#i may make it most of the way before i do

[kiragecko]

I decided to do this for the Batfamily. (Preboot version, because I disagree with DC's modern decisions.)

If the Batfam were queer, how would they talk about it?

Dick - awkward and tentative. No clue when he picked up the terminology he's using, but it's probably pretty general/balanced¹. He's not going to be using microlabels, but may have done a reasonable amount of research on whatever term he's accepted. Possibly the most ashamed out of everyone? Look, people haven't been very gentle with him about his romantic, sexual, or personal choices. And he's internalized that. I could see him EVENTUALLY being comfortably open about his identity, but that would be a long journey.

Babs - only talks to romantic partners, if she can help it. Clinical. Probably also prickly. Maybe dismissive. More focused on how it will affect their relationship than on how it affects her, or on specific terms. But also the most likely to explain the split attraction model, or pull up a graph? Possibly she'd shift tactics based on what her partner was comfortable with. Probably it would be to tactics her partner was LESS comfortable with? Babs, make things easier for yourself!

Jason - What flavour of fanon are we using here? Or canon? Using slurs that the people he grew up used for themselves could be accurate. Reading up on all the latest terminology so he can support the street kids seems in character for some versions. (He sounds like he's reading from a brochure, but like he's a counsellor reading from a brochure for your benefit!) Not having thought about it at all because he's been 'somewhat' distracted for most of his life seems VERY likely! Jason contains multitudes.

Tim - avoiding this conversation at all costs. Refuses to use labels. Might describe his experience, awkwardly, if he needed to, but would get distressed if you tried to give it a name. He might be able to accept BEING some flavour of queer, but openly talking about it in ways people can use against him? That might affect social standing and job opportunities? That might disappoint authority figures? No. Most likely to use a fake identity to explore. Has almost certainly done all the research, KNOWS current terminology, and will use it for other people. Just don't suggest he applies it to himself.

Steph - Would probably get extremely attached to language when first accepting it. Maybe to the point of policing things a bit. Because she's defensive and has spent her whole life being policed and judged! MIGHT sound like she was reading out of a college brochure. Possibly DID read it out of a college brochure!

Cass - summarizes complex topics into a 2 or 3 word sentence, and if you aren't following along, that's on YOU. Might like listening to someone else explain their extremely nuanced identity. Might be impatient. It's a toss-up, depending on how obvious she thinks things are, how much you seem to be overcomplicating it, and how much she's picking up from HOW you're saying it. I hope she figures herself out before she learns TOO much terminology, because later Cass respected words a bit too highly, and I want her to be able to understand the fluidity of self without thinking it NEEDS boxes.

Damian - okay, preteen Damian doesn't WANT to know about any of this, thank you. Many preteens do! Damian does not. Damian wants to join in on every rape and hate crime investigation, and also thinks kissing is gross. Wrangling and protecting Damian is a challenge. Older Damian would probably use microlabels, if any applied. (And he felt safe saying anything.) Accuracy is always to be desired! Also, they fit his worldview of exceptionality and isolation.

Duke - I think he'd be pretty comfortable with general, broadly understood, terminology. But he might struggle if that stuff didn't fit. Feeling compelled to explain the nuances of self seems like something he'd find really uncomfortable? So I can see him casually talking about himself if it was easy to talk about, but struggling to be open otherwise. Also, he might get pretty stuck on not being SURE about his identity. How can he talk about it if he might be wrong?? (Tim and Dick might struggle in a similar way, but it would be less obvious because of their other issues.)

Bruce - Extremely likely to used old-fashioned or clinical language, especially if it lets him sound like he's reading out of a psychology text-book. Most likely to accept the language without internalizing the identity. (It might be accurate, but that doesn't mean he needs to ACT on it.) Also most likely to have accept-ED some term 25 years ago and then just never brought it up again or acknowledged it in any way.

Alfred - wouldn't talk about it at all. Relationships are private. If it was important to do so, would use euphemisms like 'close to', 'cared for', 'did a small amount of exploration', etc.

-

¹ I kind of think of modern queer identities coming in 3 broad categories:

general - uses language like 'queer', 'LGBT', 'nonbinary' - commonly understood umbrella terms. Prioritizes fluidity of identity and connection with community over precise description

balanced - prioritizes connection with people of similar experiences, uses broad subcategories like 'gay', and 'trans', or combines broad terms together to suggest more precision, like 'nonbinary lesbian'.

microlabels - breaks down identities into more precise subsets like 'greyace', 'fem-aligned androgyne', 'genderfae', etc. Precise understanding of self prioritized over other people's understanding or connection.

'Microlabels' as shorthand is often used to mock people, so I thought it helpful to explain where I'm coming from.

he would not fucking say that but it’s he would not fucking talk about his queer identity like he was reading out of a college campus lgbt center brochure

[sitepathos]

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 12: The Fight (Warning: this chapter will feature blood and violence. Proceed at your own risk)

“Look at all this,” you whisper as you take in the sights of the Strip, all the various casinos and hotels lighting up the night sky. “I returned to Nevada four years ago and I’ve never been here before. What the hell was I thinking?”

(You were trying to set up your new life, which was the responsible thing to do back then. But, we agree, coming here sooner would not have been unwelcome. This city seems to be a source of endless entertainment.)

You had finished the DLC for Salvage Rights earlier today and to celebrate both its release and its positive reception, you decided to treat yourself by going to Sin City and indulging in its various casinos and restaurants; you have the knowledge and experience of countless gamblers from Gotham, so you should be able to play blackjack and poker with the best of them.

You thought you were prepared to handle and glitz and glamor Vegas has to offer, but seeing it with your own eyes has left you speechless. The lights have you mesmerized and you’re loving it! Everywhere you look, there’s something beckoning you, like a moth to a flame and right now, you don’t care if you get burned.

“Hey, look over there,” you say, stopping to look at something above you in the distance.

The sight is a towering building proudly bearing the name “Caesar’s Palace” in lights. During your brief research for your trip to the Strip, you read Caesar’s Palace is one of the most popular casinos in the city and is also a popular destination for dining.

(You did say you wanted the “full Vegas experience.” Going to one of the largest establishments in the city would be a step in the right direction.)

When you first thought of this little excursion, you wanted to have fun, but didn’t want to get trapped in the larger ones and lose all the money you brought in with you, instead opting to stay in the smaller casinos. “Keep it simple, keep it safe,” you said a few hours ago.

Now, the lights of the massive casino before you has ensnared you and is luring you towards it like an angler fish does with its prey.

“Ave, true to Caesar,” you say as you begin the trek towards the towering monolith.

If the outside was mesmerizing, then the inside is absolutely enthralling! As expected of a place named after a Greek emperor, the interior looks like a palace plucked from the Greek Empire, complete with marble and gold, making you feel like royalty.

(We take it we are going to play here?)

“Damn right,” you say as you enter the casino part of the resort, taking in the seemingly endless rows to slot machines, card tables, and other various gambling set ups.

As you look at each slot machine and table, you’re flooded with information from the Megamycete’s archives on what you want to see when playing slot machines and when is the best time to stand when playing blackjack. While Gotham doesn’t have shit on Vegas, it did have a passable gambling scene, which attracted many expert gamblers to that City of the Damned.

With your newfound knowledge in hand, you exchange the thousand bucks you brought with you for chips and make your way to a roulette table with only one other person.

“Good evening, sir,” the dealer greets you as you situate yourself of the other side of the table, away from the other player. “Will you be joining us?”

“Deal me in,” you respond, pushing a few chips on the table to test the waters. You may know the basics from playing Fallout New Vegas, but this is real life with real money being risked and this time you don’t have a maxed out Luck stat to cheat the system with.

A few hands in and you can say for sure you love gambling. Sure, you’ve lost a few rounds, ruining a couple hot streaks, but right now, you have more money than you came in with.

“Fifteen, odd, black,” the dealer says when the ball finally stops spinning before giving you the pot, much to your delight.

“Goddamn it,” the other man exclaims, shoving himself away from the table and storming off, hopefully towards the exit as tonight has not been his night.

“I apologize for that display,” the deal says as he readies the spinner for the next round. “Will you be playing another round?”

“Definitely,” you respond, sliding three-hundred dollars worth of chips onto red.

“Have room for one more,” a masculine voice rings out next to you.

You tense up when the voice registers in your head and you look to your right to see Bruce fucking Wayne, looking down at you with that fake ass smile he gives the idiots of Gotham. Your anger only intensifies when he places a thousand dollars worth of chips into the pot.

What the hell is he doing here?

(How dare he,) the Megamycete practically growls. (This is a night meant for you to enjoy yourself and he intrudes upon it, and in your city no less.)

“Welcome, Mr. Wayne,” the dealer says as he spins the spinner after the bastard places his bet.

“Hello, Y/N,” he says to you, his focus on you and not the spinner. “I have to say, I don’t peg you as the gambling type.”

You say nothing, not wanting to give him any sort of satisfaction, and focus on the game.

“It’s a very dangerous habit if you’re not careful,” he chides you as the baller begins to slow down. “And coming to a place like Vegas? It’s not safe for someone like you. You should be back home, where you belong.”

You know the “home” he’s referring to isn’t your house in Goodsprings, but Wayne Manor in Gotham and it’s taking all your willpower not to pimp smack the shit out of him right now. This was meant to be a night for you to have fun in Vegas and you’re not gonna let him ruin that like he did the night you won your award.

“Gotham has plenty of high-end casinos where you can play all the games you want. I could take you to each of them and make sure you get the VIP treatment.”

“Vegas is far safer than Gotham,” you retort. “Here, the biggest threat you face is losing your money when you don’t know when to quit. In Gotham, you have nut jobs running around killing people on a nightly basis and the biggest nut job of them all beating the crap out of them.” You give him a mocking look, knowing something that would get under his skin. “No one in their right mind would live in that cesspit of a city. If you ask me, that place should be nuked to hell.”

While he manages to hide it well, you can see just the faintest of winces and you let your smirk show. For whatever reason, he thinks Gotham is the best place on the planet and is worth protecting. You learned about Gotham’s seedy history from its early days as a colony established in 1635 and you can say for certain that area is cursed. If you had your way, a giant wall would be built around Gotham and everyone inside would be left to kill each other and rot in that cursed city, especially the Waynes.

“Gotham has its flaws, sure,” he responds. “But I’m able to look past its dark side and see a bright future for both the city and everyone that calls it home. As you know, Wayne Enterprises has been the vanguard of breathing new life into the city.”

“Oh, that reminds me, I heard WE’s stock has practically become worthless in the last few days. Rumor has it all major stockholders are demanding for you to step down as CEO.”

“I’ve been in tight spots before and I’ve always come out on top. This will be no different. I’m sure things will turn back around in no time.”

“Six, even, black,” the dealer announces, bringing you back to the game. “Congratulations, Mister Wayne.”

You roll your eyes as the pot goes to the son of a bitch. You mentally shake your head and place your chips on the table for the next round.

“Maybe you should step down,” you say as the dealer begins the round. “I was stuck in that manor of yours for over a decade and I know it’s a mess. You should really get your house in order before you go around ‘fixing’ Gotham.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my family,” he growls. “It’s perfect the way it is.”

“No one’s buying that story anymore, Mister Wayne. I take it you haven’t read Lois Lane’s latest article?”

“Of course I have,” he says, glaring at you and it makes you want to laugh knowing how you’re testing his limits. “How could you say those things about your family?”

“You’re not my family,” you snap. “You all made it quite clear I wasn’t a part of it over and over. The only family I’ve ever had was Momma and she was taken from me.”

The anger in his eyes fade and he was silent for a moment. “I know we made mistakes during your time with us and we’re sorry about that.”

“It’s too little, too late, Mister Wayne.”

“Twenty-four, even, black,” the dealer states, clearly more interested in your conversation than the game.

You can’t help but smile as the chips make their way back to you and you place a bet of five-hundred for the next round. Of course, Bruce doesn’t go way and instead places another bet.

“Please, Y/N, come home,” he pleads as the spinner is spun. “We all miss you. Especially Alfred.”

“He’s welcome to visit me whenever he wants. The rest of you can go to hell.”

“Like it or not, they’re your siblings, Y/N,” he growls, getting closer to you. “And I’m your father. You will show them, and me, the respect that entails.”

“Respect is earned, not given,” you retort, getting close and looking up at him. He may terrify Gotham’s criminally insane, but you know you’re better than him in every way, so you’re not scared. “And don’t get it mixed up, you’re a sperm donor, not my father. God knows you never acted like it.” You lean close so that your face is mere inches away from his. “If you want, we can take this outside, Mister Wayne. Just remember what happened last time things got physical between us.”

“Now, now, gentlemen,” the dealer says. “Let’s keep this friendly. We’re all here to have fun, right?”

(Listen to him, Y/N. Do not let him ruin your first trip to Vegas. There will be plenty of time to put him in his place after we have had our fun.)

You continue to stare at him and direct all your anger and hatred towards him until he finally concedes and backs off and you do the same, just in time for the ball to finally stop.

“Nineteen, odd, red,” the dealer says as he slides the chips to you.

“I just want to make things right,” he says as he places his bet. “I know I treated you wrong and I want to fix that. So we can be father and son.”

You roll your eyes at the pathetic words and even more pathetic look as you place your bet and the deal begins the round. “You’re not sorry, Mister Wayne, you just feel guilty. Whatever conscious you have in your twisted little soul is making you feel bad and you can’t stand it, so that’s why you’re humiliating yourself trying to earn something I can never and will never give you: my forgiveness.”

He winces enough for both you and the dealer to see, but you find yourself taking no joy in fracturing his mask. This was supposed to be a night of fun and games, but he had to come all the way from Gotham and ruin it. It’s actually made you despise him even more, a task you thought impossible until now.

“Twelve, even, red,” the dealer states as he slides the chips towards Bruce.

It’s then you notice that you and him have almost the same amount of chips and the sight of it ignites an inferno of competition, which fuels your desire to assert your superiority over this pathetic creature before you.

(We are with you,) the Megamycete states firmly. (Show this interloper his place!)

“Tell me what you want, Y/N,” he says as you place all your chips on red, your mother’s favorite color, glaring at him as you do. It’s then he does the same thing, but places his chips on black, the color of the Bat.

How predictable.

With both your bets placed, the dealer spins the roulette, signaling the final round between you two. When that little ball stops spinning, one of you will take all and the other will lose all.

“Please, there must be something I can give you to show you I’m sincere. And you of all people should price is no object for me. Just name it and it’s yours.”

(How pathetic! He thinks all those years of abuse and neglect can be erased by buying you some insignificant trinket? Does he think you some whore that can be bought? Show him how wrong he is, Y/N!)

“You want to know what I want, Mister Wayne,” you ask, malice dripping with your every word, as the ball begins to slow down and clatter around. “I want you to know that I hate you more than anything else on this world; I want it to rattle around in your head for the rest of your life, from when you’re around your collection of misfits to when you lay your head down at night, that there’s no word or phrase in any language that has ever existed or ever will exist on this planet that can fully express how much animosity and hatred I have for you.”

It’s then that you get in his personal space has he had done with you earlier and use the mold so you can stretch your body ever so slightly so your face is almost touching him and stare into those eyes you’ve come to despise so much and they stare back at you, full of hurt and shock.

In the background, you can hear the ball beginning to slow down, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the game. Right now, all that matters is conveying just how much you hate Bruce Wayne.

“I want you to grow old and die knowing that, in the end, I was the one that rejected you.”

His response? Nothing but the widening of his eyes and stepping back, as if you had struck him.

“Seven, odd, red,” the dealer says, obviously shocked at what you just said.

You say nothing as you gather your chips and walk away, leaving Bruce Wayne behind to reflect on your words.

As you walk, you notice your heart is beating enough to burst out for your chest and your face is molten hot, even without touching it. In the moment, you had no idea how your words affected you as much as they apparently did that bastard.

(Perhaps we should return home,) the Megamycete suggests. (The night has been ruined and you need to rest after that interaction. We can always return another night for entertainment.)

As much as you hate to admit it, it’s right; after that display, you’re not in the mood to see what else you can get up to in your first night in Vegas. Being around him has brought back much of the anger you thought you had finally buried after moving back to Goodsprings and getting your life together and it’s killed any desire for gambling, dining, and everything in between.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice sounding weak even to you. “Let’s go home.”

You quickly cash in your chips and pocket the check the cashier gives you before making your way towards the exit. From there, you walk around until you find an alleyway tucked into an isolated and desolate part of the city to sprout mold armor and wings before taking off into the night sky.

“You know, the city looks even more breathtaking from up here,” you remark as you enter the vast expanse of the Mojave.

(Indeed. Maybe when we return, we will earn enough money from playing games that we can stay in the highest level of the tallest hotel of the city and see it again.)

“Yeah,” you respond with a throaty chuckle. “That’d be nice.”

You look down at the desert beneath you when you feel something hit your wings, slicing through and severing them, leaving you to fall to the ground. You shout as you harden your armor just in time as you impact with the sand, creating a deep crater.

(Are you alright,) it asks as you climb your way out.

“Yeah,” you respond with a groan. “What the hell happened?”

You get your answer once you make your way to the top and see Bruce, donned in his Batman gear, looking down at you.

“Are you alright,” he asks, as if he wasn’t the cause of the incident.

You dismiss your mold helm and look at him square in his eye slits, taking a deep breath and exhaling before saying, ever so calmly, “I’m going to kill you now.”

And with your intentions declared, you summon a new pair of wings and launch yourself towards the bastard and before he can react, you grab him by the face with one hand and propel the both of you backwards, using to wings to fly as you forcibly shove his head into the sand and push him forward, creating a trail in your wake.

His hands fly to yours and attempt to free himself from your grasp, but you don’t give him the chance and throw him towards a nearby rock formation as hard as you can.

He can only flail around like a rag doll as he flies through the air and lands on the rock formation with a satisfying crash, sending debris and sand flying in all directions.

Unfortunately, it’s not enough to keep him down as he’s quickly back on his feet. He reaches into his utility belt and throws a batarang at you and you respond by creating a similar object out of mold and send it flying towards it, the two of them hitting each other and falling to the ground.

Of course, he’s quick to act and before you can see it, he’s thrown something at you and you’re trapped in some kind of cable.

“What the hell,” you exclaim as you try to break free of the wire, but find yourself unable to.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he says as he closes the gap between the two of you. “But you’re coming home and I’m gonna find a way to get rid of this thing inside you.”

You’re already pissed, but the way he says something so batshit crazy with a tone similar to one that you’d use to calm a startled animal enrages you even more.

How he can still be so determined to drag you back to Gotham when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you hate him and his family after everything they’ve done to you is nothing short of astounding.

(He seeks to separate us,) the Megamycete practically hisses. (Do not let him! Kill him, Y/N! Kill him!)

Your rage towards the man before you explodes like a blast furnace and you reduce your body to a murder of crows and fly towards Bruce at top speed.

He raises his arms to protect his face and you use your mold hardened beaks and talons to slice into his suit, leaving at least two dozen bloody cuts all over his body.

(Good! Hurt him even more! Bleed him dry!)

Your murder of crows fly around him, forcing him into a defensive posture, and you gather them all so you can reform into your armored form right behind him. He realizes what’s happened, but he can only turn around to face you when you grab his wrist as hard as you can, and wave him around in the air and slam him into the rock below you over and over, taking pleasure in the sounds of rock breaking with every hit.

It’s then you slam him into the rock and summon a mold sword. When he looks up at you and realizes what’s about to happen, he raises his hand just in time for your sword to go through his hand and the tip of your sword pierce the hardened Bat symbol on his chest; you know the symbol is the strongest part of his suit so it can protect whatever he has beating in his chest, but you’re determined, so it begins to crack and crumble as you drive the sword deeper in.

He tries to say something, but the damage you’ve done to him takes its toll as he can only gurgle something as blood begins to seep from the corner of his mouth.

You dismiss your helm as you lean down towards him, a vicious, bloodthirsty grin etched across your face, and the sword goes down just a little more.

“Let’s get rid of this, shall we,” you mock, grabbing his cowl, ignoring the shock the suit gives you in response. “I want to see the life fade from your eyes!”

And with that declaration, you rip the cowl off him, exposing his face, marred with bloody cuts and bruises, before you.

When you look into his eyes, you can see past the look of struggle is fear and terror.

(He knows this is the end! Finish him! Put an end to the Bat!)

“Goodbye, Mister Wayne!”

Just then, you see something fly past you and it’s then you realize the arm holding your sword has been sliced through. Bruce takes advantage of the situation and kicks you a few feet away from him and he backflips so he can put even more distance between the two of you.

You quickly collect yourself to see the source of the disruption: Dick and Cass, donned in their vigilante gear.

“You ok, B,” Dick asks as Bruce joins them.

“I’m fine,” he grunts out. “What are you doing here?”

“Alfred told us you were coming here and we knew something like this was going to happen. We all wanted to come, but we knew we couldn’t all leave Gotham, so we drew straws.”

The way he sounds so joyful pisses you off even more. How dare he! You were so close to putting an end to him and Dick had to come and ruin it!

(You should rip his limbs off! Strip him of his wings and cast him into the dam!)

Cass looks at you and you instantly know she’s analyzing you, determining possible strengths and weaknesses. When she sees that you’re missing a limb, her eyes widen.

“Oh,” Dick exclaims when he follows her gaze. “I’m so sorry, baby bird! I didn’t mean to do that! I just wanted to get you off of Bruce!”

You look down to find the severed appendage lying near your foot and go to pick it pick it up. While Dick is spouting endless apologies and pleas for you to stay calm, you merely place the limb where it once was and it begins to stitch itself back together. Once your arm is reattached, you fix your gaze back to them to find that they’re starring at you in shock at what just happened.

“Oh,” Dick manages to spit out after a few seconds of silence.

“This is between me and him,” you say as you take a few steps towards them. “Fuck off.”

“You need to stop this, baby bird,” Dick retorts. “We’re family, you shouldn’t be doing this!”

“You’re kidding, right,” you say with a mocking chuckle. “You people are constantly fighting with one another! If you’re not giving each other black eyes, you’re either breaking bones or slitting throats! You’re all a bunch of emotionally constipated psychopaths who belong in padded cells with the rest of Arkham’s lunatics! And I want nothing to do with any of you! So, for the last time, leave me the fuck alone!”

The only answer you get is the three of them getting into combat postures, indicating they’re ready to go on the attack.

“I give you the chance to walk away, and this is the thanks I get,” you sigh.

From the bottom of your feet, you command two mold tendrils to burrow into the sand below and snake their way over to them and once in place, you order them to burst out from beneath them; such a tactic would spell the end for normal people, but the Waynes are anything but normal, so they somehow knew you were up to something and scatter just as the tendrils emerge.

Still, you put them on the defense by ordering the tendrils to lash out at them, separating them from one another and forcing them to put all their focus on the tendrils while Bruce and Dick are dodging the lashing tendrils, you make your way to the nearest vigilante: Cass.

Just as you near her, she turns around and counters the slash of your mold sword with a blade of her own. You quickly realize that the few dozen people that possess any type of sword fighting prowess pale in comparison to Cass’ and decide to swap to hand-to-hand combat by punching her in gut when your blades were clashed together, sending her flying several feet.

She quickly recovers by the time you close the gap and she not only evades most of your punches, but she manages to give you a few.

What the hell, she shouldn’t be winning.

(Her fighting style is more advanced than anything we possess in our archives,) the Megamycete responds, sounding shameful. (We are unable to find a successful counter to her assault.)

Of course, it makes sense now! While Gotham may have attracted a few dozen experts in fighting over the centuries, Bruce has been trained by masters in every form of combat, including Ra’s Al Ghul, whose lifespan makes the Megamycete seem infantile in comparison. And he’s no doubt taught all of them his fighting style.

Just then, you feel something hit your back and explode, sending you flying. When you recover, you see Bruce and Dick have cut your tendrils and are now heading towards Cass to reinforce her.

(Their armories also seem to be more than we can handle,) it says as it repairs the damage done to your armor. (We have hardened your armor as much as we can, but it seems their tools will be able to penetrate our defenses.)

Shit, so that leaves you vulnerable to their fighting styles and their gadgets.

“Alright,” you mutter to yourself as you ready yourself. “We’ll just have to rely on the one thing none of them have ever had: powers.”

You repeat what you had done before and disperse your body into a murder of crows and send them flying around the Bats, causing them to huddle together and raise their arms in an attempt to protect themselves. You have enough crows continue to fly around them to keep them distracted while the rest of them form together to form your body, but with the addition of four, oversized spider-like legs extruding from your back.

You allow yourself to fall to the ground, the legs pointed down to form four very sharp stabbing implements. They look up just in time to see what’s about to happen, so they force their way through the swarm just as you land where they once stood. The remaining crows reintegrate into your body as you make your way towards them, jabbing your spider limbs in an attempt to stab any of them.

Dick and Cass have narrow frames, so they’re harder to hit, but Bruce’s more bulkier body makes him a more feasible target, so you shift your focus to him. After a few failed slashes, you manage to land a decent hit that causes him to fail onto his back. He tries to reach for his utility belt, but you use two of your limbs to pierce his shoulders and he lets out a pained yell s he struggles in vain to free himself from beneath you.

He looks up at you, a painful expression etched on his face, while you summon two small tendrils from your back, ready to deal the final blow.

“If I can’t rip out your non-existent heart, I’ll just have to settle for your head!”

But, just as you’re about to make good on your declaration, you feel something attach itself onto your back, throwing you off balance.

“Y/N, don’t,” a voice says from behind and it’s then you realize it’s not something on your back, but someone.

Specifically, Dick.

“Get off me, circus freak,” you snarl as you begin to struggle with him.

Deeming Dick the bigger threat, you shift your focus from Bruce to shaking off the acrobat any way you can, flailing around and reaching out to grab him so you can finally finish him off; while you want to kill Bruce more than anything right now, you want him to suffer before you shed his blood.

Making him watch as you rip his golden child’s head off while he’s powerless to stop it? Yes, that’ll do the trick.

It’s then you feel something at your spider feet and when you manage to look down while holding Dick at bay to see Cass, batarang in hand, cutting the feet pinning Bruce to the desert floor in an attempt to free him.

(She attempts to free the bastard,) the Megamycete hisses. (Kill her! Kill her now!)

But in typical fashion, Dick butts in where he’s not wanted and hurls himself towards you, latching onto your upper body, forcing you to brace your back spider legs to prevent you from tumbling down.

You watch in pure frustration as Cass slices off the parts of your legs pinning Bruce down and before you can react, the two of them hurl themselves onto you, joining Dick in trying to wrestle you to the ground.

You grab Dick with one hand and Cass with the other and just as you ready to summon a tendril to deal with Bruce and stabs you with some type of syringe, making you howl in pain at the sensation; instead of injecting you with something, you feel your blood being drained from you.

“Enough,” you hiss, hurling the two smaller vigilantes as far as you can before grabbing Bruce by both his shoulders and pulling him up so that the two of you are eye-to-eye.

It’s at this point your rage reaches its apex; this was suppose to be a night of fun out on the Strip, but the man before you not only had to ruin it by showing up, but now he’s come full circle on his batshit craziness by blasting you out of the sky and try to apprehend you like you’re one of the crazies from Arkham.

And to make matters worse, he had to bring two of his children, Dick being one of them! While you will always hate Bruce with every fiber of your being and Damian being an extremely close second, you’ve always had a strong resentment towards the eldest Wayne son. While the bastard will always say he loves all his children equally (minus you, of course), you know Dick will always be number one in Bruce’s heart due to him being the first child and being a capable Gotham socialite and vigilante.

And to add insult to injury, everyone always says Dick is everything an eldest brother should be: reliable, responsible, and doting. For years, you could nothing but cry as you saw him going out of his way to help and hang out with the other Wayne children, no matter how loudly they tried to reject it. Watching such the love and affection you craved be handed out so willingly and carefree to anyone but you made you think you would never be loved by anyone other than your deceased Momma.

You let out an inhuman howl in Bruce’s face as you shove your head into his right shoulder and latch onto it with your teeth with enough force to rival a hydraulic press. He lets out a pained yell and attempts to pull you off by your hair, but you apply more force until you eventually pierce through the armor, followed by the skin, then the muscle, and finally bone.

You pull your head back, bits of bone and flesh dangling from your teeth. You look to see his right arm practically dangling from just the barest of flesh and blood oozing from it like a waterfall. You shift your gaze from your handiwork to Bruce’s face to see the most delicious expression of pain etched on it and his complexion is pale and clammy.

At this point, you’re a crazed animal, chomping at the bit to go in for the kill on the wounded prey before you and rip it apart until it’s unrecognizable.

(Yes,) the Megamycete roars, its voice a symphony of bloodthirsty cheers. (Do it! Exact your vengeance upon him!)

Before you do anything, you feel something hit your back and explode, but unlike the first one, this one sends some sort of freezing gases scattering across your body, sending feelings of burning as your armor and spider legs rapidly freeze.

You howl in pain as you drop Bruce so you can slap at the affected areas, trying to find some way to relieve yourself of the freezing feeling.

(Hurts,) the Megamycete hisses. (Hurts!)

You rid yourself of your armor and spider legs by ripping it off your body, the frozen mold constructs shattering upon impact with the ground.

It’s then you realize you’re exposed and quickly turn around, ready to defend yourself when you see the three of them flying away on the Batwing at top speed. You could go after them, but after the fight with the Bats and their freezing grenade, you can only fall to your knees, trying to catch your breath.

(We had no idea we possessed such a vulnerability to the cold,) the Megamycete says, its voice sounding weak. (The winters of Gotham drove us to a state of near hibernation, but this is the first time we have ever had a reaction like that.)

“And now you know,” you manage to gasp out. “And so do they.”

You can only watch as the vehicle flies away as fast as it can, carrying three of the Bats away where they will no doubt share what’s happened here with the others, which will no doubt lead to even more encounters like this in the future.

“Shit.”

In the Batwing, Bruce knows Dick is talking to hi, his words quick and high pitched as he tries to dress his wound, but right now, he can’t bring himself to take his focus off the syringe filled with your blood.

When he set out for Vegas, he was determined to find a way to provoke you into showing him your powers and obtain a blood sample so he could perform more tests, but he didn’t think he’d discover a major weakness in your defenses.

While he hated to see the cryo grenade caused you so much pain, he can’t help but rejoice at the knowledge that there’s a crack in your armor and if he approaches it at the right angle, he can have you home far sooner than he anticipated.

And when you’re back home, he can find a way to get that damn thing out of you and return you to normal. And when that’s done, he can begin to make things right with you.

He grips the syringe harder, seeing the key to making his daily whole once again within your blood.

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[prokopetz]

You've talked before about how "generic" ttrpg systems still contain hidden assumptions about genre, story, playstyle, etc. (e.g. gurps and military scifi/fantasy) how do you figure out what those assumptions are? what should you look for in the rules to find them?

That's a fairly involved question for which a full answer is beyond the scope of a Tumblr post (even my notoriously long-winded ones!), but I find that a good place to start is with the "who gives a shit?" principle.

For example, suppose that the first piece of mechanically significant information on a game's character sheet is a statistic called "Strength", rated on a scale from one to ten.

Who gives a shit?

That is, why do we care how strong player characters are? Why do we care about having a definite, codified answer at our fingertips to the question of which characters are stronger than other characters, to a fair degree of precision? Why does any of this matter? What assumptions are we making about the nature of the conflicts that will be present within the game's narrative?

That's a fairly trivial case, but the principle can be extended to more fundamental features of a game's rules. Let's consider the classic Dungeons & Dragons style skill check, for example: roll a die, add a stat, compare to a target number, pass or fail. What assumptions are we encoding about the nature of conflict in this game?

Well, for a start, these assumptions might include:

The assumption that generating binary pass/fail outcomes for performing discrete physical, mental and social tasks is how most conflicts will be resolved;

The assumption that your game will benefit from these outcomes having a high degree of player-facing uncertainty;

The assumption that your game will benefit from this uncertainty containing a relatively high likelihood of complete failure;

The assumption that your game will benefit from the principal determinant of that likelihood of failure being some intrinsic and objectively measurable attribute of the acting character;

... and so forth.

If you're only familiar with Dungeons & Dragons and its very close imitators, these may seem like things you have to assume in order to have a functioning game, but there are a fairly specific set of conventions being expressed here. Why do we care about any of these things? Who gives a shit?

Even the first bullet point can easily be knocked down: one can imagine, for example, a game which simply assumes players can always choose to have their characters succeed at anything it's within the realm of possibility for them to do, and whose rules instead focus on providing a codified game-mechanical answer to the question of what that success will cost them, with the only uncertainty being whether the player is willing to pay that cost.

It's clear that a game which approaches conflict resolution in this way is expressing a strong set of genre assumptions. The trick is recognising that the industry-standard alternative (i.e., the D&D-style skill check) is equally laser-focused on a specific set of genre assumptions, in a way that's often rendered invisible by how common it is.

All of which is a very long-winded way of saying there isn't a simple checklist you can go down to identify a game's genre assumptions. But then, I warned you way up in the opening sentence that this would be the case – I hope I've at least given you a place to start!

[peachesofteal]

Tip of my Tongue - Azriel/single mom reader

He puts you out of his mind. 

Or tries to, at least. His thoughts stray, at night, in quiet moments, and he catches himself thinking about you, wondering if he should have done more, pushed harder, tried to get you to talk to him even though he understands your reluctance. It didn’t surprise him how you avoided his eyes, turned away. 

Illyrians both hate and fear him, and Azriel despises them in return.

Cauldron only knows how you may have suffered in their hands. 

It’s not his business. 

Illyrians are not unwelcome in Velaris, it is your right to live in the city if you so choose. 

Let it go.  

His effort is in vain, crumbling only two days later when he comes across you on the street, half open bag spilled out across the sidewalk. 

Leave her be, it’s not your business, not your-

You’re crouched, baby in one arm while trying to gather up your things with another, and without thinking, he swoops down at your side, picking them up quicker than you can protest. “Are you alright?” 

This time, there’s no opportunity for you to cut him off, or run. He’s holding a stuffed rabbit in his hand. 

“Yes, I’m…” you reach for the toy, rising to stand at the same time, and blood rushes in his ears. “We’re okay, thank you.” You watch him carefully, but for some reason, less guarded than that day in the market, a little more brave, open. 

“I’m Azriel.” You probably already know that, he’s sure. 

You bite your bottom lip and practically whisper your own in return before bouncing the baby on your hip. “This is Luna. Or Lulu.” You cup her cheek, and her head tips back, wonder in her eyes as she stares at you. 

It does something to him, breaks a dam of emotion inside his heart, warmth flooding through his body from fingers to toes, and his voice is rough when he speaks.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Thanks, she’s a handful.” You hoist her higher, wincing. “And heavy. Aren’t you, Lu?” You smile, but it barely touches your eyes, their corners tight with stress. 

He wants to know why, wants to know you- 

wants to fix it. 

“Thanks for,” you gesture to the bag with your free hand, “helping. And for yesterday, too. You didn’t have to.”

“He was ripping you off.” He’s stern, almost reproachful, and you avert your eyes, guilt pinging through his bones as a result. He shouldn’t expect you to be able to hold your own in a city who undoubtedly turns their nose up at you. You’re vulnerable here, to no fault of your own. He shouldn’t chastise you for it, so he switches tactics. “Do you live in the city?” You nod. 

“We’ve been here for a few weeks.” You shift uneasily. There’s so much left unsaid, and he wants to peel away the layers hiding it all, dig to the bottom and learn every bit of it. 

Of you. 

“Which village?” Your gaze turns bleak and then clears, clouds revealing the sun. 

“Stoneguard.” His control is the only thing that smothers his surprise. Stoneguard. 

No wonder you were so tense in the Palace. No wonder you practically ran away. 

It’s an insular northern village with its own camp, positioned deep in the mountains, sheltered by rock and forest. One of the most brutal, and backwards, one of few still left unchanged. The miniscule progress happening in Windhaven and Ironcrest is still progress, but it doesn’t reach the more isolated villages or their camps. Rhys’ and their efforts to corral them, change them, have been in vain for centuries. They subscribe to the traditional practices, brutality and clipping, abuse running rampant without care. 

You grimace, like you can read his mind, and another thought occurs, striking his soul with dread. 

How did you get here? You have no wings. Did you walk, all this way, with Luna? Alone? 

“I have to get going,” you break through his spiral with an apologetic glance, “she’ll need to go down for a nap here soon.” As if she insists on making your point, Luna’s lashes flutter, eyes struggling to stay open. 

“Right, of course.” He should let you go, should be satisfied by your answers, but the brief interaction only leaves him wanting more. Leave her be, leave her be, leave her- “Have you seen much of Velaris?” You blink, and shake your head. “I could… show you around, if you’d like.” Luna hiccups, a high pitch frequency akin to a squeak, and a smile tugs at his mouth, trying to pull it upward into something genuine. It’s a hard fought battle for a male who rarely does such a thing. You stare at him, considering, examining, like you’re trying to peer inside his soul and determine if he’s to be trusted, and then you sigh. 

“Okay.”

[frogsandfries]

I was introduced to the concept of zines in college, because of a partnered creative project. The first zine I ever contributed to was about social media. It did cost a fortune to print because it was done at the school's favored print shop, in full color.

I don't know how prevalent small bookshops selling zines used to be before the age of the internet, but I think I've only been to one bookshop that sold zines. Which is a real loss, imo. I wish there were more small bookshops and that I had more opportunities to explore zines. I think it's kind of inevitable that the internet caused things to change. Chicken wings and ribs used to be poor people food until they got gentrified. Printing on paper used to be the only way to access and disperse information. Now that we have the internet, it's unfortunately not surprising that zine making has been gentrified.

Plus, I'm sure a lot of people who would like to make zines wouldn't know what to put in one that they'd actually like to share with people. Furthermore, it can be hard to swallow the concept of "if I spend five dollars, I can share this with (let's say three people, for example)" when I can hit reblog or forward or send or submit.......for free.

And then there is the cliche of turning your hobby into a grind. If I can spend five dollars, make three zines, sell them for three dollars apiece, etc etc, maybe I don't need enough money to sell a hundred zines, I just need money to make fifty and I can use the rest of that money for groceries or rent and still keep making fifty zines every time I want to make a new one.

Oh, let's not forget that a lot of USians don't carry cash often if ever, anymore, so now I have to factor in the cost of card transactions, into the cost of my zines. Most people aren't going to find themselves in an avant garde bookshop. Most people may not even find my zines on Etsy or Shopify. This kind of forces an (optional) evolution: if I make a fifty page basically a proper magazine, but because it's full of (idk messages about the best places for poor people to eat in LA), I 'can' call it a zine, I can sell it on like, Amazon, or use a Kickstarter and distribute it nearly infinitely.

I can't look at zines through a pre-internet perspective. I don't have that perspective. I understand that zines should be accessible to those who have very little if any money left over after Life. It can feel tempting to make the flashiest, full color zine. It can feel necessary to print your twenty page zine in full color. It can feel necessary to do the entire thing on the computer. It can feel necessary to make it as professional as possible. It can start to feel like making an "old school" black and white, no computer, xeroxed zine is going to get your zine looked over because it's not flashy enough and nobody likes plain ole boring black and white. Or if I add a cardstock cover, maybe my zine will look a little more professional.

I think a lot of us don't come into zines with any kind of mentor to guide us and regulate the culture, and us younger folks come into it with a mindset that we have to have in the rest of our lives: one upsmanship. If the last guy or the first zine we ever saw had a really professional looking cover, we need one full color page. If that guy used a black and white cardstock cover, we need a color accented cardstock cover, we need a glossy full color cover.

Anyway, all this to say, personally, I don't think zines are the right medium for my creative endeavors. I don't think I say this as like, begging for someone to prove me wrong. I say this as a person who cannot tell a short story. I don't need to rely on zines to get my fanfic (although, even if AO3 did not exist and a monthly zine was the only way to get my Spirk fix, personally, I still wouldn't know where to get some sweet sweet Spirk zines; but that's a me problem).

I feel like I'm about twenty-five years too late to the zine scene.

the whole point of a zine is that it's cheap to produce, amateur and homemade. if you're being asked to apply to participate in a print project, it is not a zine. if the final product is being printed and bound professionally, it is not a zine. if you are being asked to enter into any kind of licensing agreement more complex than "my work can be reproduced as part of this publication" it is not a zine. nine times put of ten if the final product costs more than $5 you have left zine country. im so serious about this.

[anyataylorjoys]

I just hit 8k followers in January, and I've never really done a celebration giveaway before. And not many do nowadays, but I figured someone out here may benefit from a new action or two!

You are authorized to change or add-on to my actions as you seem fit, but please do not redistribute them as your own work. If you are to take pieces from these actions to create your own and end up redistributing them, please credit this post.

[ Download ]

Disclaimers:

Basic colorings used in examples are not part of the actions.

These actions were made in Photoshop so they will not be compatible for PS-alternative programs like Photopea.

These will only work with the frame load-in way of making gifs with scripts. They do all the work for you including converting your frames into timeline.

Many of these contain camera raw filter. If you have an older version of photoshop that doesn't have this feature, some may not work properly.

If your computer doesn't have decent RAM, converting gifs that contain raw camera filter may be a struggle for your computer. If this is true for you, you can try deleting this feature from the applicable actions or making the smart filter invisible before saving, but unfortunately you won't get the full benefit of the action.

Creator's Notes:

⭐︎ V1 Basic: Self-explanatory, can be used on just about anything.

⭐︎ V2 Soft: If you still prefer softer looking gifs this could be your go-to; brightens colors naturally.

⭐︎ V3 Depth: Creates contrast that makes the subjects appear more HD.

⭐︎ V4 Texture: Similar to V3 but with less noise; has a slight smoothing effect; Brightens colors naturally.

⭐︎ V5 Ultra Sharp: This can can be used on anything if your footage is high quality enough but looks great with 4K footage including 4K youtube videos. Looks AWFUL on anything with high grain though.

⭐︎ Animation (soft): Looks good on animation that has harsh lines.

⭐︎ Universal (crisp): Similar to V1 with more contrast. This also looks good on most animation.

[kiame-sama]

Humans Are Extinct (Yandere!TWST x Fem!Reader) Monster AU pt 33

(Rook is one of the few to actually swear himself as a Knight in service of the Human and he wears this title like a badge of honor. Rook doesn't need the actual armor part of his ensemble, but he likes the way they look on him and he appreciates the consistent theming of the Queendom garb. The Knight of Roses is actually a style in the Queendom reserved for royal guards. Most royal guards in the past were tasked with protecting the royal Humans and the royal family, so it is more tradition in the Queendom to dress the current day Human's guards in this armor.)

Warnings: yandere, yandere behavior, multiple yanderes, violently protective yanderes, poaching attempt, unnamed character injury, Queendom Citizens, speciest behavior, mention of weapons, mention of clothing of various kinds, dancing, Harpy, Alicorn, Dragon, Merfolk, Drider, Hellcat, Selkie,

(If you have trouble imagining songs for the ending scene, this is the song I imagine this one is playing:

~~~~~~~~

You were out with your guards once again to take in the sights and maybe even look for random souvenirs to bring back to Night Raven. If you were going to be visiting almost every country and countless cities within the countries, you may as well get random knickknacks to keep. Though you had no money of your own when you fell into this world, Crowley was sure to shove Thaumarks into your arms before you departed.

Apparently, during his extensive conversations about what you would be doing in the Queendom, he mentioned the many funds and grants NRC had been given. Most of those grants were from larger countries that wanted to financially support you and support Night Raven for as long as you called the campus home. As the reason for the grants coming in, no doubt Crowley decided that you deserved a fair portion of the Thaumarks.

Now you were visiting the many different stalls in the market side of the city, anything you bought quickly being carried by the men that guarded you. Ortho and Rook were continuing their usual scanning of the rooftops as you marveled over the craftsmanship of the trinkets before you.

Riddle had been in a noticeably better mood even around Alistair despite the tragedy of the day prior. If anything, he seemed saddened but not dragged down by the events as if he had been freed of the obligation. It certainly made him brighten up even more when you told him Papa Hades agreed to pay for his schooling so he was no longer tied to that cruel Unicorn woman.

It was while you were examining a rather lovely sun-catcher that a sudden warmth wrapped around you, darkening your vision. You were about to question Malleus as to why he had moved to shield you when a particularly loud eruption of screams sounded out.

"It was the Lion! I saw the Lion did it! Get that beast away from the Human!"

You saw several people seemed to be antagonizing Leona who was actually standing close by with his Knobkerrie drawn. Not far from Leona was what looked to be a Pigeon man laying face down in the gutter with arrows of a different make strewn about him. Rook was quick to step between Leona and the hounding onlookers with his bow raised.

"Non! Roi du Lion was not the one who took out the archer. I saw him take aim at Mademoiselle Trickster, he is not to blame."

"So you, some Drider from outside the Queendom, think I didn't see what I saw with my own two eyes? How dare you!"

Ortho stepped in next, his screens enlarging as a quick video played back over. The video was of Rook quickly drawing his bow and firing at the pigeon man. The man in question was clearly aiming towards your group with his own notched arrow before he was pieced through the shoulder by Rook's golden and red arrow.

"You are wrong! Video doesn't lie! Leona didn't do anything wrong, stop being speciest towards him! Even if he had shot the assassin, he would have been doing it to protect (Y/n)! He is within his legal rights to protect her!"

The onlookers- who had been up in arms- now looked somewhat sheepish at the clear evidence to the contrary of any wrong doing. They glanced at one another before the most outspoken of them- a woman with multi-colored fins on the side of her face crossed her arms.

"Well, he could have done it!"

That sentence set an anger burning in your heart as you pulled out of Malleus' protective embrace, turning on your heel to face the woman who looked so smug. It was as if she were saying he was guilty of association and therefore deserved punishment of some kind. No way were you going to stand for anyone treating Leona as lesser.

"How dare you?"

"W-well, I-"

"How dare you make such false and baseless accusations against my chosen guards!? What, because he is a Nemean Lion you think you are allowed to show cruelty to him? You think you can claim such a horrendous lie and be believed, even with evidence to the contrary? How dare you speak so loudly and so incorrectly about someone else like that? Shame on you! Shane on your whole family for your backwards way of thinking! A Lion he may be, but his hands are cleaner than your own as you are so keen to sling lies at someone who is not in the wrong. For shame!"

"I- but I thought he-"

"You thought wrong! He is a guest in your city- a Prince- and you deem it appropriate to lie about him because of your own fragile view of reality? How quick you are to assign blame when you should be ashamed of yourself for jumping to the conclusion he was out of line!"

The woman was now shrinking in on herself, despite being much taller than you and dwarfing you in height. Though you were small and weaker compared to the towering giants around you, you could still bare your teeth. Naturally, those around her- who had been on her side- turned on her like a pack of dogs and began snapping their own disappointment and disgust at her actions.

"Don't all of you jump in like you are innocent in this matter! You all blamed him too and were on her side until I started shaming her. Shame on all of you as well! Have you no honor, no pride? Is this the decorum I can expect from the citizens of the Queendom of Roses? You all are the citizens, the blood of this Queendom, I would expect you all to uphold the best qualities of the Queendom, not the worst!"

The group had shied back from your admonishment, none of them willing to look you in the eye. It was around this time the Pigeon man was coming back around, raising his bow with an arrow notched as it pointed directly at you. He was fast, but Floyd was faster.

The bow snapped under the grip of the Eel Merman who sneered with bared fangs at the pigeon. It was clear most hadn't expected him to try again, especially with an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, so they were quick to detain him. Even those you scolded were feverish to stop the Pigeon man as if they were vying for your approval.

It seems even those met in passing were impacted by your aura. Why did something like this always have to happen? The more important thought was when Idia planned to get back to you about a weapon to protect yourself. Though, it wouldn't protect you from someone shooting arrows from the rooftops.

You had suggested many ideas to Idia and he promised to have something soon. For now you had to rely on those who protected you and proclaimed themselves to be your knights. It was mildly concerning to you how little you were concerned with this attempt, as it was not supposed to be so common place.

"We should return to the castle, Mon Trickster. One attempt surely means there will be another. Roi du Selkie is to be arriving today as well, seeing as the execution is slated for tomorrow. Something tells me we should not encourage anything more today."

"If you say so, Rook."

You allowed the Drider to pick you up, thankful Grim was back at the Palace of Roses with Alistair. He had asked the Alicorn for a few of his colorful feathers and the Alicorn offered the Kit most of his collection, which was a beautiful assortment of prismatic feathers. The kit agreed to stay and choose his favorite feathers of the grouping and Alistair promised to keep an eye on the kit.

At least Grim being at the castle kept him from having to endure the assassination attempt. Thankfully this Pigeon Harpy man was not as skilled a marksman as Rook and the superior hunter won. The soft fur of the Drider beneath you was a comfort as Leona fell into step with the Drider you sat on the back of.

"Why do you care so much about how they treat me, Mousey? It's nothing new to me."

"Because, you're a good guy, Leona. A genuinely good guy, and I appreciate the hell you have gone through for me. I don't care how they stare at me, but to blame you as if you deserve poor treatment for being a Nemean Lion? Hell no. I'm not letting that happen."

Leona smiled slightly, a warm expression as he gazed at you affectionately. He was used to everyone outside of Sunset Savana treating him disdainfully but it still warmed his heart to know you saw more than his species. Maybe Falena was right in believing you could help end the hate towards his Kingdom.

"You're too good to us, Mousey. Never change."

"I thought only RSA was the do-gooders of Sage island?"

"Don't even joke about switching over to that school. I look best in black, not their white uniforms."

You chuckled softly noticing that Leona indicated he would switch schools to stay near you if you went to RSA instead. Slowly, you rest your head against Rook's shoulder, feeling protected by the lovely Drider as he walked back to the Palace. He ensured to wrap his cape over you to shield you from the onlookers just in case.

The guards of the Palace were quick to receive your group as you all were looked over for any potential injuries. Word had no doubt gotten back to them about what had happened and what had been done to the perpetrator of the crime. It was while everyone was being checked that a loud and familiar voice cut in.

"Puppy!"

A wave of relief washed over you as a familiar black and white coated Selkie with a worried expression stormed into the room. You were quick to run straight into his arms as the Selkie wrapped them around you, letting you burrow your face into his fur as he sighed in relief. He gently pet your hair as you rest your head on his shoulder and accepted the parental affection.

"My poor puppy, being attacked and hunted by the scum of the world. I'm here now and I'll keep you safe. I also brought some gifts for you."

You pulled back to see the bag he had set down, the Selkie picking it up to hand it to you with a warm smile. His hand gently rest on your head as he moved his hand in a petting motion to soothe you. Despite everything, you did feel relief at seeing the paternal Selkie that seemed to care for you with his entire heart. He was a good fatherly figure, if nothing else.

Digging through the bag you realized there was a blanket with instructions handwritten. Apparently, this was to be your heated blanket and Idia decided to gift you with it early. He must have sent it with Divus after word got back to NRC of the events in the marketplace.

Beneath the blanket was a fine leather box no longer than your phone. Attached was a note.

'Hey, Hellkitty, made that knife you wanted. It doesn't run on magic the way other things do, but it will absolutely get the job done. It uses DNA recognition software I coded, so there are only three it won't hurt; You, Grim, and Papa Hades. Goes without saying this thing is dangerous, so use it sparingly! By the way, you can change the color of the blade with the adjuster on the side if you want to.

-Gloomurai'

Inside was a handle that seemed to have grooves to fit your hand comfortably. It sat well in your hand and hummed under your touch as if waking up in your palm. Slowly it formed a bright blade that glowed in your hand and sparked with energy. It enraptured you quite a bit as it harmlessly passed over your skin and shined against your flesh. Divus seemed less than pleased to see you were now armed, but he also seemed to understand you needed to be able to protect yourself.

"Careful, pup. I'll teach you how to wield that if you need, but we can't be too hasty with something so dangerous."

You nodded, relaxing your grip as the blade faded from the handle in your palm, returning to a dormant state. It made you feel a little better with it, but now you had to check in on Grim. Though you trusted Alistair to not harm the Hellcat, that didn't mean they couldn't get up to trouble while out of sight.

"Welcome back, (Y/n)!"

The Alicorn happily trotted forward, a pleasantly pleased feline sitting on the equine back of the prince. Attached to his bow over his collar were three bright feathers that shined with rainbows of their own and you recognized them as Alistair's. Sitting in the arms of the Alicorn seemed to be a pile of his feathers which he proudly held up to you as he trotted up.

"I heard what happened, are you okay?"

"As okay as I can be, but Rook is a good watchman."

"Well, Grimmy and I sorted through all of my feathers so he could find some he liked and we got an idea! Since you both like my feathers so much, I decided to make you a cloak using them! I don't have much use for them, so I figure you may as well have them!"

He held up the cloak in his arms, showing you the beautiful arrangement of feathers that made it look like a crystalline waterfall. Though it really didn't match with the outfits you had been gifted by the Queendom, it was still a lovely piece. You allowed the Alicorn to place the cloak around your shoulders and it felt much lighter than you had expected it to.

"Thank you, Alistair, it's beautiful."

"Well, I didn't want to sound too proud of my own feathers, but I am glad to hear you like them. They should help you out too, in the event anything happens."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Pegasus feathers- and Alicorn by extension- have certain characteristics to them that you don't find in a lot of species. For instance, if you fall off of something while wearing that cloak, you won't fall as fast due to the air magic properties of the feathers. Plus they are great at temperature regulation and impact absorption. Again, I don't really need them since I grow them, but they should help you."

You smiled at this, reaching out to gently pet the Alicorn's hair. He seemed somewhat surprised by the affectionate gesture, but leaned into your touch happily. Lilia did say petting was a good way to show affection and appreciation. Unbeknownst to you, several of your guards glared jealously at the Alicorn.

Grim was not bothered by their displeasure and instead was happy to leap into your arms, purring in elation. The kit seemed quite pleased with the feathers he added to his bow, likely having picked them himself.

"Clouds is so much fun, Mama!"

"I'm glad you had a fun time playing with Alistair today."

"I did, but Clouds said someone attacked you. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay. Rook is a good shot and an even better lookout, so I wasn't in any danger."

"I like Spooder!"

"I know you do, dear. I like him too."

The kit continued to ramble off about his day and you patiently listened to the excitable kit expound and chatter about how much he enjoyed. Though the day was only half over, he still had to tell you everything that happened because he adored you. Around you, your many guards waited for their own moment to be in the blessed spotlight of your attention. Perhaps they should try befriending Grim to earn your favor.

~•§•~

The evening was setting down and you stood out on the balcony of your room. It gave a lovely view of the Queendom and you couldn't help but admire the beauty of it all. Part of you was sad that the stars were somewhat blocked out by the lights of the bustling city and you longed for a moment beneath the stars.

Resting in your hands was the floating skull bot that Kalim had enchanted, a few songs playing in your head as the skull was dormant. Most of the songs were- oddly enough- slow trailing waltzes that would be best suited for a slow dance. Something about the Palace of Roses and the city lights had your mind focused elsewhere even with the execution looming overhead. The next day was going to be a bloody event indeed, with that kind and boyish Alicorn acting as the official headsman for the execution.

"Enjoying the evening?"

The smooth voice of Malleus drew your gaze over your shoulder as the Dragon approached. His outfit much like the others yet pursuing a certain air of regality that paired well with his ethereal beauty. He was a nocturnal creature of the night and it certainly was shaping up to be an auspicious evening.

"As well as I can."

"Are you worried for what tomorrow may bring?"

"Of course I am."

The Dragon leaned next to you against the railing and looked out at the gentle glowing lights of the city before him. Malleus had been a good ally to you and a very useful friend despite how clearly he was impacted by your aura. If you were going to have everyone you've ever met become obsessed with you, you would at least need to keep strong allies at hand.

"What troubles you? I will always be an ear to listen, should you need to lay your worries upon someone."

"I'm worried about everything. From outside poachers trying their luck, to an Overblot taking place during the height of the event. It seems like- no matter what I do- I am constantly in danger of some kind or put on some pedestal and expected to be some paragon of kindness. I can't always be the voice of reason among madness."

"It does seem like anything that can go wrong, will go wrong more days than not. You are a species others would kill to keep, and one many of us would kill to protect. I do wish this place were safer for you, especially given how much this country previously cared for the Humans among them. If it is of any comfort, we won't allow anything to happen to you."

You sighed, nodding and conceding to his words as you tried to keep your mind from running off with anxious stress. Naturally, you were well aware of your fragility compared to other species, but you hoped with your new weapon that you would be able to protect yourself from others. It was still nice to know that Malleus intended to keep you as safe as possible.

"It's just so hard to keep my mind off of it all, you know?"

Malleus stood in silence for a moment before he picked up the skull from your hands, setting it on the banister and turning towards you. You turned to face him as he caught your other hand, kissing the back gently as he guided you to place your first hand on his shoulder. He slowly began to sway with you as if in a small dance.

The enchanted skull seemed to sense the change in mood and began to softly play a slow rolling song similar to what had been on your mind before Malleus showed. He seemed to take the music in stride and began slowly leading you around the balcony to the gentle tune that turned rich and soulful. Something about the way his eyes gleamed in the dark seemed to enchant you as you allowed the Dragon to lead you slowly through the dance.

It became harder to focus on anything else excepting Malleus as your concern for the next day fell to the wayside. He was at least a very pleasant distraction from what was to come.

Each slow movement had you melting further into the Dragon's embrace as you trusted him to move you to the music. It was nice to forget about things for a while and slowly dance into unawareness with the powerful mage.

He even began to slowly try and hum with the tune of the song, as if he were enjoying the moment of time spent with just the two of you dancing beneath the moonlight. Slowly your eyes began to close as your head rest against his chest, listening to the Dragon hum and croon while he led you through the sweet dance. You didn't know exactly when you began to nod off in the Dragon's arms, but he was quick to bring you to your bed when you stopped dancing.

The last thing that occurred to your brain was the sensation of your clothes being magically changed to an outfit meant for sleep before you succumbed to the gentle embrace of sleep.

Outside of your sugar spun dreams of dancing to gentle music, the Dragon purred adoringly. His clawed hand gently dragging over the skin of your cheek as he smiled in response to your peaceful expression.

"May your dreams be pleasant, and your rest deep, my precious (Y/n). My most beautiful jewel..."

[buckets-and-trees]

idk about you but i just KNOW that nomad steve talks you through it. in the most panty soaking gut wrenching way. he’s always tried to hold back a little, be respectful, not be too much, but once he becomes nomad he just stops giving a damn. and he’s so cocky with it too, knowing he can keep going, keep making you feel good. he gets you going and then it’s all “that’s it baby let go” “that’s riiiiight” “that feel good? yeah? ohh look at you” mocking your desperation when you start moaning and gasping GOD i need him.

Just Say When

Characters/Pairings: Nomad!Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 3.2k Summary: Saturday, February 10, 2018. A surprise in your apartment the weekend before Valentines.

Content/Warnings: "fluffy" angst; repeated hook ups; Nomad Steve is still soft!dark and a warning all his own; explicit smut (oral: male receiving, vaginal fingering, nipple play, vaginal intercourse, unprotected sex/ejaculation); light dirty talk (there's talking, but it's not nasty dirty talk)

Author Notes: Eighth treat for the Valentine Storygrams.

Previous Part | Exiled Nomad Series

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You sighed as you closed the door behind you, dropping your keys on the small table in the entryway. The trip to UPS had taken longer than expected due to a line of people also shipping back their own Amazon returns. You were looking forward to a quiet evening at home, heating up something easy for dinner, and maybe catching up on that book you'd been meaning to finish.

As you shrugged off your coat, a sound made you freeze. The unmistakable hiss of running water hitting tile came from your bathroom. Your heart leapt into your throat, adrenaline surging through your veins. You lived alone. No one else had a key. There shouldn't be anyone in your apartment, let alone using your shower.

For a moment, you stood rooted to the spot, mind racing. Should you call the police? Grab a weapon? Run? But curiosity and a strange sense of anticipation overrode your fear. Cautiously, you made your way down the hallway.

The sound of water shut off the same moment you entered your room, and you hear very faint shuffling from the en suite bathroom. The door was slightly ajar and steam was billowing out. You hesitated for a moment before gently pushing it open.

The sight that greeted you made your breath catch in your throat. A very familiar, very masculine figure. His broad shoulders and muscular back were on full display as he stood wrapping one of your towels low around his hips.

For a moment, you simply stared, unable to believe your eyes. It had been a little over a month since you'd seen him unexpectedly in that nightclub in Aspen. How was he here, in your shower, as if he belonged?

Certainly sensing your presence, Steve turned, his eyes locking with yours. Without a word, he stepped closer.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, his voice low and husky. "I let myself in."

You stood frozen in the doorway, your mind reeling, pussy pulsing already.

You swallowed hard, your eyes roaming over Steve's damp, chiseled torso. Droplets of water clung to his skin, trailing tantalizing paths down his chest and abs. The towel hung dangerously low on his hips, leaving little to the imagination.

"How did you get in?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Steve's lips quirked into a small, almost sheepish smile. "I may have picked the lock. I needed to see you."

Your heart raced at his words. He needed to see you. Despite the shock of finding him in your apartment, a thrill of excitement coursed through you.

"Steve," you breathed, taking a hesitant step towards him. "What are you doing here?"

He closed the distance between you in two long strides, his large hands coming to rest on your waist. The heat from his body radiated through your clothes, making you acutely aware of how close he was.

“This,” he answered your question by lowering his mouth to yours.

Steve's lips crashed against yours, hungry and demanding. You melted into the kiss, your arms wrapping around his neck as he pulled you flush against his damp body. The towel was the only barrier between you, and you could feel the hard planes of his muscles through your clothes.

His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you deeply as his hands roamed your body. One large palm cupped your ass, squeezing possessively as he ground his hips against yours. You could feel his arousal growing, pressing insistently against your stomach.

"I shouldn't keep coming here," Steve murmured against your lips between kisses. "But I need to have you."

You knew you should question this, but all rational thought fled your mind as Steve's lips trailed down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin.

Your head fell back, giving Steve better access to your neck as he continued his sensual assault. His beard scraped deliciously against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Your fingers tangled in his damp hair, holding him close as he lavished attention on your pulse point.

He walked you backwards out of the bathroom and further into your room.

Then Steve stepped back, his eyes roaming over your body with undisguised hunger. The intensity of his gaze made you shiver, desire pooling low in your belly.

"Undress for me," he commanded, his voice low and husky. "Slowly."

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the hem of your shirt to lift it over your head. Steve's eyes followed every movement, darkening with lust as you revealed more skin. Once your torso was fully exposed, you glanced back at Steve and let the shirt fall to the floor.

Steve's hand moved to the towel at his waist. He pulled it away, letting it drop. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him fully naked, his impressive arousal on full display.

Steve's hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slowly as he watched you continue to undress. The sight of him touching himself sent fire through your veins.

“Keep going,” he insisted.

Next, you unzipped your jeans, shimmying them down your hips. Steve's breath audibly caught as you stepped out of it, leaving you in just your mis-matched bra and panties. At least they were good ones.

With deliberate slowness, you reached behind your back to unhook your bra. You held the cups in place for a moment before letting it fall away. Steve's eyes darkened as your breasts were revealed, his hand moving faster on his cock.

"Don’t stop," he breathed.

Your thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your legs. You stepped out of them, now fully naked before Steve's hungry gaze.

Steve studied your body for another moment, drinking in every curve and plane. "Come here," he growled.

You moved towards him, drawn like a magnet.

“Kneel,” he said.

You sank to your knees before Steve, your eyes level with his impressive erection. His hand was still wrapped around the base, and you watched a bead of precum form at the tip.

"Open your mouth," Steve commanded, his voice husky with desire.

You complied, parting your lips as Steve guided the head of his cock between them. The taste of him exploded on your tongue as he pushed deeper into your mouth. Your hands came to rest on his powerful thighs, steadying yourself as you took more of him.

"You're always so eager for me," he gloated.

You didn't care. It was true.

Then Steve's fingers tangled in your hair, guiding your movements as you began to bob your head. "That's it," he groaned. "Take all of me."

You relaxed your throat, allowing him to slide deeper. Your tongue swirled around his shaft as you sucked, drawing a low moan from Steve. His hips began to rock, fucking your mouth with shallow thrusts as you worked him with your lips and tongue.

"Fuck," Steve groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. "Your mouth feels so good."

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder as Steve's thrusts became more urgent. His cock hit the back of your throat with each movement, making your eyes water. But the sounds of pleasure falling from his lips spurred you on, eager to bring him to the edge.

Just as you felt Steve's muscles tensing, signaling his impending release, he suddenly pulled away. You looked up at him, confused and breathless.

"Not yet," Steve panted, his chest heaving. "I want to be inside you.”

Steve's eyes were dark as he reached down to help you to your feet. Without warning, he lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. He dropped you down onto the mattress, his body covering yours quickly as he settled between your thighs.

His lips found yours in a searing kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth as his hands roamed the curves of your body. You arched into his touch, desperate for more contact. Steve's beard scratched deliciously against your skin as he trailed kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking at your pulse point.

"Steve," you whined as he lavished attention on your breasts, his tongue swirling around a nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your slick folds. You moaned as he stroked you, his fingers teasing your labia, circling your clit before dipping lower to tease your entrance. You mewled and arched into his touch, desperate for more friction.

"So wet for me already," Steve murmured against your skin, his voice low and husky. "Is this all for me?"

"Yes," you breathed, your hips rocking against his hand. "Only for you, Steve."

He groaned at your words, capturing your lips in another searing kiss as he slipped two thick fingers inside you.

And it was true. You had never been this way with any one else - not so quick to get physically involved, not uninhibited, willing to let him use your body, so ruin you with pleasure. You let him give and take without question.

You moaned into his mouth as he began to pump his fingers in and out, curling them to hit that perfect spot inside you. His thumb found your clit, circling it in tight, precise movements that had you trembling beneath him.

You knew you should stop. You knew this was dangerous, that you were setting yourself up for heartbreak. But as Steve continued working your body, you could only continue to succumb to your desperation for him, the thing that flickered in and out of your life.

"Steve, please," you whimpered, teetering on the edge of release. "I need you inside me."

Steve growled low in his throat, withdrawing his fingers. He positioned himself at your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough with desire.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. The raw emotion you saw there – lust, possessiveness, and something deeper you couldn't quite name – took your breath away.

Steve pushed forward slowly, stretching you as he sank into your heat inch by glorious inch. You both groaned at the exquisite feeling of him filling you completely. When he was fully seated, he paused, giving you a moment to adjust to his size.

"You feel so good," Steve murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "So tight and perfect for me."

You whimpered in response, overwhelmed by the fullness and the intensity of having Steve so close, here with you.

Steve began to move, starting with slow, deep thrusts that had you gasping with each roll of his hips. His eyes never left yours as he gradually increased his pace, the intensity of his gaze making you feel utterly exposed and vulnerable.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growled, snapping his hips forcefully. "To be filled by my cock, stretched around me?"

"Yes," you moaned, your nails raking down his back. "God, yes, Steve."

The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, punctuated by your breathless moans and Steve's low grunts. He hooked one of your legs over his arm, changing the angle to hit even deeper inside you.

"Fuck," you cried out as he struck that perfect spot.

"You like that?" he panted, driving into you relentlessly. "You like how I fuck you?"

"Yes," you whimpered, your nails raking down his back. "God, yes!"

His rhythm became more frantic, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. The intensity of his thrusts had you clinging to him, pleasure building within you with each powerful stroke.

“Then fucking take what I give you,” he said.

Your mind lost everything except the feeling of Steve moving inside you, the sound of skin on skin, and the increasingly desperate noises falling from both your lips. Steve's rhythm became more frantic, his hips snapping against yours with increasing force. The intensity of his thrusts had you clinging to him, nails digging into his back as pleasure built within you.

"Open your eyes," Steve demanded, his voice strained.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze, not realizing you’d let them slip closed. The raw emotion you saw there – desire, possessiveness, and something deeper you couldn't quite name – took your breath away.

"I want to see you fall apart," he growled, never breaking eye contact as he continued to drive into you relentlessly. "I want to watch what only I can do to you."

One of his hands snaked between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with practiced precision. The dual sensations of his cock pounding into you and his fingers on your sensitive bud quickly pushed you towards the edge.

"Come for me," Steve commanded, his voice strained. "I want to feel you come around my cock."

His words and the relentless pressure on your clit sent you spiraling into ecstasy. You cried out Steve's name as your orgasm crashed over you, your inner walls clenching tightly around him. The intensity of your climax triggered Steve's own release. “Look so pretty when you fall apart,” he groaned, burying himself deep inside you as he came. “So pretty with my cock inside your cunt.”

For a moment, you both lay there, panting and trembling in the aftermath. Steve's weight pressed you into the mattress, but you relished the feeling of being surrounded by him.

When he finally lifted his head to look at you, his blue eyes were soft, almost vulnerable. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly.

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "More than okay."

Steve rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were curled against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as your breathing slowly returned to normal. For a few moments, you simply lay there in comfortable silence, basking in the afterglow.

But as the haze of pleasure began to fade, reality started to creep back in. Questions swirled in your mind - why was he here? How long would he stay this time? When would you see him again, if ever?

As if sensing your thoughts, Steve's arms tightened around you. "I should go," he murmured.

“You say should go, that you shouldn’t have come here, that you shouldn’t have sought me out at the night club, I’m so tired of should’s, Steve.”

“What are you saying?”

You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. "I'm saying... I don't know what I'm saying. Parts of this are confusing, Steve. You show up out of nowhere, rock my world, and then disappear again. I never know when or if I'll see you next. It's exhilarating and amazing when you're here, and maybe that’s all this needs to be."

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. The conflict in Steve's eyes was clear. "You can’t mean that.”

“I’m an adult woman, Steve. I’ve built a life for myself. Let me know what I mean. If I make good or bad choices, they’re mine.”

Steve's jaw clenched as he considered your words. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "You deserve better than this. Better than stolen moments and uncertainty."

"Maybe," you conceded. "But right now, this is what I want."

Steve searched your face, his eyes intense. "You don't know what you're asking for. The danger I'm in, the life I lead now, it's no life for anyone else."

You sat up, pulling the sheet around you. "I'm not asking to join you on missions or be part of your team, Steve. I'm just asking for this to be fine and not a ‘shouldn’t’ anymore."

He sat up as well and ran a hand down your back. You looked over at him.

“That’s all I could give you.”

Your heart swelled painfully in your chest, but you ached for more. He set your bones on fire and made you feel so good. The logical part of your brain knew this was a dangerous path. But in this moment, with Steve's warmth beside you and the lingering afterglow of pleasure, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

"Then give me that," you said softly, meeting his gaze.

And how was this any worse than the fuckboys, the bad relationships that had crashed or stuttered out, or the periods of solitude and celibacy?

"Give me whatever you can," your voice was resolute.

Steve's eyes searched yours, a mix of longing and conflict swirling in their blue depths. For a moment, you thought he might refuse, might pull away and disappear into the night as suddenly as he had appeared. But then he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement.

"Okay," he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Relief flooded through you at Steve's agreement. You leaned in, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. Steve responded immediately, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck as he deepened the kiss.

When you broke apart, Steve rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily.

“I’m thirsty,” you said. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Oh, I’m plenty thirsty,” he replied. “I’ll have some water, but I’ll also have something else when you come back,” he emphasized by slipping his hand between your legs to cup your pussy, curling one of his fingers into your folds, and you moaned.

You quickly but reluctantly pulled yourself away from Steve's touch, shivering as his finger slipped out of you. As you stood, you could feel the evidence of your escapades trickling down your thighs. You padded across the room, snagging Steve's discarded t-shirt from the floor and slipping it on. The soft cotton draped over your curves, the hem barely skimming the tops of your thighs.

The hardwood floor was cool beneath your bare feet as you padded down the hallway towards the kitchen. The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of traffic from the street below.

You pulled two cups out of your cupboard, then opened the refrigerator to pull out your water pitcher. As you pulled the door open, the interior light illuminated the contents, and you did a double take.

There, on the middle shelf, sat a familiar white takeout container that definitely hadn't been there earlier. Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized the logo emblazoned on top - it was from Bella Notte, your favorite Italian restaurant in the city.

With trembling fingers, you reached for the container, already knowing what you'd find inside. As you lifted the lid, the rich aroma of coffee and cocoa wafted up, confirming your suspicions. It was their famous tiramisu, the very same dessert you and Steve had shared that night in September when he'd shown up unexpectedly at your door.

The sight of it brought a flood of memories rushing back.

You’d been fine when he left in September.

You’d been fine when he left the first time.

You would be fine when he left this time.

You would be.

This was fine.

next part: March 10, 2018

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

So this is it! This is the last encounter that brings us now to the original pieces of Nomad Steve March 10 and then March 21 (back when this was one random drable and one follow up).

And what now, you ask? There are four more parts I have planned out for them formally.

read more in the Exiled Nomad Series

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[eldest-moonlit]

I've never found that place at all in my life, and I'm no longer looking outside of my already existing circle of close friends and acquaintances. As a neurodivergent woman on the autism spectrum, I've taken so many blows from neurotypical society and neurotypical people that I've lost track. I've been ghosted and blocked by a lot of people, the majority of them men, when they seemed to be the ones interested in me, only to abandon me without warning the moment I started to become myself or if I ever brought up my own needs. One of those instances left me sobbing into my blankets as I was sitting in my bed, trying to be quiet so that my parents wouldn't notice that I was in emotional pain. I've faced a lack of understanding, and/or a lack of effort to understand me, from most neurotypical people in my life, with the only exceptions being my parents and one of my three close friends. I've had far too many neurotypical people accuse me constantly of making excuses for myself when in reality I'm trying to explain my neurodivergence and how it affects the way I perceive the world in the best way that I can. There is a high possibility that I was gaslit for years, by my own peers in middle and high school, into invalidating my concerns and fears over living with epilepsy, when I purposely don't drive because I've missed taking my medication before and had a seizure 24 hours later because of that. If I have a seizure while driving, then I would be at a much higher risk of being either seriously injured or outright killed in a resulting car accident. Unfortunately, the only neurotypical people I've met in life who actually understand that, or at least try to, are one of my closest friends, my parents, my neurologist, and my therapist. Anyone else I've met who understands, or at least tries to, are also on the autism spectrum or neurodivergent in a different way, which includes my other two closest friends.

As a result of all the blows, my trust in neurotypical people is, to an extent, permanently damaged and will remain so. I may be in therapy now, but I feel that even if I go through years of it, I will always be very suspicious and wary of any neurotypical person I come across, of their true intentions and colors. I've learned to avoid hope as well. For me, the pain of crushed hopes is far worse than pain that comes from avoiding hope. I have my request that people not immediately follow me for good reason: in the words of TV Tropes, I'm a Broken Bird who finds stronger bonds and kinships with others on the spectrum, who Does Not Like Men because of just how many times I've been hurt by men in the past, and has the coping mechanisms I do to Never Be Hurt Again. But I'm not getting my hopes up. I already struggle to survive in a neurotypical society that loves to hurt and disadvantage neurodivergent people, so I don't expect it to adjust to my needs while I will have to constantly adjust my needs to fit in. And even if there is someone for me out there, I don't bother to hope. I've been lied to far too many times by men already, and during a time in my life where survival in neurotypical society has only gotten more difficult for me. I have a feeling that for the rest of my life, I will be struggling to survive in society with only my needs, my interests, my methods of survival, and autistic traits keeping my head above water.

[tapenbreak]

𖦹. “𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐄.” —(𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐍𝐄𝐘)

𖦹. — 𝐬;𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. losing a stupidly made bet has its consequences, it seems. oh, what a moron he can be. although, too late to back out now, is it—dearest whitney? a nice , round 5.0k words.

𖦹. — 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 . . . younger, therefore underclass man whitney who thought it was such a nice idea to suggest a bet, only to lose in the process, ‘first’ kiss, whoever lasts the longest wins, quite tame, actually—in comparison, though it’s mostly unspoken yearning. fat, puppy crush on upperclassman!reader (amab) that may or may not be worse.

𖦹. — 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬, doc? : “I’ve wanted to stretch this on further than intended, but I got something else planned for this fucker, so never mind. I’m not all that fond of this one since it’s quite more heavy on the feelings than actions, but to each their own.”

Alright, so, let’s supposedly say that he’s already somehow impulsively roped himself in an intangible mess due to an irrefutably dumb bet he’s made on the spot with you, none the wiser—of course. Inexplicably caught himself in a sticky, spider web akin to a precarious trap most starving predators would’ve predictably laid bare for their meddling preys to eventually sink into and—would y’a look at that, like the actual dumbass he can seldomly be, he can’t possibly hope to back out now, can he?

No, no, because y’see—if Whitney were to humiliatingly do such an idiotic thing, then surely that’d just be directly admitting to that irritatingly pretty face of yours that you were apparently correct all along. Not that you are, fuck no. Like that’d ever occur in a million goddamn years, you intolerable bastard. God, that being his sole intention from the pure beginning to crudely wipe that frustrating smile plastered upon your. . . ugh, cherry perfect lips whenever the delinquent-in-the-making merely happens to be in your tedious presence.

Or is cruelly teasing him till he’s unabashedly grown hotter in the fullness of his blazing cheeks a conclusive hobby of yours? Probably, considering your blatant sadism when it comes to endlessly poking fun at someone until they’ve inevitably snapped dead in your face before you oh, so innocently claim that it was simply a meaningless joke. Mindlessly shrug the entire ordeal off as if it were meant to be truly nothing more than an obsessive overreaction on his part. Yeah, yeah—motherfucker, well he’s got a precious one-liner for y’a, also.

“Bet I could.” Confidently proclaiming with an overly arrogant tone that you notably took seriously due to the aforementioned circumstances for some unspoken reason. And that, you see—was specifically when the blonde irreversibly dug himself in the depths of a narrow pit which he can’t possibly climb out of now. So, fuck it, alright?? Fuck his sheer idiocy and muddling arrogance that’s shamelessly come forth to screw him over right in the balls for having previously accepted a seemingly doable suggestion.

Uh huh—‘doable’, he said. Cuz’ it’d be so irresistibly, fucking ‘easy’, another moron in his cocky mind chimed along in turn. Speaking of apparently ‘easy’, maybe next time, think twice before actually acting upon your stinging urges to uselessly prove someone else, like your shitty upperclassman, by the way—wrong, huh. Ever thought of that? No, ‘course he truthfully didn’t consider it thoroughly beforehand because it’s Whitney, the stubborn, hard-headed bully of a underclass man we’re namely speaking of here, after all.

Slippery, sliding slope doesn’t truly begin to particularly cut it either, honestly—yeah, he’s gone and undeniably fucked it up, this time for sure. Hasn’t he?

Hence why his clammy palm is currently placed atop your rather. . . uh, firm chest which he’ll never be outwardly uttering out such an exceptionally odd statement unless he inherently wishes to never live it down till the day he literally dies. That is, including this one ceaseless thought incessantly creeping within the remnants of his blurring mind—about how annoyingly nice the dizzying scent exuding from the warmth of your nearby proximity is. Shit, are those your natural pheromones too? Cuz’ he’s already going fuckin’ crazy from a mere unsuspecting whiff like a bitch in heat. Not to mention, the mind-boggling fact of being comfortably perched along the neat spreading of your thighs for his slimmer legs to settle upon, intimately hook themselves around your hips like a delicate lifeline solely intended to be unperturbed for the remainder of this intimate encounter. And no, this isn’t remotely on purpose, goddamn it—get your filthy head out of the gutter, you pervasive freak. It’s not like that, okay? Just. . . give him a moment, pretty please.

And perhaps at best, a generous minute you’d so graciously offer the blonde to discreetly adjust the sweltering heat that’s come forth to prettily stain his face in a similar crimson manner along with its unending path downwards and—well, y’know. . . below, there. Hardening cock certainly stirring with peeked interest at the subtle press of your laidback figure securely held against his own, shit. . . admittedly, smaller one. Sometimes, the considerable size difference shared amongst you two really does get to him in an albeit, fucking degenerative way. Enough so to inwardly curse at how utterly unhelpful that provoking detail was to the pulsing blood swiftly rushing down to his impatient length—hah.

Fuck, there’s no way this is realistically happening, right—but, it is, dammit. All due to prideful banter that may or may not have unreasonably translated to blatant flirting between you both despite his general lack of interest to other surrounding assholes slightly older than him in age.

Listen, you’re just tolerable enough where he doesn’t inevitably blow a sensitive nerve in return to some mild pestering on your end while simultaneously beating his dumb, idiotic self for regarding you in such high esteem—and yeah, that does include the sheer awed admiration visibly apparent in each of his movements. Intricately foolish in every one of his subtle gestures in hopes of successfully imitating your usual mannerisms, coincidentally catch your straying gaze to finally rest upon his uncharacteristically starving own.

Hell, the fucker even went through the irritating trouble of having the delicate muscle of his slippery, pink tongue wholly pierced for the sake of you possibly taking notice of it. Gleaming bud prettily flashing back towards your reflected, half-lidded gaze partially hidden by fluttering lashes, boringly snuffing in light interest at the sudden sight of it all. Taking notice, huh? That, you offhandly did, but merely for a few meddlesome seconds before eventually sinking back into your settled routine, as per usual. Well, said system of vaguely appreciating the sheer extended lengths he pathetically forces himself to endure in an unending pursuit of altering his appearance befitting of the ‘wilder’ types you habitually go for—due to something along the lines of, what’d you say again? Oh yeah, ‘they’re funnier to mess with when they lose their tempers, is all’—sickening asshole that you are, and still, remaining his unchanging crush nonetheless.

Although, whether or not he truthfully vocalizes that childish adoration akin to how a little brother would towards his elder one—is probably not ever fucking happening. As he still retains some semblance of pride to selfishly keep to himself, too. Don’t you forget that either.

Which is reasonably why despite the lurking remnants of embarrassment sourly creeping within the tensed coils of his tummy, a tightly-knitted cousin of shame, mind you. There’s still indisputable trepidation that traverses throughout the length of his shivering, curved spine; deepens his barely concealed smugness at having you like this. Because finally—fucking finally, has your shortly lived attention lastly settled upon the blonde’s awaiting own as purely intended.

‘Course, knowing your blunt self that either chooses not to attentively read the tense atmosphere currently residing within the spacious room or being merely oblivious to it, altogether—you eventually break that pleasurable silence with a singular insistent reminder or rather, a query to snap him out of this shit show. Ah, always the annoyingly persistent one when it comes to waiting for him to defy your set expectations, aren’t ya?

“Something the matter?” Sweetened voice of yours seamlessly passing through the foggy murk of his momentary daze by the slightest tilt of your head in a questioning motion. Still, remaining conscious that there’d be no such thing as worrisome concern on your part considering the utter bastard that you openly are and, yet—the persistent indication that this will be. . . obviously, nothing more than some meaningless wager whose sole intent is to be ultimately fulfilled in the end, leaves an exceptionally sour taste in his closed mouth.

Yeah, something’s the matter, alright—and he’s just about to recklessly give in to that sugary tone lest it weren’t for the automatic switch in your previously gentle inquiry, abruptly interrupting him from slipping out some mumbled confession in turn.

“Say, are you actually chickening out on me now? Is that it, Ney-Ney? Cat got your tongue and you actually can’t do it after all, can you?” Hah—again with that shitty nickname that bears no remote significance besides literally getting on his fucking nerves whenever, which you do impressively possess the sheer knack to repeatedly do so. Uh-huh, he’s gotta hand it to y’a.

It’s like the second you tentatively part your open lips to randomly speak—does his incessant yearning to restlessly press his starving lips against yours immediately shift instead, to this seething urge to meanly tug upon the strands of your hair like an angry kitten scratching at its owner. Oh, way to ruin the goddamn mood, dumbass.

“Will you shut up? I’m tryna concentrate here, but your fuckin’ mouth keeps on talking and talking and—ah, hey! Can you quit it and keep still for just one second or does the thought of sharing spit with your shitty underclassman actually turns you on that much?” Perverted bastard. Blearily aware of his shoddy excuse at some backhanded lie or whatever, as though you wouldn’t easily see through those tactics you’ve come to know of. Particularly becoming defensive once he’s ceremoniously brought back into a difficult corner and shit, you just can’t help but to gleefully tease him for it, can you?

Noooo, of fuckin’ course not! Must be solely imprinted in your bastardized nature to be so thoroughly insufferable at this point, huh? So much so that he’d desire nothing more than to tortuously crane your neck further to then—give forth to a salivating glimpse of your surely vulnerable neck for his glinting fangs to dreadfully sink into, greedily paint its pristine surface a melding velvet instead as pure revenge.

Because that’s entirely what it is, not some other bizarre, obscure fetish of this mean delinquent. Poorly hidden away in the withering depths of his unexplored memories or y’know. . . numerous times he’s come close to almost slobbering all over your veiny dick along with a generous amount of drooling, translucent spit to coat it with. And shit—he’s predictably derailing once more without meaning to.

Judging by the molten pupils that steadily expand in face of this less than desired situation, at most. Evasively trail towards whatever seemingly unimportant spot is etched amongst the boring surface of your bedroom’s blank walls in a futile attempt to soothe the pumping blood presently coursing throughout his thin veins. More or less, yeah. That’s all there is to it, so can you like, eventually cease with the constant staring on your end or something?

“I think you’re lying.” Unexpectedly bringing him out of his overly distracting fantasy for a stuttering second by flashing that signature grin of yours that’s only seeming to be confidently growing by the second, and—double fuck! You’re totally seeing through his barely concealed ploys, aren’t you? “I think you actually can’t do it and you’re just tryna play coy with me right now.”

“Wha—?“ Unsure wether to plainly deny your unjust statement that may or may not unfortunately ring true, regardless of if he painfully insists the opposite or to take actual offense at the likely suggestion that he doesn’t have the fucking balls to go through with it. Sure, sure! He totally can!! Albeit, a minute was all he scarcely asked for—despite it being way more than a single minute having passed, so don’t trample on the boggling nerves occupying the swelling of his drying, bobbing throat.

But before then, your indecently mocking voice somehow slips past the aforementioned comment Whitney was oh, so ready to renounce—because that’s all you ever do, managing to conveniently earn the upper hand in either situation, no matter the contextual circumstances at play. And damn you for it, too.

“See, what I think, honestly—I think you’re nothing more than a pussy who’s all talk and no bite, really. Too fucking dumb to even properly lie to me about it, too. Cuz’ the thing is, you actually haven’t kissed anyone for real yet, have you?” Inwardly flinching at the abrupt scorning on your part since sure, you’re one mean asshole sometimes, specially with others hopelessly clinging to your sides—but, not with him, no. Preferring to play the part of the considerate, older brother figure that’ll happily follow along to his unsatisfied whims.

So, strictly speaking, being unusually harsh on him without any spoken warning shouldn’t be so disgustingly hot to him nor heavily affect the thrumming blood rushing below to his leaking cock. Further dampen the already present, sticky stain against the now tarnished fabric of his trousers, but fucking shit—does it so. Like those untrained masochists, better put freaks, he regularly bullies on the daily, savagely snickers at for squirming beneath the hardened heel of his shoe. Idiots, is what they are.

Yeah. God, it’s so utterly, fucking filthy.

And funnily enough, here he is—shamefully experiencing that same warmth of degeneracy for being caught in his puzzling act, yet simultaneously thrilled at the various consequences that await for doing so.

“I don’t—“ Fuck, fuck, fuuuuckkkk!!! Mere sentences shouldn’t be humiliatingly failing on him now and neither should the withering breath pitifully falling forth from between his lips left agape—be this fucking telling of the unforeseen reality at bay. “. . . —I don’t know what you’re talking about, really—“

“Sure, you don’t. Then, you must also not have a single goddamn clue as to why you’re leaking like a fucking girl all over my lap right now too, huh?” Instinctually knowing better than to wearily spare a glance downwards since, well. . . yeah, about now—your not-so-precious jeans are notably soaked in the melding evidence of his unspoken arousal if nothing else, but did you fuckin’ have to truly word it like that either? Doesn’t necessarily lessen the sheer absurdity of the unbecoming predicament the delinquent practically pranced himself into like he hilariously owned the place or something.

Unfortunately, here’s to learning the harsh narrative that things, when seamlessly played out in the narrow space of your head—don’t invariably turn out the exact same as foreboding reality itself, do they?

Dumbass, he should’ve seen it coming the second he carelessly chose to lie to your face to begin with.

“Fuck, it’s not like tha—“ And there goes his irreparable mistake altogether, knowing fully well that it is indeed like that, if nothing else. Since it’s always been, every single time—without a literal, precious fuckin’ second to scarcely spare—you, you, and you solely. Plus sincerely speaking, he would’ve undeniably chosen for it not to be this way instead, y’know??

Not have his usually unaffected body so effortlessly react in face of your own, whether it’d be the discreet breaths of yours teasingly brushing along the rim of his blazing ears whenever you get the distracting urge to whisper some unimportant gossip during class.

Truly, do you feel the absolute need to remain so unbearably close in his personal space at times? To the point, it has him dizzyingly peering downwards to his clenched fists that greet him in turn. Too goddamn cowardly to steal a glimpse from below lest he realized the shockingly near proximity you’re both collectively sharing, without you bearing the slightest bother, too—and automatically curses as sweating palms land upon your chest and has you barely stumbling back. Cuz’ shit, the blonde’s downright terrified of the increasingly hasty beat of his annoyingly straining heart stuttering against the firmness of his ribbed cage. Fuck. . . it might as well be leaping out at a certain point, although he acknowledges he appears more like some dreadful lunatic if he were to audibly yell at some minor touches.

Reminiscing upon such pointless bullshit won’t necessarily get him anywhere and it’s not like he does it willingly either, no—not when your hand is now currently gripping at the shape of his gaping jaw. Actually, when the hell did you supposedly manage to get ahold of him like this when he wasn’t in the brightest of moments to do so? Momentarily caught off guard by the sudden press of your fingertips digging in the softened surface of his flesh, albeit with no sense of care in the fucking world as you habitually do with the majority of your things. Which, shit—doesn’t mean he’s the equivalent of your outright property since if that were the case, he’d most likely blow an imploding fuse as he knows it, and you certainly do know it, too.

As that was the initial plan presently swirling throughout the mumbling mess of the bully’s mind—only to be swiftly interrupted by a lingering kiss your. . . shit, annoyingly soft lips tenderly placed amongst the crimson hue that is his heated face—too dizzyingly close for his liking, near the mere corner of his pursed mouth. Frankly speaking, he has no clue what to make of this other than the likely scenario that you’re borderline amused by this and fuckin’ toying with him like your other various stress balls, as per usual.

“Earth to Whitney. I’m still tryna’ speak to you, but I guess you’re too far gone thinking about us sucking on each other’s tongues or something like that, am I right?” Drawling out lazily as though, you’d bear no semblance of interest for this little game of cat-and-mouse you collectively play on the daily basis and if not for that slight, adorning glint in your gaze—maybe he would’ve stupidly fallen for that easily concealed facade altogether, too. But no, he does know it’s a selfish thing of yours, or rather. . . some intricate fetish would be a better word to scarcely describe this sheer high you get from witnessing the gritting of his teeth, fluttering eyes narrowing in mere irritation. To say, it’s progressively building into something else until he’s undeniably pissed at your continuous mockery—that being, what others around you call ‘salacious flirting’ or something like that. Sheesh, he holds no importance for random spectators at your school besides you two.

Uh-huh, isn’t that what they refer to it as? ‘The boy likes to tug at the girl’s pigtails to draw her attention, after all!’—yet, he’s no squealing girl swatting at your insistent touches, is he? Fuck no. Truly, it’s nothing like that. However, sometimes with the way you constantly pinch and prod along the bruised surface of his perched figure atop your own, patiently await his expected curses like an anticipating dog wanting to be scolded. . . Well, can’t say it looks like anything else other than apparent sexual tension. Unsure whether or not he should be seldomly pleased at that somewhat late realization or temporarily concerned as to how you treat your usual girlfriends—or boyfriends, sometimes, that come and go like the blowing wind. Not to say, he treats any of his disposable sluts any better, either.

Eh, shit. No time to necessarily delve further in something he isn’t meant to supposedly poke at, is there? Yeah, cuz’ frankly speaking—he’s always been the goddamn impulsive type that’ll do as he pleases, expectant of yours truly to follow along to his baseless whims.

“Let’s quit with the bullshit already and do it, I don’t got all day to be sitting here on your lap like your prissy bitches.” Yup, yup. Carelessly ignoring the minor and important aspect that he cleared up his busying schedule regardless of his friend’s muttered pleas—going on and on about something at the shady pub that’s down the farthest street in this shit town. Oh right, he didn’t remotely listen to what those fuckers had to honestly say so, here goes that. Discreetly swishing at the messied strands of platinum blonde hair partially obscuring his vision, huffing at its burdensome concealment until he’s face to face with you. Almost clumsily bumping the curvature of your two noses together in an impatient haste to interlock each other’s lips in a. . . what others call it, huh; shitty, goddamn kiss.

However, rather uncharacteristically—he silently waits instead, hazy pupils traversing lower to where your curled up lips are solely a melding breath away from his dumbly hanging own. Maintaining eye contact like this. . . till your foreheads are nearly pressed along one another like this, inwardly shuddering at your unwavering focus upon his straying eyes. Gosh, do you seriously wanna fuckin’ do this with your eyes open or something, like a freak would??

“If you say so, Ney-Ney. I’m sure you wouldn’t wanna be kissing a boy either, huh. I’ll try to make it nice for you as best I can.” Ever the oh, so charming type that tries to accommodate to the blonde’s ill tempered tantrums, aren’t ya? Uttering so forth in an unspoken promise even if actually, he wouldn’t wanna be sharing spit with anyone else other than you. Whether he ever eventually admits it or not is an entirely different story, though.

Wordlessly so, he lets you do as you joyously please, at your own steady pace—‘course, which is to trace the softened pad of your cushiony fingertip along the sharp line of his tightening jaw. For it to ultimately land to where his chin awaits your yearning touches, brief moments of lingering contact to subconsciously gawk at in desolate secrecy. Y’know, how a drooling puppy would when awaiting its sweet treat; which he’s not, at all—no. Especially not your questionable pokes as you childishly peer to the side, rub soothing circles across the nape of his tensed neck as if to ease him into this, all the while idly playing with the shortened strands of hair settled there.

“Slacken your jaw for me, will you?” You gently order in a. . . shit, soft lull and he doesn’t like to be commanded around neither, but he calmly does so regardless. Solely to get it over with, nothing else extra that’s simmering deeply in the background. Especially not the unspoken crush he withholds for you whether you’re both mutually conscious of it or not, well—regarding how exceptionally cunning you tend to be that you can seamlessly read through him like a tattered heap of pages thrown atop your lap—yeah, maybe it’d be arrogantly dumb of him to assume otherwise, huh.

Plus it’s not like the delinquent here, is particularly used to his usually pursed lips wholly parting in an expectant nature for yours to plant featherlight kisses against. Since they’re generally brought up in a dismissive scowl for all to wearily witness—either when passing him in the hallways as his snarky laughter resounds with each echoed step, or the occasional glimpse of his shadowed figure sneaking between deserted alleyways, is seen.

Which, he would’ve indeed protested in stingy opposition at your insistent need to meticulously comb through the glistening locks of his hair. Sure, if it didn’t feel so damn good. . . to have your cupping palm carefully easing him into this, gradually melting in the imprinted shape of your entangled limbs settled together, atop this pillowed bed. One used thumb lightly nudging across the pouty flesh of his bottom lip in a silent gesture of the familiarity both shared between the two of you as your face nears closer to his. Intimately inspecting at the accumulated saliva that drips forth from the other’s open maw, nearly suckling at the intruding digit that is the continuous rub of your curled finger pressed across his drooling tongue. ‘Course, you gotta get a whole mouthfeel of its heated sensation before ultimately—diving in, don’t you?

“Yeah, there we go. . . You’ll be a good boy for me, won’t you—pretty boy?” It’s meant to have him inwardly seething towards this blatantly obvious taunt of yours, openly scorn at the unwanted nickname he’d like to jab at until that irritating grin of yours disappears altogether.

And shit, did he really want to—nothing more than that, honestly. But, he’s immediately interrupted from doing so once you’re ceremoniously covering the cushiony surface of untouched lips with yours, instead. Utterly pissed at himself with how easily it eases up from the experienced brush of your tongue inviting itself in its warmth depths. Those same arms that’d stubbornly stick to his sides like it’d never leave such a place either; now finding themselves to be clutching at the wrinkled fabric of your shirt draped along your reassuring back. Instinctually arching in your enclosed ones in return, loosely held around the width of his waist to absently pinch at in humming thought.

Fuck, fuck. . . fucking shiiittt. Was a kiss always supposed to be this mind-numbingly good that he’s out here losing all utter senses besides taste and touch? Neither struggling against the sudden weight of his eyelids shutting themselves in favour of greeting pitch darkness—goddamn it, not if it’s your mouth is perfectly made for his to mold against.

Even more so as an unwanted keen resembling that of a trembling prey, just about ready to be wholly devoured by the predator looming above its eventual demise—slips past previously sealed lips. Ugh, dammit. . . and here he is, upper lip wobbling in response to the added stimulation of your slippery tongue sliding against his own. Nearly wavering over the tempting option to hurriedly scratch along the delicate skin of your neck and—ah, speaking of, he’s gotta have a fixation with that bobbing throat of yours or something, shit. In some vain attempt to signal the sheer suffocation overtaking him from having his mouth crudely stuffed in repeated fucks of your impatient own, practically devouring his breathy moans in musing delight.

Accompanied by shuddering breaths collectively intermingling into one steady beat that’s bound to hurriedly quicken if he somehow keeps this one up, stretches it any further lest he doesn’t obviously get it over with soon. Which is the actual prime objective here! Don’t get him wrong! The sole plan, here—he’s intricately envisioned in the deep receding of his mind is to prove you wrong of his so-called loss, either way.

Quite literally, if it weren’t for the intolerable amount of pride residing within the swelling of his heaving chest—caught up against your own effortlessly casing over him; he’d have already done so, by now, without the slightest trace of hesitation.

But, y’know. . . It’s proving to be quite difficult for no reason whatsoever to necessarily pull away as he’s originally intended to do so. Partially disgusted by his own weakness when it comes to you and ‘course, it has to be solely you to wholly encase him like this. Whether or not it’s through plain obliviousness of his muddled protests swiftly concealed by your lips covering his own—or maybe, the sheer stubbornness of the mere possibility of letting him out of your sight. Either way, the numerous kitten scratches he’s subconsciously leaving along your treaded skin isn’t letting up itself.

Because even as he somehow manages to draw further backwards, your mouth instinctually follows his in return. As though the absurd thought of him teetering away from your emboldened grasp isn’t one to remotely ponder upon due to its ridiculousness, and neither is the way you both ultimately fall onto the bouncing mattress in a heaping mess with a resounding oomph! Although, he’s suspecting it was his quick-witted gesture of dragging you downwards—to where he’s predictably atop of, that landed you two in this precarious position.

“M-Motherfucker, you didn’t even give me a chance to catch my breath.” It’s rather an uncharacteristically petulant complaint than it is a fitting scolding on his part. Peering from underneath messied hangs that do oh, so well to conceal those narrowing eyes of his when he desires to. Yeah, they’re especially useful when it comes to evading your zeroing gaze hovering right above his own—like you’re actually surprised he hasn’t attempted a punch in your stirring guts for suddenly taking the lead like that.

“Hmm, was the kiss that unpleasant for you?” Pouting sorrowfully in response to the aforementioned statement like such a thing would potentially hurt your veiled sentiments, altogether. ‘Course, he knows better than to ceremoniously cave in to that pitiful nuzzle you offer along the crook of his neck since the thing is, your amusement of things comes first and foremost.

“Eh, don’t know. Why don’t y’a take another try at it and I’ll tell you how much you suck at it then.” It’s a tainted falsehood, at most—however, for the sly grin of pearly teeth flashing in your direction and the renewed sense of competition that swells within your chest at the provoking taunt. Well, he supposes that it’ll be worth the excuse so that his tongue better remembers the melding taste of your own upon one another.

And maybe, he’ll garner a measly chance to actually win this time. Rarely catch you off guard during one of those make-out sessions that are bound to grow more frequent, one way or another.

Though, it’s unlikely. Huh. You never do give him the chance to do so when it comes to your bets, do you?

Fucking prick.

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to their s/o suggesting going raw for the first time

Request: May I request something a little spicy SVT reaction to their partner tell them they are on birth control now and suggested on using no condoms for the first time. (if they both agree) P.S You have such good writing!

A/N: I'm not sure if I did this justice, but my writing style shifts depending on my mood and the request. This time, it just felt right to make most of them take the lead—so here we are. And ofc, they’d be thrilled to finally experience this without any barriers, but y’all, be smart and stay safe, alright? NOT PROOFREAD!

Content: MDNI ! reader is on birth control, heavy implications, mild degradation & possessiveness, several members take on dominant/assertive roles, mature language, grip-tightening, caging, and restraint, raw/unprotected sex implication, loss of control themes. Lmk if I missed anything

Seungcheol: His eyes lock onto yours, filled with a mix of surprise and something primal. "Are you sure?" His voice is low, just above a whisper, almost a growl as he steps closer, his hand cupping your face, thumb brushing over your cheek. "You've got to know this means something,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. There's an intensity in his stare is deeper than lust. His fingers trace the curve of your jaw before tilting your chin up, "We can take it slow, but I trust you." His lips press to your forehead, lingering for a moment, as if he's grounding himself of what's about to happen. His hands find your waist, his grip firm. "Tell me if you're ready,” he whispers, his voice laced with restraint, as if he's holding himself back. But you see it_the simmering desire in his eyes, the hunger behind his control.

Jeonghan: The moment you speak, Jeonghan's expression falters, his eyes darkening with a barely contained desire. His fingers reach up to trace along your jaw, slow, sending shivers through you. "Are you sure, angel?" he murmurs, yes he'll angel you in this moment his voice softer now, thoughtful, but there's an edge to it. "Because once we do this, there's no way we can go back to how things were, I'll love it." His lips brush against yours, feather-light at first, teasing. "I want you to be all in," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin, "to feel every sensation with me." Then, without warning, he closes the distance, capturing your lips fully, deeply, drawing a gasp from you. His hands skim down your sides, a slow, lazy exploration. But you can feel the tension in his body, the way he's holding himself back, waiting for you to pull him closer, to give in completely to him.

Joshua: Joshua steps toward you, his gentle eyes now filled with dark clouds, with lust, love and longing. His fingers brush against your cheek, his touch too soft for the way his smirk is beginning to form. "If you're sure..." his voice trails off, as if giving you one last chance to reconsider, but the glint in his eyes tells you he already knows your answer. Then, before you can react, he's pushing you back onto the bed, hovering over you in an instant, caging you in beneath him. His lips crash onto yours, slow but demanding, as his teeth graze your lower lip, a light bite before he deepens the kiss. His hands slide under your blouse, fingertips tracing over your skin exploring every little definition. "You feel so warm," he murmurs, his lips now trailing down your jaw, your neck. "I've been waiting for this." His voice is smooth, restrained but utterly consuming.

Jun: Jun's lips curl into a teasing smile, but there's a pretty undeniable sharpness in his gaze. "Is that what you want?" His voice is smooth, almost playful, but there’s a darkness underneath—to say the least, it’s possessive. You nod, barely breathing as he steps closer, your bodies now only inches apart. He watches you carefully, like a predator watching its prey. "Say it," he demands, his fingers gripping your waist. "I want to hear you say it" Once the words leave your lips, the atmosphere shifts. The teasing glint in his eyes fades into more serious. Then, in one swift move, he pushes you back against the wall, his hand tilting your chin up before his lips crash into yours. His kisses are intense, his other hand sliding down, unbuttoning your shirt one-handed with an ease that makes your breath hitch. "You make it too easy for me" he murmurs against your lips, before pressing another deep kiss to them, his grip tightening ever so slightly, just enough to make you shiver.

Hoshi: His grin shifts into something raw immediately. His fingers brush against your arm before trailing up to your collarbone, his touch feather-light but burning all the same. "You want that, huh?" His voice is teasing, but there's a weight behind it. His smirk grows as he watches you, waiting, savoring your reaction. You barely have time to respond before he's stepping forward, walking you back until the back of your legs hit the bed. "Sit," he instructs, voice low. You obey, heart hammering as he crawls onto the mattress, kneeling before you. He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips but not quite kissing you yet. His hands slide over your thighs, slow, deliberate. Then, with a smirk, he says, "Take it off." When you hesitate slightly flustered cause of his so forward reaction, his fingers tilt your chin up. "Oh, come on," he coaxes. "Don't get shy on me now," he says as a low chuckle escapes him, his fingers trail down your arm. "I want to see you," his lips brushing against your ear, gaze never wavers, as he leans in just a little closer, his warmth pulling you in like gravity.

Wonwoo: His face remains impassive at first, but there's a shift in the air. His fingers graze your arm, soft yet searing. "If we do this, it's not just a step... it's a leap," he says, his voice a quiet storm. He leans in, lips hovering just over your skin, breath warm and intoxicating. "You sure you want to cross that line with me?" There's something about the way he says it—low, deliberate, a dare wrapped in restraint that makes you want him even more. His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, just enough to make you gasp. But then you nod. And suddenly, there's no hesitation. His mouth crashes onto yours, ferocity unraveling between you both in waves. He lifts you effortlessly, pressing you against the nearest surface as his lips trail down your neck, fingers tracing paths of fire along your skin. "You have no idea what you've just started," he whispers, voice thick with lust and danger. Your breath hitches as his grip tightens, anchoring you against him. His teeth graze your pulse point, a teasing scrape before his tongue soothes the sting, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His hands roam lower, fingers pressing into your hips with just enough force to make you shiver. "You still have time to change your mind," he murmurs, though the way his body molds against yours tells a different story. His eyes lock onto yours, waiting for the final word that will unravel everything between you.

Woozi: Woozi doesn't react immediately, but the way his body stills speaks volumes. His eyes flicker with something intimate yet laced with danger. Slowly, he steps forward, erasing the space between you until your breaths are mingling. "You sure?" His voice carries a weight that sinks into your skin. His fingers brush against your waist, tentative at first, but when you don't pull away, his grip tightens. "I'll be gentle... but you'll feel every bit of me." It's a promise that makes your pulse stutter. Then, with no warning, he moves. His hands find your hips as he pushes you down onto the mattress, hovering over you, his smirk barely visible in the dim light. "You knew what you were doing when you said that," he murmurs, his lips tracing down your jaw. His body presses against yours, liquid seeping through the fabric of your underwear. "No going back now." His fingers trail along the hem of your shirt, teasing, testing, before slipping beneath the material, his touch searing against your skin. His lips follow the path of his hands, leaving ghostly kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, marking every inch as his own. The heat between you coils tighter, your heartbeat matching his as he meets your gaze and in the next second, the last barrier on you is gone.

Dokyeom: Kyeom blinks, as if processing your words, and for a split second, you see flashes in his eyes—excitement, hesitation and hunger beneath it all. His hands find your shoulders, grounding both of you, as he exhales slowly. "If we do this..." he swallows, his voice dropping an octave, "...I won't ever go back." His grip tightens just slightly, enough to make your breath hitch. "I trust you, but I want to make sure you trust me too." His lips brush against your ear, his voice a whisper, soft yet laced that makes your stomach coil. The moment you give him the green light, the hesitation vanishes. In one swift movement, he throws himself at you, knocking you onto the bed with a breathless laugh that quickly turns into something more heavier. His hands explore, his touch reverent but eager. "You don't even realize what you've done to me," he murmurs against your skin before his mouth captures yours completely.

Mingyu: Mingyu's smile falters—not in hesitation, but in something else entirely. The puppy boyishness drains away, replaced by something raw. His fingers find the curve of your neck, trailing down slowly, deliberately, as he tilts his head. "You sure you're not playing around, are you?" His voice is softer than expected, but there's a warning. He steps closer, so close that your bodies almost touch, and the air between you grows heavier. His thumb brushes against your bottom lip before he leans in, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss. His hands grip your waist, firm yet careful. "I'll make sure you're okay," he breathes against your lips, "but once we do this... it's just us. No second thoughts." His body presses against yours, his warmth intoxicating. "I'm not going back." Then, with a smirk that's nothing short of sinful, he adds, "And if you think I'm stopping anytime soon... you're sorely mistaken." Before you can react, he moves swiftly and unrelenting, pinning you beneath him that steals your breath. His lips find yours again, demanding and feverish, his hands roaming memorizing every inch of you. "You started this," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a husky whisper. "Now, let me finish it."

Minghao: Minghao's eyes darken, his composed exterior cracking just enough to let something else slip through. He tilts his head, watching you carefully, calculating every flicker of emotion in your face, "Sure." His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering, almost possessive. He lets the silence stretch, watching your reaction, waiting for that final confirmation. Then, when he sees the resolve in your eyes, his lips curve into a slow smirk. "You sure you're ready for this?" His voice drops lower, softer, but it sends a shiver down your spine. "Because I don't do things halfway." His grip tightens on your waist as he pulls you flush against him, his mouth ghosting over yours before finally claiming it in a kiss that leaves no room for hesitation. "Guess we're doing this raw," he mutters against your lips, and the sheer confidence in his tone makes your breath hitch. He draws back slightly, eyes dark with lust and a hint of playful mischief. "Hope your pill work, sweetheart. Because pulling out isn't exactly my strong suit." He punctuates his words with a sharp nip at your bottom lip, followed by a sensual swipe of his tongue.

Seungkwan: Seungkwan's expression shifts from surprise to darkness, his brightness dimming into something far more intense. His eyes narrow, a slow smirk playing at the edges of his lips. "So, you really want this?" His voice is teasing, but laced with an intensity that mirrors the dark undercurrent of the situation. He steps forward, crowding into your space, his fingers skimming over your waist with a feather-light touch that makes you shiver. "You know there's no going back once I start indulging, right?" His voice dips lower as he presses his lips to yours, slow at first, teasing until his grip tightens, pulling you flush against him. His breath is hot against your skin when he speaks again, his fingers tracing patterns along your sides. "Don't look at me like that unless you're ready to take everything I'm about to give you."

Vernon: For a moment, Vernon just looks at you, his eyes searching for yours, as if giving you one last chance to take it back. But then, something shifts—his gaze softens, but the flicker of danger remains, a smoldering heat beneath the surface. "So... we're doing this for real?" His voice is low, yet it reverberates through you. His fingers brush against your cheek, barely touching, before sliding down to tilt your chin up toward him. "I won't rush you. But if this happens..." He pauses, leaning in so his lips ghost over yours, his breath warm against your skin. "You're not going to forget it." He seals his promise with a kiss, His lips move against yours slowly at first, teasing, testing, like he’s savoring the anticipation crackling between you. But then, his grip tightens on your hips, pulling you flush against him, and all restraint shatters. The kiss deepens, turning hungrier, more demanding, his tongue sweeping against yours. His hands roam, tracing over your back, slipping under your shirt, fingertips grazing heated skin. "You have no idea what you’ve just started," he murmurs against your lips. Then, in one swift motion, he guides you back, your body sinking into the mattress as he hovers over you. His gaze locks onto yours, "Last chance," he says, his fingers trailing down your arm, his weight pressing just enough to keep you beneath him. "Tell me you want this." His breath fans over your lips, waiting. But the moment you whisper yes, everything else disappears.

Dino: For once, Dino hesitates. His energy is tempered. His eyes search yours, his hands settling at your sides. "Are you sure?" His voice is quieter than usual, lacking its playfulness, yet there's an undeniable intensity there. You nod, and the hesitation melts away, replaced by hunger. His grip tightens as he pulls you in, his forehead resting against yours for just a second like he's holding onto the last thread of control he has. "If we do this..." He swallows, his voice husky now, "It changes everything. You get that?" But the second you whisper yes, it's over. The restraint snaps, and he's on you. His lips capturing yours in a kiss that's all consuming, his hands exploring, pressing, claiming. "Too late to back out now," he mutters against your lips before pushing you down, his body following right after. He pins your wrists above your head, one hand holding them together while his other trails down. "Fuck, you're sexy when you look at me like that..." His voice trails off as he leans in, kissing along your jawline, then nipping at your earlobe. He releases one of your wrists to unbuckle his belt, smirking wickedly as he slowly unzips his pants and freeing his large, hard erection. He grips it firmly, giving it a slow stroke as he looks down at you with pure hunger and lust. "Last chance to back out, baby. After I'm inside you, there's no turning back."

[with-my-calamitous-love]

i meant to finish this some time ago 😭 but anyway, back on my bodyguard rotting! special tag for @crushmeeren because i think i put this in ur inbox a while ago and never got around to it lol, anyway here it is. nsfw under divider, f! reader for that part 🤍🫧

bodyguard! eijiro, who has a smile just like sunshine. who has a dopey grin and the personality of a golden retriever. who, on paper, doesn’t sound like he’d be capable of even hurting a fly- until you see his rock hard muscles peaking through his shirt, or the jagged edges of his skin after activating his quirk. who, 90% of the time, is so sweet its tooth rotting. the other 10% of the time, he’s a nightmare to whoever threatens you.

bodyguard! eijiro, who genuinely loves his job. he’s level-headed and rational, able to solve most disputes with some talking or light physical action. who can’t complain, because after all, most of his day is being around a funny, beautiful person- so who cares if he has to rough up a guy for cutting you off or being too touchy? he’s happy to do it.

bodyguard! eijiro, who takes ‘doing anything to protect you’ and makes it ‘doing anything for you.’ don’t feel like driving? he’s got it. have a very specific craving at 2 in the morning? no questions asked. he’s also attentive, noting your mannerisms or idiosyncrasies that make you, you. he may not say it, but he knows those subtle signs of burn out, or anxiety, or exhaustion. as much as his job is to protect you from external threats, he cares just as much- if not more- about protecting your happiness.

bodyguard! eijiro, who is the best person to bring to bars or clubs. the first reason being that you’d trust him if you were hanging off a ledge, but the second being that he’s just may be the funniest, most charming guy you’ve ever met. who doesn’t even realize how attractive it is, the way he can make you lose your breath with laughter while maintaining an iron grip on your drink, placing his hand on your waist and protectively eyeing anyone who’s eyes seem a little too stuck on you for his liking.

bodyguard! eijiro, who asks if its okay if he take the two of you back to his place because its closer, and because he secretly doesn’t want the night to end. who sees your shoes by the door, coat laying on his couch, and you unwinding in his washroom and feels a little pang in his heart. who knows his feelings well and knows damn well by now he has a crush, but keeps it professional. until you can’t hold it in any longer and tell him how bad you have it for him. by then, he’s throwing you over his shoulder and towards his bedroom.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.*

bodyguard! ejiro, who is just as sweet as he is rough. who will tug off your clothes (shredding them if he has to) and apologetically kiss the bare skin underneath. who has sharp teeth, and won’t hesitate to sink them in even if you tear up a little. who manhandles you, tossing you around on the bed like its nothing, whispering: “you like this position, baby?” “let me know what feels good.” meanwhile, he’s folding you like origami.

bodyguard! eijiro, who loves your tits. who can’t resist grabbing himself a handful once he gets your bra off, captivated by the way the jiggle and spring free. who can be a little mean, pinching and twisting your nipples before taking one in his mouth. who makes sure you feel his razor sharp teeth graze the sensitive bud, alternating between the two, giving each the same amount of love and attention. who releases them with a slight pop! deciding he wants to taste more of you.

bodyguard! eijiro, makes sure your comfortable before going down on you like he’s starving. on any other day, he’d ease into it- slowly kissing, soft licks and light sucking- but who has waited so long to do this he hopes you’ll forgive his impatience. who makes sure your thighs wrap around his head, eating your pussy out like its his last meal. who literally will not move from between your legs until you make him, telling him that you’re already dizzy with pleasure.

bodyguard! eijiro, who smirks a little when he pulls his boxers down, letting his cock spring free, seeing your eyes widen and your cheeks blush. who, quite frankly, knows he’s big, but also knows how to use it. who takes your thighs and folds you in half, giving him a better view. who’ll run the tip of his cock through your folds, hearing your whines and feeling it go straight to his dick. who meets no resistance finally pushing himself inside you, moaning in unison when he feels your pretty walls taking him in.

bodyguard! eijiro, who has god-like stamina. who makes that skin slapping noise he knows drives you insane, grunting and moaning when he feels himself reach mind-meltingly deep inside you. who wrecks your pussy and praises you while he’s doing it: “taking me so good, ah.” “making me feel so good, princess? shit, i’m not stopping anytime soon.” who makes a mental note to himself that he’ll probably run out the next morning to grab you plan b.

speaking of which… bodyguard! eijiro, who slows down just a little, asking you where you want him to finish. who could cum right then and there when you tell him you don’t want him pulling out, to which he’s more than happy to oblige. who feels his orgasm coming, but draws out yours as much as possible- massaging your tits, kissing you deep, rubbing little circles on your clit. who makes sure he’s buried deep when he feels you cum, groaning as he feels your walls clamp down on his cock. who pumps in and out a few more times before collapsing down beside you. who, 2 seconds later, gets up to grab you water or ice, but who can’t resist when you pull him back into bed, vowing to deal with the soreness as long as he’s next to you.

bodyguard! eijiro, who is more than happy to carry you around everywhere the next morning, returning back to his jovial green like he didn’t just rearrange your organs the night before. <3

[juniperskye]

Come bother me, baby.

Based on the following post: Inspo  you are the bane of young Aaron's existence - back when he was just an agent under Gideon and Rossi. A pain in his ass…so when you transfer to avoid your feelings for him, he begs you to come back. Okay listen, I know that Hotch didn’t really work under Rossi in the beginning, as Rossi had already left…but we’re all gonna pretend for the sake of this fic. Also – Haley just never existed in this, and that’s ok.

Aaron Hotchner x BAU! Fem Reader

Fluff

Word count: 4164

REQUESTS ARE OPEN - not edited - please be kind. Requests are open and feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: My blog is 18+, minors DNI, female reader, she/her pronouns, age gap (Hotch is 28 and reader is 25), some explicit language, canon typical violence, mentions of case details, reader has experienced the loss of her parents, mention of holidays, mention of food/eating. Mention of reader being a mom, inaccurate timelines, let me know if I missed anything!!!

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

July 1993

The year was 1993, Jason Gideon and David Rossi were just granted permission to hire two agents to expand the team. They agreed that they would each pick an agent, that way there’d be no room to argue. They interviewed a total of 17 potential candidates, 13 of those were interviewed by Rossi and the other 4 by Gideon.

Aaron Hotchner had been the 7th file in Rossi’s stack, it was an impressive resume, one that was filled with cases he’d worked as a prosecutor, and then a number of cases he’d worked as a profiler in the Seattle Field office. He now was here in Quantico, Virginia, hoping to gain a spot on the BAU. To Rossi, Aaron had stood out amongst the others, he’d sat through all 13 interviews, and nobody could match the passion for this position like Aaron had. It had been an easy choice.

You had been the 2nd file in Gedeon’s stack, and honestly he’d been let down by his first candidate…so when you walked in, more than qualified for this position, he excused the other two candidates.  He didn’t feel the need to interview them, his gut told him you were the right choice. Your file had been padded with your numerous degrees varying from bachelor's degrees in psychology and criminology, to a master’s degree in forensic psychology, ending with a PhD in psychology. For the last year you’d been working in the Phoenix field office as a profiler. And while you didn’t have a ton of field experience, Gideon had been thoroughly impressed with your tenacity and overall enthusiasm for the profession.  

--

September 1993

Things had started off okay…mostly. Aaron definitely treated you like you were a child, though you were only three years younger than him. While you’d spent a lot of time expanding your knowledge of this field, Aaron had worked as a prosecutor immediately after his completion of law school. You weren’t sure why he thought he was so much better than you…you were a doctor after all.

It had started in the most dismissive way possible. You’d accidentally spilled your coffee at the round table, it had spread fast, covering his copy of the latest case file. You apologized immediately, offered him your copy while you went to print another. He shook his head at you, muttering something along the lines of you being young and unprofessional.

You had thought about going to Gideon to complain but ultimately decided against it. It would only make him see you as more of a child. So, you’d worked your ass off to prove yourself, you needed to show him that you were an asset to the BAU and not a liability.

--

May 1994

“I think this unsub is female.” You stated confidently.

“Are you insane?” Aaron scoffed.

“Before you completely dismiss me Hotch, hear me out.”

“Don’t call me that.” He hissed.

You had to physically wipe the smirk from your face before explaining your theory to the team. You’d pointed out how meticulous everything had been, how much care had gone into the murders and the disposals.

“If we really break everything down, it’s all done with so much care. The bodies haven’t just been dumped, they’ve been cleaned, redressed, and neatly placed in beautiful locations. The field of flowers, the hillside, by the art installation at the park.” You’d gestured to the photos pinned on the corkboard.

Looking around you could see the impressed look Gideon was wearing, it was bordering smug as he turned his gaze over to Rossi with a nod. Rossi couldn’t do anything other than shrug – you’d made a good point, who was he to question your expertise. But then there was Aaron…he was looking around in disbelief, nobody was even going to question it?

Aaron was pissed that you had been right. Three days after that briefing, you taken Helena Murphy into custody. She had lost her siblings in a car accident when she was in her teens, and a recent fender bender had been her trigger. She’d been taking the lives of young people who had resembled her siblings and laid them to rest somewhere beautiful…unlike the highway guardrail that had ultimately taken her family from her all those years ago.

Gideon and Rossi both gave you kudos for narrowing down the profile the way you had. The police officers at the Milwaukee PD had congratulated you and subsequently thanked you for your hard work. Aaron wouldn’t even look at you.

Needless to say, the flight home was tense.

--

August 1994

“Ugh it is soooo hot!” You whined, fanning yourself with a loose manila folder.

“Would you stop that?” Aaron asked.

“Stop what?” You feigned innocence.

“Bothering me! Your fanning is blowing all my papers around, just cut it out.” He huffed.

“Sure, thing Hotch.” You offered a sickly-sweet smile.

“Don’t call me that!” He shook his head and continued his report.

You stood from your desk and removed your blazer, showing off the fitted tank top you’d been wearing underneath. You made your way up to the kitchenette to retrieve some ice water and the ice pack from your lunchbox. At this point, you’d do anything to cool off.

You sat back down at your desk, sipping the water and crunching on the ice, while shifting the icepack from your chest to your neck. Aaron was so distracted by your constant moving that he had to speak up again. But as his gaze landed on you, he was rendered speechless…only for a moment, but it was enough time for him to notice the way the condensation from the icepack had dripped down your chest and when you slid it back to your neck, he could see the effect the could had on your breasts. His throat went dry.

“Stop messing around, it’s distracting.” He ordered.

“You’re no fun Hotch.”

“Would you just stop bothering me? You’re doing it on purpose now.” He sighed.

“Oh, fine.” You conceded.

--

November 1994

You made your way into the FBI building, hanging on one arm is your go bag, packed and ready to go. On the other arm is your purse, struggling to stay up on your shoulder as you held onto a basket filled with baked goods.

“Happy Holidays Jim!” You greeted, handing him a loaf of pumpkin bread.

“Thanks doll, you too! Did you get called in?” Jim, the head of security, asked.

“No, not yet anyway. I just figured I’d stop by.” You shrugged.

“You weren’t celebrating?” He questioned.

“Oh, um no, not this year.”

“Well doll, thanks for the pumpkin bread. Happy thanksgiving.” Jim smiled.

You made your way around, passing out different backed goods to people you saw every day, Maureen the receptionist, Mike from IT, and Sandra who was the director’s assistant. You’d even gone as far as bringing something for the BAU team members in the event that you did get called in.

Speaking of…

Gideon rushed into the bullpen of the sixth floor, in his haste he nearly missed the slight step down into the main section of the floor where your and Aaron’s desks sat. He was ferociously pressing the buttons on his pager – surely sending a page to the team informing them of the newest case.

Your suspicions were confirmed when yours beeped from your desk, drawing yours and Gideon’s attention.

“Jesus, I didn’t realize you were here. What are you doing here already?” Gideon asked.

“No reason to celebrate…I thought I could make myself useful here.” You shrugged and offered Gideon a container of gingersnaps.

“Thanks kid. Can you go get the files from Anderson?” Gideon requested.

“Of course, sir.”

Aaron arrived next; shock evident on his face when he saw you coming back from retrieving the files. He was about to make a snarky comment about you being here so early when Rossi came in behind him and clapped him on the shoulder.

--

The four of you were on the plane heading to Oklahoma, you were seated next to Gideon, going over the file, passing theories back and forth. Aaron was sat next to Rossi, stewing in a feeling the bordered annoyance.

“I can feel the steam blowing out of your ears.” Rossi teased.

“Sorry I just don’t get it…she got there so fast. She just – she just bothers me.” Aaron huffed.

“She was already there kid, she was at the BAU before Gideon even got there, he told me.” Rossi explained.

“What do you mean she was already there? Why would she have been at the office already?”

“I assume to keep herself busy. She lost her parents when she was in college, so she doesn’t really have anyone to celebrate the holidays with. She brought everyone at the office treats.” Rossi smiled, popping another bite of his banana nut muffin into his mouth.

“I didn’t know. That’s uh-that’s…” Aaron didn’t quite know what to say.

“Check your bag Hotch.” Rossi smiled and went back to his file.

Placed neatly in the outer pocket of Aaron’s bag was a cellophane bag containing snickerdoodles, his favorite. A red ribbon tied the bag closed and attached to it was a small note…

Sorry for bothering you all the time. Hopefully these can make up for a little bit of it.

Aaron took a bit of one of the cookies., rolling his eyes because, of course, they were perfect. He couldn’t help but feel bothered by your inability to be bad at something.

--

February 1995

You hated valentine’s day, it had always been a sore spot, all your friends swooning over the overpriced chocolate and roses that their boyfriends would get them. Not you though, you hadn’t received a valentine since freshman year of high school when Mathew Smith taped a rose to your locker. Matt had been nice and all, but he was looking for something…unserious.

You got yourself dressed and dragged yourself to the BAU. Everyone was so chipper as you entered the building, greeting you…but you met the majority of them with a scowl. Stepping off the elevator and going over to your desk, surprise overcoming you as you’re met with peonies and a pack of razzles. You moved them around, trying to find the note, coming across a yellow sticky note.

I thought these could be repayment for the pens you got me for Christmas.    -Hotch

You smiled at the signature, he’d hated when you called him Hotch, you’d been the first to do so and he was annoyed at how unprofessional it had initially seemed, he’d tell you not to call him that and claim you bothered him on purpose, but as Rossi and Gideon joined in with the nickname, he slowly grew to like you…it!

Aaron sat at his desk, plopping into his chair with a sigh. Your gaze lifted to meet his, a timid smile gracing your features.

“Hotch”

“Don’t bother me today.”

“Thank you.” You smiled.

“Don’t mention it.”

--

May 1995

May and June had become your least favorite months of the year. After losing your parents, you thought Christmas would be hard, and it was…but you’d found friends in school who would celebrate with you.

It was Mother’s Day and Father’s Day that killed you. People didn’t invite their orphaned friend over to celebrate those holidays with their family because…well because that’s weird.

These two months brought with them the painful reminder that your parents were gone.

Truthfully, you’d been glad to get the page letting you know that a case came in, it would have been a welcomed distraction…if it hadn’t been in your hometown.

Aaron could see how tense you were. He was trying to profile you, figure out what had you so worked up. He knew this time of year had to be difficult for you, seeing as Rossi told him you lost your mom. But he could tell there was something deeper, rooted within you.

It took some time, but after sitting back and observing, he figured it out. A few different officers knew you by name and were on a first-name basis with you. You’d been extremely familiar with the layout of the city, not needing directions to the location you’d gone to earlier. This must be your hometown.

--

“Alright guys, nice job today. So, we are flying out first thing tomorrow. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Rossi said.

You were slow to pack up, gathering your things, chatting with a few of the officers before heading out of the precinct. You didn’t really know what to do, you didn’t want to go back to the hotel, but you also didn’t want to go around town. You had too many memories here, it was too hard to go around and picture all the times you had with your parents around here.

“Hey, you want to go for a drive with me?” Aaron asked

You couldn’t even mask the shock as it etched its way across your features.

“Sure.”

At first you had no idea where Aaron was heading, the drive feeling unfamiliar…but then all at once you’d figured it out. He was driving to Blue Grove Cemetery.

“What the hell are you doing? Why are we here?” You questioned, anxiety lacing your words.

“Look, I can’t imagine how hard it must be to go through May and June, now that they’re gone. I thought it might be nice for you to see them before we head back tomorrow.” Aaron explained.

So many feelings were running through you. Initially anger, why would he blindside you like this. But then that morphed into panic, you didn’t want Hotch to see this side of you, the weak and vulnerable side. But lastly was this weird warmth…it was slow moving like molasses, sticking to every part of your body.

--

Aaron parked and let you control the pace. He waited to move until you reached for the handle on the door, slowly exiting the SUV. You stood there, still, unmoving, unsure if you could do this. Aaron grabbed a bag out of the back seat before walking around to meet you where you stood.

“I’m sorry, I – I don’t…”

“Hey,” Aaron placed his hand on your shoulder gently. “Take your time.”

You nodded at him gratefully.

Eventually you began to move, leading Aaron through the cemetery. You’d passed headstone after headstone until you came to a stop at their gravesite, resting just below a beautiful tree, offering just enough shade to allow you respite from the heat.  

Aaron laid out a small blanket, letting you sit first, hesitating for a beat.

“You can sit…please.” You asked, more than told.

Aaron sat next to you silently. He pulled the bag in front of the two of you, removing its contents, a sandwich cut in half, a bag of kettle chips (your favorite) and lastly two diet cokes. As you watched him, you smiled, you may bother him once in a while…okay all the time…but he cared. Whether he’d admit it or not.

The two of you sat there, eating, enjoying the cool breeze that the afternoon offered. After some time had passed, you found yourself telling Aaron about your parents. How your mom loved to bake, and she would tell you that food brought people together. You told him how your dad did everything himself, he never called in a specialist for everything.

Aaron chimed in with how you’d clearly taken after them and it made you an incredible profiler…and there it was again, that warm feeling.

You’d recognized it… it was the same feeling that bloomed within you on valentine’s day, and before that, on Christmas. You’d bought hotch these really fancy fountain pens he’d mentioned in passing and he got you a coat, a nice warm one, since you didn’t seem to own one.

This warm, sticky, sweet feeling was rearing its ugly head…and you were pretty sure it was called love.

--

July 1995

That warm feeling had burrowed its way deep into your core and you were freaking out. You’d been doing everything you could to act normal around Hotch, you were worried you’d been failing miserably.

“I think your agent has a crush on my agent…” Rossi said to Gideon, peaking out the window of his office.

“That’s interesting, because I am pretty sure your agent has feelings for my agent.” Gideon challenged.

“Do you think they’ll figure it out?”

“Not any time soon.”

--

You flicked a paper football over your screen onto Hotch’s desk. He glanced up at you, only his gaze didn’t hold its usual annoyance, instead there was something that mirrored amusement written there.

“Are you trying to bother me some more?” Aaron asked.

“Um, yes. That’s my job; to bother you…didn’t you get the memo?” You teased.

“I must have missed that one.” He let out a breathy chuckle.

You went back to your report, working diligently. All of two minutes passed before the paper football knocked against your hand as it landed on your desk. You laughed and shook your head gently, there was that stupid feeling again.

--

October 1995

Your knuckles rapped gently against Gideon’s office door. You were shaking, your stomach twisted at the thought of what you were about to do. It had taken you a little while to figure out the best option…knowing that it wouldn’t be professional to continue working with Hotch with these feelings you had for him.

You’d looked at all the openings here at Quantico, trying to figure out which position would best suit you. Ultimately, counterterrorism was looking for someone with a background in psychology, so it just made sense. Which brings you to now, you were about to go into Gideon’s office and request the transfer.

“Come in.”

“Hey Gideon, I uh…I need to talk to you about something.” You stumbled a bit.

“Go ahead.” He gestured to the chair opposite him.

You sat, taking a steadying breath. “I’m requesting a transfer. To counterterrorism.”

“No.”

“Gideon, you-”

“No.” He began. “I am not going to sign a transfer request for you, especially not to counterterrorism, you have exceptional skills, and we need them here.”

“Gideon, I have to transfer. I feel – I have…” You trailed off as your eyes found Aaron beyond the window in the bullpen. “I can’t work with him, not when I feel like this.”

Gideon took a deep breath, looking at you and taking in the longing gaze you wore. He didn’t fully understand what thoughts were running through your head, but if this is what you felt you needed to do, he wasn’t going to stop you. You were a very strong and capable agent…he trusted your judgement.

“How much longer do we have you here at the BAU?” He asked waving for you to hand him the paper.

“Two weeks.” You sighed. “I’m sorry Gideon.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re smart and you need to do what is best for you.”

--

November 1995

“Alright guys we have a case, round table in five.” Rossi called out into the bullpen.

You gathered your things, knowing you wouldn’t be travelling with them for this case. You figured you’d sit through the round table, offer a few theories and then let them go on their way.  Aaron watched you slowly grabbing a legal pad and your signature pink pen, he chuckled grabbing his own paper and one of the fountain pens from the set you bought him.

“Before we begin I just want to say that I am so proud of how you have grown and flourished with this team, and while it is a huge loss for the BAU, counterterrorism is lucky to have you.” Gideon stated, looking at you.

“What? You-you’re transferring?” Aaron asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

“When…when are you leaving?” He asked.

“Today is my last day.” Your gaze shifted to your lap.

“We can talk about this later, let’s go over the facts of the case.” Gideon demanded.

Through the entire briefing Aaron’s eyes were burning into you. He couldn’t focus on the fact of this case because he was completely hung up on the fact that yours wouldn’t be the face across from him anymore…you weren’t going to be there to flick paper footballs at him, or to hum songs all day, to crunch annoyingly on baby carrots. Who was going to bother him if you were gone?

After you finished going over the case, you couldn’t help the sting behind your eyes, slowly realizing that this was it, your time at the BAU was done. But you held your head up high and steeled yourself. You offered Gideon a handshake, Rossi pulled you into a tight hug, and Aaron…well he brushed by you with a curt nod.

--

Aaron was miserable throughout the entirety of the two weeks they were away on this case. He was moping, and it wasn’t going unnoticed. Rossi and Gideon shared a knowing look, thankful that he was finally figuring it out.

They hadn’t quite expected it to take him so long to do something about it.

--

December 1995

The bullpen was so quiet without you. Aaron felt uneasy; he was the only one in the center of the floor now that you were gone. His file going long forgotten as he sat back and thought about things for a bit…

When he first saw you, you’d entered the elevator at the same time for your interviews, you’d offered a quiet thank to him for holding the elevator for you and he couldn’t deny then how cute you were. But then you’d both been hired on as profilers and he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to think that anymore, so he shoved the feeling down.

Then you spilled your coffee all over the table, effectively ruining his file, but you’d cursed, burning your hand as you quickly tried to clean it up. He wanted nothing more than to hold you and tell you it would be okay, so he fled.

It was so many things after that, your intelligence and the passion you had for profiling. Your baking, always noting people’s favorites and bringing them sweets, just to see them smile. The way you listened, remembering something he’d brought up in passing and gone out of your way to order his favorite pens.

Oh shit. He was in love with you. He’d fallen in love with you and had been too stupid to realize it.

--

Aaron moved with a purpose, rushing through the FBI building, making his way up the two flights of stairs it took to get to counterterrorism. He burst through the door, drawing attention to himself, his eyes frantically scanning the room in search of you.

He moved forward, noticing you across the room. He reached you in a few long strides, stopping just before you.

“Hotch…what are you doing here?” You looked around, blushing profusely.

“Sweetheart, you need to come back to the BAU.”

“I can’t…Aaron I-”

“I know that I have given you no reason to believe this, but I love you sweetheart. I need you to come back to the BAU, come back and bother me, baby.”

“No.” You shook your head in disbelief.

“Well yes.”

“Aaron, no.”

“Yes! Come bother me, baby. Bother me for the rest of my life.” Aaron begged. His hands reaching forward to cup your face.

“Okay” You gasped.

Aaron pulled you into a kiss, the agents surrounding you erupting in cheers for the both of you.

--

Bonus scene – May 2016

“Happy Mother’s Day sweetheart.”

“Happy Mother's Day mom!”

“Thank you guys!” You smiled, feeling nothing but joy looking to those who surrounded you.

Before you was your incredible husband and your three children, two sons and a daughter. They had gotten up early to make breakfast for you before they headed off to school. There had been a bouquet of peonies, cards, and a pack of razzles.

“Jack, are you okay to get Zoey to school today? We got called in pretty early.” You asked.

“Yeah mom! I have practice though, so Jason and Zoey might have to hang out a while.”

“Don’t worry about that bud, Will offered to pick them up when he picks up Michael.” Aaron patted Jack on the shoulder.

“Alright kids, we will see you later, be safe and please text me when you get to school!” You called, heading out the door with Aaron hot on your tail.

--

Aaron and you made your way into the BAU hand-in-hand. You glanced around at this team you built together, and you couldn’t be happier. Aaron made his way toward his office, noticing you’d stopped and before he could say anything, Dave clapped him on the back.

“Leave her be. She’s admiring this family you’ve built together.”

You looked over to where Aaron and Dave stood, offering a bright smile. You then made your way down to the floor, greeting Emily, JJ, Derek, Spencer and Penelope.

Taglist: @bernelflo@pastelpinkflowerlife@just-moondust

[heechwe]

FREAK FEB — day 4 | 𝐥𝐡𝐬

୨୧ pairing: lee heeseung x fem!reader || ୨୧ word count: 0.3k || ୨୧ genre: smut || ୨୧ tags: royalty!au, maid!reader, prince!heeseung || ୨୧ synopsis: “I don’t want anyone else. No one else can make me feel like you do.” Read the rest of FREAK FEBRUARY here!

It's the job of a prince to be everything the next ruler of the kingdom is supposed to embody. Strong but empathetic, kind with just the right amount of conviction. Like the many men in his family before him, he cannot be weak in any form or under any circumstance.

With you, he feels the weakest he's ever felt in his life, yet you strengthen him for reasons that are unfathomable.

How can he be both when it comes to you, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen? He'll never know.

The pale blue and beige maid's outfit could only hide so much of the desire you elicit in others, not just Heeseung. He sees the way the stableboys and kitchen hands look over at you as you pass by with your sweet voice and enticing curves.

They can look all they like, he thinks to himself. Only he knows the inner workings of you, what makes you fall apart in pleasure and how to stitch you back up.

He has you nestled on his lap and in between his legs on his bed, the sheets barely covering your naked bodies as he thrusts himself up to meet every part inside of you. You keen, clutching onto his shoulders for stability. Your nails dig deeply into his skin.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," Heeseung says into the column of your throat, kissing the skin as his cock hits your walls harder and deeper. "Sometimes I think you're better off with someone else. Someone who can give you everything you want," he confesses.

You shake your head immediately, your lust-blown eyes looking down at him with fierce determination. "I don’t want anyone else. No one else can make me feel like you do. Prince or not, I'm yours."

Heeseung moans and captures your lips with his own. He digs his heels into the bed to slam into you faster, chasing his release to quell the doubts in his head.

He may not be able to give you everything, or be everything his kingdom needs, but he can at the very least do this, be this, for you, the one person who can always give you the pleasure you desire.

@gyubakeries @loserlvrss @yvnempire @addictedtohobi

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊

@kstrucknet @k-films @kvanity-main @lapydiaries @moadiarynet @sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @violetanet @whipped-kpop-creators

[shappoxs]

You guys just can't acknowledge the actual reasons people dislike TimBer and exaggerate or cherry-pick specific obviously stupid arguments.

I'll start by saying, ship what you want. There's nothing inherently immoral about TimBer. I make jokes, but I'm definitely not "Anti-Timber," but it gets to a point where you guys are just going-

Most TimBer "haters" are not these caricatures you guys like to paint us as. There are genuine reasons to dislike the ship.

1. It's genuinely bad for both characters. Queer men are allowed to have flaws, too! Yet they've stripped both Tim and Bernard of all of them and brushed any past mistakes under the rug.

Tim and Bernard were not good friends before 2020, and instead of giving them an interesting character arc, the writers just retconned all that and are trying to convince us they were besties.

2. Having Tim and Stephsplit up off-panel is already a disservice to a decades old relationship and Steph as a character. Especially because almost immediately her next appearance is as an accessory to TimBer, to tell the audience, "Actually, you should like them because she would want you to." When that's bullshit!

I'm not saying she should be jealous, but she has every right to be upset at Tim. The fact they did the exact same thing to Ariana, another one of Tim's exes who he hurt, turning her into a one-dimensional TimBer fangirl, feels very misogynistic.

They don't have to be jealous, but don't minimise them, and allow them to have reasonable reactions.

3. The way TimBer was handled feels more biphobic than the average fan reaction. This may be a personal interpretation, but so many moments feels like they're trying to belittle Tim's past relationships with women because he's with a man now. Which pisses me off. TimBer's chemistry comes from us being told about it, but I'm supposed to believe it was more meaningful than what he had with Steph?

I want to see my bisexual characters BE bisexual in ways that aren't stereotypical, but there are ways they could've done that without throwing Steph into a trash bin. As a TimKon shipper, I would be just as pissed if this same scenario played out with Kon instead of Bernard.

Honestly, I don't even want TimKon OR TimSteph if that's how the writers treat these characters. Let them bastardise Tim and Bernard just leave Kon and Steph out of this 😭

4. Most of the "he should cheat" takes are jokes or coming from people who haven't actually read the comics/comic where he actually cheats. Tim only cheated once iirc, but there is still valid criticism to be made about how flawless he's written now that he's with a man.

TimSteph's greatest strength is that we get to see them be a real teenage couple, they both make mistakes but it's watching them grow from them that matters most.

5. I'm fine with platonic TimSteph, but they clearly don't actually value their friendship. I'm also bisexual and grew up a Tim Drake fan, I am the last person who'd want his bisexuality to be erased, but I'd rather them actually do it justice than shrug my shoulders and slurp up any slop they feed us because it's gay.

Finally, I'm sorry if any of this came off as mean. I always try to be respectful even when I'm making jokes or disagreeing with someone, but I'm not perfect. Know that this is a critique of the ship and certain writing choices, not people who just innocently like TimBer.

The mental gymnastics people do to hate timber should be studied under a microscope.

The fuck you mean he is bad bisexual rep because he is dating a man… and how does that makes him gay???? Have you ever talked to a bisexual person???

“Oh it makes less of his past relationships” how?? How?!? Is he not allowed to be infatuated with his current partner? Should he continue pining after his past relationships even tho he is dating someone else???

[pomefioredove]

May I please have a sugar cookie, #7, with candy cane and sprinkles? 👉👈

certainly (* ^ ω ^)

order #7, sugar with sprinkles, candy cane

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ assertive

summary: after seeing you rebound, he realizes he's not quite over you tropes: exes to lovers, hurt/comfort characters: trey additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu, short and sweet

"I just don't like the way he's looking at them,"

Cater looks up from his cup, and the foam heart he was trying to snap a pic of melts into his latte.

"You can barely see his face. And you've said that like, three times," the ginger says. "You've barely even touched your mug. It's basically iced coffee now."

Trey finally looks at Cater, his neck sore from craning over his shoulder.

His mug is cold to the touch.

"I'm starting to think you only invited me here 'cause you knew the Prefect was coming. Like, ouch," Cater smiles.

Trey's face flushes red. "What! No, I-I just thought the shop had a good deal today,"

Cater rolls his eyes.

"As much as I love drama, this is lowkey sad," he says. "You need to move on, Trey. It's been months."

Trey knows he's right, which makes his observation hurt even more. He mumbles some poor excuse into his cup of lukewarm coffee, but he can't keep his eyes to himself for long.

"He definitely goes to RSA. I don't trust him," he mutters, eyeing the boy you're with.

"Che'nya goes to RSA, doesn't he?"

"Would you trust Che'nya with your ex?"

"Yeowch. Point taken," Cater smiles, stirring his untouched latte with a dainty spoon. "So, what are you gonna do about it?"

Trey hesitates. He would have loved to just... march over there and steal you away from that pompous bastard...

But he won't.

"Nothing,"

"Pfft," Cater snorts. "You need to be more assertive, man. Otherwise we're just stalking the Prefect. Yeah, that'll impress them."

"It's not about that!! And it's not stalking!"

Cater rolls his eyes and returns to his phone, the uninvited third wheel of every outing with him.

Still, his words bother Trey. That was the problem, wasn't it? He just wasn't... assertive.

He didn't take your side, or stand up for you. He wasn't there when you needed him most, the fool. That's why you dumped him.

If assertive is what you want...

Trey stands, surprising Cater to the point of putting his phone away, and he marches across the coffee shop, brow furrowed, arms firmly at his side. The RSA boy you're with sees him first, and then you.

"Trey? What are you-"

"You," he says, pointing right at the white-uniform wearing, silver-spoon sucking little bastard.

Your jaw drops. The boys' eyes widen (does he look familiar or what?) Cater pushes his chair out, as if preparing to intervene.

Trey takes a deep breath.

"You... you treat them right, do you hear me? Prefect is the sweetest person I know, and they deserve someone just as perfect! Listen to them, okay? Be the person they can rely on, they can trust... the person I- that I wasn't. Just- you'd better be a good boyfriend, or I'll make you regret it, alright?!"

Cater sits back down. Both you and the boy you're with seem to soften, more confused than concerned now.

Trey turns and marches back to his seat. "Let's go,"

The ginger grins and looks behind him. Trey follows his gaze, and it's... you.

"Did you follow me?" you demand. His face goes bright red.

"Uh... um, I... yes. But I only wanted to make sure you were okay. That's... all I've ever wanted,"

Cater gives him a double thumbs-up. You frown, and he mutters a quick "I'll go wait outside" before darting out the door. Trey's blush darkens to crimson.

"Listen, I'm really sorry I interrupted your date. I just wanted to make sure you were being taken care of, and-"

"Trey," you stop him. "I'm not on a date. And that's not my boyfriend."

Huh.

...What?

"Oh?"

You sigh, gesturing between the two. "Trey, Neige. Neige, Trey," and you lower your voice. "I'm here on Vil's behalf. Some movie thing."

Ohh. That makes sense. Trey's face only gets redder, if possible, and he clears his throat. "...My mistake,"

Your frown softens, and you sigh.

"You couldn't have known... and... thanks for worrying about me, I guess. Maybe next time we can talk in private?"

Next time. Trey's heart flutters at the promise, if he dare call it that, and he nods.

"A-ah, of course. Next time,"