#i'm tired of feeling like i'm not allowed to be upset because i'm not the victim | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

explicit-tae · 10 months ago

Note

i seen you did a request so i as wondering can i request something? 🥹

jk x reader where the reader gets cheated on by her boyfriend and she gets her lick back 💜 love your stories!

I'm sure I can do something quick 💜

Lick Back

Realizing that your boyfriend has become a completely different person & being malicious towards you could only mean that he’s being nice to someone else.

Word Count:4.298

Warning: dry humping, kissing, neck kissing/sucking, dirty talking, nipple pinching, praising, affair/cheating, oral sex, breeding kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, slight voyeurism, teasing/taunting, squirting,

Your mother always told you that if your dog started barking at you that it only meant that someone else was feeding it. A dog would never bite the hand that feeds them.

Your mother wasn’t talking about an actual dog.

However, you had a dog - in a way - and recently, it began doing just that. It became annoyed with you for every little thing you’ve done. It’s tone changed completely when speaking with you; always rushed and not attentive. It started to be mean for no reason, nearly foaming at the mouth when you questioned their sudden change of actions - or questioned it at all. It wanted to be outside longer than usually and would be upset when called back home.

The dog being your boyfriend of nearly 5 years. You noticed the shift a year ago, but you ignored your gut feeling of something being terribly wrong - but now, you are numb and though it hurts in a way, you are also relieved. The love that was one there in your relationship appeared to expire without you realizing it - or maybe you had not wished to accept it.

And yet, here you are in a home the both of you share. He is out, not bothering to tell you just where he’s at - and you don’t ask. You stopped asking a year ago when you grew accustomed to sleeping alone.

But even if the love for your dog is no longer there - and if it was, it was slowly drifting away - that didn’t mean the anger wasn’t. The fact that you allowed the dog to stay with you because you loved him, fed said dog his favorite meals and showered him with love and affections. They were supposed to be loyal - but atlas, someone else had gained its love while you were left in the dark.

But there was someone else who liked what the dog had, you noticed. Someone who appreciated the meals you cooked and ate them with ease, who would come when you called them. They were loyal - even more than your own dog - and it just happened to be the dogs friend.

Jeon Jungkook is an attractive man and he knew it. It showed in the way he struts, shoulders lax and head held high. He almost wore a smirk, but never a cocky one. Jeon Jungkook could be an asshole - a complete fuckboy. He could turn his nose at anyone because he had it like that - but he didn’t.

Jeon Jungkook was a kind individual. He was caring - especially to the ones he was close with. You recall many times when you’d had to call him because your boyfriend had gotten so drunk that you’d need a man's help - and Jungkook was always that man.

And even though Jungkook was a friend of your boyfriend, he was kind to you, as well. He changed your tires on numerous occasions, making sure to give you the speech that “You need to make sure you keep up with your car, Y/N.” or the “Your oil and tire lights are on, how do you even drive this still?” he had good intentions.

“This is so good!” Jungkook says, mouth full of the pork belly. He licks his lips to savor the flavor. Jungkook always wore a disgusted face when something was amazing in taste and even now, his eyebrows are knit together in confusion and he appears utterly disgusted - that was a good sign.

“I’m glad you enjoy it.” you smile at him, washing the dishes you’ve made when cooking.

“I told you I don’t mind washing the dishes, Y/N.” Jungkook says, glancing upwards at you. “It’s the least I can do since you cooked.”

You sigh, smile never ceasing. “It’s alright. You’re a guest after all.”

Your dog wasn’t home and you don’t know when he will be - nor did you truly care. His friend was nicer, more entertaining, as well. He ate your cooking as if it was fine dining, and appreciated it, too. He was kind and good at conversation - he was caring, far more than your dog.

“I enjoy cooking for you, Jungkook. You deserve it the most.” you turn off the water and begin to dry your hands. Your eyes meet his and for a moment, you’re pondering if he’s thinking about your words the way you intend him to.

“Thank you.” Jungkook grins, tiny dimples at the side of his cheek forming.

You lean against the island that he sits at, quiet and content that he’s eating the food you’ve made for him. It wouldn’t be the first time you cooked for Jungkook - you recall the first time without your dog being present was a year prior. You had cooked and waited for his return and was left with nothing. It was hours after when you heard him return - this time not alone or coherent. Jungkook had slung the man onto the couch annoyed with just how drunk he had become and when you emerged - in nothing but a nightgown - he had apologized profusely.

“I cooked.” you had sighed, disappointed but not the least bit surprised by the actions of your dog. “Do you want a plate?”

It has become a tradition now. You’d cook for Jungkook often and each time, he'd come and enjoy what you’ve made him - whatever you made him.

Jungkook was no fool, as well. He knows just how independent you’ve become, especially within the last year. He knows that you know that he knows of your boyfriend's loyalty - or lack of - but you never question him about it, even when he prepares himself to tell you the truth if you had.

Over time, Jungkook noticed that you don’t seem to care about your boyfriend's whereabouts - and around that time, he picks up on just how you begin to dress when around him. It was subtle at first, sure. You showed more skin - more legs with your shorts, more shoulders. He notes that the clothes you wore were tighter but relaxed seeing as you were in the comfort of your own home. You’d wear tanktops that showed your breast with shorts that made your thighs highly appealing for his eyes. Overtime, you ditched the bra and it became harder for him to not gawk at the way your breast looked in them.

Jungkook doesn’t want to assume anything - you were so far removed from your boyfriend that you didn’t care anymore. One drunken wine night when the man was away on a “business trip”, you had told Jungkook that you hadn’t had sex with him in close to a year now - his own drunken response was that if he was your boyfriend, he would fuck you any chance he’d get.

Jungkook isn’t sure if you remember that night and neither of you brought it up after.

“You seem tense.” Jungkook is behind you now - when he has gotten up from his seat, you are unaware, consumed by your own thoughts. “Is everything alright?”

You slowly nod your head, turning it slightly to get a glimpse of him.

Jungkook snorts. “Your shoulders are tense.” he says, gentle hands placing themselves on your shoulders. “Is everything alright with work? The car?”

“Yes, Jungkook. I’m fine.” you giggled. “You worry too much.”

Jungkook’s fingers begin to rub at your shoulders, applying pressure to them. You swallow, your hands gripping the edge of the sink.

“You should relax, Y/N. You’re always doing something and never truly giving yourself a break.”

Jungkook’s hand reaches your neck. They run up slowly, goosebumps left behind in its trail. Your eyes flutter close at how good it felt to be massaged.

“Does it feel good?”

There’s a drop in Jungkook’s voice - it’s deeper. He whispers it, as if only speaking directly to you, even if you and he are already alone in the home.

“Yes.” you murmur back, head falling back against his chest just as he reaches the front of your neck. A tattooed hand wraps around it, thumb caressing your skin in circular motions.

“I’m glad.” Jungkook is subtle when he presses himself against you - so gentle that you don’t notice it at first. You're completely against his body, in blissful relaxation. “You deserve to be taken care of, too.”

Even now, you dressed so comfortably - shorts stopping high above your thighs and a shirt that sculptures your breast so lovingly that he had a difficult time not watching the way they bounced as you walked around the kitchen preparing him the meal.

“I don’t really have anyone to do that.” you whisper back, a slight moan creeping past your parted lips.

“I can take care of you…unless you object.”

You nod your head and instantly, his free hand roams down to grip your clothed breast. He can feel just how hard your nipple was.

You hiss, back slightly arching.

Jungkook engulfs both breasts in the palm of his hands and begins to rub, your light moans enticing him to continue. He can feel your nipples harden in his grasp and he himself begins to hiss lowly to himself on how heavenly they felt in his hands.

There’s no doubt that the two of you wanted this for far too long by the way you completely allow him to touch you without any resistance. He presses himself against you needily, face in your neck as his hands continue to grip and pull at your breast.

“You smell nice.” Jungkook grumbles in your neck, nose inhaling your sweet scent; he’s sure he sounds like a creep, but he wasn’t going to hold himself back . Not now he’s certain you want him just as much as he does you. “I like this scent on you the most. This and the jasmine one.”

You swallow, heat rushing through your body at his words. Jungkook had memorized the perfume’s you’d wear due to the countless times he’d be around you. He recalls the time he even had to help his friend pick out a gift for you on an anniversary and how upset he had been when he chose the cheapest scent he could find - and one you’d never wear. Jungkook had swamped them out and chose the very scent you wore now and you’re none the wiser.

Your arms reach behind you to cup Jungkook’s head just as you feel his teeth sink into the nape of your neck. He’s being more rough; dominant. You don’t remember when the last time a man has touched you with such possessiveness - a sex-toy could only do so much.

“Such pretty skin,” Jungkook’s tongue pokes out of his mouth to lick onto your neck. “just want to mark it all up.”

“Then do it.” you respond. If you and him were going to do this, mind as well go all out. Your dog often comes home smelling like sickly sweet fruit perfume and cigarettes at times - you wanted Jungkook’s scent all over you.

Jungkook does, biting your skin harshly and then suckling on it until your neck is perfectly marked up. He’s then quick to turn you around to finally face him, the both of you now locking eyes.

“Are you upset?” Jungkook questions, eyes dark with lust but a bit concerned.

“With you?” you ask, raising a brow. “Never.”

“Not with me. In general.” Jungkook murmurs, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek. His thumb gently traces your lips. “I’m sure you know…what he does.”

You nod your head, leaning into Jungkook’s touch.

“Don’t want you to regret or feel bad afterwards.”

“Are you?” you ponder aloud.

You were so far removed from your boyfriend that you could care less about what he thought. In your mind, he was nothing but a roommate now; the two of you not even sharing a bed.

Jungkook, however, was your boyfriend's friend and maybe he would feel remorseful.

“I told you that I’d never stop fucking you if given the chance.” Jungkook snorts, thumb tapping your lip.

“Then don’t stop.” you murmur, tongue poking out to wrap poke his tongue. “I haven’t been fucked good in so long.”

Jungkook hisses, his hand now gripping your cheek. He shakes his head. “He told me what you like.” he confesses, unsure if you were willing to go down that route with him.

“He was never really into anything.” you shrug your shoulders - this is why you ended up with a vibrator and a dildo; and you were currently looking into a vibrating dildo, how sad your life has become.

Jungkook is aware of his friend's lack of foreplay - he was only ever interested in his own pleasure. Jungkook, however, didn’t mind pleasuring you until you were begging him to stop - but maybe he was just a bad person to think about his friend's girlfriend riding his face until she came.

Then again, you were being cheated on by said friend so maybe this was just his karma; it wasn’t like you were a bad person and deserve such treatment.

“I want to eat you out.” Jungkook declares suddenly that it catches you off guard completely. “Why do you look scared?”

“Just shocked.” you say, body growing even hotter. “Wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“‘I want you to ride my tongue until you’re squirting all over me’ is what I truly wanted to say.” Jungkook deadpans and blinks. “But I didn’t want to scare you away.”

You gulp, eyes widening and thighs clenching.

“And by the way you’re rubbing your thighs together, it didn’t scare you.” Jungkook smirks and instantly, he presses his lips against you. It’s a deep kiss that catches you by surprise, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t crave more.

“I can kiss you, right?” Jungkook says against your lips - maybe he should’ve asked first. “I know kissing is more intimate-”

You shut him up by kissing him, arms wrapping around his neck to assure that he doesn’t get too far away from you.

Kissing Jungkook came naturally - as if the two of you had done it before. He pries your mouth open and allows his tongue to dance around yours, all the way he holds onto your hips.

“Bed,” you kiss his lips again. “room.”

Jungkook follows behind you, unable to keep his hands off of your body as you lead him to your bedroom. He doesn’t even bother to close the door before he’s already tugging at your clothes.

Your shirt is the first to go, breast pooling out that Jungkook cannot focus on anything else but them. He dives into them, your back hitting your mattress just as he begins to suckle on your left nipple, his thumb and index finger pinching the right.

The noises Jungkook made were just as filthy, wet sucking and groans echoing off of your walls. How long he had craved to see your bare breast - they were always teasing him when he was around. Bouncing whenever you move, nipples always erect for his view.

“So pretty.” Jungkook brings the right nipple into his mouth, showing the same amount of needy lust and love to it as the left. His hand squeezes your left breast in the palm of his hand, the pain shooting pleasure right to your core. “I can suck on them all night. I don’t know why he doesn’t.”

Now, Jungkook brings both nipples into his mouth, needily needing to taste you. He has a crazed look in his eyes that only causes you to squirm beneath him, legs wrapping around his waist to feel him.

“You can suck on them whenever you want.”

Jungkook grunts, teeth grazing against your nipples as they pop from his wet mouth. “Don’t tempt me, Y/N. You’ll never be able to get rid of me.”

You were positive you didn’t want Jungkook to leave.

“I want you naked right now. I wanna see just what that idiot has for me right now.”

There wasn’t much Jungkook had to do to get you naked - in seconds, he had helped you kick off your shorts along with your panties, needy pussy on display for him.

“Need you on my tongue now.” Jungkook hisses, flipping you and him so he is beneath you now. Your pussy is so close to his face that it causes you to yelp in slight humiliation.

“I-I wasn’t really prepared to do this, i-I-”

“Y/N,” Jungkook calls, tone dismissive. “I’m a man. Just fuck yourself against my tongue.”

So you do - and Jungkook’s hands only make you do more. His hands slap your thigh to kick up the pace, his eyes boring into your face as it contorts with pleasure. Your hips just as you grind against his tongue, hands gripping your breast.

Jungkook’s eyes never leave your face. He enjoys watching the stress leave your body as you pleasure yourself, it tells him that this is something you truly needed. His hands begin to rub along your hips, encouraging you to continue until they slide down to your ass. He cups them, his own head swaying side to side to further stimulate your needy clit.

“S-S-Shit!” your body leans back, hands planting against his thighs as he devours your cunt as if it was his last meal. “I-I’m gonna cum…you gotta move.”

That was the last thing Jungkook was going to do - not even as your hands try to pry him away from your pussy, he doesn’t. He continues to suckle onto your clit until you’re visibly shaking above him, but even then he was determined; fully committed to having you cum hard on his tongue.

Your legs begin to quiver and Jungkook soon was going to get what he was looking for - you cum. He licks the arousal up, slurping and suckling loudly as your moans mewl out of your mouth.

“I could eat you all day.” Jungkook speaks beneath you - and you knew he was serious.

You did the wrong thing by looking at him. His mouth and chin was fully coated in you and just the sight causes you to cum even harder - the hardest you have ever had in your life; right onto his tongue like he wanted.

You fall back against the bed with a tired sigh, breathing hitching.

Jeon Jungkook was a dangerous man. No wonder the universe gave you your dog - you couldn’t handle a real man such as Jungkook, surely.

“Can I fuck you?” Jungkook asks, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Unless you’re tired then-”

“I want you to cum in me.”

Jungkook coughs, his cock jumping in his pants. “I-I…really?”

“If you’re going to fuck me, you mind as well go all out.” you pant, widening your legs. “I don’t want you to hold back, either.”

You were going to be the death of him - but if this was what is going to kill him, then he’ll be content.

“Fuck.” Jungkook is in a hurry to remove his clothing, scattering it all around the room without a care. “Fuck you’re so perfect. I would treat you so well, Y/N. Fuck I hate him.”

Jungkook’s words causes you to giggle at the circumstances. He hated your boyfriend - his friend - for allowing you to fall into the arms of another man - him. It’s all comical, truly.

“I would fuck you all day if you’d let me. Come home every night and fill you with my cum. How are you not pregnant yet?”

Jungkook’s babbling to himself, even if you could hear it. It’s questions he has asked himself time and time again - wondering why his friend would rather sleep with other girls when he had someone like you at home. You cooked every day and assured the home stayed just right. He would have put a baby in you - and of course married you; but this wasn’t about him now, was it?

Jungkook positions himself at your center and swallows. You’re clenching, ready to be stuffed.

“I bet you’d like to put a baby in me.” you tease, hips slightly wiggling for him to enter you. “Why don’t you?”

Jungkook growls. “Don’t tempt me with a good time, Y/N. You don’t know how many times I imagined you in my home.”

Maybe Jeon Jungkook was a bad friend for imagining said friend's girlfriend in his home cooking for him - or in his bed breeding her. BUT he had since stepped out on the relationship so karma would have to skip him, right? If anything, you being with him would be doing both of you a favor - you wouldn’t be cheated on and he would dote on you every chance he had.

Jungkook begins to enter you, shuddering at the tightness of your pussy. It engulfs him completely, as if shoving him in with whatever powers it held.

Shit.

Instantly, Jungkook begins to pound into you - you casted a spell, surely. Whatever you put in the food had caused him to be highly consumed by you entirely. Maybe a baby would be nice, right?

You weren’t expecting Jungkook to get right into it - neither were you against it. He holds your legs apart in a tight hold, cock pounding into you so heavenly that even you thought about giving the man what he has been imagining.

“Fuck,” Jungkook hisses when his eyes catch the white, creamy ring around his cock. “you haven’t been fucked good in so long. You’re milking my cock already.”

“Maybe if you weren’t such a pussy before you could’ve been fucking me.” you needed Jungkook to fuck you harder if possible. Making him mad and taunting him was an amazing way to start.

Jungkook’s eyes are furious, lust and anger swirling in them. “Maybe if you would’ve asked me to fuck you I would have.” he spits back, his thrust quickening. “You always looked so desperate, too.”

“I was.” your hand slap against his bare chest, but it doesn’t cause him to stop - no, if anything it makes him fuck into you even deeper at your retaliation. “You were desperate to fuck me, too.” you moaned when he hit that sweet spot that has never been touched before. “Like a little teenage boy.”

Neither of you notice the footsteps coming closer to the bedroom, far too entangled with one another's pleasure.

“I know when a bitch needs to be stuffed. Should’ve filled you with my cum years ago.” Jungkook flips you onto your stomach. He yanks your hair back so your back is perfectly arched - and then he takes you just as hard as before. “But tonight will be the night that I do what we both want, huh?”

“Fuck, you’re so deep.” your eyes snap shut, stomach forming knots. Your breast bounces in the rhythm of his powerful thrusts.

One hand in your hair while the other begins to play with your wet clit. Jungkook buries his head at the side of your neck, lips against your ear.

“You’re coming home with me tonight, Y/N. I’m going to breed you here, then you’re leaving with me.” It’s the sex and lust talking that's causing him to be so demanding and possessive, but you and him both go along with it. When the high was down, then maybe the two of you could talk with sense.

But as of right now - he was determined to put a baby in you without thinking of any consequences and stupidly, so were you.

“You’re gonna leave him right?” Jungkook asks, yanking your hair harder as his hips jut into you. “You’re gonna give me that baby you want me to put in you so bad and you’re gonna leave that sad excuse of a man.”

Your pussy clenches around him and your eyes manage to open. You’re shocked to see him at the door, eyes wide and watching his friend fuck you into oblivion all the while bad mouthing him.

“Y-Yes!” your juices leak down your thigh, overstimulated due to Jungkook’s fucking and aggressive rubbing along to your swollen clit. “Want your baby.”

You don’t break eye contact with the man - it’s evident that he’s shocked, but he cannot be angered. Not with you, at least, maybe with his friend.

“He could never fuck me like you. Never give me a baby.”

Now you were purposely taunting him, upset that this is when he decides to come home - but a bit glad that he gets to witness the end of an already crumbled relationship. You wonder how he feels witnessing his friend fuck you better than he ever could; with more passion.

You cum around Jungkook’s cock, juices leaking out of you and onto your bed and Jungkook isn’t far behind you. His thrust began to grow sloppy. He leans away from your neck, eyes glancing up at the figure watching them - the same figure of his former friend; one who had not spoken to him in months unbeknownst to you.

The friendship had ended months prior when Jungkook had suggested that he treat you better, in which he responded angrily that if he wanted you to be treated good so bad that he should have you, declaring that he would have nothing but his sloppy seconds. Never truly imagining that he would witness it happen before his eyes - he was just angry and drunk at the time when he spoke so harshly of you.

Jungkook cums inside of you, so deep and so much. His eyes never leave the shocked ones of his former friend at the door as the both of you allow the high to die down. “You’re coming home with me tonight.” he says, not asking but demanding.

You nod your head, eyes leaving that of your former boyfriend and they close as his (former) friend gently lays you down onto your bed.

#jungkook x reader #bts smut #btswritersclub #bangtanwritershq #bangtan smut #jungkook smut #bts cheating #explicit-tae #lick back #bangtanwriters net #btswritingcafe #btswriterscollective #jungkook imagine #bts affair au

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verareids · 6 months ago

Text

feel the same - s.r. x bau!reader

spencer misunderstands a conversation he overhears between reader and derek. tags/cws: misunderstandings, confessions of feelings, use of 'y/n', gn!reader, fluff, mild angst, derek morgan has big brother energy wc: 1708 (much longer than I thought lmao) a/n: I'm truly obsessed with season 1 spencer as of late so I HAD to write a fic with him in mind. <3

also posted on ao3

“You know Pretty Boy likes you, don’t you?”

Spencer had been trying to get some sleep on the flight back after working a case that had drained all his energy when the sound of Morgan’s voice caught his attention. Without opening his eyes, he knew exactly who he was talking to. Spencer had never outright admitted to anyone that he had developed feelings for you but it was getting harder to deny. Once Derek had started pointing out the way he’d look up when you entered a room or the way his eyes lingered as you walked away, he was becoming concerned that this crush was more obvious than he’d like it to be.

He’s been trying to ignore it, telling himself it’s unprofessional when really it’s because he believes there’s no way you could possibly feel the same. There’s a myriad of reasons why he wished Derek would keep his big mouth shut but honestly – that was probably the biggest.

“Likes me? How old are we?” The smooth sound of your response makes Spencer smile to himself in spite of the current situation.

“(Y/N), come on…” Derek chuckles and is immediately met with a long stretch of silence. Spencer can picture the death glare he knows he’d see on your face if he were to look at you in this moment. “Look, you know he’s never gonna ask you out himself so maybe you should just–”

“Derek.” You interrupt with an evident sternness in your tone. “I’m not having this conversation with you. I’ve told you, it’s not happening.” Ouch. Spencer had never allowed himself to dream that you would reciprocate his feelings but he definitely wishes he had been asleep for that one. With that, he forces his eyes shut tighter than before and takes in one deep, slightly shaky breath and decides to try to go back to sleep, if only so that he doesn’t have to hear you reject him even harder.

Spencer wakes up as the jet is landing and he quickly gathers all of his things, walking out and across the strip with much more urgency than usual. This detail doesn’t go unnoticed by you, not much does – especially where Spencer is concerned – and you make a mental note to check in with him later. He had caught your eye the first day you met him which must be, what? Half a year ago now? And he had been on your mind ever since. You had bonded quickly as friends, being the two youngest members on the team. About a month ago you had finally allowed yourself to acknowledge the fact that you had developed feelings for him. You’d sit next to him at any given opportunity, listen to his infamously long rants much longer than anyone else would, spend just a little too long staring at his lips as he talked you through his theories. It didn’t take long for people to notice. Elle had her suspicions, JJ made a comment every now and then, but Derek – he wouldn’t let it go. He teases you about it constantly. You haven’t given him the satisfaction of admitting it, you haven’t been able to deny it either.

When you eventually make your way into the building along with the rest of the team you notice that Spencer had already left. It’s only then you start to be concerned. It’s unlike him to leave in such a hurry, even more so to not even say goodbye. You rack your brain trying to come up for a reason for this strange behavior. Is he sick? Upset about something? Was it you? You begin to go over every interaction you’d had with him recently when you have to stop yourself before you spiral. He’s just tired. If it was serious he’d tell you… right?

The next morning you walk in to find Spencer at his desk working on the report he didn’t write last night before he had basically ran away.

“Morning, Spence!” You greet him, making an effort to sound cheerful as you lean on his desk. He doesn’t look up, like he’s trying extra hard to look busy.

“Morning, (Y/L/N).” He replies without looking up. His tone seems normal, his use of your last name is what sounds the alarms in your head.

“Hey… are you feeling alright?” You ask tentatively, not wanting to pry too much in case you really had done something wrong that you clearly weren’t aware of. “I noticed you kind of left in a hurry last night.” He finally looks up and meets your eyes, easing your nerves slightly. His eyes shift away and then back to yours before a soft smile graces his lips, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m okay.” He responds after a while in a way that sounds like that’s not all he wants to say. You go to reassure him, make sure he knows he can tell you anything, but stop yourself when you notice the way he tenses when you place a hand on his shoulder. Retracting your hand quickly, you begin to fidget with your fingers before running them through your hair nervously.

“Spencer… I–” You start and stop and Spencer feels a little guilty as you seem to stumble over your words anxiously. “Is it me? Did I do something? Because if I did I–”.

“(Y/N).” Spencer cuts off your panicked rambling. You take a steadying breath as he slowly rises to stand in front of you, your eyes trailing up when he towers over you. He looks around the room and sighs before focusing back on you. “Can we go somewhere to talk?” You nod and begin walking towards a storage room with Spencer following close behind, quickly checking that there's no one in there before stepping inside.

“What’s going on with you?” You break the silence as Spencer closes the door behind him. “You know you can talk to me about anything.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve been acting weird.” You notice the way he dodges the question. He can’t meet your eyes anymore, his gaze shifts around the room and he smiles awkwardly at you.

“Spence, that’s not–” You interrupt yourself, trying to find a way to put your thoughts to words without overwhelming him. “I only want you to be okay. You’ve been acting differently since last night… If there’s something going on I want to be there for you.” When you say that he smiles sadly. He looks down in thought as if he’s considering something.

“I heard you talking to Morgan…” He mumbles, still staring at his feet – wringing his hands together. You furrow your brows in confusion. Talking to Morgan? “On the jet on the way home…”

“Oh.” This isn’t happening. You figure you should’ve known Derek’s relentless teasing would be your downfall. He must know you like him now. There’s a reason you never wanted him to know how you felt. You couldn’t stand the thought of anything ruining your friendship. Spencer visibly deflates even more in front of you at your lack of response. You begin scrambling to come up with a way to get out of this horrifically embarrassing situation.

“Look, I– I didn’t mean to make this awkward…” Oh god. The way he’s stuttering and tripping over his words. You stare blankly at him, then duck your head, bracing for the impact of his rejection. “It’s not like I thought you would feel the same way I just–” Wait what? Your head snaps back up to see his face, eyes widened, which seems to startle him a little. “I wasn’t going to say anything but I guess I just got really in my head about it.” He begins to look a little panicked. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, I’m sorry if I did.” You just keep staring up at him, mouth agape in disbelief. “(Y/N)?” He says your name with a sad desperation and it reminds you that you should respond.

“Sorry, I–” You say slowly while shaking your head. “Are you saying that – Do you like me?” Now it’s Spencer’s turn to look confused, but it was all starting to make sense to you. You had thought he was acting weird because he had found out about your feelings, when in reality, it was the other way around.

“Yes?” He replies hesitantly.

“I like you too.” You say simply with a shy smile but Spencer looks completely taken aback.

“You do?” The way his eyes light up with a subtle excitement was adorable. Soon after, that look was replaced with skepticism. “But I thought— you told Morgan you didn’t like me.”

“I told Morgan to stop teasing me about you because I didn’t think this…” You gesture between the two of you. “Was ever going to happen.” Spencer let out a sigh of relief and smiled bashfully.

“You could have just told me.” You feel his eyes scanning your face as if he were still looking for proof that you weren’t messing with him.

“You didn’t tell me either.”

“I thought there was no way…” You make eye contact as he trails off in thought. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.” Spencer takes a tentative step closer to you but doesn’t move to touch you in any way, so you reach out to take his hands in yours, lacing your fingers together.

“Well… maybe if we don’t have to fly out for a case today, we could go to dinner tonight?” You’re staring down at your intertwined hands, squeezing once before looking back up. When you see his face he’s still looking down with a big dopey grin on his face and you can’t help but smile right back.

“Yes— definitely.” You giggle at his obvious enthusiasm.

You both stay in the storage room for another couple minutes, mostly just staring starry eyed at each other. Eventually you both decide that you should get back to work. You try to hide whatever was now going between you as much as you can but like always, Derek Morgan figures you out within minutes and he, along with the rest of the team, teases you relentlessly. (You wouldn’t have it any other way.)

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fic

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alchemistc · 21 days ago

Text

Once again I need to get off my ass and go work but instead all I'm thinking about is Them:

Buck's mostly got his breathing under control by the time he hears the side door slide open, and he adjusts his weight automatically, tips his chin as he straightens his spine, tugs at the bottom of his suit jacket like that will fix the wrinkles he'd made bending at the waist for the last ten minutes.

"Buck?"

He's turned away, thank god, so Tommy can't see the wince.

"I'm fine," he says, annoyed with himself and the world at large when it comes out wobbly. "Go back ins-." When he hears the door click shut again he takes a moment to hope Tommy's just left, again, but -

No such luck.

"That door locks from the inside," Buck murmurs, and tears his gaze away from the gentle expression on Tommy's face. There'd been a cardboard box wedged up in there by whatever line cook had been out here smoking when Buck burst through the doors, and the guy had left it with a warning about how insanely large this building was and how few doors along its perimeter were unlocked, and now the broken down box is somewhere beneath Tommy's left foot.

Tommy tries the door anyway.

It doesn't budge. "We could just call Eddie," Tommy says, and Buck feels the ire rise in his throat.

"Eddie's not here," he spits, and it feels like a knife under the ribs. Everyone fucking leaves, eventually. "Call your date, if you want. I'm walking."

Buck heaves himself up from his lean against the brick, takes two large strides to make it past Tommy and keeps going.

He should have known better than taking Bobby at his word that this stupid gala would be worth his time. So far he's dodged conversations about the curse of the 118, spent an unbearable five minutes smiling blandly at Gerrard before he could excuse himself, and tossed two numbers written on raffle tickets into the trash in his mad dash through the kitchens because apparently Tommy had been chosen as the rep for 217 and he looks fucking good in his suit, and he'd been pretty sure they'd be spending this Christmas together, until last month.

He's twenty yards down the alley when he hears footsteps catching up to him. Light, brisk - he's jogging to catch up and Buck doesn't want to deal with -

"Not my date," Tommy says, and Buck curses his own body for automatically slowing to allow him to catch up.

Buck snorts. "Okay." The guy was older - than Buck, at least. Grey around his temples, fat lips and clever eyes that caught Tommy's mid-sentence and sent them both into quiet hysterics.

"Buck, would you just -."

He's close enough to reach for Buck's arm, so Buck wrenches it away before he can make contact. "Don't call me that."

December twenty-third is one of those weird days where the world doesn't quite work the same. Traffic is heavier or lighter in weird places, people with nothing to do wander the streets or hole up in their homes making too much food and watching weird holiday movies, and even in LA it gets chilly enough at night to need a jacket. This one isn't doing shit to keep Buck warm, but the anger catching in his throat sure is.

"It's your name," Tommy says, exasperated.

"Not to you." Buck stops dead in his tracks, watches Tommy take another three steps before he realizes he's alone. When he turns, Buck doesn't allow himself to turn away from his gaze. Annoyance isn't a new look - Buck has tested the waters enough in six months to know intimately exactly how far he could push it before Tommy stopped indulging him.

He looks upset. Frustrated. Tired. Hot as fuck. Buck sort of wishes he'd do something about those first two.

Something other than walk away.

Tommy sighs. Runs a hand through his hair, and the sides aren't as high and tight anymore. There's a piece curling over the tip of his ear and Buck wants to tug at it, slide his fingers in there and tuck it back. "That was Sal," he says, and Buck flicks through the sadly small Rolodex of names Tommy has mentioned in the past. Another boundary Buck hadn't realized was a brick fucking wall in the way of getting to know his boyfriend.

Ex.

Sal. He'd been at the 118 with Gerrard, in the early days. Before Chim and Hen, before Bobby. He'd been the one to prompt Tommy into filing a complaint against Gerrard even though he'd been scared out of his mind to do it.

"I don't care."

He does care, is the problem. He cares so much. He's got a pile of fruit cakes and half a dozen pies sitting on his kitchen island right now that prove it. He can't seem to stop caring.

Tommy looks sceptical.

Buck brushes past him again, keeping his strides long. Tommy's the same height, but both literally and metaphorically he's always struggled to keep up when Buck had somewhere to be.

At least the panic attack has passed. Maybe he could take up running, as a cure all, instead of the weak ass recovery period he usually takes that involves him drinking a bottle of water and staring at the same spot on the wall until he sees stars.

So, fine. Tommy hadn't brought a date to the work function it was entirely possible Buck would be at six weeks after breaking up with him and disappearing into the damn wind. He'd bubbled Buck seven times that Buck knew of, and he hadn't brought a date.

Fine.

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright. You looked -."

Buck had watched Tommy wheeze with laughter and curl a hand around the dudes - Sal's - wrist and he'd felt like maybe he was gonna throw up. Like six months and the something he'd been working his way up to defining hadn't meant a damn thing. Like Tommy could just move on like he seemed to think Buck could.

"Doing great, Tommy. My best friend is moving to Texas and the man I thought I could -." Buck clears his throat. Shuffles sideways just a bit because Tommy is keeping pace now and his cologne is familiar and devastating. He doesn't have anything inside. Once he rounds this corner he could just order an Uber and go home.

There's nothing keeping him here.

"Eddie's moving?"

The no contact thing had extended to everyone at the 118, apparently. At least Buck wasn't alone in that.

Buck digs out his phone, slows his pace just enough to pull up the app he needs. He can feel Tommy's eyes burning a hole in the side of his head.

"Yeah, well. I'm getting used to people leaving at this point," he says, filling it with as much ire as he can. His voice doesn't wobble this time.

"Buck."

It's soft, this time, same inflection as when he'd cage Buck against a counter and lick into his mouth. "Don't worry about me, Tommy. You made it a point not to."

"That's not fair."

Buck couldn't care less. He's spent six weeks on a depression baking spiral and now he wants to go home and destroy every bit of baked goods he's made that are still left.

It only takes a few taps. They're surging prices, but that's not exactly a shocker.

He'd really thought the next time he saw Tommy he'd just be sad. Maybe he'd feel a little wistful about all the moments they'd shared that had meant something to Buck even if they hadn't meant the same to Tommy.

He wants to swing a fist, if he's being honest. He wouldn't. Not ever. But the desire is there and he hates it.

"Buck, could we just -."

"Stop calling me that!"

"I pay a mortgage, Evan!"

Buck can't remember Tommy ever raising his voice. It's - weird.

"I'm forty years old and I own a house and you asked me to move in to your loft after you told me you admired me." The emphasis isn't lost on him.

His ride is three minutes away.

"I got it the first time, Tommy. Haven't sucked enough cocks or done enough tests to know what I really want, so. Go enjoy your evening with Sal and -."

"That is not what I said." Cool, calm. Infuriating.

"Well that's what I got from it, so clearly we were never on the same page. I wanted a future with you and you've been eyeing the expiration date the whole time so -."

He's definitely not expecting Tommy's lips. But there they are, on his, and Buck's stumbling back, fully expecting the sharp crack of the brick at the back of his head as Tommy surges forward with him, only Tommy's hand curls around his skull at the last second and takes the brunt of the landing. His mouth opens on a groan and Buck licks up into it. Their noses clash and rather than shifting for better positioning they just press closer. Tommy's free hand finds the soft give of Buck's waist and his thigh finds purchase between Buck's legs and -

"You're willfully misunderstanding me," Tommy says, lips on Buck's jaw, heart pounding under Buck's hand, his breath ghosting along Buck's cheek.

"Never really gave me the opportunity for clarity," Buck bites back, and Tommy huffs, rolls his hips, tucks his forehead into the juncture of Buck's shoulder.

His pulse is pounding in his ears and there's a cloud of Tommy Tommy Tommy obscuring his senses.

"Do you still want that?"

Buck's phone dings in his hand.

His ride is here.

"Not if you're just gonna walk away again," Buck bites out, and shoves. Hard.

It barely moves Tommy, but it's enough to slip out of his grasp.

He doesn't glance behind to see if Tommy follows as he pulls at his suit jacket again and rounds the corner to try to catch - he eyes his phone - Sheri before she cancels the ride on him.

Doesn't stop him from hearing the footfalls behind him while he searches out the blue Honda Civic.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #maybe i'll even finish this before christmas

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hoseoksluna · 3 months ago

Text

PROMISES | myg

pairing: idol!yoongi x f. reader

genre: fwb au / angst, smut

word count: 9.3k

summary: when you needed your social battery recharged by your fuck buddy yoongi, you didn't expect to have your undiscovered feelings for him reciprocated.

pin: promise / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: strong daddy issues, slight dd/lg, manipulation, tiny rough treatmeant, edging, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), teasing, mixed feelings, oc is confused abt her feelings and the whole situation, fight, yoongi counts down, unprotected sex, pussy spanks, nipple play.

note: this has to be my worst work in the whole hoseoksluna universe. i'm terribly upset, disgusted, unmotivated. i wrote this all week, hated every second, and i'm sorry to say this is my last smut for a while. i'm really struggling mentally, i'm struggling with writing, and i don't know what to do anymore. i'm posting this a day early because i can't stand this fic anymore. i can't stand smut. you're free to skip this one until i get better.

You were a folded swan, drifting upon the smooth, glittering surface of a river that led nowhere—a dead end, bearing the face of a man you’ve been casually seeing for the past few months. A man that clutched adrenaline and tenderness in his fist like a bouquet of the prettiest woodland wildflowers, on top of which perched a note signed in your name. Scratchy Latin letters, doused in ebony ink, they had more life than you did at this moment; poetry-woven experiences that had you feeling life like life should be felt—drastically, enthusiastically and delightfully. Every vowel depicted the closure of each night you spent with him: mouth parted agape, through which the sweetest moans would erupt and saturate him in a certain kind of fatherliness, pride and manliness.

It’s what you need, laying as you are on the linen sheets of your bed, dressed down to your lacy underwear that you thought would make you feel better, somehow would recharge your dead battery that was stuck on zero percent for longer than you care to admit. Father issues, dissatisfaction at your workplace, at your home life, at life itself. You were tired, your concentration running thin as you were watching your well-loved K-drama that you have seen a hundred times before. Through your vision, your own non-romantic interest would fly by, smiling down at you in your dejected state and form. Your body knows him more thoroughly than your heart, stirring erratically at the memories that would begin to flood your system. Tongue, lips, hands. His cock that he would tease you with, giving it to you and not giving it to you purposefully because he enjoyed the sight of your desperation for someone like him—a person who has seen the worst of life, its characteristics engraved upon his skin, and yet you still yearned for him, yearned for those scars. You didn’t have to tell him, but he knew.

He knew by the way you would so very often trace the scar upon his shoulder, either with your fingertips or your lips. You were friends, fuck-buddies to be more precise. You were aware that someone entangled in a special friendship such as this shouldn’t do something like that, but you couldn’t help it. Yoongi taught you many times to listen to your body and you were doing just that.

Following your body’s inclination to sink into his soul that he wasn’t too scared to let you inside of.

He allowed you to do it to such an extent that the threat of his quick orgasm would appear and he would slip out of you, distract himself between your legs, make you come twice in a row—perhaps as a playful punishment, or perhaps as a reward.

He saw you—and right now you need to be seen, folded in your forest-scented exhaustion while the river flows on, the trees sway on and everyone else passes by while you remain fixed on the same spot, stooped in your ungratified, seemingly unnamed problem.

You can text him, ask for a quick fuck, something he’s very well acquainted with, used to at this point—so much that everytime you leave his place stuffed full of his cum, he stuffs you with something else as well.

A promise for the next time.

A package of something to make you look forward to your tight-knit time spent with him. The last time, he had promised to take you to a running sushi restaurant, where you didn’t linger for long because you got fed up with the way other people would steal the sweet plates you wanted to try. He had fucked you in his car to make you feel better about your innate misanthropy and while he was balls-deep in you and you struggled to catch your breath, he promised you ice cream. With each thrust that squeezed your soul, he described how you’d enjoy each lick, the details of the flavor and how he’d buy you any ice cream you wanted. You hadn’t realized it then, within the stupor of your mind-numbing pleasure, but now as you are recollecting it, you perceive how bothered he was by the way other people ruined your night with him.

And that rips open the restraints around the butterflies in your stomach.

You want some ice cream—and more than that, you want to see him. Close your mouth around the adrenaline he’s always so willing to fill your life with.

You don’t know what he’s doing at seven PM on a Thursday night. You usually meet him on Fridays or during the weekend if he’s working the day before. You’ve never shown him your neediness—and there’s a certain dangerous feel to it, baring yourself naked in this way, despite the fact he’s seen, touched, and licked every inch of you. And it’s hard for your brain to comprehend that you yearn for him when your social, emotional and physical battery is dead. If anything, you should be resting as you are, get right in order to be at your best for the next time you see him.

But alas…

With a sigh, you turn to your other side and reach for your phone that you’ve been charging, gliding your hands down the cable, imagining it’s his arm. And with a frustrated furrow of your brows, you tap on the circle above your messages. A pinned picture of him that you took, his face caught in his gummy smile against the dark backdrop of his car interior, filtrated with the twinkling lights of Seoul’s city buildings. Another sigh leaves you, one that exasperates you because why are you so needy for him? Why can’t you be a normal girl, independent, okay with your own company shared with the fictional people that you love? You’ve spent your girlhood like this, and happily so. Why does growing up mean you need the male energy more than your own?

Biting your lip, your anxiety spikes up, but your desire for Yoongi overwhelms it, wins. And that settles a layer of calmness over it, gives the command to your fingers to type what they need to type.

what are you doing

The bubbles don’t emerge from the dark motive of your chat until a few minutes later, the green of his message brightening up your phone—and your life, too.

About to have a concert. Having a shot right now for your health.

Oh, shit. A strange concoction of disappointment and a deep, low, murmuring stimulus rises in you. The swan in you elongates her neck, interested, but still dispirited considering her options. She will have to fold back into her form, and continue on her long, somber voyage back from the dead end, dwelling on the thrill of the flirtation of the man that she likes a little bit too much.

Staring at the thick canvas of trees and shrubbery that aren’t letting you in to see him, you think about what to type, your thumbs hovering in the air. Life dislikes you; life wants you to suffer—

A ringing tone of your phone tugs you away from your distressed thoughts. The Latin letters of Yoongi’s name expand across the screen behind that picturesque and private shot of him, enlarged, stirring your heart. Silence spreads through your mind and your thumb quivers as you slide it across the bar to accept his call, placing the device against your ear.

It feels as though you’re pressing the side of your head against his, especially so once you hear the warmth of his raspy voice pronouncing your name in his accent, marked by the liquor he drank prior to your messages.

Enlivened, your body is. Just from that.

“What’s up with you?” Yoongi asks, and the swan sails a little bit more swiftly, her tucked-in wings fluttering against her feathery body. You play with your necklace, your trembling so, so terribly evident. You’re glad he didn’t video call you, but the phone call is much more intimate and pleasant.

You huff out a noise of desperation without meaning to and cringe at yourself, crunching up your features. Yoongi calls you by your name with a tiny hint of alarm and you curse yourself, silently. Your misanthropy gets pointed at you.

“Noth—”

“Should I cancel my concert right now?” he suggests, cutting in, and you can hear the drunken playfulness in his voice, the one you have enjoyed on many occasions. Even acted out on your pleasure from it by making him, physically, feel good about it. You wish you could suck his dick right now, right before his concert, so he gives out his best for his fans.

The sighs are ceaseless and you don’t bother to stop them at this point, your enlivened body soaking up in a swelling, unmet desire.

“You’re sighing,” he notes, and you discern a cube of ice clinking in his glass, then a swallow of his throat, as if the indication of your yearning got him going, got him needing that burning liquid. “Are you horny for me?”

Enlivened, your butterflies are, starting a war just from that sole question: desire versus your mental health.

And using the vanilla scent of their wings, they remind you of the fact that you’re an adult woman and that you’re allowed, and more than allowed, to do whatever your body asks for. And if it’s asking for Yoongi, you’re going to go the extra mile to get him.

Brazenly and femininely—and a little bit slyly.

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m really craving that ice cream you promised me,” you say, lowering down your tone, and you play with the lacy lining of your bra. Think you can tease him with it for a good effect. “I’m wearing a nice lacy set right now.”

Yoongi sucks in a breath and lets it out in a sigh that is entirely redolent of you, making your mouth curve in a soft smile. “What color?”

Your expression of a muted joy expands as you tell him. “Red.”

He swears, raspily, and the shade of your lingerie becomes more vibrant in the dimmed yellow light of your bedroom. And there you feel it—a more intense tendril of lust slithering down your sternum, moving your body side to side against your sheets in need. And the whimper that comes out of you is more primal than it is forced.

At the sound, Yoongi pauses. You imagine him biting his lip, the gears in his brain turning, and he doesn’t disappoint you. He never does.

“Do you have a dress of the same color?” he asks, small pants escaping his mouth, and you smirk.

“I do.”

He chuckles in personal delight. “Wear it for me. The set, too. I want to see it. I will pick you up after the concert and get you that ice cream.”

Your butterflies spring to your lungs, making it hard for you to breathe. And you don’t know whether to be glad, to be happy, to jump on your bed or to get ready. All those emotions simultaneously gather in you, spreading sparks of excitement down your nerve endings. And most of all, you want to hug him.

You want to hug your adrenaline-infused angel.

“Okay,” you agree, prolonging the vowel, the muscles in your cheeks aching. “How long is the concert?”

His delight leaks out through a deep hum, one that causes you to tense your body in feverish eagerness. “Two hours. Can you wait that long for me without touching yourself?”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip. Think you can wait however long for him, just as long as you get to see him. “I can, but my panties will be ruined. Sticky and uncomfortable.”

The hum is strangled by his strained intake of breath, turning you woozy, your fingers itching to slide beneath your said panties, knowing his noises alone would make you come in seconds. You weren’t wet before he called, but now you can feel the center of the fabric dampening the longer you talk to him.

“I’ll take them off as soon as I can. I promise. Hold it out for me.”

And you believe him. You compress that promise into your hand, warming it up with your body heat before you tuck it safely into the chambers of your heart—and you wait.

You wait for him to fulfill the myriad of his promises.

You did hold it out for him, and brilliantly so. You watched one episode of your drama with a little bit more vehemence, despite the fact Yoongi swam past your thoughts more times than you can count. You’ve never watched him perform in real life as his own private life was always kept in secrecy from his fans, but your curiosity led you to search him up online and watch a playback of one of his more upbeat songs. Dressed in a long black coat, white shirt and a tie, your mouth was wide open, as well as your eyes, as you took in his ferocious energy, enhanced by his passion, and you never looked at him the same as before. He became someone else, a figure of brutal yet tender power and it made you want him even more zealously.

The memories of that performance resurfaced in your mind every now and then, and his Agust D persona would melt into the male interest of the show, deepening your desire for him as you dreamed.

Dreamed of reaching different highs with him. More profound, more devastating.

A dream that could never come true. A promise that would never flow past his mouth.

You didn’t let that ruin your night, however. As the second hour wrapped around you and your body lacked the heat it needed, you shut your laptop and stood up to your feet, walking over to your closet. Your fingers found that red dress you had spoken about first before your eyes did, silky and sleek amidst the thick, woolen fabrics of your winter clothes. It was the only nice dress you had, one you haven’t worn before, and you were thrilled you got to wear it for him tonight.

It fit you like a second skin, hugging your curves just right, fading into the lacy linings of your lingerie. One would have to sharpen their gaze in order to notice it—and you wondered if Yoongi was going to scout it with his eyes first or with his fingers.

The unknown excited you, so much that your panties gained that stickiness you mentioned in the phone call. And when you sat down to slide your feet into your black strappy heels, the feeling was so intolerable that you cringed—and your brilliancy ended there.

How were you going to sit against your cold arousal for another hour?

The awaited text didn’t come through until you were dousing yourself in your vanilla perfume. Yoongi was downstairs, waiting for you in his car. Left my lights on for you, he had typed to reassure you because he knew how anxious it made you, looking for his parked car in the dark when you couldn’t see anything.

Your heart blossomed two times bigger when you checked it from your window. Yoongi in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone, the headlights filtering through the mist of the deep of the night. You smoothed a hand down your tummy, calming your butterflies, and, reapplying your lipstick, you grabbed your coat and went outside to meet him.

He spotted you long before you lifted your head to smile at him and he reached over to the side and opened the door for you. The motor was running, keeping the warmth intact for you, and you sighed in relief when you entered it—only to realize that Yoongi had turned on the seat heater for you.

You melt into the leather, closing your eyes, the ambience of the present moment nestling upon you like the most delicate layer of snow that dissolves when you feel a swift breath along your neck and it’s Yoongi, lengthening his arm and closing the door while keeping his twinkling gaze on you and giving you a pleased smile.

The butterflies kick against your stomach.

“I was going to do that,” you say because you truly were—it’s just that the snug, comforting heat he prepared for you made you want to stop and bask in it as the short walk from your apartment building to his car numbed your bones to such an extent that you needed the time to defrost. And he quickened the process by placing an even warmer hand upon the nylon of your inner thigh that the slit of your dress and your trench coat exposed. “It’s just so cold.”

He fondles the fabric of your tights on the top of your thigh with his thumb. A gesture of comfort that diffuses life down your legs and colors your cheeks in a shade of pink that irradiates the subdued atmosphere of the car. It’s hard to breathe—and it’s hard to resist him, keep yourself cool and not swing your leg over.

Fuck the ice cream. You want something way creamier.

“It’s only right I close it for you after I opened it,” he reassures, the deep tenor of his voice puncturing right through you, looking for your core, and you shift your hips, the discomfort of your wetness not allowing you to relax as much as you need. Yoongi’s eyes flick down to your movement and he parts his mouth as that distinctive smirk of his divulges his enjoyment in seeing you so horny for him. “Are you still sticky for me?”

It’s now that you take the time to fully look at him. There’s a certain glossiness to his long hair that tells you he went home and took a shower before he got inside his car and drove through the quiet night to meet you. You can smell the rosemary of his shampoo and the usual minty aroma of his body wash, blended with his natural musky pheromones and the wood, the tangerine of his perfume. He’s the synthesis of your internal woodland, the breath of the trees that your swan inhales and a punishment, all in one; and you’re not sure if you can hold out any longer. Both emotionally, both physically.

“Very sticky,” you say, wrapping your hands around his arm, descending your fingers down the bulky, wooly material of his winter jacket like you were touching your charging cord—a temporary dream come true. You enclose your palm around his knuckles, think that if he feels how wet you are, he’ll realize that you sentimentally require more than he normally gives you—that your flesh will somehow tell him and give him the bravery to do so.

But Yoongi doesn’t move an inch. His fingers remain fixed on the inner of your thigh, digging dents into the skin as you feel the bulging of his bicep the more you push his hand towards your wetly clothed cunt. His smile falls, his eyes droop—and the energy is charged with such unnamed intensity that you let go of your pursuit, slipping your fingers beneath the edge of his sleeve as a sign of your submission.

That quickly.

“You promised to hold out for me, didn’t you?” he asks, waiting for your agreement, and you nod, feverish, dripping with perspiration, with this great need that towers over you. “Then, be like Daddy and keep your promise or you’re not getting anything.”

A shiver cascades down your spine—not merely from his authoritative voice, but from the role he dipped into that immediately puts you into yours. You begin to giggle, palming your mouth as the blush in your cheeks bursts and tears of overwhelmingness add a certain glint to your eyes that sparkles beneath the yellow-tinted car interior lights. And using this fatherliness of his, he interweaves your arousal around his long, piano fingers, announcing he’s its King.

Your essence trickles out of the confines of your panties.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” you whine, still giggling, you can’t help it. Yoongi takes after you, blessing you with that gummy grin of his that you adore so much. Your heart enlarges.

“What exactly am I doing on purpose?” he challenges, kneading the flesh of your thigh, and he senses his answer right away. Your essence travels to his hand, stopping there, and once again Yoongi’s smile falls, eyes plummeting to it, hand lifting—and fingers gathering that warm slick.

And it drips onto his own pants-clad thigh when he plunges his fingers into his mouth, shocking you to your core.

“Yoongi—”

He hums in titillation, interrupting you, and smacks his mouth. For a brief amount of time, he seems to be in his own world as he tastes you on his tongue. And then, he takes those same fingers, turns the key in the ignition, moves forward the shift stick, and without sparing you a glance, he drives out of his usual parking spot and doesn’t hesitate to correct you.

“Not Yoongi. Daddy.”

You clamp your mouth shut. Think you need some kind of plug to stop your arousal from flowing down your thigh. Yoongi doesn’t mention what just happened throughout the whole drive, but you do notice his semi-hard manhood poking out of his groin area. You salivate, but don’t tempt him, squeezing your thighs together so tightly that your muscles cramp.

You’ll save it for later.

You listen to him talk about his concert experience of tonight while the drum in your clit matches the beat of the songs of his playlist. He speeds down the road, keeping his hands on the steering wheel and the shift stick, and he doesn’t look at you until he halts the car at the first red light.

He smiles at you, knowingly. A dirty, dirty smile that turns your world upside down, vexes you deeply—enough for you to swivel your head in the other direction to ignore him because if you looked at him any longer like that, you’d be unbuckling his pants. But Yoongi does what he pleases. With his index finger, he whips your chin back to him, leans over and grins before he presses his lips against yours.

A gentle, gentle kiss. One that does not mirror his demeanor.

Your walls flutter, your whole body, too. Shock seizes you in its grasp at that gesture of affection and you can’t breathe—he’s stolen all of the oxygen in your lungs. The trees sway and bend, the swan in you dances quite buoyantly, despite the fact that a storm is coming.

A storm of your emotions.

He’s never kissed you like that—out of the blue, at the red light. He kisses you when he’s drunk, handsy and touchy-feely as he everlastingly is, but he doesn’t kiss you just like that when he’s sober.

“You doing good?” he murmurs against your lips, ripping away the fingers of your shock, and it feels as though you’re waking up from a dream—only to glide, boundlessly, into another one. Yoongi waggles with your chin before he pulls away, the yellow light bathing him in its shade momentarily before the green blinks and he jumps back into his own world.

Does he really think you won’t erupt in this storm? Disintegrate into smithereens and wipe everything clean that he is?

“What was that for?” you ask, softly, your lips numb and aching for more of his tenderness, one that you would, in all honesty, die for. You trace the print of his own lips on yours, feel its heavy warmth, and you might as well be drunk just from that.

You need a shot. And not just one.

Yoongi bites his bottom lip. “You’re holding out so well. I thought you deserved it.”

You roll your eyes back—not from raw annoyance, but from the pristine pleasure you receive from the dominant, fatherly energy of his words. Suddenly, you don’t know what to do with your hands, what to say, what to think. What you do know is that you surely will be crying into his pillow by the time this night is over and he’s fast asleep.

But you can’t cry much. Can’t wake up with puffy eyes. Can’t reveal to him the gravity of your feelings.

You don’t even remember the moment you realized you loved him. Think you loved him the first time you laid your eyes on him, but you buried it deeply in you—so deeply that you didn’t even recollect your feelings when Yoongi told you, straight away, that this was just a friends with benefits kind of arrangement. Truth be told, this business is the sole kind of relationship you can give him as you hate men. Always hated them. But you don’t hate him.

He’s not them. He’s different.

You may have wanted adrenaline and joy tonight, but as you dwell in this state of mind of yours, you slouch deeper into the leather and come to a heartbreaking understanding that you’ll never be happy in this life.

The night-clothed streets pass by you in soft shapes in colors, disappearing instantly out of your view. And the woodland, the trees and the swan, they disappear, too. Shrouded by the fog of your abysmal sadness.

***

Yoongi took you to such a small hotel that its luxuriousness pierced your eyes with its glorious light. You thought you were dining and ending the night at his place, but once Yoongi ordered your favorite shots of sweet rum with cocktail cherries, you perceived you were staying here. Perceived he was unknowingly giving you the opportunity to drown your feelings in alcohol as well.

You almost didn’t wait for him to take his own shot before you downed yours, but hearing the click of his tongue, you stopped midway. And to make sure you did wait, he placed his palm upon your wrist, bringing your arm down onto the table as he ordered your dessert.

Chocolate ice cream, just for her. Thank you.

He made everything worse.

You weren’t sure why you wanted to be so good for him, listening to every order of his that came to his mind. Why you wanted that validation, that praise. You could just do whatever you desired—it wouldn’t scratch your relationship with him. You could be bad and he wouldn’t mind. Hell, you think he would even enjoy it. But why is it your inert yearning to please him so much? It’s devastating—and it’s your personal ruination. Because the more you do things that caress his ego, the deeper the abyss of your feelings for him goes.

You shouldn’t. Not in the construct of your friendly relations. For the sake of your well-being.

You pry his fingers away and take that shot, watching his eyes grow large in their surprise. You never slide the cherry along with the liquor into your mouth, so once you swallow it, you open it wider and begin to chew it. His brows twitch, his own mouth parting at the sight and he leans back into his chair, completely submitted and enthralled by your act of defiance.

And it feels good, going against him like that. Living your life by your own decided rules, and not his.

You don’t hesitate to gulp down the other shot, but it’s not the slight burning of the liquid that gives you the buzz. It’s the way he seems to be completely pleased by your self-will, smiling lazily at you with his head tilted to the side. It propels you to steal his shot, too, and the brief facade of his pleasure collapses. A dark tendril of concern lines his eyes and those brows that twitched furrow, casting a dusky shadow over those slits.

Now he’s aware of it, the tornado that spins within you. But he doesn’t know the cause of it, the decadent poetry verses that cover it.

And he’ll never know—he’ll never read them. Because you’d much rather keep it in secrecy than risk losing him for all eternity. Feelings can be hidden, feelings can wander off, lose their bearings until they no longer remember that your body used to be their home. But Yoongi… he’s a person that you meet once in a lifetime. And losing him would mean that you lost not just your life, but the blood pumping in your veins as well.

It’s wrong, being attached like that to someone, regard him this way. And you’re cognizant of the fact it’s temporary—and for that sole reason, you bask in it. Because your life would be prosaic, and not poetic, if you didn’t.

That is the motto you carry in your pathetic, but strong heart.

And the darkness of his concern, it intoxicates you more than the last shot you take.

The backdrop of dining and chattering people sway, just like your past trees, behind him. Manifestations of foreign lives you’ll never witness twice in your life, that are a part of you today and will part from you tomorrow. Yoongi, in the middle, remains stable. A beacon of light, unmoving, a great pillar of fixedness and steadiness. He peers at you through the thickness of his eyelashes, his aura solemn, no longer playful. Your sighs emit out of you in a constant stream while your eyes roam at everything in motion but him and he seems to strongly, strongly dislike that.

“What’s up with you?” he asks for the second time around this evening, but the question has a loftier ring of seriousness to it. It passes through you, puncturing you until it pokes out of your back and transforms into a pair of monumental wings. Ones, upon which your feelings are mockingly hung, for his eyes to see, but not to recognize.

And the swaying of your body brings forth wetness to your eyes, for it is an anamnesis of the inner world you lost due to the comprehension of your feelings.

“Nothing,” you say for the second time around, too. A hefty blanket of silence is thrown across the table, scattered with empty shot glasses that were meant to be shared between the pair of you. Unable to look at him, your eyes drop to them, count them—one, two, three, four—and then your irises wind up at his clenched fist. At the white valleys of his knuckles that are composed only when his fingers are wrapped around a microphone. And the blanket of the silence is warmer than the warmth he has given you—a sweltering layer of heartsickness that you can’t bear. With your drunk brain, you think you should pierce it, as if with a needle, with a response to a question he didn’t ask you. “I haven’t eaten much today, that’s why I’ve gotten drunk so quickly.”

Yoongi runs a tongue down the inner flesh of his cheek. Ponders the information you have given him before he scolds you. “You didn’t eat and you drank four shots in a row. You won’t tell me what it is, fair enough, but I know you’re hiding it behind the pretense of you being horny.”

His head swivels to the side, sensing a presence. And he watches as the waitress puts down an ornamental plate of two scoops of chocolate ice cream in front of you. You don’t pay her a second of your time. You set your eyes on Yoongi, on the darkness of his energy that you are ever so slowly and magnetically pulled to.

Yes, he sees the problem, but doesn’t recognize it. He sees the shape of your wings, but he can’t recognize their color.

The solidness of his call-out quivers. You’re not sure if you’re hiding it; you’re no longer sure about anything at this moment, but you don’t care. You have to stick to your secrecy, you have to keep your feelings safe and tucked away, no matter how far on the edge of the cliff they are.

“I’m not hiding anything. I was horny,” you retort, not caring that the waitress is still present, picking up your shot glasses. Yoongi gives you a look while you tip your chin down and gaze at him through your long lashes—just like he did. A taste of his own sweet poison. And then you lift your foot and rest it between his outstretched legs, the sole of your stilettos pressing lightly against his soft groin.

This is fun. This is the adrenaline you were seeking. Who would’ve thought you would be your own provider of that.

Surprised by the abruptness of your act, he doesn’t let it show on his face, but his hands drift upwards from his thighs before he settles them around the bridge of your foot. He waits for the waitress to finish her job and, sensing the pressure, she scurries away without asking if you wanted to order another round.

And in her absence, Yoongi begins to touch you.

He sails his fingernails from your toes up to the thin strap of your shoe, wrapping them around your ankle. He squeezes your limb once, warning you about something you don’t know, his eyes tiny, tiny slits. Perhaps if you keep up with this, the night won’t end so prettily like it normally does.

But you don’t believe it. You refuse to. And to be frank, you can’t.

You shall have your fun.

“Eat your ice cream before it melts,” he orders like the father he is, pointing at the dessert with his irises.

You look at it, at the bits of the chocolate bars jutting out of it, then back up at him. “Feed it to me.”

The slits break, his eyes enlarging. His reaction spreads all across his face—brows curling upwards, mouth parting, his thumb absentmindedly swiping across the skin of your shin, exposing how much he liked your request. Such an intimate place for that to happen.

Then, he examines his surroundings. Then, he gets up from his chair and sits next to you on the booth, taking a hold of the spoon and your leg simultaneously, hooking it over his thigh. Scoops the ice cream and turns to you, his arm suspended in the air.

“Open,” he rasps, and your eyes wet first before your mouth complies, opening wide for him. Yoongi slides the spoon into your mouth with expert gentleness, careful not to hurt you, and your first tear of the night cascades down your cheek when your mouth closes around the silver, your tastebuds cheering due to the chocolate flavor that overwhelms them.

Yoongi, the man that could never disappoint you. Yoongi, the man who has given you more fatherly love than your own father ever did.

How could you not love him? How could you not want more from the casualness of your relationship with him when he treats you like this? When he prepares a warm faith in men within your chest, a wet soil—out of which the tenderest sprout of joy shall grow?

The second tear cascades down. The ice cream melts on your tongue. You swallow.

Yoongi sighs, dropping his hands, the corners of his eyes rounding in an emotion you’ve never seen upon him. “You have to tell me what’s going on.”

Your wings, swan-like, flutter behind you, ruffling the hair on the crown on his head. “The ice cream tastes good.”

You brush away your tears, lamenting your foolish mistake, and fold your hands on your lap. Give him a teary smile that you can’t hide and open your mouth for him again. Yoongi doesn’t say anything as he continues to feed you and frown at you, not until another waitress comes and asks if you wish to order another round. His anger is evident in his voice as he turns her down, stating you won’t be drinking any more than you have.

And again, he makes everything worse when he wipes your mouth clean after you finish the dessert. Pats your head to reward you.

You hold your tears, watch him pay for you, give him your hand when he leads you towards the elevator up to the room where you’ll be staying tonight.

Him, completely sober; you, drunk out of your mind.

He doesn’t let go of your hand, even as you and him stand side by side, the silence as thick as death. You can’t stand it, can’t do anything else but to break it all over again. Though this time, you don’t do it with words.

You do it with your actions.

Stumbling on your feet like a freshly-born fawn, it’s only then that Yoongi looks at you. Holds you steady as you move in front of him to face him. He doesn’t swim along the current of all these brown shades of the elevator, but you can see a deep emotion waving through his ice-cold eyes that heat up, melt and droop when you envelop your arms around his neck and press your face against the side plane of his, kissing him there a hundred, a thousand times. You sink your fingers into the hair at the nape, tracing circles along his scalp and Yoongi shudders, breathes evenly against you, and it reminds you of the wind that swept past your woodland—the one that made your trees sway.

All of that is gone because of your mistake.

And something tells you that nothing will ever be the same. That something groundbreaking awaits you once these elevator doors open.

And they open too quickly.

Breaks your wordless actions that speak your gratitude for his fatherly behavior by gathering you into his arms, carrying you out of the elevator. Doesn’t let your aching feet touch the ground until the snugness of the tiny room welcomes you in. A queen-sized bed, a mirror across the wall that faces it, a round table by the balcony. It would be stifling if you were here alone, but Yoongi, somehow with his domineering energy, enlarges the room—makes it his.

He empties out his pockets. Phone, wallet, keys. A white lighter and a pack of cigarettes. His jacket follows next, hooking it around one of the chairs, and once he notices your wavering feet, he sits down at the edge of the bed and sheds your trench coat, throwing it over his own jacket. Bends at the waist and takes off your heels, one by one. Only then, when you’re comfortable, does he set you down in the center of his lap. And you realize that the mirror is right in front of you.

You watch him through it. Watch his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck; watch your own form disappear into the buffiness of his body as his hands begin to roam. His watch glints in the dim light of the room and his own being coalesces, becomes one with the murkiness.

You want to do that, too. Forget who you are. Forget what you’re feeling.

Tears prick at your waterline and you let out a pained sigh. Another foolish mistake of the night, one you’re about to pay for.

“Talk to me,” he begs, a wisp of a tiny whiny weaving into his voice inconspicuously, but you catch it—and it vibrates through you, weakening you. It makes it so much harder for you, his unyielding need to know what’s troubling you, but how can you tell him? How can you risk never seeing him again?

You remain silent, painfully so.

Yoongi lifts his head from your neck and stares you dead in the eye through the mirror, chilling you down to the bone.

“You truly think I’m just a guy you fuck?” he spits, his anger on full, unabashed blast that you should’ve seen coming with your restrained behavior, but it’s better to take his anger than to take his absence—and you shall devour that emotion of his. His question causes a hiccup to ensue in your chest, the secrecy of your feelings leaning over the edge of the cliff. Dangerously, dangerously close. “That you can’t confide in me? You think I’m just gonna fuck you and pretend I didn’t see you cry?” Your eyes dart away, a heavy load of agony settling over your heart, but Yoongi prevents you from looking away. Makes you look at him by grabbing your chin and keeping your head still, facing the mirror. “Is that what you want? You want me to be this kind of asshole?”

You bite your lip, not knowing what to say, not knowing who you want him to be, not wanting to be in this situation at all. But Yoongi can’t stand your silence. Can’t stand the privacy of your trouble, as if he inertly knows that it has something to do with him.

He softens his touch, but he doesn’t do the same with his voice.

“Answer me.”

You cry out in unnamed desperation, which propels Yoongi to lift your head up to him, so you can look at him—so you can see how much this matters to him. The emotion in his eyes vivaciously thumps, urging you to speak to him. He holds you to him like this, gripping your cheeks with the littlest amount of pressure, sucking in small breaths and you can’t. You’re going to explode if he keeps at it, and you’re going to die.

“Yoongi,” you whisper, tiny cries emitting out of your throat, and it’s almost a cry for help. You bunch up his T-shirt in your trembling fist, seizing the solidness of him like your fear seizes you, and you don’t know whether to run or stay put on his lap like this. You’re appalled about where this is going and you’re certain that the same dead end is impatiently seeking you—

Yoongi shushes you. Averts his hand and caresses your hair down. Kisses your forehead, where he lingers a few long seconds that subdue the expression of your storm. Waits until your breathing evens out, so he can unravel the words swelling in him.

“Even if you asked me, I couldn’t be this kind of asshole to you,” he reveals against that plane of your face, punctuating his sentence by pressing his nose against yours. And you can’t believe his actions, you can’t believe the kind of affection he’s bathing you in; it lessens your fear, slashing it apart until there’s nothing left of it. “Something is hurting your heart and that bothers me. And what pisses me off most of all is that you think I can’t help you.”

You sniffle and slide your hand upwards to his neck. Try to memorize every inch of this paintwork that your life is graced with as tomorrow won’t have the same paints, the same brushstrokes—

“I’m not gonna fuck you. If you want to be touched, I’ll touch you, but don’t think for a second you’re coming tonight, not if you won’t talk to me,” he murmurs and you gasp, lowly, your wings slumping limply.

The promise of him fucking you was your only salvation for tonight. You gaze up at him with wide eyes, your mouth falling agape, unbelief clutching you at the intensity of his stubbornness.

And you want to know the meaning behind it.

“Why?”

He scoffs, kissing your cheek as if you were a baby he’s cradling, and you can’t take it anymore. You untangle yourself from his grasp and stand up to your feet, your back against the mirror. Yoongi peers at you disapprovingly and then he shakes his index finger at you. Your legs mimic the same movement, trembling, weakening at that.

“You need to be taught a lesson,” he says and flattens his lips, pauses before he opens his mouth again, but you stop him, despite how much you like it.

“No, Yoongi. Why are you treating me like this?”

He props his knuckles against his thighs. A powerful, powerful stance. Curls his lips around his teeth. “Like what?”

You reflect him. “Like I’m something more.”

Yoongi chuckles, humorlessly, at that. You spewed it out so rapidly that you don’t realize what you said until he lets out that noise that returns the drum to your sensitive parts. And briefly, as if you uttered something stupid, you grow smaller and smaller—until his following words change your life once and for all.

“Because you are and because you always have been,” he rasps, the corners of his mouth downturning for a split second, exposing his own secrecy that brings you to your knees. They scruff against the white carpet, stained by time, and Yoongi’s eyes flash with light to see you in this position.

Your heart hammers with more life than it ever had, with a kind of adrenaline it never felt before, and wetness clouds your vision, misting this situation in a cloud of disbelief. Your lungs fail you, shuddering underneath his hard gaze, and they swell greatly when Yoongi clasps your face in his hand, the one that pointed at you so fatherly, so devastatingly.

“You’re not just a girl I fuck and I know I’m not a guy you fuck. What we have is irreplaceable, what we do has always been something more, beyond the label we gave it and I regret it,” he lets out, a pained sigh—just like yours—wafting over your features, and Yoongi leans over, propping his elbows on his knees, his other hand joining your face, fingers gripping your hair on each side. “I should’ve treated you more properly, with respect. Take you out on dates. Get to know you. Wait before you let me touch you… because that is what you deserve. You’re not a girl to mess around with. You have a dignity that needs to be taken seriously, that needs to be respected and I wish I had done that. I wish…” he trails off, clicking his tongue in ultimate regret, and you break. You break, break, break. Sob in his hands that hold you so steadily, that give you life, adrenaline and a new meaning to your whole being. Suffocate under his watch, the earth-shattering notion that this has changed the course of your trajectory of your relationship with him forever constricting your throat. “I wish I had allowed myself to court you like you deserve. I wish I had been better mentally, but I’ll make everything right if you want me to. If you want me as much as I want you, I’ll make it right. I’ll try my hardest.”

Your own words, your heartstrings tangle up in a complex manner. Your tongue twists, your speech held back, and you have no control over what comes out of your throat. You’re crawling through a limbo that has no end and each movement you make, the way back gets erased. You need to keep going before it swallows you, but you need him to lead you. You need him inside your skin, inside your heat, inside your mouth. You need to be connected to him in a way you’ve never been connected to him before. You need his breath in your lungs—and your attachment to him bursts in flames.

Sated, elated, magnificent.

“Fuck me and make me yours, Yoongi.”

He sucks in a breath as if he didn’t expect you to accept his favor. The light in his eyes soaks his irises in wetness and his mouth trembles in a tender emotion before he smashes it against yours. And within that lip lock, the swan in you is reborn.

A baby swan, learning how to sail upon this new, new river—needing her father more than ever before.

The kiss is hard and the kiss is catastrophic. Yoongi moves his mouth against yours, sucking every bit of your old life out of you to fill you up with newness. Lifts you up and sits you back on his lap. But the kiss is too brief and you soon perceive that his anger hasn’t been shunned out.

Wet and blue flames lick over his black pools.

“Not until you tell me what’s bothering you. What I said still applies.”

The zipper slides down, the straps follow suit—and your silk is ripped away from your body that Yoongi turns over and moves to his preferable position, cradling you sideways like a child. And there—as he gives you a once over, studying the red lace of your lingerie, the swell of your breasts, the little valley of fat upon your tummy, the ruination of your panties and the stickiness of your thighs—there you realize that he’s as punishing you as much as he manipulating you into telling him.

And it’s as arousing as it is bad.

His free hand begins to roam while the other one holds you close, wrapped around your back, preventing you from running away. It ghosts over your breasts, causing your spine to arch into his palm and his throat to emit a delicious groan that drenches your panties. His fiery hand ventures down, his tongue gracing you with little praises of how beautiful you are, and when he reaches the V-line of your private parts, he discovers how much his deep voice and his touches affect you.

He lifts his fingers and catches them glistening in the orange light. And this time, he doesn’t plunge them into his mouth. No, he sinks them inside your own. You swirl your tongue around them, coaxing that throaty noise of his that makes your hips buck up. Your tangy sweetness stupefies you and your so-loved woodland is remolded by that intimate act. By your connected gaze that could start a foreign war and bring the world down.

“Suck on them,” he orders, and you comply. Hollow out your cheeks, make sucking noises as you find everything you ever searched for in his eyes. Stability, warmth, a father. Switch, cutely, between sucking them and dancing your tongue around them. His index and pinky fit just right between the elongated clefts of your cheeks and he coos, grows hard underneath you, kisses the tip of your nose, onto which he whispers: “Such a good little girl.”

You moan and he reacts so trenchantly fast, withdrawing his fingers and using them to slide your panties to the side, placing them on your clit and not moving.

“So swollen,” he comments, kissing you for a beat of time without closing his eyes, without missing this moment. “I like it when you’re like this. Swollen, dripping and so horny for me. Like I’ve never taken care of you before.” He glides his fingers down, past your lips to your hole before going back up, rooting on your throbbing clit before starting over. He etches desperation into your veins, stirs your butterflies to madness, and you breathe heavily. “No one will ever see you like this. No one, you hear me?”

Your nod is automatic, thoughtless, and he’s pleased to the core. Enough that he begins to massage circles on your clit, your wings fluttering, no longer limp, but full of zest. And he can sense it—and it touches him so much that he deepens the pressure while the circles remain agonizingly slow. Your body writhes. Yoongi smirks down at you, grins fully when you clutch the nape of his neck and make little noises into his T-shirt. And just as soon your vision begins to blur and you reach the cusp of your orgasm, he stops.

“What’s hurting you?”

He reciprocates your feelings, so you have no reason not to tell him. It’s more of a problem with your speech. You’re so fucked out that you can’t speak.

Yoongi waits for a few seconds before he spanks your pussy. Maneuvers you so you can look at yourself in the mirror, your back against his chest, and he collects your arousal while he pins back your thigh, drifting all four of his fingers along your femininity, stimulating you and punishing you at the same time. Then, he lets you see your slick trickling out of his digits.

“Look how wet you are, don’t you want to come?”

He’s a dark figure behind you while you are a small creature, spread wide, drooling, dressed in a sinful shade of red that doesn’t indicate her purity, whose smeared red mouth leaks loud, whiny whimpers when he sticks one of those fingers inside your heat, adding another one right away once you accommodate around him. He fucks you with a force that reverberates throughout your whole body and his name that pours out of your mouth like a prayer is a cry for help all over again. He pumps his fingers and pulls away, edging you in such a sinister way that drives out your tears.

He worsens your condition—like he invariably does. But the rapidness of his pace, it unlocks your mouth, it untwists your tongue, and you begin to babble.

Incoherent words, nonsense noises; sounds that blossom in volume when he withdraws ultimately, pushes the lace of your bra away from your breasts and kneads them with wet fingers.

And you erupt, at last, when he flicks your nipples. You flood his pants-clothed thighs and knees, your slick streaming all the way to the carpet. And the river continues on with his words.

“I know you want this cock. I know you want it deep in you. But you’re not getting it if you don’t tell me right now what it is you’re using me to forget about,” he whispers into your ear, tweaking your nubs, his hands descending down your body and pinching your clit. You cry out, the aftershocks of pleasure dizzying you, his manipulation technique in full effect, and you’ll give it to him. Because of his cock, because of his affection. “You have three seconds. One, two, three—”

“I love you,” you confess, screaming it out of your lungs, and his eyes enlarging and his mouth parting in shock is all you see before you’re thrown on the bed.

Before your panties are ripped in half and flung behind him.

Before your pussy is eaten and fingered in a way that makes you come in four heartbeats.

Yoongi’s skilled tongue flicks your clit, his fingers curl in that special spot that bespeckles your vision with the stars of the night sky beyond the hotel room window. And you don’t latch onto the fact you’ve drenched him with your juices until he straddles your thigh, arches over you and kisses you with love-drunkenness, his fingers sliding back inside.

And he doesn’t start fucking you until he confesses something, too.

“I love you, too.”

His digits drill you, his eyes pierce your soul and your orgasms are countless like this, not bound to time, not bound to anything at all. You squirt on him, bathe him in the newness of your relationship, cleansing off the old. And then he’s inside of you, murmuring reassuring words against your mouth about how that shouldn’t be troubling your heart. And you cry, you sob, you scream, overtaken by it all, your mouth numb by his constant hard kisses and if you ever belonged to him in the past—you didn’t. Because at this moment, as he stuffs you full of his cum, you’re interwoven into his DNA for all eternity.

One that he nurtures as he holds you in his arms and asks you about how long you’ve loved him. And he in return tells you that he loved you the moment you first had a taste of what he could give you—laughter, guidance, and orgasms. All from the first date.

And when you kiss him for the last time before sleep steals you away, you know that you’ll never lack adrenaline in your life ever again. As long as you’re with him, you’ll be on the receiving end. And his unchanging promises will make you look forward to each day, your batteries charged and green—like your blooming woodland.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: tkslovechild , @jjk7k , @parkinglot-nights , @bethvar , @Sexytholland , @yoongibaybee , @crystaleah ,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan , @euphoricmyth , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk .

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sleepysick · 2 years ago

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#i alwyas oversleep bc im so anxious at night & first thing when i wake up #if i dont feel like i'll get *enough* sleep i get stressed out/anxious about being tired in the morning #it also seems like no matter *what* i do #i never wake up well-rested #so the simple act of waking up in the morning fills me with dread and anxiety because i'm just fckingEXHAUSTED #without copious amounta of caffeine #so the whole thing stresses me out and makes me upset. honest to god if i worked a late shift i would be sooo much happier #bc i naturally wake up at like. 1 or 2 usually and i dont get tired until 6am naturally #and ive been like that for a long time now #idk i feel like i ahud either be able to wake up earlier or get a job that allows me to work like 3-11pm or smth

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kg-day · 10 months ago

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I'm so tired of people telling those of us who are upset about the LA atla remake that we are "being too dramatic" or are just "finding things to be upset about". We are allowed to be upset that something that we love so dearly has been butchered, AGAIN. If you liked it, then that's your personal opinion, but don't sit here and tell those of us who didn't that we're the problem.

I personally think the CGI, costumes, and sets all look terrible. None of it is immersive. Sure, it LOOKS like atla, but it doesn't FEEL like atla. The heart of the og is gone, and people are allowed to be upset about this. They've altered characters to the point that they aren't the character anymore (looking at you Aang and Katara), which is a huge upset for me personally because Katara is one of my favorite characters ever. So watching her be turned into someone meek and docile is more than a slap to the face. Not to mention them removing her as the narrator as if Bryke themselves didn't state that Katara is the person the story is being told through. And before you start telling me that Aang is the same. No, he isn't. Major parts of his development through season 1 (him coming to terms with the fact that he's the avatar and embracing that role, and him also accepting the fact that he RAN AWAY and how he is never going to do that again, which is also pivotal to his character later on) are completely removed. And don't even get me started on what they did to Kataang. Regardless of whether you ship them or not, those 2 are deeply connected to one another from the start, and their relationship is a big part of the show, so to see that butchered is heartbreaking for me.

This isn't just about them "making some changes" or it not being a 1:1 adaptation. I'm fine with adaptations that aren't 1:1. What I'm upset about is that the changes they are making are VITAL changes to characters and dynamics between characters. They're rushing through the plot and condensing the story (and I will scream if I hear one more person say that it's because they couldn't fit it all in with their runtime. The runtime is an HOUR LONGER than the og, so yes, they did have the time). The changes they are making make it evident that they do not understand the og show, and if you don't feel like that, fine, once again, that's YOUR opinion, just as this is MY opinion. So stop telling us we have no right to be upset and that we just want to hate everything. That's not true. What is true is that we are expressing valid complaints about another bad adaptation of something dear to us.

Edit: If you also come at people who are upset bc they were expecting a faithful adaptation and didn't get it bc "its not supposed to be the cartoon," you're missing the whole point. An adaptation is ADAPTING SOMETHING from one medium to the other, not rewriting it. "Yall expected it to be just like the cartoon." No, I expected a FAITHFUL ADAPTATION and was met with poorly written fanfiction.

#atla #avatar the last airbender #natla #netflix avatar #katara #aang #kataang #never made a post before but it had to be said bc it was starting to make me mad #atla is my favorite show of all time #stop trying to dictate how i feel about the remake #there is no live action in ba sing se #anti natla #anti LA atla

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unpretty · 1 month ago

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i have a thought percolating about, like. engagement. the concept of engagement. and how i think it's a flawed concept in part because there's a significant segment of the population that's just... not going to do that. for whatever reason they are only really interested in consuming things passively. art, news, whatever. they are not interested in engaging. they will only ever get the surface-read on anything. if something demands engagement and doesn't allow for surface-level readings it's not for them. they will use whatever app or social network or website that allows them to use it as passively as possible.

mostly i am thinking about this in the context of engagement hacking and 'the algorithm'. posts designed to be infuriating to maximize engagement. headlines crafted to upset you for engagement. and for the right subset of people, it works. but for the passive people, i think they move on. instead of getting them to like and share or whatever it chases them off. the post made them feel bad, so they don't like it. they're going to find posts that don't make them feel bad, instead.

i am thinking about this in the context of living in deeply republican bumfuck nowhere, surrounded by trump supporters who have no idea who mitch mcconnell is. they are unclear on what the supreme court does or who is on it. they do not know the difference between the house and the senate. if you try to talk to them about politics or the news - not even a serious discussion, just trying to explain facts - they will say something like, "oh, i don't follow politics. i don't watch the news. it's all so bad. it just makes me upset. i avoid all of that." and if you keep trying to explain basic facts despite that, they will respond like you're trying to describe the graphic details of a snuff video. there are people who come into our office who my coworkers avoid by pretending to be on the phone, because if they don't, they might try to talk about the news.

the only news or politics they ever see is something that gets enough engagement from the people who care that it makes it onto their feed of funny animal videos and 5 minute crafts. they extrapolate that there's a whole world of nightmares out there that they can safely avoid by never looking. they don't know in any conscious way what it means to curate your feed, but they'll treat a link to anything 'political' like a virus that will turn their phone into a doomscrolling machine that makes you crazy.

i don't know if i'm expressing anything coherent here, i don't have a thesis statement or a hypothetical solution to whatever you would call this. i'm just tired.

#original

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genderqueerdykes · 3 months ago

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trans men and women learn a lot from each other when we get close and it's a wonderful thing. it's okay to be dysphoric about manhood. it's okay to be dysphoric about womanhood. it's okay to not like he/him pronouns, to not like she/her pronouns. it's okay to not like how strangers gender you. it's okay to talk about these things with each other, to share mutual disgust, to see how it affects one another and how it shapes our identities and experiences.

it's okay to talk about the things that make you uncomfortable together. it's not invalidating each other's experiences to have conversations like saying "i'm so tired of being seen as a man no matter what, and being around people who treat me like a man" to a trans man and having the trans man respond by saying "i feel the same way about people who treat me like a woman" and agree to not project one's trauma on to the other

it's okay to be vulnerable. it's okay to admit when we don't understand certain parts of each others experiences, too. we do NOT have to act like experts and like we've "read the book" on what another person's gender is. even if we think we know a lot about that gender, we don't know everything, because we don't know everyone. literally. it's okay to go "i don't understand, but I'll call you whatever you identify as." and be receptive without knowing exactly what they mean.

we don't understand many things in life. that's fine. it's okay to just listen and not talk for once. you don't have to try to speak as though you've lived as a trans man when you're a trans women, and you don't have to speak for trans women if you're a trans man. we are allowed to advocate for our own experiences and simultaneously listen to other queer experiences and respect their boundaries, spaces, and needs.

there is a lot to learn about the challenges that trans women face, the unique struggles that come with some being raised as boys and the troubles that come with that, being seen as a feminine boy, being subjected to homophobia- getting called faggots and other slurs. some were raised as girls, some are intersex, and some are afab or other birth sexes, and the mixing of masculinity and femininity and cause a lot of issues when it comes to how society treats that person

there are lots of conversations that have to be listened to when it comes to the transmasculine experience and how nobody but transmasc people can articulate what it's like to live as a transmasculine person. no one can speculate on it, because it is such a unique experience. it is a complicated matter of several different types of prejudice that no one else can quite understand where it comes from and how it feels unless they've been there

it is so deeply rooted in misogyny, where people treat us like "stupid, confused women," like we're "destroying children" that we're 'destroying our bodies', that our hormones make us "unstable, irritable and emotional," and that we are unreliable narrators. we get called hysterical. we get told we're "ruining a pretty girl" or wasting our "pretty" features. we get lectured about how we need to be attractive and how testosterone will ruin that by our own parents. we get told we can't dress masc because it will make us "ugly" or "butch" or "dykes".

people hate it when we bind our breasts, cut our hair, hide our curves, change our gait, and stop wearing makeup. they lose a "girl" to ogle and become enraged, upset or uncomfortable. while the transmasc person is trying to navigate life in a way where they don't feel objectified, it becomes a matter of even worse objectification because now antimasculism is introduced into the mix and the experience becomes transandrophobia.

people are so hateful and bitter toward manhood and masculinity. people ask us "why would you EVER want to be a man? NOBODY wants to be a man." they tell us "men are ugly, violent, and mean." people tell us that men are sexual predators, that they're inherently abusive. people tell us that testosterone makes people ugly. they tell us that men aren't or can't be queer. they tell us we can't be a feminine man. they tell us we can't be men at all, that transmasculinity isn't even a thing, that transmanhood isn't a thing. we even get told that the only way to be trans is to be transfeminine, and what we are experiencing is a delusion, hysteria, or a result of us being hormonal from being on our periods and/or HRT.

when we listen to each others' experiences we realize how people who are othered by society are treated. we learn that not only we experiencing this, but so is everyone around us. we do not have to try to make one side's experience more important than another's. we can hold each other up by having conversations and being vulnerable about what's going on, how we're being treated, how we want to be treated, and how the community is failing us and how we can do better.

we deserve to have conversations. there's a lot to learn, a lot to laugh about, a lot to relate to, and a lot to be curious about. these conversations are good to have. it's good to admit when you know nothing about transmasculinity or transfemininity or any other identity. it's okay to ask respectful questions. it's okay to tell people when you appreciate their identities, and them explaining it to you. it's okay to just listen. it really is. we have to learn to listen it's not something that can be avoided perpetually for life. listening to someone else's conversation does not erase yours, it does not take it away from the equation. they exist together.

#lgbtqia #lgbtq #lgbt #queer #transfeminine #transfem #transgender #trans #trans woman #trans women #trans girl #transmasc #nonbinary #transmasculine #trans man #ftm #genderqueer #genderfluid #our writing

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dandylovesturtles · 5 months ago

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It's time! For Room Fic Part 4 Part B! Of how many parts? IDK ANYMORE

This is the longest part of the fic yet, and it's also the most... talky. But I felt like this was a part of the recovery everyone wanted to see so I thiiiink it's fine.

Content warnings: vomiting, HEAVY discussion of eating issues (including calorie counting, done purely as a recovery mechanism in this fic but still worth noting), mentions of the non-consensual voyeurism that happened in the first part, and as always, anxiety and aftermath of torture

If you're lost, start here!

I'm soooo tired I only proofread like half of this. it'll go through full editing when it goes on AO3

-----

Leo crashes into his room and grabs anything within arm’s reach to pull over himself. The blanket from his bed. A cardboard box, contents dumped on the floor. His skateboard, a beach towel, a plank of wood used to prop up action figures.

He cowers into his claustrophobic, makeshift nest, clutching his ill gotten gains to his chest. He doesn’t know why he bothered, because there’s nowhere to hide in here, and then they’ll…

They’ll do what? It’s his family. And if they’re upset with him for stealing the chips, well, he deserves that. Who is he to take food, when they’re running low already?

That’s what he expected, actually, when the lights flipped on and Raph was standing there. To get yelled at, chewed out, dressed down - the way he’d been waiting for Raph to do this whole time. Why can’t he just do as he’s told? Why does he always make the wrong decisions?

But Raph hadn’t yelled. He ran off. And now Leo doesn’t know what to expect at all.

He assumes Raph went to get their dad, or even Draxum. He waits in his hiding spot, heart pounding in his ears, and listens for the call of his full name, the surefire indicator that he’s in Big Time Trouble. He stole food, food he isn’t even allowed to eat, and when they’re running low, too. He doesn’t know what the punishment is going to be, and the fear of not knowing pulls him deeper into his nest.

He wants to know. He dreads finding out.

Time passes. He has no idea how much. There’s no clocks in here (there hadn’t been any clocks in there), and his phone is on the nightstand, hooked to its charger. To get it he would have to leave his hiding place. And he’s scared.

So he waits and waits and waits. Until his limbs grow uncomfortable and cramped, until no amount of shifting dulls the pain. His heart is still rabbit quick in his chest. (He may be a turtle but call him the hare-)

No one comes for him.

Finally, finally, when his body physically can’t take this position anymore, he scoots out of his hiding spot and gets to his feet, bag of chips clutched in his fingers. He walks to the curtain over his doorway - though “walks” is really overselling it, with the way he pauses for hours between every step.

When he makes it to the doorway, he peeks out.

The lair is quiet. Everything is dark. No one is stirring.

He makes his way back to his bed, and looks at the bag in his hands. He feels so anxious that he’s nauseous. And he can’t eat if he’s nauseous or he’ll lose his dinner.

So he can’t even eat the damn things. The irony would be funny if he could laugh.

He kneels down and fishes around under his bed for a box he knows is there. It’s full of little toys and trinkets from childhood - things he saved from the old lair that he couldn’t bear to throw away, but is too embarrassed to be seen with.

He dumps the contents of the box into the bigger one he hid under earlier. This is more important.

Then he hides the chips inside and scoots the box under the bed.

He climbs back onto his mattress, cringing when the bed springs creak. His blanket is still on the floor, but he doesn’t want to get up and risk making more noise.

So he curls up on his mattress and stares at the wall and tries futilely to sleep.

Donnie’s brand new curtains don’t even help. Maybe that’s part of his punishment.

-----

Somehow, he manages to make it to breakfast. He doesn’t remember who poked their head in to tell him it was ready, or how he picked himself up and walked to the kitchen. He just ends up there.

Mikey greets him with a sunny grin and the announcement that he gets oatmeal today, along with his scrambled eggs. There’s even some banana on top of the oats. He should be excited for the variety, but he feels numb. Still, he smiles as he’s expected to and thanks Mikey and hopes it passes scrutiny.

Draxum comes in, and then his dad. He stiffens up for both, muscles tense while he waits for the yelling to start. But no one starts yelling. Draxum sits and eats and Leo hears him give a reminder to take vitamins. Splinter reads out the shopping list, and everyone scrambles to add last minute items.

Normally, this is where Leo would be chiming in with all the snacks and junk food he wants, but he knows if he says anything he’ll be turned down, so he doesn’t. He can feel the weirdness of it, but he doesn’t take his eyes off his food to see anyone’s appraisal.

Donnie’s last in; he drinks his coffee fast and tries his luck with adding uranium to the list. He grabs a granola bar instead of eating what the rest of them are having, then tells Mikey to meet him at the entrance in five minutes and leaves. Mikey piles the dishes in the sink, then rounds the table to give everyone a hug goodbye, Draxum included.

Leo smiles when Mikey gets to him. Says, “Have a good day, Mikester.” Swallows down the impulse to grab on and beg him to stay.

He finishes breakfast, then goes to the TV room and settles into the recliner. Raph comes by and pats his shoulder and tells him to call if he needs anything. Splinter hops up and pats his head before following Raph away.

He’s alone now. Alone, with Draxum, who’s currently in the kitchen doing who knows what.

(Leo doesn’t like leaving him alone in there. All their food is in there.)

(Well, not all of it. Leo’s made sure of that.)

He lays in the chair and pretends to be asleep. And he listens.

To be sure that his brothers and dad are really gone, and aren’t coming back for a forgotten wallet or phone.

Until Draxum leaves the kitchen and moves for the train car he’s taken over as his own.

Until he’s sure no one is watching him.

Then he gets up. He goes to his room. He’s not sure why he feels like he’s sneaking, when he’s obviously allowed to be there.

He makes sure all his windows are covered, curtains or otherwise. Makes sure the curtain over his door is stretched as far as it will go.

Then, as silently as possible, he reaches under his bed and pulls out the box. Opens it to reveal his stolen goods.

He unrolls the top of the bag, wincing at each crackle of the plastic. His eyes dart to the door, to the windows, to make sure no one is there, no one is watching him.

Then he reaches his hand in and grabs a chip in his fingers.

He’s not sure if he should do this now. Maybe he should wait, save this when things get dire. But everyone is gone. They’ve left him alone, with Draxum. What if Draxum doesn’t let him eat, with no one here to step in?

He’s scared of being hungry again. He doesn’t want to go back to that place.

Just a few, he tells himself. Just a few, and then he’ll stop.

He pulls the chip out of the bag, and takes a bite.

-----

They’re at the local grocery where no one asks questions, basket half full and three minutes in to Splinter trying to decide if the Buy One Get One Half Off deal for frozen dinners is really worth it or not, when it occurs to Raph that maybe they shouldn’t have all left at the same time.

Of course, in normal times this wouldn’t have been a big deal at all, especially with a nominally responsible adult in the lair. But times haven’t been normal for over two weeks now. The thin shell of his little brother, once always the biggest and loudest in the room, now trying to make himself as small as possible, isn’t normal.

They got Leo back, but it still feels like someone else has him.

And now Raph feels guilty. He’d been so desperate to just get away, from the feeling of being inadequate, from the fear he’d make things worse, that now he’s probably made them worse anyway by leaving Leo alone with a guy he does not like. Raph should have stayed home. Or told Mikey and Donnie to wait until he and Splinter were back before leaving.

(That worries him too, for different reasons. He knows he can’t lock his brothers up in the lair to keep them safe. But he kinda wants to.)

But he didn’t do any of that, and now they’re out and Leo is alone. Raph thinks of the chip bag and sighs. He just can’t seem to make the right decisions. The calculus is overwhelming, and Raph’s always left math to Donnie.

“Hey Pop,” he says, watching Splinter flip his fourth TV dinner over to look at the nutritional information. “Do you think… Leo is gonna be okay?”

Splinter pauses, then gingerly puts the box into their basket. He pats Raph at the knee, and Raph feels the overwhelming desire to be small again.

“...Yes, I do. It will take time and care, but I think, one day-”

“No,” Raph cuts in, “I mean, do you think Leo is gonna be okay today? I mean, we kinda just ran off and left him alone.”

“He is not alone.” Splinter makes a face, at odds with his words. “Baron Draxum is the most annoying man in the world, but he would not let harm come to you boys.”

Raph rubs his neck. “Sure, but… Leo’s not exactly Draxum’s biggest fan. Especially not now…”

“Blue does not have to like him,” says Splinter airily. “He just has to eat the food Draxum gives him.”

“Yeah, but that’s the whole problem,” Raph insists. “He’s bein’ a huge jerk about it.”

“Ah… I know. I have spoken to him about his… tone.” Splinter waves a hand. “He is trying to be more polite.”

Raph thinks back to breakfast this morning. He’d laugh if anything were funny right now. “Is that why he was all “please” and “thank you” and “sorry” this morning? He looked like he ate a lemon.”

And judging by how distant Leo was acting, he doubts any of it made an impression.

“It just proves that the man is incapable of being nice!” Splinter chuckles. “Do not worry, Red. We will only be gone a few hours. Most likely, Blue will sleep until we are back.”

“Raph hopes so…”

They continue moving around the aisles, crossing things off their list as they do. It’s normal and boring and Raph thinks he needs that right now. If only it distracted him from the thoughts in his head…

There’s so many questions to dwell on. And the biggest one looms over them all, constantly drawing Raph’s attention back to it.

They’re in the soup aisle when he speaks up again, saying, “Hey, Pops, do you think…” and then flagging out before he can voice it.

“Often,” says Splinter, reaching for a can of tomato bisque. “But at my age, it can be difficult!”

Raph snorts despite himself, grabbing the soup can and passing it to his dad’s fingers. “Come on, Raph’s trying to ask a serious question here!”

“Hm.” Splinter puts the can in their basket. “Then I will give a serious answer.”

“Do you think…” Raph shifts the shopping basket from one hand to the other, and resolves not to chicken out this time. “Do you think Leo did the right thing? Not talkin’ to that Bishop guy?”

Splinter goes quiet for a long time. He points to a can of alphabet soup, the kind Leo insists he’s too old for but will happily eat when he’s sick, and Raph dutifully puts the can in the basket.

“…I think he did the brave and noble thing,” he says at length.

“That ain’t the same,” says Raph.

“I do not know if there was a right thing.” Splinter’s voice is sad, fingers idly stroking one of the soup cans. “It could be that if Blue had talked, he would not be as hurt as he is now. Or it could be that Bishop would have… disposed of him, once they had what they wanted.”

The idea of Bishop “disposing” of Leo steals Raph’s breath. But it’s not like he hasn’t thought of this before.

“April said pretty much the same thing.”

“Oho! April is very wise.” Splinter nods in satisfaction, affirming for Raph once again that his favorite kid is definitely April. But then he looks up at Raph sidelong and says, “But that answer does not satisfy you.”

Raph sighs. “It’s just… what if he thought he had to stay quiet, because of something I- because he thought it’s what he was supposed to do?”

A furry hand lands on his. Raph takes a deep shuddering breath, and uses his free hand to scrub at his eyes. They’re damp, suddenly, and he’s not sure when that happened.

“…I often worry the same thing,” says Splinter, “about all four of you.”

Raph doesn’t know what to say to that. He already knows that their dad would give anything for the four of them to not have to fight; he also knows it’s out of his dad’s hands.

Why can he accept that, but not accept the same for himself?

“I’m afraid I do not have an answer for your question,” says Splinter, pulling Raph back to the grocery store. “I want you boys to be safe. But the situation Leonardo was in afforded him no safety. I’m not sure there is a choice he could have made that would have helped him. Still…” Splinter sighs. “It could be the reasons he made the choice he did are troubling.”

“Yeah,” says Raph. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Mm.” Splinter pats Raph’s hand. “Your questions and worries are wise ones, Raphael. Meditate on your answer, and when you are ready, share it with Blue. You will find your path forward together.”

Raph chews on his lips. “I’m scared I’m gonna mess up,” he admits.

“Sharing the truth in your heart is never a mistake,” says Splinter, “so long as you are doing it with love.”

Raph blinks at him. “Pops, isn’t that a line from one of your movies?”

“It is a good line! Very heartfelt.” He picks up another can of soup and tosses it into the basket. “As long as you are talking to Blue with love, you will do just fine, Red. And remember, this is not your sole responsibility. We are all here to help each other.”

It should be self-evident, but the reminder pulls some weight off Raph’s shoulders. It’s not just up to him. Everyone is coming together to help Leo. That’s why Donnie and Mikey are at the scrapyard, to finish making curtain rods for Leo’s room. That’s why Draxum is always researching and scribbling in his notebook, refining his meal plan for Leo’s recovery.

It’s not just Raph against the world. He isn’t alone, and neither is Leo.

“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Pops.”

“Of course, Red. Now, let’s keep moving or we’ll be late getting back!”

On their way to the checkout line, Raph spots the candy aisle, and a bag of hard, sour candies. He stops, reaching out and brushing the bag with his fingers.

“Mm… that is Blue’s favorite, isn’t it?” asks Splinter.

“Yeah.” Raph pulls the bag off its hook, holding it over the basket uncertainly. “I know he can’t have ‘em yet, but he’ll be able to eat normal stuff soon, right?”

“Right.” Splinter nods. “Put them in! We will hide them until Draxum says it is okay, then give them to him.”

Raph grins and drops the bag into the basket. At least it’s something to look forward to.

-----

Leo is halfway through the bag of chips when the curtain to his room is pushed aside and Draxum is standing there.

He was saying something about the vitamins Leo forgot to take as he came in, the little blue pill organizer clutched in his hand. But now he freezes, taking in the scene: Leo with a handful of sour cream and onion chips, his cheeks bulging slightly, the salty evidence tracking up the sleeve of his hoodie.

He’s crossed the room before Leo can blink. He grabs Leo’s wrist, and Leo cries out, twisting his arm to try and free himself.

But he can’t, he’s weak, he’s so weak-

“What are you eating!?” Draxum bellows. He tosses the pill organizer onto Leo’s bedside table; one of the lids pops open and there’s little plinks as vitamins scatter. “How much of this have you had!?”

He wrenches the bag out of Leo’s grip, and Leo yelps again as he loses the food. The only food he had, and now Draxum has it and Leo is going to-

“This bag is over half empty,” snarls Draxum, waving it in Leo’s face. Leo doesn’t have the presence of mind to defend himself, because he’s still trying to wrench his wrist free. He claws at Draxum’s arm with his free hand, and somehow it gets Draxum to let go; he jerks away with a gasp, dropping the handful of chips to the floor, and at the same time the ones already in his mouth leave painful scratches down his throat and lodge there. Leo doubles over and wheezes in a desperate attempt to get air.

“Are you- Leonardo!” Draxum looms over him, and Leo doesn’t have the strength to flee. He can’t do anything as Draxum strikes him, once, twice, three times on the shell in big, open-palmed slaps.

A white-hot cough rips up Leo’s throat, and he spews the half-chewed potato chips across his blanket, bits of drool and spittle dangling from his lips and tears rolling down his face. He sucks in a deep breath as feeling returns to his limbs.

The hand that hit him moves toward him again, and Leo dodges this time, flinging himself off his bed and into the floor, scrambling backwards to put distance between himself and his attacker.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” he shouts, hand flailing for his swords and not finding them. Where did he put them? Where did they take them?

“Leonardo-”

Draxum takes a step toward him, and Leo pushes to his feet, grabbing for anything nearby to defend himself. But there’s nothing, nothing, where are his swords-

“Leonardo,” says Draxum more firmly, and he takes another step forward. “Stop this, you’re going to hurt-”

“No!” Leo presses himself back against the bookcase on the far wall, the metal shelves biting into the skin of his arms. “No,” he repeats, and a high, manic laugh bubbles through his throat. “You took my food.”

“This,” Draxum shakes the bag, “is all empty calories. This is not going to help your recovery! Why can’t you just do as you’re told-”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Leo spits. He feels stronger than he did a moment ago, pushing himself off the bookshelf and standing on steadier legs, squaring up against Draxum. “Just do as I’m told?” He laughs, a cold sound. “Just like Bishop wanted.”

Draxum stiffens. Something about his expression is… weird. If Leo didn’t know better, he’d almost say Draxum looks scared. “Do not compare me to him,” he says, and his voice is much lower than it was a moment ago. “I am trying to help you.”

“Help me?” Leo holds out his hand, taking a step forward. “Then give me my food back.”

Draxum watches him, gaze unwavering. He holds the chip bag closer to his chest. “I cannot.”

Leo barks out a laugh, high and cold. “I knew it. You’re just lying to me.”

Now he’s the one advancing on Draxum, slow but strong steps, one at a time. Draxum does not move.

“Leonardo-”

“I’m on to you,” says Leo. His voice is a chilly sing-song. “You’re sooo happy to have everyone out of the house. Now there’s no one to stop you from torturing me. Now you can watch me suffer.”

“I do not want you to suffer,” says Draxum, his tone measured. He still hasn’t moved an inch, even though Leo is right in front of him now, within striking distance.

“Then why did you take my food!?”

“This is not good for you,” says Draxum. “I’ll feed you a healthy lunch in two hours.”

“Yeah?” Leo shakes his head. “What do you want me to do for it?”

Draxum’s eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“Come on. Tell me.” Leo grins. It hurts his face. “Want me down on my knees? Want me to beg?”

Draxum’s face goes a shade paler. “No,” he says, firm. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“I don’t believe you,” says Leo. He laughs again. “I don’t. I don’t BELIEVE YOU!”

His fist connects with the glass- but it’s not glass, it’s Draxum’s face, and he goes sailing across the room like a rag doll. He slams back first into shelving, and there’s a clatter as Leo’s possessions tumble and fall around him.

He looks at Leo, eyes wide but expression steady, despite the fact that Leo just…

Leo… doesn’t know what just happened.

He shouldn’t have been able to hit that hard. He shouldn’t have been able to hit at all- Draxum should have blocked that, should have fought back, should have… should have…

“...What?” says Leo, and it comes out with a crack down the middle.

Draxum watches him a moment longer. Then he sighs and pushes himself off the shelves, getting back to his feet. He doesn’t come closer. “I cannot give you these,” he says, indicating the bag. “But I will not fight you.”

“...Why not?” Leo asks, because it just doesn’t follow anything he thought was happening here.

“Because I care for you,” says Draxum simply. Like it’s obvious.

“...I don’t understand,” Leo says, because he doesn’t.

Draxum nods. “That’s because I haven’t properly explained it to you. I didn’t think it was necessary… but it was. Is.” He sighs, rubbing his cheek, starting to glow red from Leo’s punch. “I’m very sorry for that, Leonardo.”

Leo stares. Draxum is… apologizing? He should be attacking, fighting back, not apologizing!

The adrenaline leeches out of Leo, leaving him sagging in the middle of his room - his messy room, with everything thrown around like it’s in an active war zone. A million emotions are running through him, his dying rage warring against the confusion and the beginnings of remorse, a roiling mix that leaves him feeling sick to his stomach.

…Oh wait, no. He’s actually sick to his stomach.

Leo clamps a hand over his mouth, and Draxum is moving again - more calmly, this time. He drops the chip bag on the floor and grabs the wastebasket Leo has sitting by what could generously be called a desk. He holds it out, just in time for Leo to lose his breakfast and all the chips he just downed.

Leo hovers over the wastebasket until he’s empty, until he’s spit a few times to try and get rid of the taste. Then he wipes his mouth on his palm and looks up at Draxum warily.

“Are you finished?” Draxum asks.

Leo shrugs. Draxum takes that as an affirmative and lowers the wastebasket to the floor by the doorway.

“Why are you helping me?” Leo asks.

“I’ve been helping you this whole time,” says Draxum, and it’s only the exasperation that manages to break through that makes Leo think it’s - maybe - not a lie.

“Why?” he repeats, more urgently.

“Because you are my son.”

Leo steps back, his knees knocking into his bed. He sinks down onto the mattress, balling himself up until he can wrap his arms around his knees.

“No,” he says. “Mikey’s your son. Raph and Donnie, they’re your sons.”

A look passes over Draxum’s face. It’s… sad.

“You are my son, too.” Draxum takes a step toward him, then seems to second guess himself and stops. “I know we don’t get along. But the fear that froze my chest when they told me you were gone couldn’t mean anything else.”

Leo stares at Draxum, searching every part of his expression for any hint, any suggestion, that he’s lying. He waits for Draxum to change his tune, to start yelling again, to hit him, to do something.

Draxum doesn’t. And Leo sags on the bed. The feeling of fear with nowhere to direct it leaves him floating.

“I’m going to explain everything to you now,” says Draxum. “But I need to get a few things first. Will you be alright on your own for a few minutes?”

Being alone for a few minutes sounds great; Leo needs to pull himself together. He nods.

“Good.” Draxum stoops and picks up the wastebasket, then the bag of chips, and the chips that fell on the floor. “Answer your phone,” he says, “before your brother comes back to skin me alive.”

Then he leaves the train car. It’s only then Leo realizes his phone is ringing - has been ringing.

He scrambles to pick it up, seeing Raph’s name and picture lighting up the screen. Raph, who is supposed to be getting groceries, because they’re running low.

Raph, who apparently didn’t rat him out about the chips.

Leo shakily presses the answer button. Then he takes a deep breath and swallows to try and calm his voice.

Then he does what he does best and starts talking.

-----

“Heeey, bro,” says Leo, and Raph wants to weep with relief.

He’s two full blocks away from the grocery now, headed for the manhole cover closest to the lair. Their groceries are somewhere on the street behind him, and Splinter is held tight in his other arm. When Leo didn’t pick up right away, Raph started moving.

He felt it, after all: not as strong as the first time, not as desperate or afraid, but still there. Leo, terrified and alone and angry, crying out for help.

Leo hadn’t answered the first four calls, and the worst scenarios are still playing out in Raph’s imagination, even though he can hear Leo now.

“Leo!” he cries, and nearly fumbles the phone. He hits the speaker button, lowering it so Splinter can hear, too. “What happened!? Are you okay!? We’re on our way back right now!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” says Leo, and his voice is scratchy and hoarse, but trying to be placating. “What are you talking about, big guy?” He sounds shaky, like saying those words in that tone is taking so much effort, and Raph wants to hit something until it breaks.

“Just tell me what happened,” he says, trying to sound calm and failing. Splinter pats his arm and speaks up.

“We just need to know if you are alright, Blue.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” says Leo, his voice cracking a bit on the last word. He clears his throat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Raph falters, staring at the phone. Does Leo not know? Could Leo really not feel himself doing that?

He gives his dad a helpless look. Unfortunately, Splinter looks just as helpless. Raph dithers on his answer too long, finally choking out, “Raph just… got a bad feeling.”

“You get bad feelings over everything.”

(Raph wishes he did. Then he would have gotten a bad feeling when Leo went to Run of the Mill on his own.)

“This was just… a real bad feeling.”

“Leonardo,” says Splinter softly, “are you certain you are okay?”

“Yeah,” says Leo, and he doesn’t sound like he’s okay, but like an actor pretending to be someone who’s okay. “It’s… Look, me and Drax got in a fight, but it wasn’t a big deal.”

“He fought you!?” Raph shouts. Someone across the street gives him a weird look.

“Not physically!” says Leo hastily. “Not- I mean- he didn’t- it’s not like he would hurt me, right?”

It sounds a little too much like an actual question, and Raph feels queasy.

“He better not, or Raph’ll hurt him.”

“Red,” says Splinter softly. Then he says, into the phone, “No, Blue. He will not hurt you.”

“...Right,” says Leo quietly. “Yeah. He won’t.”

Raph breathes shakily, trying to quell the urge to pummel a car parked on the side of the road into scrap metal. “Listen, we’re on our way back right now, okay? Just give us-”

“You got the groceries already?” Leo interrupts. He sounds so fragile.

Again, Raph looks helplessly at Splinter. This time, Splinter steps in.

“We’re getting them right now, Blue. Then we’ll be on our way back.”

“...Yeah. Cool. Good.” Leo clears his throat again. “Then… see you guys in a few?”

“...Yeah,” says Raph, at a loss. “A few.”

“Okay. Well. Bye.”

He hangs up. Raph doesn’t move the phone, staring at it long after the screen goes dark and Leo’s smiling face disappears.

“Pops, we’re not really going back for the food, are we?”

“He’ll be upset if we come back without it.”

Raph knows he’s right. He knows that. But everything in his body is screaming to get back to Leo right now, not to leave him alone for another second.

“We can’t all run off and leave him again,” he says.

“Yes,” agrees Splinter. “You are right.”

Raph nods. Then, even though it tears him apart, he turns around and starts walking back to the grocery store. He hopes no one spotted their bags and took them, or they’ll have to start over. They’ll have to leave Leo alone even longer.

“He hated being alone as a kid,” he says.

“I know,” says his dad.

“We shouldn’t have left him today. I knew it.”

“Yes. You were right.”

Raph feels a little mad at Splinter then, that he didn’t think through the consequences. Splinter said this isn’t on Raph alone, but if he’s the only one thinking about the wellbeing of his brothers…

His brothers.

He puts Splinter down, then unlocks his phone again. “I’m gonna call the other guys. They probably felt that, too.”

“A good idea,” says Splinter. Raph nods at the approval, then clicks Donnie’s contact.

Thankfully for Raph’s anxiety, he answers on the second ring. “Hello you are now conversing with Donatello,” he says in a rush, following up with, “What happened to Leo!? Are you home!?”

“No, but I talked to him,” Raph reassures him quickly. “He says he and Barry got in a fight.”

“A fight!?” Donnie echoes. “Aha! I knew he’d turn back to supervillainy one day! You owe me twenty bucks!” A pause, and then Donnie says, “Wait, is Leo okay!?”

“No,” says Raph honestly, “but I think it’s just a normal sort of bad. It wasn’t that kinda fight.”

“Ah. An emotional fight…” Donnie sighs. “But it was bound to happen, I suppose.”

“…Yeah,” Raph agrees, even though he thinks there must have been something they could have done to prevent it. He thinks about the chips again. He doesn’t know what the right thing was, still. “You felt it, right?”

“Yes. It wasn’t as strong as the first time, though.”

“What about Mikey, did he feel it, too?”

“Probably.”

Raph frowns. “You don’t know?”

“I am not Micheal.”

“…So can you ask?”

“I suppose I can text him for you.”

Raph nearly drops the phone. Then he glances down at Splinter, looking for any hint that he’s listening into Donnie’s half of the conversation.

“Why don’t you ask him, since he is right there with you where he is supposed to be!?”

“H-huh? Oh. Oh, yes!” Donnie chuckles nervously. “The buddy system, where he is my buddy, and stays in the same place as me and doesn’t go anywhere else.”

“Right,” hisses Raph. “That buddy system.”

“Yes! Well. He iiiis…n’t with me, but! He is. Here. On the other side of the junkyard!”

Raph rubs the bridge of his nose. “Well, tell him to get back from the other side of the junkyard right now so he can be with his buddy!”

“Yes, I will do that. Right now. And then we’ll be together because we’re in the same place, haha, but I’m so very busy right now goodbye Raphala!”

He hangs up the phone. Raph scowls at it.

“Is everything alright?” asks Splinter, and Raph wants to rat them out, just for a moment, but he ain’t a snitch. Even when he thinks his brothers are being unbelievably stupid.

“Everything’s fine, Pops,” he says, quickly opening his text thread with Mikey.

boy you better get your butt back to D right now or so help me you will NOT like what comes next

Then he gives Splinter a strained smile and repeats, “Everything’s fine! Let’s get those groceries!”

-----

When Draxum comes back, he’s carrying a plastic baggy, a bottle of Gatorade, and a whiteboard under his arm. He requests permission to sit on Leo’s bed, and Leo nods reluctantly.

He sets the whiteboard to the side, then opens the Gatorade and passes it to Leo. Then he opens the plastic baggy and holds that out, too.

There’s crackers in the bag. Leo takes them, a little stunned.

“I can eat these?” he asks.

“They’ll help settle your stomach,” says Draxum. “It’s not good for you to eat too much, but it’s also not good for your stomach to sit empty.”

Leo cautiously takes one of the crackers out, watching Draxum as he does. When no hand reaches to stop him, he takes a bite, chewing slow. He still feels a little nauseous, but the familiar texture and taste of the cracker soothes him somehow.

“Good,” says Draxum, propping the whiteboard on his knees and popping the cap off a marker. “Take sips of the drink, too. You need the electrolytes.”

Leo does as he’s told, alternating bites of the cracker with sips of the Gatorade. His stomach slowly unknots, and the tension in his shoulders relaxes.

He wasn’t expecting a snack, but Draxum brought him one.

On the board, Draxum has written the days of the week, and drawn out a grid underneath them. Leo eats his snack and watches as Draxum fills each square on the grid with a number.

“Where’d you even get that?” he asks after a minute.

“I borrowed it from Donatello’s lab.”

Leo whistles. “Without asking?”

“I don’t think he will mind.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Leo points at the numbers. They aren’t times, or prices, so… “What are these?”

Draxum lowers the board, turning to look at Leo. “Do you know what refeeding syndrome is?”

“…Should I?”

Draxum shakes his head. “No, there’s no reason for you to have known. I should have explained this sooner, but it didn’t feel necessary. …And I thought it might scare you.”

“Scare me?” Leo repeats. He’s not sure what could be even more scary than the fear he feels all the time now.

“I am not telling you this to scare you,” Draxum stresses. “I am telling you this so you understand what is happening now.”

Leo slowly nods.

“Right. So, do you know that when a person is starving, their body changes how it processes nutrients?”

“Yeah, it’s like, starvation mode.”

“If you must call it that,” says Draxum with a nod. “The body stops relying on carbs and glucose and uses fatty acids instead. This helps preserve the muscles, but causes a severe depletion in intracellular minerals.”

That sounded like a Donnie-level infodump to Leo. He stares at Draxum blankly. “Can you say that again, en Ingles por favor?”

Draxum actually makes a noise that could almost be a laugh. “Alright, think of it this way: a painter wants to use purple, but their purple paints are running low. So they start using red and blue mixed together, which solves the problem of preserving the purple paint, at the cost of running low on red and blue.”

Leo raises his eye ridges. “Is this how you explain stuff to Mikey?”

Draxum shrugs. “He understands art metaphors.”

Leo settles back a little more comfortably on his bed. He munches on a cracker. “It’s fine for today. Think of a comic book metaphor for next time.”

Draxum gives a long suffering sigh and says, “Fine. But do you understand now?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good. So when a person eats again after a long term starvation event, their body won’t start relying on glucose again right away. It’s still in “starvation mode,” as you called it, and switching isn’t easy. The painter buys a new purple paint, but the color is different enough that they will have to use more red and blue to blend the two together.”

“I’m starting to lose track of the art metaphor here. We added purple, but we’re still low on red and blue, right?”

“Yes, precisely. Your body is low on critical minerals, and those need to be replenished at the same time it is given more carbs to convert to glucose.”

“But I still don’t understand why that means I have to eat less,” says Leo.

“Digestion itself takes energy,” says Draxum. “And the body isn’t using the tools it’s being given properly yet. So it is using more and more minerals without replacing any. The imbalance leads to stress on the body, which has negative downstream effects.”

“So, TLDR, if I eat too much right now, my body can’t handle it and I’ll get sick.”

“I have no idea what TLDR means, but yes, simply put.”

Leo looks at the cracker in his hand thoughtfully. “So all the times I’ve puked are refeeding syndrome?”

“No,” says Draxum with a shake of his head. “That is because your stomach has shrunk, and you’ve overstuffed it.” A pause, then Draxum adds, “Though I believe what just happened was a stress response.”

“I’m not stressed,” says Leo. The look Draxum gives him is not convinced. “Sooo then what is refeeding syndrome if it’s not barfing?”

“The lack of minerals causes severe stress on all parts of the body, especially the organs. This can lead to a number of disorders… including organ failure.” Draxum pauses, like he doesn’t want to say more, but he still adds, “In extreme cases, it can lead to heart failure.”

The cracker Leo is holding slips through his fingers. He feels his pulse speed up, something cold and terrible sliding through him.

“If I eat too much my heart could stop?” he asks, and his voice is small.

“In extreme cases,” Draxum repeats. “If you began showing symptoms, we would take you to a hospital. Even in the Hidden City there is no mystic cure-all for this, but they could at least reduce the stress on your organs.”

Leo shakes his head. His hands are trembling. The words feel like they’re coming to him through thousands of feet of water.

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“I did not want to scare you,” Draxum says again. “And I did not think it was necessary. Refeeding syndrome is entirely preventable, if precautions are taken.”

It barely penetrates. All Leo wants is food. All he wants is to eat. But now food somehow feels like the enemy. He suddenly queasy again. Should he even be eating these crackers? What is safe? What isn’t?

“Is this forever?” he manages to ask.

He doesn’t know how to take it, if it is.

“No,” says Draxum quickly. He raises his hand and reaches toward Leo, but Leo flinches. Draxum lets it drop again. “…No, Leonardo, it is not forever,” he says, and his voice is more soft than Leo has ever heard it - more soft than he thought Draxum capable of. “The most critical time for refeeding is the first five to seven days. You are almost clear of the danger zone now. And your enhanced biology may even mean we’re already past it… though I am still being cautious.”

Leo lets out a breath. So it’s not forever - it may even be over. It doesn’t calm the racing of his heart (at least he knows it hasn’t stopped, ha ha), but it does make him feel like he can pick up the cracker again.

“Then what happens once we’re past it?”

“That is what this is for.” Draxum lifts the whiteboard again, perching it on his knees. “Even once you’re out of danger of refeeding syndrome, we’ll still need to build your daily food intake up gradually, until you can eat like you once did. These,” he taps the board with the marker, “are my calorie goals for each meal and snack. As you can see, every day it goes up.”

Leo looks over the counts. They don’t really mean anything to him, but he can at least see how the number increases across the seven days on the board. “How many calories is normal?”

“Based on calculations I have done, going off what I have seen you boys eat as well as my own estimates for your growth, you and Donatello eat roughly five thousand calories a day, sometimes going as high as six thousand when you are particularly active.” Draxum scribbles the number in the corner of the whiteboard. “It’s high compared to humans, but within perfectly healthy limits given your mutant biology and high metabolism. Raphael eats more, and Michelangelo eats a bit less, though not by much.”

“Yeah,” Leo gives a chuckle, “kid can put away a whole large pizza by himself when his blood sugar’s low.”

“Unfortunately, I have seen him do it.” Draxum sighs. “But right now, you are averaging much less.” He taps the numbers. “Our goal right now is to get to where you are eating around twenty two hundred calories a day steadily, without getting sick.”

Leo has never been the math guy, but even he can handle some simple division. “Less than half? Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. That is why ensuring that your meals are as nutritious as possible is important.” He nods at the pill organizer. “And why the vitamins are important.”

Less than half as much as he used to eat… It leaves Leo feeling a little dizzy again. Nine days without food wrecked his system this hard?

“Don’t panic,” says Draxum in that soft voice again, and Leo feels a little resentment for how it pulls him out of his ensuing spiral. “You can see that your counts are going up steadily, and as we reintroduce solid food it will get even easier. And this is not hard and fast. Going a little above this is not an issue. And I am constantly readjusting as we go. It will take time before you are… putting away entire pizzas.” Draxum scrunches up his face in distaste. “But in a few weeks, you will be eating a much more normal diet than you are now.”

Leo rubs his hand up and down his arm. “Normal like, I can eat potato chips without getting yelled at?”

Draxum sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you to begin with.”

“Yeah, well…” Leo fishes his last cracker out of the bag and rubs it between his fingers. “I gave you a black eye, so I think we’re even.”

“Hmph.” Draxum almost sounds amused, though he doesn’t let his lips quirk up even a tiny bit. Leo thinks he might be allergic to smiles, unless he’s doing something evil. “Still, I hope you understand the situation now.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Leo takes a small bite of the last cracker. Takes his time chewing and swallowing it. “The main thing is you’re going to keep being a pain in the butt for the next few weeks, right?”

“Yes, you’re stuck with me.” Draxum watches him take another bite of cracker, then says, “There’s something else you need to understand, Leonardo. The goal of this,” he taps the whiteboard, “is to keep you from getting sick. It is not to keep you hungry.”

Leo stares at the board, and the calorie counts, all laid out neatly. “Sure,” he says, and he doesn’t feel it.

Draxum hesitates, then taps each row, reading off, “Breakfast, lunch, snack, dinner, snack. Smaller amounts of food more frequently, to keep your stomach full without overstuffing.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

“And this can be moved around. If you eat breakfast earlier than normal, you can have a snack in the morning instead. But you tend to sleep in, which is why I structured it this way.”

“Nine’s not sleeping in,” Leo grumbles.

“Nine is- no, this is not the point.” Draxum gives his head a shake. “The point is, if you want to move your eating times around, we can. The goal of this is to keep you from getting sick. It is not to keep you hungry.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“No, I’m not sure you did.” Draxum again uncaps the marker, then writes across the top of the board five simple words:

If you are hungry: eat.

Leo stares at those words. It feels like a trap, a trick - Draxum’s being all nice right now, but the way he ripped the bag from Leo’s hands…

“I was hungry when I ate the chips,” he says, and it’s a little bit of a lie, but that’s not the point. He watches Draxum carefully, for any sign that this is all fake, and Draxum really does want him to suffer.

Draxum’s brows furrow. “You are not in trouble for eating,” he says. “You’ll never be in trouble for eating. It is just good for you right now to eat healthy things.

“I know it isn’t fair,” he adds, voice blunt, “but life rarely is.”

Leo studies his face. And the amazing thing is, he doesn’t think Draxum is lying.

“So… if I want a late night snack, I can eat some crackers?” he asks, waving the empty baggie.

“Yes. Or a banana, or some yogurt… If you feel very hungry, you could even eat some egg, or leftover soup.”

“And you’re fine with me just eating… whenever?”

“If you are so hungry you need to eat an extra meal, I just ask that you let me know, so I can adjust.” He taps the board. “But yes, I am. You know the stakes now. I trust you.”

Trust. Leo’s never had much of that from anyone. He looks down at the empty bag and wonders if it’s really true.

“…Is there anything you need right now?” Leo lifts his eyes back to Draxum’s face. “I can get it for you.”

Leo thinks about it. “When did you say lunch is?”

“About an hour and twenty minutes, now.”

“Then… I’m fine.” Leo pushes himself further back on his bed, dropping his trash into the space between them.

“Hm. I will bring you some more juice to drink.” Draxum nods at the pill organizer. “You still need to take those.”

Leo shoos him off. “I will, sheesh.” Now that he knows how important it is.

Draxum rolls his eyes and gets up. He takes the trash, but leaves the white board propped against the wall at the foot of Leo’s bed.

He’s almost to the door when Leo clears his throat and says, “Hey Barry?”

Draxum pauses, hand grasping the curtain. “Yes?”

“Any chance we can skip telling my dad and brothers about… everything?”

Draxum looks back at him. “Trust me when I say that I would like to omit this as much as you… But I am going to have to tell your father, at least.”

Leo groans, letting his head fall back on his pillows. “This sucks.”

“Then I will try to think of ways to make it suck less.” Draxum pulls the curtain aside. “Rest, Leonardo. I’ll bring your juice.”

Then he’s gone, leaving Leo alone.

-----

Raph puts the groceries down in the kitchen, then looks toward the escalator leading down. He should stay and help put everything away, but all he wants to do right now is rush to Leo’s side.

“Go,” says Splinter beside him. “I can take care of this.”

That’s all the permission Raph needs; he takes the escalator steps two at a time and crashes down onto the lower level.

Draxum is there, standing outside Leo’s train car and looking at one of his notebooks again. When he hears Raph, he closes it and looks up.

Raph’s eyes catch on the bruise forming on Draxum’s cheek and eye - it’s just starting to darken, but Raph can tell it’s going to be a plum shade of purple by the end of the day.

“He told me it wasn’t physical,” says Raph immediately. A little dangerously.

“It wasn’t, on my end,” says Draxum.

Raph finds that he believes that, and he can’t help the way his lips quirk up at the news.

Draxum scowls. “Yes, yes, very funny.”

Raph claps him on the shoulder. “Come on, Barry. You know you deserved it.”

“We can debate that later,” says Draxum, dry. He nods at the train car. “He’s in his room.”

“Raph figured.” He locks eyes on the room, wishing he could see past the curtains to know Leo’s state. “When you guys were fighting, he… called for us again.”

Draxum’s expression turns more concerned - nearly imperceptibly so, but Raph knows him well enough by now to see it. “Yes, I know.”

“You felt it?”

“No.” Draxum pulls away. “I have things to discuss with Lou Jitsu. Is he in the kitchen?”

“Yeah.” Raph wants to know what Draxum saw, but he always wants to get to Leo as fast as possible. In the end, the draw to his brother is stronger, and he steps forward. “Help him put the groceries up.”

“If I must,” says Draxum, and then he walks away toward the escalator. Raph doesn’t hang around to watch, instead hurrying to Leo’s room.

The room is a mess, even more than normally. His action figures are scattered everywhere, comic books have been knocked from the shelves, his blankets are on the floor. Leo himself is in bed, vacant expression staring at nothing Raph can see, and it’s an eerie way to see his little brother, usually never without his phone or a comic book in his quiet moments.

He clears his throat, and Leo’s eyes flick his way. “Hey, Leo.”

“Hey.” Leo rouses himself to alertness, like he’d been sleeping with his eyes open. He shifts on his pillows so he can better see Raph. “You guys got the groceries?”

“Yeah, we did,” he assures Leo. He walks in, standing over Leo’s bed. He’d been so anxious to get back here, but now he finds himself trapped in the same place as always, unsure what to say or do.

Leo stares up at him. “…Everything okay, hermano?”

“I came to ask you that.” Raph sits down on the edge of the bed, then startles when something hard falls against his arm. He looks and finds a whiteboard, with numbers that make no sense to him written in neat columns (not Leo’s handwriting), and, across the top:

If you are hungry: eat.

Raph can’t help but stare at those words a few seconds longer. Is this something Leo needed to be told?

Beside him, Leo is saying, “Me and Drax got in a fight, but we worked it out. It’s fine.”

“Yeah.” Raph grins, tearing his eyes away from the whiteboard to look at Leo. “I saw the shiner you gave him.”

He’s expecting a grin back; for Leo’s expression to turn mischievous, or cocky. For Leo to proudly take credit for punching Draxum right in the eye.

He’s not expecting Leo to flinch and look away. “I thought he was better at dodging than that,” he says.

Raph falters, not sure how to respond. He knows Leo; his little brother would never hit anyone for no reason, even someone like Baron Draxum. Leo might playfight, Leo might even throw things at them from time to time, but he never aimed to hurt, only to irritate.

Once again, Raph doesn’t know the right way to approach this situation. Should he try to talk to Leo about this? Is he the right person to try? Would Leo even want to hear it from Raph, who so often struggles with his own anger responses?

(He thinks about the fight again, and feels a rush of shame.)

He’s still trying to work it out when Leo changes the subject.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” Leo picks at some fuzz on his sheets. “About the chips.”

That’s something else Raph has been trying to figure out. But now, for this question at least, he has an answer.

“They didn’t have anyone’s name on ‘em.”

Leo’s fingers pause. “But you know I’m not supposed to eat those.”

“Yeah, well… I still wasn’t gonna tell. Raph’s not a snitch.” He shrugs. “Look, I know Barry’s right and you gotta be careful about what you eat so you don’t get sick. But this is still your house, Leo. We agreed a long time ago that unless food has someone’s name on it, it’s fair game.”

Leo actually smiles just a little at that, and Raph feels his heart leap at the sight. It’s not quite a full, big Leo smile, but it’s something. “And sometimes the name doesn’t stop us.”

Raph laughs. “That’s just because I got three little brothers who are a pain in the shell.” He reaches out to rub Leo’s head, and is a little surprised and a lot pleased when Leo doesn’t duck it.

(It wraps around to concern again, when Leo seems to chase the touch like he’ll drown without it.)

“Listen,” he says, “Draxum gives you any more trouble and you just come tell me, okay? I’ll deal with it. We’ll get it worked out.” He moves his hand down to scratch the ridge of Leo’s shell, right where he can’t easily reach himself. “Raph’s got your back.”

Leo goes tense under his fingers, and Raph thinks he’s said something wrong. But the soft little, “Oh,” Leo says after isn’t upset. It’s just… surprised.

But why would he be surprised by that?

But when Raph thinks about it… when’s the last time he told Leo that? When’s the last time he felt like Leo had his back, too?

Somewhere along the way, he and Leo lost what made them them. Best friends, friendly rivals, brothers through thick and thin. It all got swallowed up by their fights and disagreements. And then Leo was taken from him.

But Leo isn’t gone. Leo is right here.

And suddenly Raph doesn’t know how he’s made it this long without hugging his little brother. He should have already. That should have been the first thing.

He moves the hand that’s scratching Leo’s shell to more firmly grab his back, watching close to see Leo’s reaction. Leo’s eyes flutter closed, like he feels totally safe, and Raph doesn’t waste the trust that’s been given to him.

He lifts Leo up and pulls him into his lap, wrapping his arms around in the safest bear hug he can give. Leo melts into it, his head leaning against Raph’s plastron, his arm coming up to loosely hook itself around Raph’s neck.

“I gotcha, Leo,” he promises, cradling him close. “I gotcha.”

“I know,” says Leo, but Raph wonders if he really does. Raph hasn’t done a great job of showing it.

He still doesn’t know his answer. He still feels a stab in his heart when he thinks of Leo saying he did what a hero would. But April was right. Leo doesn’t need big emotional confrontations right now. He needs his big brother.

And Raph can do that. It’s the thing he’s best at.

“Hey,” he says, “wanna come watch Jupiter Jim: Venture to Venus with me?”

Leo opens his eyes to squint up at him. “Dee’ll hate it if he misses the sing-along parts,” he says, but now, finally, a little bit of his mischievousness is back.

Raph grins. “What Donnie doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Leo laughs then, small and tired and hoarse but there. Raph gives him another squeeze, then stands up and takes Leo with him.

He’s still unsettlingly light, like he was when Raph lifted him from the cot. But there’s a little more of him back.

If they get a little more of him every day, eventually, his little brother will truly be home.

-----

Leo stays in his lap for the movie. He makes no attempt to leave and Raph makes no attempt to remove him.

Splinter brings them lunch around the halfway mark: the alphabet soup they bought at the store for Leo, with bread and more banana for after. Leo complains that he’s not a little kid, but out of the corner of his eye Raph catches him industriously fishing around for the letters L, E, and O. He gets a little, self-satisfied smile on his face at his accomplishment, and Raph has to force his eyes to focus on the screen before he squishes Leo like one of his teddy bears.

After lunch, Leo dozes off. It’s not a surprise, especially given how eventful the morning was. Raph’s just glad it’s actual sleep and not that scary, blank-eyed stare he saw Leo with earlier.

Raph stays there after his arms fall asleep, after the movie ends, after he hears Donnie and Mikey come home (together, at least). He’d stay there all night, but Splinter comes in and puts a hand on his arm. He’s carrying a plate with a snack for Leo.

“Draxum wants to talk to you and Purple and Orange.”

Raph looks at Leo, still curled up against him, and shakes his head. “I don’t wanna leave him.”

“It’s alright. I will be here with him.” Splinter pats his arm again. “Take a break and stretch. You can sit with him after you’re done.”

Reluctantly, Raph gets up. He shifts Leo to the chair as carefully as he can (Leo murmurs in his sleep but doesn’t wake), then looks back at Splinter.

“You’ll be here when he wakes up, right?” he asks again.

(Maybe he’s still a little mad.)

“Yes,” Splinter promises. “I’ll be here.”

So Raph leaves. He shakes out his arms and legs, stiff from holding Leo, then swings by the bathroom before making his way to the kitchen. He can hear Mikey there already.

“-tell us what happened,” Mikey is saying, standing with his arms crossed and face angry. This is the most frustrated Raph can remember seeing Mikey act toward Draxum. Beside him, Donnie looks equally agitated.

“I have told your father what happened,” says Draxum, looking much more calm by comparison, “and we have agreed to maintain Leonardo’s privacy for now.”

“Is it about Leo’s privacy or do you think we just don’t deserve to know?” Mikey snaps. Raph knows that tone, and he knows this is about to turn into a fight.

He steps into the middle before it can. “Hold up, Mikey. Let’s hear him out.” His little brother does not seem happy with that, and he opens his mouth to argue, but before he can Raph refocuses on Draxum. “Tell us what’s goin’ on, Barry.”

Draxum’s eyes move slowly between all three of them before landing on Raph. “As I was telling your brothers, Lou Jitsu and I have agreed not to tell you all the details of what happened earlier, primarily because we are not sure how much Leonardo himself is comfortable with you knowing.”

It stings, but Raph knows he’s right. It’s like the security tapes Donnie chose not to watch. They have to let Leo decide how much they know and how much they don’t.

Still, Raph has his concerns. He folds his arms, mimicking his brothers behind him, and stares Draxum down. “Alright,” he says, and ignores the indignant noise Mikey makes behind him, “but did you tell Pops everything?”

“Yes.”

“Everything?”

“Yes,” Draxum repeats. “He needs to know, so we know how to care for Leonardo going forward.”

Raph isn’t as good at reading people as Leo, but it’s not like Draxum is an enigma, either. He doesn’t think the old goat is lying, so Raph relaxes his posture.

“Okay,” he says. “As long as Dad knows.”

“He did something so bad Leo punched him!” Mikey argues. “Leo doesn’t just do that!”

“In his defense,” says Donnie, “Draxum’s face is very punchable.”

Raph snorts at the indignant look Draxum gives that remark.

“Honestly,” says Draxum with a sigh, “all four of you boys are the same… But I can tell you that much.” He looks down, not meeting their eyes now. “I took food from your brother’s hands, before I realized what an error that is.”

All of them stiffen. Behind him, Raph senses Donnie shifting his weight in agitation.

“You took food from him!?” cries Mikey. He sounds so betrayed. “Why!?”

“I was worried about him making himself sick,” Draxum explains. “But I did not handle it well. I have already apologized to him.”

“You better have!” Ah, there’s Doctor Delicate Touch.

“I have,” Draxum repeats. “And we have reached an understanding… which is what I need to talk to the three of you about.” He looks at them now. “There are going to be some new rules around here, at least for the duration of Leonardo’s recovery.”

“What rules?” asks Raph. “Besides don’t yank food out of Leo’s hands?”

“Well, that is an important one.” Draxum nods. “But we have also decided to adhere to a more strict meal schedule than you do normally. If meals are coming at regular, predictable times, we think this will reduce a lot of stress for Leonardo.”

Raph thinks of the words on the whiteboard. Of the neat rows of numbers. Does Leo wonder when he’ll be fed next? Does it scare him, not knowing?

Doesn’t he know his family would never let him go hungry?

“It makes sense,” says Donnie behind him. “We usually eat whenever we feel like it, but if Leo has to be careful with his diet, having a routine will make it easier.”

If Donnie thinks so, it’s probably right. Raph nods. “Yeah, sure. Whatever we gotta do to help Leo.”

Draxum nods back. “Right now, we’re planning for breakfast at eight, or whenever he wakes up, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. Leo will get regular snacks as well; smaller, more frequent meals are better for him right now than three large ones. Of course, the three of you can still do what you feel like; if you want your own snack, or want to eat later, you can.”

“Let’s all try to eat with Leo,” says Raph, looking back at his brothers. Donnie nods immediately; Mikey hesitates.

“Will Leo be in trouble,” he asks, “if he eats snacks when you didn’t tell him to?”

“No,” says Draxum. “I have already told him this. If he’s hungry, he can eat; he doesn’t need anyone to tell him he can.”

Raph’s glad to hear that; he knows he wouldn’t have been able to play food police. Mikey seems to calm down at this reassurance, too, and he nods.

“Okay. Then, we’re starting tonight? Dinner at six?”

“Yes.” Draxum seems relieved, that Mikey doesn’t look so angry anymore. “You can help me, if you want.”

“Duh,” says Mikey, and Draxum cringes. “I’ll be here!”

He and Donnie leave then; Donnie says he’s going to finish Leo’s curtains, and Mikey goes to his room. Raph hangs back, watching Draxum.

“You sure you didn’t touch him?” he asks, once he’s sure his brothers are out of earshot.

Draxum looks at him, open, not hiding. “I did not. I acted rashly, but I would not lay a hand on him.”

“…Okay. I believe you.” Raph folds his arms. “But if Leo ever tells me anything different, you know what happens next, right?”

“I do. But I would not hurt him.” Draxum looks nonchalant, despite the conversation. “Despite my best efforts, I’ve grown fond of all of you. I’m here to help him.”

Raph can’t help but smile at that. It’s probably as close as Barry will ever get to being affectionate.

“Thanks, then. For all you’re doin’.” Raph turns to leave. “But don’t yank food out of his hands again.”

“I won’t. You have my word.”

Raph decides to take it.

-----

“Blue…? Are you awake?”

Leo blinks his eyes open to find Splinter peering down at him, a plate in his hand. Blearily, he sits up in the recliner. It takes him a moment to realize he’s by himself now - Raph has gone.

It makes him feel a little sad. He knows Raph still has something he wants to yell about, but there for a short while, it was really nice to just be his little brother.

Now his dad is here, with food. Leo remembers the chart Draxum gave him - breakfast, lunch, snack, dinner, snack - and feels his heart relax.

“Hey, Dad. Yeah, I’m awake.”

“Very good. I have brought you some more yogurt and fruit.”

“Yippee,” says Leo, tone flat. “I’m gonna be the most regular guy on the planet after this.”

Splinter laughs at that, and it makes Leo feel a little sense of triumph. “Cherish it while you’re young.”

“Ew, gross,” he says, and Splinter laughs again.

Leo eats his snack. The projector skips on the screen, still on but with nothing set to play. Splinter settles in on the arm of the chair and waits until Leo’s almost done.

Then he says, “Draxum told me what happened earlier.”

Leo goes stiff. He swallows his bite of banana around the knot in his throat.

“Yeah, he… said he was going to tell you.”

“I’m sorry that he was so harsh with you. You are not in trouble for taking the chips. The food in this lair is as much yours as it is any of ours.”

“I know,” says Leo, even though he’s not sure of anything anymore. But it’s what Splinter wants to hear.

“I won’t be leaving you alone with him again.” Splinter pats his arm. “He may be reformed, but he is still stupid, and not at all fit to take care of children!”

“Which is what makes him perfect for a public school lunchroom,” says Leo, and grins when it gets another laugh out of his dad.

Leo finishes his snack. The projector is still skipping. It makes a little clicking noise every few seconds.

“...Leonardo,” says Splinter, and Leo tenses up again.

“Oh no, full name…”

“You are not in trouble,” says Splinter again. Leo wonders why he keeps saying that. “But I have to ask you this again. When you were… with the EPF. Did anyone touch you in any way?”

Leo stares at him. Why are they having this conversation again?

“No. I told you that, remember?”

“I remember. But I have to make sure.” Splinter puts his hand on Leo’s. Leo stares at it. “Did anyone… make you do something you didn’t want to do?”

“Uh… besides stay there?”

“Leonardo.” Splinter’s tone is not angry, but Leo still winces. “I understand that this is uncomfortable to talk about. But I need to know for your safety. Did any of them do anything to you? Or make you do something to them? To yourself?”

Leo stares at his dad’s hand. He thinks of getting down on his knees and begging.

“...No.” He gives his head a shake. “They didn’t even hit me or anything.” And it’s the truth.

They didn’t really do anything to him at all.

“...Alright.” Splinter leans over and presses a kiss to the top of Leo’s head. Leo keeps his eyes on their hands and listens to the skip of the projector. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He hands the empty plate over and sinks further into the recliner cushions. He wishes the conversation hadn’t curdled the snack in his guts. “Uh, can we… turn on something so the projector isn’t making that sound?”

“Oh, yes!” Splinter sets the plate aside, then grabs for the remote. “It is aaalmost time for Scorpion Treadmill!”

Leo snorts despite himself. “Sure, sounds great.”

Splinter finds the channel and settles into the chair next to Leo. Leo closes his eyes and listens to the Japanese he can barely understand and his dad’s laughter, and tries to ignore the way his own skin feels slimy.

-----

After dinner, and after his snack, Donnie shows him the new curtains.

The new rods are just as makeshift as the ones from the day before, with the same color and the same details. Leo loves them. He tells Donnie so, and Donnie grins big and happy, and Leo feels happy, too, that he can still make at least one brother look like that.

“Oh, I’m so glad you like them!” says Donnie, for what must be the fifth time. “But seriously, if you want me to add some smart tech to them, just say the word.”

“Thanks but no thanks, Dee. I don’t want my curtains to gain sentience on me.”

Donnie pouts, but it’s good natured. He comes over and sits on the bed next to Leo, the two of them looking around his room. It’s crazy to Leo, how different it looks now. Though, maybe the mess is contributing to that feeling…

“It’s so dark in here now,” Donnie observes. His tone is totally neutral in a way Donnie could never hope to fake, so Leo doesn’t take it as a judgment.

Which is good, because Leo doesn’t know how to explain that he likes it that way. That the dark makes him feel calm and safe. Hidden.

“I could always add more lighting,” he says instead. He has his lanterns and a desk lamp, but he has to admit, some things will be harder without the ambient lights from outside.

“Oh, I can do that next!” says Donnie. “What kind of lighting do you want? I can see what I have in the lab-”

“Whoa, hey,” says Leo quickly. He reaches over and flicks Donnie on his big forehead. (It lacks any force, because Leo is still weak, but Donnie says, “Ow!” exaggeratedly anyway.) “I get that you’re trying to help, but you’ve done enough. I know you must have some battleshell or robot or nuclear bomb you’re dying to work on instead.”

Donnie falters at that. He eyes Leo, the same way everyone does lately, like he’s some kind of timebomb that might go off.

“I just want you to be comfortable,” he says.

“What do you mean? I’m super comfy!” Leo waves the sleeve of his hoodie in demonstration. “It’s the lair, Don-ton. Same as always.”

Donnie’s expression goes even flatter. He turns his eyes on the train car walls. “Same as always? It hasn’t even been a year.”

Leo flinches. Right, well… So it’s not the same as ever. But it’s the same as the one he was stolen from, and that’s all that matters, right?

“You know what I mean.” He bumps their shoulders together. “It’s home. It’s where you guys are. I’m totally fine.”

And he means that.

He means it, he means it, he means it.

“...Right.” Donnie is trying to sound like he believes Leo. “Well, if you change your mind about the lighting, you know where to find me.”

“I sure do, hermano.” He bumps their shoulders again. “Thanks, though.”

They sit for a moment in silence. Leo wonders if he should offer a late night movie session, or if he should send Donnie on his way. He’s torn. He doesn’t really want to be alone. But he doesn’t want to bother Donnie more than he already has.

Before he can decide, Donnie’s phone dings. He picks it up and clicks something on his screen.

“What’s up?” asks Leo.

“Oh nothing.” Donnie waves a hand. “Draxum just finally decided to leave. About time…”

“Huh? How do you… know…”

Leo leans over on his shoulder to look, and answers his own question.

Cameras. Of course Donnie has cameras. This one is outside the entrance to the lair from the sewers, and Leo can see Draxum’s retreating back as he heads for the nearest manhole.

“The camera alerts me whenever anyone other than one of the five of us leaves,” Donnie is saying. “It’s part of the security upgrades I’ve been working on.”

“Security upgrades,” Leo repeats, feeling a little faint.

Donnie doesn’t notice, jumping on the chance to infodump. “Yes! I’ve added more cameras, and proximity alarms, and I’ve been working on more upgrades to our trackers, like I told you. Oh, and new security measures for my baby, of course. And once Shelldon’s new body is complete, I’ll integrate him with the system as well, and…”

Donnie’s still talking, but Leo can’t hear it. His eyes are tracking all around his train car - the dark corners, the shelves, the nooks and crannies.

Donnie has cameras all over the lair.

Where are the cameras in here?

-----

For another night in a row, Leo doesn’t sleep.

#rottmnt #room fic #dandy fanfiction #rise leo #rise raph #rise donnie #rise mikey #rise splinter #cw food issues #cw vomiting

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zours025 · 2 months ago

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Zombie apocalypse face au I've been thinking of...

Thoughts/details on the AU and an alt color vers of the first drawing (luring you into my evil cave) ⬇️⬇️⬇️

Face as unrelated parties... All normal humans. Caname and fruk (separately) wandering the world after generic zombie outbreak. Theyre some of the last ones left so they rarely meet people and need to depend on the other party heavily. Blahblah its miserable everyone is sad and hurt and tired. Francis had to cut off Arthurs leg to prevent an infection. Arthur has to learn to lean on Francis for a lot of stuff and they learn to get over past grudges and such... 😇 Alfred is bitten at some point and hides it from Matthew. Matthew knows, but he's basically lost any will to live and is ready to die whenever Alfred turns because. Well. "I'm only living for him anyways..." type of sentiment... They ignore it and it's never brought up but it's like. I know you know that I know that- Anyways. So those two are trying their hardest to live out their last days in relative happiness. Doing fun stuff. Appreciating the simple things, landscapes, each other's company, etc... That is until they bump into Francis and Arthur in a totally horrible state. And it's like "Well... We can't just let them die can we? We have nothing to lose anyways." So they watch over the two and care for them and once they're all in okay health they decide to stick together and move on. But Arthur and Francis are clearly more determined to live than Mattie and Alfred and they're good fighters. So they wanna keep em around, all while hiding that Alfred is slowly dying and is eventually gonna kill them all. Milking Francis and Arthur's good will... Eventually new relationships form between the four and inevitably weird "betrayal!" and jealousy type feelings show up... Francis is tired of just sleeping with Arthur and when he gets mad he flirts with either of the twins... And the like... Well I haven't thought the whole thing through but these are the important emotional bases to the idea I guess...

I wrote a scenario for many different possibilities of first-to-dies (because i find them all interesting and bcuz twitter oomf asked and i have no restraint. lole)

Alfred dies first: Most obvious scenario (like hes already a bit zombified and clearly hes getting physically weaker) Im imagining a terrible scenario no matter what. Matthew probably finds him first all hunched over and stuff womdering whats wrong before realising that it's finally the end of the line. Francis/Arthur aren't far behind and they blow "Alfreds" head off without hesitation. Obviously causes a rift between the two and Matthew, who broke their trust by hiding this from them. Matthew is inconsolable for a few days, he thought he had more time. Despite the lie I think Francis and Arthur would end up feeling sympathy. They try to keep Matthew up on his feet but frankly I think this would end with him blowing his brains out eventually anyways... 😊

Alternatively Mattie has been mentally preparing himself for a very long time and he immediately kills "Alfred" and then himself in quick succession. Francis and Arthur are haunted by the memory of the two for the rest of their trip.

Arthur dies first: Similarly, I think its easy to imagine this. He's missing a leg and mostly needs to be near someone else to survive zombie attacks/ambushes. Would probably accidentally get separated from the group and get overrun... Might use himself as a distraction to allow the other three to get away in a particularly dire situation... In a way he thinks hes just dead weight anyways and he wants to see the other three live knowing that he doesn't have much left to offer them (Francis would disagree). Francis is obviously very upset and he loses sleep over the memory of Arthur, his last "real" link to his normal life before all of this. But I think Francis is stable enough to prioritise the twins he took under his wing. He knows they need someone to keep them together, so he toughs it out. Everything is fine till Alfred turns some many months later. By then, Francis developed a strong attachment to the two and doesn't have any regrets. Would probably struggle against Alfreds strength to allow Matthew to escape or something along those lines...

Francis dies first: I can also see him just getting killed by sheer numbers. I think he grew very fond of the twins pretty fast + had to be Arthurs protection for a long time and so he developed this feeling of "I need to keep them all safe at all costs". I don't think itd be as much of a letting go type thing as Arthur. It's more calculated and would only happen in a worst-case scenario. I think Arthur would be pretty irritable for the next few weeks, a lot of things remind him of Francis. It bothers him since he wants to just forget and move on, but he finds that his feelings are more difficult to control than he initially thought. Yells a lot at Matthew and Alfred and gets into petty fights. Its not pretty, but they have their moments... In the end, it's not like he wants to make them suffer. They're all he has left now. Hes trying his best. Has a lot of days where he just wishes he had been the one to die instead.

Matthew dies first: Honestly I'm imagining a non-zombie related death, like an accident with one of the guns or some unrelated illness or like. Falling onto a branch? Falling from high up in general? Setting off a trap? Lol idk. Something that allows Alfred to hold Matthew during his final moments or at least look into his eyes. I think hes also the most liable to flip out on everyone and just kill the four of them all together idk ❤ Crazy girl ❤ It shocks Alfred immensely. He expected to be the first one to die and he's really upset about the whole thing. Outwardly, he cracks jokes and tries to convince the other two that he's fine but he's very much not. Doesn't really know what tk do with himself. Just goes through the motions every day. Francis and Arthur notice the slight change in behaviour but don't really say anything and pretend everything is fine. Playing at being a normal family. Arthur and Francis try spending lots of time with Alfred but nothing really helps. Eventually Alfred turns without ever telling them he was infected and they all die the end. Alternatively he kills the other two and then himself on like a random Tuesday. ❤

Bonus: Everyone except Alfred dies lol. Alone in the desolate empty landscape. Welp!!! What now!!!

If you saw my first post of this text part no you didn't im editing this and putting it here with the drawing its more organised ❤ okay ❤

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miraculouslbcnreactions · 6 months ago

Note

This is probably small in the grand scheme of things, but how did Emilie being noble play any impact in the story at all?

I mean, I'd get it if it was just a small detail to help deepen Emilie's character, but why nobility of all things? I don't know, from what I'm seeing so far, the whole "Emilie renounced her noble title" shtick just feels worthless if it's not going to impact the story or add depth to Emilie's character (like maybe upbringing or personal values?).

I don't know. Like everything else, the noble part just feels shallow and means nothing to the story, especially for a character like Emilie, who is the plot device for the whole show. Any detail about her, like her personality and life story, is supposed to influence the story and characters one way or another, namely Hawkmoth since she's his driving force.

So what was the point?

For context, this ask is about Félix's play which says that Emilie gave up her title to be with Gabriel. I'm gonna give a slightly larger section of the transcript of the play for full context, but the relevant but is at the end of the last paragraph:

Félix: The king and queen's twins grew up, each day as different in heart as they were similar in body. The firstborn, curious and brazen, despised life at court and escaped at every opportunity. The younger daughter, well-behaved and respectful, did everything she could to please her parents, and stayed quietly in the castle. Félix: (as Mr. Graham de Vanily) Oh, my queen. Did we entrust our legacy to the right princess? Kagami: (as Mrs. Graham de Vanily) She will fall in line, eventually. Félix: Confident that she would settle down as she matured, the king and queen allowed the curious princess to leave to study beyond the sea in another kingdom. There, she immediately found true love in a humble tailor. Félix: The tailor was making clothes so magnificent that they revealed the beauty of the soul of anyone who wore them. Although it made her parents furious, the curious princess gave up her rank, her wealth and her kingdom to live a bohemian life with the tailor.

Story wise, I have no idea why any of this was added since it adds nothing to canon. It's not like this finally explains why Gabriel and Emilie are poor while Amelie is wealthy. Along similar lines, it's not like Amelie's title has ever mattered. Prior to this play, I don't think that we even knew that she had a title or that she was the younger sister. The play is all about explaining things that we never had reasons to question in the first place.

My best guess as to why the writers wrote this pointless backstory is that they wanted to make Emilie seem even more pure and perfect so they went with the tired old trope of a rich girl giving up material things for the sake of love and art because good pure women don't care about material things! Only nasty, shallow women care about money. (Way to play into sexist tropes, guys.)

There may also be cultural elements at play here given that France doesn't have the greatest history with nobility, so giving up a noble title may be seen as good and pure to a French writer, but I don't know enough about French culture to say that with any certainty. If anyone who reads this blog is French and would like to chime in, then feel free!

While we're on the topic of the play, I wanted to point out that the above quoted passage is why I say that the Graham de Vanily parents can be as kind or as abusive as you'd like to make them. It's incredibly vague and you can read into it whatever you want to read into it. Were they good loving parents who were just upset about their daughter living in poverty or were they miserable controlling classist who Emilie fled England to get away from? It's up to you because you can get both reads from this. The play commits to almost nothing of value. Politicians could take lessons from this impressive level of noncommittal writing.

A better version of the play would have focused on things that actually matter to canon like the details of finding the miraculous and/or Emilie learning she's sick, but you could only have those details if they were coming from Nathalie or Gabriel. Félix is a terrible choice for a character to tell us the show's backstory because he knows so little of it, thus the play focusing on his largely pointless backstory.

#blckwhtepersona #ml writing critical #ml writing salt #Side note but looking up transcripts for this seasons is a total nightmare #The episode names are so confusing I keep thinking the play was in “Revelation” but it's actually “Representation”#Whoever came up with the names for this season is at the top of my shit list

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lovecla · 2 months ago

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TAKE IT EASY (OTHERWISE I’M LEAVING) ; connor bedard.

ᡣ𐭩 — pair: connor bedard x fmc (olivia)

ᡣ𐭩 — synopsis: in which connor bedard’s girlfiend, olivia, is tired of seeing her boyfriend destroy himself every single day.

ᡣ𐭩 — word count: 3.1k

ᡣ𐭩 — chapter warnings: inspired by the song “you” by chase atlantic, angst, hurt with a dash of comfort.

ᡣ𐭩 — from me to you: the second chase atlantic released this album i knew i had to write something inspired by it. i missed writing for bedsy and since he’s our golden, hardworking boy, i thought this was very fitting. hope u like it 🤍

ᯓᡣ𐭩

but you've been diggin' up the truth

haven't slept in like four nights now

blame it on substance abuse

out in the deep end, i'm swimmin', i'm swimmin' again

YOU WOKE up startled with the loud bang coming from somewhere inside your apartment, your whole body jumping and your heart starting to race inside your chest.

Now, almost fully awake, you stare at the clock sitting on your bedside table, reading the time. 4:13 a.m., and when you pat the other side of the bed, where your boyfriend of two years should be laying, you frown as you find it empty and lukewarm to the touch.

“Connor?” You whisper, scared to wake him up unnecessarily, even if you knew he wasn’t lying with you in bed. Again.

You get up, the fabric of his old Blackhawks sweater heating up your skin, as you put on your slippers and leave the bedroom, noticing traces of Connor’s absence here and there— his slippers aren’t by his side of the bed, his duffel bag isn’t on the hallway like it usually is, his water bottle isn’t on the couch like he had left it last night, when you both went no sleep at one in the morning.

So that’s why you don’t understand what he’s doing by the front door, ready to leave, even if he had only slept for three hours.

“Connor?” You call again, watching as his blue eyes look at you, surprise and guilt decorating his expression like a famous painting hanging on the Louvre’s wall. “What are you doing?”

Your voice is still soft, and despite the scare, your eyes can barely stay open. You’re tired, tonight was the first night you had allowed yourself to sleep freely since now you were done with your exams. And you were happy because you managed to convince Connor to come home earlier, at eleven instead of midnight, just so you could spend some time together, like you used to do when you started dating.

“Liv, hey,” he whispers, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

That’s when you realize what he’s doing. The bag, the stick on his hand, the outfit. He’s—

“Are you serious right now?” You take a deep breath, trying to maintain your composure. “You’re going to the rink? At four in the morning?”

“Baby, you know I need to,” he tries to sound convincing and if it wasn’t for the fact that this is probably the hundredth time he’s done this, you would’ve actually believed him. “We have a game coming up and—”

“Yes, I am well aware of that, Connor. But you went to sleep at one. Two nights ago, you also went to sleep at one and woke up at five. And the night before, and the night before that too.”

You don’t try to hide your feelings anymore. You want him to know you’re upset, and you want him to know that this, whatever the hell he’s doing, isn’t okay.

“I know, baby, but you know I have to keep practicing so I can help the guys.” He’s now facing you, his body visibly tense.

“That doesn’t even make sense, Connor, what the hell. There are other twenty fucking people in your team, you’re not the only player there. It’s not your responsibility only!” You cover your face with your hands, truly upset.

“Liv,” he calls your name, and it hurts to even hear it, because his voice is so full of guilt and shame. It makes you feel sick. “You’re not being reasonable right now. This is the NHL. You know how hard I’ve worked for this. There are people counting on me.”

“And I’m not one of them?” You whisper, making eye contact again, only to realize you’re not strong enough to have this conversation at four in the morning.

“Liv—”

“It’s fine, Connor. Go to practice.” You sigh, making your way back to the bedroom, praying that he doesn’t notice the tears running down your cheeks.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

you said, "take it easy, otherwise i'm leaving

yeah, i don't wanna stay and watch you die",

ᯓᡣ𐭩

CONNOR HAD an injury.

His jaw had been fractured, and he had to go to surgery to fix it. You were in the arena watching the game with Connor’s sister when it happened, and you had never been so scared.

You know Hockey is about hitting people as much as it is about playing and winning, but you won’t lie and say your heart doesn’t hurt inside your chest whenever you see Connor getting hurt on the ice.

And you aren’t dumb. You know that some players will purposefully hurt him just because he’s good. And even if people aren’t one hundred percent sure that that is what happened that night, you still remember the terrible feeling of losing when you were in the ambulance with Connor to the hospital, trying your hardest not to cry in front of anyone because you know what they would say.

She’s not tough enough to date a NHL player.

But you believed yourself to be tough. The only problem with all of this is that you knew Bedard would never take great care of himself, meaning that you’d have to be with him twenty-four-seven, which wouldn’t be a problem, if only he accepted your help.

Now, four weeks after the surgery, you’re inside the United Center, the Blackhawks arena in Chicago, stomping your feet as you walk towards the rink, the sound of your steps being muffled by Connor’s constant skating.

“Connor.”

You have to call him a few times so that he can finally get out of his head and look at you; once again, those blameworthy eyes looking down at you, as he skates closer to the benches where you were standing.

“Liv.”

“What do you think you’re doing, Connor?” You snap. “You’re supposed to be resting. You’re definitely not supposed to be on the ice.”

“I know, but my jaw is just fine. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.” He removes his helmet, running his gloved hand through his hair.

“It didn’t seem like it was fine last night when you had to swallow a bunch of pain pills because it was hurting. Connor, don’t you see what you’re doing to yourself?” You can feel your face heating up, and you’re trying so hard to keep your shit together but— “You have to allow your body to rest. If you keep up with this, you won’t get better—”

“That’s not an option, Liv, and you know it,” he hissed back, now looking more distressed than guilty. “This is my life. And I did allow myself to rest, I spent four weeks doing absolutely nothing, just like the doctor asked me to.”

“He said six to eight weeks, Connor,” you sigh, tired, not actually believing you’re having this conversation with him. “Please. Just think about how I feel when I know you’re not well enough to be here yet you still are.”

He pressed his lips together, placing his stick on the floor next to him and moving his helmet around his hands.

“Liv, you know I love you but this— Hockey is what I am. It’s what I do. You have to understand—”

“And I have done nothing but understand you!” You shout, finally losing your cool and snapping at him, your loud voice echoing through the empty arena’s walls. Connor takes a step back, but now you’ve already started and you won’t can’t stop. “Ever since we met, I have been nothing but understanding. I stood by your side at all times, even when what you were doing wasn’t healthy for you!”

“Olivia—”

“I went to sleep alone and cried more nights than you could ever imagine,” your voice cracks, and your stubborn tears are already rolling down your face. “I still supported you no matter what. I cooked your meals, I packed your bags, I went to those ridiculous gala dinners and I did it all with pleasure because I love you and you’re supposed to do these types of things for the people you love!”

“Baby—”

“So you don’t get to stand in front of me and ask me to understand how badly you treat yourself and how you don’t care about anything else besides Hockey when I gave up everything to be with you!” You try to wipe your face, stepping back when Connor tries to reach you. He frowns when you flinch. “I gave up my freedom because I wanted to be with you and God knows I’d do it all over again because I fucking love you.”

“Baby, I know all of this and I’m grateful, I really am but—”

You let out a wet chuckle, shaking your head. “There’s always a but with you.”

“Hockey is important to me, baby.”

“And I am not.”

The silence after your words is cruel, and it tears you apart, scratching your skin and making your insides hurt. His blue eyes, your favorite color to ever exist, are also filled with tears and you hate to see it. You hate to feel bad about saying these things.

The thing about loving someone is that the thread between giving up yourself for them and giving yourself to them is really thin.

You love Connor Bedard. Have loved him for years now. He makes you happy, he listens to you, he’s your best friend.

“You know that’s not true, Liv,” he gets closer, the sound of his skates hitting the ice making you want to puke. “You know you’re more important to me than any of this. You know I love you.”

“No, Connor, I don’t,” you whisper, smiling even when all you feel is pain. “I can’t do this. I won’t watch you d-destroy yourself and not do anything.”

He removes his gloves quickly and grabs your wrist, cold fingers holding your arm down. “Olivia, wait.”

“No,” You shake your head. “I need time. Sorry.”

You don’t look at his face as you leave the arena, and you certainly don’t listen to his voice shouting your name, over and over again.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

i don't know what to do

i’m stuck in a loop, stuck in a loop

ᯓᡣ𐭩

HE WATCHES you talking to the children from afar.

You’re sitting on the floor, and it’s so obvious you’re better different from everyone else at the party. The children surround you like you’re their favorite princess or superhero, all of them wanting a little bit of your attention.

Connor feels like he should be offended, since those kids were there to see his team in the first place. It was some kind of reunion Foligno arranged with the media team, inviting some of his son’s friends and some other children with less opportunities.

But he isn’t. First of all, he’s thankful because if it weren’t for your charm, he would be the one having to deal with the children, something he wasn’t very fond of. Sure, he likes kids and he’s happy they like him, but if he could avoid social interactions, he would.

Besides that, watching you happy is something that he had missed, and he feels like shit for it. He knows he hasn’t been a good boyfriend, and he knows he should do better. Ever since that one night at the rink, you haven’t been the same.

But if he thinks about it too much, he realizes that you haven’t been yourself for a long time now.

And it hurts.

It hurts because he doesn’t know what to do. He loves you, the very first girl he fell in love with, but he also loves Hockey. As a young player in the NHL, he feels like he constantly needs to prove himself to others, and since people give him so much attention, he needs to keep on being a good player.

He doesn’t know how to balance things, how not to spend hours and hours without end on the ice, muting all of his doubts and worries while he keeps throwing the puck in the net.

You smile at a little boy who’s now handing you a flower, and Connor smiles as he watches you ask the little boy to put it on your hair, laughing when the other kids stop their babbling to clap at your newest look.

You make eye contact with him, and he feels himself getting devastated when he notices that the shine in your eyes lessened a little when you looked at him.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

(why do you hate me?)

i could never hate you, despite the words that you've been sayin'

i’ve been having breakthroughs

and hoping you were proud, just maybe

anxiety drives me insane, and my newest addiction is pain

i know i said it was a ‘phase’

five years later, still stuck in my brain

ᯓᡣ𐭩

CLOSING THE front door with a sigh, you let your first sob out. The tears won’t stop, and you don’t bother to wipe them, it would be pointless.

All you want to do is slide down to the floor and stay there, letting the hardwood hurt your back and get you dirty, but you can’t. Your car decided to break in the middle of the road on your way back from college, and you had to walk until you found the nearest telephone to call your insurance company, which would’ve been fine if it weren’t for the terrible storm going on, the water drops penetrating your thin shirt like you weren’t even wearing anything in the first place.

It’s just one of those days where everything that could possibly go wrong goes wrong, but you’re already so fed up with life lately that this all seems too much.

“Liv? What happened, baby?”

You lift your head up faster than you should've, because now you can see tiny, black dots floating around in your vision. You weren’t expecting to see Connor at your house, much less wearing the apron you gave him when he prepared his first dish by himself two years ago— a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Connor,” you whisper, not looking him in the eye. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I texted you,” he says, removing the apron that read “cook it yourself, cunt”. “What happened, baby? Are you hurt?”

You don’t say anything, mostly because you’re certain that if you let one little word slip past your lips you’ll start crying uncontrollably once again, so you just shake your head and leave your things on the floor beside you, walking past him so you could get to your room.

He’s quick to follow, though, watching as you remove your wet clothes and get in the shower, both of you silent and lost in your own thoughts.

Not talking to Connor about your feelings feels weird, but you can’t help but feel like you’re holding him back. It’s sickening, because all you want is to stay with him and be happy, but sometimes loving is also letting go.

You get out of the shower, feeling the tears coming back when you spot the change of clothes Connor left for you on top of the toilet lid— his shirt, his pants, your favorite panties.

He knows you too well. He knows who you are as a person and he knows who you want to become. He knows your fears and your ambitions, he knows your dreams and hopes. He knows what you stand for and what you absolutely despise.

He knows you.

You change, and leave the bathroom quickly, wanting nothing more than to lay down and sleep for days.

“Some lady from your insurance company just called, saying your car will be ready next week,” Connor says, and only then you noticed he’d been standing next to your wardrobe the entire time, crossed arms in front of his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me your car was broken?”

You shrug. “I knew you were at practice. Didn’t want to bother you.”

“So you walked home? In the rain?” You can tell by his tone that he’s upset, but there’s nothing much you can do.

“I mean, what did you want me to do?” You scoff. “My phone died and I had no cash on me. And honestly, we both know that you would never leave the ice for something like this.”

“Liv, you know that’s not true,” he whispers, getting closer to you. “You know that I’d leave at any moment if I even knew you needed me.”

“Whatever,” you mumble before reaching for your phone in your bag, the device thankfully still dry, and put it to charge, removing the hundreds of pillows you have on top of your bed and throwing them on the carpet floor, already visualizing the amazing sleep you’d have.

“What are you doing?” You feel his hands on your back, his body closer to yours than it’s been in a while. “You haven’t had dinner yet. I cooked…”

His sad tone makes you break again, and you hate yourself for it. But you still love him so much, and it hurts to see what you’ve become.

“Liv, please, tell me what’s wrong,” he pleads, turning you around and wiping your tears with his thumbs. “I’ll fix it, I promise. Just tell me what’s wrong, baby.”

“Can you fix us?” You whisper, resting your head against his chest, inhaling his comforting scent. He smells like home and the winter. “Can you fix what we’ve become?”

He’s quiet for a while, long fingers caressing your hair, like he used to do back when you had started dating.

“I’m trying, I swear I am,” he whispers back, and you can finally hear genuineness in his voice. “You’re everything to me, baby, and I won’t lose you.”

“I’m not asking you to give up on Hockey,” you explain, watching as your tears stain his shirt. “I’m just asking you to take care of yourself. Connor, I need you to take care of yourself.”

“I know, baby, and I’m sorry,” he kisses your cheek, the first time his lips touch you in more than two weeks. “I’m so sorry.”

You listen to his heartbeat and sigh, choosing not to say anything. You know the only way you can find out if he’s being genuine or not is with time, because only it will tell if you’re fixable or not.

But as you let yourself sleep close to his body that night, losing yourself between the sheets and his arms, you can finally breathe again.

Because he said he’ll try, and Connor Bedard always tries his hardest with everything.

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