#i kinda like the look of the consistent line weight with this one

[hanymelon]

The girls!

💛   commissions | ko-fi  💙

[notlongtolove]

in eternal lines

spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place. but when the deadlines are looming, it takes everything in you not to snap. because while you’re good at literature because you have to be, spencer's great at it because, well, he’s spencer. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst, comfort, fluff... i don't know anymore

content: student!reader gets kinda pissy and snappy but she has a 3000 word essay due and a fever so go easy on her. and spencer is spencer, so patient, so kind :'

word count: 5.2k

note: as a literature major this was extremely self-indulgent... i'm sorry. i love lit student reader and i hope you guys do too! also aptly titled after the one and only sonnet 18 because it was the first poem we were given read in uni <3 (reader is basing her essay on george macdonald's 'the princess and the goblin' and isaac watts' 'divine songs' if anyone is curious; but don't read too deeply into her lines about it because i submitted that essay weeks ago and it's been relinquished it from my mind oops)

a line: You’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through.

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. - william shakespeare

You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would sift through pages of Whitman’s dense poetry with you or debate whether Rossetti was really referencing Eve’s bite of the apple in Goblin Market? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—brilliant and boundless—was one of the reasons you fell for him in the first place.

So yes, you love your boyfriend. But when deadlines are looming, and submission dates are bearing down on you, it takes everything in you not to snap. Because while Spencer can dissect poetry and prose with an ease that seems almost otherworldly, you sometimes feel the weight of comparison pressing on you. You’re good at it too—of course you are, you have to be. You’re pursuing a degree in it forgodsakes. But Spencer? He’s great at it because, well, he’s Spencer.

And while you can hold your own most days, a fair challenger when you come back from a particularly intriguing lecture too layered to dissect by yourself, there are times you feel like you’re running to keep up. Spencer will pull references from texts and obscure sources you haven’t even heard of, leaving you struggling to connect the dots. And that’s just literature. When he dives into his other passions—you don’t even bother to compete. Instead, you resign yourself to the couch, nodding and asking questions during the rare moments you can sort of follow the thread of his thoughts.

Having an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory does have its perks. Everyone knows that.

Your friends see it too. Like today when one of them stopped by between classes to return an essay you’d been stressing over for days.

“Well, don’t you look fantastic,” she teased, smirking. “Guessing those leftovers weren’t as ‘fine’ as you thought?”

​​“Don’t even start,” you mutter, weakly grabbing the paper from her hands as you lean on the doorframe. You flip through the pages marked in red ink quickly with the little strength you have, eyes scanning briefly through the comments before you’re on to the next page, next page, next page. They’re not what you’re looking for. 

And then you see it. There on the last page, a definite red circle around it: B+. 

You’d expected it of course. B+—your ever-reliable benchmark. It's a mark of consistency you've been forced to be contented with. It wasn’t horrendous. It wasn’t amazing. It was fine. But you’d worked hard on this one. You’d hoped, maybe, for something more. You’d expected it, and yet, you don’t know why you still feel a pinch of disappointment.

“How’d you do?” you ask grimly, fighting the nausea creeping up your throat.

“Same,” she replies nonchalantly, scrolling through her phone.

You nod, trying not to dwell on the fact that she’d seen your grade before you did.

“Oh, you know it’s always the same,” she adds with a wry smile. “Solidly subpar, as per tradition.” 

The phrase stung a little more now than it had when you’d coined it back in your first year. Back when, after a string of middle-of-the-road grades, you’d decided then and there that if you couldn't break the glass ceiling, you'd make a comfortable home just beneath it. Always looking up, never quite breaking through. 

“Whatever, it was only 20% anyway,” she shrugs.

“Yeah…” you reply weakly, though the disappointment still gnaws at you. You can’t quite shake it. Maybe it’s because deep down, you know you do care—no matter how often you tell yourself you’ve accepted the fate of being perpetually average. You still want, so quietly, so desperately, to be something more. You’ve always had a love for literature: the way words flow across a page, imbuing meaning into simple phrases, transforming them into art. You’ve always admired the beauty of it. But passion doesn’t translate to academic brilliance, and appreciation doesn’t equal A grades. It’s a hard truth you’ve come to learn.

“How was class?” you ask, trying to steer your mind away from its current spiral. “We still on Faerie Queene?”

“Mhmm,” she hums, rolling her eyes. “Kristoff’s still rambling on and on about virtue and chastity. Ha. Imagine me living in those times—at the rate I ghost men, I’d be a certified whore.”

“Well, actually, they’d probably get to you first,” Spencer interrupts as he steps out of the bedroom, his tone slipping into that familiar, matter-of-fact cadence. “Virtue and chastity were considered to be absolute truths in the 16th century. A woman’s value was intrinsically tied to her perceived purity, which of course, was a reflection of her family’s honor.” 

If you weren’t so ill, you would’ve laughed at her face—eyes wide, mouth slightly open in disbelief.

“And then there’s the public shaming,” he continues, leaning casually against the doorframe with his hands tucked into his pockets already miles deep into his thoughts. “In fact, the entire allegory of Book III revolves around chastity as a cornerstone of moral virtue. Witch trials in the late 16th and 17th centuries often targeted women who were thought as sexually deviant or independent, framing their ‘sins’ as some sort of evidence that they were consorting with the devil—”

He pauses, glancing between you and your friend. “So yeah… considering all that, if you’d ‘ghosted’ a few men back then, they probably would’ve gone straight to accusations of witchcraft or worse.”

Your friend stares at him, “...Right. Good to know,” she says, blinking slowly.

“But you know, Edmund Spenser intended The Faerie Queene to be a moral guide for young men,” he adds as an afterthought, realizing he’s just indirectly affirmed your friend’s self-deprecating joke. Spencer shifts awkwardly but can’t help himself by continuing, “It was meant to instil chivalric virtues to shape a model English gentleman. So technically, your interpretation is, um, modern at best.”

Her expression—equal parts baffled, impressed, maybe even a little scared—almost makes you forget how sick you feel.

“So…” she says after a pause, “I’m guessing you’re Spencer?”

“I am,” he replies simply.

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out, “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” 

Spencer offers a smile, “Likewise.” 

“Anyway… I’m off.” She slings her bag over her shoulder, “Essay’s not gonna write itself. This one’s 30% by the way. God, I hate Kristoff but Burton’s a close second for sure.”

You wince at the reminder, the weight of your unfinished work pressing on you. The brief called for at least three secondary sources, and you’ve barely scratched the surface.

“Feel better soon, sweetie,” she says, offering you a sympathetic look. You manage a weak smile in return.

“Bye Spencer,” she says, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Take care of her for me, will ya?”

“Will do,” he says curtly, giving a small wave as you close the door behind her.

A moment later, your phone buzzes. He’s cute, her text reads. Another follows immediately: And basically a walking Wikipedia.

You start typing a response, but another text pops up before you can send it: Don’t dog on us for using ChatGPT now. You huff and click your phone off instead, tossing it aside. 

Therein lies another source of stress. Spencer is always happy to help you untangle a difficult text or interpret a dense poem, but he draws the line when it comes to your academic work. He never interferes directly. You’ve seen it yourself—The first time you handed him your laptop to review an essay, he’d made his comments verbally, pointing at sections on the screen while explaining his critiques in detail, but never actually touching the keyboard. You’d brought it up during an argument once, after a particularly crushing grade. Your frustration had spilled over: You’re smarter. You type faster. Why can’t you just fix it? But Spencer had only responded with something about “academic integrity” and the importance of maintaining the “code of conduct.” The conversation ended there, and after that, you stopped asking. 

Even yesterday, when you managed to scrape together 300 words for a draft, you’d handed your laptop to him, and again, he was careful to keep his boundaries. Too drained to make edits in real-time, you’d expected—maybe hoped—that he might step in more directly. Instead, Spencer quietly switched the document to “suggesting” mode, marking up your draft with precise yet detached annotations, never infiltrating or overstepping your own words. Spencer Reid is and always will be a stickler for rules. You try to hold yourself to the same standard. You steer clear of AI, no matter how tempting it might be. You know better. Well, that and because Spencer would never let it slide. 

But now it’s late and the thought of letting some website churn out polished, perfectly phrased sentences for you in seconds has never felt more tempting. The nausea has faded, leaving behind a fever in its place. Spencer’s in the living room, reading. You’d banished him to the couch—even the faint sound of pages turning, not to mention the speed at which he reads, was enough to derail your already fragile train of thought. You’d felt bad of course; he’d made soup for you earlier, fed it to you and everything. But with this essay worth 30% of your grade and your 300 words barely scratching the surface of the 3,000-word requirement, you don’t have it in you to be oh-so-sweet and ever-so-grateful. Not right now. You’ve nailed down the introduction—a quick overview of historical context, a sweeping statement on the authors’ intents. But now, the real challenge looms: The thesis. And you’re utterly stuck.

This essay argues that…  that…

You groan in frustration, flopping back against the pillows. So much for children’s literature. You’d chosen this class thinking it’d be an easy ride—fairy tales and picture books, how hard could it be? Yet here you are, being tasked with dissecting the significance of form and language. Now, the simple language and pretty pictures are anything but your friend, doing nothing to help further your argument. Your head throbs, your mouth feels like sandpaper, and the brilliant points you’d thought of in last week’s class are nowhere to be found, lost in the haziness of your mind. With a defeated sigh, you peel back the sheets and shuffle out of the bedroom, laptop in hand, every joint aching in protest. Spencer looks up from his book as the rustle of sheets catches his attention. His heart aches slightly when he sees you in the doorway, clutching your laptop and looking every bit as pitiful as you feel. He sets his book to the side. 

“How’s it going, honey?” he asks sympathetically, even though he already knows the answer from the state of you. 

“It’s barely going,” you admit with a yawn, tears prickling at your eyes from the force of it. They only add to your overall air of defeat as you cross the room and crawl into his lap, laptop balanced precariously on the armrest. “Brain’s foggy, can’t think straight,” you murmur in incomplete sentences. 

“Finalized your thesis yet?” he asks again, his voice gentle but patient. You shake your head, sinking deeper into his chest—It’s a silent surrender, as if giving in to the exhaustion and frustration that’s been building up. Spencer notices, brushing your hair gently away from your face, his hand cool against your hot skin. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re burning up, hon,” he says softly, voice full of concern. “Why don’t we get you to bed, take a break for tonight, hm? You can work on this tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The thought of putting everything off feels like both a relief and a burden. The idea of sleep has never seemed more appealing. But then, the thought of letting this drag on for another day—of pushing the finish line even further out of your reach fills you with dread. But you know you’re not in any state to be working on anything right now, let alone something worth 30% of your final grade. You know that you can’t focus, not when your body feels like it’s ready to give up and when your mind can barely hold onto a coherent thought. “Tomorrow, okay?” Spencer prompts again, calm and gentle. You know he’s right, so, despite the gnawing anxiety in the back of your mind, you nod. “Okay.” 

Spencer doesn’t push, just gives you a small, reassuring smile as he stands. Every movement feels like a chore as he guides you back to bed but the warmth of the blankets and the prospect of rest is more than enough motivation. He tucks you in, his touch comforting and steady. You feel like a weight has been lifted, albeit temporarily. Either way, it’s enough for now. You close your eyes, the thought of picking up where you left off tomorrow seeming almost bearable. 

You wake to the sunlight filtering through the curtains. It takes a moment for your brain to adjust to the new day, the stress of yesterday not entirely gone. But as you sit up, stretching slowly, mind less hazy and joints less achy, you feel a renewed determination, a flicker of focus that was nowhere to be found last night. Your mind is still whirling with fragments of ideas, half-formed arguments, and theoretical connections when Spencer strolls in with a cup of something warm for you.

“Tea.” he announces, handing it to you with a small, triumphant smile. “Decaffeinated.”

You frown, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Need coffee.”

“Studies say caffeinated beverages stimulate the colon,” he counters matter-of-factly.

“Eww,” you groan, wrinkling your nose at him. “Why’d you have to say it like that?” 

“Exactly like that,” he replies without missing a beat, his tone precise and measured. “You’ve just recovered, and everyone knows caffeine is a gastrointestinal irritant.’

You huff, taking the mug from him. “Fine, but if I don’t finish this essay, it’s on you.” Spencer raises an eyebrow, completely unbothered by your protest. “Somehow, I think you’ll survive.”

You grumble under your breath but take a tentative sip of the tea anyway. It’s not what you wanted, but you can’t deny that he’s probably right—he usually is. The warmth seeps through the mug into your hands, grounding you just enough to pull your laptop over from the bedside table. Its practically empty screen blinks back up at you, as though it’s been waiting patiently all night. Hi again. Still here. Still empty. 

Spencer takes a peek at your screen and you can’t help but glare half-heartedly at the mug in his hands. Of course, it’s coffee. He’d get to enjoy caffeine while insisting you couldn’t. Typical.

“So, I was thinking…” you start, deciding to let the injustice slide for now as you scroll through your document.

“Hmm?” He looks up, his gaze meeting yours over the rim of his cup.

“What if I say that MacDonald’s pedagogy was more effective for children because Watts’s text was too directive. That works, right?” You look up, scanning his face for some form of agreement.

“That’s hardly arguable honey,” his words land softly, but you still feel your shoulders sag. “It’s an observation.”

"But—look at the words they use! It's so different. Here, look at the tone," you insist, nudging your laptop toward him. "There has to be something to be said about that, right?"

Spencer leans in, glancing at your screen before looking back at you. His expression is calm, composed, and maddeningly reasonable. "Watts’s text was meant to be read as a textbook. Of course it’s directive. You know that." 

Do you? You think you don't know much at this point. You don’t know what you know, and you don’t know what you don’t know. You groan, dragging your hands down your face as if you could physically scrape the frustration away. Darn you, Isaac Watts. Darn you, pedagogical learning. Darn you, whoever had the audacity to name this course a simple exploration into the history of children’s literature. 

Before you can wallow further, Spencer slides your laptop away. “How about we brush our teeth before crying over educational theories for children in the 18th century?” he suggests, his voice light. You sigh dramatically, dragging yourself to your feet like it’s some Herculean effort. When you shuffle back from the bathroom, hair slightly damp from washing your face, Spencer has taken over your spot on the bed, laptop resting on his legs as he scrolls through some article. He glances up when you flop down beside him with an exaggerated sigh.

"Feel better?" he asks, the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

"Not at all," you grumble. You don’t let him know that the brief pause in frustration has given your head just enough space to try again. 

It’s been hours, but you’ve finally narrowed down your thesis. It’s not amazing—far from it—but it’s something. It’s arguable, at least. Spencer’s been relegated back to the living room, his presence a vague hum in the background as you attempt to focus. You’d claimed you worked better in bed, though Spencer’s tried (and failed) to prove with statistics and studies that it’s just a placebo effect, a lie your brain insists on believing.

But right now, none of that matters. You have a thesis and on that note, an essay to begin. Or, at least, the faintest glimmer of one. And that’s when you hit a wall. Again. You sit cross-legged, laptop perched on your knees as you stare at the cursor, blinking like it knows you’re stuck. You wish it would stop judging you. You drag yourself—and your laptop thats become an extension of your body at this point—into the living room like a child seeking comfort. Spencer barely looks up from his article when you slump into the couch next to him.

“What about this?” You straighten your back, determined to sound confident this time, even if you're not sure where you're going with it. “What if I say that MacDonald’s use of fantasy is critical because it creates like, an emotional bridge and that makes it more effective for moral teaching and—”

“Well, yes," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Spencer doesn’t even look up from his article. "But that’s kind of a subpoint, honey.”

You stiffen, irritation rising like bile in your throat. “It’s not a subpoint. It’s a point.”

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking up, finally meeting yours. His tone isn’t dismissive, but it might as well be. “How is that significant? What does it build toward?”

You grit your teeth. “Ugh, you sound like Kristoff.” You mutter, more to yourself than to him. You know it’s not fair to snap, but your patience is paper thin. You can feel the fever creeping back into your skin, and you’re not sure if it's the heat or the mounting pressure, but suddenly everything feels like a little too much. 

“Fine,” you say, swallowing your frustration, trying again. “What if I say that MacDonald’s narrative style is more progressive because it like, engages the reader’s emotions directly? And that’s why Watts’ text feels scarier?”

Spencer pauses. For a moment, you think you’ve finally hit something solid, his eyes narrowing just enough to show he’s intrigued. “And how are you planning to argue that?”

“Well, um… um—I… I don’t know!” You exhale sharply, throwing your hands up in exasperation. You sink back against the cushions, frustration seeping into your bones. “Something about how MacDonald’s vibe is all nice and charming while Watts is all like, ‘learn this or else’. 

“Sure I guess…” Spencer acknowledges, nodding slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But you’ll need more than vibes and a strong dislike of Watts to support it sweetheart.”

“Gee, thanks,” you say bitterly, rolling your eyes.

He chuckles softly, a sound that’s too calm, too collected, and somehow that makes it worse. He’s not wrong, but you’re still pissed off. You take a breath, steeling yourself for the next round of dissection. “Okay, then what if I say that MacDonald lets kids think for themselves, and Watts... doesn’t. Because of his moral authority and intellectual agency and whatever.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise, just a fraction, but it’s enough. You feel a flicker of something—relief, maybe? It’s hard to say. His voice has shifted, just slightly, less detached now, more engaged. “You can build on that.”

“Really?” you ask, suddenly more hopeful than you’d like to admit.

“Really,” he confirms, leaning back in his chair. But then he tilts his head and furrows his brows in a way that makes you want to throw your laptop at him. “But you’ll need to define those terms and back it up with examples. Otherwise, it’s just a claim.” Of course. 

“God, you’re making this so much harder than it needs to be!” you snap, the irritation rising in your throat. “I get it, okay? I need examples. But you’re not even letting me work out a point before you just, I don’t know, shit all over it.” Spencer’s eyes widen, and for a second, you almost feel bad for snapping at him. 

“I’m just trying to help,” he says gently, but there's something in the way he says it—just a little too patient—that makes you bristle. You hate how right he always is, how calm he always looks, how much care he always has in his eyes even when you’re acting out. 

“You’re trying to help?” you repeat incredulously, shaking your head. “You’re poking holes in everything!” Even in your feverish haze, you know you’re being cruel—but you just can’t help it. All you can think about is how everything is slipping away, how your thoughts won’t line up, how your head is starting to hurt again. You’re not even sure if you’re angry at him anymore, or just angry at everything else. 

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He glances at your screen again, a mess of quotes and bulletpoints. “I just want to make sure it’s solid, honey,” he says finally, his tone softer.

You scoff. “Yeah, well, you tore apart whatever solid lead I thought I had after two hours of work in just about five minutes, so thanks for that,” words tumbling out before you can stop them. Spencer’s silence hangs heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speak. “Just… just let me get through this.” 

Spencer sits there for a moment, just enough for you to feel the weight of the tension shift in the room. “I’m not saying you can’t get through it. I just want you to get through it right,” he says carefully, his voice quiet but insistent. “That’s all.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just care.

But the heat, the fever, it’s all swirling inside you, and you can’t hold it together much longer. “Of course you are…” you mutter bitterly, already regretting everything you’ve said. It feels like every step forward just leads you straight into another wall, and you’re just too tired to keep going. It’s not that you want to push him away or that you don’t appreciate his help. You’re just too irritable, too exhausted. You just want the whole damn essay to be done—and you wish you didn’t need his help to make it happen. You want to yell, to throw something, to demand that the world stop spinning long enough for you to catch your breath. But all that comes out is a hollow, defeated sigh. 

You feel like you're drowning and you don’t want to drag him under with you. “I’m just…” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, trying to gather whatever little strength you have left. “I’m just so tired.” 

Spencer looks at you, eyes full of concern, but it doesn’t help. You don’t want sympathy. You want to be better—to be able handle all of this. You want to be able to write this damn essay on goddamn children’s books without falling apart. And it doesn’t help that you’re falling apart in front of Spencer. The same Spencer who can recite verses from Paradise Lost at the drop of a hat. You’d almost burst into tears the last time he did it after it had taken you an entire week just to decipher and analyze a single chapter with any real confidence. You can’t help but feel that pang of inadequacy every time he breezes through something you’ve struggled with, even if he doesn’t mean to make it look so effortless. You hate yourself for it. You can’t find a way to shake the feeling that you’re not doing enough, not good enough. Not for yourself, not for him. You feel the sting of it, it’s pressing on your chest, suffocating.

“I just… just feel like I can’t keep up with any of it.” You don’t say it with any anger, just exhaustion. It’s not even directed at him anymore—it’s just the fact that you feel so stuck, so far behind where you should be, where you so badly want to be. “Like I can’t keep up with you.” 

Oh. Spencer feels his heart sink. He’s always prided himself on being able to read people. He should’ve known better. He’d been so focused on helping, so intent on pushing you to reach the level he knows you’re capable of, the level he knows you want to be at—even if you keep telling yourself you don’t. The fever, the deadlines, the constant pushing—he should’ve known that it was all too much. 

“You don’t have to keep up with me honey, I’m right here with you,” he says, trying to get you to look up at him. You can’t meet his gaze. You feel guilty for snapping, for letting the frustration slip out, but you’re not rational enough right now to pull yourself out from this spiral of self-pity. It’s easier to stay here, in the anger, the frustration, than to face the embarrassment of it all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” Spencer takes your hand, cautiously, testing the waters. He knows you don’t exactly want to be touched right now. He knows it makes you feel coddled. He pauses, waiting for your reaction. When you don’t push him away, he gains the confidence to cradle your face gently. You don’t resist, your tired eyes meeting his, heavy with sadness and Spencer thinks he can actually feel his heart break.

“You’re doing just fine sweetheart. You’re not falling behind. You’re just stressed. And sick.” He knows you’re feeling fragile, like any comfort might smother you so he threads forward lightly. “This essay? You’ll get it done. I promise.” It sounds right, and yet it doesn’t really help. It doesn’t stop the doubt that’s eating at you, the sense that you’re just not measuring up to everything you want to be. You feel like you’re barely treading water, no matter how hard you swim, the shore never gets any closer.

But for now, Spencer’s words are enough to quiet the panic—a buoy in your sea of sadness threatening to pull you under. You cling to it, knowing you’ll have to start swimming again soon. But for this moment, you allow yourself to stop. A beat. A pause. A breath—Just for now.

It’s only the next day that you manage to get the words on the page, not in any smooth, brilliant way, but they’re there. The sentences form, sometimes haltingly, sometimes with more confidence, until the essay is painfully but finally done. Not perfect, but it’s done. Relief washes over you, even as exhaustion lingers. 

The moment you hear the front door open, you practically leap up, laptop in hand, meeting Spencer before he can even take his shoes off. He raises an eyebrow, setting his bag down as you both settle onto the couch. Without a word, you hand over the laptop, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You wait with bated breath as he begins to scroll, your laborious effort displayed in black and white. The sound of the touchpad clicking feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He asks a few questions, here and there—clarifications, mostly. Questions you answer with ease, surprising even yourself with the confidence in your responses. He nods along, his expression thoughtful, but not critical. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Spencer looks up, eyes bright, a proud smile on his face. “It looks great, honey. You did a really good job.” 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face at his praise. “Really?” Spencer leans in, cupping your cheek gently, and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Really.” When he pulls back, his forehead rests lightly against yours for a moment, his hand still cradling your cheek. “You worked so hard on this,” he murmurs. “So proud of you.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way, and you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward to kiss him again, this time slower, savoring the comfort he always seems to bring. “Now," he pulls away just enough to smirk, "can I have my bedroom back, or should I just start setting up camp on the couch?” You laugh, rolling your eyes, but it’s full of affection. “Don’t even start.” Spencer chuckles, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you closer, the tension of yesterday long forgotten.

When you get your paper back, you flip through the pages, one after the other, looking for the feedback, waiting for the corrections, the marks that tell you where you inevitably went wrong.

Next page. Next page. Next page.

And then, there it is. On the last page, in a definitive red circle, unmistakable: A.

It’s an A. 

A goddamn A.

It doesn’t feel like a one-time fluke, not exactly, but you can’t shake the thought that this might be the only time you break through the glass ceiling you’ve spent so long looking up at. And who knows, maybe you’ll never push past it again. But for now, you allow yourself to relish in this singular moment of triumph. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. 

Because now you know that the other side is real, and that you can get there. But Spencer, the genius, the enigma, who’s always been a step ahead of everyone in everything academic, has always known.

And while everyone knows that an A in an essay that’s only a partial percentage of your overall grade isn’t anything compared to what he’s achieved, nothing compared to the academic milestones he’s already crossed—Still, he’s here, celebrating with you. You can see it in his eyes, even if he knows you’re not one to make a big deal of these kinds of things. His quiet joy is evident in the way he grins that little grin of his, the one that’s only for you. 

So, in summary, in essence, in all the words and ways you could possibly use to phrase a conclusion—You love your boyfriend. Truly, you do. After all, who else would read through your entire syllabus for the semester (frustratingly quickly), just because he knows you understand better when you can talk things out? Who else would patiently stick around, exiled to the couch in their own home, while you’re exhausted, irritable, and buried in deadlines? Nobody else ever cared enough to try. Spencer’s mind—though brilliant and boundless—isn’t the only reason why you fell for him. 

Because when the world feels too heavy, when the never ending lines of poetry and prose become too difficult to untangle by yourself, Spencer’s there reminding you—ever so gently, ever so steadily—that you can make it through, one word at a time.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

[cheriladycl01]

I'm not scared! Colby Brock x MotoGPDriver! Reader Part 1

Plot: You made a tweet about Sam and Colby and were in a podcast and they brought up Sam and Colby where you talked about the paranormal and how it doesn't really scare you because you drive motorcycles at over 200mph.

A/N: This has been sat in my drafts for a while coz i was kinda scared to post it, coz its a new reach of people I'm looking for.

It started off with a silly little tweet you'd made in the summer break when you werent racing. You didn't feel like watching old F1 or MotoGP races and there was no movie that immedielty came to mind.

So you scrolled through youtube. At first it was a documentary about the ocean, and you had to switch it out. Which is how you came across a channel called Sam and Colby, two American boys who... well you didn't actually think they had a 'thing:

Your YouTube consisted solely of vlogs and car/bike videos that you did. That was your niche. However these two didn't seem to have a specific niche, you perused them seeing that they vlogged and did challenges and prank video and even back in the day were part of vine.

The most recent things they'd been sticking too by the looks of things were these paranormal investigations. They went to these haunted places with cool gear and filmed the experience. You were very intruiged as the paranormal was something you'd believed in just never interacted with.

After watching them bring people on, and be scared shitless you knew you'd boss something like this.

You were alone in your house, drinking which is where the tweet actually came from.

There was a lot of action from both fans of motorsport and YouTube fans. You of course got some hate from the tweet from the YouTube side and hence started the fued between your fans and Colby and Sam fans.

It wasn't until the podcast you went on that the duo took notice of you.

"So today I'm here in the studio with Y/N, now this I think is an intertsing podcast for both of us, because you've only been on Motorsport related ones so far correct?"

"Yes" you smile nodding. You'd actually been on a few podcasts as you really enjoyed talking to people and hearing their stories and being able to talk about your own experiences and hardships.

You started of with the generic motorsport questions, that were all angled at you being a woman in motorsport. Which you enjoyed as you knew getting to the position you had now was a hard hard feat you managed to overcome.

He then got onto more general questions about you life, which again you were happy to answer.

"I do have something that people asked me to ask when we first annouced you here and that was about the tweet with Sam and Colby?" he says looking to his notepad making sure he was keeping in his order.

"Mmmm, what about it?" you smile knowing this was going to be a thing.

"So you basically said along the lines of, if you were in a Sam and Colby video that you wouldn't be scared, why is that?" he asks tilting his head to the side.

"Well, not much scares me when i drive motorbikes at roughly 250 kmph. You know, I've come off those bikes and had my life flash before my eyes as I go into the barrier. One of my worst crashes nearly killed me, but I got back on the bike, one I healed and I won my first race back in Lusial. As part of the Red Bull family I've helped them with some crazy challanges, beat Max Verstappen in an F1 car and lots more. So i think it would genuinely take a lot to scare me!" you smile explaining your thought process behind your tweet and how you think you'd genuinely react.

"So I'm guessing you'd be like down to collab with them at some point!" he asks.

"Yeah of course, I know these things take time to plan so obviously you know with both our busy schedules it probably wouldn't be anytime soon, but you never know!" you grin and after a few more questions before the podcast ends.

It was around a week later, you were in your home gym getting some weight training in when a message dings up. You stop the current exercise your doing to check it.

It was an instagram DM from the Sam and Colby official account. You click on the notification to go onto the chat to look at what they'd messaged you.

Of course you immedielty replied. You exchanged numbers with both the boy's before Colby made a group chat asking when you were free.

It was harder to find times than you expected, the next time you all would be free was during your winter break from racing. Which was risky to confirm anything, especially to their fans as anything could happen to you in that time.

You agreed on a date and time to tell your fans.

The next step was you inviting them to a race weekend, you wanted to meet them but obviously didn't have much time between races. So you invited them to your home race at Silverstone in the United Kingdom.

They decided to make it a whole thing, where they explored some haunted places across England after coming to see you at your race.

You decided to meet them at the airport first and you couldn't hold in your nerves to meet them, you never had the best people skills which is probably why you went into the career path that you did.

You waited for them in the arrivals area, it wasn't too busy due to the time of the day, just a few business men in suits. You looked around for a board to see when their plane had landed, but could find one.

"Y/N?" you hear from behind you.

A/N: I don't know what the fandom's like on here, but I just like writing about cool situations that help with writers block for writing my book! If you follow me for F1 and General Motorsports this is me branching out my writing into another hyper fixation of mine that’s been around for a while!

[ghostlywhiskey]

based off this tiktok and how the cod men would cuddle (simon is at the end). simon’s really did something to me and made me all warm and fuzzy inside. kinda wrote this with the idea that reader & simon haven’t been sexually intimate yet too. no anatomy mentioned for reader so can be read as gn!reader :) 

it’s you and simon early in your relationship. somewhere between the lines of you both have feelings for each other, trying to rationalize it and seeing how it could work with his job. ‘i love you’ hasn’t been spoken yet, the words confirmed in different sayings to show you both care for each other. physical intimacy early on consists of quick kisses here and there; whether it's on the lips, the top of your head or cheek. it’s the hand that rests gently on your lower back while he guides you through crowds before taking your hand securely in his so he doesn’t lose you. but, that wasn’t ever possible. even if you lost him in a crowd, he’d stick out like a sore thumb from his frame alone. 

but it’s one night before he’s supposed to leave for a mission. the day earlier spent running errands with him while he grabbed small necessities followed by lunch. after all of that it was take out for dinner until the both of you retreated to his room; originally you didn’t plan on staying the night, but by the time you realize how late it was he just convinced you it was no problem to stay.

he dug through the drawers for a change of clothes for you, a pair of boxers to act as shorts and a t-shirt that might as well be a dress on you the way it came down just above your knees. you waited until he got into bed first, cautiously slipping under the covers on the side you’d sleep on once he was settled.

it was new territory in your relationship. there were times where he would have his arm around you while you both were sat on the couch and you’d lean into him. but now, being in bed with him, it felt like your body tensed as you pulled the covers up and snuggled them as you turned on your side to face him. laying on his back, eyes fixated on the ceiling until he felt your gaze and turned his head to look at you. 

“what is it?” it wasn’t a harsh question, nor did it sound like it was. it was gentle despite the usual gruffness of his tone.

shaking your head slightly as it rested on the pillow, you held your gaze with him as you answered, “nothing, just saying good night.” 

there was a brief pause and the air felt heavy around the two of you, or at least it did for you. and before you could speak the words good night to him, his body rolled onto his side and grabbed for yours. an arm snaked under you as the other hand pulled you against him and secured itself around your waist; both of your legs found their way to interlock comfortably.

“si–” eyes glancing up to see what you could of his face. his eyes closed while he pressed his lips against your forehead gently. 

“gon’ miss you,” lips move against your forehead as he speaks, the arm around your waist moving slightly so he can scratch at your back while your one arm that wasn’t buried under your weight could reach to cup his cheek. a small space breaks between both of your heads so you can clearly glance up at him as he lowers his own to meet your eyes again.

“i’ll be here when you come back, yeah?” your voice is soft and reassuring, because you know his brain well enough to know where his thoughts are wandering off to. 

“i wouldn’t ask you to–” his words are cut off by your own.

“i’ll be here,” you repeat the words, this time it sounds more confident, but still assured. there’s no hesitation. 

slipping his arm away from your body, it comes to cup your face as well. both of you laying there, your thumb brushing against his scar covered cheek. simon’s hand rests so that your ear sits between his pointer and middle finger, thumb just by your hairline. both of your breaths steady and hitting each other's faces until he tugs you closer to his, lips pressing against your lips this time. 

and you swear the words ‘i love you’ are spoken by him, mumbled against your lips as he kisses you. in return, your hand tugs his face closer as if it wasn’t already, your body pressing against his as both of your body heat exchange between each other, more so his. 

[momokarp]

hi I love your sketchbook art sm! your lines look kinda messy in the best way possible and i rlly wanna achieve that same look!! also i wanted to ask, do you sketch everything out in pencil beforehand or just go directly in with the pens?

Thank you! I used to hate how not clean my stuff looked compared to other’s stuff but I eventually came to really like messy inky things! Makes me feel better about my mistakes and it stops me from being a perfectionist.

As for my process I do both!! I’ll either go straight in with pens, or sketch first in pencil- OR if you want it to look messy but also kinda sick?? Do your under drawings in a super light pen/marker (like yellow or blue or gray) and then lineart on top. Maybe make that color you use something to add to shading later on. I’ve also done under drawings with dried out pens before to get a gritty texture, if you have any dying pens, they can still be put to use!

I just broke into a new sketchbook so I labeled what I did what with for these Needles Concepts. Fineliner pens can get you consistent line weight but BRUSH PENS can be thin or thick or flex to get some nice line variations. There’s soft brush pens and harder ones too if you’re worried about control.

The stuff where I went pencil first and then pen is FAR neater in general, and I can plan more. It’s pretty difficult to go just straight pen but I encourage you try it out a few times. It makes you plan and think about posing and proportion all in your head but boy it can be fun!

[blue-slxt]

Birthday Sex

*Request: It’s my birthday!! Can I please get birthday sex with soft dom Neteyam*

First of all, Happy Birthday!!! 🥳 I hope you enjoyed your day!

I kinda cheated and bumped this one to the front of the line because I wanted to get this out for you on your birthday so I really hope you like it! All characters are aged up.

🔞Minors Do Not Interact🔞

Smut under the cut

You knew what you were getting yourself into. When Neteyam dragged you back home because he wanted to give you your gift for your birthday, you knew what he meant.

It started with roaming hands and teasing touches. It soon escalated to hungry kissing, heavy breathing, and clothes flying. “I want to taste you”, he said lowly leading you to your shared sleep mat. You were confused for a second when he layed down on his back. But when he pulls your body on top of his face and his tongue makes contact with your gushing cunt, your confusion is replaced with pure brain-rotting lust. Your head falls back and you bite your lip reveling in the feeling of his warm, wet tongue lapping up all of your arousal that spilled over into his mouth. His eyes squint up at you suspiciously noticing how surprisingly light you felt. He knew you were only hovering over him and he was not satisfied with that. “Properly, yawne.” He says gripping your hips and harshly pulling you down to his face. Your knees give out under you and now your full weight sat on top of him. Loud slurping sounds fill your ears. You look down at Neteyam between your thighs that now caged him in and he was eating you like a starved man. He sucks on your clit and your hips jerk forward on his face. He groans loving the feeling of your folds sliding against his mouth. His hand comes up to slap your ass one quick time. “Ah! Neteyam!” His name rolls off your tongue like a song. His tongue busies itself pushing inside of your dripping hole. You feel like you’re about to lose your mind. You’re dying for more friction when you start to grind your hips down on his face. The tip of his nose bumps and pushes against your clit with every move you make and it’s finally starting to scratch that itch. Your fingers tangle in his hair to steady yourself while you ride his face. Your body leans back as you feel your high about to crash into you. “Ah! Haah! Oh, I’m gonna cum!” A muffled ‘mmmhmm’ is all Neteyam can manage to give you as a response while he happily suffocates in your core.

Your orgasm hits you full force while your hips buck wildly against Neteyam’s mouth. When you finally come down, your body goes still while you still reorganize your scattered brain. Neteyam taps your thigh lightly signaling to you that he finally needs to come up for air. You lift up off his face and his breathing is heavy gazing up at you.

He sits up to look at you. “Neteyam, I—” he cuts off your words when his mouth collides with yours. You can taste yourself in his mouth and it makes your eyes roll. He lays you down on the mat unable to hold himself back anymore. His hands find your ankles and yank them up onto his shoulders. You let out a small squeal that shifts into a moan when he plunges himself into you.

His thrusts are hard and consistent. From this angle, he’s knocking into your cervix just right and making your toes curl.

A deep groan erupts in his chest. “I love you so much. My beautiful mate taking me so well.” You loved it when he praised you and he knew that. There wasn’t a day that went by that Neteyam didn’t praise you about something, no matter how miniscule. It never failed to set your chest on fire.

His pace speeds up and your hands desperately feel around for something to grip to ground you back into reality. You’re about to cum again and from how tight the knot in your core is, you can tell how big it’s about to be. “N-Nete…I-I’m gonna…” you can’t even get the rest of the words out before your nerves all light up at once and your walls squeeze the life out of Neteyam’s dick. He sucks in a sharp breath feeling how tight you are around him and it makes him fill you with his seed. Your legs twitch with all the stimulation your body is receiving and your vision starts to dot.

One of Neteyam’s hands tenderly trails up and down your leg while he places feather-light kisses against your skin. You finally focus your vision on him and he smiles at you.

“Happy Birthday ma love.”

[darthdaddi]

MDNI 18+

More under the cut.

Smutty smutty smut, stepbrother!James, fauxcest, reader is of age, don't like it then don't read it.

Been thinking ab STEPBROTHER!JAMES KELLY recently, like real bad on my mind. How he'd waltz up into your girly room, probably filled with squishmallows or some shit because you love to collect them, or maybe because you actually have some childhood trauma you need to heal.... But one minute you'd just be talkin', maybe about nothing too important like how college was going for you or what's up with your mad collection of stuffed animals. Then next thing you know, your pushed face down into your pretty pink sheets screaming, "Jamie, Jamie, Jamie!!" All whilst kicking your feet in protest to slow down because he's bottomed out in that pretty little pussy and you can't take that much more of it, going too fast. And James would say something along the lines of, "Y'feel too good ...", a little sleazy like, while one hand holds your wrists behind your back, and the other is spreading your ass cheek just so he could look at how well you were taking him. He'd let out a breathy groan in the process, especially seeing how you just sucked him right in. Obviously your body was betraying your words, because that damn little cunt seemed greedy for more. James would be a little mean, he can't help it. It's just too fun to see you all flustered and red over his degradation, "Do you like it that much? Hm? So in need of your big brothers cock, really? No wonder, you probably can't even get it from anyone else." He'd scoff while saying those words, watching how the squishmallows and stuffies toppled over at his weight on the bed, and how he was making the springs squeak due to his pace. James would kinda snicker to himself as he'd watch with an amused smile, all your precious stuffies being scattered about. "Do you think they're traumatized?" He'd inquire, and when you'd look over your shoulder at him confused, he'd palm your head like a basketball and turn it to the side. You'd blush and hide your face into the plush bedspread in embarrassment, that a 19 year old let her stepbrother fuck her in the bed that has held up innocence for the longest time. But you can't say no to your Jamie.

This has been in the drafts, collecting dust forever now 😭 I'm trying to stay a bit consistent and maybe clean some of this out. Still working on an inbox request and I might start writing a little Halloween fic, so stay tuned for that 🤭.

[hitlikehammers]

nowhere without you

rating: t ♥️ cw: post-final battle, hurt/comfort ♥️ tags: established relationship, hurt/comfort, BIG emotions, even BIGGER love, as in: soul-deep love, softness; happy endings always ♥️

for @steddielovemonth day eight: Love is the heartbeat I can feel when I hug him

(also probably the humble love-soaked endlessly-devoted beginnings of the rockstar!husbands in je ne regrette rien)

The weirdest part is how, in the aftermath, Eddie doesn’t speak. Like, at all.

Scratch that: it’s the weirdest and the most concerning part. Eddie makes noise, mostly pained kinda moans that make Steve’s chest clench, ache more the admittedly-decently-deep wounds slowly—but reliably, like, consistently—stitching themselves together, and Steve begs him to get looked at again, because something has to be wrong to cause those kinds of sounds but Eddie doesn’t even shake his head, doesn’t really move at all save that sometimes he trembles, and it’s…

It fucking breaks Steve’s heart.

He’s almost gotten used to stroking Eddie’s hair in silence—so wrong; worthy Eddie that’s just so wrong—and working any tangles out so, much as it’s getting a limp and greasy with days of neglect, at least it’s smooth; but he’s almost resigned to this for the long haul because he’ll weather anything he has to for Eddie and they’ll work through this, whatever this is, they’ll worth through it together and—

“How did you stand you it?”

The sound is more a scratch than anything, glass on sandpaper, and it’s down to Eddie lying where he hasn’t left for the last four, going on five days—as in, not once while Steve’s been awake has he existed without Eddie’s weight situated just so against his chest, sinuous and deliberate in where he presses against, careful as a rule of Steve’s worst injuries and delicate about how he rests against Steve’s body, but not…hesitant.

More, kinda…kinda desperate.

So it’s down to him being pressed so close and sure and unwavering that Steve feels him speak more than anything, matches the motion of his lips against Steve’s gown to words rather than the wind, or something outside his door to the halls of the hospital beyond; it’s down to the tension in the whole of him, the all-too-present shaking that Steve matches the scrape of the question to a hurt that’s…that maybe Steve doesn’t wholly understand just yet, but that really and truly does cut him deeper and closer and more critical at the core of him than the Upside Down ever could have clawed in: Eddie lives in him, nothing else can really…ever hope to be deeper.

“How are you,” Eddie rolls gravel across more words, and Steve’s missed his voice so fucking much, he didn’t realize how much until it’s here again for him to hear and hold but, Jesus fuck, it’s like…it’s like it’s drowning; like Eddie is drowning and then his breath is hitching, and oh, god, that voice is cracking around the edge of a sob, watery and wavering as he damn-near close to begs:

“How did you survive it?”

Steve feels it clench in his ribs, because he thinks he…he thinks he’s putting it together. The strain, the agony in that voice, that voice he loves so fucking much, from this man he loves with everything, but then—the way Eddie presses into him. The force, and the position, and the pattern. The way he’s been quiet, unfailing, but never…never seems distant, seems the opposite: seems focused; intent. The way Dustin had come in and caught him upon the things he’d missed in one of the almost-nonexistent windows where Eddie sleeps, hand lines alongside his sternum and head curled in the most uncomfortable pretzel Steve can imagine, forehead all scrunched and eyes squeezed shut so goddamn hard, looking like any sleep he manages is nothing close to rest by any measure: but Dustin had came in and told him Eddie was the first to him; Eddie ran faster than he’d seen a person run; Eddie’d looked devastated, broken when they’d caught up, and they’d been so afraid, feared the worst, and—

Steve’s starting to fit the pieces together. Maybe.

“No,” Eddie whines, pitchy and fervent and almost ear-splitting, like a wail of sheer gut-wrenching pain that Steve can’t find the reason for in the here and now because it’s just them in a hospital room, they’re okay, and his hand presses heavy, gentle around his wounds still, always gentle and so, so careful and Steve doesn’t know what’s caused the reaction, but then—

Then he can feel his fucking heartbeat for how hard Eddie’s pressing. It’s weird, how it makes him feel…strangely alive, the sensation of it kept and held like that, specifically in Eddie’s hand. And he’s not paying attention to the monitors really, tuned them out as quick as he could but when he listens, okay. Okay, maybe faster than normal, but Steve’s fucking worried, okay, he’s—

“Fuck, no,” Eddie moans and twists his head, no, not just his head, his ear and leans harder into Steve’s chest, his breathing shallow and Steve hates it but he doesn’t know what to do, how to help, what to fix because he’ll fix it if he knows, he’ll climb out of this bed and crawl on the goddamn floors of he has to, but he doesn’t know where to go, what to find, what demon’s left to slay—

“I’m just, I’m grateful you did,” survive, Steve survived…

He survived, like, now?

“But grateful’s such a weak word, it doesn’t,” and Steve takes a breath, and reaches, rests his hand on Eddie’s wrist just to see: his heartbeat’s somuch faster, it’s like a flutter of a flutter felt strong enough to break through skin, it catches in Steve’s heart just to touch—

“You’re so much stronger than I could ever, like,” Eddie’s going on, still breathless and fuck, Steve can see why; “fucking hope to be.”

Shit, but that’s…he wasn’t stronger, fuck, Steve wasn’t stronger than Eddie, Eddie nearly got eaten alive, Steve nearly couldn’t staunch enough of the bleeding, he almost lost—

Eddie keens, horrible and hurting and Steve stills: the monitor. The thundering of his own pulse at the memory.

How did you survive it?

Losing. Almost losing. That’s…that’s what it is.

That’s why Eddie’s pressed against his chest, his his head and his hand have been a fucking frame, goddamn, like, parentheses surrounding Steve’s beating heart, proof of life, Jesus—

“But I need to be,” Eddie’s voice is quiet, but steadier, and his chin dips like a nod to himself; “I need to learn how,” he’s firm with it; “for you.”

Oh, god. Oh…oh Eddie.

“I can’t ever lose you, Steve,” Eddie presses trembling lips to Steve’s chest and then presses close again, so close and oh: he wasn’t just intent where he’s been silent so long.

He was listening.

“Never ever,” he breathes against Steve, hot and damp; almost kinda breathless again, or still: “never ever.”

“Eds,” Steve begins, not even entirely sure where he plans to go, just knows he needs to do something, say something, but Eddie’s turning Steve’s hand in his, where he’d circled Eddie’s wrist; he’s turning it and mirroring the hold, gripping Steve’s wrist in kind.

“I couldn’t find it,” he gasps, and the sound makes the sob clear before Steve feels the wetness soak through to his skin; “I couldn’t feel it at all, you were, it,” he presses his fingers in hard, squeezes so goddamn tight, and Steve can’t…he doesn’t want to imagine what Eddie had to do, what Eddie found and felt, he doesn’t but he can, because he remembers the mirror image so stark, it took him so long because he couldn’t find a pulse either, he’d had to press on Eddie’s heart at the source and even then—

“I couldn’t feel you.”

Oh. Fuck. He—

“Oh, baby,” Steve’s elevated enough at an angle that he can at least kiss Eddie’s hair, barely brush his scalp but it’s enough, for the breath that punches from Eddie against his chest it’s at least something; “that’s…”

“I won’t survive that again, Steve,” Eddie sucks in, unsteady and drenched with tears, with sorrow, but also…also more than anything else, they’re filled up with so much love.

A love big enough to hurt that hard.

“And I can’t…” Eddie gasps, breath catching; “I can’t handle not feeling it,” and his fingers tighten; his hand on Steve’s chest and his cheek across from it press down that extra little bit so Steve knows his own heartbeat in those moments full and deep.

“Have to feel it always,” Eddie whispers like he’s telling himself, and Steve, and Steve’s heart through flesh and bone, some cosmic secret no one else can know: too sacred. Too precious.

“You can feel it any time,” Steve lets his hand fall from Eddie’s to cover the hand Eddie’s got splayed ln his chest, counting time; holds him there almost protectively: “all the time,” and he slips his fingers between Eddie’s and shifts his palm close to the beating, so he can still feel what he needs as he murmurs with his heart literally in Eddie’s hands, with his entire goddamn soul:

“All of me. It’s yours.”

Unshakable fucking fact. He doesn’t even have to will it, or hope for it; his heartbeat knocks that heavier against their hands for those words like it knows.

It knows.

“Don’t leave me,” Eddie bursts out, begging; almost something primal, and Steve can feel the tremoring of his lips where they drag against him; “please. I’ll do anything, I swear it, just don’t—“

“Be you,” Steve braves the whimper that comes from untangling his hand from Eddie so that he can reach for Eddies cheek and cradle him in closer, and oh, fuck, thank god: something in him sighs out and loosens, ever so slightly—finally.

“Everything you are,” Steve presses on, runs his thumb back and forth through Eddie’s drooping curls; “let me love you, past living and dying,” and Eddie’s breath catches, for that, but Steve holds him tighter for it, drowns him as best he’s able in the proof he needs so bad; “don’t leave me,” and Eddie huffs a little for that, like it’s beyond believing, impossible, and Steve smiles to himself for it, tries to lean enough to press the grin to Eddie’s head, hopes he manages as he murmurs there close:

“That’s it, Eddie,” and he lets his fingers spread wider, cradle Eddie all the more: “that’s all I need.”

“That and more baby,” Eddie answers him between the double-beat of his pulse, immediate; “you’re the music and the rhythm,” he nuzzles a little against him, and Steve smiles a little wider for it; “you’re the reason my heart beats,” and Steve finds that heartbeat for himself at Eddie’s jaw, now; a little calmer. Not much. But: something.

It’s a start.

”I don’t have a reason without you,” Eddie exhales, vehement; “I don’t want a reason, without you.”

And Steve should maybe push on it, or be scared by it: but neither seem right, not for this.

Not for them.

Steve just holds Eddie’s pulse under the pressure of his touch, and holds Eddie’s cheek closer still into his chest as he breathes:

“You’re my whole heart, Eds,” and he lets a second pass, and then another, for that heart of Eddie’s to pump evidence unshakable against him, to play the song and rhythm straight into his waiting ear:

“Was never going anywhere without you.”

♥️ ao3 link here

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch

♥️

divider credit here

[einsatzzz]

Oniyanagi 1st Generation Bosses

OCtober Day 4: Under-appreciated OC

Sorry this took a while @social-muffin! Also thank you for your interest in Kana and Kurumi's great-great-great grannies hahaha The questions below are based from Muffin's KHR OC ask post over here 🥰✨

I thought answering the questions for this prompt would work as a way to talk about them, since I barely get to draw/talk abt them vs their 10th gen counterparts. But do not be fooled, they also live in my head rent-free. Whenever I remember them, I start screaming, crying and throwing up. Thank you KHR for having a 1st gen in ur story, its another excuse for us to make another set of twin OCs.

What's your OCs name, pronouns and gender?

(Left, Older Twin) Name: Rinko Ninomiya Pronouns: She/Her Gender/Sex: Female (Gigachad, Alpha Female)

(Right, Younger Twin) Name: Ryuuka Ninomiya Pronouns: Any (People mostly use She/Her due to their clothing) Gender/Sex: Male (Doesn't bother correcting people who see them as Female, like with Kana, I'll mostly use she/her for consistency)

What's their current age and what age do/did they get involved with the khr Canon?

I guess if we were to make a sidestory for them, we'd make the "current" timeline for the story when their age is around 23-24. But the first time they kind of got involved with KHR canon should be around mid-teens, when they met Asari! Then around age 19-20, Rinko should've met Giotto by then.

For comparison, the twins are more or less one year older than Giotto.

What do they look like? Height, weight, unique physical features? (Drawings, Picrews, descriptions, all are welcome! Except AI art lmao)

From this post. Rinko's design here is kinda outdated since we changed her hairstyle to have a ponytail now hehe

Anyway, they both have the exact same height (168cm) and weight (49kg). For any unique physical features, I guess that would be for Ryuuka? She always tries to make it so that she's the same height/weight as her older twin. Even the choice of feminine clothing is because she wants to be perceived to have a feminine appearance like her.

What's your OCs relation to KHR? Are they someone's guardian, friend, subordinate, love interest? Or are they a family member of a canon character? If so, how are they related to that character?

They're both Giotto's close friends! This is the root of where the current Vongola and Oniyanagi's partnership agreement came from in the 10th Gen period. Rinko met Giotto first in a formal social gathering at Italy, through Asari. Rinko had a crush on Giotto at first sight, so naturally(to her), she immediately tried to befriend him like the gigachad that she is.

(fucksdjfhjsdf now I'm remembering that one tik/tok jojo sent me with the "itulak mo ako!"/"push me!", except it's Rinko and she asked Asari to push her to Giotto's direction => so Giotto can catch her lmao hahahaha)

Ryuuka wasn't there at that time since she was in Japan managing family affairs while Rinko was away, but she did eventually get to meet Giotto some time after that. Rinko looked very happy when she came home after all and told her all about the new friends/allies/business partners that she made while in Italy.

In the 1st Gen Vongola Guardians line-up, Ryuuka is also close friends with Asari. While they do spar together, since they're both experts with swords. More often, she also just goes to hang out and listen to him play the flute.

Rinko is also friends with Knuckle, the problem is that she's trying to get him to retire as priest and go back to boxing. So they can be gym junkies together 😭 (please imagine someone trying to convince their who swore off drinking to start drinking again)

What's your OCs flame/flames? If they have multiple, which flame is their strongest?

Both of them have Sky flames!

How does your OC use their flame? Strictly for combat, or more recreationally? Is flame use something instinctive to them, or do they have to direct their flame consciously?

From what me and Sou have right now, they currently just use it during combat. Though even then, they only use it when needed (usually it's not). The use of flames is also instinctive to them too.

Does your OC have a mafia family they are a part of? If so, what's their position in that Familia?

They're both the boss of the Oniyanagi yakuza family! Though the one seen more in public is Rinko, since she's the one mostly in the frontline of both battles and networking opportunities. On the other hand, Ryuuka is often locked up in her lab and handles various matters behind the scenes.

If your OC was a civillain what would their job be? Would they be happy with that job? Would they be good at it?

I'm thinking of modern times jobs right now so it's more fun hehe

Rinko would be a gym instructor that also runs a travel vlog channel! She love working out so much (it's insane) and has a wander lust as well. She'd be very good at both and would be very popular for it. She's also a great cook, the only catch is that she adds protein in almost all of her dishes.

Ryuuka is already a scientist herself. But she'd very much be a full time scientist as a civilian, particularly in the field of Biotechnology. She'd be a renowned expert in her industry, just don't let Umbre//lla Corp hire her (yes, this is a RE reference). She'd also be one of Geppetto Lorenzini's biggest fans in a gatekeeping type of way.

Do you have a voice actor picked out for your OC? If yes, why did you pick this voice actor? (If someone talked with your oc, what would they notice about their voice?)

Rinko's voice claim is Ami Koshimizu, while Ryuuka's voice claim is Kana Hanazawa!

Sou and I had twin OCs in Hai//kyuu before with these voice claims, so we just thought to reuse them. We listened to some of their roles and confirmed that these would still fit!

Last question! What's your OCs current fashion style? And what's their dream style? Are they close?

Rinko used to wear kimono or yukata, but ever since she started travelling to more western countries, she started to have a preference for western style clothing as well, so she wears suits and dresses in those styles.

Mostly when at work, Ryuuka just wears a white lab coat with a black turtleneck dress underneath. Though when just chilling at home or on rest days, she wears a black yukata and a white haori. She doesn't really have a dream style, since fashion isn't on her priority list.

That's all for now, hope you enjoyed reading about them! 🥰💖✨

[codenamesazanka]

Went back to reread the last bits of Jaku Arc and all of endgame. Here are some long notes (first part):

-> Chapter 295 is the best chapter of 'Deku Wanting To Save Shigaraki'. Sadly it is also just about the only chapter where Deku explicitly states he wants to save Shigaraki (the adult Villain) from AFO, from his hatred.

Deku: "You killed so many of us! And hurt countless others. That is unforgivable. It's unforgivable… and yet… back there… when you got swallowed up by All For One… At that moment… the look on your face… You look like you needed saving!"

Deku is talking about someone who just forced his teacher to mutilate himself, punched a hole through a mentor's chest, and stabbed his childhood friend. Deku was livid about these actions. And yet, when he saw the horror show that is AFO being a flesh parasite to Shigaraki, Deku was concerned. And moreover, the expression Shigaraki had on was angry, glaring, but still Deku wanted to save him.

-> Unfortunately this gets recontextualized - for the worse - in Chapter 305. Chapter 305 - the "I want to save that little boy!" chapter - is actually a mess.

-> In Chapter 305, Nana asks Deku if he has the resolve to kill Shigaraki Tomura.

Nana: You looked at him, and saw someone who looked like he needed saving. That's what you thought. We know that much because we're in sync with your emotions. Banjo: The issue is... He sure didn't look that way to us! No doubt he's suffering, what with All For One taking over his meatsuit... but that's doesn't mean the kid is hoping to be saved. Even in a sitch like that… his eyes were filled with nothing but hatred.

So here is the Vestiges basically arguing against saving Shigaraki because of the way he looked and behaved. They acknowledge that he's in pain; they acknowledge that he's in trouble with All For One (their mortal enemy!)... but he doesn't look like a proper victim, so does he actually need saving? Plus he has the potential to grow into THE ULTIMATE EVIL. Plus there are people in this world who are just beyond saving. So does Shigaraki Tomura actually need saving?

IMO, this is when Deku should argue back that, yes, Shigaraki still needs saving, simply because of the situation he's in, simply because he's suffering. Stay consistent with what Deku said just ten chapters ago. Shigaraki is awful, but he needed saving. Shigaraki has done unforgivable things, but he's still getting swallowed up by AFO, and needs saving. Shigaraki is wallowing in nihilistic rage, and (probably) therefore he needs saving. "No matter what kind of trouble someone's in," [Chapter 126] Deku wants to save everyone with a smile. He sees someone that on the surface does not appear to deserve saving - that other people are dismissing! - but he still wants to save. This would be the much stronger conviction and have much more weight to his goal of becoming the greatest Hero!

But no. It turns out, there was actually a Crying Child inside all that rage. Deku was able to look inside and see and feel a five-year-old who was full of sadness. Well, who doesn't want to save a sad five-year-old? You kinda have to!

-> Plus, this revelation of the crying child immediately makes Nana clam up and look guilty and devastated. All her previous points about THE ULTIMATE EVIL and 'people who are beyond saving' loses water because... you can't say that about a five-year-old. You probably shouldn't say that about someone who still holds an inner crying child inside of them. So this issue is immediately ditched two pages after it's brought up. Shigaraki is sad, deep down, so he's not evil or beyond saving. Therefore he deserves to be saved.

-> With this, Deku draws a nice little line in the sand to decide who should be saved: Not everyone, evidently. And it does matter what kind of trouble they're in (so maybe they deserve to continue suffering). This becomes very evident later when Deku re-encounters Muscular and Overhaul. And I feel it reached its logical conclusion when Deku can save little ghost Tenko's heart, but has no solution to Adult Villain Shigaraki and ultimately contributes to his death.

-> Yoichi also takes time this chapter to respond to Banjo's comment that Shigaraki was full of nothing but hatred by pointing out that this was how Shigaraki was groomed.

Yoichi: That's how he was groomed. My brother's own damaged body now holds him back… So it's likely… that he schemed to hijack the boy's body and soul… As part of a grand plan to acquire One For All.

However, no one reacts to this. Not the vestiges, not Deku. Yoichi is straight up telling everyone that, hey, Shigaraki Tomura here is a clear pawn in AFO's schemes. Groomed to hate, and now having his body and soul hijacked, all for the sole purpose of stealing OFA. A clear victim...

But never mind, I guess. Why care about this blood-and-flesh guy who's survived being manipulated as a child to reach adulthood only to get possessed ("No doubt he's suffering, what with All For One taking over his meatsuit") in real time and in reality and saving him from just that? We gotta focus on the ghost of the Crying Child!

-> This is where I think the Viz translation doesn't quite work out - In the original Japanese, Yoichi says 'raised', with emphasis. This conveys and highlights the meaning that Shigaraki was not brought up properly, was manipulated in some way, but otherwise it's a relatively neutral word. In English, it's 'groomed', which everyone loves quoting, but that's a much more charged word, with the added connotation of Shigaraki never having had any agency. It is a word that makes everyone look real bad when they don't react to it. Like here.

-> When asked again by Nana if he has the resolve to kill Shigaraki, Deku reflects on his previous enemies.

Deku: Up till now, I've come up against all types. They've refused to back down... so fighting was the only way to stop them. But... I never understood what made them turn out that way. If I had, maybe things would've worked out differently. Or, who knows? Maybe I still would've had to fight them anyway.

Bolded is mine. My opinion, but this is wishy-washy-ness of the highest magntitude. This isn't Deku getting an enlightenment and from this moment on deciding to start approaching Villains differently. This is him casually considering a 'maybe'. This is him recognizing that there's a blindspot in his fights thus far... but unable to envision a future where he can correct that blindspot. Maybe things might have worked out differently... maybe not. Fighting is still on the table.

On it's own, it's fine. Deku's just thinking about his previous fights. He's musing about 'what if's. But this is him thinking as a response to Nana asking him to kill Shigaraki if Shigaraki proves unsaveable. This is him laying out the groundwork for his approach to Shigaraki. "Maybe if I understand him and try to save him, I can stop him that way... or maybe yeah, I still have to fight (kill) him."

-> And finally, we have The Declaration. I Want To Save That Little Boy. I am sorry to inform you that if you look at the context surrounding the sentence, it's not actually about saving Shigaraki/That Little Boy.

Deku: Shigaraki killed so many people. He's hurt people near and dear to me. And yet!! One For All is a power meant for saving, not killing. All Might taught me that. And not just me. All Might... and all of you who've built up this power... have given hope to countless people out there. I get that this power was first meant to destroy that evil. But you've all given your lives to link the chain this far... and I think there's another big purpose behind it all! Maybe there's no other way besides killing. And I dunno what I'm going to do when the time comes... But I want to save... that little boy.

Let's break it down.

"Shigaraki killed so many people. He's hurt people near and dear to me. And yet!! One For All is a power meant for saving, not killing." - Already the focus is taken away from saving Shigaraki. The focus is on OFA as a power. OFA saves - therefore, the implication is that it can be used to save Shigaraki. The implication is all we get.

It's also not that Shigaraki shouldn't be killed - and Deku brings up Shigaraki's crimes so he clearly thinks they're relevant to whatever his unspoken judgment of Shigaraki is - it's that OFA is a power that shouldn't be used for killing.

We of course then get stuff about All Might, because Deku cannot shut up about All Might. But once again, the focus is on OFA and All Might, and how they inspires other people. How they give other people hope. Does it give Shigaraki hope? No - as Deku should well know from their Mall Talk. I think this counts as failure number one in trying to understand Shigaraki, and Deku hasn't even officially started yet.

"I think there's another big purpose behind it all! Maybe there's no other way besides killing." Sadly, despite what I think we as a fandom has gaslit ourselves into thinking, killing is still on the table. Had been from the start. Deku believes that saving is also what OFA is now meant for... but he doesn't commit to it. He keeps killing as a possibility, instead of getting rid of it completely.

"And I dunno what I'm going to do when the time comes..." Deku never gets a plan. He says this in Chapter 305, and still has no plan in Chapter 417. Without a plan to ensure saving Shigaraki is a successful, of course killing is on the table.

Then after all that, finally, Deku says he wants to Save That Little Boy. That's the line we were all fixated on, because that's what matters to us. As it turns out, what Deku was fixated on was all the stuff before this line.

Overall, the gist seems to be: OFA is a power that's meant for saving, and that concept has given inspiration to Deku and many people out there. This power has evolved to be about saving... and that's why he wants to save that little boy.

(BUT maybe there's no other way besides killing)

(Deku also has no idea what to do when the time comes.)

So this part of Deku's speech, leading up to The Declaration? Not about the victim. It's not about Shigaraki and saving him from AFO. It's not even really about The Crying Child and his exact circumstances. It's about the abstract idea of saving - and propping up OFA and All Might.

-> Cheap blow but it is notable that Deku says "I want to save that little boy" and not "I will save that little boy". Where's your stubborn shonen determination, kid?

-> Also extremely hilarious in hindsight when you realize OFA ends up still being something that destroys AFO. And something that lead to Shigaraki's death. So much for being a power that saves.

-> Chapter 305, overall:

Deku never actually says 'No' to the possibility of killing Shigaraki.

Shigaraki Tomura is acknowledged explicitly to be suffering from AFO possession, but the idea of saving him is disregarded in favor of That Sad Little Boy.

And we're not actually here to save the victim - we're here because OFA is So Cool.

Off to a great start.

[chipped-chimera]

Aquarium update - I have a Betta again! Got kind of burned last time so I travelled wayyyyy north from where I am to get her, along with some cories. It's been about two weeks since, judging my water changes (do about 25% a week, not because the water needs it but more because any longer and my filter gets gummed up) and she's been doing really well. She's changing rapidly, but she was very juvenile when I got her (like literally only a bit bigger than some of my green neons which max out at 3cm) which I expected, since marble gene. The contrast of a few weeks though is kinda nuts.

Not quite named yet, since honestly I was so burned from last time (RIP fish Karlach 😔) that I've been hesitant to name her or even share anything about her online. Also because I literally have no idea how she's gonna look in a few weeks as she matures.

I was thinking maybe Arita or Imari since her patterning reminds me of Asagi Koi and Imari-Arita Ware ceramics? Leaning towards Arita since it sounds a bit 'sassier' I guess (idk, vibes) and she definitely is that. I'll take suggestions though!

Anyway more fish rambling below -

Honestly I was so hesitant to get her, but I was already putting in replacement Cories after a mystery disease decimated my Corydora population, leaving my admittedly kind-of-fat female Three Lined solo. Whatever contagion was in the tank is either gone or dormant (since a lot of fish disease I know is entirely reliant on how stressed a fish is - they can still be a carrier but completely fine) after basically doing every treatment I had at my disposal. I think it was a mix of parasitic and bacterial, maybe fungal? Hard to target given all my tank tests consistently returned a big fat 0ppm for all the bad shit. My tank is about as clean as it gets - I only change about 25% weekly and that's more to clean sludge out of the filter, it never really needs it. Admittedly some of the deaths I contributed to because I wasn't aware how much my tank PH had changed over the months (test your PH regularly guys), apparently the huge chunks of wood have exhausted all their tannins cause I've gone from acidic to more basic. It seems to be holding about 7.8, apparently related to the Seiryu stone in there. Basically water changes caused the PH to flux to much, contributing to stress for the Cories. Yeah I feel bad but I'm also not blaming myself since a. Literally first tank b. I am learning the fish hobby is really annoying for consistent information. Like literally information that doesn't contradict itself half the time. A lot of that is the reason why I've been slowed down in figuring out what is going wrong and that ultimately has resulted in a lot of loss.

Important part though is everyone seems to be doing fine, and I've learned enough now to maybe recognise stuff a lot faster. One of the Pandas, after my first water change developed a big fungal streak down it's body (I'm guessing it scuffed itself in a panic somewhere) but had that treated easily within about 3 days with just Pimafix. No seriously, they're doing well. Well enough they apparently spawned? Saw the betta striking some mystery thing on the glass. I thought it was a freshwater limpet (they've been in there, just haven't seen them in a while) and realised no, actually an egg. Not opposed to this since I'm pretty close to stocking limit (at least in a regular, unplanted tank) so I'm down for the population control.

Betta really is a little predator though. She's honestly weird for a Betta in that she doesn't show interest in food. At all. She might nibble at a fallen bit but couldn't care less about anything I put on the surface or during feeding time. Been monitoring her weight, and she's definitely not underweight. Guess I have enough random critters in my tank (Planaria, about a million scuds since my last-ditch effort treatment to save a Cory decimated my shrimp population. I lost my favourite orange/red shrimp too 😭) to sustain her? Worry is of course I need to re-establish more shrimp. There are some left but nowhere NEAR what I had before. I've seen her chase a few who appear, she definitely has them on alert but they tend to be too big for her anyway. And too fast. Juveniles though ....

I do have a HUGE amount of hiding places for new, young shrimp (just moss. So much moss) but I think I'll maybe raise them in a netted isolation box until they're big enough that she's no longer a threat maybe? Idk. That or I get technically-not-allowed Cherry Shrimp from someone local, since they tend to be adults. Juveniles are kind of my only option at my local store.

Anyway that's the ramble!

[mochiwrites]

Aaaa thank you sorry this is going to be super long but I just had this really amazing terrible angst idea thing with vampires and so i wrote it out and i think it gets across what I want it to? The more i look over it the more it feels like a vent lmao

So uh. Here. Contains blood, kinda sh thoughts, and self worth issues! No happy endings allowed!

The worst part of the late nights was how they never seemed to pay off. Grian rubbed a hand against his eye, trying to keep the lines on the page in front of him from blurring. On his way to grab a red pen for notes, his fingers brushed against the chain holding his red crystal pendant around his neck, and he paused to look over at the vampire in the chair across from him. The light from the fireplace gave him a slightly ethereal look— the low light hid the circles that Grian knew lay under his eyes, and his usual pallor was draped in a warm orange glow. His eyes caught on Grian’s, who quickly straightened the smile that had crept onto his face, hoping the dim light would mask the warmth across his ears and cheeks.

“Grian? Something wrong?”

Grian blinked a few times. The lack of sleep must have been getting to him. “No. No, nothing.” He turned his eyes back to the papers, ignoring how they stung in protest. He had to get something done tonight, it couldn’t all be for nothing, not like the cave, not like the shack. Useless.

“Actually, could you check this out? I think I need a second pair of eyes…” Mumbo muttered. Grian shot to his side as quickly as his heavy bones would allow. If he could do anything to help, anything at all—

He overcompensated for the distance between their chairs, toppling them both onto the ground. Grian scrambled off of him, apologizing profusely at the mess of papers now scattered on the ground. Mumbo shook himself off, face a little darker than before. “No, I’m fine. Are you doing alright? You look…” he brought a hand to Grian’s face, running a thumb under his eye. “…not great,” he finished.

Grian unconsciously pushed his face further into Mumbo’s hand. “I’m fine. I’m—“ he went to take a step back, save himself from Mumbo’s scrutiny, but his knee refused to support his weight. Mumbo shot an arm out to catch him, supporting Grian’s weight against his body. Grian flung his arms around his neck in panic, relaxing his grip to his shoulders as Mumbo’s hand, the one not at his face, pressed firmly against the small of his back. Grian noted the way they were flush against each other, how he could feel Mumbo’s chest move with each breath, in and out a little faster than it normally did. He understood why; he wasn’t particularly light, and Mumbo was basically carrying him at this point. Dead weight again, in a close-to-literal way.

When Mumbo spoke again, it was soft, tentative. “Grian, you can’t carry on like this. You need sleep.”

“I can’t just sit around doing nothing. Far as I can tell we haven’t found the murderer yet, I’m of no use unconscious.”

“Well, you’re certainly not going to be of any use to us if you’re dead.”

“You’ve been sleeping less than me. That’s not fair.”

“I’m a vampire, Grian. I don’t need to sleep as much as you. I’ll take a rest too, if you want, I don’t think I can get much more done today.”

“That’s— I can’t, Mumbo, why won’t you let me—“

While Grian’s voice had been steadily rising in pitch and volume, Mumbo’s stayed soothingly consistent. “Because I care about you. Because I—“ his eyes darted across Grian’s face for a moment; Grian felt the hand on his cheek shift to his jaw, thumb below his lip, pinky brushing his pulse. Mumbo took one shuddering breath before their lips connected. After only a moment— far too short— Mumbo pulled away, frantically searching Grian’s face for some kind of reaction. Grian didn’t give him the chance to figure it out, chasing his lips, his hand moving from Mumbo’s shoulder to catch in his hair. Mumbo startled before kissing back, clearly just as impatient as Grian was. How long had they both wanted this?

Still, something nagged at him, rang in his ears. Useless. He couldn’t convince himself that he deserved any of this. Why these long nights, the nightmares everything they had suffered, was it really just to kiss his best friend in a pile of their hard work?

The worst part was, he knew Mumbo was right. He couldn’t go on like this. If only there was something he could do, some way to keep going. More energy. An idea struck him— it was a bad idea, but it was the only one he had. He couldn’t do any more, but Mumbo could. All he needed was a little blood. That was something Grian could do. After all, he wasn’t using it for anything.

He broke from the kiss for a moment, long enough to whisper an apology, before rising to meet his mouth once again, this time driving pointed teeth into his lower lip. He tried to suppress a grimace at the odd feeling of blood leaving his face, knowing Mumbo’s fangs anchoring his mouth in place would make any kind of expression painful. It would have been better to get an artery, he knew, but this was the best way he could think of, the best way to put his worthless blood to use. Maybe he could have just cut open a wrist, maybe the smell could be enough, but then again, maybe Mumbo would see it coming and throw him out. He shuddered at the thought, pulling Mumbo closer against him, feeling teeth push deeper into his lip. Ah, and Mumbo had told him it didn’t work that way, didn’t he? So this really was the best way. Hands curled around his face, thumbs gently maneuvering the fangs from his mouth, painstakingly detangling him from this mess he had started. Cool, fresh air flooded the new space between them, and clarity hit him like a freight train.

What was he doing? Did he seriously consider slitting his wrist just to force his best friend into something he very obviously did not want to do? He forced himself to make eye contact with Mumbo, dark eyes meeting red ones, blown wide in shock. Hands dropped from his face, and he crumpled to the ground without Mumbo’s support. The vampire took one step back, another, then he was running. Grian didn’t get up. He wasn’t sure if he could. A bit of blood welled up on his lip, dripping unceremoniously onto the paper-strewn carpet.

Ah the italics didn’t transfer. Thats ok. You can imagine. Love you mochi!!!

🦕

NONNIE. NONNIE PLEASE COME BACK. PLEASE. IM EXPLODING INTO A MILLION PIECES WHAT DO YOU MEAN MUMBO RAN OFF AND GRIAN JUST SAT THERE I /POS /POS /POS

I’m so. Okay. Okay okay okay. I am in love with this. like I can 100% see this unfolding in songbird. grian and mumbo feel SO spot on. like sb!grian would absolutely try and trick mumbo into drinking his blood through a kiss if it meant it helped him out. I’m so. MMMMMMMMMMMM

I love this. I love seeing a potential route of “hey this could lead to their kiss or a confession” I am in LOVE. I love them,,, and I adore how gentle mumbo was and grian’s stubbornness and MWAH. this is so lovely oh my goodness

wahhhh thank you 🥹💕 and if you ever want to write a part two please feel free omg

[wosowrites]

All Tatted Up (Jessie Fleming x Reader)

Warnings: ⚠️trauma mentions⚠️

A/N: also for the sake of this story, Ann-Kat has retired. Also I love Z but she’s still the second keeper to make the story work. This is my fav fic i’ve ever written btw. and it’s based off this request:

Prompt: reader is a hard faced, tatted up goalkeeper who has a soft spot for Jessie.

You had always loved tattoos. Mapi León had gotten you into them when you were 18. You met her during your first cap for Spain, at 16, and when you were of age, and wanting tattoos, she was the woman to go to. Ever since then, you were constantly getting tattooed, it was therapy, it was healing, it was art.

You played for Barcelona for 6 years, playing for your home town was a dream. You were Barca’s starting keeper, and had 20 clean sheets in one season. You were a spanish legend. That’s why it came to everyone as a shock when you announced you were moving to London to be Chelsea’s first keeper. In reality, only a few people knew why you were leaving. Those people were your best friends, your spanish teammates, Mapi and Alexia.

The past 6 years playing for barcelona were everything, but living in barcelona, living in the town that homed your trauma, it was too hard. The girls understood, they even called Ona to tell them to keep an eye on you, even though they would never admit to you they had. You were always insistent that you could take care of yourself. And hell, you could. You were a brick wall, 6 foot tall, tatted up, jacked goalkeeper. But you were all bark no bite. Inside, behind the hours at the weight room, the tattoos, and the fierce on field personality, you were a god damn angel. You loved the beach and butterflies, and you always woke up at 5:00 am because you loved waking up with the sun.

It left fans confused, the hard, frowning, yelling on field personality was the opposite of the girl that would post sunrise pictures every morning.

But that was you. Your hard surface was practically unbreakable. It had taken your spanish teammates years to get to the root of you, that’s why it caught you so off guard when a certain freckled midfielder broke those walls in a month, it left you off guard how within a month of knowing her, you felt as though you wanted to protect her from the world.

I guess that’s just what Jessie Fleming did to you.

———

Today marked two months since you had joined Chelsea, and today was a big game. Manchester United v Chelsea. You were ready though. You did your game day ritual which consisted of not talking to anybody… yeah. That was it. Your teammates all respected that, and they respected you. They were the best people in the world, it was as though they knew that you had things beyond the surface, and they never judged you.

You walked into the tunnel, knowing you would be walking out after Magda, the captain. Ona was standing there behind her own keeper, Mary Earps.

"Y/n/n!" Ona squealed when she saw you. "¡Oye! hace tanto que te extraño! (Hey, Ona! it’s been so long, i’ve missed you )." You said in spanish, hugging the shorter girls. "Yo también chica, buena suerte hoy! mis compañeros de equipo te tienen un poco de miedo. ( me too girl, good luck today! my teammates are kinda scared of you." Ona joked.

You laughed, hugging her one more time before taking your spot in the line. It was only you from the Chelsea squad that was in the tunnel, but you liked being the first one out of the changing room. Oh, another thing about you, was that you were yet to have more than one goal scored against you in a game for Chelsea.

"That’s Ona Batlle, right?" a voice said behind you. You turned around to see Jessie standing there, basically looking up at you. You blushed bring red, not knowing why. "Um- yeah. We play for spain together." You said, feeling Ona’s eyes burning into your head. "I know. I’ve watched you before on TV playing for Spain." Jessie said. "Really? Me too. The gold medal game. And… others." You were talking shakily, she had that effect on you. The rest of the team started walking into the tunnel so Jessie smiled at you and quickly took her spot in the line. "Eres roja brillante ( you are bright red )," Ona giggled. "Callate! (shut up)" You said a bit loudly.

Most of the United players flinched.

It was the 70th minute in the game and the score was 1-0 to Chelsea. It was then that somehow, Alessia Russo got a breakaway. Kadeisha Buchanan was fast, and reached the blonde striker when she was in the box. You were ready to save the shot, but Kadeisha clipped the ball away, hitting her ankles first. Russo went tumbling to the ground, staying down a bit as Kadeisha tries to defend herself. But the ref wouldn’t hear it and awarded a penalty. She apologized to you but you brushed her off. "It’s no biggy, it happens. Just get ready for the rebound." You told her, placing yourself on the line. The referee came over to you, explaining to you the rules. "Respectfully i’ve been a keeper for 17 years, I know how to do this ref." You told her. Both teams giggled a bit, orher than Alessia, her face was stone cold, knowing she needed to score. The referee shrugged and walked away.

You extended your arms, jumping from side to side and playing mind games with Alessia. The referee blew her whistle, Alessia ran up quickly and hit the ball hard. You faked left right before she shot, making her shoot right. But you shifted your weight and got the tip of your fingers on the ball right as it was about to go into the net. The ball got pushed out and Magda was quick to clear it out. "FUCK YEAH!" You yelled loudly, pumping your fist in the air and getting hugs and claps on the back from all of your teammates. Jessie smiled at you, hugging your side before taking her spot again for a corner.

Millie took it, and it was perfect. It went right to Ella Toone, who jumped up in the air and headed it. As she did, you saw someone in blue jump as well, beside Ella. You saw her fall to the ground with a small scream, holding her head. You also saw the ball coming directly to the top left corner. You had to choose the ball. You jumped up, diving and caught the ball, falling to the ground and holding it to your chest. But the ball in your hands was long forgotten as you saw Jessie lying in the box, holding her head. You rushed over to her, the ball under your arm. You saw Ella leaning over her, but you pushed her away. "Hey get away from her." You basically growled. Ella did, she walked backwards towards her team. "Fucking scary she is." She mumbled.

Indeed, when you got protective, it was better for everyone to stay away. Ona knew that well, having been on the ground with you wanting to protect her more than once, so she made sure her manchester teammates stayed away. But she sensed that you were protecting Jessie in a different way. In a less sisterly way.

"Hey there, Jess." You said, gently pulling down her shirt and rubbing your gloved hand up and down her back. "Hey. Did she score?" Jess groaned, rolling over on her back. "Come on now. I’m in net. Of course she didn’t." You joked. "Of course." She laughed.

You pulled her hand off her head gently. Her head was bleeding a fair bit. "Where the hell are the medics?" You asked, looking around. "They went in the tunnel with Erin." Jessie groaned. It was true, they had gone in because Erin had taken a bad hit. "Okay then, sit up, we don’t want blood all over your hair." You said, seeing that Magda was trying to tell Emma to get the medics. You didn’t know what to do, she was bleeding a lot of she really needed pressure. "Okay, Jess. I’m gonna give you my shirt. This is so damn stupid." You mumbled. You slipped off your shirt quickly, pressing it to Jessie’s head who laughed. "I didn’t know what to do! Oh there are the medics." You said, standing up in your under shirt. As the keeper, you always wore a shirt under your jersey to avoid burns. "What the hell took you guys so long?" You asked, your voice carrying through the small stadium. The medics apologized quickly, earning nothing but an eye roll from you. "Hey, Sam? Can you get me another jersey?" You asked the striker who nodded and jogged over to Emma. You kneeled back down beside Jessie who now had a towel to her head. "Now that i’m thinking about it, maybe my dirty jersey wasn’t the best thing to put to your cut." You told her. Jessie laughed. "It’s okay. It smelt like you." She said, blushing immediately. "Hmm. Like me or like sweat?" You joked. "Like you." She answered.

The medic was now taping her head. "You’re going to take her off on concussion watch right?" You asked. "Yeah. Of course." The man answered quickly, not making any kind of eye contact with you. "No. Really i’m fine." Jessie tried to say. "If you play then I can’t play because i’ll be too worried about you. Go off the field, the games almost over. I’ll see you after, okay?" You told her. "Okay."

The medics tried to help her up but you ushered them off, helping her yourself. Kingsmeadow clapped loudly and you kissed her forehead quickly. Jessie walked off the field with the medics and your now blood stained jersey. Sam was now back with a fresh one which she handed to you. If it was anyone else, Sam would have teased you for how protective you were being of the freckled canadian, but she thought that for her own safety, maybe that wasn’t a good idea.

There were 9 minutes of added time, in which manchester fought hard, tiring you immensely. But the Blues managed to pull off the win. You were quick to high five your own players and the manchester players. Ella went nowhere near you, obviously avoiding you. But you didn’t care. You clapped at the fans quickly and then hurried into the tunnel and towards the medical room. You knocked on the door, opening it slightly. "You decent?" You asked. "Come on, y/n, i don’t need to be naked for a head injury. "Well you should change your jersey, Jess. It’s all blood stained." You said, walking up to her and pointing out the blood on her Jersey. "Oh shit. Yeah I forgot." She said. "I’ll get you one. But how’s your head?" You asked. "It’s okay. A small concussion and they’re gonna give me stitches once the bleeding stops." Jessie smiled. "Okay good. So I don’t need to kill Ella Toone?" You said, opening the door to go get her jersey. "No. She may live." Jess answered.

You quickly walked to the changing room, the team was still out on the field. You went to Jessie’s cubby to notice she only had her puffy coat and no jacket. It was too warm inside for a puffy jacket, so you rolled your eyes and grabbed your own jacket. The one with the number 1 on it. You walked back towards the room and opened the door. "So for some reason you didn’t bring your jacket, you only had your puffy coat, you weirdo." You told her, tossing her your zip up track jacket. "I know, I was in a rush this morning and I forgot it." She said, holding it. "This is yours though." She said, passing her finger over the number 1. "I know. My jersey isn’t bloody though." You said. "True." You guys held eye contact for a while before you broke it by turning around for her to change. "Thanks." She said.

You heard ruffling behind you and then it stopped. "You can turn around now." Jessie said. You turned around to see she hasn’t put on the track jacket. Your breath hitched. "Jess, what are you-?" You started saying. "Come here." She said, you started hearing people pouring into the tunnel. "Put the jacket on, Jess.” You said. "I don’t mind you seeing me like this." She said. "I don’t either. I don’t want the others to walk in and see you like this." You answered, walking towards her. "They’ve already seen me-"

"It’s different." You answered. Jessie slipped on the track jacket and you zipped it up for her slowly. Looking down at her body disappearing as the jacket zipped. Just then, the door opened. "Hey, you all good, Jess?" Niahm asked, poking her head through the door. "Yeah. All good. Give us a minute?" Jessie said.

Niahm looked between you both but nodded and walked out. You turned to Jessie, looking at her, your bodies close even though she was sitting down. You wanted her. You wanted her lips on yours so badly it almost hurt. So you gave in. You leaned down, pushing her chin up to give you full access to her lips. And you kissed her sweetly, and gently.

Eventually, you pulled away and walked towards the door. "I’ll see you later, J." You said.

Jessie nodded, a wide smile on her face.

A/N: I know ppl are gonna ask for a part 2 so I got you guys ;)

[clus444]

RealityStar! Gaz Part 3

Open The Chat Rooms

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"Hello everyone! I'm your host, Sativa, and I'm here to test certain theories about love. The contestants will blindly choose their 'Their Forever Partner' and be put through challenges so we can find out how forever their partners are gonna be," Sativa says cheekily. "Sometimes we put what we call 'spies' in the game that no one knows about. Their job is to act like their here for love but its to test limits. More will be explained later as I want to get this show on the road. My final question to the contestants is, are you ready?" The screen turns black and I stare at it waiting for something else to happen.

The words ' Start dating' appear with a loading bar under it. The room is nicely decorated with a beach theme to it. The walls are a nice blue color with a accent wall painted to resemble a beach. They put nice black couch in the wobble with beach themed pillows. Quotes about not giving up taped on the wall. One camera not so secretly placed in the top corner of the room.

The bar finishes loading and 12 profiles pop up. I accept 4 chats and I start three with a simple,

R-Heyyy

Everyone was told no names in case recognition happened. Especially since some have made it known they were on the show. One of the chats consisted of talking about sports only, one treated it as a sex thing kinda and I immediately left, and the others were downright boringgg!

How hard is it to have a normal conversation? Though I can't completely blame them. Dating for me hasn't been lucky and I think I find myself carrying that onto here. But hell can you blame me? Rome wasn't built in a day.

I decide to click on one more before finishing for the day. Clearing my mind and coming at this with as much positive energy as I can.

R- Your profile says that you are from Great Britain

Is the food as bad as they say?

G-Though I love my country,God bless the queen (She's alive right now,I have my reasons), the food does have its faults compared to America

R- Are you trying to say it is better than any other place?!?

G-I said we had some faults... We have some delicacies

R- Can you even count chicken masala...

G- I'll have you know that degradation is my kink

I laugh out loud at that. I guess I kinda did go in hard.

R- Looks like we have something in common.

We began texting back and forth the conversation flowing smoothly. I catch myself giggling and twirling my hair. We talk about movies and of course land on the argument of rose and jack. He could've fit!

G- Yes the door was big enough but! Weight would weigh them down.

R- Puh-Lease! She could have given him her life jacket to help cover him for the cold.

We talk about each others families. His father was enlisted in the army but now spends his days in the wilderness to get his hands dirty. His mom stayed at home to care for him and his sisters. I told him about how my father died which left me and my mother. I only have one sister.

R- My father passed when I was young so I don't have many memories with him.

G- Daddy issues go crazy for the both of us.

Though my father is here, we weren't always close. We are now repairing our relationship.

I also found him to be very funny and quite sassy! His quick comebacks had me dying on the floor. I'm sure the viewers will have a field day with our messages.

*Buzzt*

A buzz happens and lets us know that we have to stop chatting.

G- I'll text you tomorrow. Tell your other dudes I'm first in line.

I smile as I reread his text. I fist bump the air as I start to feel like this wasn't a complete failure. Maybe love is in my cards or maybe I'm being naive and desperate. I'm not quite sure but what I do know is that if this doesn't work out, Hot Girl Summer will!

Kyle receives a small message that says...

S- Feel free to make a confessional. Just grab the camera under the couch and set it where to computer is.

He thinks for a moment weighing his options. He grabs the camera and sets it up. How should I start?

"I'm Kyle Garrick but everyone calls me Garrick. So far I've talked to 8 people. Only two really catch my eye but I have my doubts about this whole thing," He pauses and laughs.

"For some reason, I can't shake the feeling that none of this is real. What can I say? Stacey and I share a similar military family background. And the other one just seems crazy. But I will admit how interested I am to see how this plays out," He finishes talking and signs out.

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Giving you all some more plot but I cant lie and say I wanna skip some parts. Anyways hope you enjoyed!!!

Masterlist

[deadgirlwalking91]

So, I recently completed tyftv (in only two days)! It’s ALL fantastic. I do think it’s especially impressive how well you write Adam. What we see of him in season one left things about his deeper characterization heavily up to interpretation. In the show, I would possibly argue that Lute’s characterization is more clear and concrete than Adam’s. Yet, every line you’ve written for him is believable and seamless with what we know about him. In canon, we may never know if Adam was Just A Dick™️ or if there was more going on with him. But you’ve taken his character, kept him consistent, and elaborated on him all without making him out of character. Could you talk a little about your thought process when writing him? Like, what made it difficult, what made it fun, etc? I’m really curious! ❤️

Hey Anon!

Thank you so much 🥹 that's so kind, and I'm really glad to hear that you enjoyed TYFTV! And that feedback on Adam... that's just made my day, really. Thank you ❤️ and these kinds of questions are so much fun to answer, so I appreciate you sending it in! Warning, this is long af, so answer under the cut.

So, full disclosure—I found Adam really tricky to write at first. Canonically, all we got was this loudmouth, quick-tempered, genocidal fratboy who, in his dying moments, showed a glimpse of softness.

That's kiiiiinda it.

Which, in a way, was a bit of a blessing because I could take his character and go wherever I wanted with him. What I was worried about though, was turning him into a caricature of what we saw in the show, because honestly, that would be something I'd personally find really cringy to read, so I didn't want to write that.

So, I leaned into the idea that he was, well...bored. Bored enough with the Exterminations that he put no effort into them (hence Sera coming down on him about them), bored with his personal life—but doing absolutely nothing to change anything.

The other part was hiding behind the mask. Look, canonically there's nothing to indicate he has any kind of insecurities about his appearance (I mean, Lucifer makes a jab about letting himself go when they're fighting, but it'd be safe to assume that's weight and not feature related). However, he had such an ego in the show, it seemed fitting to play on that and think, 'well, this dude is so proud of the fact that he started all of humanity, all dicks descended from him blah blah, you'd imagine under the mask he'd be this absolute God of a human'...

...but, as we all saw in Episode 8, he was literally just a dude. You'd pass guys like him on the street daily. I felt like that would eat at him, and so the idea of him not showing his face was kinda born from that. And then, if people knew what he really looked like, no one would think he was all that special or important.

Those two concepts were what I based his character around when we meet him at the start of the fic, and gets delved into more in chapter 3, when Sera tells him he has a year to get his shit together. Throw in his stick-in-the-mud lieutenant who has gone over his head to Sera in order to change things up and yeah, he's not in a great place.

(holy shit this is turning into an essay that is probably not very structured or coherent; I am SO sorry 😂)

What I found really fun about writing him though was how Lute got under his skin. Initially, he liked riling her up because she'd be quick to give him a reaction—which of course, he'd feed off, and the stakes were low where he could piss her off and not worry.

But then she had to mention the whole mask thing, didn't she? Suddenly, the stakes became much higher for Adam, not just because she'd uncovered something that made him uncomfortable but she challenged him. That's what kept him coming back for more, because all of a sudden he wasn't bored anymore.

Aaaaand that's where the real fun began for me 😂 it was probably also the turning point where I really started to enjoy writing his character. I love the idea of him having these little losses of control with Lute because she'd managed to get under his skin—moments like the two chapters at the bar, or the time he snapped when he ran that first bath for her and she was being a bit of a brat. Like, yes, she's challenging him, but for a dude who's facade is slipping because of her, that's also slightly terrifying!

God, that whole week at his apartment was a fucking blast to write. Especially as we started to see the side of him that actually gave a shit about Lute. It was kinda subtle at first (draping the blanket over her while she napped, making sure she was tucked into bed, etc) but as time went on, I think the impact of the gestures grew (like building that home gym, suggesting Vaggie come keep her company—despite knowing she hates him, being a bit of a comfort for Lute as she went through her own feels).

Holy fuck this post is going forever (and I still have more to say lol whoops) so if you want a part 2 that delves more into the unmasking and beyond, let me know, otherwise if you've had enough of my ramblings I totally understand 😂😂😂

I LOVED this ask though Anon, thank you so so much! ❤️

[pazzibueckets]

Okay guys sooooo

-The game being in NC but over half of the fans being in UConn merch was so funny to me.

-I saw multiple people in the Pazzi slam shirts which I thought was cute

-Idk what we were doing at the free throw line… even P missed one.

-Ps efficiency was nowhere near as good as it was the last two games yet she still topped her season high and CARRIED the team (NPOTY if you ask me)

-She was so upset with herself when she missed shots and I need our other players to feel that same guilt so maybe they’ll stop shooting bricks…

-I definitely think she was frustrated and a little burnt out towards the end because you could see it on her face. She was trying so hard to get someone else going and it was literally brick after brick😬

-Saw P arguing with refs in 4k finally.

-Her buzzer beater with the skip after is actually the most insane thing I’ve ever seen from her and I wanna see more of that menace.

-The little Pazzi high fives I saw were cute. I swear their hands just linger a little longer with eachother.

-Every time someone hit the floor I got so nervous😮‍💨

-Sarah is definitely carrying her weight I just want her 3s to start falling but I don’t know why she (and literally EVERYONE minus P) kept taking them. Definitely had some nerves but she was still rebounding better than Ice and Jana…

-Ice has definitely improved but she just still isn’t doing nearly enough for me and I’m not sure where the fight is with her. This sounds bad but I feel like it’s impossible to get out of her what I need to see

-Jana has the fight she’s just playing like a freshman and I think it’s just gonna be a time thing with her. But us not having a reliable scorer in the paint makes me nervous rn.

-Ashlyn😩 I hope this was just an off game because I need her to be consistent this season. Having those great games against unranked teams means nothing when you turn around and then do absolutely NOTHING again #13 team.

-KK was KK. I love her hustle.

-Morgan honestly should get more minutes from what I’m seeing. I always like what I see from her on the court and she has the aggression we need. Unnecessary fouls from her but she’s at least trying.

-Allie where did the first night sharp shooter go???? I’m hoping it’s just freshman nerves but rn she’s not showing me much of anything🫣

-Kaitlyn… I’m just not seeing enough yet. Idk I need her to look to score more and turn the ball over less because this is like the third game where I’ve seen her have the most careless turnovers. And if she’s not gonna score I need her to be a true point guard and give us some good assists.

-Also I love Geno but every time he was trying to tell them what plays to run the ball didn’t end up in Ps hands enough which made me kinda 🤔