#it can reorient those moments

[fukashiin]

attractive things they do #2 !

— w. housewardens

⤷ "yuutapdatass tweeted: malleus pls stop dming me to rub our feet together as a nightly custom"

cw: hinted suggestive content for malleus, vil and leona. passive reader! enjoy ♡

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

shushing others so you can focus.

pens and textbooks alike cluster along your designated study table, accompanied by the riddle rosehearts as his knee brushes against yours wordlessly. he's utilising this free period, toiling out and about to aid you in your, regretfully, pointless revision. finals season starts to get rigid around this time, so he's more than content to lend a hand if you're willing to put in the effort. except—the students abounded at the table diagonal to yours start getting chattier than what's socially allowed in the library, so riddle calls them out without a pain. one "they're trying to focus." and their mouths are zipped. he turns back to you, unperturbed, and smiles. "shall we continue?"

SO patient with you it makes you cry.

riddle may be a bomb of ire waiting to burst at any given moment, but you believe that his patience shouldn't go uncredited. a tireless awardee, a distinguished laureate, going sleepy in your eyes, although he's wrestling to win over the urge just so you can get the hand of the concept he's cramming into your head last-minute. the scent of white petunias could really alleviate his fatigue, and you make a promise to bring over a few of those in favour for his devoutness to your study sessions. for the time being, he'll make sure you pass, for him, and for yourself.

vows that he'll outdo your stupid ex in every way.

whatever your ex did wrong, riddle will do better. that's just in his nature. he swears with each and every fibre of his body, nuzzling his head in the dip of your shoulder, that he'll love you in ways that your morose ex never bothered to think about. a muttered pledge that couldn't compare to the pious burn that lit in his eyes, like a withstanding candle refusing to go out. his confessions are firm, where he'll be the betterment that you wished for on an astral night, so please, don't put him in your doubt.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

pressing you against the nearest wall he spots to kiss you.

there are numerous attributes to this man that renders you hopelessly drunk in love. one of them is his maddening habit of pressing you flushed against the nearest surface in his sight, and the most poorly lit areas when you're in stranded in a public space to guise the both of you. he executes this with the softest hint of care, ensuring that the landing wasn't too harsh, and advancing when given the green light. wispy strands of hair stroke your skin like a feather, as fine lips come crashing down to yours in a heartbeat, in paradise. he gives you a sheer once-over, bringing up the following statement: "grab onto my vest if you need to."

breathes the confidence into you.

downgrading oneself may be in his dictionary, but it won't appear in yours. he'll clasp any opportunity to brandish his infamous eye-roll to those whose comments about you stray a bit too loud. you may be a bit thrown off by the audacity and aimlessly think about the ways of which you could live up to his—your standards. you take a bit to reorient yourself when you hear your name being called out, sluggish hands circling your waist, as you're unable to finish your thought about how beautiful he is until he asks whether you're actually sparing a single thought for those nobodies. he casually states that you're leagues better than them, whether you think so or not, and won't mind giving you a physical demonstration if you can't bring yourself to accept it yet, because he knows it.

just knows what you want without you having to tell him.

eyeing an accoutrement that could accent your main outfit? longing for a new stand-alone book after the last one you buried yourself in was a letdown? leona has the prices covered. despite your incessant denial, that you don't actually need those, he tells you that a little spending wouldn't hurt. he doesn't need verbal expression to know what'll satisfy you, the flit of your gaze is the only opening he requires. you're embarrassed by how easily you're read, but the hearty smile that blooms on your face will be all the excuses leona needs to keep spoiling you.

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

drapes his coat over your legs if you're cold.

sometimes, you swear that he has the whole "affection capability" of a wooden plank. his actions aren't entirely faultless, nor was there not a single second of err in the delivery of his speeches, but he does haul around that handy coat solely for moments like these. perched wordlessly on top of mostro lounge's signature high stools, azul rebukes your rash behaviour after spurting out in the rain without an umbrella, clothes weatherworn and all—not to mention the lounge's benevolent addition of its AC. the chills rack your body from head to toe, not noticing that a fuzzy warmth starts to blanket your legs, as azul pats it down creaseless. he says that you can pay him in return at a later date, your declining health is his utmost priority at the moment.

sets you straight when you need it.

his prized coin collection seems to blur boorishly, bleeding into the soft jazz playing in the back. the thirsting need to word-vomit all over the place, thanks to the hours of ennui you've been experiencing ever since you've trudged yourself back to azul's room, threatens to tip over the edge. he notes your irresolute responses to his (nearly) bombarding questions while he's planted over at his desk, and takes the initiative to make you open up to him. he wants you to look at him, commit his words to memory, as he caresses your shoulder under the twinkling lavender glow of his night lamp with a sure look in his eyes, guaranteeing that you're going to do fine.

has a secret album dedicated to pictures of you in his gallery.

azul tries to get accustomed to the revolutionising tricks of technology just for you. fine, if he has to pass through every single hyperlink and learn unfamiliar terms, that's on him. other than owning a booming magicam account promoting #mostrolounge, he saves a single, peculiar file in his gallery that hoards all the pictures he's taken of you when you're together, on a date or not. he can't tell if your lovely visage is the sole cause to the rapid change of pace in his heart when he's dealing with a mounting workload, but if you ever drag yourself down after taking a quick glance at them, he'll bring you right back up.

KALIM-AL-ASIM

clears the hair out of your face when its windy.

you may be a tad bit hesitant to ride the magic carpet every once in a while, but kalim's sparkling serendipity puts your heart at ease. he takes you for a midnight rendezvous, golden embroidery flashing and sheening at every twist and turn you direct with the tassels with aplomb—as he compliments. his headpieces jangle merrily like a thousand bells in the breeze, up until he notices your sight being blocked by the troublesome hair whirling all over the place. chuckle as he may, he shifts it to the side of your face with a deft hand, tracing the last strands down to your chin. "there. seeing better now?"

interlaces your hand with his in your sleep. (the physical touch GOAT)

wrinkled bedsheets rustle under the weight of your movements, coarse, and even a bit sullen as the morning ooze of sunlight drenches through your curtains, as if it prohibits you to sleep in the entire day. kalim's newfound ailment forces the two of you to be separated indefinitely, so colour yourself surprised when you feel the taut clutch of your hand in another, holding onto the remaining pieces of you that he needily ached for all night. sun-kissed fingers wove between yours like silken ribbons, his eyes pleading for you to stay, as a minute—a moment without you in his world—would be infallible torture.

purchases a piece of the moon for you.

you know those moneyed, wealthy fans who purchase a piece of the moon for their favourite idol? kalim gets influenced, and is driven by his conviction that you deserve something more extravagant than rowdy parades or a hallowed mansion (regardless of how many he wishes to buy). he takes it upon himself to surf across Lunar Registry, registering your full name and gifting its stated amount for approximately...5000 sq ft of land of the celestial body that hung high in the sky, radiating its extraterrestrial luminance on your nights of sobriety. you chide him for such an impulsive act in return, but soften up when he states, upright, that he would gift you all the stars in space if he could.

VIL SCHOENHEIT

brings you to touch him himself.

no use if you're cowardly in the bold language of physical touch, vil will simply make you oblige into feeling him, whether its physically or through minds. oftentimes you find yourself hastily straddled on his lap, him decked in his satin-sewn pajamas, as you prod and poke his hands nervously while scrutinizing every area of skin that screamed of his unyielding years of care. there's a teasing lilt that lurks behind his voice, questioning if you're seriously taking your time trying to figure him out where you're aware that he's less than patient. he seizes your hand in his grip, and leads them to his chest—shamelessly. if he needs to remind you of who you're with every day, he'll be more than committed to reel you closer to his body.

demands full eye contact.

tsking and huffing is, an unsurprisingly normal habit for him to adapt. and this includes moments of when you're shying away from him, heaving under your tense breath about how unfairly attractive he is. slick in his latest outfit tailored specifically according to his calibrated measurements. high stilettos bests your height, and he almost seems disappointed in the lack of praise he's receiving (although he knows exactly why). you feel a manicured finger tilt your chin upwards, as your teetering praises come to an abrupt halt. he smiles, demanding you to look him in the eyes throughout every second you're worshipping him.

tells you to ready yourself before he showers you in his love.

vil wants you to experience each and every slide of his nails against your feverish skin, whispering pure promises and cherishing you, affirming that you're worth much more to him than a million grand. if you ever throw yourself below the bar lower than necessary, he waves your deplorable behaviour away, and asks if you truly believe that you're tumbling down that route of thinking when you're with him. vying arms enclose your figure like a velvet blanket, surrendering your chapped lips a centimetre away from his, as his refined scent tickles your nose until he advises you to prepare yourself to revel in his untiring devotion. all your worthwhile priorities were put on hold until further notice.

IDIA SHROUD

leaning back in his chair after finishing a game.

you arose from your sleep, previously dozing off while perusing written tales of the past propped up on idia's bed. the culprit of your awakening is off cheering in the same vicinity after speed running a round and emerging victorious, unmanned, of the latest version of a first-person shooter game he recently installed on his computer. he starts to recline in his chair as it creaks off his weight, arms slackened behind his head and his sweater gliding off of his stomach, exposing the barest bit of delicate skin that indulges you to run your hands across. he emits the heaviest of sighs while he runs a sore hand through his hair, as the disorientation of your mind starts to scatter all over the place.

"i thought it'd cost more."

Idia Shroud will not have you get scammed by lowly, needling scammers surfacing online websites like newborn piranhas. his head begins to split when you spout about the official item being too pricey and that you won't be able to milk a single penny out of your derelict dorm, so he insists that he pays for the item for you himself. you send him a link of the mentioned item, and he felt like he was dragging himself through wet cement throughout the whole mire. he remains indifferent to the price overall, and goes "oh? i thought it'd cost more." with a brazen smirk etched on his face that it almost gave you a whiplash.

discreetly orders things to your front door.

quivering lips settle atop of your shoulder for the last time before he sends you back from his room after the intimate amour that had you two wondrously occupied for the entire day. you pilfer a single gummy worm from his desk, and cloak yourself further into his jacket that intoxicates every one of your senses as you streel into the night air that reeked of petrichor. your steps begin to feel like bricks, whilst your eyes were betraying your wish to stay alert. as you approach the front door welcoming you to your dorm, you gauge the sight of a small box placed on the carpet with a small note plastered on it that follows the lines of "for you, pretty thing."

MALLEUS DRACONIA

cushioning your head with his hand.

bony fingers sail through the pleasance of your hair, twirling each and every tendril that it meets and bringing them to his defined, pillowy lips. amusement cracks through the ominosity that sits in his eyes, shielded by his bangs as he beams a smile your way before grasping your shoulders in a split second. he pushes you down onto the mattress with a thud, cushioning your head with a single hand, and tells you to save your yelps and complaints before he endows you with the ability to sing for him all night. he reassures you that he does in fact, know how to secure the deadbolt on the door.

doesn't bother with any potential contenders whatsoever.

malleus but it's "okay, and?" personified. yes, he's heard of the towering sovereign in the neighbouring country who was recently appointed. yes, he's heard of the lucrative salesman nearby situated in town whose attention you captured after visiting his booth. yes, he's heard of Leona Kingscholar. but he could not give Two (2) flying tamagotchis about whoever has been swaying your way, tossing cheap and low-grade courtship in an attempt to earn your affection. he notes that he does have some cheesy pick-up lines of his own to use, but unlike the others, he knows you inside and out. he has no use for the mainstream ways of love and is eager to please you to his own liking, further revealing the unparalleled reverence he maintains for you and only you.

brushes his fingers over your collarbone.

once you step across the threshold of his bathroom, adorned in his nightwear, malleus can't help but dim the lights with the flick of his finger after catching the sight of your collarbone that peaks out from underneath. he's in front of you the moment you blink, and hums in response to your addled self. he brings his ice-tipped fingers to your neck, padding it with caution, and sliding them down to the V-shaped collar that hides the rest of your warmth. stark fingers ghost over the structure of your collarbone, and malleus asks whether you think the gibbous moon will be kind enough as to not set so early.

[nereidprinc3ss]

light of the morning

in which spencer sneaks into bau!reader's hotel room and they share a little more than just the bed

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: softdom!spence x sub reader, munch!spence, unprotected piv sex (dont do that), creampie (hate that word btw) praise, mentions of having to be quiet because morgan is right next door LOL, fluffy, established co-workers/friends with benefits, soooo idiots in love a/n: here is the promised smut. i am literally kicking my feet and twirling my hair and giggling and blushing at my own writing. I'm gonna have a freak out. requests are open like my legs

It’s late when the knock finally comes. Late enough that you’re dozing on the bed above the covers. 

It takes you a moment to reorient yourself—you’re rubbing your heavy eyes when you finally get the door. 

"Hi."

"Hey," says Spencer, hands awkwardly shoved into his pajama pants pockets. It’s funny, really. He never gets any better at this. 

You step aside and he enters the room, looking around as you close and relock the door. 

"Did I wake you?"

"How could you tell?"

"You’re in pajamas. And you look tired. I mean—you don’t look bad. You never look bad, I just meant… you don’t look tired but you’re not—I didn’t mean to—"

"Relax," you yawn, putting him out of his misery. "I was joking. I know I look tired." You glance at the digital clock on the nightstand. "It’s late. We have to be up early tomorrow."

"Yeah, I got, uh, sidetracked. Sorry."

He was reading. If it was anyone else, you'd be offended--but a sinkhole could open up under Spencer's feet and he probably wouldn't notice if he was absorbed in a book.

You shrug, a knowing smile lifting the corner of your mouth. 

"It’s fine. But I don’t know if tonight is a good night. I really am exhausted."

His eyebrows dart up. 

"That’s fine. That’s totally fine. I’ll just, uh—"

When you don’t move from in front of the door, he pauses, unsure. You bite the inside of your cheek, studying his rangy frame and choice of clothing. Blue pajama pants, slippers, grey CalTech zip up hoodie. It feels wrong to describe a 6'1 man as adorable, but that’s how he looks in his sleep clothes. There’s a very real chance, you find yourself thinking, that you are the only member of the BAU to ever see him in something other than slacks and a button-down. He looks so cozy that you kind of really want him in your bed even if he’s not doing anything but sleeping. The invitation slips out before you can think too hard about it. 

"You could… stay, anyway, if you want?"

His mouth parts slightly, and those eyebrows raise again. There’s a moment of awkward silence and you are very much beginning to regret your offer, wondering if you somehow violated the sanctity of your co-workers/friends with benefits situtationship. Clumsily you try to backtrack. 

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, you can—"

"No, no! You didn’t, I just don’t want you to feel obligated to invite me to stay in your room. I’m right across the hall, I can go back if you want me to."

You smile awkwardly, silent relief replacing the brief anxiety. 

"It’s fine. It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before." And not like you wouldn’t have ended up doing it tonight anyway, if things had gone as originally intended.

He chuckles, looking to the floor and nodding. The blush on his face does not go unnoticed by you. "Fair enough."

It’s incredibly endearing how nervous he still gets after six months of this little arrangement. 

"Do you wanna get your stuff, or…"

"No, that’s okay. I’ll just go back early tomorrow. The chances of someone seeing me leave your room are significantly higher if I do it so soon after entering."

You squint, unable to tell if he’s fucking with you or if that’s an actual statistically sound probability. And then you realize, blissfully, that you don’t really care. 

"Okay, well. Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to brush my teeth."

Once you’re enclosed in the bathroom, hotel vanity lights blinding you as you brush, you find that there is a jittery sort of apprehension buzzing in your chest. But that’s silly. As you yourself pointed out, the two of you have shared a bed many times over the past few months. But the sleeping together is always a byproduct of the sleeping together. Never have you shared a bed in a completely decent, virtuous, strictly non-sexual manner. It’s always been a matter of convenience—less bother if he doesn’t have to worry about sneaking back into his room in the middle of the night when you’re both exhausted. Or maybe that’s just what you’ve been telling yourselves. 

You rinse your mouth out and exit the bathroom, flicking off the light and finding that Spencer has indeed made himself comfortable. The hotel room is dark and he’s already under the covers, fiddling with his phone. 

"What time should I set the alarm for?" He asks, looking over at you as you crawl into bed, drawing the covers over yourself. "I was thinking 6:23. That should give me enough time to—"

"Sounds perfect," you affirm, wiggling under the blanket as you get comfortable. He schedules the alarm and sets his phone on the bedside table, dousing the room in complete darkness. Your eyes stay open despite, waiting for them to adjust. A few moments of utter silence and stillness pass, and you can tell Spencer is completely stiff next to you. 

"Spencer."

“Yeah,” he answers immediately. Like he’s even more wired about this whole situation than you are. 

"You know you don’t have to avoid touching me at all costs, right? I’m not a leper."

He looses a nervous laugh. 

"I know. We’ve just never really done this."

You frown at the darkness.

"We’ve definitely slept in the same bed before."

"Yeah, but… this feels different."

That, you can’t argue with. Can friends with benefits share a bed just to be near each other? Does that blur some line? And why does it feel more intimate than the sex? 

Screw it. If there is one thing you don’t want your relationship with Spencer to be, it is uncomfortable. Uncertain, you can work with. But not uncomfortable. You reach for him, hand sliding under the duvet—and find his hand already waiting for yours. 

"I don’t think it’s that different," you lie, interlacing your fingers together slowly. 

"Prolonged physical non-sexual contact does have measurable health benefits…" the words are murmured, like the moment is fragile and he doesn’t want to shatter it. 

"Can’t argue with the facts," you breathe, trying to modulate the shakiness of your voice. But you have a feeling you’re doing about as good of a job at concealing your nerves as he is. He shifts.

"Can I…"

"Yeah."

Your heart is pounding as he slips one arm under your neck and the other around your waist, pulling you close. Instinctually you curl into him, slinging your top leg over him as you’ve done before, but always dismissed as post-sex brain chemicals making you feel all warm and fuzzy. A neurological reaction that is so solidly scientific, neither of you ever questioned it. But it feels bigger now. 

He exhales as you settle against each other—a sound of relief that mirrors your own. He’s so warm, so safe as he envelops you, physically and sensorially. In such close proximity, so clear-headed, you notice each layer of his scent. Toothpaste, lavender, vetiver, detergent. You sort of feel like a creep, but you can’t deny how comforting it is. Nor can you deny the pirouette your heart does when he begins minutely rubbing your back, like he’s not even thinking about it. 

"Goodnight," you whisper into his shirt. 

"Goodnight," he whispers back. 

You fall asleep pretty quickly after that. 

------------------------------

It’s unclear what wakes you up—maybe it’s the blue-grey dawn light filtering in through the filthy window (doubtful, it’s still mostly dark) or maybe it’s the blinking green digital clock on the nightstand. 5:02 AM. Your alarm will go off in an hour and 21 minutes.

Sometime in the night you shifted, turning over in your sleep, but Spencer is still holding you close. The arm slung so casually over your waist is slightly domineering, but you manage to rotate again and face him once more. Mere inches away from his face you can see every detail. His expression is so peaceful, it makes your heart ache. 

But you’re just friends. 

Perhaps he felt you moving, because his eyes flutter open and you watch as they flood with consciousness. He takes you in, takes in his arm over your waist. For a split second you’re nervous he’ll pull away. 

"What time is it?" His voice is scratchy with sleep. 

"Five."

"Why are you awake? We have over an hour til the alarm goes off."

"Sometimes waking up early is okay."

His eyes flicker between your own, and momentarily you’re paralyzed as you realize this is a limbo state for the two of you in which you’ve never operated. You don’t know what’s acceptable. You don’t know what to do. Being close to him feels so good, that the idea of separating hurts. But you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, or—

He leans forward and kisses you softly. In the blue light of dawn, rather than frenzied and hidden in the dark, a desperate tear of clothes and teeth and hands—it’s almost freeing. All the anxiety you were feeling just seconds ago begins to melt. 

Friends. 

"You looked anxious," is his whispered answer after he pulls away a moment later, like a kiss is the simplest remedy in the world. He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear. "We should go back to sleep."

"I don’t want to go back to sleep."

The corner of his mouth twitches as he studies you.  

"No? What do you want?"

Emboldened by your mutual indiscretion, it’s your turn to kiss him. You feel him smile against your lips, hand finding the back of your neck and raking up through your hair to pull you closer. 

The delirium of sleep seems to have softened you, filed down the rough edges of your boundaries and kicked away the lines in the sand. What’s a kiss or two when you’ve just woken up? A small, innocuous display of affection while you’re still barely conscious. Nobody could fault either of you for that. People don’t think clearly when they’ve just been asleep.

So what if your lips part against his, and his other hand finds its way under your shirt to stroke the bare skin of your waist and hips? So what if you hitch that leg over him again and press closer?

Spencer breaks the kiss, still ghosting over your lips. 

"I thought it wasn’t a good night?"

"It’s not night time anymore, is it, genius?"

You sneak another kiss, nipping his bottom lip gently as you pull away. 

Instead of whatever array of responses you were expecting, Spencer smiles slightly, eyes almost sparkling in the faint light. The hand on your hip moves to your face, gently thumbing across your cheek. He begins to say something, and stops himself—biting his lip to hold back the words. 

"What?" you ask, heart dropping. Illusion fracturing. 

"I was just—" he begins, pausing for a moment before the words all come out in a rush. "I was just going to tell you how beautiful you are, but I don’t know if that’s something I should say, or if it would feel too… I don’t know…"

He trails off. A rare instance in which he doesn’t have the words. 

You do. Intimate. Real. Romantic. And he’s right, it does feel too much like all of those things. But that doesn’t mean you don’t like it, perhaps more than is strictly good for you. 

"It’s fine. Thank you."

He continues chewing on his lip for a moment. 

"Did I just ruin the mood?"

"No," you laugh, "not at all."

"Thank god," he sighs, surging forward again. 

"Since when do you thank god?" You manage between kisses. 

He moves to press his lips to your jaw and down your neck. 

"Do you want me to talk about the historical and cultural transition of religious expressions into ubiquitous secular colloquialisms right now?"

"Kind of," you breathe.

"No you don’t," he murmurs against your neck as his hands find the hem of your shirt. "You want me to take your clothes off."

Well, he’s not wrong there. 

You help him tug the shirt over your head before leaning back into the pillows as he situates himself over you and lavishes more kisses down your neck and collarbones, pausing to suck a mark only when he knows it’s low enough to be covered by your clothing later. 

You gasp when his lips brush over your nipple, before running his tongue over the sensitive skin. He glances up at you, and though his mouth is occupied, you can see the humor in his eyes. He loves how sensitive you are—how easy it is to get a reaction out of you. 

Of course, you continue to prove him right when he takes the other into his mouth, trying to hold back your little whimpers as he darts his tongue over the peak. Maybe somebody else wouldn’t hear them, but Spencer does. He’s hyper attuned to the sounds you make. Something of a catalogue has begun to form in the back of his mind; he knows exactly what each noise means and how to get them out of you. 

Once satisfied, he moves to press a kiss to your sternum. 

"You’re gonna be quiet for me, right?" Another kiss above your bellybutton. "Because Morgan is sleeping right on the other side of that wall, and we don’t want to wake him up."

"I’ll be quiet," you promise, somewhat breathlessly. Spencer’s mouth trails lower until he’s pulling your shorts down your legs, leaving you completely naked. He tosses them somewhere on the floor and hooks your legs over his shoulders. 

"Good." He plants one last kiss to your thigh and the next one lands right between your legs. 

You regret the need to be silent almost as soon as he drags his tongue over your clit. It’s not like the two of you have ever had the privilege of making a lot of noise, as the hotel rooms are always so close to each other, but it doesn’t make it any easier. 

Instead you opt to rake your hands through his hair and try to take deep breaths. But he knows exactly what you like—he knows starting light and slow, teasing around your most sensitive spot will work you up to the brink of insanity, just like he knows gentle circles make your back arch and elicit the prettiest little moans. 

"More," you beg, and the hands wrapped around your thighs rub soothingly, reassuring you that if you can just be patient you’ll get what you want. 

He takes your aching clit into his mouth, sucking lightly and you’re forced to clap a hand over your mouth, muffling the sob of pleasure you can’t hold back. Spencer keeps it up until you’re practically riding his face, teasing your dripping entrance with the tip of his tongue when you get too close. 

"Fuck, please, Spence," you whisper through your fingers, hips rutting in your desperation. Somehow it always ends up like this—with him in charge and you begging. Not that you have a problem with it, of course. 

He hums into you, and if the way his tongue moves back to circling your clit with newfound fervor is any indication, is apparently satisfied with your entreaty. 

You gasp and try to control your breathy moans, but his mouth feels so good on you that your vision is going out and you’re losing touch with reality ever so slightly. You use the last of your brain power to bite down on the back of your wrist, hoping it adequately muffles the noises you make as you come on Spencer’s tongue and he greedily continues lapping at you. There’s really no way of knowing—your ears are ringing anyway. 

When you come to a moment later he’s peppering kisses on your thighs, rubbing your hips gently. 

"So pretty," he murmurs, climbing back up so your lips can meet again. "Everything about you is pretty."

You paw at his shirt, signaling that you want it off as you moan at the taste of yourself on his tongue, feel your slippery arousal staining the kiss. Spencer helps you, sitting up briefly to unzip his hoodie and pull off his shirt. 

You’re the one to drag him back down, and you notice that he pulls the covers back over the both of you in a sweet gesture he probably didn’t even think about. 

"Need you to fuck me," you beg, reaching down to try and undress him further. 

"So crude. What happened to my nice, sweet girl?" He mumbles against your neck, but helps you with his pants anyway. 

"You must have me confused with someone else."

"Doubtful."

You don’t have much time to consider what that could mean before he’s running the head of his cock over your clit and you’re gasping into his mouth, saying please like it’s the only word you know. 

"There she is," Spencer croons, slipping inside you slow enough for you to feel every inch but quick enough for it to expel all the air from your lungs. Once he’s opened you all the way up, impossibly deep and close, you’re seeing stars, barely breathing. His head has dropped to your shoulder but now he drags his lips up your neck and jaw. "We okay?"

It’s been a while, you realize, since that last case in Maine. He always takes some getting used to. Hardly able to think around the pressure of his cock you nod, trying to string together a few words. 

"Fuck, I need a second." The words come out choked, but you manage. Spencer rubs your hip, his lips brushing yours as he speaks. 

"Relax, sweetheart. I don’t want to hurt you."

He curses to himself, dropping his head momentarily. You’re so fucking soft, and warm, and perfect, he can’t think straight. But he has to try because he has to take care of you. 

"Spence," you gasp, failing to verbally communicate the intensity of the physical sensation. 

"I know, baby," comes his sympathetic coo. "You know you can take me. Deep breaths."

"Mhm," you squeak, trying to take follow his directions and soften your muscles. Spencer keeps rubbing soothingly over your hips, stomach, whatever he can get his hands on, really, pressing kisses all over your face and telling you how good you are, how perfect you feel for him. After a few moments he feels you fluttering around him and experimentally pulls out halfway, before pushing back in equally as slowly. Your jaw drops as he begins to leisurely fuck you, arms wrapping around his back. He gets deeper than you expect every time, rubbing you raw and stretching you out in the most delicious way. 

"Perfect, baby. Such a good listener, did exactly what I asked."

You cry out when he begins fucking you impossibly deeper, but still so slow and sweet.

"You feel so fucking good for me," he groans. "This is what you were made for, huh?" You agree enthusiastically, eyes fluttering shut. 

"Only for you."

Just three words—but he wasn’t expecting to like hearing you say that as much as he does. A strong desire to possess you overtakes him—one that he’ll probably have the decency to feel guilty about later, but for now feels fucking fantastic and intoxicating. 

"Only me?"

You moan an affirmation. 

"Good. I don’t want anyone else fucking you, do you understand me?"

"Yes!"

"I’m the only one who gets to touch you," he breathes, speeding up ever so slightly, "nobody else is going to feel you like this. Such a good girl, spreading her legs for me at five in the fucking morning. You’re not doing this for anybody else, baby."

"Uh-uh, please, pleasepleaseplease Spence—"

He knows what you need, reaching a hand down between your bodies to rub your clit. 

You gasp an airy, high pitched curse, hips twitching but unable to escape the near-punishing rhythm of his own. It’s obvious that your orgasm is close, but you can’t even warn him, too overwhelmed with pleasure. He kisses you, swallowing your moans that have probably become just a bit too loud given the whole hotel thing. 

No words are exchanged between the two of you as you near the finish line for a change, open mouths slipping against each others in what is too messy to be called a kiss. Your orgasm body-slams you, a choked silent scream as you tighten around Spencer and he seems to come at nearly the exact same moment—deep inside you, slowly rolling his hips in a few more strong thrusts as he finishes. 

You let out a delayed moan at the sensation of being filled up, still pulsing around him as he comes to a halt, buried inside of you. He drops his head to your neck, and you can feel each breath against your flushed skin. Other than the panting, you’re both silent for a while. Spencer seems to gather himself sooner than you do, finally breaking the quiet. 

"You okay?"

All you can manage is a little squeak, at which he looses a breathy chuckle. His hand slides to your hip, gently stroking the skin with a thumb. 

"Need your words, angel girl."

"I’m okay," you coo into his shoulder, but he has to strain to hear it above his own breathing. 

"Yeah? Why so quiet?"

But it seems that at least for the moment, he’s gotten all the words he can out of you. When he tries to move, you whimper indignantly, clutching onto him tighter. 

"I really did a number on you this time, huh?" He laughs when you nod into him. "Are you falling asleep?"

"Mhm," you hum dreamily, little puffs of warm air slowing against his neck. 

"You can have…" he cranes his head to check the digital clock, "48 minutes."

"An hour."

He settles his weight on you once more, pressing a chaste kiss to your throat. His voice is low and gentle as he admonishes you. 

"I said 48 minutes."

But it doesn’t matter—you’re already asleep, or close enough to it. Spencer takes the opportunity to shift you to your side, and the way you wrap around him like a vine even unconsciously makes his heart ache. He really should go now—the earlier he gets out of your room the less likely certain complications will arise—but how can he possibly leave you like this? A vulnerable, dreamy girl with tangled hair haloing around her on the pillow case, clinging to him with blind trust that he’ll watch over her as she sleeps? No—there’s no way he’s leaving yet. Instead, he brings you closer. 48 perfect minutes will go by far too quickly, he’s sure. 

[chaos-in-deepspace]

LNDS Rafayel: Questions That Keep Us Up At Night (18+)

I started writing this yesterday but then a certain SOMEONE made me brainrot over Xavier, so here we are today. My only goals today is to finish the Xavier brainrot I have and then get a request page set up. Wish me luck and enjoy the torture I put our local fish boy through. This was supposed to be another crack fic but alas here we are.

Disclaimer: This is an original fan work for “Love and Deepspace”. Do not repost on other platforms or plagiarize. All characters shown in this fic is 18+. Warnings: Suggestive Questions, Non-Human Mating Suggested, Teasing Synopsis: You just needed to know the answers to some of the questions that kept you up at night. Who knew Rafayel would be so...flustered over them. Word Count: 1,597

Blog Information | Masterlist

Rafayel

Questions That Keep Us Up At Night Reader x Rafayel

“So do Lemurians lay eggs?” It had been an innocent question, one that you asked so casually you hadn’t even bothered to look up from your phone. The room was suddenly silent, the noises of chopping from earlier had disappeared and you finally looked up from your screen to see Rafayel just staring at you from the kitchen.

His face looked complex, a mixture of amusement and horror crossing it as he processed what you had just asked him. He blinked a few times before taking in a deep breath to reorient himself. He should be used to your eccentric questions at this point, hell he often asked you some pretty weird things. He just wasn’t expecting this on a Tuesday afternoon.

Rafayel finally managed to look back at you, “Oh, I didn’t realize you were so curious about Lemurians.” He was putting on an air of indifference it would seem, “Out of all the questions though, why this one? You aren’t thinking of trying to do something to me, are you?”

“Okay well first off, always thinking about that.” You began, making Rafayel choke on air for a split second, “Second off, I’m just curious. Mammals are known for giving live birth, but most aquatic life lay eggs. So where do Lemurians fit in all this?”

“If I’m not mistaken, mammals are classified as having hair or fur on them, so by those standards, Lemurians would be considered mammals, or did you forget that with your brain in the fish bowl?” Rafayel teased, a sly smirk crossing his face.

“Okay that might be true, but the lower half where the babies would pop out of is fish based. Covered in scales. Mammals don’t have scales unless you’re referring to Pangolins.” You explained to him as simply as you could.

“A pangolin?” Rafayel asked, having no clue what those were.

“Scaly anteaters.” You explained.

Rafayel was silent for a moment, “...Did you look that up just to see if mammals could have scales to prove your theory?”

“Obviously…although now that I think about it, if the bottom half is that of a fish and the top half is a mammal, would you lay eggs, hatch them, and then produce milk to feed the baby?” You said, tapping your lower lip in question.

“I’m stopping you right there…why are you asking all these questions?” Rafayel said, trying to get back to what he was doing earlier.

“These are the questions that keep me up at night, and only you can answer them for me, Raf.” You admitted. You didn’t even want to think about the multiple times you had woken up in the dead of night and laid in bed, thinking about Lemurian eggs for literal hours. 

Rafayel smirked as he leaned over the counter, “Does this mean you’ve been having thoughts of me when you’re trying to sleep?”

“I’m not trying to incriminate myself, Raf.” You said, pointing an accusing finger at him, “I’m just saying that the question about Lemurian eggs, amongst several other things, have been on my mind.”

“Other things?” Rafayel murmured just loud enough for you to hear it. He looked at you, curiosity but also hesitance crossing his features.

“Well ya, for instance I know that some aquatic creatures have two.” You said, holding up the number two with your fingers.

Rafayel sighed, looking almost pained as he wanted to clarify what you were asking, “Two of what.” He was hoping it wasn’t what he thought it was.

“Dicks, penis, cocks, levers, fun handles, joysticks.” You said, listing off both the actual names as well as some euphemisms you knew.

Rafayel once again stopped what he was doing. You watched as he put the knife down next to him. You wanted to ask him why he was stopping since he had been so deadset that he’d prepare lunch this afternoon. You had been waiting ages for the salmon salad he was making.

“Really?” He asked, gesturing to the food in front of him, “Right in front of my salad?” 

You couldn’t help but stare directly into those beautiful eyes of his, “You didn’t answer any of the questions, Raf. What are you hiding?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t actually have to answer your questions.” He said, leaning over to where you were sitting at the bar counter.

You then decided to press your luck even more, “So if Lemurians supposedly cry pearls, is their cum like pearlescent or something else entirely?” You watched as Rafayel’s cheeks took on a rosy hue and you barked out a laugh, “Oh that reaction tells me everything! So it’s not like humans!”

Rafayel groaned, covering his face with his hands and shook his head, “Why do you want to know about Lemurian…cum…I hate that I even have to ask that.” Rafayel said as he gave you a disappointed glance.

“It’s just a question, now I have more.” You said as you stood up from your stool, “Do Lemurians ever enter heats or ruts? Would Ebb Day be considered one of those because that day you were kinda…” You thought back to Ebb Day. He had looked so damn good with his scales and the slight sheen of sweat. If only he wasn’t so damn delirious that day you might’ve made a move to pursue something more with him.

“I was kinda…?” Rafayel said before stopping himself, “Wait, hold it, bite your tongue, I don’t think I want to know what’s going through that head of yours. I think we’re done with questions for the day.”

You couldn’t help the pout that went on your face, but Rafayel was looking away from you, not daring to make eye contact right now. His cheeks and ears were flush as he picked up his knife and continued cutting up salmon..

You slowly stalked over to him until you were standing right behind Rafayel. He, of course, knew you were there as he scrapped the salmon on top of the lettuce and put the dangerous object into the sink. As soon as he was cleared of any knives that he could stab you with should he break due to your insanity, you tugged on his sleeve.

Rafayel, despite his pouting, let out a sigh. He then moved a bit away from the counter and you didn’t even realize what had happened until you found your back digging into the counter of the kitchen. Rafayel had quickly spun you around and pinned you, both arms locking you in place as he gripped onto the cool marble.

You caught the confident glint in his eyes as he pulled a full 180 from earlier. His cheeks, ears, and chest were still a bit flushed, but he seemed to be in control for the moment, “If you’re that curious, I could always give you a demonstration of Lemurian mating habits.” He finally said.

You were stunned into silence, your mouth hung open and you could feel your cheeks heating up as you looked at Rafayel. Then, after the shock wore off, your entire face lit up at the prospect.

“Wait really? Oh man, I need to grab my notebook. I have so many hypotheses on things that I can’t wait to try out!” You said, placing your hands on his chest, “When are we gonna do this? Now? Later? Now?”

It was Rafayel’s turn to be shocked at your enthusiasm. He was aiming to fluster you like you had done to him; he wasn’t expecting you to want to jump his bones right now. The only thing he could utter was “You have a journal…?”

You nod your head, your hand going over to his neck where you remembered those iridescent blue scales had been. You pressed down slightly at the area and you could feel Rafayel’s pulse jump. You licked your lips at the thought of seeing them again, as well as his tail that he swore up and down he didn’t have until one day he slipped up and admitted to it.

“Of course silly, how else am I gonna know the best ways to unravel you?” You said, your head tilting to the side as you smirked.

You watched as Rafayel managed to turn into a darker shade of red, his mouth opening and closing before his eyes narrowed, “If I had known you were like this, I would’ve been more cautious about letting you into my home.”

“Not only did you let me in, but you gave me a key so I can stop by whenever.” You teased him, “Hopefully I will catch you in a compromised setting one day.”

Rafayel groaned, his hands going to your hips, placing his head over your shoulder, “You’ll be the death of me…” He murmured out before taking a deep breath, “Were you serious though, about uh…”

“Only if your offer is on the table.” You said and Rafayel chuckled, his warm breath fanning over your neck.

“It was supposed to be a joke.” He teased, “But with how excited you got I feel it would be cruel to take the offer back now.”

“It would be so cruel.��� You said, your arms going around his shoulders, “Although perhaps we should move things a bit…slower. We can discuss it over lunch?” You said and Rafayel nodded.

“That sounds good.” He said, not moving from his position as he nuzzled his face into your neck “But in a few minutes. I’m comfortable right now.”

Your hand found its way into his purple locks as you gently played with them, “Sounds good to me.”

[maxlarens]

pairing(s): engineer!george russell x driver!reader

brought on entirely by this ask thank you anon i owe you a great debt😭 also light angst beware.

You’re more angry than anything.

What a stupid mistake, taking the turn like that. Too hard too fast too reckless. Never careful enough, like George always presses you to be. You feel shame churning in the hollow of your chest in the back of the safety car.

You’re on the way to medical. You would be even if you didn’t have an ache in your neck. Something sharp in your chest. You’ve fractured a rib, you think. Broken it even. You know this feeling, the whiplash of a crash. Waiting to have your injuries confirmed.

You think of the car, the smell of smoke registering as you took a second to reorient yourself. To remember all of your limbs. Ringing in your ears, then George. George, prompting your reply over and over. Tone clipped, hurried, near-frantic, still-professional. The car is on fire. You need to get out of the car, now. And your limbs snapping back into awareness, into motion—

You’re fine now. Angry mostly.

You let the doctor check you over, refer you for an ultrasound for the rib. It hurts when they press on it. You’re left with a manila folder to give to your team and an order to take it easy for the rest of the day.

Outside the medical building you can hear the cars on track. It puts something sick in the pit of your stomach. At least it’s only FP2. You’ve not utterly ruined a race, and the team still have time to fix your mess. Still. Still.

You turn a corner to make your way back to Mercedes hospitality, you find George instead.

He looks like someone’s taken a livewire to him. His head of usually soft curls is messy, hair standing half on end. He’s got those serious, shell-shocked eyes that always appear when his smile vanishes. You frown as his head snaps to you, alerted by the sound of gravel underfoot.

“Shit,” you blink and he’s already halfway to you, “Are you alright? What did they say?”

His hands are on your shoulders, pulling you toward him and you’re not thinking anything in particular about that. Just grappling with his sudden closeness. His apparent worry. So apparent that someone’s sent him here to medical, to you instead of having his valuable input on the pit wall.

“I’m fine,” you push his hands off you, “I’ll just need an ultrasound. It’s nothing.”

“Did they check you for smoke inhalation?” he presses on, despite your attempt at deflecting, “Your car was on fire.”

You shrug, shake your head, “I dunno, George. They checked my breathing I guess.”

You hear a sharp intake of breath and feel him start to move toward the building. You grab his wrist, haul him back, knowing he’ll march you in there and demand they check if you don’t reassure him.

“I’m fine,” you insist, “No smoke inhalation. Not even a cough.”

He’s looking down at you, jaw set, the line of his mouth severe. So serious as he checks you over like he has x-ray vision— as if he can see things the doctors can’t because he’s more worried than they are. You’re keenly aware of your fingers looped around his wrist, the feeling of his pulse, his skin, the tender way his hand reaches to grab your wrist in kind.

Your relationship feels different here. In this moment.

The closeness of a driver and her engineer has never escaped you. From the moment you met him for the first time in Brackley— tall, cheerful, a bit awkward, a little overbearing— you’d known that you’d be close. That’s the nature of it. You didn’t have to be charmed by his sincerity to predict that.

But you’d grown closer than you would have ever thought. You know his quirks, his idiosyncrasies. How he has his tea, the clothing brand he buys all his clothes from, the way speaks to waiters like they’re old friends, the overly friendly nature that masks a man who’s just nervous people won’t like him. He knows yours.

Your proclivity for being reckless on track, because winning is everything and what are you if you’re not a winner? How you have three shots of espresso in your coffee every morning. The way you cry your eyes out at father-daughter moments in movies. Your ache to be loved and your accompanying fear of commitment.

George is like no-one else. No ex, no best friend, no situationship knows you like George does.

Inside and out.

Anyway. Your hand on his wrist, your aching rib, him standing outside medical when he should be on the pit wall. It makes your head spin.

He closes the distance between the two of you. Hauls you into his flat chest and weaves his fingers into your hair, cradling the back of your head like he might lose you. Something wells in the top of your throat. The back of your neck feels gooey, soft, as he holds you. As if all the tension is easing out of you.

You take a deep breath, wrap your hands around his waist. Fireproofs against the bare skin where his Mercedes polo has hiked up. He says something into your hair that you can’t hear. The tone of it gets you anyway, the fondness.

You hiccup, hating yourself for it.

Then you’re crying. Shock of the crash wearing off, unable to ignore the comfort of being held up physically and emotionally by George. Tears, wet, hot are streaming down your face. Soaking George’s shirt.

“You’re okay,” he says into your ear, rocking the two of you back and forth in the gravel, “You’re okay, I promise.”

You know you are. Logically. But hearing George say it makes it easier to believe. You think, even, that he might be saying it for himself too.

[edges-of-night]

I’m so happy you’re back I adore your writing! I wanted to request one where the reader comforts the lotr characters after they have a nightmare💕

Thanks love

This is a sweet request, anon! It turned out a bit angsty, at least in parts... I hope you’ll enjoy the read ♡

･ﾟ✧ Aragorn.

Aragorn frequently dreams of Narsil, Isildur, and the shadows of his ancestors. Those nightmares leave him distraught and at first even disoriented. It takes you a while to get through to him with soft Elven whispers and gentle hands to steady him. When you do, he does calm and holds onto your hand tight and keeps mumbling weakly, “Meleth nín…”

.

･ﾟ✧ Arwen.

Nightmares are worse for Elves than Men, due to their gift of foresight which amplifies the bad things they see in their dreams. The dark future Arwen sees at night haunts her during the daylight, too, but you are there to hold her hands and offer a shoulder to cry on. While she won’t lose hope easily, the shock in Arwen’s heart is deep every time.

.

･ﾟ✧ Boromir.

Boromir won’t tell you about his nightmares until he would start crying one morning, seemingly out of the blue. You are there to comfort him with a gentle hand on his back and all the silence he needs to collect himself, before finally opening up about his fears and the nightmares they conjured. “At least I have the certainty you would not think less of me, knowing what you know now…”

.

･ﾟ✧ Elrond.

You wake by Elrond’s side when his nightmare punches him out of sleep. For long, terrible moments, he was back amidst the fires of Mount Doom, desperate lungs filled with poison smoke and disbelieving eyes on Isildur’s back. Now you can provide him with air and water to bring him back to the cool calm of Rivendell.

.

･ﾟ✧ Éomer.

It has taken you far too long to wake poor Éomer from his nightmare. His feverish, sweaty, desperate face would have broken your heart had it lasted any longer. But war leaves its invisible wounds, and Éomer wasn’t spared. He holds onto you for dear life as if he was only half-way back to reality, but you tell him everything would be all right.

.

･ﾟ✧ Éowyn.

Upon waking her from her nightmare, Éowyn draws her sword at you, staring you down with a fury you have never seen in her usually so kind eyes before. You back away slowly, speaking softly to bring her back to reality and away from whatever has been haunting her. When she recognises you, Éowyn bursts into tears, hiding her face. “Oh, forgive me! Forgive me, love…!”

.

･ﾟ✧ Faramir.

Childhood trauma has often kept Faramir awake, but creeping its way into his dreams was even worse. When he wakes, he needs only seconds to reorientate himself, but would then cover his mouth to not wake you with his sobs. You, of course, are not bothered but concerned by what you hear and offer Faramir to spend the night awake with him until he would fall asleep in your arms as you watch the sunrise.

.

･ﾟ✧ Frodo.

Frodo tosses and turns in his sleep with big sighs and sobs which eventually wake you up. You know that Frodo isn’t an easy sleeper, but his nightmare phases still shock you anew every time. You gently wake him up to tell him everything was fine, and at first Frodo genuinely seems relieved. However, you know that the following hours won’t be easy for him, so you keep supporting him with kind words and his favourite tea, taking it easy all day.

.

･ﾟ✧ Galadriel.

Nightmares are so rare for Galadriel that she has no way of dealing with them. They bring tempests not only to her heart but Lórien, too. You stay with her throughout and guide her back to the light in the days afterwards. She is weak but leans on you for incorrigible support. Thanks to your care, closeness, and words of affirmation, the Lady of Light can return to her normal life.

.

･ﾟ✧ Gandalf.

Gandalf’s nightmare has summoned thunder and lightning, keeping you from sleeping. When you try to deliver him from whatever evils keep chasing him, a magical fire flames up. When you try to touch Gandalf’s shoulder again, it diminishes, and you manage to wake him up. The storm is gone almost in an instant, and Gandalf’s face is as soft and friendly as ever. He won’t talk about his nightmare right away.

.

･ﾟ✧ Gimli.

One night, you would hear quiet sobs next to you and realise Gimli was crying in his sleep. He would not wake up easy when you pat his shoulder or caress his arm, but eventually his eyes would open and he’d meet yours with a sad and tired gaze. Perhaps he would like to talk to you about his nightmares of Moria’s fall at a later point, but for now, he is content with you letting him cry without judgement, stroking and kissing his hair gently.

.

･ﾟ✧ Haldir.

Out of fear of giving others leverage against him, Haldir won’t tell anyone of his horrible nightmares. Since your sleep has always been light though, you notice very soon that something is wrong with dear Haldir. While he would deny your offers of comfort rather coldly at first, he eventually asks you to simply listen to his sorrows so that they no longer weigh down his heart. You know how bad the sentiment is for Elves, so you thank him genuinely for sharing it with you.

.

･ﾟ✧ Legolas.

As with all Elves, nightmares are poison to Legolas due to his Elven abilities. Darkness and terror spread in his heart, and it will take him weeks to recover. You are always there to hug and kiss him – physical touch is what comforts poor Legolas the most in these times. He is as restless as ever, but you remind him that he is safe with you. “Indeed, there no fortress in this world where I would be more secure than in your arms, my love.”

.

･ﾟ✧ Merry.

Merry always tries rationalising his nightmares, to the point where he won’t allow himself to be vulnerable and let his fear sink in. That is where you can help your poor Hobbit the most: by reminding him that you will always be there for him, no matter if it’s the middle of the night and some random “nonsense darkening his mind”. You sit down with him by a fire and talk about it all.

.

･ﾟ✧ Pippin.

After nightmares, Pippin is often still scared for a longer time. After helping him calm down, you make sure to light as many candles and lamps as possible. Food is also a good comfort for Pippin, which has led you to make strawberry sandwiches at three in the morning twice already. To ground himself further, Pippin would also sometimes sing to you quietly.

.

･ﾟ✧ Sam.

Sam’s nightmares are intense but thankfully leave as quickly as they come. He usually sleeps well whenever he is with you, and you comforting him after a traumatic dream reminds him why: You take him seriously, sometimes more than he himself does, and don’t ridicule the encounters of his nightmares. Cuddles and a bit of talking usually do the trick, and the two of you fall asleep again soon ♡

[mezz-merizing]

Confusion & Suggestibility

so i had a fun experience in voice chat today! there’s this discord activity called blazing eights that is basically just uno— bear with me, i promise this is hypno-related— and myself and a couple friends were all playing it. one of them, who we’ll just call PK, played one of those “change the colour” cards and couldn’t figure out how to actually use it, because the UI for this game is really weird and bad. PK had already timed out of being able to choose the colour once, so they were a little frantic, rushing to figure out how to do it before the game just chose it for them

so at this point another one of the people in the game, who only had one card left, jokingly said “make it green,” since, y’know, that would have won them the game! PK actually laughed at this, so i know they heard it in the moment. and then they figured it out, finally realised how to actually choose the colour, and then they… made it green. it actually took PK a couple of seconds to realise what they’d done, and at that point, the other player had already won. it was pretty funny!! they very incredulously asked “WHY DID I MAKE IT GREEN??” since they knew full well that doing so would make them lose the game. we all laughed about it, because it was funny in the moment, but then i got to thinking about it. you can probably tell based on the title of this post where i’m going with this!

this is, funny enough, a very useful case study on how confusion and shock inductions actually work. it’s kind of the perfect real-world demonstration of it! PK was confused and occupied, frantically trying to figure out how to play the game properly, and when they heard essentially a direct order, even a joking one, they really didn’t pay it any mind. but once they had cleared up the thing that was taking up their brain space, their brain sort of “loaded in” the thing they had heard, and before they even realised what they were doing or processed it fully, they just… obeyed. the command slipped past their critical thought and took effect before they could actually think about it, because it was slipped in while they were confused and frantic

you can apply this principle in a lot of places, the classic rapid induction being one of my faves! we’ve all seen the jerk the arm and shout “sleep” thing, and it really works the same way. the subject is dazed and confused by the sudden physical sensation, and while they’re in the midst of processing that, trying to figure out what just happened to them, and reorienting their kinesthetic sense, that command hits first, and just like PK did, they obey before they have the chance to think about it. a deeper part of them obeys, really! the command passes right through the critical, conscious mind and vanishes into the depths of thought, which just follow it uncritically

and a lot like PK, by the time they realise what they did, it’s too late. they’re already asleep, or have already lost the game. it’s such an interesting induction tactic- and obviously, such a hot one. just having a command slipped past all your faculties, giving you no choice but to follow. you don’t even get the chance to think about it. you’re just gone…

and that’s really it!! a fun demonstration of how confusion inductions work happened before my eyes, and it’s been plaguing my thoughts ever since. can you really be sure your thoughts are yours when new ones can be forced in so easily? <3

[yuus-sentient-teddy]

At Least You're Here

The sleeping spell is broken. It takes everyone a moment to reorient themselves and sit up. Friends and dormmates check on each other, underclassmen ask their senpais if they're all right. It's mostly gentle chatter around the spacious hall until somewhere in the crowd, a phone rings.

"It's mother." Riddle picks it up just as another phone in the crowd rings, and another and another. He jolts, then after a couple of seconds, he asks with great concern, "Mother, are you all right?"

He has never heard her cry before.

It's not very long before a cacophony of ringtones and joyful chatter fill the air. A good portion of the crowd leaves so they can better hear whoever is on the other end while others almost run so their classmates won't see them crying (even though some already are). The sound dims just slightly.

Leona doesn't look as annoyed as he usually does while Cheka bombards him with numerous questions. Kalim is wiping away his tears while he listens to his siblings talk over each other and their parents trying to talk to him. Epel is recounting the events to his meemaw and has just barely managed to hold back his tears. Ace and Deuce are trying very hard to calm their moms down, and though they try to hide it behind a cool boy front, they're happy to hear from them.

These are some of the people Yuu observes as they look around the room. News must have spread already about Sage's Island being freed from the curse. They don't know how many days it has been, but they supposed it doesn't matter considering how quickly the phone calls came in.

Yuu pulls out their own phone and stares at its silent, dark screen. After a couple of seconds, they press the power button. The battery icon in the corner reads 31%. There are notifications from Magicam and a couple other socials, but no missed texts or calls.

They wait for something to happen, even after the screen eventually returns to black.

They stare back at the face being reflected. They want to tell that face they were sorry no one called.

"Hey, henchhuman, are you okay?" Grim is at their side, as he usually is.

"Yeah. I was just thinking of. . ." They quietly sigh. "Nevermind."

They pat his head, smiling fondly at him though he can discern sadness in their eyes. "At least you're here."

Deep into the night, hours after Yuu and Grim fell into bed, Yuu quietly leaves the bedroom and heads towards the lounge downstairs. Gripped in their hand is their cellphone from their homeworld, which they had been keeping in the top drawer of the nightstand.

The battery reads 90%. Idia and Ortho managed to recreate the charger, and for that, Yuu was forever grateful.

Yuu's fingers dial out a number they know by heart and press the speaker to their ear.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

Click.

That's what always happened whenever they tried calling: one long static beep then a click, signifying that their call could not go through. There wasn't even that automated voice saying that the person they were trying to reach is unavailable or that the number is not connected to anyone. Funnily, Yuu found themself missing the voice.

Yuu tried again with another number.

Then another.

And another.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

Click.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

Click.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

Click.

Sigh.

Yuu fell back against the cushions and gazed at the moonlit-touched chandelier. They knew it was unlikely the calls would go through. They still tried because they needed something familiar, something comforting. An adult or two asking, with great relief and tears in their voices, if they were all right. Even something as mundane as a robotic voice would have sufficed; it at least would remind them that somewhere out there, there were people they grew up with who would have fretted over their safety and called immediately when S.T.Y.X. said the island was free from the sleeping curse.

But those people didn't know what had happened to them. Those people would still be believing they were missing on the world they grew up in.

They imagined a scenario where those people did know they were in Twisted Wonderland and desperately trying to contact them. It did little to ease the bitterness and loneliness that squeezed their chest.

Yuu shut their eyes and lied down on the couch. A tear slid from beneath their eyelid, trailed over the bridge of their nose, and disappeared into the fabric of the couch. They clutched the phone tightly like it was a lifeline and curled around it, sniffling and sobbing as quietly as they could so the ghosts or Grim wouldn't hear.

They will wake up in the morning still on the couch and covered by the blanket from their bed. One of the Ramshackle Ghosts will greet them and subtly ask why they were sleeping in the lounge.

They'll half lie and say they had trouble sleeping.

[teabunnee]

Posted this wrong again...

Submas Twins Meet You while you were lost

Ingo 

Ingo is always a gentleman, in a sea of people big and small, he is always a beacon of professional calm. 

If you approach him for assistance, he’s happy to help you out, no matter the situation, maybe just give him a moment if he’s in the middle of calming a child or something of the like. 

If he spots you being nervous, he’ll approach you as calmly as he can, though he might startle you with his voice as he asks if you need help. 

He knows the trains and the subway like the back of his hand! And he’s happy to help you reorient yourself. His tall form and loud voice is perfect to part the crowd and make you feel safe too. If you ask questions about the trains and his time here, he’s delighted to tell you the history of the subway! 

The. Entire history. His face glows as he tells you about it, nostalgically as if he was part of it. 

When you get to your stop, he is a bit blushy for rambling so much, but he’s quite happy if you tell him it’s alright. Feel free to flirt just a little at this point, you might get a number!

Emmet

Emmet is a cheerful light in the busy subway, happy to chat and always ready to battle a passenger. It’s easy to spot his bright white coat and big grin. 

He likely spots you nervous and comes over, marching and asking if you need directions to your next station. 

But if you approach him, he’s quite happy too! 

He’ll be delighted to assist you! And he’s quite reassuring, pointing out the fastest train routes to various destinations and even chatting about his pokemon. (Not quite his battle plans, those are secret!) 

He’s also saying hi to others along the way, and if you’re not busy, he’s going to point you to his favourite spots of the city and how to get there! And he might ask you for a battle once he gives you directions or has directed you there. 

Whether you win or lose, he’s just happy to test out new combinations. 

He’s the one to ask your number most likely, bluntly as he compliments you like its a fact, it’s his style. 

[narrans]

My Borrowed Son | 33 | Bullied and Bailed

Chapter Thirty-Three | Bullied and Bailed

Danger. It can be a relative term or one that is thrown around playfully among friends and co-workers. There’s danger in everyday life, hazards that could hurt you a little or a lot. Physical. Emotional. Mental. There are different types of danger that are all around at all times.

There is, however, true danger.

It’s one of those circumstances where you know it if you’ve felt it.

That’s where Parker was.

He was in danger, and he knew it.

Every fiber of his being was electrified, using every ounce of energy he had to break away from his captor. This girl, whoever she was, obviously had no intention of listening to him.

She had already disregarded his free will and autonomy, and he had a bad feeling things were only going to get worse. So, he fought. He splashed and kicked in his metallic prison. He rummaged through his bag when there were moments of calm and found the one thumbtack he brought with him, but nothing else would help protect him.

He needed so much more, but this would have to do.

Parker decided he needed to wait for the right opportunity to use his weapon. Chances were he would only get one chance to use it.

The terrified teen fretted he wouldn’t know when that moment was, and he didn’t have long to think about it. The violent jostling intensified before suddenly stopping entirely. Completely surrounded by darkness, Parker braced himself as the bottle suddenly tilted to the side and then upside down in rapid succession.

Disoriented, Parker sputtered as he inhaled some water and leapt back onto his feet as fast as he could. He knew the girl was going to try and get him out of the bottle, so he tried quickly to find his footing on the lip of the container.

Sadly, he wasn’t fast enough. Because of the slick surface and the quick twisting motion of the cap which knocked him off balance again, Parker found himself falling. It was only a few inches, but it was enough to make him hit the hard surface wrong and topple to the ground. He winced and pulled his legs close, involuntarily running his fingers over them to make sure they were still there and intact.

It was sadly the wrong move.

Being all balled up gave his captor time to sweep him off of the edge of the counter and scoop him into her waiting cupped hands and contain him, covering him with her other hand. Parker immediately thrashed as hard as he could, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even reach the pin he had in his bag. All he could do was be contained in darkness as he felt himself being carried from where he was to someplace new.

The next time he felt free, unstifled air, he was falling again. This time, he was falling into a glass fishbowl with no way out. He yelped as he hit the ground hard on all fours propped up on the balls of his feet and leaning forward on his hands, but he didn’t hit it hard enough to sprain or break anything. Parker reoriented in an instant and whipped around in time to see the girl’s face leaning close toward the fishbowl.

He felt so exposed. He felt small. Nothing felt right.

He stiffened his jaw and stood up slowly, fearing any sudden move he might make. His heart was racing, but his mind was racing faster. What was going to happen to him? What was this girl going to do? She hadn’t listened to reason before, but would she now?

“So, what are you exactly?” asked the girl. Her distorted finger inched closer and tapped on the glass, making a horrible hollow dinging sound that sounded like the toll of deep bells. It made Parker shiver. To him, it almost sounded like the bells were tolling for him.

It was ominous.

It made him shrink back.

Parker felt like tears were starting to well up in his eyes. He was shaking from head to toe. What was he going to say? What should he say? Based on what the other Borrowers said, he should keep quiet and not say anything about who or what he was. He technically had already said too much.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” The girl’s hand suddenly reached into the bowl. She reached forward and poked Parker harshly on his shoulder. He winced and shied away. Parker whipped around and tried backing away, but the slope of the edge of the bowl left little room for him to maneuver. The girl grinned and began spinning her hand all the way around Parker, making him spin around and around until she knocked him off balance.

She laughed as Parker hit the ground and, without a second thought, grabbed his leg and hoisted him up into the air. Parker’s arms flailed involuntarily as he kept trying to keep his orientation right. If she dropped him, he didn’t want to land square on his head.

“You don’t have a tail or anything. You’re not a mouse. You’re not a human. You’re… whatever you are. Are you a doll come to life like Toy Story?” asked the girl. The blood was starting to rush to his head. Everything was getting fuzzy. His world was spinning faster and faster.

But suddenly something in him steeled. It was impossible to describe, but he knew this feeling before. It was same kind of instinct that came to him when someone was approaching. It was the same kind of instinct that kept him focused now.

It was the same instinct that suddenly rose up inside of him and made him feel courage in the face of danger. Though he was still terrified, Parker somehow felt his instincts would keep him on his toes and help get him out of this.

They had to.

Parker didn’t have a choice.

He needed to get out of there.

This was his shot.

As the girl swung him back and forth, Parker timed his strike just right. He reached into his bag and grasped the pin he had stowed away. Swinging forward, Parker drew his shoulders up toward his knees and closer to the girl’s fingers. With all of his might, he plunged the end of the pin into the girl’s finger.

The girl howled in pain and Parker suddenly found himself free falling, but this time he was ready. Parker spun in the air and landed on his feet. He tumbled forward and started running as fast as he could across the desk. Parker wasn’t sure how he was going to get down, but he knew his body would react the way it needed to.

“Ow! You little wretch!” the girl snarled. Parker sensed it before it happened, and he was ready for it. A massive hand came swinging down at him. Parker managed to stop dead in his tracks as the hand crashed down on the desk, shaking the ground beneath him, before he darted around it and headed for the back desk leg.

If he could just get there, he could slide down. Maybe he could just hide behind the leg or slide down Matrix style all the way down. Parker’s arms pumped faster as he willed himself forward. If he could just ge-

*WHAM*

Parker didn’t have time to react this time. With his back to Rachel, he failed to see that she had thrust her hand forward from where it was on the desk. As easily as swatting a fly, her hand collided with Parker’s back and threw him forward. He threw his arms up, but it didn’t stop him from slamming into the wall hard.

Parker actually felt himself bounce off of the hard surface dividing this girl’s room from the rest of her house before falling back and whacking his head hard on the hard wood surface. He winced and clenched his jaw as he tried to recover, but it wasn’t fast enough.

“Gotcha!”

The girl’s hand descended onto Parker, pinching his hip hard between her thumb and index finger. The whiplash alone from her lifting him off of the desk created an agonizing pounding in the back of his head. He felt the bruises starting to form on every inch of his body, and he hated that some of them would be in the shape of this girl’s fingerprints.

“You’re gonna pay for that you little twerp. You stick me, and I’ll stick you right b-.”

“Rachel! It’s time to go to your lessons! Get down here now. We can’t be late again,” called some other older female voice. This girl, Rachel, rolled her eyes before stomping over to a nearby table with a clear tank on top of it. She lifted the lid, glowering at Parker, before tossing him inside.

He landed hard on his bruised side and ground his teeth together as he looked up past the glass to the girl’s face.

“Stay there, and don’t wake him up. Make too much noise and he’ll come after you; and I won’t be around to save your butt no matter how much you plead. Maybe you’ll be more willing to talk when I get back. See ya’ twerp.” With that, Rachel snagged some kind of bag off of her bed and vanished out of the door to her room.

Escape was now the priority. The top of the cage wasn’t fastened completely, which was a good sign for him. The gap was only an inch or so wide, but it was going to be enough. It meant he had a chance of getting out if he could just maneuver up to the edge and slip out. With his pin gone, he needed to use what was around him.

Parker finally had a second to look around at what was going on around him, and he immediately felt himself chill in fear. There was a heat lamp above him, scorching the ground below. His surroundings consisted of sand and a few rocks, on very large rock sitting in the corner with something curled up inside. Parker could just barely make out orange-yellow scales, which was enough for him.

He needed to get out of there – fast.

This Rachel girl was some kind of sadistic monster in the making, and Parker refused to be her first victim. The Borrower teen pushed himself to his feet and cautiously began sifting through the sand. Little bits of insect legs brushed against his fingertips, making him want to hurl. Little rocks and pebbles were nearby, but nothing big enough for Parker to climb onto.

He shifted his weight silently across the sand to the nearest big rock and tried to leverage it. The rock wasn’t a real one, if Parker was right about his geology, but it was still too heavy for him to lift on his own. The teen was determined to try though. He couldn’t just sit there and do nothing when he was in a cage with something that was obviously carnivorous.

Parker decided he had no other choice but to stack the smaller stones and mix them with the sand around him. From there, he planned on ripping the cloak around him into strips into a possible line with his pack attached. The hope was that it would get caught on the exposed ledge and let Parker climb out.

It was a gamble, but he was determined to make it work.

It had to.

Parker got to work immediately. He stacked as many small rocks as he could by the edge of the cage and filled in the gaps with sand. The pack was nearly empty, but his water container would hopefully be enough to wedge itself in between the cage top and the wall.

Hands trembling, he unfastened the cloak and began tearing at the fabric from one side of the base to the next since it was the longest. The sound of the ripping, however, was much louder than he thought it was going to be. It was also a lot tougher to tear than he thought. It was a durable material, and Parker’s exhausted muscles shook violently as he tried to tear the cloth.

He was almost through the first strip when he heard it.

A massive shift in the sand.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up on end. Everything in him screamed that he was in danger.

Heart hammering a hole right through him, Parker dared to look back over his shoulder and was met with two massive yellow-brown eyes that seemed to glow from the interior of the rock crevasse mouth. Unblinkingly, the thing simply stared at him before moving its head in a weird jerking motion. Parker knew it was getting a better view of him, and he didn’t like it.

Parker whipped around and grabbed two of the small rocks he had stacked up in the corner of the cage, moving slowly and hoping this thing couldn’t detect him if he moved slowly.

That’s when it moved out of its slumber hole. One massive, clawed hand emerged from the shadows and into the heat lamp light. The rest of its body soon followed, revealing a bearded dragon. Parker knew this from his science classes. It was an omnivore, which was the worst part about it.

Shaking in his shoes, Parker stayed still and crouched by the corner of the cage. He hoped it wouldn’t see him and that Rachel would be back soon to get him out of this mess. Parker knew if he tried to continue his work now, it would get the creature’s attention and undoubtedly it would come after him.

He felt like he was in Jurassic Park with the tyrannosaurus rex looming nearby. The line of it not being able to see him if he didn’t move ran through his head.

Sadly, a bearded dragon was not a t-rex.

With a few more bird like movements to it’s head, jerking from side to side, the reptile marched forward like an unstoppable tank and was heading right for him.

His heart leapt into his throat. The infinitesimal teen, rocks in hand, braced himself and threw the rocks at the critter’s face. One throw. Then the next. Parker had just barely managed to grab two more rocks when the thing sped forward and lunged at him.

Parker’s nimble body leapt out of the way, tumbling in the sand and spinning right in time for the thing to launch itself at him again. This thing was twice the size of Parker, but he knew it wasn’t nearly as big as it could be. It was a baby, probably a new pet just sold, and Parker knew it was probably his only saving grace at the moment.

He managed to dodge a few more times, kicking sand up into the thing’s face as it looked at him, a cold calculating look in its eyes. It was the look of survival, but the way it looked like it was grinning made Parker choke on his emotions.

This thing didn’t care about him.

This thing didn’t know him.

All it knew was that it was hungry, and that Parker looked like nothing more than prey to it. Tears threatened to well up in Parker’s eyes. How could someone be so cruel to someone else? He was a person! He was a living, breathing being. He wasn’t any different than a human despite his size.

Then, it happened.

As Parker moved to dodge again, his timing was off. It was him getting in his head, and that momentary distraction was enough for the bearded dragon to gain the advantage. Parker tumbled a little too soon, and the thing was waiting for him. Sand kicked up into Parker’s face as the bearded dragon lunged forward.

In one lightning motion, it had snagged Parker’s left arm in its mouth. The teeth ground into the soft flesh of Parker’s arm as it jerked its head, tossing Parker with it. He cried out in pain and flailed, slamming the rock into the thing’s eye. It didn’t relinquish its grip though.

Quite the opposite.

It tightened it.

“Ow! No! No! Let me go! Help!”

Parker’s entire body was trembling violently. Panic had a death grip on him and there was little else he could do. He yelled as he began pounding the rock into the thing’s nose and eye as it readjusted its grip again. The scraping teeth against his left arm had undoubtedly found purchase and would not let him go again.

It thrashed again, tossing Parker in the sand and away from the gash Parker made right below its eye. The motion threw Parker off balance and had him pinned in the sand. One of the claws came up and began pressing against his leg as the immense lizard’s jaws snapped again, dragging part of Parker’s shoulder further into its mouth.

“No! Please! Someone, help!” Parker knew pleading with this thing in an empty room wouldn’t do him any good, but it was better than just rolling over. Parker let go of the rock in his hand and kept it on the mouth of the creature, shredding his palm against the needle like teeth. He felt its wet tongue flex again, making Parker sick to his stomach.

The next lunge would be it. Parker knew it.

As he continued to thrash, he felt blood pumping in his ears. His vision was blackening. Parker knew he was moments away from being gulped down by this unfeeling lizard, and there was nothing he could do. That bully of a girl had claimed her first victim, and Parker was ashamed it was him and that it had come to this.

He choked on a sob as he continued to thrash in the lizard’s grip. No matter how fast he sucked in air, it was not helping his darkening vision or the pain in his body.

“What the… No!”

Parker craned his neck to the side and glimpsed a new female figure through the rippled and smudged portion of the glass. In two steps, the girl had closed the distance between herself and the cage and had ripped open the mesh top. The looming hand came right for him, but Parker couldn’t shy away from it; nor did he want to at the moment.

The girl pinched the back of the bearded dragon’s neck and gingerly wrapped her fingers around Parker’s entire body. He was completely suspended, encapsulated by warm, fleshy fingers.

“Let go you nasty lizard!” the girl scolded as she pinched a little harder. The teeth ground into Parker’s arm tighter, making him shout in pain. Then, barely a moment later, the lizard let go of Parker’s arm and scurried back into the rocks where it continued to glare at Parker and this new girl menacingly. Using her other hand, the girl snagged Parker’s things as she carefully lifted him out of the cage.

Parker’s panic didn’t end now that he was out of the cage, however. Now instead of being in a glass cage, he was in a cage made of flesh and bone. A human’s grip had never felt like a dangerous place until now, and it had all changed in a matter of a few hours. His heart continued to hammer a hole through him, and his hyperventilating breathing made him gasp in little wheezing bursts.

The girl was muttering something under her breath as she spun on her heel and headed quickly out of the room. Each step brought a new nauseating sensation over Parker as he was whisked away from one bedroom, down a set of stairs, and into another bedroom.

Out of desperation, Parker began thrashing in this new girl’s grip. Every second Parker became more frantic.

Get out!

Get out!

Hide!

Parker’s body felt like it was acting on its own as he tried prying the girl’s fingers off of his body, but to no avail. The pads of his fingers merely pressed and slid off of the girl’s index finger that was wrapped around his chest.

“D-don’t! J-just l-let me go!” Parker shouted. The rules of Borrowers not speaking to humans was out of the window at this point.

“Hey… hey there, little guy. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” The girl spoke in a gentle, soft tone. It reminded Parker of the way his mom always spoke to him, but that was only one thing that caught his attention.

The voice sounded familiar.

The girl’s hand rotated as she continued to speak. “I know you’re scared and everything else, but you’re safe. I’m not going to tell anyone or expo… oh… my… gosh….”

The moment Parker saw the girl’s face and she saw his, Parker felt his stomach drop into his shoes. There was no denying it. He knew this girl. He’d know those green eyes anywhere; and she recognized him too.

“Parker?”

The Borrower teen’s vision swirled. Pinpoint vision overtook him as the girl’s name escaped his lips right as his consciousness faded. “Lyn?”

~~~~~^*^*^*^*^~~~~~

Continue

Previous

Beginning

[defilerwyrm]

Something that shook loose in my head this morning:

Ever since bottom surgery my relationship with my gender has shifted dramatically. It’s a much quieter and more peaceful thing that I can easily ignore and honestly just kinda forget about for stretches of time, instead of an ever-present claxon in my head screaming that something is wrong. Now, I just get to…exist.

And ever since, I have these weird little moments where my brain jogs in place over the fact that I’m not just another normative, average man, that I’m still trans, and damn, isn’t that fuckin’ weird.

What I realized is that, because my dysphoria was so bad, I’d grown to associate the state of transness with feelings of wrongness and lack and deep discomfort, and that’s what’s behind those moments of…reorientation and feeling weird about it. That state means something different now, and I think this stage of my life needs must be the one where I figure out what that is.

It’s an exciting prospect. For so long my transness was something that just made me miserable all the time, but now I’m on more level ground with it, and I’m faced with the challenge of sussing out what it means to me now that I feel whole.

What a time to be alive!

[chaseadrian]

left unattended

It's past midnight at your gym security job, and the cute member who's been coming around for months slips off the treadmill. What starts as a panic quickly turns into something a lot more exciting. [masterlist]

pairing: adrian chase x f!reader tags: 18+ ONLY, explicit, strangers to lovers, injury, casual voyeurism if you squint, semi-public sex, somewhat canon compliant, this does use my headcanon for adrian's healing factor, cunnilingus, fingering, protected sex, cute ending word count: 7.1k+ a/n: no, this isn't a joke, it's my best boy's birthday and i wanted to do something!! hope yall enjoy!

The back office at the gym was a jail cell. A tight, stuffy room with air conditioning that blew up at the ceiling and rattled a loose tile incessantly. There you sat, an envoy on wheels in front of four cheap monitors, overseeing the entire gym. Members weren't even aware the place was staffed after sunset, the sparse three or four gym goers coming to lift in peace.

That's how you like it, locked in your trashy little back office with snacks from the vending machine and the whole place mostly to yourself. Got a lot of reading done, and sometimes...sometimes, something interesting happened.

Tonight is one of those nights.

You'd seen him in the gym now and again when the sun was far gone and the night was settled into its typical peaceful terror. Dark brown hair, wire-rim glasses, always in a baggy shirt and black sweatpants. Sometimes he'd come in with a sheen of sweat already, his hair sticking to his forehead and the glasses askew, but as long as he did his reps without strangling himself, it wasn't much your business what state he came in.

The one thing that really stuck out was that he scanned his member card at the empty desk when he came in. It was already required at the card reader by the locked front door, but he always scanned it twice. A little peculiar, but better than the guys who thought midnight meant they could have their shirts off while they sweat all over the equipment.

You shudder to yourself in the room watching one of those exact men hop around from machine to machine without wiping them off. It isn't your job to clean up after grown men, but when he leaves, you still slump out of the chair with a grumble and make a quick trip around the floor, rag and disinfectant in hand.

There were horror stories of diseases transmitted via gym equipment, and the thought alone is enough to keep you scrubbing.

The sound of a muffled beep from outside stops you in your tracks, however, and you all but throw the supplies away as you dash back to the office.

A second beep from inside the gym settles the lingering nerves, and you sip your water as you watch Glasses slip into the locker room. You prefer not to assume the worst of the guys who work out at night, but this one seemed especially harmless. If he'd seen you, it wouldn't have been the scariest thing in the world.

You throw your feet up on the desk and recline in your chair as he comes out of the locker room, heading for the treadmill. He pushes his glasses up before he starts running, adjusting a pair of wired earphones as he finds his rhythm.

The picture on your monitor isn't exactly high definition, but he's got a nice profile, good stature. He runs with a little pep in his step. You can see his reflection in the monitor to the left, camera centered on a row of mirrors in front of the weight rack. He grimaces as he runs, bottom lip pulled down, teeth gritted.

Watching him breathe in through his teeth jumpstarts your own manual breathing. You close your lips and focus on pulling breath in through your nostrils, eyes trained on the stranger running on screen.

You watch him do the same as he slows the treadmill half a mile’s speed, one heavy breath out to reorient himself.

His eyes flick around to the nearest camera, or at least, it looks like they do, and for a second it's like he's in on the moment, breathing with you.

Shaking your head, you laugh quietly to yourself and flick your thumb over the pages of your book. All you could do during the night shift was imagine, these sappy, fantastic words carrying you away, sometimes head over heels.

You'd never heard Glasses speak, didn't know his name, and he was unaware you even existed.

He's just a cute stranger on a treadmill, and you're just bored.

You watch him speed back up, fumbling with his earbuds once again, when he loses his feet out from under him.

You gasp, sitting up and rushing out of the back office before you see him settle into his fall.

“Oh my god, sir, are you alright?” You keep a couple foot's distance. He isn't twisted or bent in any weird ways, by all appearances he just fell flat on the floor, but you'd rather not risk the liability by touching him before he asks for help.

“Ow, motherfucker.” His voice has a kick to it, with an edge of irritation, and he starts pushing himself up with the arm that landed under his torso. “Shit! Ow!”

You give him a wide berth as you come around to turn the treadmill off, the emergency clip crumpled at the bottom of the cupholder.

“Sir, I work here, I'm the night security officer, can I help you get up?”

He extends his free arm toward you, “This arm is the uninjured one.”

You wrap it around your shoulder, settling your hand on his back and supporting him best you can as he wobbles up. There was weight to him that you didn't expect, and couldn't surmise based on the squashed ratio of the office monitors.

“There's a first aid kit in the back, okay, and I'll call you an ambulance if —”

“No! No hospitals, I'm sure I'm alright. Just need a nap.”

He favors his arm as you guide him to the manager's office, parallel to the security office and tucked away from the floor.

“A nap is probably the last thing you need...if you have a concussion or—or a broken arm—”

“Mm-mm, didn't hit my head.” He lets you sit him down on the cheap couch in the office. Your boss said it was for wooing investors, but it's been a nap couch more than anything. Now it served as a half-assed gurney.

“Sir—”

“Adrian, my name is Adrian.” There was a coarseness to the way he spoke now, like the shock and hurt had settled into anger and impatience.

It felt informal and just too personal to use his name, the spirit of customer service holding tight to formality and pleasantries. Still, you relented, knowing pleasantries were the least of your worries right now.

“Adrian, you're bleeding from your lip, and your arm...”

He licks his bottom lip, smearing the blood away with his tongue, and his nose scrunches in response to the taste.

“I'll take an alcohol wipe.”

You dart over to the first aid kit on the wall and return with gauze, wipes, and a handful of bandages. Sitting down on the coffee table opposite Adrian, you pull back when he reaches for the supplies.

“Sorry, I have to administer first aid care if you don't want me to call an ambulance. They made me take a whole course and everything.” You slip on a pair of gloves.

“Understood, laying back down, and just so you know, I'm not allergic to latex.” He settles into the corner of the couch, cradling his arm, slowly circling his wrist, then his shoulder, his fingers pressing along the bones to feel for pain. He watches you tear open the alcohol wipe.

“We don't use latex gloves, but thanks. This will probably sting, sorry.” You press the wipe to his lip, and his nostrils flare, but he keeps from hissing or flinching, if he'd had the notion to do so at all.

Wiping the blood from his lip, you replace it with the gauze, “Once we get this bleeding stopped, we can see how bad it really is. When you ran your tongue over your lip, did it feel like you busted it? Just nod or shake your head for me, don't talk.”

He shakes his head, and you catch sight of his eyes for the first real time. It isn't so much the glinting pale green as it is the way he keeps them open, wide and alert, like a deer in headlights. He doesn't seem afraid, just aware, watching you as you press the gauze into his lip.

“That's good.” You gingerly nod, “And the arm? You don't think it's broken?”

He shakes his head again, and stretches the arm out in front of him, wincing, but circling his wrist to show off the mobility.

“Okay, okay, don't do that. You could have a hairline fracture or something, you landed on it right?”

He nods.

“Could have pinched a nerve or bruised something. I'll have to write up an incident report, especially since you don't want an ambulance called. Are you sure you don't want me to call?”

He nods again, and you press a fresh piece of gauze to his lip, dabbing to be certain the blood has stopped.

“I'm gonna take a look at your lip now, do you mind?”

“All yours.” His voice is still low, and he lets you tilt his face this way and that as you inspect the lip. His breath hits you as you tug his lip down to check the inside, a small hitch before an exhale, his body stiff for that split second.

“Alright, it's not totally busted, looks like you bit it during the fall, but just the outside punctured. There's really not a good bandaid for lips, unfortunately, but it should scab soon.”

You get up to toss the used supplies in the trash, and pull a sheet from the bottom drawer of the desk.

“I'll need your autograph on this guy once I've filled it out, sound good?”

Adrian half smiles at you, and shakes his head, “I don't sign anything without a lawyer present.”

You stare at him and press two fingers to your forehead, sighing, “I—okay, I'll have to call the general manager then, and—”

“Gotcha! Just a joke, you know, to lighten the mood. This is all pretty serious, but I'm fine, really! I just need a nap.” He settles horizontally on the couch, blinking hard, “I'll sign your paper after, deal?”

There's a pause, and he squints his eyes at you, “C'mon, are naps illegal here or something?”

“Well, no, but it's really dangerous for you to nap right now, I'm sorry, sir, but—”

“Great, then you can just watch me sleep the whole time. If I start dying, wake me up, but I'm one-hundred percent sure I'll be okay. I've fallen hundreds of times in my life.” He yawns, “And my name...” His eyelids slide closed, “...is Adrian...not 'sir.”

Before you can protest again, he's passed out, and you watch his chest rise and fall steadily. You grab a pen from the desk and sit on the floor next to him, scribbling out the incident report, your free hand hovering in front of his mouth to keep track of his breathing.

It's a short report, you stare at the last sentence, bolded with your pen: MEMBER DENIES EMERGENCY MEDICAL TRANSPORT AND ASSUMES FULL RESPONSIBILITY OF INJURY UPON LEAVE FROM THE PREMISES.

You sit for several more minutes, rereading the report, watching Adrian's breathing. The arm he hurt slowly falls from where it lays atop his chest, settling parallel to his body. He doesn't wince in his sleep, and his lips stay parted, a quiet snore vibrating past his mouth.

His sweat dried hair curls over his forehead, dark strands shining under the warm table lamp light.

When the adrenaline calms, and you aren't so immediately terrified of Adrian's state of injury, your thoughts again begin to wander.

He sleeps so peacefully on the couch, his features—objectively pretty whether you agree or not—still as he breathes, strong jaw giving way to a muscular neck, collarbones peeking out from the loose neckline of a too-big tee.

This man is gorgeous.

His little visage in the monitors didn't do him justice, a tiny grainy thing that lost the detail of his eyelashes, and the curve of his arms.

You aren't sure where to put this ill-timed, odd-placed attraction to the injured, sleeping man in front of you. You're sure it's inappropriate on some degree, unachievable on another.

He stirs for the first time and you jump up into one of the chairs around the coffee table, rereading the report again and again as he blinks awake with a quiet groan.

“Morning, were you watching me the whole time I was asleep?” He has a real smile, and you watch him push up to sit with ease, weight on his injured arm.

“You told me I should, so...” You slide the report closer to him, and offer the pen, “Deal's a deal.”

“That it is.” He scans the paper, muttering to himself, and nodding in approval. “Yeah, I'll take responsibility. I'm good as new, anyway.” He reaches for the pen with the injured arm, and signs the paper.

“Your arm sure is doing better.” You slip the paper into a folder on the desk, and drop the pen back in its place.

“Told you it would be.” He pushes himself up and walks over to you, placing both hands on either hip. “Sleep is the best medicine, after all.”

“Pretty sure laughter is the best medicine.”

He laughs at that, “That doesn't make any sense.”

You chuckle alongside him, a little charmed and a little thrown off.

“You're not wearing a nametag, you know, and you never introduced yourself.”

Adrian shifts gears faster than anyone you've ever seen, and you stutter in response, “Oh, right, well I don't really interact with the members so I just don't bother.”

“Long name.”

He smiles again, and you laugh before finally offering up your name.

“That makes more sense. Now onto the second most important question.” He leans in, hands still on his hips, “Can I see the security footage of me falling?”

“I— well, I can't take anyone into the security office...”

His features go crestfallen, and he looks away from you. Something about disappointing him drives a stake through your chest, and you're eager to wipe that upset from his face.

“B-but, I can take video of it on my phone and show you.”

As quickly as his demeanor falls, it lights back up, and he leans against the desk, crossing his arms, “I'll be awaiting your return!”

You tut, “Can't have anyone in the office without supervision either, you can wait out on the floor.”

“Say less.” He hops up and hurries out of the room.

You pop across the hall into the security office, rewinding through footage on the attached laptops. It doesn't take long to find movement amidst the minutes of stillness.

It was a hard fall, and you're genuinely amazed he made it up with minor scuffs and a possible bruise.

Flicking your gaze up to the current monitors, you see Adrian pacing the rows between machines, weaving in and out, doing figure eights at random. He pauses to look around, finding the nearest security camera, and he gives a quick wave before pointing toward the locker room. He shakes his hand over his mouth, like someone drinking from a glass.

If you were thinking differently, it could be something more suggestive, but the thought doesn't cross your mind. Not even for a split second.

Crossing the gym floor, phone in hand, you knock at the doorway to the locker room, “Adrian, you in here?“

“Yep, and I'm totally decent.”

“Well, I'd hope so.” You find him sat on a wooden bench, screwing the lid back onto a sad looking water bottle.

“Well, it is a locker room.” He says it without attitude, just an apparent fact that yeah, he could've been indecent in here.

You sit down next to him, and he scoots closer, your shoulders brushing together briefly, “It was a pretty bad fall, brace yourself.”

You're not exactly sure what reaction you were expecting from him, but the raucous laughter that follows the video isn't it.

Adrian leans back, his hand on his stomach, and he just about slips off the bench before catching himself. You're not sure you've ever heard such true laughter before, not for a long time, at least.

“Can I see it again?” He can barely get the words out, but you play it again, and he continues to lose it. The laughter echoes in the tile covered locker room, and you can't help yourself when you start to laugh as well.

Covering your face with a hand, you catch his gaze, laughing together for several minutes before you have to find your breath. His hand is on your shoulder, steadying you both, not harsh, just stable.

“Oh, man,” His voice has lifted, and he shakes his head, “You've gotta send that to me. Please tell me that's allowed.”

“Yeah, sure, nothing in the rulebook that outlaws that.” You cool with the last dredges of your laughter, cheeks warm and smile lines firm in your face. “Here, put your number in.”

He hands the phone back to you, having sent himself a text that says 'Hi Adrian!'

You send the video right then and there, watching as he pulls his phone out from his bag with a smile. He loses it with laughter upon replay, and he texts back a string of merman emojis.

“Merman? Didn't even know that existed.”

“The ocean is full of crazy stuff, Aquaman is really just the tip of the iceberg.” He slips his phone back into his bag, and turns to you, a smile stuck on his face.

You smile in response, too awestruck to speak. He has the enthusiastic cadence of a party clown, with none of the added discomfort. You actually feel at ease sitting here with him in the late hours of the night. Panicked beginnings aside, he'd woken with what seemed like a new lease on life, and pulled a total 180 on you.

He shifts the conversation when you break eye contact, his firm stare warming your cheeks and kicking up butterflies.

“My friends and I go to this bar on Saturdays, you should come and tell the whole story to them! The video is cool and all, but nothing beats an eyewitness account, it'd be so badass.” His voice sounds genuine, but it's a pretty big leap from one moment to the next.

“I—” You let out a quiet laugh, wanting to jump at the opportunity to see him somewhere in the actual, real world, and not immediately following a potentially catastrophic fall. There's no way he's serious, though, and you shake your head without meeting his eyes.

He swings a leg over the bench and scoots closer, “Are you shy or something? You were totally cool and collected when I busted my ass an hour ago…” Pondering for a moment, he frowns, “Oh, or do you not want to drink beer with me and my friends? It's your choice, but I gotta say you'd be missing out, one of my friends is a lesbian so she can get us into a bar where the beer tastes like skittles.”

You laugh again, and meet his eyes, “I just kinda thought you were joking about that.”

He furrows his brow, “No way, dude, it really would be badass! And maybe my best friend would finally get off my ass about finding another chick to join the crew.“

Getting carried away, he animates with his hands, and changes his voice, “He'd be all 'Wow, Adrian, where'd you find this babe, that's so awesome of you.' and I'd tell him how you came to my rescue like a minor league superhero, then you can tell them the rest of the story.”

Catching your unwavering eyeline, he straightens his posture, “Or, y'know, something totally different and more casual.”

All you can do is laugh. You're being pulled between calm familiarity and daunting giddiness. By all accounts, you should have returned to the back office, bidding Adrian goodnight and hoping the nap truly was some magic fix-it.

But here you were, sitting in the sterile, silent locker room next to him, in a pause that only grew more tense with each passing second.

“I'm in.” You finally speak, swallowing the nerves that thrum in your chest, “As long as you actually do introduce me as the babe that saved your life.”

You extend a hand.

Adrian lights up, and he takes it, “Deal.”

A good handshake should last two or three seconds, based on every job interview you've ever had, but Adrian shakes your hand for a long, long time. His smile remains enthusiastic, but you're almost certain he's slowly pulling you in with the tight grip of his hand.

You let it ride, inching closer on the smooth lacquered wood of the bench, almost invisibly.

His eyes stay wide as he makes his first obvious move, leaning in, your hands close to his chest.

“Would it be weird if we kissed right now?”

Your breath hitches. The question comes out of thin air, but with the constant whiplash of your entire time knowing Adrian, it isn't a complete surprise. You part your lips to respond, a weak stutter escaping.

“Wait—”

There's an immediate disappointment that pounds in your heart, and you watch Adrian's eyes flicker around the locker room. He leans closer, “Are there cameras...in here?”

“No.” You whisper, and then, a little louder, “To both questions.”

The slow smile of realization crosses his lips, and before you can even decipher why, he's kissing you.

It isn't rough or quick or even with very much passion, but it's a good, solid kiss. He wraps his hand around yours, cradling them between your chests, smiling through it. This doesn't have the familiarity you felt sitting next to him, but it wasn't lighting you up inside either.

It was a first kiss, truly. Bumpy and awkward, and you found your mind rewinding through the night, wondering how you ended up here. How you'd managed to find the one gym weirdo who put you at ease and was cute enough to kiss so early into an official meeting. Another part of you felt like a creeper, having seen him so many nights, having fixated a little when you got restless with your books.

You pull away, and he searches for your lips with his eyes closed before accepting the loss, still holding onto your hand.

“Adrian, I know we honestly literally just met, but I feel like I should tell you something.”

“Okay.” He sits expectantly, his glasses askew.

“I've been watching you in the back office for like, a long time.” Your eyes settle on your intertwined hands.

He tuts, and rolls his eyes with a smile, “Of course you have, it's your job.”

“No, like, you specifically. I dunno, you're the cutest person who comes in during the night shift, and it's pretty boring back there most of the time. It just felt weird because I've known of you for a while, but you didn't even know I was here, and, I don't know, I feel like a creeper kissing you.”

He raises his eyebrows, “You think I'm the cutest person? I kinda thought you were kissing me out of pity, like, maybe you're afraid I really do have a concussion and could die.”

You laugh, “You sure you don't want to go to the hospital?”

He shakes his head, “Nope, don't need it.” Leaning in, there's an excitement in his voice when he next speaks, “I will take another kiss, though.”

The next kiss is less awkward, and Adrian's free hand coils around your waist to pull you as close as he can get you on the bench. He drops your hand and slips his fingers around the back of your neck, enveloping you with his touch.

This feels like the kind of kiss that happens more than once. You knot a hand in his shirt, and rest the other atop his thigh. You're certain he had you tight in his grip, but the hand on his thigh was more a mental ground than anything else, your fingertips squeezing his musculature.

You could get very easily carried away in a kiss like this, and with Adrian's hold tight around you, it doesn't take long to decide you'll go as far as he wants in this locker room.

Slipping a hand in his hair, you tug him away from your lips, exposing his throat. Your eyes meet his as you drag your mouth up towards his cheekbone, dotting kisses around his face, down to the edge of his jaw, and finally to the pulpit of his neck. The faintest trace of salt is stuck on his skin, a remnant of the workout that led you here, and you latch your lips to the spot until all you can taste is skin.

When you pull back, there's a rosy pink mark, and his eyes are glossing over. You peck his lips with yours, and he blinks hard, leaning into the direction your fingers graze against his scalp.

His eyes catch yours, and as he comes back to the moment, you see the faintest flicker of his eyelids, the slightest kick of his eyebrow.

Without a word, he tugs you into his lap on the bench, and you fumble at the sight of his arms flexing around you.

He's cute alright, but the bits of his body that you can see are absolutely outrageous.

His hands find home on your hips, and he leans backward to lay on the hardwood, pulling you down with him, your breath connecting your mouths before you can find enough footing to kiss again.

You don't need the guidance of his hands to start rocking back and forth on top of him, the need that follows his tongue in your mouth is more than enough to get you going, but the burning touch of his fingerprints isn't unwelcome.

Between kisses he mutters, “You comfortable? Your legs spread just right?” It should come off more facetious than it does, there's a layer of desperation to it, a desire to please.

You hum into his mouth, “Mm, for now.” And he chuckles at the response, whispering, “Good, and you're sure there are no cameras in here?”

“Certain, but we can move somewhere else if you're nervous.”

He shifts a hand from your hip to your hair, running a fingertip along the hairline, his thumb over your eyebrow. He taps you on the nose, “Not nervous, just don't want you to lose this cool job because of me.”

You lean down for another kiss, and slip a hand under the hem of his shirt, “It'd be worth it.”

Adrian shuts up then, letting you slide the shirt over his head and toss it into the open bag beside you. You knew on some level he had to be muscular—he came to the gym five times a week, but you still aren't prepared for the breadth of his muscle. His pecs are spattered with light freckles, and he has a harsh farmer's tan on his arms.

You sit back on his lap, just admiring the view, circling your hips a little to watch him squirm underneath you.

He giggles, the faintest blush blooming under his cheeks.

“Wow. I—wow.” You exhale.

Tugging you back down, Adrian shushes you as he buries his head in the crook of your neck, kissing from your pulse to your clothed shoulder. Your skin underneath almost burns for his lips on you, and you wrench off the branded gym shirt without his prompting.

“Woah, I thought I was the eager one.”

You shush him now, and with the decision made for him, his hands roam over the warm body you've given him.

He doesn't ask when he slips his fingertips underneath the cup of your bra, his palm over your breast, the other hand fiddling with the clasp. When it snaps free, he's quick to wrap his mouth over your exposed breast, tongue swirling around the field of nerves, just faintly sucking.

Grinding your hips down harder, he pulls back from your chest with a pop! and his eyes drag down your body.

“I can't believe this is happening.” He breathes, both hands coming over your breasts now, sliding up slowly to watch how they fall back into place when he lets go. He seems mesmerized, and you draw his attention by pulling a hand up to your mouth, and letting him slip two fingers over your tongue.

You haven't exactly been dreaming about this moment, not really. It's more an intrigue, a curiosity. Adrian wasn't a crush, just the cute boy at the gym that got you through your boring night shifts sometimes.

And yet, he was here, laid out in front of you, his fingers in your mouth, and his cock hard underneath you.

In your wildest dreams you wouldn't have imagined this much.

Everything you do seems to mesmerize him, and now he watches with awe as you swirl your tongue around his fingers, his interest cut with moans as you grind on his bulge.

His hips languish towards you, not bucking exactly, just pushing, an almost involuntary side effect of the desperation that's spiraling in him.

You take the soaked fingers from your mouth and guide them down to the hem of your track pants, watching as Adrian's eyes follow with excitement.

He's all but given himself over to you—there are little moments when you can feel him trying to gain some control, but he just as quickly falls back into this quiet hypnosis, eager to please and ready to do whatever you want of him.

Guiding his hands over the wet folds of your cunt, you rest his first two fingers on your clit and circle them just so.

Adrian wrests free from your grip in this moment, sitting up and forcing you backward on the bench. He hovers over you, leaning down to whisper in your ear, his breath hot and harsh, but still with a smile, “I know what I'm doing. Just because I'm in awe of your body, of your tits, of that fucking hot tongue of yours, doesn't mean I'm clueless.”

He tugs down the waist of your track pants, pressing sloppy, wet kisses from the center of your pelvis up between your breasts as his fingers slide along your lips, slick with saliva and arousal. He circles your clit before slipping back down towards your entrance, and he presses two curled fingers inside you. The instant shot of pressure has you arching your back up off the bench, but he sets his free hand firm on your stomach, forcing you back down.

You curse and writhe as he fucks you with his fingers, his thumb stretching up to circle your clit best it can, little nicks of flesh that drive you crazier than if he were to go full on.

The harder you fight, squirming under his touch, the deeper you can hear his smile as he coos at you.

“That's it,” and “Good girl,” and “I told you, huh?” as you struggle underneath his hold.

Adrian lets his weight settle onto you eventually, swallowing your moans with his kisses, the cotton bulge of his sweatpants grazing your thigh. You reach blindly for it, and he lets you palm him over the fabric, his touch on you faltering just barely before his resolve steadies.

The ebb and flow of his fingers doesn't grow stale, but you do grow more desperate, and with each kiss you wish more and more that it was his mouth between your legs.

“Adrian, mm, fuck, can you—”

He pulls away, slowing the rhythm of his fingers, and you jerk up against him.

“Jesus, use your mouth. Please, I need it.” You choke out, and you hear his smile once more. It seems to never go away.

“Anything for my guardian angel.”

The pet name shoots a warm spiral in your belly, and you know you've no right to even be referred to as anything heavenly, especially not now, but fuck if it doesn't sound good with his cheerful cadence.

He lays his tongue flat over your lips, shaking his head left to right to settle it into your folds and hit as many nerves as he can as he licks up once, twice, three times before he lets the tip run over your clit.

The feeling is white hot, a mess of spit and flesh and his warm, spongy tongue. Adrian stares up at you as he works, his gaze menacing from this angle. He seems pleased to keep his eyes fixed on yours, but the angle cranes your neck uncomfortably.

You let your head fall back on the bench with a thud, pressing your hand hard over your forehead to push away the beads of sweat that form. Your free hand slips into his hair, combing through the strands, and grabbing tight when you can no longer keep rhythm.

His hands wrap tight around your thighs, keeping you latched to his mouth, and if you were asked, you couldn't even wager a guess as to what he was doing down there. His spit pooled on the bench, and he sucked two wet marks into one of your thighs, the faintest nip of teeth punctuating them.

“Am I gonna make you come?” He asks, breathless and muffled from between your legs, and all you can do in response is whine and grip his hair tighter, pushing him into your cunt, “Fuck, I love those noises you're making.”

You feel one of his hands leave your thigh, and he moans against you, a deep, shuddered breath that hits your pussy in a way you're sure he didn't intend to feel good.

“Adrian, you know I'm gonna take care of you, right?“ You can barely get the words out, staving off the impending orgasm that coils in your body. ”Don't make yourself come yet, I wanna do it.”

The groan that he emits in response is hungry, and the slick noises of his tongue on you grow filthier, louder, faster. He hums against you, and as he slides a hand up your stomach to hold you down again, you lose it.

Arching away from the bench and into his hand, your moans echo off the lockers, legs shaking in a wave that starts at your stomach and radiates out through you. They're quick, successive pulses, and if Adrian's hold on you wasn't so strong, you're sure you would've rolled right off that bench.

He laps up the viscous mixture of spit and arousal until the touch grows overwhelming, and you have to tell him it's too much.

“Come here.” You say, and he swipes a hand over his sheening mouth as you sit up and tug at his sweatpants, kissing around the harsh lines of his pelvis.

“You don't have to—”

You shush him, pressing your lips around the outline of his bulge as you drag the fabric down. Staring up at him, you watch his wide eyes flicker between you and the near exposed erection, his hands dead at his sides.

You're certain you look the same way he did when he was playing with your breasts, mesmerized and taken aback by the hot stranger that's allowed you to touch them. His erection springs out from the boxers that come down with his sweatpants. It isn't the largest you've ever seen, in person or not, but it's swollen and dripping with precum, and it jumps when you faintly smear the precum over the tip.

Standing back up, you tug Adrian to your lips with a hand around his neck, the other slipping up and down the length of his shaft. He whimpers into your mouth, and your cunt starts to throb.

“We're gonna fuck, right? Oh, please tell me you want me to fuck you. I have a condom in my bag, if you want that.” Adrian pulls back from you, his Adam's apple straining hard in his throat as he regains some sense of composure.

You laugh, and nod, and it's all Adrian needs.

He pushes you backwards towards the cheap excuse for a vanity, and you hit the edge of the counter before he lifts you up and sets you on it.

Breaking to rifle through his bag, you spend this moment taking in the sight of his entire body. His cute, hapless face and wide eyes are antithetical to his broad musculature, but the dimples at his lower back make you smile. He turns around with a wrapped condom in hand, waving it at you with a half smile, pushing up his glasses.

His lips latch to your neck as he gets his hands under the backs of your knees, letting you fall into the mirror, body curved as he slots himself just in front of your entrance.

He pulls away and rests one of your legs atop his shoulder so he can roll the condom over his length, and fuck if he isn't sensitive. He shudders just doing that, and you wonder how easily he could come if there was nothing between you for protection.

Grabbing at your legs, he tugs you onto his cock, your ass half on the counter, mostly supported by him. The tendons in his neck strain as he lets out a string of quiet expletives, and you gasp at the full pressure of him inside you. He turns his head and kisses the side of your knee, bucking his hips forward slowly at first.

He grits his teeth and screws his eyes shut, leaning forward to envelope you best he can as he picks up the pace. He's just shy of your lips, but he takes the offering of your thumb in his mouth, fingers splayed over his cheek.

You grind your head back against the mirror, focused on your breathing, moans escaping on each exhale.

You don't know that anyone has ever felt better inside you.

Adrian fills you up entirely, his pelvis rutting against yours, the head of his cock like a ball of lead inside you that hits over and over again, muddying your insides.

He finally finds your mouth, his tongue pushing between your lips and slipping around without rhythm or care. These kisses are sloppy and desperate, interrupted by whimpers and curses and Adrian's tendency to wander down to your breasts.

Digging your nails into his lower back, you push him impossibly closer, and his teeth sink into the flesh of your chest, tongue flicking over the hard bud of your nipple. He stops fucking into you and starts grinding his pelvis instead, cock buried deep inside you, and the friction of his skin on your cunt sending shockwaves down your legs. If the pressure wasn't enough to get you close again, the byproduct of his movements was.

You grip him tighter, hold him closer, you want every inch of his skin on you, sticking and sweaty and so harsh it'll hurt to peel away at the end of this.

Adrian licks from your nipple up your chest, along the side of your neck before latching his lips to the edge of your jaw.

“Fuck, I'm—shit—” Your hair musses up against the mirror, and before you can get a full sentence out, you're shaking under him again, the pressure in your gut rising up through your body, like a string tugging you toward Adrian, your body arching until your spine feels like it's going to snap in two.

He breaks away from your neck, kissing you through the second orgasm, his hands squeezing underneath your knees.

You barely register the gasp he lets out into your mouth, but you're riding the last dredges of your climax when you feel his rhythm falter. He lets one of your legs slip out of his grasp and rest in the crook of his elbow as he braces himself with a palm on the mirror.

Through gritted teeth he moans, sucking in harsh air, and he rests his forehead against yours as he comes, still pumping inside you through it, pulling every last bit of pleasure he can from the moment. You feel it pool beneath your entrance as it slips from the opening of the condom, fucked out and overflowing.

As he regains some composure, he gently sets your legs down, his hands gentle on your hips to keep you from sliding off the counter, slick with sweat.

“Maybe I do have a concussion,” He pants, leaning forward to give you a soft kiss, “Something that good only happens in my dreams.”

You laugh, and kiss him again, “This is the last time I'll offer an ambulance.”

He meets your gaze, fingers smoothing the back of your hair, and he shakes his head, “I think you healed all my ailments.“

There's more laughter, more kissing, but eventually you peel away from each other, and it does hurt, but Adrian takes your hand and doesn't let go.

“Are there showers in this place? I never thought to look because showering in public is a biohazard if I've ever heard one.”

You nod, “Yeah, the women's are used less though, so they're cleaner.”

Rifling through the pocket of your track pants, you pull a small set of keys out and open up the supply closet in the locker room, tossing a towel to Adrian before wrapping one around yourself.

He gathers your discarded clothes and his bag, following you into the other locker room with his fingers wrapped around your wrist.

The running water fills the silence of the gym, and you both crowd under the spout, sighing at the warmth.

It's a quick rinse, Adrian combing his fingers over your scalp, you pressing a kiss to the hickey you'd left earlier. Neither of you say anything, all shy smiles and admiring glances.

When you get out, he roughs the towel over your head and you dry each other off before sitting in the warm steam of the room in the damp towels. You're opposite him in the hallway by the showers, legs against each other.

“So, you're going to come to the bar, right?” He asks, fiddling with a loose thread.

“Deal's a deal.”

He smiles, “I'm glad you saved my life.”

You roll your eyes, but his voice is earnest. There's something special about him, you're certain, and you really think he'd give you the chance to figure it out. He doesn’t seem like a one and done kinda guy, his eyes glistening as he stares at you. You could get attached to this kind of casual admiration.

You crawl over to sit next to him, taking his hand, “Hey, maybe one day you can return the favor.”

[jpitha]

The First Few Rows Will Get Wet

Just for a moment, it looked like everything was going to work out.

The Starjumper Remaining Grace was taken by surprise while headed to the research station Rear Window. Pirates had been spotted operating in the general area, but they were known to leave the research stations alone.

Three pirate ships - calling them ships was generous, they were hulks destined for the scrapyard mostly - descended upon Remaining Grace as they made preparations to link away. Most of the time, piracy is pointless between the stars. Any ship out there can just link to a new location and with no way to track a link, there's no point in attempting to pursue. Pirates tend to be a local problem, centering on centers of populace. Rear Window, Vertigo, and North By Northwest are all long distance observation stations a short link from the Starbase Rakish Swagger. Everyone - including the local authorities - assumed the Pirates were based out of Swagger, but nobody could prove it.

Grace was full of supplies and scientific equipment and so a target that the pirates could not pass up. As they attacked from above, Grace defended themselves.

"Two are coming in from 11 o'clock high, one is trying to sneak around to the rear!" Penny LaGrange calls out from the radar station. Grace runs a small crew, so everyone helps out with the roles. She isn't the radar operator, but she was closest to the station when the attack started.

Captain Kennison grips the arms of his chair tighter. "Grace, did you WEP the reactors? We need all three batteries going while being able to finish computing the link home." He doesn't bother with the whole lines about giving permission and telling Grace the order with which to make decisions, Remaining Grace is five times older than the whole crew put together, he assumes they know what they're doing."

"Aye Captain, we're at War Power and climbing. Primary, Secondary and Tertiary batteries are free and firing. Henry, where are we with those link coordinates?"

"Sorry Grace, working on it. The computer crashed, I had to restart it. We're calculating from zero again." Henry Smithfield is sitting at the other station, willing the computer to calculate faster.

It's just the three of them and Grace themselves. Small crews are pretty normal these days. An AI can honestly run an entire ship themselves and they often do. Having more hands helps though, especially when things get busy. Henry's station pings and he looks up, relieved. "We have coordinates! We can link away anyti-"

A ripple of heavy thumps interrupts his announcement. From the Command deck, an alarm can be heard quietly warning the crew that isn't in engineering.

"Lucky hit! Reactor 4 is venting and entering overspeed!"

Sweat beads on Captain Kennison's forehead. "Grace, can you dump it and we link away before it blows?"

"We're going to try. Henry, enter the coordinates and link away on my command!"

"You got it Grace, coordinates entered and ready."

"Aaaaaaand-" There was a loud booming clang as a door was flung open -"now-"

****

Captain Kennison came to consciousness slowly, painfully. What was going on? Why was he on the floor? "Huh, this carpet is nice" he thought, as his consciousness rose to prominence and he heard the muffled shouts of Remaining Grace "Captain Kennison! Captain Kennison!"

He sat up. "What is it Grace, did we link away? That was quite a hit."

"Yes Captain, it looks like we had a missile strike as soon as we opened the wormhole, it detonated as we linked away. I took a very hard hit. We have other problems right now though."

It was then that Peter Kennison heard a noise that he had never heard aboard a Starjumper.

He heard the roar of atmosphere.

"We're falling!"

"Yes Captain, there was a link error, we've entered an atmosphere."

"What about juke charges? I remember reading that was used during a mis-link to reorient the ship"

"I'm too large Captain. I think I know the event you're talking about, it was a Frigate early in the K'laxi/Xenni war. We're going to have to land."

"Land?" Captain Kennison sounded incredulous. "Can a Starjumper land? I didn't think the could."

Remaining Grace sounded testy. "No, they normally can't. I don't know about you, but I don't particularly want to slam into a planet, do you?" Grace threw an image up on the screen as Henry and Penny regained consciousness. "It appears that this world is mostly water, so we're going to try to ditch in the ocean. I need you three to rig for ditching while I try and orient us Stardrive down and use that to slow our decent."

"Rig for ditching?" Penny shakes her head and wipes some blood from her forehead.

"Water landing. Now please help, I need to concentrate."

As the three of them got out of their seats, they felt and heard the Stardrive fire erratically. Grace was trying to use bursts of thrust to steer them and that combined with the gyros was setting them engine first towards the planet.

When people see a Starjumper in space, they think it's long. It's a reasonable assumption. Most Starjumpers are between 3 and 5 kilometers long with smooth sweeping lines.

They're incorrect though. A Starjumper isn't long.

It's tall.

All of the decks of a Starjumper are oriented like floors on a skyscraper. If you think about it, that makes sense. Starjumpers existed before wormhole technology, before artificial gravity even. They would thrust at 1 gee for weeks, and then coast between stars, before flipping over and thrusting again at 1 gee to slow down. With the engines at the "back" thrusting at 1 gee made that the "floor." Orient the ship like a building and now everyone is comfortable while they thrust.

Falling through the atmosphere, Remaining Grace looked like a skyscraper falling on a pillar of intermittent fire. While Grace worked hard to keep from slamming into the ocean, Penny and Henry ran around the bridge, flipping ancient mechanical levers and switches that were hidden behind long disused panels, while James shouted commands reading from a very old doc on his pad. Some paranoid engineer a thousand years ago worried that a Starjumper might have to make a water landing, so a process was developed and tested.

Finally, Grace was able to get themselves mostly oriented correctly, and fired their Stardrive. In the atmosphere, the roar of the drive was intense. The whole ship vibrated and roared as they rode the pillar of fire. "We're still going too fast!" Grace sounded like they were speaking through gritted teeth, this must be taking nearly all their effort. "You need to buckle up, I'm boosting to three gee."

Everyone quickly scrambled to their seats and strapped themselves in as Grace ramped up the thrust. As they sat in their seats, pressed by the hidden hand of thrust, they could feel the thrust swing around as Grace worked to keep themselves pointed straight up and down.

After what felt like an eternity, the Stardrive cut, everyone felt a sickening drop as they fell the last few feet, and then there was a gentle rocking as the ship bobbed like a buoy in the ocean. "Everyone, I can say for sure that I am as surprised as you all are, but we're down and safe." Grace sounded... amazed that it worked?

"Thanks Remaining Grace, that was masterfully done." Penny and Henry gave their assent. "But... now what? How do we get home?"

"That... is a little harder. We're going to have to repair or replace the wormhole generator and link back... somewhere. Probably Rakish Swagger or Rear Window themselves. It's not like they don't need the supplies anymore."

"But Grace, can we link from the surface of a planet? Do we have to boost to orbit first?" Penny was scanning the area, trying to figure out where they were."

"Honestly, Penny, I don't know."

[chickenstrangers]

Time and Grief in Eternal Yesterday

Eternal Yesterday (Eien no Kinou) is an astonishing show. It is one of the most visceral explorations of grief, letting the audience sit with the feeling of it, that I have seen on screen for a long time. I especially loved how it explored the experience of time while grieving.

Grief alters time. It changes your internal sense of time. It takes you out of equilibrium with everyone who is not experiencing grief with you. The world moves on. People move on. People forget. The clocks don't stop despite our pleas. Grief bisects time; events become labeled Before and After. Everything reorients around it.

This disorientation of time is what Eternal Yesterday conveys so powerfully, both in its magical realism conceit and in its technical structure and pacing.

First, I would also like to talk about a poem. @bengiyo also shared a phenomenal poem by Shane Koyczan in this wonderful post about this show which I have been thinking about and listening to again and again (reading by the poet here, transcript here). While I was watching, I had another poem ringing in my head. I think there is something about grief that is often best captured in the sparseness of poetry for me personally, and in that way Eternal Yesterday feels a bit like a poem, and echoes these poems.

Recently, I have been reading Victoria Chang's poetry book Obit, which frames her grief over her mother's death and her father's illness as deconstructed obituaries.

The difference is called grieving. I think this is the space that Eternal Yesterday occupies. It uses magical realism to forcibly extend the period before reality and grief can fully set in. Mitsuru is desperately clinging to the moment of before, when Koichi hasn't actually died yet, because once he leaves that moment he can't go back.

In the moments before the truck driver comes and sees the body, Mitsuru is in a state of denial, an impossible version of events in which Koichi survived the impact and being thrown in the air for meters, even though all the evidence points to his death. He calls his name, expecting him to just wake up. The truck driver's reaction cements the truth of his death that Mitsuru could not even let himself imagine in those first few moments. There's a moment where we can see the flicker of horrific recognition on Mitsuru's face. But then Koichi starts moving again, and Mitsuru is once again in an impossible reality where Koichi can survive as the living dead, a miracle. Eternal Yesterday effectively resets the timeline to the moments before the death becomes real for Mitsuru.

The rest of the story takes place within that moment, but elongates the stage of denial. It takes place outside of time. Koichi's body has disregarded time, the doctor tells them. It is staving off all actual evidence of decay, but it doesn't erase the damage that has already been done and the bruises and cuts remain as a terrible reminder. This really effective element of body horror forces the audience and the characters to sit in a very specific moment in time; this is not a ghost who has cast earthly wounds aside, nor a zombie who continues to decay. Koichi and Mitsuru are trapped in the moment of death, the eternal yesterday. Mitsuru isn't ready to let go yet, and neither is Koichi.

The drawn out nature of this undeath contrasts with how suddenly Koichi dies. Instantaneous (I think again of Koyczan's poem). There is no way for the characters to anticipate this death. Compare this to Mitsuru's mother, who was chronically ill, dying in a hospital away from her son in an attempt to insulate him from grief. But despite her prolonged illness and her distance from Mitsuru, it doesn't seem like Mitsuru was really able to process his loss, just creating a wall around it to protect himself. With Koichi's undeath, they get that extra time together, and maybe that helps in some ways. As @waitmyturtles writes, they get to spend those final moments together, knowingly, intentionally, in a way that Mitsuru only got with his mom after her death when he saw her ghost. The magic gives them back these moments.

At the beginning, it seems as if time has stopped for everyone around them as well, but slowly people start to not be able to see Koichi. They begin to move on, and forget. Koichi seems to have reconciled with this fact: "If you die, you're slowly forgotten. It's normal. The living are busy thinking of other living people." Mitsuru is angry at the thought that anyone could forget about Koichi, and that the signs of their forgetfulness are proof that Koichi is getting closer and closer to disappearing.

This is such a beautiful metaphor for how it feels to grieve someone when the rest of the world keeps spinning. Time has stopped for Mitsuru, but not for all his classmates, even though they cared for Koichi too. It's a cruel truth. Time starts to speed up again as Koichi begins to disappear in front of others, but Mitsuru is still clinging to him.

Mitsuru holds onto Koichi with both fists. There's anger behind his denial of Koichi's death. He repeatedly tries to remind Koichi that he's still alive, gets angry when he's referred to as dead, and when people can't see Koichi any more.

But it is Mitsuru's love that sustains Koichi for this long, and his unwillingness to let go of his memory. It seems like love itself is what keeps Koichi here. Even when he disappears for most people, Mitsuru and Koichi's family still see him. Even after Koichi truly dies, when he stops being a living corpse, we see that his memory does live on in Mitsuru, and in the lives of the other people who loved him. The teacher who sent Mitsuru a photograph that shouldn't exist. Koichi's friends and family continuing to honor and remember him, and staying in contact with Mitsuru.

@gillianthecat writes beautifully about Japanese dramas and the use of place and space. There's a quietness and a stillness often. Eternal Yesterday echoes this, and in some ways turns time into a place, anchoring the drama to a liminal threshold, the pause that allows Mitsuru and Koichi to process what has happened.

Koichi and Mitsuru's story takes place outside of time. The editing and structure of the show also interrupts the linearity of time. Multiple times we are shown the end of a scene, and then shown its beginning scenes or even episodes later. The show revisits scenes, recontextualizes them, like when they get back from the hospital and Koichi admits he's scared that he's a corpse; the teachers in the stairwell we later learn were found in the aftermath of their breakup. Koichi is hit by the truck in the very opening of the show, but we don't see all of it until the end of the episode and the beginning of the next. Through this editing, the show destabilizes time, and calls into question our perception of events.

It also does this with the opening and closing credits. Each episode grounds the audience at the start in a joyful past that the characters can never return to, and at the end in an impossible future that they will never see ("If we were adults, would we be making a toast and drinking beer?"). The show oscillates between these two endpoints, and they put the viewer off balance for what to expect. But at the close of the show, we see the camping scene recontextualized. Mitsuru is alone, but he still has pieces of Koichi with him. The false insinuation of a happy ending is replaced with bittersweet reality.

How long does it take to grieve someone? Does it ever stop? Their teacher is still mourning his boyfriend's death 20 years later. Mitsuru is shown grieving 5 years after Koichi's death. He tells us his sadness never went away. The experience of grief is different with that distance, but it doesn't disappear. The show invites us to sit in a specific moment of that grief, but it shows us also how it continues afterwards.

Koichi's death is drawn out, the stage of denial extended, but eventually time catches up with both of them. Koichi knows it ("My time is almost up"). Mitsuru begins to understand it ("Isn't it just a matter of time?"). The day Mitsuru's home sick, "the time felt too long." The dissonance between this piece of time that they have carved out for themselves and the reality of time's continual passage becomes impossible to ignore.

Koichi lingering as a living corpse gives both him and Mitsuru a bit more time together. Even if it's just a few days, there's beauty in that. Because of that time, Koichi gets to hold his newborn sister. He gets to be a part of that moment with his family. Koichi and Mitsuru get to love each other for just a little longer. They get to say goodbye.

This is a sad show. But it's okay to be sad sometimes. It's okay to explore this sadness is art, in queer art. It can be healing to sit in these emotions for a little while, like Mitsuru and Koichi do in the show. To take the time to process it and connect with these stories.

Thank you to @bengiyo's post and the podcast for putting a new favorite show on my radar, and @lurkingshan and @waitmyturtles for sharing their thoughts and love for the show.

[orionsangel86]

Subtext Glorious Subtext! A Dreamling on Netflix analysis in The Sandman - Part 8

Reunited

Love means never having to say you're sorry - but you still should anyway!

8 chapters later we finally made it to the reunion! Phew! After a trip through 6 centuries and a whole emotionally rollercoaster of highs and lows, dramatic fights, flirtations, rain soaked break ups, angst filled abandonments, and everything in between, we reach the modern day once again and reunite with Dream as he stares sadly at the remains of the abandoned White Horse Tavern.

Now the audience knows exactly who he was returning too, and how important it is. What did Hob do when he discovered the White Horse was closing down? Surely he did something? We ask ourselves this as Dream looks down to find red painted arrows on the fence around the White Horse, directing him to a new inn literally called The New Inn.

Unsure what he will find, we follow Dream as he finds the New Inn and enters. @mimisempai did an excellent meta post of Dream's thought process during this reunion scene here which I adore (I admit I have used a lot of their gifs for this series so please give their stuff a reblog and give them a follow - gifmakers are the lifeblood of fandom and I wish I had the talent to do what they do).

I love how after all of the tension and clear discomfort he felt after leaving his sister, as he walked through the streets of London under the judging eyes of all those mortals who considered him "other", he finally finds somewhere he belongs. The tiny pause as he spots Hob sitting in the corner, and relief that passes across his face at that moment. He reorientates himself, and approaches.

Hob Gadling sits to one side, apparantly grading some papers, indicating that in this century he is a teacher of some kind. Without even looking up he pauses, aware of Dream's presence before even seeing him, even after all these years. He looks up slowly and his face lights up. It's glorious. Its so dramatic. It's such a relief to see.

After 133 years, there is no doubt, no questioning, no hurt shown, just immediate joy at seeing Dream again, and just a touch of that cheeky flirtation that we have come to associate with Hob. His first words: "You're late."

The way Dream smiles in this scene is unlike anything else we've seen from him so far the whole season. In a complete 180 from how he was acting at the start of this episode, and in a dramatic turn from even how he reacted to the other humans who looked his way on his return to Hob, Dream is open here, relaxed, at peace, content. All things we have NEVER seen from him before.

In the comic scene in 1989, as I previously showed in Chapter 7, the reunion between Hob and Dream went as follows:

Hob is nervous here, but in the show, in 2022, Hob has already had to deal with being stood up, and instead upon reuniting with Dream he keeps it light and playful, indicating to us that all is already forgiven - Hob's love for Dream shines through regardless of apologies and explanations. He doesn't need them, he's just happy Dream returned to him. Now unlike the comic, Dream apologises here anyway. This is particularly significant because Dream at this point in the comics is still rather resistant to apologies. It's another indication of how quickly the show is changing Dream. Where Hob clearly doesn't need the apology, Dream still gives it.

After Dream sits down he reclines back in the chair, relaxing. His body language significantly different from every other meeting we have seen, where he always sat rigidly and uncomfortably - always at odds with his surroundings, never quite fitting in. This time it's different. In accepting Hob's friendship, he has found a place on Earth where he belongs, where he can find comfort and acceptance regardless of how "other" he may be. This is something that the comics do not show, ever. But it's clearly important for the show.

I love the above gif because it gives such a clear indication of how happy they are to see each other again, the way they hold eye contact with each other and the scene ends with that gorgeous smile of Dreams. The smile that replaced this moment in the comics:

That significantly changes certain foreshadowing in the text, which I wrote about separately in this meta. I won't go too deeply into those changes again here, but basically I believe that this change means Dream has chosen life (symbolised by his return to the friend that refuses to die) rather than death (symbolised by his going back to the birds to listen to the sound of wings and therefore longing to hear them in death) - It's potentially changing the trajectory of the story leading eventually to the events of the Kindly Ones, but we are in early days and I don't want to speculate too much on events the show won't be tackling for a long time yet.

What makes this reunion scene so compelling beyond anything I've mentioned above, is how it is a beginning. The audience does not get to see what happens next, but oh do we want to. This is a classic fanfiction gap in the making. After everything we have just been through, after all the highs and lows of their developing relationship over 6 centuries, finally they are reunited and ready to take their relationship to the next level, its compelling stuff. Added to this the conversation that Dream has with Death earlier on in the episode, we can assume that Hob finally gets that all important name, and an explanation of what Dream is after all these years. It makes sense that he would get this in the show based on the various clues and information given to us so far even though he never does in the comic.

So then we have to consider what this reunion scene is saying in the subtext that isn't immediately obvious in the text. Many shippers would have already picked up on these things without really paying too much attention, because fandoms always tend to be more savvy and able to pick up on what the subtext is telling them than a general audience.

Firstly, the red arrows - whilst it is never textually confirmed that Hob painted those arrows, it is heavily implied in the text. Who else would add directions to a new inn to the fence outside a pub that was closed 30 years ago? Who else would possibly be looking for the White Horse in 2022 and even need directions? Only Dream. So Hob MUST have painted those arrows. This then further implies that Hob had something to do with the New Inn. Once again the audience is asked to fill in the gaps here. Even the name The New Inn has implications behind it, because of how obvious it is. There is a clear message laid out here in the few shots we get - the red arrows directing from the White Horse to the New Inn, the name being the New Inn, everything here screams of Hob, forever waiting, forever hopeful, the eternal optimist, spending 30 years working out a way to send a message to his stranger, to please find him again.

This Hob is someone who saw his only connection to his strange companion lost to him, but who was determined not to lose hope. This Hob cared so much that it's implied that he has spent 33 years painting and repainting grafitti on an old fence, ensuring that he will be found again. This Hob found a new pub, or he found a good site to build a new pub, or he invested in a new pub, but either way, it is strongly implied that he has involvement in the new pub, since such a name as The New Inn is also a direction in itself. This is a Hob who waited in the new pub for 33 years. He is seen to be marking papers of some kind, indicating that he has students, that he is a teacher, and yet he is doing his work in the pub which is not all that common. It raises the question of how much time he spends in this pub? We don't know the date that Dream shows up to reunite with Hob - other than it being set in summer - so how often does Hob spend his days waiting here? Even if he does own the New Inn, and sticks around to keep an eye on it and manage things, he is still doing his other job from the table in the corner. The most obvious interpretation is that Hob has spent the better part of 33 years sitting in this new inn, hoping that Dream would find him again. Was he prepared to wait a whole century?

This is an insane level of devotion from Hob. This is the biggest deviation from the comic by FAR. The show moved the timeline and in doing so, they have drastically shifted the nature of Dream and Hob's relationship simply because no normal person would surely care that much about someone they only meet once a century, especially when that person got mad and deserted them when they dared to call them a friend. The only way such devotion can really be explained is by assuming that the devoted person is harbouring some pretty intense feelings for the one they are devoted too. It reads as pretty damn romantic in my opinion. The only time I have seen similar devotion is... well, in Destiel. (sorry to keep bringing it up but i WAS a Destiel meta writer for years and I keep finding comparisons which are driving me a bit mad).

It's difficult, in my opinion, not to read Hob's devotion to Dream by the modern era as more than platonic. It's easy to argue that he is pining for Dream, that he desires him in more than one way. It's easy to read it as love. Possibly even as romantic love. Whilst Dream's feelings are less clear, we can see from his body language and general comfort upon reuniting with Hob that he finds himself in a place he can relax. That the show chose Dream's reunion with Hob to be the ending of the show version of the Preludes and Nocturns Sandman book instead of his implied longing for death, just screams to me that this particular relationship is going to be more important in the show version of the story going forward. Dream is more comfortable in this moment with Hob than he ever is at any other point throughout the show - even in his own realm in his own throne room (seriously I went back and watched it all again, the boy never relaxes outside of this one particular scene).

But if that hasn't yet convinced you that the creators of the show are trying to tell us something about Dream and Hob, we only need to keep watching to get to the final scene of this episode. Before we have even cut away from Dreams smiling face as he stares lovingly at Hob, we hear the beats of a new song begin to play. Desire by Bob Moses introduces us to Dreams sibling of the same name.

We cut to the Threshold of Desire, where Desire themself stands in their gallery and says "attend sweet sibling. It is I, Desire. I stand in my gallery and hold your sigil..."

and who else initially throught they were talking to Dream? Because I think it's intentionally meant to be vague here. Despair uses she/her pronouns, so wouldn't it be clearer for Desire to call her their sister? But the gender neutral term adds to the confusion. Is Desire calling on Dream? Is Desire involved in Dreams reunion with Hob? Does Dream feel desire for Hob and that is why Desire is getting involved? (literally all these thoughts went through my head when I first watched the show and raised my eyebrows thinking maybe they really were going that way with Dream and Hob before finally Desire clarifies by referring to Dream as their brother who escaped his cage. It was a jarring moment.)

In the comic, this scene with Desire and Despair takes place at the very start of the Doll's House book, following Tales in the Sand. It makes sense to add moments like this to the end of each episode to leave a cliffhanger and encourage the audience to keep watching, but this particular cut to Desire has multiple implications. Yes its good to introduce Desire properly and therefore introduce the next arc of the season, but its also SO obvious to cut to Desire right after Dream and Hob's reunion. It's textbook subtext. Queer Coding 101. It's storytelling via clever editing. Six centuries of meetings, six centuries of building a tentative friendship that has included some pretty heated moments and finally upon the modern day reunion we see our main character truly smile whilst relaxed and happy and comfortable for the first time and THEN we cut to Desire. It's perfect. Chef's kiss.

Whilst we don't see Hob again for the rest of the season, the fact is that their reunion was left tantalisingly open ended for fans and audiences to speculate, imagine, and explore via their own works. The creators basically left fans with a delicious writing prompt to sink their teeth into and I 100% believe that was intentional. We will see Hob and Dream meet again in future episodes, and after seeing how well they adapted Men of Good Fortune, I am practically foaming at the bit to find out how they plan to adapt the dream meeting in Season of Mists.

As a conclusion to this behemouth of a meta analysis, I can only repeat what I said back in my introduction - the Men of Good Fortune sequence of episode 6 is a subtextual masterpiece of queer coding. It is writer acknowledged that they intended for it to come across as romantic and tropey. They full expected fans to ship the characters. Whether this means anything in terms of where the show will take Dream and Hob's relationship remains to be seen. The show is already extremely queer, and we've all seen the hilarious homophobic reviews bemoaning the fact that "all the characters are gay! ALL OF THEM!" so at this point I think the creators should just lean fully into it and bring Morpheus himself out of the closet. After all, he's a non human multi-billion year old personification of a concept, why on earth would he only have a preference for human shaped females? How incredibly boring for a creature of dreams!

I've separately talked about how Hob is technically already canonically queer (depending on how you interpret Jim's gender) so it's hardly a stretch for him either. There isn't really anything holding them back. The way their relationship develops in the comics already supports a romantic interpretation, especially the ending. But look, I'm not one of these people that needs to scream about ships "going canon" and I am fully against any harrassment or angry messages being sent to Neil or the creators because people feel that it SHOULD be canon based on the subtext already provided. I have no idea what they are planning with Dream and Hob in future episodes of the show, but wherever they take them, I am fully on board this ship.

Thank you for reading! If you have questions or comments please interact, I thrive on interactions! My ask box is open and I will try to answer any questions within the space of a few days (unless its a meaty meta ask in which case I will take my time and throw my whole meta brain into it).

Link to Dreamling Meta Masterpost and other chapters

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Wish Upon a Star

Synopsis: You have a small chance to bring Childe home, and can only hope that you succeed against all odds.

Foul Legacy Childe x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Genre: Comfort, Fluff Warnings: Crying, mentions of being overwhelmed, scratching at nails

~ * ~ The blue sky dawns above Teyvat once more, dotted with clouds and sunshine. It’s that time again, the day old friends soar down and come home- or at least a few of them. Most aren’t available until certain times due to the predetermined schedule, and no one knows who comes next and when, or even if they’ll return home at all. You can only hope that your efforts are enough to bring them back to stay for good. But this time you have little hope, your luck turned to dust and funds running low. In your hands you hold precisely ten wishes. It’s all you were able to get, amongst other things, and you know they can’t bring anyone home- they can’t bring him home. And yet, some small, fleeting hope whispers that perhaps if your wishes are strong enough, he’ll hear you anyways, and listen. You curl your shaky fingers over the glittering fates; little comets in their cages. They shine purple, pink, blue- whether they’re taunting or resonating with you is uncertain. With an unsteady breath, you press the wishes to your forehead, a hushed whisper falling from your lips. “Please.” With your prayer cast to the wind, you turn and throw the fates skyward, watching halfheartedly as they sparkle and dissolve into twinkling lights. The breeze catches their remnants and flies them up, up, up into the heavens, and you can only sit in the gently waving grass and wait, idly scratching at the edges of your nails. The stars begin to fall, one by one. At first they only appear blue, dropping sturdy weapons into your hands- spears, bows, and swords galore amongst others, and you quickly pocket them for the friends who’ve already graced you with their presence. A purple light gives you another bow- an old rusted greatbow you can barely even pull the string of, perfect for someone with the strength of an ocean. You sigh and set it down. Not for anyone you know, at the moment. How many of your wishes have been granted? You weren’t counting- with how many weapons now sit around your feet, it must be all of them, right? Your shoulders drop as a humorless smile stretches across your features; what were you expecting, really? That wishing and hoping enough would bring him home? You never had a chance, and never will again until months later, when the time finally returns. With a heavy heart you begin gathering the manifestation of the few fates you had, wondering who in the world could wield the stiff, rusting bow, even after you restored it to its former glory. Something glows, and you turn to squint upwards, eyes widening when you see the shining gold star soaring towards you, a miniature sun against the azure sky. It lands before you, the blinding light fading into a humanoid figure as you blink and attempt to reorient yourself. “Comrade!” A pair of strong, scarred hands grab yours, steadying you as you stare into the vibrant blue eyes of Childe, the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger, and you swear against all logic that you see a sparkle in those beautiful eyes of his. He’s smiling- oh, he’s smiling, smiling so wide that you can see faint dimples in his cheeks, and you feel like you’re about to cry. “Comrade, what’s wrong?!” Oh- you touch your face and your fingers come away damp- you are crying. Hastily you scrub under your eyes, apologizing frantically and shoving the bow Rust into Childe’s hands. With how overwhelming your life has been lately and how desperately you wished for his arrival, you hadn’t noticed the weeks of stress finally showing through your tears. That’s a decent excuse- anyways, surely he’s strong enough to wield Rust, so you’ll get to work improving it- “Oh, starlight…” Suddenly sturdy arms wrap around your shoulders as Childe tugs you close, linking his hands behind your back and tucking your face into the crook of his neck, Rust forgotten on the ground. He gently shushes your near-silent cries, letting you grip onto his scarf and let tears flow down your cheeks, Childe’s fingers massaging the muscles around your spine. With your head leaning against his shoulder, you miss the way Childe perks up with a sudden idea, slowing the gentle presses of his hands and closing his eyes. Hydro and Electro, completely harmless to you, swirl around his body, and the next time you look up it’s into the single crystalline eye of his Foul Legacy form. He whines when you back away in surprise, lowering his head to appear smaller and less intimidating, cooing quietly when you step closer. At those sounds your heart blooms with relief and you fully approach the now Abyssal Childe, reaching up to settle your hands in his ginger hair. You gasp, marveling at how soft and thick it is as your hands stroke the fluffy locks, then momentarily stumble when Childe decides the best place to nudge his face is into your chest. His rumbling purrs dance around the sunny sky, claws delicately clasping around your waist so he can hold you, keep you safe- and for the first time in days you feel a genuine laugh bubble out and burst happily in the air. When you eventually fall from Foul Legacy’s weight he follows suit, curling around your body and reversing your previous roles by pressing his face against your neck, trilling in delight at your attempts to wrap your arms around his much bigger self. He glances at you, a happy smile dancing across your features, and Childe feels himself soften, the Abyss-tainted heart in his chest beating quicker at the mere sight of you. With a gentle croon he leans closer and delicately licks your cheek, then envelops you in his arms, letting out a happy chirp. “Home… I’m home…” Foul Legacy’s growling voice soothes you further, and you smile wider, the first of many. Childe chuffs and licks your other cheek, purring at your yelp of mock outrage. “Always… come home… to you.”

[starqueensthings]

Foreword | Prev | Next | ao3

WARNINGS: brief allusions to a traumatic past (June), but no detail provided. Moderate medical anxiety (Howzer). Moderately graphic descriptions of medical injuries. Repeated mentions of blood and discomfort/pain. RATING: 16+ for mature themes and mild to moderate whump. WC: 4500ish. (This chapter and the next were never intended to be separated, but it accumulated to nearly 8k words, and pruning certain aspects of this encounter in the name of brevity would only do a disservice to this story, so I apologize for the somewhat abrupt way this chapter ends). PLEASE ENSURE YOU’VE READ THE FOREWORD BEFORE PROCEEDING FOR AN IN-DEPTH DESCRIPTION OF WHAT DEGREE OF CONTENT YOU CAN EXPECT THROUGHOUT THIS STORY.

“Uh… yeah?”

The responding voice was barely discernible over the cacophony radiating down that bustling hall, though was both unmistakably bathed in the accented intonation of a clone soldier, and seemingly quite confused by the civility of her gesture.

With a preparatory sigh, June prodded the control panel on the wall adjacent to the door and stepped back for it to permit her entry. Immediately apparent directly opposite that threshold, and sitting somewhat stooped atop that pathetic excuse of a paper bed sheet, was CT-5863.

If the Gods of technology were to ever bless it with the power of human deduction, the chrono on the wall behind him would have asserted that those blue eyes locked on his for the span of only a second; barely half of an inhale, a torpid blink at most. But, surely, too much had happened in that moment of unprecedented placidity for a mere “second” to have been all that passed.

Those armoured legs, wholly encrusted with the evidence of several rotations in grueling action, instantly ceased their absentminded swing over the long edge of that uncomfortably rigid gurney. The way his brows softened only enough for those gleaming brown eyes to widen in unrestrained surprise had her famined stomach plummeting near-painfully toward her toes in a sensation she was both unfamiliar with and unprepared for, and had the highly polished durasteel floor beneath her sneakers not continued to reflect the abhorrent fluorescent light overhead, that feeling only would have her entirely convinced she was now freefalling toward the cobblestone courtyard some eight stories below.

“Hi,” she squeaked as his expression continued to soften, that unprofessionally casual address escaping her tongue completely void of intention and thought, and had she not felt her jaw shift to let it pass through her lips, it could have been entirely feasible to believe that the salutation came from a third party.

If there was any semblance of a response waiting atop his tongue, it remained inhibited by the stupefaction still working its way across that tanned face. Lips initially contracted against the relentless gnaw of pain, now parting enough to expose their ragged and wind burnt nature and convey his unbridled bewilderment; those brows once furrowed beneath the act of being left to wallow for hours in the virile discomfort of a neglected wound, shifting to diminish that charming crease between them.

“Hi,” he echoed, reddened lips drawn slowly toward his ear ahead the beginnings of a one-sided smile that promised to only intensify her already befuddling paralysis.

June swallowed, that brief constriction of the throat reorienting the contents of her stomach momentarily granting her the abeyance to wrench her gaze from his, a gesture worthy of recognition based solely on how absurdly arduous of a task it seemed. ‘What am I doing here again?’ she asked herself, right hand thoughtlessly moving to retrieve the datapad from its clamp beneath her arm and bringing that lifeless screen toward her nose.

“Right,” she whispered to the sight of her distorted reflection, before clearing her throat and unsticking her sneakers from the floor.

The holocomputer, set atop a rolling desk at the foot of the bed, rose to life upon the frenetic poke of her finger. Though June had always been what her brother had previously deemed “embarrassingly deficient in stature”, that monitor sat just shy of successfully hiding him from view, and her composure was once again diminished by the heat surging to her cheeks upon the quick affirmation that his gaze had followed her every step across the room.

“You’re not a droid,” the soldier offered slowly, eyes narrowing under a perplexed sense of intrigue as a blood stained finger trailed to and fro across his chapped lip. “I mean— I don’t think so. Not like any I’ve ever seen…”

The acceptable reply would have been to offer him a laugh, a small scoff. Kriff, even an unsupported snort would have been sufficient to humour such an unintentionally comical assertion, but the continued prickle atop her skin and the nascent disquiet in her mind quickly devoured all potential for a moment of light-hearted banter.

“Nope,” she agreed, immediately thankful that her tone had forgone the shrill squawk of her first greeting and returned to her normal tambre. “They called the big guns in for you.”

“Uh oh. Why do I feel like that might not be a good thing?”

She risked another peek over the shield of her holoscreen, instantly and regretfully noting the delightfully sharp angle of where his jaw met his ear, that contour accentuated by the expanse of a bashful smile now doming both cheeks.

‘What the hell,’ she demanded silently as she failed, again, to offer him the titter he deserved. Aghast that the professionalism and charismatic bedside manner she’d spent long years and countless tears mastering had been ripped from her by something as immaterial as basic eye contact, she flicked her ponytail petulantly off her shoulder and refocussed her attention to the task at hand: logging into the Hospital’s charting software.

‘He’s just a soldier,’ she reminded herself with a snort of self-directed derision, desperately trying to extract her password from the depths of her distracted brain.

And he was. There was nothing overtly different or unusual about CT–5863 in relation to the hundred-or-so other clones that had passed in and out of her care since the war began. Quite frankly, there couldn’t be anything different about him, it was genetically impossible. So why had one look from this set of honeyed eyes seen her stomach careening into the next dimension and her nerves prickling as if every shift of his gaze left a trail atop her skin?

Thrice she tried and failed to enter her secure information into that software, yet its repeated beeps toward the inevitable system lock-out fell on entirely deaf ears, and it wasn’t until the screen strobed that she’d near-reached the maximum login attempts did some glimmer of awareness surge back to her.

“I’m Dr. Kiore,” June told him, attempting to banish that myriad of improper thoughts by corralling every cooperating neuron into entering her password, and the breath she’d unintentionally held in her lungs was granted their escape atop a sigh of relief as that familiar landing screen emerged in front of her. “What’s your name?”

“CT–58—”

“No, Captain, your name.”

“My name?” A puzzled pause preceded her answer, that brief second of hesitation having failed to lessen any of the obvious confusion behind those two words, and the notion that she may have to formally explain such a simple concept was the first to pull a smile to June’s lips.

But, “Howzer.” He recovered quickly, offering his name in the same tone he’d used upon hearing her tap on the door, and the small creases now wreathing those twinkling eyes as they narrowed in something close to suspicion entirely laid bare his continued bewilderment at her behaviour.

“Howzer,” she repeated, offering him a casual smile as she swiped her finger across the monitor and entered the information next to his designation number. “It’s nice to meet you.”

A moment’s innocent silence fell between them as she typed, masterfully toggling between different pages of his medical chart and familiarizing herself with the details of his treatment history. For an active soldier, particularly one that appeared as if he’d spent several respite-free rotations laying in the foreign dirt of a distant planet, his chart was remarkably vacant, the only few noted injuries being quickly treated in the field and recorded somewhat haphazardly by the trio of different medics who had seen him.

“I– I think that might be the first time a civilian’s asked me that,” he contemplated under his breath, eyes unfocussing as he rubbed that dirty palm across the stubble on his chin

“Yeah, well… they were supposed to ask downstairs,” June scoffed, the grumble swaddling her tone readily exposing the disdain for the repeated shortcomings of her colleagues. “I’ve asked them four billion times to try and remember, but of course no one listens to the youngest.”

While his lungs expanded to utter what was undoubtedly going to be another humorous quip, the sentiment was stolen off his tongue by a sudden and salient cringe of discomfort. In that otherwise banal motion of sitting up straight, hand reaching upward to thoughtlessly push those dark waves further back from his forehead, a spasm of pain quickly froze his actions, that sharp jaw quickly clenching behind olive cheeks as a muted grunt rumbled in his chest.

Harrowingly familiar with the discomfited sounds of a trooper in agony, June darted from behind the computer without a second glance, feet taking her earnestly to his bedside where Howzer continued to grit his teeth against the pain of attempting to lower his elbow back down.

She stopped when she reached his beside, and too determined to somehow minimize his discomfort, her focussed eyes entirely missed the way shame had forced his gaze away from her. In a gesture that inexplicably attuned her concentration nearly as thoroughly as it further chilled her skin, she tugged the sleeves of her labcoat toward her elbows.

It took barely a breath of being within arms-length of the stranger for the pathetic remnants of his shirt, and the implications of its destruction, to resonate; that typically tight compression top now sliced into misshapen shards thanks to the expanse of an immense gash in the material. Yet more gruesome than the soaked integrity of that metallic cloth— its creation having once promised to prevent such wounds from occurring —was a piteous patch of gauze so saturated with blood that it had begun to leak a small cataract down his side, that seemingly limitless river of blood having already stained the exposed skin of which it bordered.

“Sheesh,” June mumbled under her breath, reaching slowly toward him until her fingers wrapped carefully around the elbow he was subconsciously attempting to use as a protective barrier.

Howzer’s breath hitched sharply in his throat as her fingers found their mark, though despite that unintentional huff of trepidation, he offered no resistance as she began to cautiously lift that arm back upward mere millimeters at a time until the sight of that grisly gash reappeared. The sheer size of that weeping laceration, stretching across the anatomically labelled “quadrant 6”, and reaching all the way from central rib cage to interior scapula, made ascertaining the true degree of the injury quite a challenge from her standing position in front of him. As June battled the need for a better vantage against attempting to prevent causing Howzer can any extraneous pain, it became apparent nothing short of clambering onto the bed beside him and simply straddling his left hip could allot her the unobstructed view she needed to formulate an appropriate treatment plan.

“I can’t get a great look from here,” she admitted with an apologetic grimace, now cautiously redirecting his arm forward in an effort to ascertain precisely how far back this horrid laceration reached from its inception below his left armpit. “Bear with me just for a sec… it’s gonna hurt a smidge.”

“It’s fine,” he answered, though wrapped in little more than a tight-lipped mumble, his reassurances fell flat in their task of convincing her. “It doesn’t hurt. I jus– ugh…”

A series of murmured apologies left her lips as something near a jolt of pain robbed his tongue of that white lie, and she tactfully refrained from commenting as she watched that silly cotton square fail to contain another surging red waterfall.

“You know,” she started as his jaw rutted forward to repress another hum of discomfort. “If you had just let them give you an NBA injection downstairs, this wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Don’t need one,” he grunted back as she flicked away those soaked and frayed fabric shards and began to pluck that impetuously placed patch of medical gauze from his side. “I told you, it doesn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t hurt, but you couldn’t get your shirt off?”

That delicate accusation left her lips before the gates of professional restraint could corral it. The implications of second-guessing both a patient’s feedback and their subjective symptoms was highly unprincipled, yet despite his continued refusals, there was no ignoring the fact that, while half of his battered and abused armament sat stacked in one of the chairs by the door, he’d been unable to pull that snug garment from his torso.

To her relief, that same lop-sided smirk inched back across those dehydrated lips, eyes softening as they danced lightly across her features, and June was immediately grateful for the trivial need to extract an unopened sterile gauze pack from her pocket as her cheeks tingled anew.

“Alright, smartypants, you got me,” he admitted, the tips of his ears reddening under the unfamiliar vulnerability of his confession. “Maybe I just don’t like injections. Maybe they freak me out… a little.”

An ephemeral glance was all it took to identify the nature of his budding embarrassment; the reaffixture of his gaze upon his lap, the tiny flitter of his cheek as he chewed on whether he ought to defend his admission or not, the horrid clicking of his molars as discomfort had them relentlessly grinding against each other. Yet it was not the professional obligation to advocate for a medicinal intervention that saw June’s hands hesitate on their way to fully rid him of that incapacitated bandage, but an inexplicable and damn-near irrepressible urge to console him.

“Hold this here for me,” she instructed delicately as if she hadn’t heard him, indicating her need with a small tap of the finger whilst pressing that new fresh fabric to his wound in the void of its sodden counterpart. “Just for a minute while I grab some goodies, but firm pressure— hold it like you mean it.”

He shifted instantly on his seat to assent to her request, right hand forgoing its docile perch atop his thigh to cross his torso and clamp that material into place; those grimy fingers momentarily weaving their way into hers in his haste to comply.

That inadvertent touch set her very nerves alight, the ceaseless prickle lurking behind every inch of her skin intensifying to a degree that promised to expropriate the floor from beneath her feet again, and having been largely unable to resurrect her stomach from the depths of her toes where it had buried itself at first sight of him, June hurried to snatch her fingers from his and depart his bedside. The unprecedented euphoria of his skin brushing atop her own amidst that otherwise innocuous motion had virtually supplanted all evidence of the preceding sympathy, and replaced it with a moment of attraction so potent, she’d failed to digest any of the apology he’d quickly stammered during her retreat.

‘Maker have mercy, would you get a grip…’ she silently scolded, eyes scanning the assortment of supplies on the shelves in front of her as she forced a slow breath through pursed lips. ‘You’re being ridiculous. So he’s a little pretty… You just feel bad for him. It’s just pity. He’s been sitting here a long time, and he’s obviously uncomfortable… that’s all.’

But that weak justification had barely gained any potential momentum before it was squashed by the reality she could not deny. Attributing the peculiar undulation of this interaction to pity alone was both ignorant and ludicrous, as Howzer was not the first soldier to admit having a distaste for injections; the majority of her combat patients shirked from even the mention of that so-dreaded injector. In fact, most were deeply suspicious of anything even distantly related to the field of medicine, many turning pugnacious in their discomfort, and eyeing Lumi with a powerful mistrust as if that hovering medical assistant was concealing a murderous motive behind those yellow oculars. Others flinched at the mere thought of sedation, often demanding to hear any and all available treatment alternatives before consenting to whatever procedural route they deemed most tolerable regardless of its diminished efficacy, and it was this perpetual argument, this consistent mentality, that had June entirely convinced the clones in her care harboured significant trauma from their Kaminoan upbringing.

So if pity was to blame for the tingle atop her skin as the music of his familiar accent danced in her ears, why today? Why this ailing soldier, and not one of the hundred or so others she’d previously treated and discharged without pause. Why not Bolts, whose cheeks became stained with uncontrollable tears during those brief moments of lucidity when he awoke to be scanned at tragically frequent intervals? Why not the Commander from three rotations ago who’d begged her to falsify a clean bill of health so he could return to the front lines where his brothers were undoubtedly being slaughtered in his absence? What was it about this man… this objectively meaningless encounter… that had the hairs on the back of her neck standing upright as if there was something lingering in the next second? Why was this set of brown eyes imbued with the power to lasso her lungs into her stomach? Steal the floor from beneath her feet? Freeze time as if the universe itself had held its breath at first sight of him?

‘You’re better than this,’ she told herself as she rustled noisily around those laden shelves, heaping an array of various supplies into her arms. ‘Swallow whatever this weird attraction is and get on with it so you can go home. You’re tired and starving.’

Sighing heavily through her nose, she pulled the cauterizing pen from the top shelf and added it to the pile of tools clamped against her chest atop an small tub of her preferred burn salve, a USI injection tool, a single-use bottle of saline for wound disinfection purposes, and a handful of the standard 4 x 8 inch dermabacta patches.

Keeping her eyes deliberately downward, she nudged that locker door closed with her hip and started back toward the bed. After pausing briefly to power on and deposit the cauterizing pen beside the computer, June tipped forward and dumped the remaining products onto the paper sheet beside his waiting figure, attempting to ignore the return of his warm gaze by reaffixing her eyes to the tattered vestiges of his top.

“Shirt’s gotta come off,” she advised him, placing her hands on her hips and gesturing with a small nod to the garment he’d deferred removing as long as possible. “Contamination risk is too high if it stays flapping around the wound after I disinfect the area. Think you can pull it off without too much… ouchie?”

Those ensanguined fingers drummed nervously against the gauze he continued to press in place, a contemplative hum issuing from his nose as his lips shifted to a grimace. “I can give it a shot,” he finally assented amid a doubtful chuckle. “Unless maybe cutting it off is an option, and I can try to preserve what’s left of my dignity?”

“I mean– I could,” she agreed half-heartedly, though the image of her hands drifting carefully atop his skin whilst snipping that cloth from his bare chest nearly overpowered the awareness of that option being the least practical. “But we’d be sending you out of here shirtless afterward and it’s not exactly the warmest time of year.”

“Fair point,” he apprehensively agreed. “Maybe there’s a hospital gown or something that could pass as blacks until I can sneak my way into barracks?”

“Not unless blacks are covered in purple cogs and tied together behind your neck,” June scoffed. “And, honestly, if that doesn't send your dignity to the grave, I don’t know what would.”

Had such a disappointed huff not left his nose in that subsequent moment, the mental image of him trying to awkwardly stuff the excess material of that scratchy, violet gown behind his chest plate likely would have had a small snicker escape her lips, yet the unease dominating his expression instead resurrected that mystifying need to commiserate with this alluring stranger.

“We can handle this,” she asserted, watching him thoughtfully chew the inside of his cheek while picking uselessly at a blemish in the teal paint on his thigh plate. “If I help, you won’t even need to lift your arms. Plus– once it’s off, I can throw it in the Cleanser Tube and get it washed while I’m patching you up. That way the purple robe can stay in the cupboard, and you’ll have your shirt back to walk outta here dignity intact. Deal?”

His gaze shifted upward, darting back and forth between her eyes as if searching their depths for any semblance of the ulterior motive he’d seemingly grown to expect.

“Okay,” he agreed a sigh later, evidently failing to find anything other than quiet confidence behind that sapphire blue. “But if I start weeping, do your best not to laugh.”

“I’ll try,” she answered in mock intensity, waiting for his timorous gaze to meet hers again before offering a jesting smile. “Though in all honesty, Captain, just wait until you feel my hands. I’ll be more surprised if you don’t start weeping.”

Stepping intentionally around his armoured knees toward the head of the bed, she watched him steel himself by straightening his posture and taking a deep breath. “I’ll pull on your sleeve,” she told him, permitting herself only a moment to appreciate the endearing quartet of freckles on the right side of his neck. “You pull your arm.”

She guided her thumbs under the elastic cuff of his top, that deceivingly thin fabric instantly reminding her of the wetsuit she’d once donned during a diving trip on Naboo, though there was something significantly more tutelary about this injected material, as if the microthreads used to create it had been fibers of some pliable steel.

“I appreciate you being so… helpful,” he spoke, wincing slightly as his hand disappeared into the darkness of his sleeve and redirected itself downward through the trunk of the garment. “I guess I did need the big guns.”

June hesitated, barely able to repress the small smile promising to peel across her lips as she rolled and bunched the hem of his shirt in her fists, waiting until his palm had firmly planted itself beside his hip before proceeding.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked him in what she hoped was a casual tone despite her heart pounding loudly in her ears at his indirect laudation.

“‘Course,” he answered, squeezing his eyes closed as she began to stretch and guide that narrow collar past his ear and over his meticulously cropped hair.

“You’re not the only soldier who hates injections. You’re one of very many, actually… and one of even more that tries to hide it under this very unnecessary ‘tough guy’ attitude. While I don’t personally understand the fear behind a microdose of medication, that doesn’t mean I don’t understand being very wary of something, and that by no means makes you a wuss.”

He emerged from the depths of his shirt with a smoldering look that she’d never seen adorn the eyes of a soldier before, and the intensity of how he gazed sternly yet somewhat reverently into hers near-forced a paralytic shiver down her spine.

She near-cowered under its magnitude, and growing increasingly aware of how her body continued to betray her demand for professionalism by relentlessly inflaming her cheeks, she stepped carefully back around his knees and stuffed her fingers under the cuff of the other sleeve.

“Ready?” she asked as he upheld a pensive silence, waiting for him to consent before hooking one hand under the hem of that top now draped over his shoulder, and directing it carefully down the muscular arm he shifted to grant the garments removal.

She didn’t wait to see if he’d further acknowledge her expostulation before wadding up that soaked and soiled fabric and departing the bedside, crossing the room to where the Cleanser Tube sat recessed into the wall. After opening the door and shoving the clothing inside, she activated a sonic cycle with a quick poke of a button and turned to the adjacent Hand Sanitary Station.

Both pieces of machinery were considered to be state of the art medical technology, and were proprietary pieces licensed to only this medical facility while the patent approval process remained clogged behind far more consequential senatorial matters. The Cleanser Tube, designed to wash, sanitize and dry textiles in a fraction of the time that a traditional washing machine took, was installed on every floor, ensuring the sanitation droids could efficiently reuse the ludicrous amount of bedding the hospital exploited daily. Its pseudo-partner in technological advancement, the Sanitary Station, had demanded significantly more adaptability from the medical staff upon its installation, most of whom had spent several expensive years learning to meticulously disinfect their hands prior to any patient contact. While not all that different in concept to the Cleanser beside it, the absence of friction in hand washing was a foreign concept for a surgeon used to scrubbing their skin to within an inch of its already shoddy integrity before initiating a procedure. Nevertheless, the benefit of its efficiency had proved largely pivotal for those increasingly numerous days where surgeries were booked back to back.

Its familiar ion aroma wafted upward into June’s nose the second she approached and forced her fists through each of the two side-by-side valves. Sensing the new additions in its chamber, the machine activated automatically, tightening the silicone grip around each wrist to near-discomfort while cool, damp air began to circulate between her fingers. An inappropriately loud chime moments later alerted what felt like the entire hospital that the disinfection cycle had completed, and the machine ceased its vibration for only a moment before those sophisticated motors kicked back into life, preparing to swaddle her hands in a thin layer of purple nitrile. When all ten of her fingers had been appropriately coated, the valves released their complete encirclement of her wrists, and she pulled her hands from the tubes, fingers flexing habitually against the irksome constriction.

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