#i feel like this second (third) reading is stirring up some questions

[starmocha]

Oh, I'm still doing the recaps. At the very least for my own benefits in case I want to quickly reference something.

[Love and Deepspace masterpost ☆ Beyond Cloudfall masterpost]

SPOILERS FOR SYLUS' MYTH - BEYOND CLOUDFALL, CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

MC and the dragon arrive in Ivory City. When they enter the Sanctuary, many of the followers scatter the moment they see MC, who is supposed to have been dead at this point.

Seeing where MC grew up in, the dragon quips:

Growing up in a cage like this... No wonder your soul is so dull.

MC grapples internally with herself. On the one hand, she wants vengeance against the Judicator's Oracle who judged her and ordered her execution. On the other hand, she also needs to focus on staying alive.

She suspects news of the Fiend's appearance in the Sanctuary must be spreading like wildfire in the city, and once the Legion of Justitia arrives to handle the dragon, she plans on slipping away in the chaos.

She starts to talk to the dragon, mentioning how her revenge will have to wait as the Judicator's Oracle who judged her isn't around, but she stops abruptly when she notices the dragon appears disinterested in her plan for vengeance.

The dragon notices a mural on the ceiling and questions MC about it. The mural, titled The Fiend-Slaying God, depicts a scene of "a god-like figure in a bright red cloak, wielding a long sword as he executes an evil dragon."

MC explains that this god-like figure is supposed to represent the Sacred Judicator, and the evil dragon is, in her words, "Ahem, that's probably you."

MC is puzzled that the dragon keeps staring at the mural.

The dragon doesn't deign her a response. Instead, he looks at the text beneath the mural and comments that it's been exactly 1,677 years since he was sealed away.

MC is puzzled that he can read the text. The dragon questions her, and she explains that the text is written in an ancient language that's been lost to time. Now, nobody can read it anymore. She asks him about the text.

"The Fiend is the very essence of malice and greed, skilled at twisting human desires. He drives mortals to turn against each other, leading them to their own demise. Given time, the world will be swallowed by chaos and descend into ruination. The Fiend's arrival marks the onset of Doomsday. During the Battle of Tarus, the Sacred Judicator, with a will of iron, stood firm against the corruption of evil. In a war so fierce, he emerged as the sole, honorable survivor." He sealed away the Fiend, the very harbinger of Doomsday, deep within the planet's chasm. With the curse of Doomsday lifted, hope was restored to Philos.

MC mentions that she has heard the Fiend has a destined archnemesis. She assumes it is the Sacred Judicator.

Dragon: What a lofty title. MC: Yeah, this story sounds pretty fake to me too.

MC attempts to stall for time until the Legion of Justitia arrives so she can escape while they deal with the dragon. She shifts the conversation and starts to talk about the dragon's archnemesis, assuming it is the Sacred Judicator.

Just as MC is about speak, a Justitia arrow, "forged from golden ore and crackling with electricity" flies through, but one simple motion from the Fiend has the arrow disintegrating into particles immediately.

The Sanctuary is suddenly engulfed in a dazzling light that blinds everyone. MC uses this opportunity to escape, but the Fiend calmly comments, "How impudent." With a snap of his fingers, MC is immobilized, feeling a sharp pain from deep within her chest. Her body moves on its own, forcing her to turn back around again, and she witnesses a gruesome scene.

The guards are slaughtering one another, blood splatters the wall, and the candelabras toppled, setting the drapes ablaze. The once pristine white Sanctuary now resembles a haunting purgatory.

The dragon beckons her to him with one firm command, "Come."

She realizes it is his right eye that is manipulating everything.

The dragon is aware of her plan to kill him, but he scoffs at her pitiful attempt.

Once again, a golden light mixed with black mist is painfully pulled from her body. In the midst of her agony, the voice returns, desiring the dragon's eye.

MC attempts to persuade the dragon to spare her.

Wait! You can kill me whenever you like. But if you spare me, I can help you achieve more! And— I want to live and I want your eye. It's like how you want my soul. Is there a problem with that? It's just too bad that I'm not as strong as you.

He humors her, asking for an example of how she could help him "achieve more."

She thinks on the spot, scrambling in her mind for anything that would appeal to a dragon.

I... can help you amass a large amount of wealth and collect a lot of souls—whatever you need, I can get it for you.

Without a word, the dragon whisks her away, taking flight and soaring in the sky. With another snap of his fingers, he manipulates the energy of the flames. The Sanctuary, set ablaze and crumbling, falls to ruin.

The dragon remarks calmly:

For something as tedious as revenge, this will suffice. No need for a spectacle.

As the sun sets, the Fiend flies away with MC in his arms, arriving at a lair perched atop a cliff just as nightfall descends.

MC: ...Is this your home? Dragon: Have you ever met a fiend with a home?

After looking around, MC realizes she can't return to Ivory City. She accepts that the dragon's lair will be her home for the time being.

She returns and converses with the dragon.

MC: I suppose... You won't be eating my soul for now? Dragon: Assuming that was still the case, why would I even bring you back here? Stay put. MC: If I'm going to live here, my living quarters should at least be decent. Your cave is too... basic. What do you think?

The dragon allows her to choose from his treasures. She appears to be shocked by the vast quantity.

The dragon motions for MC to explore his treasures. The lair's been unattended for a long time, being covered in cobwebs and rotting wood.

She finds the different weapons "brought" to the dragon.

MC: I never expected your collection would be all weapons. Do dragons have hobbies too? Dragon: Your kind brought them here willingly. MC: I imagine they weren't... particularly polite about it. Dragon: Indeed. It's a shame those who brought them to me are all dead, and I'm still alive. MC: So, the sword that sealed you away... Was it really "given" to you by the Sacred Judicator in the mural? Dragon: He was just lucky to get his hands on it and fortunate enough to drive it into my chest. But only its true master can wield its power.

MC recalls the sword is now inside her. She wonders if she is its "true master." She attempts to summon it, but nothing happens.

She continues to explore the dragon's lair and discovers other treasures, such as fine clothes, paintings, and musical instruments.

She stares, apparently with desire. The dragon encourages her.

As MC holds a gem, the dragon's tail coils around her, tightening. He laughs as she struggles.

MC: ...No wonder you spared me. You want to fatten me up before going in for the kill. Dragon: Even so, you still cling to that gem despite being so close to Death's sweet embrace. You truly are a source of entertainment. MC: Enjoy my company while you can. I might bring you a deadlier experience next time.

KEY TAKEAWAYS:

According to the legend in Ivory City, the dragon, proclaimed to bring about Philo's end, was sealed in the Abyss beneath the fiend-infested Tarus City by the Legion of Justitia.

The leader who drove his sword into the dragon's heart was revered as the "Sacred Judicator." He was glorified through monuments erected in his honor, and his followers built a grand Sanctuary in his name after his death.

The Sanctuary annually takes in some of the city's orphans in the Sacred Judicator's name. When the orphans come of age, a Judicator's Oracle will take them away to join the Legion of Justitia.

MC is implied to have been an orphan who grew up in the Sanctuary. However, instead of joining the Legion of Justitia, the Judicator's Oracle had MC thrown into the Abyss.

The dragon has been sealed away for exactly 1,677 years.

It's mentioned that the Fiend has a destined archnemesis, the sole person who can slay him.

The dragon reveals that although the Sacred Judicator had obtained the sword that should kill the Fiend, he was not the true master of the sword. Unable to fully wield the sword's power, he wasn't able to slay the dragon.

The greatsword now rests inside MC. She wonders if she is its true master then.

While all thoughts and opinions expressed in this post are my own interpretation of the reading, I actively encourage others to share their own view and offer their own perspective.

[chaussetteblanche]

and they were roommates

pairing : Spencer Reid x fem!student!roommate!reader summary : you are Spencer Reid's roommate, the team finds out about you when a case brings them to the university you study at word count : 2.5k warning : canon-typical violence A/N : the university is a random one I picked in Virginia, bear with me because I don't know how US university systems work, thanks :) I think this is a part one, there may be a part two or even more, idk, but tell me what you think !

part 2, part 3, part 4

"I- I'm sorry, what university did you say?" Spencer's frantic tone was immediately noticed by his colleagues. Suddenly, he seemed hyperaware of everything in the room. The loud AC, Derek's pen-clicking and the overwhelming smell of Emily's coffee. "Mary Washington University," JJ answered swiftly, eyes narrowed as she sent Reid a confused glance. The man in question mumbled a few words under his breath and shot up, grabbing his coat and scarf. "We need to go." His tone, unusually urgent, left no space for debate or questioning. He was out the door within seconds, followed closely by Morgan and the others.

When you'd applied for Mary Washington University, you had known you would have to get an apartment. You lived too far away to even consider taking the numerous trains and buses and subways to get there. So, when you had been accepted into your first choice of universities, you'd started apartment hunting. Or roommate-hunting, to be more precise.

To say you had been unlucky would have been quite the understatement. You'd visited four apartments so far and could not even consider living in one of them for a second. The first had been full of frat boys who made your skin crawl, the second was with an old, far right-wing couple, the third had been two sisters who'd yelled at each other for the whole time you were there and the fourth had been so crowded your were certain it was neither sanitary not legal for another person to live there. With the deadline of university starting and having to move all your things, you were starting to get quite anxious. But call it chance or fate, one day you stumbled upon an advertisement for an apartment in a nice neighbourhood with one person who seemed quite normal. This person was a state-employee (which meant a stable salary and that meant you wouldn't have to compensate for rent) who travelled often for work and liked to keep mostly to themselves. Not one for big parties, they preferred a night-in and rarely had people over.

So you'd put on your big-girl pants and had walked over to what you hoped would be your last apartment visit. You hadn't been expecting such a young person to open the door because of the way the advert had been written and because of what it said. "Hi, I'm Dr. Spencer Reid." You noticed he didn't hold his hand out and mirrored his behaviour. "Hi! I'm here for a visit!" You introduced yourself somewhat shyly, feeling intimidated. This man was at the most five years older than you and he was already a doctor?

He showed you around the apartment, which you liked very much. The rooms smelled like books and tea and everything was kept very clean. On the whole, it was tidy, even if a few books or articles were stacked in some odd places. The bedroom you'd stay in was large and luminous. After the tour, he made you a cup of tea as you discussed formalities.

"Uh, so, you’re a student, right?" he'd asked politely as he added a worrying amount of sugar in his earl grey. You bit back a teasing jest. You hoped maybe one day you'd get to place where you could comment on his daily sugar intake. "Yeah, um, I'm studying English Literature and Cinema." You stirred your tea, looking around the kitchen. Even though it was painted a dark, forest green, it still seemed luminous in the afternoon sun. "Oh, that's super interesting! I’ve always found texts in Middle English particularly insightful! I- I read the Canterbury Tales when I was about 10 years old. It’s fascinating the way in which issues which were already current then are still very present today, like in the Wife of Bath’s tale, for example-“

He cut himself off, leaning back into the couch. He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks dusted pink. “Sorry, you probably don’t want me to ramble about what you already know.” “No, I think it’s amazing that you would know that, actually. What else did you like in the Wife of Bath’s tale?” Spencer seemed to brighten up at your words and thus ensued a lengthy discussion of the avant-garde themes evoked by Geoffrey Chaucer. You were fascinated by his knowledge and found his passion especially endearing. Lots of your professors weren’t even that passionate when talking of late 14th century literature.

After discussing rent, which you would afford by waitressing at a local bar, lightly touching upon political subjects (on which you seemed to agree on), he finally told you that he was an FBI agent. "Excuse me?" you spluttered, leaning backwards in shock. "I'm a profiler with the BAU, the Behavioural Analysis Unit. I can show you my badge if you want." He stood up and reached for his bag, but you stopped him in his tracks. "No, no, that's okay, I believe you. I'm just surprised, that's all, sorry." His expansive knowledge of so many things seemed fitting for an agent of the BAU. After realising you were the first person who didn't demand his badge as proof of his profession, Spencer granted you a small smile. "You don't need to apologise. I- I know it can be a bit... off-putting." He sat back down and looked you in the eye. "Is that a problem for you, living with a federal agent?"

You thought about it for a second. As a general rule, you weren't a big fan of cops. Even more generally, you didn't believe in the structure of today's society. But that was a big topic. Plus, a profiler wasn't really a cop, was he? "No, that's not a problem for me."

You'd moved in a month and a half later. Things had been slightly awkward at first and you'd had to figure out what kind of dynamic Spencer and you had. But eventually, you’d found your rhythm.

When Spencer left for work, you took care of his plants and sent him pictures of Geoffrey. Geoffrey was the cat you’d found on the street and taken in. He was named after Geoffrey Chaucer, author of the Canterbury Tales, your first common point of interest. Spencer had been reluctant at first, but you’d taken him to the vet, where he was tested and vaccinated, and the man had finally accepted him into your shared space. Now, he loved the little creature. Sometimes, you’d call him to ask how he was doing and whether he was safe. He’d always reply that yes, he was doing fine and no, he wasn’t in any danger, don’t you worry. He’d ask how you were doing and if you were staying on top of uni work and if you’d eaten and if Geoffrey wasn't being too annoying. As an orange cat, he had his particular tendencies.

When Spencer was at home, you'd always look forward to getting back from class. There was always that sense of comfort and ease when he was around. You had found a lovely routine quite easily. You'd both work or study, then cook, eat together and afterwards maybe you'd watch a movie or something. You were at a point where you could comment on his daily sugar intake, which he's started correcting since meeting you. He loved the Big Bang Theory and though you weren't such a fan, you loved the little laughs he let out and all the corrections he'd make. In general, you liked when he talked. Even more generally, you liked him. You also liked Friends and though Ross got on Spencer's nerves, he enjoyed being able to discuss it with you afterwards. The two of you got very close without even noticing.

Sometimes, you'd remember he wasn't just your roommate, but also a man. He'd make you a cup of tea and you'd stare at his hands a little too long while he stirred the honey in. Or he'd help you reach for a cup with his impressive height, his front just skimming your back with a shiver. He'd tell you to breathe and sit down when you were upset about something. A few times, he drove you home from a night out with your friends and laid his hand on your knee. He was the only one who remembered how you'd told him you wanted to kiss him.

With you, Spencer discovered many things he had never experienced before. A healthy, comforting and peaceful routine. A supporting, non-judgemental, healthy friendship. Easy laughter in the middle of the night and tired "good morning"s at dawn. Butterflies in his stomach whenever you touched him. A budding romance which kept him awake at night.

So when that was threatened, he just about lost it.

"Oh my God." "I can't believe this." "Is this a prank?" "Did someone call 911?" "What about her parents?" "Oh, that's sick."

Voices swarmed around your head, making you dizzy. Your hand rested over your mouth as you stared at the body strewn on the lawn. Much of the student body stood next to you, just as shocked. Mary Goldman had been her name. You'd crossed her just this morning in the main hall and had exchanged small smiles. You had thought that she looked really pretty today, but hadn't told her. You regretted that now. At the moment, her mascara had run down her cheeks and dried and her lipstick and been smudged. Bruises and cuts decorated her bare arms and legs and a big red stain sat on the side of her stomach. The contrast between her dead body and the green, thriving grass beneath her was haunting.

You turned away, feeling sick. You felt your friend's hand on your shoulder, a small source of comfort anchoring you to reality. Facing the road as you turned, you were surprised to see three big black SUVs speeding towards the crowd. You'd been expecting an ambulance, or cops. Not whoever these guys were. They screeched to a stop, drawing everyone's attention. A small dozen of people stormed out, all dressed differently though they all held the same aura of importance, knowledge and authority. You turned back to your friends. "Who are these-"

You stopped mid-sentence when you heard your name being called out urgently. You'd have recognised his voice amidst a thousand others. He spoke your name like no other. You frantically looked around, pushing your way to the large vehicles. When you finally spotted him, tears started pricking your eyes. "Spencer," you breathed in a half-sob. His eyes ran you over once, twice, assessing any damage. When he saw there was no physical wound, his shoulders sank in relief. He opened his arms and you rushed inside his warm embrace almost reflexively. Neither of you noticed the numerous pair of curious eyes observing your intimate exchange.

"Oh my God, Spence- What- What are you doing here?" you'd cried into his cardigan. You buried your face into his neck, inhaling the comforting scent he always bore. He wrapped an arm around your waist and another around your shoulders, holding the back of your head in a consoling manner. "We're- We're taking this on as a case, sweets. Are you all right?" He knew it was a stupid question but all the emotions and tension were barely wearing off and he didn't know what else to say. You pulled away but he kept you at arm's length, holding your cold, shaking hands in his warm, steady ones. "I- Yeah, it's just- I- I saw her this morning! How could she- Why would someone do this to her? To- to anyone?!" Spencer cooed and pulled you into another tight hug as you continued to ramble through your tears. When you'd eventually calmed down thanks to his words of reassurance, he pulled away softly.

Spencer understood what you meant perhaps more than anyone. The sadness, the shock, the anger, the need to understand. He gently wiped away the mascara under your eyes with his thumb. "I know, I- It's- Even I don't always understand, sweetheart, so don't- Why don't you go home? I'd come with you but-" You nodded, biting your lower lip. He gave you a sad smile. "I promise I'll join you as soon as this is over. You- you can make yourself a cup of tea and process all this and pet Geoffrey, okay? Classes are going to be cancelled either way." "I don't want to-" The look in his eyes kept you from arguing further. You nodded, giving him another hug. Before you left, an older man came over to you.

"I'm sorry to bother you, miss. I'm Agent David Rossi. I just had a question-" "Rossi," interrupted Spencer with a stern tone you'd never heard before. The older Agent raised an eyebrow at him. "Just one question." He turned back to you. "At what time did you say you saw the victim?" You inhaled shakily, running a hand over your face. "Uh, it must have been around quarter to eleven. I think- Yeah, somewhere between ten thirty and eleven." "Thank you, miss." You didn't miss the glance shared between the two men before Rossi retreated.

"Who was that?" asked Emily as soon as you'd left and Spencer had joined them behind the police tape. "No one," Spencer brushed her off as he kneeled next to the victim. Strangely, he hated the idea of someone who knew you dying. It felt too close to home. "C'mon, man, you lost your shit this morning, a girl you clearly know very well runs into your arms, you snap at Rossi and you expect us to believe you?" Derek raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. Spencer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking up at the rest of the team. All were staring at him patiently. He stood up, swallowing.

"That was my roommate." He informed the team of your name and of how you'd been living together for a few years now. "Spencer, you've been living with a woman for years and you've never told us?!" Derek was all but hysteric. Hotch reminded him that everyone was entitled to a private life. "So, are you dating or something?" Emily prodded again. Spencer hesitated a second before answering. "No." Derek scoffed, appalled. "You mean to tell me you've been living with a beautiful woman like that for years and nothing's ever happened?!" "Not everyone is like you, Morgan," Emily reminded with a teasing smirk. Derek sent her an unimpressed look. "Look, let's all grill Spencer later, we have a case to focus on right now." Rossi, ever the voice of reason, directed everyone's attention back to the corpse laying next to them.

Needless to say, the BAU team did not need to interrogate Spencer or attack him with incessant questions to find much out. They'd seen by his behaviour that very morning how much he cared about you. They'd seen how relieved he had been when he'd seen you safe and sound. They'd noticed you'd only started crying when you'd seen him, a big sign of trust. They had never heard him call another by pet names such as "sweets" or "sweetheart". They'd read both of your body languages like a children's book and translated it easily.

Love. Comfort. Peace. Ease.

[beesspacedotorg]

Third Leg?

Summary: after spending time with Minho after exams, you remember something he said in the heat of the moment about your packmate Jeongin. You decide to confront Jeongin about it, because after all, what's the worst that can happen?

Warnings: sex. uh. poly ot8 and reader. more omegaverse. continuation of Dibs but can be read on its own. breeding kink?? manhandling ??? reader is lowkey a brat, uh. Jeongin's dick is huge. I actually don't know what else to add, so let me know if there's another thing I should put in here. reader is an omega but gender and genitals are unspecified as always

notes: I got possesed by a demon when I was writing this. I don't even have a breeding kink. Also if the title is bad, no. this is my first time writing Jeongin, so if it's bad no it isn't. this is his very late birthday present. Happy Birthday, King.

to read: Dibs

In most things, you try to be reasonable. It does not come easy to you, it doesn’t come easy to most people. You wish your pack would be more understanding of this sometimes. You know that’s an unfair thing to say about, to say to, your pack, but you can’t help it. You really don’t want to, you really can’t spend Jeongin’s rut with him. It’s the middle of the semester, you’re still convinced the Luna doesn’t like you, and you’d prefer not to think too hard about your relationship with anyone else. You’re comfortable with Hyunjin and you’re comfortable with Changbin. Everyone else, you think, couldn’t care whether you were around or not.

“That’s unfair to think, dove. Of course they want you around. We want you around.” Hyunjin says, he’s holding your face in his palms in a way that he often does when he talks to you.

“I know, but I really don’t feel comfortable yet, it’s only been a couple months, and it took me so long to get used to being around you.” You huff and you can feel a heat forming behind your nose. “I just really- I don’t want to spend Innie’s rut with him. I can’t.” Hyunjin hums affirmingly and swipes a finger under your eye to cut off a tear, but otherwise makes no comment about your crying.

“You want them to stop pushing,” he says, and you nod at him.

“I want them to stop pushing.”

“Okay. I’ll see what I can do. But, please don’t say we don’t want you around. We do. At the very least, I do. Okay?” You nod at him and smile slightly as he kisses your nose, it turns into a laugh when he gets insistent, peppering kisses all over your face until you’re shoving him off and smiling wide at him.

-

“So.” You have a spoonful of cereal halfway to your mouth when he comes into the kitchen. In all reality, you aren’t supposed to be here. You only stopped by for a quick snack before you went to head into work, but then there was something at the shop so your boss told you to stay home. You’d intended to detour to the campus library instead to catch up on some homework, but between your first and second bowls of cereal you had switched out of your outside clothes to sweats and an old t-shirt, and now you’re standing three feet away from Yang Jeongin.

“So?” You set the bowl down on the counter.

“You don’t want to spend my rut with me.” You draw your shoulders up to your ears defensively. You think something in your scent must turn sour because you see Jeongin wrinkle his nose.

“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not mad or anything. I just wanted to know if you’d tell  me why.” You pause, picking up your spoon and stirring the milk around the bowl, listening to the clink clink clink of metal on ceramic. Something about his question confuses you.

“If?”

“Yeah, ‘if.’ I don’t want to pressure you for information if you’re not ready to give it. If you’re uncomfortable with spending my rut with me, that’s fine. If you don’t want to tell me you’re uncomfortable, that’s also fine.”

“I don’t want to tell you why.” He shrugs. You’re surprised at how easy that was.

“That’s fine. I have another question though.”

“Hmm?”

“Could we hangout, or something? Before you steer clear of the house for a week and a half, I want to spend time with you. Unfortunately,” he rolls his eyes, “I’ve come to enjoy your company and if I don’t spend some time with you I might do something drastic.” He’s slowly approaching you now, crowding you against the counter. He’s given you plenty of time to walk away or move, but you haven’t, so he continues.

“Drastic, you say.” He hums, taking your bowl and putting it in the sink, not bothering to rinse it out.

“Drastic like breaking every single door that separates the two of us just to make sure you’re safe.” He wraps his arms around your waist and rests his head on your shoulder, nose against your neck. His hair smells like baby powder, like his shampoo that you and Hyunjin sometimes steal. You can feel him shake with laughter when your scent changes with arousal as he gets in your space.

“You’re easy.” You hit his back slightly.

“You’re mean.”

“Will you hangout with me, though? I was mostly serious.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll hangout with you.”

“Great,” he says, and you let out a small shriek as he drags you in the direction of his room. The door is halfway closed when he yells across the house.

“I call dibs until my rut starts!” You can hear the groans and complaints through his now shut door.

-

So, you spend time with him, both before and after his rut, and nobody comments on how annoying it is that you’re monopolizing his time like you thought they would. There’s a point where Hyunjin interrupts you because he wants Jeongin’s dick in his mouth, and when you move to leave, they both start complaining. (You left anyway, not being ready for that just yet, but the idea made you feel warm regardless.) 

You don’t get to spend much time with him after that though, because then you have Minho and exams flooding your vision and your senses, and while one of those things is enjoyable, the other isn’t and for two seconds you’d like your brain to be off. Just for two. That time comes and it’s as you’re waking up from your post-fuck nap with Minho that it hits you.

“You said Innie was talking about me during rut?”

“What? Sweetheart, we just woke up.” Minho is rubbing his eyes, smacking his mouth, and blinking cutely. You feel the urge to pinch his cheek but worry that would land you in hot water so you just poke it instead.

“Yes, I know, I know, but. You said Jeongin was talking about me during his rut.”

“Yes? Why do you sound so surprised? You’re our Omega after all.” You flush again at his casual claim on you, he keeps catching you off guard with it.

“He never mentioned it to me.” Minho yawns and slings his arm over your waist.

“You were busy, of course he didn’t mention it to you. Besides, you seemed so … hesitant to spend his rut with him in the first place that he probably didn’t want to mention it at all.” You frown, brows furrowing as you think about it. You move to get out of bed when Minho stops you.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“To talk to Jeongin.”

“It’s too early for one, and for two. I have some things planned for us.” His hand wanders up your shirt.

“But-”

“I thought you had learned enough to stop arguing with me? Does your mommy need to teach you a lesson?” He says this, but he’s not holding you back. If you wanted to, you could leave this bed and camp outside of Jeongin’s door until he woke up. But you don’t. You don’t even know what you want to say to him, and Minho is tracing soft circles on your skin and you’re struck with undeniable want. You ease yourself back into bed.

“That’s my pretty Omega. So good for me, hmm?”

-

You don’t get to talk to Jeongin until several days later. You’re too busy sleeping like the dead for a day and a half, then Chan steals you away for a celebratory dinner date, then when you finally get the chance to talk to him, you walk into his room and find him and Yongbok making out, so you’ve had to curb the conversation for later, until now.

“Innie!” He’s slipping his shoes on.

“Yeah?” He never ties them, you notice, ties them once and then slips them on and off over and over again.

“Where are you going?”

“On a walk.”

“Great.” You walk over to him and shove his jacket off his shoulders, then kick at his feet until he takes his shoes back off, and start dragging him to his room.

“What.” He’s confused despite the fact that he’s the one who let it get this far.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Okay?” He sits down on his bed, patting the spot next to him so you can sit too.

“Minho mentioned that you talked about me during your rut.” It comes out of you in a rush. Jeongin’s face flushes red. He covers his face with his hands, his huge hands with their stupidly long fingers.

“Ah. Yes. I did. Are you upset?”

“Am I up- Am I upset?” You’re incredulous. “One of the hottest men I’ve ever seen and one of my Alphas wanted me during his rut and you think I’m upset?”

“Okay, to be fair. You didn’t seem too thrilled about the idea of my rut to begin with.”

“I was new to the pack!”

“You’d been with us for three months!”

“Like I said, new!” He huffs and knocks you onto your back, laying across you in the way you’ve seen the others do to him.

“Why did you come to talk to me about it?” You flush at his question and you can hear his little chuckle. The members joke that he learned how to be mischievous from Minho and Seungmin, and you’ve never seen it more than right now.

“Oh? I see.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“Minho hyung says you like when people are mean.”

“Minho said what?!”

“I’m kidding, he refused to tell us what you two got up to, but now I know that I’m not too far off.” You grab a pillow from behind your head and smack him with it. He moves himself until your noses are touching and smiles at you. You smile back and poke around his face until your finger lands in a dimple.

“You want me to fuck you, is that it?” His voice is soft, low, because of how close he is to your face and he smirks when your scent fills the room. 

“You do?” You nod at him and he tuts.

“Minho’s taught you better than that.” You huff and pout at him. He laughs and kisses you.

“I’ll let you get away with it because you’re cute.” You beam at him and he smiles back.

He starts with kissing you, because of course he does. It’s soft and sweet and a little hesitant and it’s similar to the way you’ve seen him kiss Yongbok, but different from the way you’ve seen him kiss Seungmin and you’re struck with the realization that he sees you as something soft and precious. That he’ll hold you with the same amount of delicacy he uses to hold Felix and your heart stutters in your chest for a minute.

“Baby? What’s wrong?” He’s pulling away, looking at you with wide eyes as your scent changes. “Did I hurt you?” You shake your head at him, pulling him close for a hug for a minute as you calm yourself down.

You’ve never had a pack before, your culture has moved away from it. You had to move from your family for school and since then you’ve been relatively alone. It’s been a while since you’ve felt loved, and when you’re faced with the sheer amount of it the eight of them have to give it overwhelms you every time. He hasn’t hurt you, it’s the opposite.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Ah, I see. Hyungs’ said you might cry a little. That’s okay. Do you want to stop?” You shake your head at him, answering with a verbal “no” after he stares at you pointedly. You lean in to kiss him again and he responds with the same gentleness he did before and you can feel yourself slicking up in your pants. You hear him take a sharp inhale and then you feel his grip tighten where his hands were resting on the side of your face and neck.

“Jesus, I can see why hyung keeps you to himself all the time. You smell so fucking good.” He stops kissing you to start making out with your neck, you can feel him starting to scent you and you tug at him, whining.

“Innie-”

“Yeah, I know, but-” he cuts himself off with a groan and you can feel his hips press into yours and dear God.

“Is that your leg?”

“No.” You whine again. There’s no fucking way his dick is that big. You tell him so.

“Well. Prepare to eat your words because it is.”

You huff at him again, and really, he should spend less time around the more sarcastic pack members because his attitude is making your eye twitch. He sees it and smiles mischievously at you before landing a soft peck right below the same eye.

“I’d like to see how you handle Hannie or Seungmin hyung. They’re worse than I am.”

“They also probably move faster than you do.” He grumbles at you at that and gets to work undressing the two of you. He’s sliding his hoodie off when you’re filled with the urge to bite his biceps. They’ve gotten bigger since you’ve been introduced to him and you think it’s crazy because you hardly ever see him work out. Suddenly, there’s a large palm against your forehead and any forward movement you had started is quickly stopped.

“What are you doing?” You can feel your teeth click together as your mouth closes and you blink a couple times.

“Nothing.” He squints at you.

“You were going to bite me, weren’t you?”

“No.”

“You’re a liar!” You’re being manhandled now, and you refuse to go down without a fight. You grab a pillow and nail him in the face with it.

“I am not! I’ve never- don’t pull my hair- I’ve never lied!”

“You’re doing it right- why are your nails so fucking long- right now!”

“Nuh uh!”

“Did you just fucking- ow! What the hell?” You finally manage to get your teeth on his arm and it’s just as great as you imagined it would be. Your victory is incredibly short lived because between one second and the next Jeongin has you pinned to the bed. Your cheek is pressed against the mattress and he has your arm twisted in a way that’s mildly uncomfortable, but that’s overshadowed by how you can feel him pressed against you to keep you pinned. He’s all lean muscle and you can feel where his shoulders press against yours and where his cock is pressed against your ass and if you tilt your hips just right, you can feel him brush against your slick hole.

“Oh? Does my pretty Omega want something?” You can hear the laughter in his voice. You can also hear how it’s dropped three octaves and you can feel it rumbling from his chest. You can feel how his cock is starting to leak against your skin.

“Jeongin-”

“I think,” he grabs your other arm, pinning your wrists at the small of your back, “that if you want anything you should beg for it.”

“Innie, you’re not being fair-”

“I’m not being fair? You bit me. I have you pinned. If you want anything from me, you’re going to have to work for it.” You turn your head into the mattress and let out a small sob, wiggling a bit in Jeongin’s hold. His hands loosen on your wrists and he lifts his weight off of you enough that you could get out if you wanted to. Minho did this too, gave you signals with his body to let you know that it was okay to not want it, the problem is that you do. You like how Jeongin has you pinned, and you like the humiliation that’s going to come with begging for it.

He notices you haven’t moved and so his grip tightens on your wrists again. You feel the chuckle he lets out as he presses his weight down onto you again and you know your scent must be doing something because he inhales with his nose pressed straight against your neck.

“Get to begging, baby. I have all night.” You whine at that, wiggling and trying to push your hips back against his to fuck yourself onto his cock, but he pulls his hips back, readjusts until you couldn’t reach his cock unless you dislocated something and he laughs at you.

Jeongin does have all night, it turns out, because you spend a considerable amount of time with your forehead pressed into the mattress trying to will the shame that comes with wanting out of your body. At one point, he asks you if you’re alright, dropping the act for a bit and when you respond he resorts to taunting you.

He’s doing it now, taking his ridiculously large dick in his hand and gathering some of the slick that’s leaked between your legs to jerk it. You can hear the wet noises it’s making and you can’t help but think of how much louder it would be if he were actually fucking you. It turns out that your Alpha was thinking the same thing because he starts talking, and each word chips away at the lump in your throat.

“Fuck, you smell so good, baby. Your slick is so warm, I bet it’d be warmer if I got it straight from the source, yeah? What do you think? You’re leaking so much you’ve made a wet spot on the bed, maybe I should fuck that instead, since you wanna be stubborn.” You whine in response.

“No? You don’t want me to do that? I think I should. Or should I just finish on your back?” Your next answering whine is more of a wail.

“Oh, I see. You’re a little cumwhore is that it? Want me to come inside of you? Hmm? Get our Omega pregnant?” You moan this time, drooling onto the sheets. Jeongin grabs your head and turns it to the side so he can see you better, or so that you can see him and how he’s about to waste his cum on you instead of in you. The drool smears onto your cheek and you can feel your eyes start to well up with tears because you know he’s close.

“Please.” It escapes from you in a pathetic whimper and the hand that was stroking his cock pauses.

“What was that? I don’t think I heard you.” You know he did, but you also know that if you don’t repeat yourself and beg good enough he really will make good on his promise to finish on your back and leave you there.

“Innie, Jeonginnie, please. I want- I want-”

“Want what? Hmm? A slice of cake, a new Minecraft update?” You huff at his mocking, but it’s too wet to really hold any weight, and you can feel your lip wobbling, so you’re not surprised when what you say next is more of a sob than anything else.

“Your cock. Jeongin, Alpha, please. You said you wanted me during your rut, don’t you want me now?” It’s a low blow, and even through your desperation you know that, but you’ll do what it takes to get him to finally stick his huge dick in you.

“Oh, baby. I do. Don’t worry.” His fingers are searching for your entrance, stretching you out just enough for it to not burn too bad, but you’re so wet, and both of you are so needy, you know that you’ll just have to deal with the pain of not preparing for his stupid dick later because you want it now.

“Then,” he made the mistake of letting go of your wrists to grab your hip instead, and you ball your hands into fists and hit the bed in frustration, “why aren’t you fucking me?” He huffs a laugh.

“All that and you’re still giving me trouble? You’re lucky you’re cute, Omega. So lucky.” You start to kick your feet at him but you’re stopped by the fact that he’s slowly starting to push into you, making a home for himself inside your body and slowly forcing the breath from your lungs.

It burns, and you expected it to with how unprepared you were, but it feels good and you don’t care so that will have to be a later-you problem.

“Jesus, you feel so good, baby. Better than I imagined.” He starts a rough rhythm right off the bat, and you’re needy enough that it doesn’t bother you, besides, you’re pretty sure he was edging himself earlier, so he’s entitled to this.

“Felix hyung and I talked about it, you know. When I was in rut. You left.” The last part comes out as a soft growl, and he coughs to get himself in check before pressing a soft kiss between your shoulder blades.

“You left and I thought about how warm you’d feel inside. Felix wondered too, said he wanted to know how sweet you were.” You hear him chuckle. “Y’know I got him to come untouched from just talking about you, pretty baby?”

You gasp, letting out a shuddery moan at that, and you hear Jeongin laugh above you. You were already halfway to delirious with how good he was fucking you- hard enough to shake the bed and bang the headboard against the wall- but something about knowing that the pack wants you always makes you just that much wetter, always makes your head that much lighter, so you can’t help but clench down around his cock and get everything around you soaked with more of your slick.

“Jeonginnie, Alpha, I- please- I want to-”

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead, baby. I won’t make you beg for this one.” He presses himself down against your back, knocking your knees out from under you so you’re flat against the bed and have nowhere to go, nothing to do but take it.

“The next one, though. I make no promises.”

The new angle has you going dumber than you were before and you can feel Jeongin’s breath in puffs of hot air against your neck. You whine at him, moaning as you’re trapped underneath his body and when you come it’s with white spots dancing across your vision. You’re just coming down when you feel him start to pull out and you surprise both yourself and him with the growl that comes out of you.

“Yang Jeongin, so help me God if you do not come inside of me-” He shuts you up by doing just that, bullying his knot into you until it pops and rolling the two of you onto your sides so you’re not laying in the multiple spots of wet that have stained his sheets.

“You’re bossy.” It’s said against your hair while his stupidly big hands come up to massage the crick in your neck that’s finally made itself present. “How do you get away with that when you’re with Minho hyung?”

“I listen to him. Mostly.” He pinches you, you pinch back. You sit in silence for a minute.

“Was it good? Or, as good as you imagined?” You try not to sound insecure as you say it, but you know that you’ve probably missed the mark.

“Better. Way better.” He kisses the spot he was just massaging and winds his arm around your middle. “Nap time. You’ll need your energy when I get you back for being a little shit.”

“I wasn’t.” He scoffs at you.

“Yeah, sure. And my name is Chan.”

“Hi, Chan, how are you?”

“Cancel what I said earlier. The second we aren’t locked together anymore I’m kicking you out.” You laugh at him.

[space-cowgirllll]

Tolerate It

pls enjoy this kinda angsty little thing I wrote a couple of months ago when I was really going through it in a relationship and have been too shy to post anywhere until today. I miiiiight have the second part to this halfway done. If this sucks I'm so sorry lmao it’s very lightly proofread and I have not written anything that hasn't had to be turned in for a grade in years.

Part Two

You sit alone at the table wondering how you ended up here. The dinner you'd spent the better part of the evening preparing grows cold as you sip on what has to be your third glass of wine. From your spot you can see Abby standing at the counter, speaking softly into the phone while she reads through the mail that had piled up over the last week. You pick at your food, hoping she'll join you eventually, but when fifteen minutes turns into twenty and then thirty five, you realize you're wasting your time. The laughter from the other room tells you the work part of the call ended long ago. Pushing your chair back, not caring when the loud noise earns you a glare from Abby, you gather your plate and blow out the candles at the center of the table.

Abby moves to sit on the loveseat in the living room after her call. It doesn't take long for her to get lost in the new book she had just brought home. Your eyes shift to the untouched plate of food still waiting for her in the dining room and then to the apple in her hand. The sound of  your throat clearing catches her attention.

"Your plate is still at the table if you want it, babe." You gesture to the lone plate at her usual spot.

There's a pang in your chest at the sight of the floral arrangement you'd chosen for the week. Behind that, strong wind pelts rain at the window. The gloomy weather a perfect representation of the storm brewing inside you.

"I thought I told you I had an early dinner with a couple of colleagues."

"Oh."

It comes out as a whisper. Not bothering to tell her she hadn't called you back after her lunch break. Again. You make a mental note to put the plate away before bed, knowing she'll pack it for tomorrow.

Your arms are elbow deep in soapy water, trying to rush through the last couple of dishes before she retreats to her study. The clanking of pots and pans fills the quiet space. You scrub at a particularly stubborn spot, trying to think of a way to bring it up without sounding too obvious.

"How was work today?"

"Fine." Your wife replies, not elaborating further.

"It's the twenty first, right?" There's some hesitation in the question.

"Yup."

Okay.

She doesn't look up from her book when you shuffle past her a little while later, placing a steaming mug on the coffee table. Her hand caresses the soft skin of your thigh and you perk up when she mumbles a soft thanks, placing a quick kiss on her temple. The sleeping cat on her lap stirs when you give him a gentle scratch behind the ear.

You settle into the sofa across from her and watch her read. She's in the cotton pajamas and fuzzy socks you'd laid out in the closet for her. It makes you feel ridiculously overdressed. Your hands fist the skirt of your dress, feeling foolish. There's a dark spot on the satin material from leaning over the wet counter.

The record player in the far corner of the room catches your attention. You miss the nights where she'd play you one of her favorites and dance with you around the living room before letting you sit on her lap as she read out loud to you. You never thought you would miss those boring medical journals. These days you're lucky if you get more than an hour with her before she locks herself in her study.

It hadn't always been like this. The two of you have been together longer than you've been apart. Visions of eleven year old Abby teaching you how to braid her hair for soccer practice flash in your head. Crawling into her bed in the middle of the night after another nasty fight between your parents. Summer vacations to her family's lake house. Her and her parents at every dance recital and play you'd ever been part of in high school. Realizing at sixteen that your feelings for the girl weren't so platonic. Then moving into the spare bedroom down the hall from her a year later after coming out to your family. Prom dress shopping with her and her mother, sneaking kisses in the tiny fitting rooms. The Anderson's were the family you never had.

Navigating young adulthood with Abby had been fun. You'd rented a tiny apartment in Seattle and paid way too much for it while attending university. It wasn't much, but it was home. You remember the dance parties in the tiny living room. The time the blonde begged you to let her keep the tiny cat she'd found in an alley on the way home one random afternoon. Going on dates and exploring the city. Staying up late and fantasizing about what life would look like in ten years. The look on her face as her thumb rubbed small circles on the exposed skin of your belly after you'd shown her your list of baby names. Getting married just after graduation.

Abby had never been too busy to show you how much she loved you, no matter how busy she got with school. Packing your meals for work, making sure your car had enough gas in it, organizing stay at home date nights whenever your schedules aligned. And you doing the same for her when she was up to her eyebrows in work for school.

The notes were your favorite. They had started appearing randomly after you'd been unexpectedly laid off. You'd been moping around the house for weeks, losing hope after not hearing back from any of the companies you'd applied to. Always in your favorite color, the purple post it notes could be found stuck to the wherever you'd see them first thing in the morning. The silly declarations of love and the affirmations always made you smile.

Those days were long gone. You were slowly going from high school sweethearts to two people who simply co-existed. No matter what you did or how hard you tried, it was getting harder to deny the lack of warmth in her eyes when she looked at you sometimes. Today proved what you had been too afraid to admit to yourself. The only person who had ever felt like home has slowly started becoming a stranger that slipped into your bed later and later each night.

Your eyes start stinging and you bite down on your lower lip. There's no way you're breaking down in front of her, not tonight. The warmth radiating from the fireplace does little to keep away the chill running through your body. Shaky hands bring the mug to your lips, hoping some tea would calm the nausea swirling in your stomach. You're not surprised to find yourself unable to keep drinking after a few tiny sips. Abby's favorite mug grows cold on the coffee table and you're positive she doesn't even remember it's there.

The sound of her phone ringing startles you both. Abby snatches the phone off the counter, a tired sigh leaves her parted lips when she sees who's calling. She jogs up the steps, intently listening to whoever is on the other end of the phone. You pick at the chipping nail polish on your left hand, watching the way your engagement ring glints in the dim light of the fire. Your stomach dips as you slip the stack off your finger, placing them in the small bowl on the coffee table.

"Are you going somewhere?" Your head shoots up to where she's standing in the threshold. The sight of her in a fresh pair of navy blue scrubs doesn't surprise you. Her loose bun traded for a tight braid that hangs over her shoulder.

"No. Why would I be?"

She gestures at your dress. Eyes roaming over your face, finally noticing the makeup you'd carefully applied hours before. You see her lock in on your empty hand, her sculpted brows furrow in confusion. Please say something. You beg, just wanting to understand why this is happening. Was she so busy she couldn't even bother to ask what's wrong? Did she even care anymore?

The constant buzzing of the phone in her tote bag answers your question for you. She shakes her head and turns to the door, stopping to slip her feet into her sneakers. You follow silently behind her, wondering if you should say something.

"Abigail?"

She hums in acknowledgment, not bothering to look up from her phone. Her fingers move at lightning speed across the touchscreen. Your nails dig into the palm of your hand, fighting the urge to snatch her phone and chuck it against the wall.

"What?" She asks again when you don't speak up. The look of annoyance on her face has you taking a step back.

"Nevermind," you turn towards the coat closet, pulling out her winter jacket. "It doesn't matter." You don't have to look back to know she's rolling her eyes.

"I should be back before you leave for work." You busy yourself with the already organized closet, pretending to move things around while she gathers the rest of her things.

"Be careful." You mumble, blinking rapidly to stop the tears from flowing. Not trusting yourself to say much more without your throat closing.

"Always am." She plants a kiss on the back of your head and heads out the door. It's only when you hear the sound of her car pulling away that you let yourself cry. No longer caring about the mascara that is certainly smearing.

Unsteady legs carry to the foot of the stairs where you collapse into a pathetic heap. Tears freely flowing down your cheeks, further staining the material of your dress. Your hands harshly pull at the fabric, wanting nothing more than to rip it off. The pins in your hair clatter loudly on the floor as you harshly pull them out.

Your sobs echo throughout the empty house. Pain radiates through your body, from somewhere in your chest to the tips of your fingers. The nausea has increased tenfold. You inhale sharply, resting your head on your knees. Watery eyes fixed on the front door your wife had just walked out of, this gut wrenching feeling of loneliness overwhelms you.

"Happy anniversary Abby."

[koznme]

ICARUS t. todoroki

chapter one

18+, mdni. swearing, illicit substance use, drinking, mentions of addiction and alcohol abuse, brief mention of trauma, mention of hookups, third person point of view (touya’s perspective), touya is an asshole and so is reader, beta read but not throughly edited because i cba

taglist is open, writing under the cut

word count 7.4k

series masterlist

routine was something he was very familiar with—a repetitive, perpetual, never-ending series of events; but it was what kept him somewhat sane. it was a simple routine, really: wake up, go to work, fill the void, sometimes he’d hit up the bars—it honestly depended on how the day went.

some days were worse than others. some mornings, it took him three tries to get out of bed. not because he was tired—hell, he wasn’t even tired—but because his body needed a little something first. just something. he’d hoped it was enough to take off the edge.

the edge was always there. always sharp. always waiting, like a blade pressed against his ribs. anger that crawled under his skin, a frustration that burned in his veins, an itch he'd never be able to scratch. it never let up—a storm building in his chest, swirling like chaos that couldn’t be controlled until it all blurred together. he could never pin it down—there was no target, no release, just a never ending fire. it was never enough to scream or fight it out; it simmered deep, where nobody could see, where he had to hide it. but god, it felt like it would explode at any second.

he told himself he had it all under control.

everybody always did—at first.

the thing about days like that was, when they hit, it was like nothing mattered. on those days, he’d skip work entirely, leave his responsibilities behind like they were nothing more than paperweights. it wasn’t like he was lazy–no, it was just the weight of it was too much. the pressure, the itch, the anger–the whatever it was– it dragged him down until all he could do was stay in bed and let the world slip away. it was honestly a miracle he was still employed at all. maybe it was his steady hand he had on days he did show up. clean lines, no tremors. or maybe it was the way he could disappear into the work, eyes locked in, needle humming like a lullaby—focused, steady, precise. or maybe his boss stopped caring, he still did good work, and good work was good work.

if the day dragged him under, if the weight sat heavy on his chest, he’d head to a bar. the only place where everything blurred into the background, where no one gave a shit about who he was or what he felt. a familiar place with familiar faces. the kind who didn’t flinch when his mood snapped sideways. the kind who didn’t ask question when he ducked into the bathroom a little too often. they didn’t care. it was an unspoken agreement. he liked that.

on those nights, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t end up home.

no, never home. not after any thoughts would take hold, not after the sharp sting of loneliness would settle in like poison. no, he’d end up in someone else’s bed. they didn’t need to know him. they didn’t need to know anything. he just needed a body. it was much more convenient this way, he’d think, half-lucid, chasing some sort of numbness in every form he could–pills, bodies, silence. anything to keep him from feeling too much. anything to keep the anger from boiling over, to quiet the ache from wanting too much but trusting too little.

but when he woke up, it was always the same. that hollow feeling. the dry mouth. the emptiness. he’d slip out of bed quietly, careful not to stir whoever was next to him. never overstayed his welcome. always dressing quickly, leaving without a word, and making his way home in the early hours, streets empty and cold. just like him.

back in his own bed, he’d lay there, staring at the ceiling, every inch of him stiff with the weight of it all. wondering if he could make it through one more day. wondering how long it would be before the whole thing–this life, this routine–snapped completely.

it wasn’t really living; but it passed for it.

and yet, the itch, that damn itch, it never went away. it only grew. restless under his skin, gnawing deeper into him with every breath. some days, it felt like the only thing keeping him from ripping his own skin off was the barest threat of control. the barest threat holding the rage down, keeping it just below the surface. he told himself he had it under control, but it wasn’t control anymore. it was just keeping it from exploding.

he couldn’t remember the last time he felt like he could control it.

it was a constant struggle, a battle he was losing more and more each day. he used to think that if he kept moving, if he kept numbing the itch with whatever worked for a little while, then maybe he could keep it at bay. maybe if he just kept going, kept pretending it wasn’t there, he could outrun it.

but it never let up. it just got worse. it spread, it burned, it twisted, until it filled every corner of his mind. and no matter how far he ran, no matter how many distractions he tried, it was always there–waiting, clinging to him, like a shadow. waiting for the next moment to tear him apart. a weight he couldn’t shake. it dug deep, suffocating him in ways that made it harder to think, harder to move, to feel anything else.

it was like drowning on dry land, the pressure tightening in his chest until it felt like his ribcage might crack. and it was always there, no escape. no end.

he woke up to that same weight.

the moment his eyes flickered open, it was there–like the air itself was too thick to breathe, too heavy to hold him up. he didn’t even have to try and recall the feeling; it was already pressing down on him. every breath felt like a drag, like something was holding him in place, pulling at his chest. it wasn’t enough to make him want to stay in bed. no, it was something deeper.

something worse.

he blinked into the dim light of his room, disoriented, the sheets felt too warm, the silence too heavy. his head was still foggy, the consequences of the night before had settled deep into his bones. a mix of too many drinks, and not enough sleep. a pounding in his head he hadn’t felt in a while. it took him a minute to piece together where he was. no, not where–what–what the hell was he doing here again he rolled over, grabbing his phone off the nightstand.

1:00PM

the bright light of his screen nearly blinded him, closing his eyes did nothing to help. he tossed his phone aside; it landed with a small thump somewhere on his bed, he’d worry about that later. the heaviness in his chest was still there, a pulse he could feel in his bones, like the world was pressing in on him from all sides, suffocating him with its weight the same pressure, the same endless tightness, like a vise that had been there too long.

he ran a hand through his knotted hair, fingers brushing against his scalp. the rough fabric of last night’s clothes felt weird against his skin–a ratty shirt, too thin and stretched out with the logo of some band long worn out, a pair of jeans that felt a size too small now. great. a dry laugh bubbled up in his throat, but it was hollow. empty. he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d bothered to change before crashing out. it wasn’t like he’d planned to sleep here, or anywhere. but the bed…the bed had seemed like a good place to stop moving. and now he was stuck.

when he finally dragged himself out of bed, it was a struggle–not just physically, but mentally. his body felt heavy, leaden. his head spun slightly as he pushed through the disorientation. the soft whir of his fan was the only sound in the room–everything else eerily quiet. the room was too quiet, too still. no distraction. no escape.

as he shuffled into the kitchen, the first thing he noticed was his roommate’s door. already wide open across the hall, a surprising sight.. the guy probably hadn’t moved in days, always glued to that screen like his life depended on it. the dull him of his gaming rig buzzed faintly from the smell of stale cereal, half-empty energy drinks, and grease in the air. he couldn’t remember the last time they’d had an actual conversation that didn’t feel like a pointless exchange of words.

however, the guy was there, slouched at the table in the kitchen, eyes glazed over as he absentmindedly spooned cereal into his mouth, his phone propped up against the roll of paper towels–a video playing on the tiny screen, no doubt something related to whatever obscure game he was playing.

“morning,” his roommate said without glancing up, the word flat, as though it meant nothing at all.

“it’s nearly 3pm.” he muttered back, grabbing a bowl out of the open cabinet over head and pouring himself a bowl of cereal. he opened the fridge, reaching in for the carton of milk, the sound of it sloshing around in the cardboard contained filling the silence. he didn’t care that the guy wasn’t even looking at him. didn’t care that everything felt like it was slowly decaying around them.

the itch still burned in his chest, but he didn’t know where to put it. didn’t know how to shake it. he could feel the gnawing, the burning, the need to feel something other than the hollow ache in his chest. something, anything. he didn’t care what, anymore. he just need it to stop.

the routine was the same as always–awkward silence punctuated by the video playing. he grabbed a mug, filling it with the coffee in the coffee maker that he was sure was at least a day old, only half-paying attention to the motions, the bitterness mixing with the heaviness in his chest. his gaze flickered toward the table, where his roommate was still zoned out, eyes glued to his screen like he was drifting through another dimension.

“got anything today?” his hoarse voice cut through the silence between them. he didn’t even know why he asked, the answer was always the same. weed, pills, something. he didn’t care about the specifics anymore. he just needed to feel different. just a little bit of release so stop the itch from clawing at him.

his roommate didn’t look up, white hair falling between his eyes as he leaned closer to the tiny screen in front of him. he shrugged, scratching at the flakey skin around his neck. “a little bit of this, a little bit of that.”

he didn’t offer more, the way it usually went, as if the exchange was already understood–no questions asked. just the transaction. their whole routine was built around that unacknowledged code, as much as a part of their living arrangement as the rent itself.

he just stared at the long-haired guy in front of him, patience thinning. the rage crawled up his chest, but he forced himself to take a deep, shaky breath. the irritation was familiar, but this time it felt sharper, churning inside, nipping at his skin, scratching at his composure.

his roommate finally glanced up, but only briefly, before shifting his gaze back to the last few seconds of the video. “you want something or not?”

“no, of course not, tomura.” voice laced with sarcasm, and venom. he couldn’t help it. “i wouldn’t fucking ask if i didn’t want anything.”

tomura didn’t react. with a lazy shrug, he pushed his chair back, the wooden legs scratched against the linoleum floor of the kitchen–grating, jarring–a sound that deeply irritated touya, made his skin crawl. tomura shuffled to his room like some zombie, head down, back hunched–a product of the countless hours of hunching over his computer–shoulders slouched forward, absorbed in his own world. not even the slightest sign of care for the exchange. the door creaked as it closed behind him. the quiet in the apartment settled over touya, thick and suffocating.

he was already halfway through the motion of reaching into his pocket when the door opened again. tomura stepped out, holding a few small, beat up ziploc bags with different contents inside. he tossed it onto the table without much thought, and then, as an afterthought, muttered, “take your pick.”

it was so detached, so empty, no emotion behind the offer. a lazy transaction. it pissed touya off more than he could explain.

touya reached forward, but as his fingers grazed against the plastic, something inside him snapped–his whole body tensed, his jaw clenched. a rage, cold but white hot at the same time, gripped him from the inside out. the kind that made his chest ache

“that’s it?”

he barely recognized his own voice, low, tight, cutting. the words hung in the room, heavier than they should have been. for a brief moment they sounded like his old man. he hated that. the comparison, the recognition, it sickened him. his dad would do the same thing–given him and his mom scraps and called it enough. he bring home some extravagant gift, a half-hearted offer, the bare minimum. no love, no effort. just a cold hand-off of something that was supposed to mean something, but never did. it was never enough.

yet, somehow, his mom always found a way to forgive. a way to turn a blind eye.

and now, here he was, staring at tomura–doing the same damn thing. the same indifference. the same empty gestures. the same bullshit. tomura barely spared him a glance, eyes rolling in indifference, like he was already over it. he didn’t care, couldn’t care. his voice was a lazy drawl, a boredom he didn’t try to hide. “you want more? too bad. that’s all i’m offering. you figure it out.”

the frustration boiled over, and touya pulled out a crumpled bill, slamming it down onto the table with enough bags to make the bags rattle and the table wobble. the anger was red-hot now, rising in his throat, and the weight of it all–the rage, the sick realization that he was no different from his dad–made his hands shake.

tomura glanced at the money, the wrinkled 5000 yen bill sitting between the two of them. his lips curled into a half-smile, a bitter, mocking thing that nearly drove touya to the edge. “nice. can afford this shit, but can’t even make your half of the rent on time. pathetic.”

pathetic. the way tomura threw that word, like it meant nothing. like they were just another piece of trash to discard. it was a jab to the gut, a reminder of everything touya hated about his life. about the way things had always been.

“i’m pathetic?” he hissed, voice low but dangerous. “i’m pathetic? you think i chose this? you think i wanted to end up like this?”

his hands were fists now, knuckles pale, nails digging into the meet of his palms. the plastic bags sat there, insignificant, forgotten, but somehow the epicenter of everything wrong in his life. they were the last thread holding it together–and now even that was fraying.

“you’re always like this,” tomura just blinked, slow and blank, like none of it touched him. like he was watching some dome scene in a movie he’d already seen a dozen times. “always throwing a tantrum, acting like the world owes you something. get over yourself.”

“fuck you,” touya spat. “you don’t know shit about me.”

“don’t need to.” tomura shrugged, already turning away, leaving the bill on the tabletop. “you’re not that complicated.”

and just like that, he walked off, that lazy shuffle of his disappearing back into his cave of wires and screens and cigarette smoke. the door clicked shit behind him, a soft snick that somehow sounded louder than a gunshot in the silence that followed.

touya stood there, shaking. the rage didn’t leave–it never really did–but now there was something else mixed into it. something quiet. shame, maybe. or grief. whatever it was, it sat behind his ribs and tore at him like a rat. he looked down at the bags still on the table. he should’ve just grabbed them and left. he should’ve numbed it again. made it go away.

but he couldn’t move. not yet.

because the thing was…tomura wasn’t wrong. not really.

he wasn’t that complicated.

just a mess with a pulse.

a guy who couldn’t outrun his own goddamn shadow.

a man with his hands full of fire and nothing left to burn but himself.

he slid into the chair, the weight of the day already pressing down on him again, even though it barely started. from the other room, he could hear tomura, the low hum of whatever game he’d thrown himself into echoed around the apartment–gunshots, screams, repetitive synthetic music. it was all muffled, like it came from underwater. it was like he was underwater.

touya stared at his own reflection in the sheen of the tabletop–warped, fragmented. he didn’t recognize himself. didn’t know who this version of him was anymore. his hands twitched. his breath came too shallow, body tense. the bads sat there on the table, untouched, quiet in a way that felt cruel. he stared at them like they were mocking him–like they knew just how close he was to cracking. like they didn’t carry the weight of every bad decision he had ever made.

but they did.

god, they did.

he still heard tomura in the other room, probably already forgotten about him. probably laughing at some stupid video, lost in his screen, detached like always. and that stung in a way he hated admitting. not because he wanted tomura to care–but because some part of him needed someone to.

even if it was the wrong person. even if they never stayed.

the itch was always there, yes–but so was the fear. the emptiness. the gaping hole in the center of his chest, the one he tried to fill up with drugs, with hookups, with routine, with anything that would give him a moment of peace. but nothing ever stuck. nothing ever lasted. the moment things got quiet, it was like his brain turning on him–ripping through everything all at once.

he swallowed hard, throat dry, like he’d been chewing on ash. the taste of the previous night still clung to the back of his tongue–alcohol, smoke, someone else’s perfume. it made his stomach twist. he ran a hair through his hair, dragging his fingers down his face like he could scrape away the exhaustion and shame clinging to his skin. his leg started bouncing beneath the table, nerves firing beneath his skin like static. he needed something. a hit. a drink. a scream. he didn’t know. just something to shut it all up.

he stood up suddenly, the chair screeching across the linoleum with a harsh scrape that made his teeth grind. he hovered over the bags again, hands trembling. he hated this part–the bargaining, the slow unraveling. the part where he lied to himself. said he didn’t need it. that he could choose to walk away.

and maybe he could. but just not this time.

he picked up one of the bags, turning it over in his hand. it was light. too light to hold so much power. but it did. it held everything–silence, relief, numbness. it was a lifeline. it was a death sentence.

he stared at the bag for a long time, the plastic slippery under his grip. the decision wasn’t loud. it didn’t crash into him or scream in his head. it slipped in like a sigh, quiet, gentle. like surrender. there was no fight in him, his fingers moved automatically. muscle memory. a ritual. he emptied the bag with the kind of efficiency that only came from repetition–quick, precise, practiced. the kind of motion that had stopped feeling dangerous a long time ago. now it was just a part of him, like breathing.

it didn’t hit as fast. he supposed it was from the constant use, the buildup of immunity.

but when it did, the edges dulled at first–his thoughts softened, like someone turning down the volume on the world until they completely disappeared. that familiar itch under his skin faded into static. the burn in his brain smoothed, the fires smothered into something quieter. almost calm.

he let out a slow, shaky breath and sank into the chair, slouching down until his spine curved in a way that would normally leave him in pain. his eyes drifted towards the ceiling, half-lidded, unfocused. the lights above him blurred, a bright yellow that bathed everything he touched. his limbs felt like jell-o, the air around him wrapped him in a hug of sorts, his breathing slowed and the pounding in his ears subsided. for the first time all day–all 2.5 hours he was awake–or maybe all week, he didn’t feel like he was going to come apart at the seams.

that was a lie, of course. a temporary one. a borrowed moment of silence. but right now it was enough.

he stayed there for a while. lost time. let the stillness stretch over him like a weighted blanked as the suns rays grew and shortened. the apartment around him had long since faded–the only things around were the soothing hum of the fridge, the faint buzz of tomura’s game through the wall, the ticking of a cheap clock he hadn’t replaced since it broke. time meant nothing.

eventually he stood, once the initial high wore down just enough for his head to not feel heavy and his limbs to regain some semblance of stability. his body still moved like it was underwater–lose, a little slow, but sturdy enough to stay upright. his joints ached in that disconnected way, like they weren’t quite his own, another thing borrowed. he pushed off the edge of the table, swaying slightly as gravity reminded him it still had him by the throat. his palm found the wall, fingers spread against the chipped paint and rough texture. it was cold. solid. something real in the haze of it all.

the hallway tilted slightly, or maybe it was just him. hard to tell.

he dragged himself toward his room with a sluggish determination, using the wall like a guide rail, brushing his shoulder against it every few steps just to stay grounded. his legs carried him forward, muscle memory again, doing the work his brain was too fogged to manage. the apartment around him was fuzzy–nothing but a blend of doorways and shadows.

he reached his door, fumbled with the handle–missed once, then caught it on the second try. he didn’t bother turning on the light; the darkness was a comfort, a familiar weight draped across his shoulders. safe in its own way. empty, sure–but at least it didn’t ask anything from him. he stepped inside and shut the door behind him–not with intention, not with purpose, just because that was what he always did. the click of the latch was soft, yet it echoed in the stillness. final. like the closing of a casket.

then he sank to the floor.

not the bed; that felt too far, too soft, too clean. or at least cleaner than the floor, cleaner than he felt. the floor was solid. hard. honest. something that didn’t give when he leaned into it. something that could hold him when nothing else could. his back hit the cold wood with a dull thud, and he let out a slow, shaky breath, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. his arms fell limp beside him, his whole body slack–like a marionette with cut strings. the high was still there, humming just beneath his skin—numbing the sharped edges, a low distant thrum in his blood. but it was already slipping.

and with every minute that passed, the weight began to creep back in. draining out of him lie water leaking from a cracked vase–inevitable. unstoppable. first as a whisper. then a murmur. then a scream until it became nothing but the silence again. a heavy weight upon your chest. the part of the high that no one warns you about–the aftermath, the slow coming down, the crash, the stillness that wasn’t peace but something worse. a void, a reminder. it never crashed into him, no. it seeped. like rot through the walls. it wasn’t peaceful, it was hollow. deceptive. the kind of quiet that echoed with everything he tried not to think about.

he opened his eyes. vision blurry, unfocused, drifting toward the ceiling. shadows shifted in the corners, barely touched by the faint light bleeding through the slats of the blinds, outside, life kept moving–buffled bass thumped from someone’s speaker down the hall. a dog barked. and somewhere beyond his door, tomura laughed, low and unbothered, voice tangled in a conversation that drifted through the walls thin as smoke. touya didn’t move.

he was aware of the faint buzz of his phone on the bed behind him–forgotten, ignored. a dull vibration, persistent, muffled by the twisting sheets around it. but he never got up, never checked.

he couldn’t feel his face. his hands were warm and tingling. his heartbeat was steady but slow. steady. drowsy. the kind of slow that made time crawl. made everything feel like it was suspended in amber–thick, unmoving, suffocating.

he blinked once. twice. his eyes stayed open, but he wasn’t looking for anything. his mouth was dry; his chest felt hollow. but it was quiet. no screaming thoughts. no memories clawing their way up his throat. no reminders of what he’d done. who he used to be. nothing telling him he was worthless, that he would be better off dead, no echoes of that final argument with his dad–shouts and slamming doors. no glimpse of his mom, tearful and silent. no image of natsuo, standing in the hallway, small hands clenched into fists, starting at him like a stranger. no remembrance of fuyumi carrying shoto on her hip, the two of them wide-eyed, watching. just silence.

eventually the quiet shifted, turned into loneliness. not the kind you feel in an empty room. no–this was deeper. hungrier. the kind that curled up beside him and whispered in his ear. the kind that felt like it lived inside his bones, crawling up his spine, branding him from the inside out.

a hot, searing ache. one the pills couldn’t touch; one the high couldn’t numb. the ache of absence. of everything he’d thrown away. the kind of loneliness that didn’t just hurt, it hollowed. and he felt it, right there, at the center of his chest. it always found him again when everything else faded. the part of him that still missed being loved. the part of him that hated himself for ruining it. the part that wondered–honestly, quietly, hopelessly– if maybe there was no way back.

he swallowed hard. it caught in his throat like a stone. his limbs felt heavier, his head thick with static. he didn’t know how long he had laid there. minutes. hours. could’ve been both. could’ve been neither. but it was long enough for the high to loosen its grip, for the fog to clear up. not enough to make him feel normal–whatever that meant–but enough to bring the ache back.

and when it returned, it didn’t sneak in like before. it hit hard. full force. a deeper emptiness that settled low into his stomach, infecting every part of him. no more hum beneath the skin. no more float. just heavy clarity. one that didn’t sooth–only reminded. the silent wasn’t soft now. it was loud. screeching. heavy with everything he’d tried to drown.

he swallowed again, jaw tight, hands flexing against the floor like he needed to hold something. but there was nothing, just dust. air. the pieces of a life that hadn’t really belonged to him in years.

so he stood.

slowly. unsteady at first. his muscles ached in protest, but he pushed through it. the floor creaked beneath his weight as he stood. he pulled on a hoodie from the floor. didn’t care that it smelled like a blend of ink, cigarettes, and stale liquor. it was warm, and it was easy. he shoved a hand in the front pocket, fingers brushing against old receipts and a lighter he didn’t remember putting there. the room spun once. he let it pass.

his tongue felt like paper, his throat burned faintly. he crossed the room, grabbed his wallet off the dresser, no even sparing a glance at the mirror next to it–he didn’t want to see what looked back. he needed out. he needed to go somewhere with lights. with noise. with people who didn’t look too hard or ask too much. somewhere where he could fade into the background, somewhere where the loneliness wouldn’t find him.

the apartment felt too small. too quiet. too known. it made everything inside him louder.

so he left the apartment in silence. no word to tomura. no glance at his phone. no second thoughts. the door shut softly behind him, the sound lost to the noises of the city awakening around him.

outside, the night air hit him hard–sharp and cool, slicing into his lungs with every breath. the sky was the color of bruises–deep, purpling clouds handing low, like they might fall. his boots scraped against the pavement, each measured and slow. steady and sober enough. the lights from the street bled into his eyes, too bright and too artificial, painting the sidewalk in broken gold. people around him–hundreds at least–weaved their way around him, moving on past his tiny bubble. the city didn’t care about him. never asked anything. never looked too closely. it just kept moving. he liked that.

the bar wasn’t far. just a few blocks of cracked pavement, flickering neon, and corners that smelled like piss and desperation. sitting somewhere along the intersection home to meth heads and heroin junkies. the usual path.

the sign outside buzzed faintly, one of the letters dead. he hesitated at the door, just for a second–not out of doubt, out of exhaustion. but still, he pushed through. inside, it was dim, low-ceilinged and buzzing with voices, clinking glasses, the low murmur of a jukebox stuck on a sad song from a decade no one remembered. the air was thick with sweat, smoke, and spilled whiskey. it wrapped around him like a blanket and he hated how much he needed it.

he moved to the bar without looking at anyone, slid into a stool like he’d never left it. the bartender glanced over, nodded once. not surprised to see him. there were no exchanged words–just a quiet understanding, the kind between two strangers who’d seen each other too many times, who knew the shape of each other’s silence better than they knew their names.

the glass landed in front of touya with a soft thud. a smooth crystal holding an amber liquid. smooth. familiar. he stared at it for a moment, the way the light caught the rim, his eyes traced the gentle sway of the whiskey inside. like it was waiting for him to break the stillness. coaxing him with empty promises.

he brought it to his lips. the first burn was sharp. clean. it cleared the last remnants of the fog in his skull, dragging his mind back into focus. the second drink went down easier. warmer. more forgiving. by the third, the ache in his chest still wasn’t gone. it just sat there–quiet, patient. like it knew it had all the time in the world.

he didn’t stay long.

the first bar never held him for more than a few drinks these days. it used to be enough–to fade into the noise, to let the alcohol smooth out the jagged edges, to sit quietly and pretend he wasn’t waiting for something to change. waiting for something to end.

lately, nothing had been able to dull the edge.

the buzz came and went like static, and the silence afterward only rang louder. the familiar voices around him felt distant. empty. the music grated, switching between genres fast enough to make his head spin. the glass in his hand felt heavier than it used to.

and the worst part? no one noticed. not the bartender. not the regulars. not even himself, really. just another night. just another slow unraveling.

he set the empty glass down, the sound barely audible over the low buzz of the room, and pushed himself off the stool. he left a few wadded up bills next to the glass as his feet carried him out the door and into the cold without a thought. the wind bit at his cheeks. the city hummed around him, half-asleep, half-feral. he didn’t need to check the time–he already knew it was late, and he already knew he wasn’t going home.

he didn’t know exactly where he was heading until he did. another bar. a different one. the one with rust on the awning. the one with cigarette smoke in the alley. the one where she worked. he wasn’t exactly looking for her.

but he wasn’t not looking, either.

the bar was warmer. louder. worse. it felt like being trapped in amber–hazy, sticky, suffocating. the air hung thick with the scent of stale beer, cheap perfume, and too many breathless conversations happening at once. college students packed the corners and crowded the bar, laughing too loud, leaning too close. everyone was trying too hard to forget something. he knew the feeling.

the lighting was much more dim that the first bar, and murky, too. like it had given up trying to illuminate anything clearly, the kind that made everyone’s skin glow gold and sickly, like they’d been dipped in honey and smoke. shadows moved across the walls. faces blurred together. his boots stuck slightly to the floor as he made his way to the bar. he found a seat at the end, tucked half in shadow, and let his eyes scan the room before settling on her.

she was working behind the bar–moving with a rhythm that was half muscle memory, half exhaustion. her expression was unreadable. detached. no wasted energy. no fake smiles. like she’d poured herself into the motions so completely that there was nothing left for small talk, for smiles, for anything resembling softness. her hair was pulled back in a loose tie. there was something almost graceful in the way she avoided eye contact. like she’d mastered the art of being untouchable.

there was something about the way she moved–quick, precise, not a single wasted motion. she didn’t yell over the music like her coworkers did. she didn’t flirt. she barely even spoke. just a rhythm: nod, pour, wipe, side the drink across the counter, move on.

he didn’t think she had notice him. not yet. he watched her anyway.

“don’t even think about it.” a voice cut through the haze beside him–smooth, confident, a little too loud.

touya blinked, turning his head slightly. the guy stood behind the bar near him, towel slung over his shoulder, grinning like he lived for the change to interrupt. bright-eyed, tan, annoyingly charismatic. the kind of guy who looked like he flirted just for sport.

“think about what?”

“her,” the blond nodded in her direction, like it was obvious. “she doesn’t do customers. doesn’t do anyone, actually. you’re wasting your time.”

touya narrowed his eyes, tone low and sharp. “did i ask?”

the blond just laughed. “didn’t have to. i’ve seen that look before.”

he turned away, jaw tight, fingers curling loosely around the edge of the bar. the kind of frustration that didn’t come from the comment itself, but from the way it landed. like he had asked. like he had shown something. like wanting to look at her meant anything at all. he hated that the guy could read him so easily. hated that he wasn’t wrong. but before he could come up with something to say–something cruel enough to shut it down–she looked over.

and for a second, she hesitated.

her eyes met his, then drifted. a pause. a flicker of recognition. not strong. not certain. just there.

“you again?” she asked, dry and flat.

“didn’t think i was that memorable.” he’d only spoken to her once–about a week ago. out back in the dingy, damp alleyway behind the bar where the air reeked of overflowing dumpsters, rain-soaked concrete, and cigarette smoke that clung to everything like regret. he didn’t know why he went out there that night, why he walked through that particular alleyway. no real reason. just one of those moments where his body moved without his brain. restless. hollow. needing a breath of air that didn’t taste like liquor and cologne.

he remembered her standing against the brick wall of the building, a cigarette between her fingers, the cherry glowing faint in the dark. her posture had been relaxed, but not open–like she’d folded herself into the silence and didn’t want company. still, she hadn’t told him to fuck off. he remembered how her eyes flickered toward him but didn’t linger. just a glance, like she was used to ghosts passing through. he remembered asking her for a light.

he didn’t even smoke that much.

maybe once in a while. mostly when he was drunk. or when he wanted to feel like he had something to do with his hands. he didn’t even remember if he had a real cigarette on him that night or if he’d bummed it from someone on the way out. regardless, she didn’t ask. just handed him her lighter–plastic, cheap, brand new, and warm from her palm. their hands had momentarily brushed. he remembered that brief sensation of skin. calloused fingers. no polish. no rings.

they hadn’t said much after that. maybe two more sentences. short, forgettable things. she smoked in silence, and he mirrored her, like he didn’t want to break whatever strange stillness had settled between them. then, without ceremony, she stubbed the cigarette halfway through and gone back inside, tossing a parting remark over her shoulder. a dry joke, sharp and careless, like she didn’t expect him to laugh. something about making sure he doesn’t lose any more fights or some shit. he didn’t even remember the exact words. he just remembered how much it irritated him. it shouldn’t have bothered him that much.

but it did.

he stayed out there long after she was gone, bathed in the dull light of the streetlamp overhead, a thin ribbon of her smoke still lingering in the air. feeling nothing at all. or maybe, too much. it was hard to tell the difference.

now, he sat in front of her again–his bruises faded but still faintly visible–watching her move behind the bar like she’d never stopped. her expression hadn’t changed, still unreadable. still composted in that detached way that made it impossible to tell what she was thinking.

“you’re not.” she said simply, already turning away to pour another drink. “you just asked me for a light. that happens a lot.”

he laughed under his breath, quiet and bitter. “yeah. guess it does.”

it shouldn’t have stung. but it did.

she didn’t look up at him right away, just kept serving drinks and wiping down the bar with a damp cloth. the kind of motion people fall into when they need to keep their hands busy. her fingers were quick, practiced, distant. then her gaze flicked toward him–brief, unreadable.

“you looked like shit.” she said simply.

that made him laugh, this time a little more real–tight in the chest but not bitter. “thanks.”

“i see a lot of people who look like shit,” she added, leaning her weight on the bar, one elbow resting near the sink, the soft hum of conversation filling the space around them.”it blurs.”

he didn’t say anything to that. just looked at her–really looked. the low light case soft shadows over her face, outlining her cheekbones and the tired shape of her eyes. she wasn’t wearing makeup, not much anyway. her sleeves were rolled up just past her elbows. she looked like she belonged behind the bar the way some people belonged in churches–too worn out to believe in the place, but still showing up every night like it mattered.

“guess i thought it stuck.” his voice low, almost dismissive. “didn’t think i was that forgettable.”

she looked at him then. not soft, not cruel. just direct.

“it was a cigarette,” she said. “and maybe ten words.”

he scoffed, his lips curling up into a smirk without any humor. “didn’t know there was a word count minimum for being remembered.”

she didn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched like she might’ve, in another lifetime. “most people don’t even bother lighting their own. you did. that’s something, i guess.”

“cheers to that. glad i’m memorable for being slightly less useless than average”

“you said it,” she replied, already turning away.

he watched her for a moment longer, something bitter curling low in his chest. maybe it was better that she didn’t remember him clearly. maybe it meant that it hadn’t mattered. maybe he should stop wishing it had. then, like clockwork, the annoying blond slid back into view. a grin already plastered on his face.

“there he is,” the blond said, wiping his hands on his towel. “thought you’d slipped out.”

touya didn’t look at him. “still here.”

the blond leaned over the bar just enough to glance between him and her. “so? we having a moment here, or am i walking into the world’s most painfully one-sided crush?”

touya’s jaw tensed.

“she’s working,” he said flatly. “you should try it sometime.”

all the blond did was snort. “touchy.”

she didn’t even glance at her coworker, just kept lining up clean glasses–face indiscernible.

“you know,” blondie added, lowering his voice just a little like it was a favor, giving him a warning. “you’re not her type.”

touya finally turned to him, slow. “and you are?”

“definitely not.” his grin grew wider. “but i’m smart enough to not try.”

“good,” touya muttered. “stick to what you’re good at.”

the blond smirked, backing off with raised hands in mock surrender and a wink. “that’d be charming people, thanks.”

“right. must be exhausting carrying that delusion around.”

the bartender finally backed off, still grinning like he hadn’t just pissed gasoline on an open flame. the exchange ended there–sharp, small, but enough to leave touya with a sour taste in his mouth. he didn’t know what he expected coming here. not warmth. not kindness. but maybe something closer to acknowledgement. something human.

he ordered a drink, downing it with ease; the warmth in his chest now full, too familiar. he sat there a while longer, long after the conversation had died. his elbows on the bar, his mind somewhere else.

she didn’t look at him again. didn’t glance up. didn’t say another word.

no follow-up to the few dry words they’d exchanged. just poured drinks and moved on like he was already part of the furniture. background noise. maybe he was just another forgettable face from a week ago, one of many who drifted in and out of this place, dragging their bruises behind them like the ghosts who hadn’t figured out that they were dead yet.

that hurt more than it should’ve.

he was about to leave when she slid into the seat beside him.

no, not the girl behind the bar. a different girl.

darker lipstick, hair that framed her face in a way that accentuated her features, denim jacket with too many pins. a pretty little thing. her smile was easy–rehearsed. “you look like you could use some company.”

her voice was sweet with a little bite at the end. he didn’t even hesitate. touya turned to her, leaning in slightly. “yeah?”

“yeah,” she said, smiling like it was already decided. “you’ve got that brooding, lost-in-his-own-head look. it’s hot.”

he gave her a soft, tired laugh. “it’s not a look.”

“even better,”

she touched his arm lightly, like she already knew how the night would end.

and maybe she did. he didn’t ask her name. she didn’t ask his. they exchanged a few more words–something vague, something flirtatious–but none of that stuck.

it wasn’t about that.

he looked toward the bar one last time as the girl he just barely knew stood, tugging at his sleeve, guiding him down toward the door with a grin. the bartender didn’t look up. never acknowledged his existence after their brief conversation. just continued to work, as if she had already forgotten of his existence. it was a bitter feeling that took hold of his bones.

he knew she didn’t care, didn’t know why he was desperate for her to. but acknowledging that…that was scary.

so he left.

yapper alert. i wrote this on google docs with narrow margins, single spaced, 10pt font and it still took up 11 entire pages. now that this is done, i’m going to bed.

taglist -> @chaoslibra @chlosology @saucejar @poemeater @skeletonmoths @hecate-frenchfries @personally4runa

koznme, do not copy or repost

[bekolxeram]

I'm not on bird app, and TikTok is geoblocked here, so I don't usually get too deep into fandom drama, nor am I interested in it. Unfortunately, it seems like the drama is spilling over here, and it has me questioning my reading comprehension for the past few days honestly. So here goes nothing, if you don't want to read about fandom discourse (which I recommend, for your own mental health), feel free to ignore this post. I just feel like I'm going insane so I need to get it off my chest.

From what I've read here, someone on bird app demanded Lou to explain some racist/misogynist memes he posted on insta over a decade ago, which were still on his page until very recently. Lou replied with this screenshot:

(Username crossed out to protect their identity.)

I've heard rumors of a certain subsection of the fandom impersonating bucktommy fans in order to stir up controversies. Again, I'm not on those sites, I can't confirm that, but I do admit the timeline is a bit suspicious. I get why some of you immediately rush to defend Lou and theorize that he was hacked, but I feel like it's such a cop out. Too many problematic figures get off scot-free just by claiming they were hacked. I'll hold out my judgement on that until more verified information comes out.

So for consistency's sake, I'm going to play devil's advocate, let's assume it really was Lou who tweeted that. I still don't see how it makes him an ableist?

First, it wasn't him who made this comment, the owner of that instagram account did. It wasn't even someone else's tweet or meme that he reposted, or did he signify his agreement to this statement. It was literally someone else's insta bio, a line that somebody else used to represent themself.

Second, look at the insta account itself. It's a K-pop stan account with 0 post and only 1 follower. It follows 19 celebrity pages, so it's safe to say someone made this account especially to snoop on celebrity news. How did Lou even find out the existence of such an account? That user must've initiated some kind of contact with Lou first, either through DMs or comments. Lou's an actor on a hit TV show, I'm sure he gets random comments from strangers every day. For a random stan account to stand out, they must've made an impression, probably not a good one either.

Third, it was posted as a direct response to someone demanding explanation for Lou's past problematic insta content. Why would he make an unrelated ableist joke about bullying blind kids in response to that? It's clearly a sort of gotcha attempt at pointing out the hypocrisy of the people pestering him online lately. They accuse Lou of being a bigot and try to get him fired, but at the same time they make jokes like this, so they're not in a place to judge him. Which is..... a shit retort. Lou's social media history WAS problematic, people have to right to question him on that. Him hitting back is whataboutism, but it doesn't make it less true, those people ARE bullies.

As I've said before, you don't have to be okay with Lou's past. I personally don't care, as I don't know him as a person, I also don't know who he was 10 years ago and what kind of environment he was in. As long as he's not actively using his platform to promote harmful views or using his fame to exploit people, I'm as okay with him as his co-workers are.

You do you, you can dislike him, outright hate him even, but you have to ignore all context and twist words around in order to paint him as an ableist asshole with this and this only.

[nelapanela94]

Nelaaaa!!! BB TODAY I AM HERE FOR SOME NELA X LEVI HEADCANONSJDJD .. tell me the little stufff toooooooo 🤍

Hi lovely. This one was so fun to write. <3 thank you for the request and please let me live in my delulu world 🌎

Levi and I currently live in Marley (What's left) in a coastal town where the streets finish at the beach.

Levi, though he doesn't admit it, is still afraid of the elevator. He just can't trust it. It jars him when it quivers right before stopping, and he hates it's tight and stuffy. He prefers swallowing the pain in his leg to risking getting stuck and climbs the stairs up to the third floor. And it is worse when the chains start to screech pleading for maintenance. In his defense, he claims it is a great exercise. He takes his time and says hi to the brats who live in the second floor. Sometimes he brings them desserts from the tea shop.

Levi loves sea food, specially shrimps. That is why I took some cooking classes with Niccolo. Steamed, stir-fried, tempura, in pastas, salads, rice and ceviche, I had to learn every preparation. Though we usually eat at home, we love trying new restaurants in town. From fancy to fast food. Once I tried to cajole Levi to a street food stall but he refused, questioning their cleaning procedures.

Levi owns a tea shop downtown that has been awarded twice by the city's chamber of commerce for excellence, quality and service. He was interviewed and his photo appeared in the newspaper, with Gabi and Falco thumbing up behind him. We still have the clippings of the articles, and Levi had the stars framed. He spends all day drinking tea, doing accounts, making payments to suppliers, bossing everyone around, the latter his favorite. When he loses his patience, he jabs the staff with his walking stick on the back of their knees. He also likes to go on Sundays to the spice market where herbs and spices from all corners of the world are found. He takes them home and experiments with them to develop new blends. Although sometimes we have purged by accident.

Meanwhile, I work at the post office right across the street and in my break time we had lunch together in his office and take naps.

We spend hours in the cleaning supplies aisle because Levi can't decide between lavender, cinnamon and apple or citronella. In any case, he decides on all three. One day after work, he brought home a wooden barrel with a crank handle. He explained that it was for washing clothes, although it took me a while to understand how it was operated. He acquired it at a home novelty fair after the inventor convinced him by promising to make our lives easier. I thought it was a scam, but he made it work! It really saves us time and I don't have to ruin my manicure anymore.

On my last birthday, Levi got me a gramophone. We love dancing in the living room despite our clumsy feet, and we’re often off the beat. But who cares, with a drop of wine sprinkling the mix, we hardly notice it. I’ve been collecting discs from thrift stores and garage sales, cramming our place, so Levi felt compelled to build a box to store them safely.

As you might guess, Levi is little fond of PDA. He only feels confortable holding hands, however, from time to time I’d steal a kiss to tease him. He grunts and mellows right after, blushing like a teenage boy kissing his crush for the first time. In private, on the other hand, he’s embarrassingly clingy (don’t ever mention it). When we’re reading in the sofa, he’d snuggle on my chest and loves it when I drop kisses on his head and coddle him. He loves hugs from the back and unexpected kisses on the cheek. Levi is milk with sugar but needs to keep a reputation.

We love traveling. For our honey moon, we visited a tropical island in hizuru. Roasted on the beach all day. He’s still wary of the sea water, can’t stand the slimy animals brushing his legs. But he enjoyed the scenery, the food, drinks and long loving sexy sessions in our suite with ocean view. We’ve been to other places, even though the voyage makes us seasick. We’ve seen temples, museums, archeological sites, lavender fields, all captured in photo albums.

Levi and I live a slow, tranquil life after the war. I think that we deserve that respite. <3

[real-life-cloud]

26 w/ krbk? 👀

teehee thank you !! such a cute prompt.. very fun to write! ♥ i sort of mixed it with '23: waking up' a little bit hehe

you can read the drabble on ao3 → here

you can see the prompt list → here

⛅

Prompt 26: Bed Hair wordcount: 1.2k

Eijirou was used to waking up alone.

The last time he’d slept in the same bed as someone was probably when he was a little kid. He used to sneak into his older sister’s room when he had nightmares. But the last time that happened must’ve been nearly a decade ago. He hardly slept anywhere but his own room.

So when he woke up that early summer morning, his first thought was, ‘Where am I?’ 

That was a quickly answered question. His memories of the night before drifted back in pieces—he invited himself over to Bakugou’s house for a sleepover. Bakugou complained about it the entire time, but he never told him to leave. He was funny like that. Eijirou had a lot of fun that night, they did some of their summer school work together and played video games. Dinner was great, and Mr. and Mrs. Bakugou seemed to really like him, too.

When it came time for them to sleep, (Bakugou’s eyes began to droop around 8 o’clock, but he dutifully stayed up with EIjirou until 10 PM. Eijirou didn’t have the heart to tell him that was still early for him.) instead of staying on a mattress on the floor, Bakugou told him to, “Shut the fuck up and sleep on that side of the bed. It’s plenty big enough.”

So he easily came to his senses and realized he was in Bakugou’s room, in Bakugou’s bed.

His second thought was, ‘Holy shit, I’m basically cuddling Bakugou.’ 

They were facing each other, Eijirou’s own arm slung over his friend’s torso. The shared covers were a twisted and tangled mess, and their legs were much the same. He distinctly remembered falling asleep facing away from each other, not touching. They must’ve both chased each other’s warmth in their sleep. His face reddened at the thought.

His third thought wasn’t much of a thought at all, really. More of a feeling—a tug at his heart, a hold on his lungs. Because Bakugou looked serene.

His face was completely relaxed for once, something Eijirou didn’t think he’d ever seen before. He wondered if anyone had. He felt a little boost to his ego at the thought.

It was a rare sight to see his face so smoothed out. All the harsh lines and wrinkles of his usual scowls and sneers were nowhere to be seen. And it wasn’t like his more blank, bored face either. He looked so calm, so vulnerable. The side of his face was pressed into his pillow, and Eijirou thought he spotted a line of drool, much to his amusement. He had one hand clutching onto the sheets with the other just barely grazing Eijirou’s chest. His breathing was slow and easy.

Eijirou could’ve stared all morning.

Of course, it was right then that Bakugou’s eyebrows pinched together and he began to stir.

It was like all the bitterness in his body came back in stages. First his eyebrows, then his nose scrunched up. A twitch of his mouth, a flex of his fingers. He nuzzled his head in his pillow a little more, like he was fighting against wakefulness. Eijirou watched it happen with both curiosity and endearment. He could feel a dumb smile make its way onto his face.

Bakugou pried one eye open, and Eijirou belatedly thought that maybe he shouldn’t be staring so hard. Probably too late for that now.

Red eyes, sharper than his own, bleared at him sleepily. Bakugou looked confused for a handful of seconds, before he rubbed at his eyes. The shift made Eijirou realize he still had an arm wrapped around him—he took it back a little too quickly.

“Uh, morning, man!” He said with a toothy grin. He hoped his face wasn’t as red as it felt.

Bakugou grumbled back, saying something with little resemblance to actual words. His voice sounded lower than usual.

Once Bakugou took his hand away from his face and looked at Eijirou with clear eyes, though, he paused. Then, Bakugou did the last thing he would’ve ever expected. He laughed.

It started small. An unbelieving huff, not much of a laugh at all. Followed by a snort, then a wheeze.

“What?” Eijirou asked, thoroughly confused.

Bakugou muffled his laughter.

“What is it??” He asked a little louder, an embarrassed smile creeped onto his face. He pushed up from the bed and cocked his head to the side. And that was the final straw.

A sharp bark of laughter broke from Bakugou’s throat, followed by a positively evil sounding giggle. If asked, he’d liken it to a witch’s cackle or maybe a snickering goblin. Eijirou adored the sound of it.

He had never heard him laugh like that before. Usually, his laughter was mean and mocking. But this was something pure. Unadulterated amusement. He never wanted it to stop.

But he still didn’t know what was so funny. Did he look funny? Reflexively, he looked down at his pajamas to see if he had somehow changed into something ridiculous in his sleep. But it was the same blue tank top and plain sweat shorts that he remembered changing into. His visible confusion just made Bakugou laugh harder.

His laughter was contagious. Eijirou felt a chuckle of his own bubble up in his chest. “Why are you laughing at me, dude!?”

Bakugou calmed down enough to catch his breath, but still had to fight a giggle to get his words out. “Look in a fucking mirror or something, idiot. Oh my god.” He finally said.

Eijirou felt around the bed for his phone in a hurry and quickly pulled up his camera app, then set the camera to front facing mode. He noticed straight away.

“Oh.” Was all he said. It had Bakugou falling apart in giggles again.

It was his hair. Oh god, his hair. He must’ve fallen asleep without taking the gel out again. But even the couple times this happened before, it didn’t look this silly. You’d think it would be hard for his hair to look messy, since he spiked it in all directions anyway. But he would have you know that he worked very hard to make his hair look a certain way. Every spike was in its place. Usually. But definitely not that morning.

Most of his hair was going in one direction, with a steep cliff of a flattened edge where his head had rested on his pillow. The back was a mangled mess, like he’d shook his head back and forth in his sleep too much. One horn was still proudly pointed up and the other was stuck to his forehead. He couldn’t blame Bakugou for laughing. 

He started laughing in earnest, too. “Oh my god, I look so stupid.”

“I know!” Bakugou wheezed.

They laughed for a good long while. It would simmer down back into quiet, but all it took was them catching eyes and they’d both be back in stitches. Eijirou’s face hurt from how much he was smiling. His chest felt full to the brim with affection, spilling out with every wheeze and giggle. Bakugou looked so pretty when he was happy. He wanted to stay like this forever.

His next thought that morning was, ‘I want to wake up like this for the rest of my life.’ Bedhead and all.

[psychics4unet]

Hiii cutieee

Can I get a free reading??

todayyy was my farewell party... And I wanted to know how people viewed me in man Vs women form plssss

Thank youuu✨

Free Psychic Reading By Egyptian Sand! (7$ PAID READINGS ARE ALSO OPENED!)

The first symbol I see is a triangle 🔺, pointing upwards. This represents strength and leadership. It suggests that people, especially men, may have viewed you as someone with authority, capable of guiding and inspiring others. You might have had a strong presence at the party that left a lasting impression.

The second symbol is a heart ❤️. This shows that women may have seen you as compassionate and caring. There’s a nurturing energy around you that resonated with them, making them feel comfortable and connected to you.

The third symbol is a wave 🌊, representing change and movement. This symbol reflects that you left a sense of impact, with some people, both men and women, feeling a sense of transition or emotional depth about your departure. It might have stirred up some reflections about your influence in their lives.

In summary, men likely saw you as strong and inspiring, while women saw you as caring and compassionate. Both groups, however, experienced a deep emotional impact from your farewell, making them reflect on your time together. ✨💖

Got questions or need some insight into your life? I'm here to help with personal psychic readings! For just $7, you can get answers to up to 7 questions! More info at:

In case anyone else here on tumblr would like a free psychic reading, Click the link and follow the instructions (I answer only to those who follow the instructions, thank you): https://www.tumblr.com/psychics4unet/773593300218314752/free-psychic-reading-with-egyptian-sand

[imjustheretoseetheprivateblogs]

AxZ Week Day 5: Poetry

@senshixshitennouweeks

In Silver Millennium, Serenity hands her a slip of parchment, claiming she found it tucked into the hollow of a tree where she had met with her beloved Endymion (she suspects that she was simply playing matchmaker).

The words compare her to a pool of water on a hot day, keeping refreshing, serene, and reflective in pleasing rhyme and meter.

Though it’s short, it’s words stir something in the princess of Mercury and she wishes to know who made such lovely phrases on the tiny blue planet that Serenity is so fond of.

Soon, Serenity brings her more messages that flatter her about her mind and her ambitions, mentioning her beauty to punctuate the writer’s fascination with her.

She never finds out who it is, though. The Silver Millennium falls soon after.

He’s in the library, looking for inspiration for a new energy gathering scheme for their great ruler. His last plan had backfired spectacularly (Video rental stores were not an antiquated idea; it was novel and retro!) and he was going to find something full proof. Beryl was getting impatient.

He pulled a book from the shelf and opened it. A piece of loose-leaf paper, folded into eighths fell from between.

Curious, he picked it up and unfolded it.

I wish to share my words, read the lines of text, to let others know my dreams.

The words stir something in Zoisite and, against his better judgement, pulls out a pen and scrawls a reply, trying to match the number of syllables and give it some kind of rhyme scheme.

Your words have found me now, and filled my heart to the seams.

It’s a simple poem, nothing he’d want to show anyone, but at least he got it out of his system. Putting the paper in between the pages of the book, Zoisite puts the book back and heads for the music section. He’d always been interested in that, so maybe something would inspire him.

Just as he turned the corner, a girl with short dark hair and blue eyes turned the corner and took the book he had just replaced.

The two of them stand awkwardly a week after their second (really third) meeting. They could sit down in one of Crown Arcade’s many booths, especially since it was a slow day, but that would mean sitting across from one another or, God forbid, beside one another.

She’s still not sure trusting him is a logical decision.

He’s still not sure if she even wants to talk to him.

The tension is thick and cloying, a sensation like wearing an old frayed sweater by a campfire.

“So… um… you like to read?”

It’s a dumb question. Between the three books she’s carrying and the reading glasses in her pocket, anyone could see that.

“Yes,” she answers simply. There’s no malice in her voice, but no feeling either. It’s a simple fact.

He retreats to his room when he returns home, trying to write his heart out on a yellow legal pad and trying to take his mind off how Mizuno could even tolerate him ever again.

It’s all chicken scratch though. Even simple fluff poems about flowers being pretty seem to be hard for him to write.

A call from his prince draws him out of his stupor and into battle against a leftover creature.

It’s a bulky, bulbous monster called a Daimon that was apparently made by science.

“Are we winning?” Nephrite calls after his sneak attack completely fails.

“Do you want the truth or one of those little white lies to make you feel better?”

Jadeite’s frustration is understandable, if the improvised bandage on his leg is anything to go on. Mars’s fire seems to have no effect on the creature, Tuxedo Kamen and Sailor Moon are pinned by the Daimon’s onslaught with Nephrite and the other senshi are still trying to make their way across town.

“Mercury Aqua Rhapsody!”

Glittering streams of water streak at the creature, enveloping it in ice and suddenly, Zoisite’s mind fills with descriptions for the attack and for the trickling otherworldly harp strings that accompany it.

Even when Sailor Moon purifies the creature in a dazzling display, Zoisite’s attention is still on the Senshi of Water.

The muse has struck him hard and maybe he can work up the nerve to thank her.

She recognizes his words when he submits to her, on a sheet of green paper, a poem about Hermes.

He recognizes her’s when he sees her handwriting in her little blue notebook.

Soon, little notes are passed between them. Verses plucked out of the ether to make little compliments.

Soon, they’re talking at length of wordsmiths and writers; who they like, who has the best descriptions, which would fit with music, which writer sounds like they would have voted for Shinzo Abe. Soon, it grows more intimate. Love poems, shared between the two of them, games that become heated the more passionate the poetry.

And the two of them begin to wonder when their games will be played to a work of their own composition.

[0perfectimperfections0]

Silence: Part 4

I got new glasses and the slight change in environment has motivated me to write some more because I totally don't have college assignments to do

<><><><><>

It was silent throughout breakfast. The small noises only came from metal hitting the ceramic plate as Lou poked and prodded at his food. "Eat. You didn't eat anything yesterday."

Lou was halfway into opening his mouth to argue before remembering the food offering Nolan had made a habit of bringing to the shed. It had been left untouched. Darn. A scoop of scrambled eggs filled the place of useless words. Nolan nodded in satisfaction and went to clean his plate off.

"Why are we going to LuckyBat's?" Lou asked again. This made the third time he had asked. Nolan made him drop it after the second.

"To talk."

"About what?"

"You'll find out when we get there." Oh, sure, yes, because that made Lou feel all the better about it. Curiosity quenched.

"But why can't I know now? It's about me, I'm assuming." Lou turned halfway in his chair to look at Nolan.

"Because I said so." Nolan closed his eyes as he said that, head tilting toward the blond authoritatively.

Lou's bottom lip poked out. "I'm not a child, so stop treating me like one."

"How would you know if I was treating you like a child?"

As simple as the question might have seemed, it held a heavy load of implications to it. Lou...didn't actually know. He'd never met or seen a child. He'd only read about them. And it was really about how they played or treated their dolls. "Well stop treating me like I'm your doll. I'm not." There. That he understood.

"Then how do you plan on getting taken care of?" Nolan leaned against the counter, hands behind him on the edge of it. "And don't say 'I can take care of myself' because we both know you can't. You proved that to me every day in that shed when I dropped off food for you."

Lou narrowed his eyes. "I'm not going to LuckyBat's."

"Good to know. But it wasn't an option."

"I'll be fine on my own here. You can go talk." Lou raised his nose in the air.

Nolan walked over, one hand on the back of Lou's chair and the other on the dining table. He didn't look impressed nor swayed by the idea. "I said I'd help you and that's what I'm doing. We're going to be doing some emotional unpacking when we get to Lucky's."

"I'm not doing therapy!" Lou was appalled at the idea.

A hand shut his jaw. "Inside voice. And yes, you are. You need it. It's one thing to bottle up feelings and hurt yourself. It's another to get to the point where you do it in your sleep. I'm not cleaning stuffing every morning."

"Please don't make me go." This was desperation talking. Anger didn't phase Nolan in the slightest. The only thing that stirred him was raw, quivering submission and pleading. "I don't want to be around them. The Uglies. Any of them. It's humiliating enough that they put me in this position. I don't want them...I don't...th-the satisfaction of seeing how they defeated me--"

"There. That's what I want to hear." Lou parted his mouth in confusion, brow raising. "I want you to stop telling me the 'what' and start telling me 'why'. I want to know why you didn't want to open the door for me this morning. I want to know why you're angry. I want to know why you don't want to do therapy." Nolan softened his gaze, head tilting to give a soft smile. "It's not that difficult to read your expressions, Lou. Or your body language. I know when something is wrong, I just need you to tell me why."

Lou put his hands on the table, thumbs fiddling with each other. He gave a shy glance up at the brunette. "So...if I do that I don't have to go to therapy?"

Nolan snorted. "Oh, no, you still have to go." Lou's shoulders slumped and he opened his mouth to plead again. Nolan cut him off with a finger to the air. "But it will go a lot smoother if you just learn to keep explaining yourself instead of leaving us with unanswered questions. The more we know, the more we can help you."

Stupid logic and stupid brunettes with their stupid logic. Nolan took Lou's silence and attention back on the food as submission. He ruffled Lou's hair as he walked by, miffing the blond.

<><><><>

"W-Why don't you be my therapist?" Lou gave a nervous smile. He stepped in front of Nolan from where they were about five steps from Lucky's door. "You're smart. A-And I don't hate you like I hate the Uglies. It could work!"

"Nice to know you don't hate me, but we're still going. Lucky is a lot smarter than I am. He's wise--"

"You're wise!"

"Lou," Nolan chuckled in an exasperated way. The blond clung to his arm, desperately trying to tug him back. "This isn't supposed to be a punishment." He tugged Lou forward and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, forcing Lou to walk with him. "It won't be bad, trust me. We'll stay for, like, thirty minutes and then we can leave."

Lou let out something of a mix of a whimper and a hum. Nolan knocked on the door three times and Lucky called out from inside saying he'd be there in a moment. "Just relax. We're not getting into anything serious yet, anyway. We'll probably just start at the beginning."

"Beginning of what?" Lou really didn't want to be here.

"Your life. Something happy before we get into the nitty-gritty of it. Like when you were first made."

Lou looked even more worried. His creation wasn't exactly a happy moment. How could they start with that? What about something else? Like...like when Ox first showed up. Or when they would run around the Institute playing the game Ox had called tag.

The door was opened by a smiling LuckyBat. He ushered them to come inside, offering tea. "It's great to see you here, Lou," Lucky spoke softly. Nolan had texted him in advance to be gentle. Make Lou feel welcome. Lucky was all about being gentle.

Still, Lou frowned down at the bat and hid himself partially behind Nolan. Lucky sent a small smile to the brunette and went to go make the tea. "You two can go ahead and have a seat! I'll be back in a moment!"

"Thanks, Lucky!" Nolan called back. He reached behind him to usher Lou toward the sofas, but his hand met air. Lou had eased the door open a few inches before it was shut and crushed his hopes with it. "Sit down," Nolan took Lou by the shoulder to nudge him away from the door. When they were finally seated, Nolan kept himself turned to Lou, legs crossed and one arm propped up on the head of the sofa. "Why don't you wanna do this?"

It was that stupid why question again. Lou gave a determined look. "Because I don't need it. I'm fine. Honest."

"Alright. Now answer my question again while telling the truth."

Stupid brunette seeing right through him. Lou lowered his voice, head tilting down as if that would help. "I don't want to talk about this stuff."

"We'll just start with the happy stuff, Lou. Nothing too heavy."

Lou made a quiet, frustrated noise. His hands clasped in his lap and he looked close to tears again. "I don't...know if I can do that."

"Why not?" Nolan played with a few damp strands of Lou's hair. The blond would be loathed to admit that it was soothing. Stupid brunette. Stupid comfort and care and warmth.

"Because...I don't remember anything happy. Not really." Lou looked down at his lap. "There's Ox when he first came to the Institute. But those memories hurt now, too. Or the time when the first batch of dolls came...but then they left so fast to the Big World and...a-and I hardly got to enjoy their company. All of my happy memories got ruined somehow."

Nolan watched those blue eyes water and his lip quiver. "How'd you sleep last night?" He asked instead.

The question obviously caught Lou off guard. He sniffed and looked over at Nolan. "Huh?"

"How'd you sleep last night?" Nolan continued playing with Lou's hair.

Lou scrunched his brows for a second and used a sleeve to wipe his eyes. "Good, I guess...except for ruining all your work." He gestured to his arms. "I...I had a nightmare, so maybe that's why I did it."

"Talk about the nightmare, then," Nolan suggested.

Lou let out a frustrated puff of air. He reached up again to wipe at his eyes and left his arm there for a moment. "I don't want to tell him about it. He'll tell Moxy o-or Ox or one of those other Uglies and then they'll tell the other dolls a-and then everyone will know I'm pathetic a-and they already humiliate me--"

His chin was grabbed and he looked into heterochromatic eyes. Nolan smiled softly. "He won't do that. This is a private conversation, okay? And you're not pathetic. You're not broken or weak or whatever else you've been calling yourself." He remembered those muttered words from this morning when he listened in through the door. "And you're not stupid. You just need help and guidance. That's why we're here. Because it sounds to me like you've been handling everything on your own and it's time we change that."

"Why can't it just be you that helps me?" Lou whispered pleadingly. "Not anyone else. Just you. I don't trust anyone else."

"And why do you trust me? What makes me different?"

"Because you never left." Now, Lou's voice began to shake and some tears trailed down his cheeks. "You always came back every day and I didn't even have to do anything. And you're still here."

Nolan sighed, looking into Lou's eyes. "Then just talk to me. How about that? I know I say it and when Lucky gets in here you'll still be nervous, but just pretend. We'll pretend together. Because Lucky still knows things that I don't. He'll know some techniques or something to keep you from hurting yourself. All I can do is be here for you."

"That's all I want, Nolan. I just want someone to stay. That's it." Lou sounded and looked desperate again.

Nolan had to look away from those eyes. it was like hurting a puppy. Heartwrenching. He let out a sigh and reached down to hold Lou's hand while staring at the wall. "Okay. We'll try a different approach. I don't want you to be uncomfortable, but you still need help. So, we're gonna meet halfway on this, okay?" Lou nodded quickly, hoping against hope that the result would be back in the comfort of Nolan's home.

LuckyBat wobbled into the living room with a tray of tea and set it on the coffee table. Nolan set one in front of Lou. "Hey, so...," Nolan let out a breath, "we're gonna try something different."

"Oh?" Lucky looked at Lou who had his head turned away. It was obvious he had been crying.

"Would you be okay with kind of hanging out in a different room and listening in while Lou talks to me? You can text me any questions you want me to ask him. He just...," Nolan squeezed Lou's hand, "This is new."

Lucky nodded in understanding, giving both boys a smile. "Of course! I understand. I'll be in the room right over there." He gestured a wing to one not far from the living room. "And you just start whenever you're ready," he spoke to Lou.

The door was left open. Lucky was not in sight. Nolan wrapped his other arm around Lou's torso. "Alright. Let's talk about that nightmare."

[ladysomething]

Hiiiii!

First of all, all hail our queen, this chapter blew my mind, and writing with injured wrist is impressive as hell! (Take all time you need, perfection takes time and patience is a virtue, some should remember that)

Now I also totally get if you won’t answer this ask because of the second part, so I will praise your work some more: when you eventually finish, the quality of writing and the plot and everything will definitely make this THEE fic to be turned into a real life book, it’s better than most of contemporary literature out there right now!

What I wanted to ask (besides the praise bc fr this is right now THAT fic) how do you feel about the comments, as there are currently three types of comments (if I may analyse a bit - max is sad hence I am sad commenters, praising the work and third type: did you even?-ers) and reading them I got a feeling that some of them are taking this whole fic a bit too seriously? I get it, freedom of expression, but why do some feel the need to basically attack (DiD yOu EvEn ReAd ThE pReViOuS- obviously we all did 😬) other users for expressing their opinion on the work? Do you have any thoughts on that? Obviously high engagement is good for the fic but as someone who likes to read the comments as well, it wasn’t as pleasant as it usually is today.

Again, as I said, no pressure to answer (because it might create a discourse in your asks)🩷

Loved every chapter, excited for some more lore, whenever it might come to light.

imagine me turning a 300k omega verse fic into my debut novel. what a power move from me.

and to answer your questions ... ok, bear with me here, because I already know I'm about to ramble.

but I guess. I don't really know how I feel about it. on the one hand, it's very flattering for people to feel that strongly. on the other, I don't like that readers can make other readers uncomfortable.

but then, I'm not entirely sure what place I'm supposed to have in that discourse. it's not really for me to decide what insights readers do or don't have, or how they engage with other people. I would always step in if things got genuinely nasty (especially if its in the comment section of the fic), which I have done in the past, but an author's responsibility is kind of a grey area in fic.

I of course wish that people could always speak kindly to each other, but I also think it's easy for tone to be misinterpreted in comments. I also don't see the comments linearly - when I get emails saying there's been a comment, the email doesn't tell me its in response to another comment. I have to go and seek that information out, which I often don't do.

all of which is to say - I don't usually know what kinds of conversations are happening underneath chapters, particularly when there are as many comments as there was on this chapter.

as for why I think it's happening ... honestly, I just think that this chapter stirred up a lot of emotion for a lot of people. most readers have either been on team Max or team Charles for a long time now, and from what I've observed, their immediate reaction is always to take the side of THEIR character. I think they often do also come back and go "hm, maybe the other person had some points too" but in the moment, the immediate, knee jerk reaction is to defend their character, and to "hate" on the other one. that's always going to spark discourse, because nobody can really agree on who's right and who's wrong in this fic (which is by design, of course).

anyway, I hope that kind of provided a little bit on insight.

[hazeism]

hi!! wanted to ask if you have any favorite books, either that you've read recently or of all time. Your prose is insane and I need to broaden my own vocabulary so if you have any book recs, fiction or nonfiction, I'd love to know :')

Hii :D ! ahaha, what a well-timed question; lately I've become the kind of guy who just really wants to talk about what people are reading, or are planning to read, and responding in kind, so thanks for giving me an opportunity to indulge that, haha. What a wicked invention the printing press was!!! (Also--thank you!! I'm glad my prose is to your taste. I'm happy !💕)

If you don't mind, I'll put a cut on this right away, because I know I'm very talkative, but let me put a TLDR above for all the novels/authors I mention here. Disclaimer also that I am kind of a dunce (I think you know this) so I like silly shit a lot of times . please be nice to me adfhbjkdg. :D

(No nonfiction also because I'm a frivolous and unworldly little sprite or something but if you want straight philosophy [which counts] come back and I'll do my Top Ten Epic Platonic Dialogues Compilation for you .)

TLDR: Read any UKLG you get your hands on, Cain by Jose Saramago, or any Saramago (though maybe not Skylight, which is not a good introduction to Saramago), very much enjoyed Sartre's The Age of Reason recently, Shadow & Claw or The Fifth Head of Cerberus by Gene Wolfe. If you feel like it, come off anon and tell me what you like, so I can give more tailored recommendations!!

Now if you're asking for favorites, like just the particular and arbitrary objects of my partiality, that stir my stupid little heart, the true answer is probably UKLG's The Farthest Shore, just because it is very special to me. I can't, of course, in good conscience, recommend the third novel of a six-novel fantasy series to someone (but of course read Le Guin, everyone should be reading Le Guin, it's dire for universal soteriology that we all read Le Guin; You'll probably get told to start with Left Hand of Darkness, and that's pretty solid. I liked The Lathe of Heaven as well. And if you read any Le Guin it doesn't hurt to pick up a copy of the Tao. I love the Tao man.)

Some friendlier recommendations, though:

José Saramago is someone I really consider peerless; There's no way to pick up a Saramago and not know who's written it. Cain is a bit drier, a bit more abrasive (almost accusatory, in that particular way you'll find in a Buddhist parable) and bleak than some other Saramagos, but it's one I like (perhaps for the trite reason that I like bucolic atmospheres and Classical antiquity as a setting) so it's the one I'll put forward.

Uhh, I've also been enjoying Sartre's Roads to Freedom lately, starting with The Age Of Reason. I'm partway through the second novel and umm... despite all the other things you could say about Sartre, lmfao, let it not be said that he is not a serious literary force. Serious is maybe the only word for it. Dire, too. I keep a commonplace book, so usually I take excerpts, but this was the first time in memory that I felt compelled to commit entire pages, ahah (I just took pictures though, fuck copying all that).

If you're itching for esoteric language, Shadow of the Torturer (as usually collected with Claw of the Conciliator in a single omnibus edition titled Shadow & Claw; the first of the give-or-take five volume Urth series) by Gene Wolfe will scratch you BLOODY. If you're particularly fussy, you might be irritated by your compulsion to Google, but I find it really makes the experience when you type in a word and the only results are "what the fuck did Gene Wolfe mean by this?" hahaha; Honestly, though, those kinds of complaints are borne from a lack of immersion, but you'll notice pretty quickly that the verbiage is a pretty crucial vehicle OF the immersion.

It may or may not become a commitment, though, if you like Urth enough to want to read through, so if you want Wolfe without the strings--though less of the exciting vocabulary, which is pretty necessarily constrained to Urth--I'd really highly recommend The Fifth Head of Cerberus (the novella OR the novel, I mean the former is volumized in the latter so just start it and if you feel like stopping then stop, haha). Mr. Terminal E is incredible but I scrape enough time out of my daily life to gush about his crazy literary density so I won't do it again here (you should ask my coworker, lmfao, who one time went "stop, hold on, hold on." because my face started getting really red while I was explaining to him some Wolfean gesture). If you read any Wolfe, and I mean ANY Wolfe, because his permatypes and his manipulations of them are endlessly interesting, feel free to come back and chat with me over it!!!

I guess I have to disclaim that my habit is mostly to pick through an author's corpus over a course of, usually, a couple years, and then sometimes I'll read things that will inform my understanding of the genre conventions or currents that the author is writing in (been enjoying Golden Age sci-fi recently)--it's not really as deliberate of a process as it sounds, but I think if you were to map my habits, that's the landscape of it. This means, though, that my reading is actually pretty narrow in scope, and I am not very well read or very knowledgeable in general (who is, in this economy) but it does mean that of the authors I do like, I can probably find the novel that'll work best for your taste.

If you want to come off anon, or I guess just leave another message, haha, (or if someone else wants to, idgaf, we're all friends here at tumblr user hazeism) describing the things you like or look for in a novel I can probably give you a more relevant recommendation. I've been dosing people up a lot lately tbh, it's like a parlor trick I've been doing; I have a conversation with someone and afterwards they'll have a PDF with a relevant Asimov story in their messages, hahaha. I can't help myself sometimes.

Come back anyway, though, if you read anything I talked about, okay? I want to hear about it 🥺

And alsooo (turning to face the audience) if anyone ever wants to put recs in my inbox (or my dms : ) slow replies though sorry I'm a hermit) I'd be happy to take 'em down. Can't guarantee I'll read them in a timely manner, or that you'll ever find out if/when I do, but it's good for me to leave my comfort zone.

[grassangel]

Thoughts on GO2

Spoilers ahead

So I might just be a bit pleased with myself that I read Bad Grace, oh, 15 years ago? Which I always muddle up with Manchester Lost, but is definitely the superior fanfic because it's actually kind of likely. And given the ending of GO2? Very definitely likely that like Bad Grace, the second coming of Christ is going to be a girl and she, like Adam, will agree that Earth's quite nice actually. (And be implied to get together.)

Which will make some fans complain that Gneil has been reading fanfic on the sly, but like. that's the hallmark of good fanfic: working with the same ingredients and stirring in a similar fashion landing you a similar dish. And the Good Omens fandom is over 30 years old, there's been plenty of time to experiment with technique and ingredient combos.

And possibly also why Gneil has emphasised he can't read fanfic, because yeah, this does happen often enough that writers/authors will tread the same path as fic writers and have to prove their independent working.

Am I a bit miffed that the third act isn't Heaven, Hell and humans waging war against God? A little. But I suppose my personal second act headcanon of Heaven & Hell vs humans as the official third/final act is good too.

Anyway, I did feel the six episodes was a bit too long for what Gneil admits is pretty much a bridging season to get everyone into position for how the sequel would have started. Even if having s1: 6 episodes, s2: 6 episodes and s3: 6 episodes all lined up read like 666 is very funny. I did like that we finally got a bit more of Crowley Questioning things, Aziraphale's awful 'the poor have more chances to do good!' stance and showing, if not saying, that demons are from angelic stock. (I might have been mentally shouting 'Angelic stock!' every time I saw Crowley in his heavenly disguise before watching this season.)

There was a lot of 'Aziraphale and Crowley through history' - which yes, we all loved the cold open in s1, but I at least liked it because it was a depiction of The Arrangement and how it came about - and these bits in this season were decidedly NOT about The Arrangement. (Though again, I did like how we were shown Crowley is skeptical of this whole 'God's plan' thing.)

I would have appreciated more layering to the narrative and more parallels to Crowley and Aziraphale. Yes, we got Maggie and Nina, Gabriel and Beezlebub, but both of those pairings barely featured. Personally I'd have included Beezlebub in the Job sequence to further ram home the whole 'equal but opposite' thing. I'm surprised there wasn't a flashback to Jane Austen's heist with pointedly familiar people, and I would have rather had that than the WWII sequence, which rather lacked the opposite, but equally incompetent, heavenly snooping. Maybe have Nina and Maggie going around after Aziraphale and Crowley talking to the other shopkeepers about Nina's stance on the lights. Have a bit more demonic grumbling about Beezlebub - whether about her being a hardass trying to track Gabriel down or her not doing much since the Armagedidn't. Also, more of the fly and Jim being protective about it.

Because yeah, the last episode didn't quite feel earned. It would have felt more fitting to keep the general last 10 minutes, but like how Maggie and Nina aren't a certain thing, Aziraphale and Crowley aren't either so what is the point of the kiss? Like keep Aziraphale's notion of turning Crowley 'good' (please read that in the same way Michelle Gomez said 'good' in an extremely thick Scottish accent as Missy) and his extremely misguided belief that Heaven is good because they're heaven, but less kissing and more appealing that they're the same and humans don't need either demons or angels to do good or evil. (I personally love to hate Aziraphale being an asshole, and that was possibly the truest to the book part of the series.) (And while I do love a 'Crowley turns back into an angel' fic, I pretty much only like it when it's incidental/he does too many 'good' things/God decides to fuck around.)

No notes given on Muriel. I love her and want to be her friend.

[dumbdomb]

Read my pinned post BEFORE you interact: like, reblog, reply, dm, ask, or follow. Must be over eighteen years of age to interact. 18+ only. You do not have my consent to "Like" this post without reading my pinned first. MDNI.

DNI: no/maps, loli, icky kink, "icky" blogs, unspecified "hard" kinks, unspecified "gross" kinks, unspecified "taboo" kinks, unspecified "dark" kinks, ddlg (specifically, doesn't apply to all cgl), older men / younger women, incest, forced fem, detrans kink, misgendering, misogyny, matriarchy, patriarchy, race fetish, fat fetish, feeder, gainer kink, dyke breaking, corrective rape, tradwifery, cucking, infidelity, cheating, hot wife, trophy wife or husband, cucking, pregnancy, alphas, sigmas, femcels, beastiality, zoophilia, allocishet "straight people" kinks and any conservative ideals romanticized or fetishized in kink play or in vanilla romantic and sexual relationships.

allowing me to stay over in your guest room which has, unbeknownst to me, been created into a fully inescapable- yet seemingly safe and normal bedroom. it's true purpose has always been to be the dungeon you'd keep me in so you could prove your loyal devotion to me.

the first night you focus on making sure i'm comfortable and at ease. hidden cameras detail my sleeping schedule and you're prepared for the next phase. we spend some time together during the second day, but mostly you're preparing for something special that evening... at night, once i've fallen asleep, you begin.

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dimly lit monitors power on to display obscenely pornographic content, hidden speakers play binaural and hypnotic audio, and soon i am surrounded by a barrage of subliminal ideas designed to coerce me into becoming more deviant. the moment i stir awake, everything is shut off automatically. i've no idea what is going on, but my head feels fuzzy.

during the day, i seem a bit out of it, but otherwise don't notice anything unusual. like a vacation, i finally begin to relax after a few days. on the fifth night, you continue this nightly programming and increase the volume and lighting just so. when i wake, i catch a glimpse of my surroundings that immediately fall silent and i question whether i saw anything.

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in the morning i notice some of the clothes i don't wear often have been replaced with similar, yet more revealing styles. i angrily question you about going through my belongings and you act so unaware, surprised, and frightened that someone may have broken into your house that i actually believe you. i help you get new locks and install security cameras to watch over all entrances and windows. i ask you to stay in the room with me that night, and you make a bed on the floor next to mine. nothing more happens, a few uneventful days pass...

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i suggest you move back to your own room, feeling silly for being scared, you only continue to build my trust in you by comforting me and making me feel safe. everything will change soon enough, bc while i visit a friend during the day, your plans to move into the third phase begin.

all my clothes are replaced with very revealing styles, except for my usual pajamas that i lay out each day. i don't see you when i get back, but figure you're out or taking a nap. i don't know you've changed anything yet, keeping to my new routines in your home. by the time we usually have dinner together, you join me a bit later than usual. and when i retire to bed, it's all so mundane.

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while i sleep, you turn on the programs. they increase as i squirm in bed, getting louder and more visible. this time, when i wake up, everything stays on as i look around startled and confused. i try to use the remote to turn off the tv, but nothing i do works. i decide to leave the room, scared to stay inside with all the overwhelming perversion around me. when i try to open the door, it's locked. the windows appear to be locked from the outside... i yell out for help, not wanting to believe the situation i'm in, and the obscene volume increases. the more i yell, the louder it gets, until my screams are nearly indistinguishable from the loud moans and cries of pain and pleasure. i go back to bed and cover my head, trying to make it all stop and i somehow manage to fall asleep again.

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in the morning, i wake up like normal. as if it were all just a horribly bad dream. i go take a shower and when i look for something to wear, all my clothes are gone. i'm in a towel, my used pajamas already added to the laundry bin in the other room, and all the clothes i have to wear are not mine. i go to leave the room and the door is locked, just like in my dream. i hear you yell out that breakfast will be ready soon, and i should hurry up so it doesn't get cold. how can you be so normal when something strange is going on here? i find the most "comfortable" outfit i can to make do, and after getting dressed the door is unlocked, like i was never locked in to begin with... i felt so confused and wanted to tell you, but i also felt overcome with shame. was it just my mind playing tricks on me?!? ♡

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[hederasgarden]

The Trouble With Books

Summary: You and Rhett discover a surprising new kink together.   Pairing Rhett Abbott x F!Reader  Word Count: 1.2K Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Fingering, dirty talk and discussions and descriptions of consensual non consent, bondage, and chasing kink.  A/N: I have fallen down the rabbit hole on CNC due to @green-socks. Thank you @mayhem24-7forever for beta’ing and @callsignhurricane for the banner. Reblogs and comments feed the muse.

Please read the warnings carefully!!

It’s early evening, the hazy pinks and oranges of dusk still visible outside the front window. Rhett’s sitting on the couch beside you, your nose buried in a book. He’s watching tv and drinking a beer, relaxing after a long day's work in the fields. His hand rests on your upper thigh, soaking up the feel of your skin.

He doesn’t register what’s happening at first, assuming you’re just trying to get comfortable on the couch. But when you shift for the third time in the span of two minutes he looks up. You’re so engrossed in your book, bottom lip drawn between your teeth and breathing real shallow, that you don’t even realize what you’re doing. When you move again, his gaze drops to your lap. He watches you squeeze your thighs and rub them together every so slightly. Then you make that little breathy sound and oh, he’s intimately familiar with what that means. 

Whatever you’re reading is getting you hot under the collar and making you a little bashful. That piques Rhett's curiosity because while you indulged in the occasional romance novel none of those have ever produced this kind of reaction. He smirks and sets his beer down, knowing he'll have to be quick. You're liable to fight him from seeing the book and he can't have that.

"Rhett!" You shriek when he plucks it from your hands. 

He’s quick to hop out of your reach, putting the couch between you both. 

“I got a right to see what’s getting you so turned on, girl,” he says, flipping through the last few pages that captured your attention so completely.

He expects something a little smutty, words about throbbing members and heaving bosoms but what he actually finds gives him pause. It’s detailed, intimate, and fucking filthy. He can see how what’s written carried you away, the picture they painted for him is vivid enough to feel a stirring low in his spine. It's not just the smut though. The scenario described and how much it seems to excite you is what surprises Rhett the most. It’s not something that’s crossed his mind before, at least not in its entirety because the two of you had some fun with rope before.

No, what gets him adjusting himself in his jeans is your response to it. How turned on you are by such a taboo thought. 

“You like this?” He asks, careful to keep any judgment from his voice. 

Oh, there’s that pretty look he loves so much, that mix of embarrassment and desire. “Rhett…” You trail off and he smirks. 

“It’s alright if you do,” he encourages. 

You wrap an arm around your midsection and step back. “It’s just a book.”

“Hell of a book,” he says, tapping the spine against his palm and moving towards you. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Do you like what was written?”

He already knows you do but he wants to hear you say it. You’re quiet for a long minute. He sees your throat bob and the way you curl your nails into the crook of your elbow. When your whispered “yes” comes a second later, it’s so quiet that he almost misses it. 

"Thought you were a good girl," he teases. "Reading some sweet love story but you're sitting here, pretty as pie, reading something filthy with a straight face."

Your eyes widen when Rhett closes the distance between your bodies. The press of his half-hard cock against you is unmistakable.  

“What else do you read in secret?” He asks, thumb catching on your bottom lip.

Before you can answer, he’s leaning in to kiss you, pushing his tongue in your mouth. You moan when he walks you backward. A hand behind your head keeps you from knocking into the wall, but Rhett doesn’t ease up on the kiss. The hand on your chin slides down to grasp your throat lightly. When he finally breaks the kiss, you look a little dazed, lips swollen. He loves that slow blink up at him, how you wait for him to make the next move. 

“How wet am I gonna find you?” He asks, sliding a rough palm between your thighs to cup you through your sleep pants. 

Your breath hitches but you don’t answer him. He doesn’t need you to as he can feel how damp the cloth is against your cunt. The little noise you make when he rubs his fingers there goes straight to his dick. He wants you bad enough that he’s almost willing to stop his teasing and take you to bed right now just to feel you wrapped tightly around him.

But he wants an answer from you, needs to know if this is something you want from him or if it’s meant just for the pages of your books.

“What did you like about that scene in the book?” He asks, working his hand into your underwear.

“I don’t know, Rhett,” you say, eyes fluttering when he finally gets his fingers on your skin. 

You’re warm and velvety soft. He fucking loves how you feel and he knows by now just how to drive you mad. He keeps his touch light, moving up and down but never quite giving you what you need. 

“If you wanna come, you're gonna find the words, darlin.”

“I…I liked that he was in control, took what he wanted,” you pant, grasping his arms. 

He can see you’re struggling to speak, distracted by what he’s doing to you and caught up in the fantasy he’s asking you to tell him. A part of him worries this conversation should be something done when you’re both clear headed but Rhett knows you, how shy and anxious you can get about these things. It’s always been easier to get you to tell him what you want when he’s buried deep in that beautiful cunt. Tonight his fingers will have to do, though he’s pretty sure you don’t mind one bit. 

“What else?” Rhett prods, slipping two fingers inside without much effort. You’re ridiculously wet and the thought of fitting a third in there almost has him coming in his jeans like a schoolboy.

You groan and your head falls back against the wall with a dull thump. 

“I liked how he tied her up and she… she had to let him do what he wanted.”

Rhett loves how expressive your face is right now, unburdened and free. Almost like you’re speaking right from that warm sweet spot he has his fingers buried in. You’re close in more ways than one he thinks with a little smile but he needs to be absolutely sure. 

“You want me to do that to you?” He asks, waiting to see just how far you want to take this.

“Yes, god yes,” you moan, shifting your hips forward to get his fingers deeper inside. 

The broken, desperate tenor of your voice nearly does him in and he grinds himself against the side of your hip. 

“Want me to chase you down like they did in the book, huh?” He continues. You shudder as his thumb finally circles your clit and he pumps his fingers in and out of you. “Ignore you when you cry and tell me to stop?”

“Yes…yes…”

“Fuck you over the hood of my truck until I’m coming inside you and there’s nothing you can do to stop me?”

You don’t answer him but he doesn’t need you to. You come hard on his fingers, your back bowing and your mouth open in a silent cry. He lets you ride his hand and tire yourself out against him until the only noise in the room is your desperate little pants and the soft, wet sound his fingers make while they move in and out of you. 

When you finally halt your movements Rhett withdraws his hand from between your thighs. He loves the little whine you make in response and how you look up at him through your lashes, shy once again. He grins and cups your cheek. His thumb sweeps back and forth over your skin because he knows you always need him soft afterward. 

“Well, that was somethin’,” he tells you, awed and incredibly turned on. 

“Rhett…” You start, staring at his chest, somewhere between ashamed and satisfied “I, um…”

“You don’t gotta explain,” he assures you, kissing both of your cheeks. “I like the idea too.”

That has your head snapping up. He chuckles at your struck expression. “I’ll admit it wasn’t on my list before tonight, but your book…. well, it was eye opening.”

“She’s um, a really good writer,” you tell him, nodding. 

“I’m less interested in reading, more in doing,” he says, running a hand down your trembling side. “Maybe this weekend we can go out to the west pasture. I got a nice new rope I’d like to try out.”

“We could do that,” you agree, touching his chest. 

Your finger taps his sternum and he watches your face. He can see you’re working up to something. 

“You should probably read chapter 10 though…there are a few other things I like there."

✥

Sequel - I'll Be Your Fantasy

✥

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