that question, because it reminds him of their tiff in the hotel room;

"Would it really be that bad? Being married to me; would it really be that bad?"

He still isn't the marrying type, the prospect of it sickens him the way looking down the barrel of a gun might.

But he is the being with her type.

Ironically, while Y/n has been doing everything to make sure their entanglement stays hidden, he's just started wondering what it would be like if they’d never hid at all. What if everyone knew that she was there because he wanted her there? What if they knew that he was meeting her eyes when he glances at the area above the main floor?

When the set is over and he’s through with humoring the audience for a bit longer, Andrew returns to the backstage area with the intention of seeking her out. He’d asked her to meet him there, but after a quick look around he can’t seem to find her. Even when he asks his manager, a couple of the assistants and some of his bandmates, they all claim to have not seen her recently. There aren't any recent texts or missed calls from Y/n either, and that’s really all it takes for his mind to jump to the worst.

Has she changed her mind on him?

She can’t do that. Well, she can, but if she’s gonna tear his world apart, a warning would have been nice.

Andrew is so defeated by her absence that he halfheartedly dismisses Alex’s offer to have a drink with the rest of the band, mumbling a lie about having a headache just so he can retreat to his dressing room and be alone. He doesn’t even think about why the lights are on when he pushes the door open.

“Well, that took you long enough.”

Andrew jumps when he hears her voice. Y/n is sitting on the chair at the long, barren dressing table. She carelessly sets her phone down as he enters the room, and Andrew shuts the door before responding. “What the fuck, Y/n. I’ve been looking for you, I thought you left.”

“You asked me to stay,” she knits her brows.

“I asked you to meet me backstage,” he corrects.

“This is backstage,” Y/n determines, “besides,” she shrugs, “I thought it would have been weird if I hung around back there. Its…..that’s not what this is,” her voice drops an octave lower, and a pang of guilt stabs at his chest. He knows she doesn’t mean anything malicious by her words, but it does sting.

Andrew crosses the room to stand beside where she's sitting, leaning against the table. “Right,” he licks his lips, “ehm, did you have a good time?”

Y/n grins, “I did,” she takes his hand in both of her smaller ones, stroking his knuckles with her thumbs before starting to absently massage it. For a moment, Andrew almost forgets that they aren’t actually an item anymore; this is exactly what the first few minutes after a show used to look like. “You were fantastic out there….you always are. They love you.”

“I like it more when you love me,” he elicits, raising his free hand to touch the side of her face.

“Andrew,” Y/n sighs, turning away from his touch, “don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He scoffs, suddenly defensive.

“Act like….” A sound of irritation escapes her throat and she shakes her head, “like we’re something.”

“We are something,” he counters, matching her growing frustration.

Y/n doesn’t let his hand go, but her ministrations slow, “not that kind of something.”

Andrew turns his hand over in hers, holding onto one as the other drops to her lap. Gently, he urges her up, and slips his arm around to the small of her back. His fingers toy with the lace of her black blouse and he bends his head a little to search her gaze. “Can we not do this tonight? Please?” He drops his face lower just as she tips her chin a bit higher, and his forehead is almost touching hers.

Y/n’s eyes soften and she reaches up to settle her palm on his shoulder, the roughness of his jacket – the same one he wore in London the night everything started falling apart – letting it linger there for a few seconds before shifting it up to cup the side of his neck. Ther lips lock in an ardent kiss, that starts slow, only growing more impassioned when his fingers curl against her back as he presses her closer. Extracting his hand from hers, Andrew places it on Y/n’s hip so he can switch their positions, easily trapping her between his body and the table.

His hand on her hip slides downwards, skimming the length of her short skirt before he slips it between her thighs. Her skin is soft and warm, and when he brushes the lace of her underwear, Y/n shivers, the quaking breath falling past Andrew’s lips. Suddenly, he isn’t worrying about optics and nursing the ache of something just past them, he’s in the moment, right there. The lingering adrenaline from being on stage just twenty minutes earlier is being harbored by their proximity and the first traces of moisture pooling just over his fingers. Already, he can feel himself responding; the zipper of his jeans feels restricting and his breathing quickens.

It doesn’t matter if he last had her the night before or a month ago, his yearning for her never wavers. Andrew could spend the rest of his life losing himself in her.

Y/n pushes off his denim jacket, and it hits the door with a soft thud that isn’t acknowledged and then flattens her hands on his chest, gently urging him into the chair she'd been sitting in earlier. Clumsily, he stumbles backwards, pulling her into his lap as he falls into the chair.

Hastily, he reaches for her cheek again, large hand dwarfing her face. Some of her hair is caught under his palm, but Andrew doesn’t spend any effort brushing it away. Instead, he cruises his thumb along her ruby stained lips; he loves that colour on her. “You look so beautiful tonight,” he rasps, “I’m glad you came,” he adds.

Her eyes move quickly as they search his, and Y/n cradles his face in her small hands, the prickle of his beard prodding at the soft skin. She furrowed her brows at his words, not quite knowing what to say; she doesn't want to ruin their night but she doesn't want to make things any more confusing than they already are.

If that's even possible.

“I wouldn't rather be anywhere else,” she finds herself saying it without much effort being expended to hold it back. It's the truth; she wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

Andrew looks like he's going to say something else, and she holds her breath for it – but he doesn't. Sliding his hand forward, he threads his fingers through her hair, guiding her face towards his. Under her skirt, Andrew shoves the crotch of her underwear aside and introduces two of his long fingers to her center, curling them slightly.

Stirring her hips, Y/n moans against his lips while gathering fistfuls of his printed t-shirt in a white knuckled grip. His lips are hot on her neck, leaving marks that she’ll have to cover up tomorrow and her head is tilted to the side, allowing him access. When his thumb swirls around her sensitive nub, Y/n gasps and presses her cheek to the top of his head.

“Andy….” She rasps, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt so she can slip her hands under it, cool palm's against the heat of his chest. Eager for more, she grinds against his fingers as he introduces another. “I wanna feel you….” She pleads, nails grazing his skin.

When he finally extracts his fingers in favor of tugging her underwear down her thighs. In a series of clumsy motions, the lacy thing is thrown to the floor and Y/n reaches for the buckle of his belt, hastily undoing it before opening up the button and zipper of his pants. They don’t shove it all the way down, just enough for her to ease herself down on him.

“Fuck sweetheart,” Andrew hisses, fingers digging into her ample hips. With a bruising grip, he guides her into a steady pace. The way she’s wrapped around him is dizzying, and everytime she moans his name, in that breathy way that she does, he swears he inches a little closer to heaven.

She’ll never get over the way he fills her up, they way it feels like they’re two puzzle pieces snapping together. “Andrew….” she croons, half a praise, half a desperate whine. Clutching his t-shirt in one hand and cupping his neck with the other, she tips her forehead against his. Their eyes meet, in the haze of lust blown pupils and tangled lashes and Andrew tips his chin slightly to bring his lips closer to hers, almost touching them but not quite.

“That’s it, honey. You feel so fucking good wrapped around me like this,” he praises through gritted teeth when she quickens the erotic roll of her hips. Every crude compliment is achingly familiar, music that Y/n is so used to hearing that doesn’t think she could ever go without it – the world can have the poet in him, but this is only for her.

His palm journeys up her hip, tracing the contour of her body over the thin lace of her blouse before eventually grabbing her breast, giving the flesh and eager squeeze. There’s something to be said about the way he appreciates her body; as if she were a work of art conjured up just for him.

A loud moan reverberates in the small room when his lips connect with her collar bone, and Y/n’s knees buckle. “Almost there,” Andrew gasps, heady words spilt on her skin, “come on, sweetheart,” he encourages, bucking his hips.

Her breaths are heavy and erratic, and Andrew can feel the pound of her heart against his chest, matching the excited thump of his own. Y/n’s name is like a little prayer on his lips, a mantra, as she finally crashes down. Limbs shaking, words muddled and head thrown back. His lips find her neck again, muffling a strained against her throbbing pulse as he finds his own, euphoric release. His grip on her tightens, holding her as close as possible.

“God,” Y/n heaves, head falling into the crook of his neck. Just then, Andrew’s hold slackens and he envelopes her in a loose embrace. He lolls his cheek against the top of her head and sighs softly as their breathing slowly evens out.

He knows they should probably untangle themselves after a while but holding her like this, it feels like the closest he’s been to home in a damn long time. Even his own house doesn't feel like this anymore – not since she left. And it isn’t just the familiarity of her curves, or the comfort of her voice; its the security of proximity. The way he can feel everything she holds for him coming off her, the way warmth oozes from a fire. She’s safe, she cares.

He doesn’t have to think too hard when they’re together, his mind is empty and quiet – in the best way.

He wants to tell her he misses this, he misses feeling her warmth against him as he falls asleep. Hearing her breathing so close to his ear, the proof that she's real and not just some figment of a weary artist's imagination. He misses the way they'd just lay together after they're spent, her fingers tracing circles over heartbeat, his trailing up and down her back.

The way she'd raise off his chest and use the back of her hand to brush hair away away from his face before leaning down to kiss him.

He's had it with other women – before and after Y/n – but it doesn't come close to the way it feels with her.

Because it's more than the simple pleasure of being with another, it's the great privilege of getting to love her.

“I-”

“Hey, man I – oh, shit,” Alex tugs the door shut faster than he'd pulled it open.

In a series of stumbles and hasty movements, Y/n scampers from his lap, and Andew barely resists the urge to tighten his grip and pull back down onto him.

“Sorry! I didn't know you were…..” Alex trails off, “you said you had a headache and one of the assistants said she saw you go in here.”

Andrew stutters, standing to pull up his jeans while Y/n steals away to the small bathroom to get cleaned up. “Ehm….it's….” He doesn't want to say it's alright, because it would be far from the truth, but its also his fault for not locking the door.

But they shouldn't have been doing that in there anyway. Though, he and Y/n seem to have a knack for doing things they probably shouldn't.

“Gimme fifteen,” Andrew eventually manages. He doesn't catch Alex’s response, he isn't too concerned with it anyway. Andrew is more focused on what Y/n will think, what she'll say. She's been so adamant about keeping things quiet that he isn't sure if the threat of being discovered will be enough to drive her way.

He isn't sure because his Y/n wouldn't have cared; they'd been caught sneaking off way too many times for her to be phased. Hell, if they were still together, Alex wouldn't have even come looking.

But everything's different now – she's different now. She's not his Y/n.

Andrew brings his fist to the door in three short knocks. “I'm sorry,” implores when she doesn't respond, “I didn't mean for that to happen.” He sighs heavily, waiting for her to say something, “I didn't think anyone would come back here.”

And she still doesn't say anything.

Soundlessly, Andrew presses the side of his fist to the door while planting his free hand on the edge of the door frame. “Darlin’,” he breaths, hanging his head, “please come-”

“Don't call me that,” Andrew stumbles forward a little when Y/n unlocks the door and yanks the door open.

Andrew scoffs, pushing his hair out of his face with one sweep of his fingers, when she slips out from under his raised arm, “that's what you open the door for?” Y/n doesn't respond with anything more than a huff and a shake of her head as she collects her phone and purse off the table. “Come on,” he reaches for her arm, “please.”

She sighs, dropping her shoulders. “What?” Y/n turns to face him, lips pressed together and eyes sullen.

“I should've locked the-”

“Its not about that, Andrew,” she glaces away, briefly catching a glimpse of them in the mirror. His long fingers loosely gripping her arm while they stand barely a foot apart. It feels strange seeing herself like that; she's never wanted to put distance between them, ever. Even after she left him, all Y/n ever wanted to do was bridge the oceans between them, wade through whatever had ripped them from each other and find her way back to him.

Its why she opens herself up to him every time they see each other, some of him is better than none at all.

But being caught changes everything; it makes her the girl who keeps going back to a man who won't commit. Pathetic, foolish.

That's what she sees staring back at her.

A silly girl who's lovelorn for a man who keeps telling her - with his own words and his own mouth - that he will never want the same things he does. He will never return the kind of love she has for him.

That girl is staring at her, eyes brimmed with stinging tears, asking her why she's wasting the best years of her life fucking this man in a dressing room. In hotel rooms booked under an alias. In the back of her rental parked near the beach at ten pm.

He is not going to change, and neither is she. But this can end.

“Let's just talk,” Andrew begs, “or, or, come for a drink with us. You're friends with the band –”

“What is this to you?” She glances back at him, watery eyes struggling to keep years worth of heartbreak at bay.

Stunned, Andrew deserts her arm and runs his hand over her hair. “It's…..” the closet thing he has to the best three years of his life. It's the thing that's killing him slowly, whether or not he can admit.

It's a thing so undefined that he isn't sure he has a word for it, but given the alternative, he's willing to trudge on.

Beginning again, Andrew emits a frustrated sigh, “it's….doesn’t it matter. You're the one that doesn't want us to be together – you broke up with me,” his tone hardens. He doesn't want to have the fight against, not when they've finally found some steady footing, no mind it's more of a liferaft than a boat in the middle of a pitch black sea. It's still something, it's all that's keeping him from going under.

“I am not having this conversation again,” she hasn't been shouting, but for some reason her words still sound pained and raw.

“I'm just saying,” Andrew pinches the bridge of his nose, “I was good with the way things were,” he spats, forgoing every thought he'd had on stage earlier, all in the name of self preservation.

“You wouldn't tell people I was your girlfriend–”

“Our friends knew –”

“Just barely,” Y/n scoffs, “you kept telling everyone that we were “seeing where it goes,” it had been three years; what more did you need to see?”

He doesn't have an answer, and, at a loss for words, he just stands there. He wants to say something, slap another bandaid over the still-bleeding bullet hole, but nothing comes. That sort of callousness can't be excused or explained.

Andrew suddenly remembers that his brother once called him a commitment phobe, so maybe those are the words. But a reason still isn't an excuse, it still isn't an apology. It still isn't a hall pass to run someone's heart through a woodchipper.

Y/n stands in front of him, a shell of the woman he'd held in his hungry hands earlier, and Andrew figures he's something of the same. It's all forgotten now; her gentle massaging of his hands – cause she must be the only person he's ever told that they get sore after playing all night. The way her chest melted into his, her breath tickling his collar bone.

It's all gone now, a memory that feels so long past him that he isn't remembering right. Her lips must've been sweeter that he's recalling, she must've felt warmer because there's a chill hanging in the air and he hadn't been cold then.

Those people aren't them – or maybe its the other way around. He can’t get it to make sense in his head, but it doesn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t give him something useful to say; its not going to make her stay.

Surprisingly, Y/n closes the space between them with a couple steps, and she stands on her toes to kiss the corner of his lips. “You don’t have to say anything, Andy,” his heart contracts; why does it feel like the last time she’s calling him that?

Is he going to be Andrew to her from now on; entirely cold and formal? Or is she just never going to say his name?

“But um…..maybe we shouldn’t do this again,” she says, settling on her feet.

“No,” desperately, Andrew takes her hand, “please.”

He isn’t even crawling back this time; this isn’t him crawling back to her. This is him pounding down the door, begging to be let in.

But its closed – locked even.

“Not this time,” already, he misses his name on her tongue. Y/n’s hand slips out of his – centimeter by centimeter – until the barest tips of their fingers are touching. And, more than anything else he’s wanted in a damn long time, he wants to take a step forward and take her hand again.

He wants her to turn around and see the emotion threatening to spill out of his eyes as the world gives out under his feet.

Andrew wants to beg her to stay – but it won’t make a different because the defending sound of the doorknob’s click rattles in his ear as she pulls it shut, and all he’s left with is a cloud of jasmine perfume and a hollowness in his chest as he slumps against the table.