#im bad at writing endings

[lucy387]

A powerful third wheel

Based on a prompt by @writing-prompt-s

TW: some mentions of war happening and basically a world ending, but nothing described.

-

I'm tired. Usually I'm always tired, but today it's too much. I've been like this for a while and I think that I deserve an explanation now.

So, let me explain:

I'm Apollo, and I'm 153 years old. Yes, I know. I'm ancient.

A few years before I was born a prophecy was made about me. Well, not about me, about my siblings.

It said that there would be a time when chaos would unleash on earth and two siblings would be the ones to put an end to it. They would be twins, one an incarnation of all that is good and the other of all that's bad.

They would be ferocious fighters and would lead the survivors to victory.

The only problem is that the prophecy made a tiny mistake: the babies born to save the world were not twins, but triplets.

So, guess what, I'm the awful third wheel.

My sister Eirene, is the representative of good on earth. She could create flowers, wind, water, animals, among other things, out of thin air. She is kind and caring, but incredibly brave.

You mustn't underestimate her by her innocent look, because she is ferocious in battle, though always merciful when it is deserved.

On the other side, is my other sister, Eris. She is the carrier of destruction on earth. She iniciates fires, catastrophes and disharmonys to bring the world to ashes.

Contrary to Eirene, she will not have mercy with anyone who goes in her path. She is ruthless in the battlefield and not scared to get hurt.

And then, there's me. Just me.

When we were just kids, we were taught the prophecy that had fallen upon us. Although nobody understood why I even existed, they didn't dare to say it. Not with my sister's around.

They were recognized as the heroes they were ment to be when we were just two years old. An ancient master came to our home and saw us.

Saw Eirene, with her snow white hair, her light grey eyes, freckles, delicate hands and shinning smile.

And Eris, with her hair dark as the night, dark brown eyes and a weirdly wicked smile for a two-year-old.

And finally, saw me, with golden hair, hazel eyes and shy crooked smile

Since then, we were raised to know all about my sisters' future, learning how to fight, how to protect, how to speak properly, blah, blah, blah.

Basically, everything that every kid finds incredibly boring.

We were praised like gods and lived in wealth, thanked for things that we hadn't even done yet, things that I would probably never take part in.

A few decades from now, on our 100th birthday, the chaos unleashed. It was just as the prophets had said, fire raining on earth, earth shaking uncontrollably, things exploding for no reason at any time, all the missiles created by human race to prevent war being released with no one who authorized it, etc.

It was indeed something horrible to experience.

Luckily, my sisters had learned a lot during all those years that prepared them for this exact moment.

The thing that seemed so impossible, but at the same time, was destined to be, happened. They joined, good and bad, to fight and protect.

It was amazing to see them giving orders, commanding armies and rescue teams, saving lives and taking them.

I never stayed too far back. Even if my "destiny" was not like theirs, I could still help. So I did. I helped with the rescue teams, I took civilians to safety, I made sure everyone had a roof, a blanket and provisions and left to the next mission. During these years, my familiy's wealth was actually worth something.

So yes, today I am tired. Exhausted, actually. But happy, so, so, happy. Because the war ended three days ago.

I must say, I'm not only tired because of the war. I'm tired for not understanding why I'm here, when it was not meant to be. The twins, they were the ones ment to exist.

I could've been born later, and that wouldn't be confusing, that would be normal. But it's like the universe decided to play a game with me. Because not only was I born with them, but I was also inmortal. Like I could've been something important, but not quite.

So I spend most of my life feeling useless and worthless. That I did not deserve to be celebrated next to the wonders that were born the same day as me.

I don't think that anybody ment to make me feel that way, specially not my parents, but that's how it was for me.

So now, for the past three days, I'm lost. Because this sort of existencial crisis that was always following me close, waiting for the right time, caught up on me.

After the end of the war, the earth seems to be lost. Because no one know what's good and what's not, as most of the people alive was either born in war, or were too young when it started to remember what it was like before.

Now, I'm sitting on a swing, in an almost completely destroyed park, watching the sun rise, for a new day of uncertainty.

For everyone, it seems like we are about to go to another war, this time between ourselves. Because that is all most of them know.

Suddenly, I hear a branch crack next to me, and when I turn around I see one of the old temples' masters. I had him called, because I need help to understand.

-Good morning Mr. Apollo -he greeted me

-good morning Master- I responded

He sat down on another swing next to mine.

-i heard you were looking for me- he commented, calmly

-yes- I doubted for a second and remembered my manners- I terribly sorry for calling you at sunrise

-No harm done- he answered simply

-i need to ask you something

- go ahead

-i... I want to know what, or who, I'm supposed to be- I said, finally getting out what had been choking me my whole life

-I am afraid I don't understand what you want me to tell you- he told me, now looking at me curiously

-Well, my whole life I felt like I was supposed to be someone, but then found no purpose to guide me in any direction. I was born inmortal, with the burden of knowing that I would never be as important as my sisters. That I was laughed at by the universe, who decided to NEARLY make me a hero, but not exactly- I continued

-i see- he said -so you need to know If there is something I'm my studies that will help you find this purpose you so desperately seek

-...yes-

-As a matter of fact, there is-

-Is there?!- I asked, surprised

I expected him to give some apology and tell me that he had no idea. Frankly, this was a shock

-Yes. You see, I have studied the prophecies surrounding your family for quite some time. Neither of them mentioned a third sibling. But, I took the liberty to read the first prophecy that was made.

' it said that two SIBLINGS would be representations of good and evil respectively. It said nothing about them being just two, or three'

'so, I continued my research and it appears that a prophet, who lived hundreds of years before the other prophecy was made, predicted what I believe to be very much like you'

-What did he say?- I asked, eager to know

-He said "a man, born to live through a terrible catastrophe that would appear as the end of the world, raised between good and bad, wouldn't be a pawn in war's game, but the balance that will equilibrate the world, bringing hope and maintaining peace among lost people"- the old master told it like a story that left my head spinning slightly

I felt like for the first time in my life I could actually breath properly.

-So, what your saying that I'm supposed to be the one to restore balance in this broken world?

-I believe that's how it's meant to be, yes

And, well, that is something. After a life of feeling like an useless third wheel, I ended up being a very important one.

So I suppose, it's time to help lost people now and, rule? I gues, so...wish me luck.

-

.

.

.

.

Hi! If you got here, thanks for reading this LONG thing. I saw this prompt and thought to myself 'i need to write this' so I did.

I'm not used to writing anything that is not Harry Potter related, so this is new.

There is something that you might find interesting idk

The names of our triplets are from Greek gods

Apollo, among other things, is the god balance, argument and reason

Eirene was a goddess considered to be the one to bring peace

Eris was the goddess discord and the representative of envy

So, yeah, I spent a lot of time investigating names, and ended up with Greek inspired characters.

Thanks for reading, hope you liked it 💗

[drgnflyteabox]

can't get much better

pairing: ghost / simon riley x fem reader summary: simon is forced to take some time off - he makes the most of it. tags/warnings: very soft, pregnant sex, size difference, softdom!simon- he's a masculine man who doesn't let his lady lift a finger :'), oral (f), one (1) butthole kiss, dacryphilia, daddy kink (sigh), minor minor foot stuff, allusions to injuries and chronic pain, title from an adrianne lenker song w.c: 2.5k

You try very hard not to think about it, but it's hard not to notice how massive he is.

Even shirtless, he somehow looks bigger, muscles flush with heat and exertion under the sun. He toils and breathes hard like an ox, working while you sit on the porch wrapped in his big flannel. Wearing his clothes is like being swaddled in a blanket straight out of the dryer, warm and nostalgic and syrupy with love. It leaves you feeling some type of tender. You're afraid of that feeling sometimes, of how soft it is and how soft it makes you. He could ask anything of you, and you'd yield like he was pressing his thumb into a bruised peach.

You have.

"How are you two?" Simon is so quiet when he wants to be. One would think he'd clomp like a horse with how big he is, but he can float like dust. It used to startle you, but you've been sinking deeper into the memory foam mattress of this life with him and it doesn't anymore.

"Tired, even though I'm not doing anything," you squint at him through the late afternoon sun. It haloes him like an angel.

"You're growing my baby in there, love. That's not nothing," his voice is rough, it always will be. But it's rough now like earth and soil rather than rough with pain and smoke the way he'd sounded when you met him.

You're feeling especially nostalgic, it seems, not like it's hard here. His hand is warm on your belly.

"I guess so," you let him pet you for a moment. Your stomach is swollen but not as big as it'll get, just enough to veto pants. A few months to go still. "How's your back?"

"Argh," Simon says, taking a heavy seat next to you. Dismissive and yet he groans a little when his muscles unclench. Classic.

You slowly reach up and nudge him until he's facing the field opposite to you, face toward the golden afternoon sun and his back to you. He's never asked you to do this, to take care of him, but it's your favourite thing in the world.

His back is always rock-hard no matter how many times you take your knuckles and fingers to it. Just a condition of a hard life lived for him, countless falls and impacts and pushing through injuries. There's a slight slant to his spine now that isn't there in the pictures he's shown you of his youth, but the stiffness is the same. You might've said he was born to be a soldier, had you not known him as a father. He could do both, but - you'd never say this out loud - you were privately grateful for this injury. It wouldn't take him out forever, but the recovery would be long. Long enough to get the homestead started, to get you pregnant.

Simon would never be completely still. This was compromise. Sweet compromise, a life started and time with him you could think back on the next time he shipped out. Making the most of things, he would always say. Making the time count.

"That feels good, love" he groans. Bending forward slowly, relaxing, he's like an aloof stallion finally accepting an apple from your hand. Acquiescing. Showing you his back. It's trust, and you savour it.

"I bet it does," you tease back, just a little. Your fingers are nimble and attuned to his specific aches and pains. "Are you hungry for dinner?"

"I'm hungry for something," he turns, slowly, hands reaching for your thickened waist. Huge, work-roughened hands. War-roughened hands, holding you like a delicate egg. Sometimes it feels like he's the only thing that holds you together; all your pieces, everywhere, until he's holding you.

Kissing him is a contact sport. It's his hands moving, cupping your breast and then your pussy through your panties, your own hands wrapping around his broad shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. It's open-mouthed, breathing into each other. Impossibly, you get softer, melting like ice on a hot day. 

Before you can lean back on the bench, he stands and lifts you with him. He's still hot from the day, damp with sweat, pushing you into the house while kissing you still.

"Simon-" you start, with no goal in mind. "Please."

"I've got you, love," he murmurs. He always does. Before you know it, you're laid back onto the plush armchair in your living room. Simon knows this is the most comfortable place for your newly-aching body. Affection swells in your chest uncontrollably and comes out through your eyes leaking down your face. Sure, pregnancy makes people emotional - but you're still embarrassed, touched by how considerate he is.

"It's alright, shh," he thumbs the tears at the corner of your eyes. His cock tents his work pants, aroused by them. "Let me take care of you."

The next words he murmurs are into your cunt, right over your panties, tongue laving over the already-wet fabric. "Just need your daddy, don't you?" You clench in tandem with his words, hot all over, skin prickling. He pushes your dress up, bunching it right under your tits.

It's reminiscent of how you spent the first night with him, on the very first day you'd met. Hurried, his big head between your thighs and clothes hanging off you still while he made you fall apart.

He's fucking good at it, too. Pulls your panties to the side and builds up the pressure with which he sucks on your clit, softly and then harsher until you shake. You've been extra horny lately, always wet around him and always so swollen. The scrape of his five-o-clock shadow against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh is what tips you over, clamping his head tightly and shouting your orgasm into the heady summer air.

"That all it takes?" Simon grins, chin wet, fingers moving from your hips to your pussy to gently rub along your slit.

"Give me a second, please," it's humbling how quickly you come nowadays. Quick and intense. Fireworks.

You set your foot on his shoulder and he turns towards it, kissing your ankle. Patience is rare with him, something come about only since you confirmed your pregnancy. You miss being overwhelmed by him, miss the nights where he'd guide you over the edge one, two, three times in succession.

He pushes now, just a little, not waiting for your go-ahead but watching you intently. His fingers spread your cunt in a V and he puffs a breath on your sensitive clit. You jump. He grins again, leaning down to lick you, using one hand to hold both your legs under your knees and push them until they meet the soft bump of your belly.

"Hold them there," he says. It's spoken not to you, but to your hole, which he spears his tongue into. You obey as you're helpless to do, holding your legs up and giving him an unimpeded view. It's more than vulnerable, it's not only baring yourself to him completely but giving him the authority to do what he wants. What you need.

Simon eats you out like it's a kiss, slurping you down and letting you leak until the evidence of your weakness to him is all over you. Your legs are wet, and it drips down onto your other hole. He pushes a thumb into your cunt, dipping it in and out.

"Needed me, did'ya? Watched me all day," he's so smug, sometimes. His lips find your bare foot, kissing your sole. "Been wet like this all day?" His other hand finds the meat of your asscheek, spreading you open further, letting the split of you open to him. He leans down, kissing your inner thigh, then your other hole. You whine and clench your pussy around his thumb. 

"So needy," he murmurs, finally finally moving back to your clit. Flicks his tongue over it, something that might've been teasing before but is intense now. Your hands tighten against your legs, head thrown back.

"Oh please- Simon!" You shout again, abs drawing up, stars in your eyes. "Ahh- I'm-"

"I know, honey," his lips suction again around the hard little pebble of your clit, eating like a man starved. 

This is how he likes you. Losing control, coming apart, helplessly vocal against the onslaught of his tongue. No matter how many times you've done this, it never gets old. The release almost always makes you cry, especially intense like this. You're wet all over, face and cunt and legs. He is, too.

"You still with me, love?" He pets your flank like you're a horse.

"Yes," but that's not what he wants.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Good girl," and fuck if that doesn't always fill you with warm fuzzy energy. Wipes your brain, keeps you soft and floaty.

He guides you up and out of the armchair, lifts you into his arms when your legs shake too much. That electric feeling is still coursing through you, tingles in your extremities as they come back to life.

The hand he strokes over you is half affectionate, half proprietary. You've been his since the first time he laid eyes on you.

He reminds you of it as he sets you down gently on the bed, your hair a halo around your head and hands reaching to his face where you pull him down for a kiss. Hands find his shirt, pulling it off you, and then the dress. Fingertips touch the headboard, your arms stretching up, making room for him. Slips your panties down your legs.

It's a lingering, indulgent kiss. Breathing each others air, gasping into his mouth, he puts his elbows by your head and lays as much weight down as he can without cramping your full belly. He's as vocal as you, groaning and rutting like a dog.

"Ready for me, sweet girl?" He leans out of the kiss, sitting back on his heels. You nod, desperate and pulsing between the legs again like you didn't just come twice.

"Daddy's gonna take care of you, don't you worry," he rearranges you like a doll, turning you to your side and getting between your legs. A pillow is tucked under your belly, and he tests your flexibility by holding your leg tight to the length of his body. Your hamstring burns a little with it.

A hand holds your knee, another to your waist. His jeans scrape against your sensitive skin.

You focus on little details. His scar, touching his eyebrow and splitting through his nose, ending down by his jaw. The knuckles on his fingers holding your knee, and how rough the pads of his fingers feel on your waist. This man has never had soft hands in his life. Those same hands capable of so much force, so much violence, the very same that hold you and guide you. A shepherd, you his lamb.

The weeping head of his cock kisses your hole, catching there and traveling up. He taps it against your clit until you're tensing, whining, needy again. Tears down your cheeks.

He steadies you, pets your waist, guides his cock inside and it feels like you can breathe again. His mouth laves hot kisses over your ankle, the sole of your foot again, reverent and controlling all at once. The stretch burns - it always does, and maybe always will. Simon is just so big, thick all around and the mushroom head of him could always bump your cervix if he's not careful.

He's careful now, but only just. You can sense his control fraying, his hips driving forward steadily but his thighs tensing and his grip getting meaner. This is your favourite part. Watching him sweat, breathe hard, taking his pleasure in you.

"Yeah-" he cuts himself off with a long, drawn out groan. Deep, from the bottom of his belly and out. "Already so full of me, aren't ya? Can't get full enough."

You plead with your sounds, words out of your grasp. Your hands clutch at the sheets but it isn't enough. He's solid, he's your anchor, but he's losing himself in your cunt and you're free falling.

"Play with your tits for me," he commands, pumping faster. You're reflexively tightening around him, clit jumping for attention, squeaking each time he lets himself in as deep as possible and touches the mouth of your cervix.

Sunlight slowly fades on the bed, the last golden rays escaping out the window as you're bathed in dusk. 

There's nothing to do but obey, hands finding your swollen breasts and squeezing. They've been sore and huge, like that week before you get your period only it's been a couple months. None of your bras fit anymore.

Simon appreciates it, he loves it. Has you cooking for him with your tits out, nipples peaked and pussy leaking. They bounce, now, stopped only by your hands pinching and twisting. It's insane - no one in the world could replicate the feeling. No artist, no musician. Electricity zips from your breasts down to your clit and shit - you might come just like this, untouched, just full of your man and fondling yourself.

"Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me. Fucking," he pants, leaning over you, bending your leg. "Pinching my dick, sweetheart. Your pussy's so fucking good."

The orgasm begins in your toes, tingling. Your muscles tighten, drawing up, up, towards your cunt, which is making obscene sounds around him.

Simon sees the signs, sees your eyes rolling and your body going taut. He abandons your leg in favour of rubbing your clit with two big fingers quickly, up and down.

"That's it, sweetheart, come all over my cock. Go on," his voice is a snarl, barely distinguishable as human, beastly. "Be good for daddy.”

It's like the crescendo of an orchestra, like a summer afternoon in august, like waking up without a clogged nose after being sick, it's - really fucking good. You're near sobbing, crying out his name, abandoning your tits to reach for him desperately. He meets you halfway, shuddering his own orgasm into you. The press of his hips against yours is better than buttered toast, the delicate press of his chest against yours as he lets your leg go is bliss.

"Si-imon," you slur, hands on his cheeks. He laughs and kisses your forehead.

"What's that, sweet girl?"

"I love you," you cry a little more then, feeling him pull out and lay next to you. You're boneless.

"I love you too," his arm reaches across you, pulling you into him. "Both of you." Hand on your belly again.

"That was insane," you pant. He barks a laugh against your hair. "I'm serious."

"I know you are, love," he kisses your forehead, petting your stomach. You can tell it's meaning, can feel the gratefulness behind the kiss. He's saying thank you, for staying with him, for making him a father. Your hand finds his, squeezing back a wordless reply. Of course, it says.

<3

[froglover7789]

every iteration of the doctor can be categorized into two categories: dyke and twink

[starscream-is-my-wife]

This is part 1 of a continuation for my other post where LL Megatron gets trapped in the G1 universe, I was thinking about how someone would go insane in this cartoon world and thought "what if Megatron had someone else to accompany him" so, I gave Starscream an existential crisis

Edit: final part is out, I tagged everything as G1 x LL AU!

[loveydovey-leviathan]

(for your recent post)

hmmm how about mal and reader were having an argument or sumn then he's like " hmph let's not talk to each other for now >:( " so you grant him some space/or silent treatment and mal is like dramatically waiting for u to talk to him for HOURS in his room just brooding there and when he realize you're still ignoring him, he's like a pathetic sad wet cat needy for ur attention now bcs he couldn't stand being apart from u.

im sorry for the basic ass idea lol 😭 im just a sucker for silent treatment scenarios like this

malleus x gn! reader

a/n: written as romantic -> FOAMING AT THE MOUTH, IM A SUCKER FOR THESE TOO 😔😔 hope i did this justice

.

one of the many things malleus adores about you is your stubbornness. the way you don't back down against what you think is wrong is something that will always set him ablaze with admiration for you.

though he doesn't quite like it when that pride is directed at him.

he's realizing this now when scornful words are spat between the two of you in the living room of ramshackle. clouds and lighting are beginning to gather as a response to his irritation and annoyance. he doesn't even know what this silly argument was even about or why it started in the first place, and unfortunately, malleus can be just as stubborn as can be.

"since you insist on being childish, i think it's best for us to not talk for a while," he isn't even looking at you as he says this, so when he disappears into pretty green firelights, he misses the hurt expression on your face as he leaves.

this is stupid, you think, but you bite your lip in worry as you walk upstairs and lay in bed, grim beside you snoring away. you said things you didn't mean so perhaps it's best to give him space, though how long that will go on is unknown to you since your lovely dragon is a fae with a rather skewed perception of time... whatever, he knows where to find you as soon as he decides he's comfortable enough to talk this out.

unbeknownst to you, malleus is now brooding in his room, lying face down on his pillow. the clouds around nrc have gotten worse, static brushing against the air as he waits for a phone call from you. preferably a sincere apology since he obviously deserves it after the things you've said.

...

well, he supposes it wasn't entirely your fault. he uttered words all to anger you as you did him, though none of them were true. you weren't childish, the opposite in fact-- having to take care of that first-year duo and that cat you're always hanging out with, taking precious time away when you could be stroking his hair and kissing his hands and petting his horns. as you do.

that's another thing he likes about you. even if you don't spend as much time together as he'd like, what you do to him is more than enough to compensate. you know he likes being kissed on the neck, you know he loves it when you take of his gloves and hold his hands, you know he loves when you lightly blow on his ear. you always look so happy when you do it too-- like seeing him smile makes you-

wait, isn't he supposed to be angry at you? he humphs and pouts when he realizes you still haven't called. he turns his head, eyebrows crossed and he stares at the phone on his desk. the only reason he learned how to use a phone was so you could contact him and send him texts and "memes" like you do with the rest of your friends.

he considers going to you himself but immediately shoves the idea away. he's still mad at you after all.

...

...

...

...

the clouds start pouring rain.

it isn't even the raging, storming kind-- the ones with howling winds and thunderous claps of lightning that illuminate the very sky. it's sad and cold that heavily drops on your already straining roof. your dampened mood worsens and you decide to get out of bed and make a hot drink to help you sleep.

you briefly glance at the alarm on your bedside table and see that it's 2:31 a.m., way too early to do anything at all.

just as you reach the bottom of the stairs, you hear 3 heavy knocks at the front door. any normal person would panic and call a friend for help, but your friends ace are usually the ones getting kicked out, so you figure something similar happened.

imagine your surprise when you see your boyfriend in all his 202 cm glory. his hair sticks to his face in an unfairly handsome way considering he's absolutely soaked, and somehow the look accentuates the pretty green hue of his eyes that have only ever looked at you like you were everything and more, even when he's angry at you.

...did he walk here?

you continue staring at him for a while and your realize that while your lover is incredibly beautiful- so much so the word beautiful could never begin to describe him- he is also very. pathetic. if only people knew how much of a wet cat he was. he even bumps his nose against yours as an act of affection sometimes.

and that fact is ever prominent right now. his arms are crosses and his lips are jutted in a cute pout, refusing to say a word.

"..."

"..."

"..."

you don't know what to do exactly, considering there isn't a manual for 'what to do when your draconic boyfriend stands outside your front door in the soaking rain while he remains completely silent', so you slowly turn and walk through ramshackle's living room and into your dainty little kitchen.

heavy footsteps follow close behind you, followed by a light thud of a closing door and the muffling of the rain. malleus continues to follow you when you boil enough water for two, when you take out your tea bags (gifted by kalim) and seep it into the water. you take the occasional glance here and there, wondering if you should speak before ultimately deciding against it. maybe he doesn't want to talk right now.

he sits closely next to you- so close your knees touch when you rest yourself on one of the seats against the table. your fingertips briefly touch when you pass him the newly brewed tea and it's almost like he wants to reach out to hold your hand, but he pulls away at the last second.

from there, you sit in silence. the heat of the mug spreads from your cold fingertips and you warm up as you drink your tea. already, your becoming tired. you look at mal once more and he still has that adorable pout on his face, but his eyebrows aren't as furrowed as before. usually, you'd gladly offer a cuddle during a rainy night, but tonight's been strange.

so when you try to leave your seat, a hand suddenly stops you. it's the first time he's looked you in the eyes the entire night and good god it's cute, lame and pitiful all at the same time. truly, a stray kitty in a box out in the rain begging for attention. his eyes look up at you in the saddest way possible and you swear you see a wet sheen-- and that damn pout that's going to be the fucking death of you one day is still there.

"i'm sorry," he mutters, and he shifts from one hand holding yours to two. "i can't stand being apart from you." the apology is blunt, honest and sincere, just like him.

you gently lift the hand he wasn't holding to his cheek and he nuzzles into it, closing his eyes as he enjoys your petting. something deep rumbles in his chest and you realize he's purring again.

"m' sorry too, mal. shouldn't have said what i said."

almost immediately, the heavy rain lessens before quickly coming to a stop. there's a smile on his face and the all-too-familiar, tell-tale blush on his cheeks. you place your finger under his chin and tilt his head before kissing him softly. he's dormant and still, like he's afraid of breaking this moment, but he tightens his grip on your hand like he's afraid you'll leave.

malleus chases your lips in hopes for more when you pull away all too soon. he's staring at you with a look as sweet and delicate as spun sugar.

"let's go to bed, mal."

he chuckles like he always does. "if you insist, my love." like he wasn't waiting, hoping you ask him.

[deerspherestudios]

Just to say that I loved day 3, I had been waiting for it for a long time and I loved it a lot 😭😭, I already missed seeing Mychael, I was able to practice my English a little more while playing it, I laughed a lot at the scenes where Mychael and MC start arguing playfully as if they were lifelong friends, little moments that I appreciate 🥲

Chitsu!!! I miss you!!! I'm so happy you're still playing the game haha! And practicing your English with my silly VN is an honor and genuinely amazing <3!

Thank you so much, I'm glad the little moments brought a laugh, those were my favorite (and hardest 💔) to write. I really wanted them to get along as close friends before introducing any romance, so that means a lot to hear!

[jetii]

Stars Align

Pairing: Tech x fem!Reader / Tech x Jedi!Reader

Words: 9,053

Tags/Warnings: fluff, found family-ness, smut, unprotected sex, fingering, inappropriate use of the Force (i'd argue it's appropriate actually), kind of dom!Tech, also feral Tech

Summary: It's been over a week since Sarad has returned, and Tech is eager for some time alone to reconnect uninterrupted. If only the universe was so kind.

A/N: A long-awaited smut between my fav couple!! Set shortly after The Possibility of Infinity and months before Charting A New Course.

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

It had been a week since Echo's return, and a week since Tech's reunion with you.

It's strange, how fast everything had changed. One moment, he had been living a life without you, and the next, he's waking up beside you, and eating breakfast with you, and taking long walks with you. And, despite the fact that you had been gone for a year, it all feels so familiar, and so comfortable, and so right.

Like coming home.

But, in a way, it isn't a surprise. You had always been the exception to every rule. The one thing that didn't fit the pattern. The variable that didn't conform to the equation. The constant that defied logic and reason.

The woman he loves.

And now, you're back, and everything has changed.

He's happier than he had ever been. Happier than he had ever thought possible.

But there is also a sense of unease. There are moments where he finds himself questioning his reality. It's an unsettling feeling, and one that has led to more than one sleepless night.

It's a problem, but not one that he can easily solve. It's something he will have to live with, and, eventually, the feelings will fade.

But, in the meantime, he has his family. They had taken the news of your return surprisingly well. He had expected some level of shock, or suspicion, or even resentment, but they had all been supportive. They had listened patiently to your story and had assured him that they were happy for him. And, although the concern in their voices had been obvious, he knows that they meant it.

So, despite the lingering doubt, Tech has taken comfort in their support and allowed himself to relax. To enjoy the time with you. To savor the simple joys of life.

He only wishes he could get you alone.

It isn't that his brothers and Omega are a nuisance. It's quite the opposite. He's grateful to have them around, and their presence has helped to alleviate his fears.

But it would be nice to have some time alone with you. A week is far too short a period to catch up, and there are still so many questions that need to be answered, so many plans that need to be made, and so much lost time that needs to be made up for.

In short, a week isn't enough. Not nearly.

And, as much as he loves his brothers, they seem determined to monopolize every minute of the day. He understands, of course. There is a lot to catch up on, and he isn't the only one who wants to spend time with you. But it's starting to get frustrating, and the temptation to lock himself and you in his room and ignore the rest of the world is growing stronger by the day.

Not that he would actually do it.

As much as he wants time alone with you, he can't bring himself to complain. Because his brothers are happy, and so is Omega, and, after all the tragedy and trauma and loss, he's not about to jeopardize that.

But the fact remains that a week isn't nearly enough.

Tech sighs and pushes his goggles up to his forehead, rubbing the indents they left on his skin. He doesn't know why he's so agitated. He had spent an entire year apart from you, and a lifetime apart before he knew you. Surely, he can survive a few more days.

But, despite his reassurances, he can't help but feel a twinge of irritation at the fact that you are currently out with Wrecker, while he is stuck here, tinkering with the new security system and trying not to think about how long you'll be gone.

He knows it's not Wrecker's fault. It's just a coincidence. A matter of timing. And, in truth, he's glad that you have taken the time to spend with each of his brothers. You and Wrecker especially had always been close, and Tech had expected him to be the first to steal you away.

Still, it doesn't make him any less annoyed.

He glances over at the clock and sees that it's only been an hour since you left. It's far too soon for you to be back. Not that he's keeping track.

He turns his attention back to the wiring in front of him, but his mind wanders. He thinks about you, and about how much he misses you. And, when the memory of the last time the two of you had kissed enters his mind, his fingers slip, and the wire snaps.

Tech curses under his breath and pulls the damaged piece free. He's usually much more careful than this. It's not like him to make such a mistake. But, in his defense, it's been a stressful week. And the thought of having time alone with you, even if it's just for a few hours, is incredibly distracting.

He's being ridiculous. He knows he is. But he can't help it.

He's about to start re-soldering the wiring when he hears the door open, followed by the sound of footsteps. He recognizes the cadence of them immediately, and his heart begins to beat faster.

"Sarad?" he calls, glancing towards the entrance of the kitchen.

"Hey," you say as you round the corner. You look tired, but there's a smile on your lips, and a sparkle in your eyes. When you lean down to press a kiss to his cheek, the scent of grass and flowers fills the air, and Tech finds himself inhaling deeply.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon," he says as he sets his tools aside. He stands from his spot kneeling by the panel and wipes his hands on a rag. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's fine," you assure him, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"And Wrecker?"

"He's good," you say, a hint of laughter in your voice. You take a step closer to him and wrap your arms around his neck, your eyes meeting his. Your fingers run through the hairs at the nape of his neck, and the sensation sends a shiver down his spine.

"Good," Tech murmurs, his hands settling on your waist. "I'm glad."

"So am I." You push yourself up onto your toes, pressing a kiss on his jaw. He feels his cheeks grow warm, and he bites his lip, suppressing a grin.

"I'm glad to see you too," he whispers as his hands pull you closer.

"I can tell," you tease, your lips moving lower, grazing the line of his jaw. He closes his eyes, and swallows thickly, trying to keep his composure. But, with you so close, and your scent surrounding him, it's difficult.

"I was wondering," you begin, your voice low and warm, "if you'd like to spend some time alone together?"

"Yes," he says instantly. He feels your lips curl into a smile against his neck, and he clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. "What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know," you say, and he can practically hear the mischief in your voice. "We could go for a walk. Or we could watch a holofilm. Or we could find a nice, quiet, empty room."

"A nice, quiet, empty room sounds wonderful," he manages, his voice strained

"Really?" You pull away, and his eyes open. There's a wicked glint in your eyes, and his stomach flips. "I wasn't sure if that was something you'd be interested in."

"No, I'm very interested," he replies, his voice low and breathy. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too." 

You lean in and capture his lips in a deep kiss. It's passionate and hungry, and he can't stop the moan that escapes him. His arms wrap around you, and he holds you tightly, relishing the feeling of your body pressed against his. He kisses you hungrily, greedily, as if trying to make up for the lost time.

And you return the kiss eagerly, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, your lips parting for his. Tech takes a step forward, and you move with him, your back pressing against the counter. His hands roam your body, exploring every curve and dip, and when you bite his lip, he gasps, his fingers tightening on your hips. You smirk against his mouth, your fingers trailing down his chest, and lower, lower, lower...

"Hey, Tech!" Hunter calls out. "Are you—oh. Oh."

Tech jumps at the sound of his brother's voice, his heart pounding in his chest. He pulls away from you, his face flushed, and looks over his shoulder to see Hunter standing in the doorway, his expression somewhere between amusement and embarrassment.

"Hunter," Tech says, his voice shaking slightly.

"Hi, Hunter," you reply, not bothering to hide the smirk on your face.

"Uh," Hunter starts. He scratches the back of his head awkwardly, pointedly staring at a spot above Tech's shoulder. "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's fine," Tech mutters, and he can't help the scowl that crosses his face. He takes a step back, putting some space between you, but he doesn't go far. "What did you need?"

"Nothing," Hunter says, shaking his head. "Just, uh, came to check on the security system. I can come back later."

"That would be best," Tech agrees, his tone clipped.

"Alright," Hunter says. He gives you a small nod. "See you later, Sarad."

"See you," you reply.

With a final, awkward nod, Hunter leaves the kitchen, his footsteps fading quickly.

Tech exhales, and the tension leaves his shoulders. He glances at you and sees that you're barely suppressing a laugh.

"You could have warned me," he grumbles.

"And miss that expression? Never."

He rolls his eyes, but he can't help the grin that tugs at his lips. You reach out and take his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and the warmth that blooms in his chest is almost overwhelming.

"So, where were we?"

"I believe we were about to go and find that nice, quiet, empty room," he answers, his free hand moving to your waist, his fingers teasing the skin beneath your shirt.

"Ah, yes. How could I forget?"

You press another kiss to his lips, slow and languid, and Tech can't stop the groan that slips out. You smirk against his mouth, and his hand moves up, his thumb brushing against your side. You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours. You melt into the embrace, your hand moving to grip his forearm, and his grip on you tightens, pulling you flush against him.

After a moment, you pull back, breathless, and the look in your eyes sends a jolt of heat through him. "I've been wanting to do that all day."

"You're not the only one," he says, his voice husky.

You smile, and his heart stutters. "Really?"

"Yes, really." He leans in and presses a kiss to your neck, his lips grazing your pulse. "I didn't realize how much I missed this."

"Missed what?" you ask, your voice low.

"Being close to you." He sucks gently on your skin, eliciting a soft moan from you. "Feeling your body against mine."

You gasp, your head tilting to the side, giving him better access. He trails his lips down, kissing and nipping the skin along your collarbone. Your hand moves up his arm, sliding into his hair, and your nails dig into his scalp, sending a shiver down his spine.

"I've missed this too," you whisper, your breath hitching as he finds a particularly sensitive spot. "I've missed you."

"Me too."

His hands move lower, cupping your ass, and you arch into him, your body pressed flush against his. He groans, and the sound seems to spur you on. You tug at his hair, drawing his lips back up to yours, and then you're kissing him again, hot and desperate and needy.

He's dizzy, drunk on the taste of you, and the scent of you, and the feel of you. The weeks and months and years of separation seem to melt away, and it's like no time has passed. Like the two of you have always been this way. Like you were always meant to be together.

Tech lifts you up, placing you on the edge of the counter, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. Your lips trail along his jaw, his throat, his ear, and he shudders, his breath catching in his throat.

"I could get used to this," you murmur against him.

"What, kissing me?" he teases, his lips curving into a smirk.

"Yes," you reply, your teeth grazing his earlobe. "Among other things."

He feels his pulse quicken, and his hands slide up, caressing the skin beneath your shirt. "Other things?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Like what?"

"You'll find out." Your lips find the sensitive spot behind his ear, and he moans. "If you're lucky."

He laughs, and the sound is strained, breathless. "Sarad, you are cruel.”

"But you love me anyway."

"I do." He smiles, his hands moving up your back. "More than anything."

"I love you, too."

He kisses you again, and the world seems to disappear. Nothing exists except for you. Your lips. Your body. Your hands, gripping him, holding him, keeping him grounded. He feels a rush of euphoria, a sense of freedom he hasn't felt in a long time.

Your hand moves between your bodies, and he gasps as you palm his growing arousal through his pants. His grip on you tightens, and he presses himself against you, craving the friction.

He's aware, distantly, of the door opening, but he's too lost in the moment to care. Tech pulls away from your lips, and moves to the crook of your neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin. You whimper and squirm against him, and his grip on your waist tightens, holding you in place.

"Whoa!"

Wrecker's voice cuts through the air, and Tech freezes, his lips still pressed to your skin. "Oh, for—"

"Don't stop on my account," Wrecker says, and Tech can hear the laughter in his voice. "I was just coming in for a snack."

Tech sighs and presses his forehead against your shoulder, willing his heart rate to slow. Your fingers card through his hair, and he feels you shake with silent laughter. He closes his eyes and counts to ten as he runs his hands up and down your thighs, trying to calm himself.

"Alright," Tech says, his tone firm. "Then get out."

"Alright, alright," Wrecker says, still chuckling. He makes his way to the cooler and grabs a few containers of leftovers, humming a jaunty tune. He closes the cooler, and pauses. "Didn’t know you had it in you, Tech."

"Out!"

Wrecker's laughter echoes through the kitchen as he leaves. The moment the door shuts, you burst into a fit of giggles. Tech pulls back and looks at you, and his heart skips a beat. You're grinning, and your eyes are sparkling, and your hair is disheveled.

"I think," you say, once your laughter has subsided, "that the universe is trying to tell us something."

"That we should move to a deserted planet?"

"Well, maybe not that extreme." You touch his cheek, your expression softening. You're smiling, but there's a hint of concern in your eyes. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, a bit reluctantly. "Just...disappointed."

"Hey, it's okay." You cup his face, your thumbs stroking his cheeks. "We have all the time in the world. I’m sure we’ll get a chance sooner or later.”

“Ideally, sooner,” he murmurs, and he leans in, his lips brushing yours. You hum softly, a pleased sound, and he feels his body begin to react.

But, before the kiss can become anything more, he hears the sound of approaching footsteps, and he groans, pulling away from you. Tech rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes, willing his racing heart to slow.

"I'm sorry, Sarad," he whispers, his voice laced with frustration. "I know this isn't what you wanted."

"Hey," you say, and your hands move to his shoulders, gently massaging the muscles. "I know it's not ideal. But we're together. That's all that matters."

"It is."

He sighs and steps away from you, his eyes meeting yours. He knows you're right, but it doesn't change the fact that he's frustrated, and tired, and desperately wants to have a few hours alone with you. The past few days have been nothing but chaos, and there hasn't been a moment of peace. And, as much as he loves his family, and is grateful for their support, he's starting to lose his patience.

He's being selfish. He knows that. But, in his defense, it's been a very, very long week.

"I should probably get back to work," he says reluctantly. He's not particularly eager to continue re-wiring the security system, but it's better than sitting here, stewing in his own thoughts.

"Tech," you start, a note of worry in your voice. "I really am sorry. I didn't mean to make things difficult."

"You didn't." He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "It's not your fault. We were bound to have some...difficulties. I just hadn't expected it to be so challenging." He offers you a wry smile. "At least it's not as bad as the time we were interrupted by the droid patrol."

You laugh, the sound music to his ears. "Or the time Crosshair walked in on us."

"Maker, don't remind me," he groans. The memory of his brother's expression had haunted him for weeks, and he had never quite recovered from the embarrassment. He sighs. "That was...an experience."

"Yeah," you chuckle. "I think Cross was more traumatized than we were."

"That is possible," he admits, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "And, at least this time, no one was injured."

"Very true," you agree. You lean forward and press a chaste kiss to his lips, and when you pull back, there's a smile on your face. "We'll get there. I promise."

"I hope so," he replies.

"And when we do," you murmur, your hand reaching out to rest on his thigh, your voice taking on a low, sultry tone. "I plan to do terrible, wicked things to you."

"Terrible, wicked things?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. He feels a blush creep across his cheeks, but he doesn't look away.

You hum in affirmation, a mischievous glint in your eyes. Your fingers dance across his leg, and he bites back a groan, his blood heating. "Very bad."

"Such as?"

"Well, if I told you, then it wouldn't be a surprise," you tease. "And where's the fun in that?"

"Sarad," he protests weakly, even though his brain is already supplying him with a thousand possibilities. All of them highly appealing. And, based on the look in your eyes, highly likely. "You are a terrible tease."

"How can I resist when I have the most handsome man in the galaxy right in front of me?" you murmur, leaning in to press a line of kisses along his jaw. He swallows, his hand gripping the edge of the counter tightly.

"Handsome?" he echoes, his voice cracking. You laugh, a soft, husky sound, and he shivers, his blood heating. "Since when have you called me that?"

"Since now," you answer, nipping at his earlobe. "Very handsome. And very charming. And very..."

"Very what?" he prompts. You're leaning into him, your breath warm against his neck, and his grip on the counter tightens.

"I was going to say sexy, but I decided against it." You press another kiss to his throat. "Figured you might pass out from the shock."

He scoffs, but his cheeks are burning. Tech glances at the doorway, then back at you. "Sarad, as much as I am enjoying this conversation, if anyone else walks in on us, I am at risk of becoming homicidal."

You laugh and lean back, giving him space. He feels his heartbeat begin to slow, but his face is still flushed, and his hands are shaking slightly. Maker, it's unfair how easily you affect him. He hadn't forgotten how intoxicating your presence was, but he's still surprised by how little effort it takes for you to make his heart race.

"I suppose we should get back to work," you sigh, though you don't sound particularly disappointed.

"I'm afraid so," he agrees.

You hop down from the counter, landing on your feet with a soft thud. Tech reaches out and brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. Your eyes meet his, and he's struck by how beautiful you are.

"I love you, Tech," you say softly.

"I love you too," he whispers. He leans forward and captures your lips in a gentle kiss, a lingering caress. You let out a pleased hum and the warmth in his chest spreads, filling every inch of his body. He could spend the rest of his life kissing you and never grow tired of it.

When he finally pulls away, the look in your eyes makes him dizzy. He smiles, and his heart aches.

"Now, I really must get back to work. I will see you later, Sarad," he murmurs. Tech presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth and steps away. "And, if the stars are aligned, I will be able to have you alone for a few minutes."

"I can only hope." You reach out and give his hand a squeeze. "See you later, Tech."

He watches as you leave the kitchen, and his gaze lingers on the door for several moments after you've gone. A part of him wants to follow you, to take your hand and lead you to his room and not leave until the two of you have caught up on a year's worth of lost time. 

But another, stronger part of him knows that he should stay. That, despite his longing, there are more important things to focus on. Like ensuring the people he loves are protected, and that the two of you have a future together. A future where you can be happy, and free, and safe. A future that will hopefully last longer than the fleeting moments he's experienced so far.

Tech sigh and turns back to the panel in the wall, his tools still lying where he had left them. His frustration is starting to ebb, and he's beginning to realize that, perhaps, the timing doesn't matter as much as he thought it did. You're back, and that's what's important. The details can wait. He's spent a lifetime waiting, and he can spend a little more. For you, it's worth it.

As it turns out, the stars did not align. 

Over the course of the next several days, Tech managed to catch you for a total of fifteen minutes. Fifteen. Not nearly enough time to do more than steal a few kisses. Not nearly enough time to quench his growing desire. Not nearly enough time to enjoy the pleasure of being close to you. And not nearly enough time for anything except a reminder of what he's missing.

So, after nearly two weeks of stolen moments, fleeting glances, and interrupted plans, Tech has had enough. He's going to have time alone with you, or so help him, he's going to tear the house apart.

The timing couldn't be worse. He's still working on the security system, and Hunter is insisting that they take additional precautions. Which, unfortunately, means installing extra sensors and cameras and alarms, all of which are currently spread out over the kitchen table. And, while he understands the logic, and the necessity, he's beginning to lose his patience. Between the endless stream of visitors and the never-ending work, he's beginning to wonder if he's ever going to have the chance to have you alone.

And it's driving him mad.

Despite his best efforts, he's become desperate. And, if he's being completely honest with himself, a little pathetic. Every moment with you has left him aching for more, and it's beginning to affect his work. 

It's distracting, and frustrating, and it's only making him feel worse. So, in the interest of productivity, and sanity, and not wanting to spend the rest of his life regretting not seizing the opportunity, Tech has decided that he's going to spend some time alone with you. Even if it means tearing the house apart. Or, at the very least, making a scene.

So, the next morning, when his brothers and Omega leave for the market, Tech makes his move.

The moment the door closes, he grabs your hand and drags you to his room, shutting and locking the door behind you.

"Tech, what are you—"

"An hour. We have an hour before they return," he says quickly, cutting off your question. "I have calculated the time it will take them to walk to the market, and the time it will take them to purchase supplies, and the time it will take them to walk home. And, with the average travel time, we have an hour, give or take ten minutes. So, we are going to use that time wisely."

"And, by wisely, you mean—"

"Yes." He tugs at the collar of his shirt, feeling uncharacteristically flustered. "If that is agreeable to you."

You raise an eyebrow, and he can tell you're amused by his rambling, but you don't comment. Instead, you cross the room and stand in front of him, a teasing smile on your lips. "You know, you could have just said that you wanted to have sex."

"I'm aware," he replies. "But I was trying to be tactful."

"By dragging me into your room and talking about the amount of time it'll take your brothers to shop for vegetables?" you tease. "That's one way to do it."

He huffs and leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. He knows you're teasing him, and he should probably take it in stride, but the truth is, he's a bit nervous. 

It's been a year since he's had the chance to be intimate with you, and, while the two of you have come close over the past few days, there has always been a moment where he was interrupted, or pulled away, or left feeling as if the timing wasn't quite right. 

And, despite the fact that this was his idea, and you clearly share his sentiment, he can't help but feel a sense of trepidation. Like maybe, if he pushes too hard, or moves too fast, you'll disappear again. Or, worse, he'll find out that this is all just a dream. And he'll wake up, alone, in his bunk on the Marauder, wondering if he'll ever see you again.

It's a ridiculous fear. He knows that. And, logically, he has no reason to think that this isn't real. But his heart can't seem to accept it, and the fear is still there, lingering in the back of his mind.

You must notice the change in his demeanor, because the smile slips from your face, and a note of concern enters your voice. "Tech, is everything okay?"

"Yes," he answers automatically. But then he pauses, considering the question. "Actually, no. I am not okay. I'm...overwhelmed."

"Overwhelmed?" you echo, a hint of worry in your tone. "In a bad way, or a good way?"

"Both," he admits. He takes a step closer to you, closing the gap between your bodies. His hands settle on your waist, and the warmth of your skin calms him. "I'm overwhelmed by how much I want this, and how much I missed you, and by how difficult it is to be close to you, and not have you."

"That makes two of us," you murmur, resting your head on his shoulder. "It's been a while since we had a chance to do this."

"It has," he says. He lets his eyes fall closed, relishing the sensation of having you close. It's a strange feeling, the sense of security and comfort he feels in your presence. Like everything is going to be alright. Like the world is as it should be. "And I've missed you. I've missed this."

"Me too," you whisper, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his neck. He shivers at the contact, and his arms tighten around you. "I didn't realize how much until I had the chance to do this again."

"It's been difficult, having to share you," he murmurs. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he grimaces, realizing how petty they sound. "I know it's selfish, but—"

"No, it's not," you interject, pulling away so that your eyes can meet his. "You've been patient. I know it's hard, especially with everything that's happened."

"It has been hard," he admits, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you. And now that I have the chance, it's..." He trails off, trying to find the words. "Difficult. Frustrating. Overwhelming."

"But good," you say softly. "Right?"

"Very good," he affirms, his voice low. "I love you, Sarad."

"And I love you."

You lean in and capture his lips in a gentle kiss, your hands resting on his shoulders. Tech relaxes into the embrace, his arms encircling you, pulling you close. His lips part for yours, and you sigh against his mouth, your hands moving up, cupping his face. He can feel his heart begin to beat faster, his blood heating, but he doesn't move to deepen the kiss. Not yet. 

Instead, he savors the sensation, the feel of your lips against his, the taste of you, the scent of your skin. It's been so long since the two of you have had the chance to do this, to just exist, and he wants to memorize every second. Wants to imprint the memory of this moment on his mind. Even though the two of you have had years of practice, there is something about this moment that feels special. Something about this moment that feels different. And he wants to remember it.

When you finally pull away, you're breathless, your eyes dark with desire. Tech lets his gaze drift across your face, taking in the sight of you, the flush in your cheeks, the curve of your lips, the look in your eyes.

"Stars, I missed you," you whisper, your thumbs stroking his cheeks. Your voice is raw, husky, and the sound makes his heart stutter. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get here."

"I'm just glad you did," he replies, his hands moving down, gripping the hem of your shirt. "I'm glad I didn't have to wait any longer."

You let out a soft moan as his hands slip beneath the fabric, his fingers caressing your skin. He smirks, pleased by the reaction, and his grip tightens, his nails scraping against your hip. You whimper, and his lips find yours, hungrier this time. Greedier. More desperate.

The two of you move as one, a dance as old as time. Your hands tug at his clothes, pulling him towards the bed, and his mouth follows yours, refusing to let go. You stumble and fall, and the momentum carries you both onto the mattress. Tech's back hits the blankets, and you land on top of him, and the two of you laugh, the sound music to his ears. You're smiling, a brilliant, blinding grin, and he feels his chest ache.

"What is it?" you as, your voice breathless.

"Nothing," he answers, and the word comes out as a whisper. "I'm just...happy."

"Me too."

You lean down and capture his lips in a hungry kiss, and his hands slide up, his fingers tangling in your hair. You arch into him, and he gasps, his hips bucking up involuntarily. He can feel his cock start to harden, and his hands move down, gripping your ass tightly. You groan and grind against him, and his head falls back, a choked sound escaping his throat.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp. Your breath is hot against his neck, and your hands are everywhere, roaming his chest, his arms, his legs. Your lips press against his jaw, his throat, his collarbone.

"Sarad," he pants, his body straining.

"Yeah?"

"Get rid of the clothes," he commands. "Now."

You laugh, a soft, delighted sound, and you pull back, sitting on his thighs. Tech's eyes are glued to your body, watching as you tug at the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, tantalizingly. His cock throbs as inch after inch of skin is revealed, and when you pull the garment off, he can't help but stare. 

You're beautiful, and his mind is filled with images of his hands exploring your body, his mouth worshipping your skin. Some of them are new, fantasies he's been nursing since you returned. Others are memories, long-forgotten moments of passion that were buried deep in his mind.

His hands move on instinct, his fingers brushing across your ribs, your stomach, along the edge of your bra. He reaches behind you and undoes the clasp, letting the fabric fall away. He watches, transfixed, as your nipples pebble, and his hands cup your breasts, squeezing gently. You let out a breathy moan, and his blood heat.

"Tech," you murmur, squirming under his touch. "I'm supposed to be getting you naked."

"So, get on with it," he says, his tone low. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and your hips jerk forward, a sharp gasp escaping your throat. "We're wasting time."

"Wasting time?" you ask, a smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Or enjoying ourselves?"

"Both," he answers with a smirk.

You huff and lean down, your lips meeting his in a heated kiss. Your fingers find the fastenings of his vest, and you pull it off, tossing it to the floor. He helps you tug off his undershirt, and your hands immediately go to his chest, your nails scraping against his skin. He groans, and you bite his lip, sucking gently.

He grips your waist and flips you, switching positions. You gasp, and he can't help but chuckle at the surprise on your face.

"Tech," you start, a slight whine in your voice.

"What?" he asks innocently, his hands trailing down, undoing the button on your pants.

"I thought I was supposed to be the one in charge," you grumble, lifting your hips to help him pull off the fabric.

"You can be," he says. His eyes lock onto yours, and he holds your gaze, his hands stilling on your thighs. "After."

"After what?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he leans down and presses a line of kisses along your jaw, down your neck, to your shoulder. He lingers at the juncture, biting and sucking, and you moan, your hips jerking up, seeking friction.

He chuckles, a low, raspy sound. His hand slips between your legs, his fingers brushing against the wet fabric of your panties. You whimper and push against his hand, and he can feel his cock throb in response.

"Please," you gasp, arching up, your hands gripping his shoulders. "I need—"

"Tell me," he commands, his fingers dipping below the fabric, tracing the outline of your cunt. You shudder, and he smirks.

"Tech," you breathe, and the sound of his name on your lips is intoxicating. He presses a kiss to your pulse point, and his fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance. You groan and roll your hips, and he can feel his cock stiffen, straining against his pants.

"Tell me," he repeats, his teeth grazing your skin.

"Tech," you whine, your hands reaching down, fumbling with his belt. "Fuck, please. I need you."

He smiles and pulls his hand away, leaving you trembling. You groan in frustration, but he ignores it. His fingers make quick work of his belt and his pants, and he strips them off, kicking the garments aside. Your hands immediately move to his briefs, pushing them down, freeing his cock. He sighs in relief as the pressure is released, and you reach down, your fingers curling around his length.

"Ah," he gasps, his hips thrusting involuntarily.

You smirk, a mischievous glint in your eye, and his hands find yours, pulling them away from his cock. He pins your wrists above your head, and you let out a soft whine.

"Tech," you complain, writhing beneath him.

"You're not the only one who can tease," he reminds you. He gathers both your wrists in one hand, and his other slides down, his fingers dancing across your ribs, along your stomach, to the band of your underwear. You squirm, and he presses a kiss to your forehead, a silent promise.

His fingers hook into the fabric and tug, and you lift your hips, helping him. The garment slides down, and he tosses it aside. He takes a moment to admire you, the sight of you spread out beneath him, your body flushed and wanting. His eyes drift to your core, and his breath catches in his throat.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "Absolutely perfect."

"Tech," you whisper, and there's a note of embarrassment in your voice. "Don't—"

Your breath hitches as his thumb finds your clit, and he smirks. You let out a frustrated groan, and he feels his ego swell.

"Do not tell me not to compliment you, Sarad," he says, his lips finding your ear. "Especially when you're like this. Especially when I'm the one who has done this."

"I know," you say, a soft moan escaping your throat. "It's just...embarrassing."

"It's true," he whispers. He presses a kiss to your neck, and his thumb makes lazy circles, his fingers drifting lower, teasing your entrance. "I can't help it."

"Tech, please," you gasp. "I don't want to talk. I just want—"

You break off with a cry as his finger pushes inside, and he lets out a low, satisfied hum. Your hips jerk up, and his hand tightens on your wrists. He can feel your pulse racing beneath his fingers, and the sight of you, the feeling of you, sends a rush of heat through his body.

"What was that?" he prompts, his tone low, teasing. He sets a slow pace, pumping his finger in and out, curling it slightly. You whine and arch into him, and he can't help but chuckle.

"You're a terrible tease," you grumble, breaking the kiss.

"I learned from the best," he replies. He slips another finger inside, and his palm rubs against your clit. Your hips buck up, and he increases his pace, fucking you faster, harder.

"Oh," you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut.

"Look at me," he commands, and you obey, forcing your eyes open. "I want to see you."

"Tech," you moan, your hands grasping at his shoulders. "I—"

Your words are cut off by a gasp as his fingers find that spot, and he knows he's found it when you start to shake. Your legs tremble, and your walls clench around him, and he can tell you're close. He's so caught up in watching the expressions play across your face, he doesn't realize how close until it's too late.

"Oh, fuck!"

Your orgasm takes him by surprise, and he freezes, his fingers still inside. He watches, transfixed, as you come undone, a series of gasps and moans escaping your throat. You're shaking, and your eyes are squeezed shut, and he can feel your pussy clenching around his fingers, a flood of warmth spilling out.

He pulls his hand away and presses a gentle kiss to your lips. When you finally stop trembling, he releases his hold on your wrists, and your hands immediately move to his chest, running across his skin.

"Oh, Tech," you whisper, a soft smile on your face.

"Good?"

"Very good," you agree. You push him onto his back and straddle his thighs, your hands tracing circles on his stomach. "Very, very good."

"Glad to hear it."

You hum softly, a contented sound, and lean forward, your lips finding his. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, savoring the sensation of your skin against his. It's been too long, and he's missed the simple pleasure of feeling you in his arms.

"I love you," he whispers, and his heart skips a beat. He hadn't expected the words to slip out, but he's not surprised. He's felt them for years, and they're always there, lingering in the back of his mind. And now that he's allowed to say them, that he's allowed to express them, it's as if they've become stuck in his throat, unable to be contained.

"And I love you," you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. You sit up, and the sight of you, perched above him, takes his breath away.

"Sarad," he starts, his voice catching. He clears his throat and tries again. "Are you—"

"Ready?" you finish. Your fingers trace the outline of his cock, and his breath hitches. "For you? Always."

"Always is an optimistic term," he quips, and you laugh, a low, husky sound.

"Always," you repeat. You reach down and wrap your fingers around his cock, stroking him gently. He bites back a moan, his hips thrusting involuntarily. "No matter what."

He doesn't respond. Instead, his hands find your waist, and his grip tightens, urging you forward. You comply, shifting closer, lining him up. He can feel the tip of his cock press against the warm, wet heat of your cunt, and his heart skips a beat.

When he finally enters you, the world stops. It's not the first time, but it's no less powerful, no less breathtaking. You sink down, taking him inch by inch, and the warmth, the tightness, the rightness of it all nearly overwhelms him. He's not sure how long it takes for him to fully enter you, but it feels like an eternity. And, when he finally bottoms out, the two of you moan in unison.

"Stars," he breathes as his fingers dig into your hips. "You're—"

"I know," you murmur, rolling your hips.

He lets out a strangled gasp, his hands gripping you tighter. His eyes lock onto yours, and the world narrows, everything fading away except for the two of you. This moment, this moment that has been building for so long. That has been haunting his dreams and fantasies. That has been his lifeline.

The two of you move as one, a familiar dance, the steps practiced over the years. But, this time, there is an urgency, a hunger, that wasn't there before. An intensity that's new and thrilling and terrifying all at once. He's not sure why, but he can feel it, can see it in your eyes. And, somehow, it makes everything better.

Because, when he's with you, he's whole. He's complete. And, for a brief moment, the galaxy is as it should be.

You lean forward and capture his lips in a searing kiss, and he responds, his tongue sliding against yours. Your hands move to his shoulders, and Tech sits up, pulling you flush against his chest. You moan, and his hands move down, cupping your ass, encouraging you to move.

You roll your hips, and his head falls back, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. You're hot and tight around him, and he can feel his control start to fray. He grits his teeth and fights the urge to come, wanting to draw out the pleasure for as long as possible.

"Tech," you breathe, your forehead resting against his.

"Yes?"

"I want—"

"What do you want?" he asks, his voice rough

"You," you murmur, a smile on your face. "All of you."

He doesn't need to ask what you mean. He already knows. He can read the question in your eyes, can feel it in the way your body moves against his. Tech nods, and you kiss him, hard.

He lets out a groan, and his hands grip you tighter as he feels a warmth spreading through him, starting at the base of his skull and radiating down. It's a strange feeling, but not unfamiliar. A distant memory, long forgotten. He closes his eyes and allows the sensation to take over, trusting you, knowing that you'll guide him

When the world comes back into focus, the two of you are joined in more ways than one.

Tech can feel you in every part of his mind, a soft, warm presence, pulsing and throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He can sense your thoughts, can feel your emotions, can see the images flickering through your mind. 

He's overwhelmed, and dizzy, and euphoric, and, for a brief moment, it's almost too much. He gasps, his heart racing, and he buries his face in your shoulder, trying to ground himself.

"Tech," you murmur, a note of concern in your voice.

"Good," he pants. His eyes lock onto yours, and his mouth quirks into a smile. "Very, very good."

You grin and press a kiss to his lips, and he can't help but laugh, the sound muffled against your mouth. The joy he feels is heightened, bent and reflected back at him, and he's not sure where the emotion ends and yours begins. It doesn't matter. Not really. Not when he's so wrapped up in you.

"You're thinking about this too much," you tease, nipping at his bottom lip.

"My apologies," he mutters. He tilts his head up and catches your mouth in a kiss. His hands squeeze your ass, and he gives a small thrust of his hips, earning a low groan from the back of your throat. "Better?"

"Much," you murmur, arching into him.

Tech smiles and deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. His fingers dig into your skin, and his hips rock forward, a shallow thrust. Your legs wrap around his waist, and he can feel you pull him closer, your body molding to his.

Your mind is still connected, and he can feel everything, every thought, every sensation, every emotion. He can see the images flickering through your mind, fragments of memory, fantasies, and desires. And he can't help but share the ones that play in his own mind.

The two of you move in sync, a steady rhythm that quickly grows frantic, the tension building between you. Tech can feel the pleasure, both his and yours, and the pressure starts to build, the coil of arousal in his gut threatening to snap.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, and his grip tightens, pulling you closer, desperate to feel every inch of your skin against his. The pace becomes frenzied, and your mind is filled with the sound of his name, a litany of praise and curses and sighs.

"Sarad," he groans, his fingers digging into your flesh.

"I know," you pant, your voice strained. "Tech, I—"

"Do it," he commands, his voice rough. His fingers find your clit, and he starts to rub, coaxing you higher. "I want to feel you."

"Stars, I love you," you gasp, and he can feel your pleasure, hot and sharp, echoing through his mind.

"And I love you," he murmurs. He presses a kiss to your temple, and the warmth in his chest spreads, filling every part of his body. "Now, come for me."

Your back arches, and your hips jerk forward, a choked cry escaping your lips. Tech can feel you fall apart, and he's quick to follow, his body tensing as his climax rushes through him. He bites his lip, a strangled moan slipping out, and his hands grip you tighter, the only thing anchoring him in the moment.

He can't tell how long it lasts. Can't tell where his pleasure ends and yours begins. It lasts forever and yet no time at all, and when the two of you finally come down, he's left shaking.

"Holy shit," you murmur, your voice breathless.

"I concur."

His eyes lock onto yours, and a wave of affection washes over him, the emotion amplified by the lingering effects of your connection. Tech leans forward and captures your lip in a gentle kiss, savoring the moment.

He holds you close, his arms wrapped around your waist, his head resting on your chest. You sigh, a contented sound, and the feeling is echoed in his own heart.

"That was..."

"Something else," he finishes. He smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. "You are...extraordinary."

"So are you," you say softly, and he can feel a wave of love and admiration wash over him. He closes his eyes and relaxes into the sensation, allowing it to fill him, to overwhelm him.

It's a strange feeling, being so close to someone. Knowing them so completely. But, despite the strangeness, it's not an unpleasant one. In fact, it's quite the opposite. It's exhilarating and exciting and, if he's honest, a little intoxicating.

And, for a brief moment, he wishes that it could always be like this. That the two of you could remain joined, minds and bodies and souls. That the two of you could always be so close, so connected.

Tech smiles and presses a kiss to your cheek, and the two of you sit there, wrapped in each other's arms, content to simply exist. The warmth between you is comfortable, comforting, and he can't help but wonder how he lived without it. How he survived so long without the simple pleasure of having you by his side.

After a few minutes, the spell is broken by the front door opening and closing and a chorus of voices.

"Tech?" Hunter calls from the kitchen. "You in here?"

"Shit," you mutter, pushing away as a pair of footsteps approach the bedroom. Tech's heart leaps into his throat, and his hands fly to your waist, keeping you from leaving the bed.

"Hunter," he calls, his voice strained. "Give us a minute."

There's a pause, and then the sound of a sigh.

"Yeah, I figured," Hunter grumbles, and the words are followed by a chorus of snickers.

Tech scowls and rolls his eyes, and you can't help but laugh. He glares at you, and you try to school your expression into a more neutral one, but he can see the amusement dancing in your eyes.

Hunter's footsteps fade, and the two of you sit up, the movement synchronized. You smile, and his lips twitch in response, a ghost of a grin.

"I suppose we should get dressed," you murmur, running your fingers through his hair.

"Unfortunately."

He leans forward and captures your lips in a soft kiss, and you respond, arching against him. Your hands grip his shoulders, and he pulls you closer, deepening the embrace. The feeling of connection lingers, a faint echo, and he finds himself drawn to you, like a magnet.

When you finally pull away, the two of you are breathing heavily, and the sounds from the kitchen are forgotten. Tech's hands move to your waist, and he kisses the corner of your mouth, his tongue flicking out, tasting the sweat on your skin.

"We should join the others," you mumble, though you don't sound particularly enthused by the idea.

"I suppose," he sighs.

Tech releases his hold, and you climb off him, a soft sigh escaping your lips. He watches as you gather your clothes, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. You look so beautiful, with your cheeks flushed and your lips swollen, and his hands itch to reach out and pull you back to him.

"There is a house for sale, on the edge of the village," he says as he moves to the edge of the bed, reaching for his pants. "It's secluded, and has a garden."

"Sounds nice," you say as you tug on your shirt.

"It is," he replies, his fingers fumbling with his belt. "It's small, and the roof is in need of repair, but I think we can make it work."

"We?"

He glances up, and the smile falls from his face. You're looking at him, an eyebrow raised, and his mind races, trying to decipher the meaning of your expression.

"Yes, we," he answers, a hint of hesitation in his voice. "Unless, you would prefer—"

"Oh, Tech," you say softly. You abandon the rest of your clothing and cross the room, throwing your arms around his neck. He stiffens, caught off guard by the sudden display of affection, but he quickly pulls you into his lap. Your lips find his, kissing him deeply, and he can't help but smile.

"Was that a yes?"

"Of course," you murmur. You pull back, and your hands move up to cup his face. "I'd love that."

"Good," he whispers, leaning into your touch. "Then it's settled. Once the house is ready, we'll move in. And then we can finally have some privacy."

"Privacy," you repeat. The corners of your mouth quirk upwards. "I like the sound of that."

"As do I," he says, his hands trailing down, gripping your hips. "Very much.”

You smile and lean forward, capturing his lips in a kiss. Tech relaxes into the embrace, relishing the feeling of your body against his. Of the warmth and comfort and love that flows between you.

When the two of you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he breathes, his eyes fluttering closed.

"You were you," you reply, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Kind, and sweet, and brilliant. And handsome, and charming...and sexy."

He chuckles, and his fingers squeeze your waist, pulling you closer. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For this," he says, his hands moving up, cupping your face. He looks into your eyes, his heart swelling. "For coming back. For loving me."

"Tech..."

"Thank you," he repeats, and the words come out as a whisper. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

You don't respond, not right away. Instead, you take his hand and press a kiss to his palm, a gentle, reassuring gesture. When you finally speak, the words are soft, and filled with promise.

"You'll never have to find out."

Taglist: @baddest-batchers @covert1ntrovert @stellarbit @bruh-myguy-what @qvnthesia

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@floofyroro @veralii @chubbyhedgehog @meshlajetii

[morsels-and-monstrosities]

"You poor thing..you're freezing." The predator slowly bent down, the leaves in the trees rustling as they shifted. They were the biggest giant you'd ever seen..their features shadowed by their hood. The moonlight behind them illuminated their outline and you could see a faint glow of purple from somewhere in the void that was their face. A ginormous clawed hand suddenly pressed against your back, jolting you from your terrified daze.

"Humans like you shouldn't be out here this late..you're far too fragile. If any other giant had found you, you'd be dead by now. Luckily I found you." There was an air of smugness in their tone as they wrapped their fingers around your torso, lifting you to their face. You could see them a bit better now that you were closer. They were pale, face covered in scars, and eyes glowing a gentle purple color. "Don't worry, I'll help you out of the woods." Their voice was quiet, but still confident. You could see a glimpse of sharp white teeth from behind their lips as they spoke, teeth easily big enough to cut you in half with one swift bite.

They gently tucked you against their chest, a claw rubbing against your back in an almost comforting way as they began to walk. "Humans like you aren't built to survive the snow like this..how did you get lost out here?" They looked down at you. Your mouth felt dry, you wanted to speak but no words could come out. You heard a quiet unintelligible grumble from the giant. "Can you speak? I need you to tell me where you live.." They shifted you so that you were pressed a bit lower towards their stomach. A loud growl thundered from the predator's core, making you sweat.

"Ah..sorry, small one. I didn't eat today." They said quietly, stopping their walk to look down at you. "I really do need to know how to get you back, I doubt you'd want to spend the night in my cave." They reasoned. You opened your mouth but you found yourself still unable. This was the scariest situation you'd ever been in, your brain completely blank as you tried to scramble for something to say. They didn't seem annoyed..but they didn't seem too pleased with your silence either. You'd hardly noticed that your trembling was worsening, but they sure did.

"Are you really still that cold? Poor thing..it's been so long since I've handled humans, I forgot how weak your bodies are to nature. I can't have you freezing! That wouldn't be very fun, now would it?" They shook their head and lifted you once again up to their face. "I have a way to keep you warm until you can tell me where you live, but I doubt you'd like it much." They gently brushed the hair from your face with a claw. You felt a pit form deep in your stomach..what did they mean? You figured that whatever it was couldn't be worse than being out like this.

"I'll be gentle, I promise. Just try not to struggle too much.." You felt a claw gently prod at your shoes. You looked down just in time to see them fall off and onto the forest floor below. The giant didn't seem to care, and you'd been so distracted staring at the ground you didn't realize you were now directly in front of their mouth. The moment you looked back up, you were greated with a flourish of warm air, their mouth opening up wide. It was dark..you could only see their first few teeth and a faint purple glow from down their throat. Your shaking worsened but they didn't hesitate, setting your shivering form down onto their tongue. You immediately tried to turn and jump from their mouth bit their teeth snapped shut with a near-deafening click.

You were pressed against the roof of their mouth without a moments hesitation, their tongue soaking you in saliva. Their mouth was overwhelmingly warm, a complete contrast to the world outside. They kept you pinned, gently licking you a few times, before allowing you to gather yourself, laying flat against their tongue. You felt something metallic against your leg, turning to try and see what it was. Your eyes had somewhat adjusted, and with the help of the glowing from their throat, you saw that it was a tongue piercing. You hadn't seen that before in your sheer panic.

The world around you began to shift and pull you backwards, causing you to panic. They were tilting their head back, you could only assume they were going to swallow you. You quickly twisted your body as fast as you could, tiny hands reaching to grab onto the ball of the piercing. You missed by just a hair, slipping backwards and closer to their throat. In just one gulp, you were completely swallowed, sliding down their throat on your way to what you assumed to be your final destination. Their throat squeezed around you- you could hear a powerful thud from deep inside of them. You assumed it was their heart beating, drowning out the sound of your own thumping in your ears.

You slid into their stomach, rather shocked to find the source of the glowing had been from here. It was the same color as their eyes, but a bit more dim. There was no liquid filling the space around you, and you breathed a sigh of relief knowing you weren't about to be digested. They began to walk once again, their stomach gently swaying with their pace. "Sorry about not warning you beforehand, your kind are so skittish, I knew you wouldn't have agreed if I gave you a heads up." Their voice was a bit muffled, but you could still hear them clearly enough.

You began to move, shifting so that you were leaning up against the stomach lining. Well..it was definitely a change compared to the cold outside. It was almost comforting, knowing that you were this safe, even if that safety was coming from a total stranger. "You tasted pleasant enough..the fear made you a bit bitter, but I'm not complaining." They told you, making you almost roll your eyes. They'd just scared the life out of you and they were complimenting you on your taste now? They were right though- they definitely weren't the worst giant that could've found you.

The more you sat there the more tired you found yourself. The gentle swaying combined with the warmth and the way you practically sunk into their stomach was too good to resist. You allowed yourself to close your eyes..you weren't going to sleep, no, you just needed to allow yourself to rest. That was the last thought you had before drifting off into the deepest sleep you'd had in awhile, surrounded by the warmth of the stranger.

[luminique]

wrio x you pt. 2 because the people (me too) asked for it

you’re the only exception of people who were in his past that he’d try reconnecting with. he swore to himself that he never would but the memory of you haunted him every day and night.

working in the fortress didn’t even make it easier. he’d reminisce the past during his daily checks, filled with fights, scratches and blood, but you were each other’s rock in this cold and dark prison. sleepless nights where he’d go over to your bunk, you’d both be talking and laughing about the future until other inmates woke up to give both of you a good beating.

a letter wouldn’t hurt. signed and sealed, ‘Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, Wriothesley’ with the wolf insignia on the wax seal. he read the letter multiple times until he got sick of it and threw it in the trash. any and every free time he had, it was spent to write the perfect letter to you.

he even consulted sigewinne, clorinde and neuvillette for more opinions. it was honestly humorous to see the Duke be this… frustrated over something as trivial as a letter. his trash basket was overflowing with crumpled up pieces of paper.

“wriothesley, this letter feels too formal.” was a comment by clorinde about his 10th attempt. “you should add more emotion!” sigewinne responded after reading his 27th attempt. “i am not too familiar with matters relating to human love however i do believe that you have not conveyed that in this letter,” said by neuvillette regarding his 59th attempt.

he lost count of how many letters he had written, how many ink bottles he had opened, how many seals he had stamped. it was eating at him, and now the heavy weight of whether you’d even feel the same way back was beginning to creep in.

the ink pooled on the paper. he had run out of ideas, his hand shaking from the fear of it being imperfect. he couldn’t handle it anymore and let his emotions take over him. every word he wrote that night came straight from his heart instead of his brain, putting aside his own formality and rules for you. it’d be another scrapped attempt anyway…

‘With all my love, Wriothesley’, signed off with no wax seal. he had read somewhere that colored wax was used by sculptors when they made mistakes. this letter was no mistake, his love for you was no mistake.

he used his connections, specifically neuvillette and the maison gardiennage, to find where you had decided to settle down. he originally intended to have it sent to you by courier, but here he was, standing in front of your front door. to have the Duke come all the way up to the surface and hand deliver you his letter, oh how smitten he was over you. a quick fix of his outfit, brushed off any dust and fixed his hair before he knocked on the door.

he could hear your footsteps as you scurried over to the door, your voice behind it.

“i didn’t order anything. why is there a-“

you were cut off by the sight in front of you. his charming smile and blue-grey eyes that captivated you the moment you became friends in the fortress. he straightened up his posture, clearly taken aback by how much you’ve changed but it seemed to go both ways.

“good morning, i believe we have some catching up to do.” he said before holding out the letter for you to take. the sun was still out, there was tea in the kitchen and you had time to spare. next thing you know, you were sitting next to each other on the sofa and chatting about each other’s new lives, times changed yet feelings stayed the same.

[canidbld]

Dear Wolf Therians...

(Aka, a domestic dog rambles about packs)

Content warnings: none

Word count: 2k

— Day 3 of Sol's Writing Challange

I want to start off this post by saying that I'm pretty confident I'm not a wolf therian. During my awakening, I automatically assumed a potential wolf theriotype (which seems to not be an uncommon experience) I actually tried to think and picture myself as a wolf, just to try out the identity but there was something that didn't feel right and it was sort of difficult to understand why. Maybe it was the large size of a wolf not matching with how I felt my canineness should look like, or maybe it was more of a personality/mental thing.

Either way, I kept trying to work it out in my brain and read the works and experiences of wolf therians. When wolf therians spoke about being a wolf, there was a lot of mention of feeling wild and untamed with an instinctual yearning to be free. They spoke commonly about how disconnected they felt from humans and that they were actually pretty wary of them and felt uncomfortable in humam focused environments, and that's when it clicked and why I was not a full wolf because I felt pretty comfortable with humans and I didn't feel this inner call for the wilds. I was actually pretty chill hanging out and around man-made settlements and cities (which were a wolf therians' worst nightmare, according to a few essays). Basically, I felt pretty domestic.

So then I just assumed I might have been a wolfdog. I went from thinking I could have been a high content wolfdog to a mid content to a low content, but even then, that didn't feel right. I read an article that discussed the differences in wolves and stray dogs that actually really illuminated my perspective on canines as a whole. Wolves were monogamous, primarily carnivorous, and apex predators and functioned under a family hierarchy. The stray dogs in the article were scavengers, eating what they could find on the outskirts of human settlements and didn't have to abide by strict seasons to have pups nor did they feel the need to form packs unless they thought it was necessary. All in all, dogs had a lot more variety in expression and were more loose on the "rules" of being a canine compared to wolves.

Eventually I just realized and came to terms that I was just a domestic German Shepherd (and a proud one at that!) with an emotional and aesthetic attachment to wolves that had no impact on my identity and how I identified no matter how cool I thought wolves and wolf therians were.

So, yeah, I'm pretty confident that I'm not a wolf therian.

But I loved reading about the experiences of wolf therians and what being a wolf meant to them and how they expressed that but I was mostly invested in how their wolfness interacted within themselves and other aspects of themselves. What was the culture of wolf therians? How did they describe wolfhood? What facets of themselves did they relate with other wolf therians?

The writings of wolf therians helped me create a foundation of how I understood caninehood so I could build up my own understanding using their experiences as a framework.

But one of the things I really was interested in is how a wolf therian felt about packs.

A wolf therian I follow (@words-of-wolf) wrote a piece about their experience with wolfhood (and how they felt it was different to the way other wolf therians talked about their wolfness), and it actually inspired this whole tangent about packs in general. One of my favorite quotes from the post was:

"But I will say that all of my deepest, most vivid, and most impactful memories... they're not of the hunt. They're not about territory or conflict or hunger. What I remember most richly is the love I felt for my pack. It's a feeling I can't quite find it in me to explain; sometimes I wonder if the reason I identify as loveless in this life, is simply because no love I've ever felt as a human could compare to what I felt as a wolf."

The feeling I got reading this was profund and sobering. I didn't relate to it on a deep level, but I was enamored by how they described what being in a pack really felt like and how the pack is what defined their wolfness and not so much being perceived or perceiving specific behaviors as violent.

I watched a documentary about a therian pack just recently actually and it carried a similar level of awe within me when I watched how close these therians were with others. They cuddled and played together, exhibited both dominant and submissive behaviors in a playful manner and had sleepovers and bonded with each other over a bonfire and it was nice to watch the way they loved being a pack together.

Wolves in the wild need packs. It's something that is so important to their survival and evolution and identity as a whole. They are social animals. The bond between wolves in a wolf pack is so solid and intertwinied with being a wolf that its pretty much what defines a wolf in pop media (for the most part) The wolf pack structure and culture also has been studied intensely for years. It's been observed and analyzed, hypothesized, and debunked.

What was thought to be the truth of how a wolf pack worked was actually revealed to be an inaccurate representation by the same man who created the now debunked alpha/beta/omega theory since the old study was done on captive wolves. Said man, named David Mech, corrected himself and said that wolf packs in the wild functioned very much as family units, with the father and mother at the head of the pack and then their first litter as their subordinates and their latest litter as the bottom of the pack. Makes sense. That's how families work mostly in human society.

But then what does this study say about wolf therians (and therians in general) and the way they feel about packs?

When reading about their experiences, some share this sentiment of feeling utterly alone. This loneliness was, for the most part, super intense, almost depressing sometimes when I read certain posts. Especially when the wolf therians I was reading about didn't seem to know any other therian in general, let alone a wolf one plus they had an almost instinctual aversion to humans. It was something I sympathized with. These were essays that read like lonely howls calling for non-existent pack mates in my head.

But those were specifically wolf therians who didn't have a pack, I did also read posts and essays of wolf therians who were and have been in packs (in their current lives) before, relaying their experiences that ranged from enjoyment and curiosity to horror and abuse mostly, from what I've read, due to these packs adopting the alpha/beta/omega model and trying to mimic this with other therians. Now there has been tons of discussion on how the alpha/omega model in packs leads often to power abuse and there has been valid criticism against the use of it in therian packs but there's also been equal amounts of therians who actually like the alpha system implemented in their own packs due to the euphoria it gives them as a wolf.

Keep in mind, the study that first introduced the alpha theory about wolf packs, while inaccurate to wolves in the wild, was still something captive wolves (essentially strangers) exhibited and I think that's important to note. I remember reading (or maybe watched a video) that mentioned how human society naturally has a hierarchical structure bringing up examples like work environments (bosses, managers, employers) and even schools (teachers, principals, students) and so packs that use the alpha model weren't necessarily a bad thing and actually made sense under these contexts.

I think the problem was because some of these therian packs were created haphazardly and were open to therians who were mostly strangers to each other and the alpha model didn't really give the neccesery room for these packs to bond with each other that much, something that had also been pointed out by other therians. Their solution was to be more picky on who you make a pack with. They said that packs should ideally be created with close friends and loved ones or even family.

It was interesting to read the different pack experiences, especially from a domestic dog point of view. Just as a canine, I also do sympathize with pack culture in general and while some domestic dogs don't really have a connection to the pack concept as much as wolves (save for specific breeds like the husky), I still think a lot about packs and how I'd function in one when I realized that I have been apart of packs, that I am currently in two packs; one with my boyfriend and one with my blood family.

And I do actually see them as my packmates, especially my boyfriend. I feel a loyalty to him and my family, I feel the need to defend them, protect them, and support them, not from a human perspective but entirely as a canine. My family pack can be dysfunctional sometimes, but my dogged loyalty means I'll always be there to support them despite the dominance problems. And it's funny to think about how I was "technically" born into a family unit and then when I grew older, I dispersed and found a mate to make my own pack with just like wolves do in the wild.

Therian packs, I feel like, have been a staple in the therian community probably since the first howl (not fact checked) due to how much the community traditionally has had such a heavy canine/wolf lean and focus (which is something modern therianthropy is improving on by being more inclusive to a variety of species) but I wish there were more resources that talk about packs and pack safety and what others thought of them, what their dream pack is and if they would abide by a heirachy or if they'd go off vibes or if they wanted a big pack that was friendly or something smaller thats a little more exclusive. What type of beings would they want in the pack? What type of behaviors would they exhibit in a pack? What name would your pack have? Would you consider your family or friends as a pack even if they're not therians themselves?

I wish even more for resources and essays about packs that aren't just canine centered like herds and flocks. How would therians run one? Would they be a leader or something more passive?

I know that this sort of veers on the edges of roleplay just a little but it geniuenly is a fun mental exercise for me. I like thinking about these questions because it does make me feel like a canine.

For me, I'm already pretty much living with my ideal pack with my boyfriend, even if it's just the two of us (plus our cats), which is what I prefer. I like how small and exclusive it is, and there's not really problems with dominance, considering we feel both pretty equal in terms of power in our pack. There's no name yet. It's just pure vibes right now, but that's okay, i feel loved and protected in this pack, and I love and protect my pack back. I have so much time to consider what a pack means to me as a dog.

And while I may not feel this deep connection to pack culture the way a wolf therian would, I still hold a similar essence of loyalty and love towards those who I cherish as a canine.

My fascination with pack society and culture is probably something I got from my German Shepherd theriotype. The concept of loyalty, protection, love, and family definitely appeals to it. Regardless, I just love reading and learning about it from academic studies to introspective essays, really, just all kinds of records that talk about packs. It truly feels like I'm searching for a meaning here and even writing this entire post barely scrapes the surface of what I truly want to say about packs, mostly due to me getting tired and my lack of vocabulary and ability to explain things better.

Just think packs are cool and see wolf therians as cool older siblings.

Kind regards,

Sol, a German Shepherd.

@/words-of-wolfs post about wolfhood

The study of the differences between wolves and dogs

[kelocitta]

In honor of the @rw-ship-showdown I wanted to write about Artihunter as someone who jokingly slapped them together pre-downpour and still thinks they are actually very compelling. Just not in the super soft love wins kinda way (Although I get why people like that more) And the only way I know how to do that is talking too much so heres a far too long slug essay-

Obviously the slugcats don't offer a ton of characterization but theres not nothing to work with. Their stories, whether by their roles in it or the overarching themes do provide a backbone to work with. Even gameplay itself can provide a bit. (for some more than others) Hunter, to me, is ultimately a story about selflessness. The goal is to revive Moon, which is very much an act of kindness from both Hunter and NSH. But the weight of that action is much more significant for Hunter- Hunter is deeply sick. They're on the clock, and for all their skill in combat none of that will ultimately help them to survive longer than their body can hold out. Moon is a close friend of NSH but that means little Hunter- Hunter really gets next to nothing out of helping them, and ultimately pays quiet a bit spending their limited time alive fighting to deliver that neuron so that someone else can live.

To spend ones limited days on helping another, in a game that very much stresses the unwavering cruelty of the world and nature- is pretty notable. (And you could even say that Hunter being the Hardmode of Rain World adds another layer to this)

And then we have Artificer. A storyline that very much stands out to people as more… villainous (so to speak) than the other slugcats. Artificer's story covers a lot of things. Trauma, violence, revenge, etc. Revenge is a bit of a selfish desire- That need to see someone hurt as they have hurt you. A punishment that ultimately does not fix whatever harm was done- but feels good to see because you were hurt and now those responsible share that pain.

Artificer's actions are founded in that need for revenge, their pups killed for overstepping boundaries they didn't know existed. Is it not fair for them to be angry at that, to punish the scavengers for their violence with their own? Why should the scavengers ever be forgiven when they and their pups were not? And that's how you get that loop- Harm for harm over and over.

The original action has been lost in a spiral of violence for violence. And here stands Artificer- their very spirit scarred. Not just because they sought revenge, but because they never ceased trying to scratch that itch for violence as an answer. Artificer only has two paths for their story- killing the scavenger king (Someone who, really, has little to do with the original 'crime' of the scavengers, but represents an important individual to them- as did the slugpups to Artificer), locking themselves as karma one for good and spending the rest of their life chasing creatures that no longer even fight back in a warped sense of closure- or to dissolve themselves in the acids of the void sea because they're too far gone to find any real peace.

They can't meaningfully recover from that state, not alone, twisting in on themselves. Even if they halt their actions, they've been using violence as a feeble defense against their own pain- violence that no longer has any real direction or basis. Artificer gets no real closure from killing the scavenger king. All they can do is continue the cycle, or try to scrub it away. No real peace in a prison of their own making. So you have a creature, who even with a strict timer on their life- a body that will crumble to disease, spends its last bit of time on saving another. And another who was so caught up in the pain of loss that were eaten alive by their own anger, poisoned their own soul on such a deep level even self-proclaimed gods have no solution for them. What peace can they offer each other? For Hunter, its only a fleeting moment of happiness- of selfish love, before their own body fails them. A bit of indulgence in something for themself. For Artificer, its a single, comforting thread to ground them again, something tangible to protect and care about again. But thats a thread that will ultimately be snapped under the cruel indifference of the world. Hunters timer will tick down regardless of if it takes another with it. Its a tragedy- its doomed to end badly. Whatever good it offers to either of them to find each other will only provide the fleeting comfort of a band-aid that will be ripped away too early. But all that can be worth indulging in anyway, if only for the moment. It doesn't change the ending, but the ending was never going to be happy. Its can so yuri

[littleplantfreak]

'When', not 'if'

("I'm not a romantic" I cry and scream before dropping the most sickening thing i've written to date. Blame @stunie because i did tell her i would write the most ume thing ever and maybe this is it. The title in my docs for it is 'Fucking disgusting' but i figured i better not title it that here because I'd be seeing it in my notifs lmaoo)

SFW/no cw unless you hate fluff

When you wake up from your nap, one of your slippers is gone, and there's a blanket on you that wasn't there prior. Looking at the clock, it's been about an hour since everyone had left your apartment once your birthday party ended. The day as a whole had been chaotic, your boyfriend shoving you out the door with a note to go see Kotoha.

The note took you farther than that, though, as it seemed Umemiya created a whole scavenger hunt for your birthday that had you running into all of your friends, having dessert at your favorite cafe, and eventually ending up at your shared apartment to find that all that time spent around town was a distraction so that he could set up the space for your party. After it had ended, you were banished to the couch because princesses aren't allowed to help clean up their own birthday parties, which had you huffing and falling face down into the chicken shaped pillow affectionately called Mr.Clucky.

It was a product of your boyfriend's endless cycle of hobbies when he took up sewing. A little lopsided and overfilled with stuffing, you complained to and into Mr.Clucky with your face pressed into him. Apparently, he was soft enough to fall asleep on because before you knew it, you had been drooling on him the entire hour. Prying yourself off the couch took more effort than was almost worth it before your eyes fell on the reason you were so tired to begin with.

Hajime smiles and hums looking at your bleary eyes. "Good morning sunshine, I was just about to take you to bed," he says, folding a dish towel over a chair. You toss off the blanket and grab on the slipper that fell under the living room table before padding up to him. Dipping your hands under both of his arms to lock them together behind him, now your face is in his chest instead of the chicken, which is entirely preferred.

"Don't wanna go to bed just yet," you muffle, sinking even deeper into him when both of his arms wrap around you in support. He smells like dish soap and birthday cake, and you turn your head to hear the heartbeat in his chest.

"What do you wanna do lovey? You know I'd give you the world if you asked," you can hear the rumble of his voice in his chest with your pressed ear. He's cheesy, but half asleep, you feel just as much, if not cheesier.

"I have the world if I have you, they're one in the same. So just you is more than fine." Your eyes are closed, but you feel him shiver a little. "I wanna dance with you, though," you say, voice still soft and kinda raspy from sleep.

"Dunno if I can top what you just said even when I propose," he chokes out a laugh, or at least you think it's one. He shifts his hold a bit and starts leading you both in a lazy sway that starts near the toaster and ends next to the potted plant at the back door before starting over.

"When? Not if?" You tease him, a hand going to scratch the nape of his neck lightly.

"I'll never meet another you, so I'm pretty set on When."

"I'll say yes." Because you will. You can't imagine a life where you wouldn't.

"And I'll still cry when you do." You can tell he's crying now because it comes out shaky and his hold tightens a bit, before you lean back, stopping your impromptu waltz. Both of your hands come up to cup his face and look at his teary grey eyes before cooing at him.

"You big baby! Save those tears for When please. You'll be congested and sniffley all night if you don't stop." You start cleaning off his face with your sleeve, but he stops one of your hands and starts peppering your palm and wrist with small kisses. "I think I'm ready for bed now. Princess's orders," you say, dragging him towards your bedroom. You'll have to figure out tomorrow just how soon When is going to be, but for now you can hear the slow thumps of Hajime's steps as he follows behind you, squeezing your connected hand. It's not pressing in the least, you think, because it feels like there will be plenty of tomorrows too.

-----

When you wake up in the morning, it takes you an hour to realize Hajime had put the ring on your finger while you were asleep.

It takes you five minutes to run through town in your pajamas, barefoot to find and full on tackle him in front of the place he was about to get your breakfast in.

And it takes about two minutes of unintelligible blubbering on both your parts before anyone understands what is going on.

No one timed it, but if they did, it would've taken less than ten minutes for the whole town to find out via texts, calls, and yells down the streets and through windows that you're engaged.

[hoshiina]

pairing: ichikawa reno x gn!reaader

request: hii i love your writing so much abshshsaj you’re a blessing to the fandom<33 can I ask for jealous reno ichikawa?? I feel like he‘d try not to let it show, and get super frustrated as time goes on

notes: reader is v slightly oblivious at the start (?), TY FOR THE REQ its been so long omg im sorry esp considering its rather short, still hope u enjoyed !!

wc: 900

Surely, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Surely, he was just a little irritated today. Surely, he wasn't letting his feelings get the best of him.

Okay, but to be fair, it wasn't even his fault. The fact that you seemed to be close to Haruichi would worry anyone if you think about it. Sweet guy. Smart. Rich as hell. Good looking.

He'd sigh and relax his subconsciously furrowed eyebrows.

It was okay. He trusted your feelings for him. A little Haruichi here and there he'd just have to ignore. He was also too old to be getting jealous. He really wasn't, but that was what he told himself. He'd tell himself that it was just in his head.

However, every time Haruichi went up to talk to you and every time you laughed at something he said the voice in his head got louder and louder. The voice that repeats his worries over and over again as if he hadn’t already thought of all that. It was getting a little harder to tell himself it was just his head.

He'd take a deep breath. In and out. It wasn't bothering him. He was sure it wasn't.

A few days had passed and his next move surprised him most. You were just chatting away with Haruichi while you waited for him by his room one morning so you could head to breakfast together. You were probably just talking about the latest episode of a show you enjoyed, but seeing you with Haruichi first thing in the morning jarred him a little more than expected.

So without a word, he took your hand and pulled you towards him.

“Reno?” you asked, slightly surprised by the sudden action, but you didn't pay much mind to it. “Morning, let's go get breakfast!”

Immediately, he snapped out of it. He let go of your hand and his eyes met yours. You could see the slight dread in his eyes. “I'm so sorry—” he started to say.

“Why?” you asked, a little clueless about the situation. You took his hand this time and you started to walk towards the cafeteria. “I wonder what they have for us today.” Reno didn't have it in him to look Haruichi’s way.

Haruichi’s eyes widened, then he smiled a little. Should've been a little more careful.

It turns out even Reno can get a little jealous from time to time.

However, Reno was letting this get to him. He was nothing short of shocked that he'd act to rashly— as if to take you away. Keep you to himself.

Okay, perhaps he was jealous. Quite jealous in fact. He'd have to accept that. So, what now? What does he do now? He was rather ashamed that he was letting his emotions get the best of him, but he didn't know what to do to stop them— because somewhere deep inside he sincerely wondered if Haruichi was more deserved of your love.

“Reno, are you alright?” you asked. “You look exhausted…”

Without thinking he looked up at you, and the genuine concern in your eyes melted his heart. Perhaps he was overthinking the wrong things. Perhaps it wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

“I’m jealous,” he said to you, avoiding eye contact.

“Jealous? Of who?” you asked.

“Haruichi.”

“Izumo?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you two seem so close.”

“Me?” you asked, finally connecting the dots. Absolutely shocked. It didn’t even occur to you that Reno was one to get jealous, nor had you ever found Haruichi the least bit attractive to piece together how he'd feel. “I'm sorry I didn't realize!”

He shook his head. There was nothing for you to be sorry about.

“Sorry. I do know that Haruichi’s probably a better guy for you,” he started to say and immediately you frowned.

“Reno, why do you think I'm dating you?” you asked.

“No, I don’t mean to doubt you,” he started to say, but nothing seemed to come out right. “Sorry.”

“You think I’m dating you because you asked me out, don’t you?” you asked and his eyes widened. You were probably right. That was most likely the issue. “Reno I like you. Not anyone else. I’m dating you because I’m in love with you. Izumo doesn’t even see me like that for starters, but he could pull up with a million roses one day and I’d still prefer a spare piece of gum you’d give me, Reno.”

You were probably just exaggerating, but that meant the world to him.

“Thank you,” he said, expression soft. “I promise I’ll treasure you.”

That flustered you, but you couldn’t help but grin.

“But this was rather a surprise,” you said. “I didn’t think you were one to get jealous… flustered me a little.”

“I didn’t think I would either,” he said, embarrassed. Or maybe still ashamed.

“No, no,” you said. “It actually made me so happy.”

“Really…”

“Yes. You should just take me away one day.”

He flushed red. He’d remember those words for the years to come and take you away— just as requested.

[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

Once I was scrolling thru naruto fics and saw the tag "buisnessman!Kakashi" and all I could think about was Kakashi being a child businessman, owning all the konoha adults at doing business while wearing an oversized suit and tie. That idea is so fucking funny to me.

[mad-c1oud]

thinking about the Charlie's birthday stream. not the ending, no, we think about that too much. no I think about everything else:

the happiness, the joy, the warmth of it all for nearly two full hours

the lack of mob spawns that night because it’s Charlie's birthday and he has eggs with him. how intentional it is. how funny it is and how sad it makes me because its so considerate

thinking about Tallulah by Charlie's side the whole time, diligently leading him from item to item as his little "guardian angel". Charlie trying to be a good tio and falling a little short sometimes, accidentally leaving Tallulah behind when she crashes but still trying cause that’s his sobrina. how she has to actually hit him to get his attention and how bad she must feel but it's so fucking funny each time

(how can anyone blame him when he never gets to hang out with the eggs enough to know he should wait for her? Charlie had Juanaflippa for what- 10 days? and was practically shunned by several others and himself from interacting with other eggs after his action, which is understandable, but only for so long. can they not see how he plays with the eggs? hear how soft his voice gets around them? don't the other islanders understand?)

this is maybe the longest he's gotten to hang out with tallulah since he got his backpack. Wilbur is his best friend and this was the egg he left behind. He's still learning and Tallulah still loves him despite it. Two people missing someone dearly, yet they have each other even if it's hard to realize

thinking about "Maybe Tallulah, you were the gift. I think you're the gift, Tallulah."

thinking about Richas, his nephew because Charlie has Mike, an actual brother that is equally excited to see him time and time again. A nephew coming around with the slime head and slime balls, like a mini Charlie, who is decked out in a full ghillie suit. Charlie who plays with the egg, pretending to be a spooky monster and richas playing along and getting scared

thinking about Charlie not knowing how to use the ghillie suit properly so he's still clearly visible to the eggs, yet they act like he isn't for his sake. shepherding him around from place to place because charlie is a little clueless yeah (he's in exile, go easy on him), but they are patient and happy to "tag along" and let him lead

thinking about them all taking a picture with him in the school, charlie wanting one with both of them, something to remember the day by.

thinking about how charlie is clearly loved by the eggs, his huevos, and how he clearly loves them back and is trying to be better for them even if he struggles so much

thinking about Charlie Slimecicle on his birthday, for once happy after everything he's been through, Tallulah and Richarlyson by his side

just him, his sobrina, and his nephew on a little scavenger hunt under the stars while the rest of the server remains quiet and calm. asleep while they remain lively

just them

happy