#knowing that they probably don’t want to hear from me and that there’s a reason they haven’t reached out

[atzloverr]

(Don’t) sing to me - Siren!Seonghwa x reader

pairings: Siren!Seonghwa x pirate!reader

warnings: Siren!Seonghwa, cunnilingus, emotional manipulation, hypnosis, non-con, afab!reader, slight yandere, mentions of blood and gore, purely fiction, captivity, kidnapping, why is Seonghwa always pussy drunk in these

minors DNI

You threw your head around, panic fogging your mind. The only thing you saw was the blood, the dead bodies, the open wound on your own thigh.

You couldn’t tell if it was the loss of blood or the sheer weight of the situation that made you so dizzy that you could barely walk straight when you tried to make it to the safe place of the ship. You saw your captain, lying bloody, trying to reach out for you, but you had to look away.

In these situations, you had to save yourself, you knew that. That’s why you felt so stupid when you turned around to help the poor man.

You had never planned to become a pirate, but when you were abandoned and the crew seemed to find you right when you needed them most, you couldn’t help but accept the offer.

When things like this would happen, you almost regretted your decision. Although you had been in these situations before, it had never been this brutal. You mourned the men you had lost so far, but you feared the amount of men lost in this raid would be double the amount you had in your entire life on this ship.

You tried to keep yourself focused on the task at hand, keeping your captain alive. Hongjoong had always told you that we lived in a cruel world, and the most important thing was always going to be to save yourself. That might’ve been the reason for him silently fighting you when you tried to dress his deep wounds.

He couldn’t even utter a word, but his eyes said it all. Save yourself, or you will get us both killed.

But you ignored him, and kept trying to stop his bleeding, wincing when you felt your own wound sting.

You managed to somewhat stop the bleeding, before dragging him to the safe room. He wasn’t heavy, but with your current injuries, pulling his body felt like the hardest mission you had ever encountered.

You were more than happy to find other people in the room, although they were all injured. Well, all except one. The one person everyone had to keep alive: the doctor.

Yunho ran up to you with his eyebrows furrowed, looking you up and down as you collapsed on the floor, leaning against the wall. You watched as someone else carefully picked up Hongjoong, bringing him to safety.

”Are you crazy?” Yunho asked, grabbing your face harshly to get your attention. You looked down, but felt too tired to even apologize. You knew he was thankful, whether he would admit it or not. Everyone knew that Hongjoong was the most important person on this ship, and anyone would’ve gladly sacrificed you to keep him alive, they just didn’t want to admit it.

You watched as Yunho used his medical tools, your vision slowly getting darker as you leaned your head against the wall, that almost seemed like a soft pillow right now.

”Hey!” Yunho suddenly slapped you lightly on your cheek. ”You need to stay awake, you hear me!?” he said. You felt warm in your chest when you saw the worry in his eyes. It felt nice to know that someone wanted to keep you alive.

You slowly nodded at his earlier question. ”You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Yunho said, probably just talking to keep you from falling asleep. ”Listen, you have to stay strong.”

You listened to him as he took your hand in his. ”They’re still lurking around here, and we have to make sure that we can go up against them,” he informed.

Right, you thought. The only reason he’s keeping you alive is so you can fight, so you can keep everyone safe, keep Hongjoong safe. You frowned, but the moment was interrupted by the sound of a harsh bang on the door.

The room froze, everyone’s eyes flying towards the door. You saw the large axe that had managed to get through the thick door, and it was like you knew. You knew that this was it, you were going to die.

You were all going to die.

You felt Yunho’s arms pick you up, making you wince quietly in pain as you were reminded of the big wound on your leg. Another bang was heard, this time with the sound of loud male voices.

There were more of them now. You desperately wanted to stay strong, but you couldn’t even stop your eyes from watering in fear when you heard the third and last bang before the door fell to the floor.

You watched the countless armed men fill the room, slaughtering the already weak people. Yunho quickly put you on your feet again, but you could barely even stand. You watched in panic as Yunho did what you should’ve probably expected him to.

He went to Hongjoong.

You couldn’t help but feel an ounce of betrayal. Yunho had been the first person you ever really made friends with on this ship, so seeing him so effortlessly pick Hongjoong over you, it hurt.

You grabbed your knife, fiercly trying to get through the crowd of people, but it was terrifying. You heard the most gut wrenching screams from your crew members, saw blood splattering out of another pirate’s chest as you stabbed him without mercy.

But you never stopped moving. You never stopped moving until you saw an opening. You decided that this was going to be the time when you really took Hongjoong’s advice, so you saved yourself.

You ran out on deck, even as your wound reopened and you screamed louder than ever before, you knew what you had to do.

Sure, the water would be cold, sure, you would leave your entire crew when you might’ve been able to fight more for them, but you didn’t care. You simply saved yourself.

And if you were going to die - which it felt like when the ice-cold water met your skin and its salt seeped into your wound - you were at least going to die here, not by some ruthless pirate stabbing you to death.

You swam and swam, but noticed that you hadn’t even gotten very far. You felt your legs starting to give out, your head getting foggier and foggier for every second, until your body finally started sinking down.

You didn’t fight it, you didn’t scream. You let yourself succumb to the sweetness of death, and right before the darkness came, you heard the sound of a beautiful song, almost hypnotic. You were satisfied that the last thing you would hear before you finally died would be this angelic voice, soft enough to finally allow you to let go of the tiny bit of hope that you had tried so hard to hold on to.

˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°

The moment he laid his eyes on your face, he knew you were the perfect prey. As you finally stopped resisting him, finally accepting your fate, he knew you were going to be perfect.

His turquoise fins shimmered in the moonlight, enough to make any sailor turn his head.

He watched as your chest slowly rose and fell, smiling at the fact that his magic had worked, even when he feared it was too late. His fingers traced your lips - that were starting to turn blue from the immense cold - and he made sure his long fingernails didn’t graze your fragile skin.

In the long hours of silently observing you, Seonghwa thought to himself that he had learned so much about you from simply looking at your sleeping form.

The harsh skin of your palms, slightly burned from having handled rope on the ship, the dangling jewelry hanging from your pierced ears, and the thing that made him whimper in worry: a large wound on your thigh, so filthy and deep that it made him wince.

He knew his healing could work to some extent, but he wasn’t sure he would be able to handle this. But that’s what he spent the rest of your unconscious hours on. Trying to heal you completely.

He used his precious saliva to clean your wound carefully, its powers slowly healing the injury. He continued his sweet singing, keeping you lulled in a peaceful sleep.

But now that he had healed you best to his abilities, he just lay there next to you in his small cave, watching you peacefully rest.

As much as he adored watching you, he couldn’t help but feel worried. Why weren’t you waking up? Hadn’t his magic worked properly?

He tried shaking you, tickling you, pinching you, and his favorite method - kissing you awake. But none of it seemed to work.

To Seonghwa, it felt as if several days had passed since he found you by the ship, but in reality, it might’ve not been more than one.

Due to his concerns, he always stayed by your side, dipping into the water ever so often to hydrate his fins, but soon returned to slowly run his long nails through your wet and salty hair, watching your expression closely, begging for you to wake up.

˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺｡°

You acknowledged the fact that you were aware, that you were still feeling things, experiencing things. And although you would’ve been ecstatic about it at any other given moment, considering you were sure you had died, you couldn’t help but feel tired.

Hadn’t you accepted the fact that you were dead? You felt as if you had welcomed death with open arms when you felt the sharp pain of the water entering your lungs, so why were you still here.

You couldn’t see, you couldn’t hear, but you could think. You tried to sense your surroundings, but your mind seemed to have left your body.

You paused mentally. Was this the true nature of death? Was there really an afterlife? Had all of those sayings about souls been real?

Your mind felt like it spun around, the confusion growing inside of you. That was, until you heard a sound.

It was that beautiful sound that you had heard right before you lost consciousness. That voice, as if the notes it sang were engraved in silver.

You heard the sweet humming, making your head feel fuzzy. Why were you so drawn to it? Why was it so desperately trying to pull you out of your slumber?

The second time you were aware, you felt a new sensation enter your system. You tried to squirm, but then remembered that you couldn’t control your body - did you even have one anymore? Were these all just hallucinations? Or was the sensation of cold lips exploring your neck real?

For every time you regained consciousness, the sensations grew stronger. You could hear sounds clearly, feel the outline of a hand against your skin, but you couldn’t move to touch it.

Until one time, when you could.

Your eyes opened, and it was as if all the senses you had missed out on, now came crashing down on you. You felt the sharp pain in your thigh as you moved, felt the gnawing hunger in your stomach, and the cold air hitting your wet skin.

The creature in front of you seemed to notice your discomfort, even though you couldn’t utter a word. He quickly ran his tongue up and down your neck, clicking and humming lowly as you squirmed around in his hold.

Your eyes traveled down, and widened in fear as they did so. The wound on your leg was barely visible anymore, and the most chocking thing of all, was the blue and green glowing light radiating off of the man in front of you. Off of his fins.

You found the energy to move away from him, your arms slowly scooting you towards the cave wall. You watched as his face contorted into a large frown, his body inching closer towards you right away.

You retreated your head from his hands as he tried to hold you, but did it to no avail. His hands grabbed your face, and you shrieked when you felt the large nails against your skin, but he only whined as you shook your head.

”No,” he said, and you could tell this wasn’t his mother’s tongue. Your eyes clenched shut in fear when his face inched closer to yours, and you didn’t know what you had expected, but it wasn’t this.

You felt his mouth against yours, his long tongue entering your mouth without your permission, but even when you wanted to hate it, the feeling of his tongue in your mouth, the sound of the peaceful humming as he licked and kissed, it made you relax.

His lips traveled down your neck, his tongue slightly warming you up in the shivering state you were in, as he continued singing. You felt your eyes rolling back into your skull, and noticed how you weren’t fighting back anymore.

The only thing you could do was stare at his beauty as he continued running his hands up and down your cold legs, his eyes looking deep into yours.

”My human,” he smiled in between his hums, his head traveling lower down your body until he was slowly kissing your stomach.

He lifted the fabric of your blouse that hadn’t fully dried yet due to the humidity of the air in the cave you were in. You closed your eyes when he slowly started unbuttoning your shorts, his voice feeling like silk in your ears. The part of you that so desperately wanted to fight back wasn’t even there anymore. You could only feel the bliss and relaxation of the moment, but you couldn’t understand why.

Your eyes opened again when you felt your shorts slowly sliding off of your body. You would’ve winced at the feelings of his sharp nails grazing your thighs, but you didn’t. It was like almost everything that you would react strongly to otherwise, you now didn’t mind at all.

Hence the reason for your drawn out moan when the creature slowly spread your thighs apart, looking in between your legs with lustful and hungry eyes.

You blinked when he stopped singing, and even after only a second had passed, you already missed the feeling of his voice in your ears. You watched in anticipation as he slowly trailed kisses up your thighs, sucking slightly and making you shiver with excitement.

”So beautiful,” you heard him say, but you felt as if you weren’t fully conscious anymore. It was the same feeling that you had right before you had woken up, when you could almost grasp everything that was going on, but not really.

You almost felt as if you were going to pass out before your breath caught in your throat, making you avert your attention towards the man in between your legs.

You moaned when you felt his long tongue exploring you, the softness and coolness of it foreign to you. It was almost overwhelming when his tongue entered your hole, making your head shoot up in chock.

He immediately took your hand in his, interlocking your fingers with his, making you gasp at the feelings of his webbed fingers and long nails against your human hands.

His tongue curled inside of you, exploring your insides as he lewdly slurped up your juices. You exhaled deeply when he retreated his tongue, your grip on his hand loosening, only to harden again when the long muscle found your clit.

You felt your legs unconsciously spreading wider for him, giving him more access to where he wanted to lick and suck. He licked a long stipe up your pussy before retreating his head with a satisfied sigh.

You looked at his parted lips, wet and plump, and felt your desperation grow. ”Please,” you whined out, slightly raising your hips towards his face.

He smiled in surprise, but obeyed your wish with a small hum. You almost cried out when you felt him against you once again, working quick and skillful patterns against you, like nothing you had ever experienced before.

You slowly felt your climax starting to build inside of you, your thighs starting to clench around his head, when you suddenly felt a realization hit you.

Who was he?

You looked down at his eyes - that were rolled back in bliss - and thought of his identity. You thought of how you ended up here, the scar on your thigh. How did you get that?

And suddenly, everything came back to you.

You immediately let go of his hand and crawled away from him as you realized the situation. You didn’t know him, and you never wanted any of this.

You saw the anger in his eyes as you backed into a wall, making yourself smaller by hugging your knees to your chest. But beyond that anger was also a strong worry. You saw the way his eyebrows furrowed as you backed away, and now, you saw the way he slowly made his way towards you.

”What are you doing to me?” you asked, your heartbeat pounding faster as you recalled everything that had happened, and the way you hadn’t even tried to stop any of it.

”Shhh,” you heard, but you just flinched when he tried to reach out for you with his hand. ”No,” he said, like a mother denying a child something.

You kept backing away, until you realized that you had nowhere to go. This small cave was only connected to the water, and with your current state, you probably couldn’t even swim a few feet.

You froze when you heard a sound in your ears again. It was that song again, the one you knew you had heard before, but couldn’t understand when or where. Your head snapped towards him as he looked at you with glowing eyes, his mouth open as he sang those beautiful notes.

It was such a strong pull, such a beautiful melody, that your body slowly seemed to give in to it once again. And although you realized that this was what kept you from denying his touches, from trying to escape, you were way too far gone to do anything about that.

You slowly let him pull you to the cave’s edge, his body submerging into the water. You watched as he spread your legs, your calved dangling off the edge and into the cold water.

This time, when he dove back in between your legs, he never stopped humming his song. You were reminded of how close you had gotten before he stopped, and felt your excitement build up quickly once more.

His hums sent vibrations up your body, making you grip his hair desperately. His nails slightly dug into your waist, making you moan as pain mixed with pleasure. You watched as his tail splashed into the water slightly, moving quicker the closer you got.

”Give in, human,” he said before continuing to flick your clit, making you throw your head back. And those words was what made you let go completely, and come undone in his arms.

You heard your own moans and his singing echo in the walls of the cave, and when he slowly pulled you up to lay down on the stone, you had long forgotten the worries in your mind.

Yunho and Hongjoong didn’t cross your mind - the fact that you were being emotionally manipulated by an unknown creature with beautiful fins and hypnotizing eyes didn’t bother you. Of course, that was no coincidence.

Seonghwa had to make sure he was the only thing on your mind when you finally fell asleep to his sweet lullaby once again. And when he slowly cradled you in his arms, tenderly brushing your hair out of your face, he knew he had to keep it that way forever.

masterlist

[tovibeornottovibe]

Club Rats

Azriel x Fem!OC

Azriel and Merrin have been meeting in clubs for months now. Sometimes, they ditch Rita's for dinner, and most of the time, they end up sleeping together. It's better than relying on the skills of strangers, and they like each other, probably more than either of them would admit. This time, they drink far, far too much, make some regrettable decisions that get them thrown out, and share a moment more intimate than they ever have before. [2.7k words]

warnings: excessive drinking, mentions of spiking and Azriel not taking that as seriously as you should!, self-destructive behaviour, mentions of sex (no smut tho), Azriel being the rude, snarky, imperfect male that he is (not towards the OC, to everyone else)

Prefer to read on Ao3? [this is a series there! let me know if you want me to post those fics on here too (:]

“Azriel.��

He looks up. The sound of the sea washes over him as he sits there, legs hanging off the edge of the dock, with his thigh brushing hers. His wings feel like deadweight, like his muscles aren’t even connected to his body. She’s settled in the crook of the right one, and every time she breathes, her shoulder nudges him where he wants her to put her tongue.

It’s maybe four-in-the-morning. He doesn’t know. They got kicked out of Rita’s not more than an hour ago. Merrin bashed in some male’s teeth. Azriel bashed in his jaw. His shadows won’t tell him why she did it, and he doesn’t know why he helped. 

For the briefest moment, he remembers that they might have banned them for it. He huffs out a laugh.

Both he and Merrin are very, very drunk. He’s not entirely convinced they didn’t get spiked. It should concern him, but they’re both suffering, and that’s a comfort. 

They’ve been trying  to convince each other that they were just in this for the sex for the past few minutes. They like each other, but it’s just release, you know?

Head heavy from the alcohol, he cranes his neck forward to look at her face. He distinctly thinks she is the most beautiful female he’s ever seen, and guiltily goes through why she’s prettier than Elain. It’s totally unfair and he knows thinking about it makes him an asshole. Merrin’s hair is a nicer colour and she lacks the etherealness of High Fae that unsettles him. She fits better in his arms; she’s tall enough that he can rest his chin on her head without bending down when they embrace, and when they’re in bed, he can tangle their legs together and she can settle into the curve of his body without issue. Of course, these things were fantasy with Elain.

He swallows thickly. “Yeah?”

She hesitates and something in his gut twists, like he can tell she’s about to say something serious. 

“Are we—are you happy?”

For some reason, that makes him laugh. It’s a horrible, bitter, broken kind of laughter. It’s utterly without warmth. He hates it, actually.

“No,” he says, and it’s true. “Are you?”

She offers him a smile. “Not at all,” she says. “What a fucking pair we make, eh?” Something inside him recoils at the thought of her putting herself at his level. Giggling, she presses her forehead into his shoulder and clutches his forearm where the scars on his skin meet the unmarred flesh. Then she sighs. “Gods,” she says like she’s just discovered the secret to life, “you’re actually an important person, and you’re miserable.”

“It’s not all cocktail parties and fountains of champagne,” he says.

“No,” she laughs. “You torture people for a living.”

Though he stiffens, not even that can knock him out of whatever it was they drank. Feeling him tense, she shifts so her chin is resting on his shoulder, and she laughs again when she sees the look on his face.

“It doesn’t bother me,” she says. “That’s kinda fucked, right?”

It’s stupid that it makes him feel good. It’s stupid that he likes hearing that. Some days, he doesn’t think it bothers him either. And yeah, that is kinda fucked. He kills people for his brother. A lot of the time, they probably don’t even deserve it. Yet, here he is, with the most gorgeous female in the world, drunk off his ass with her, and she doesn’t care that he tortures people for a living.

“It is,” he says. “Really fucked.”

Merrin grabs his hand and intertwines their fingers, and he lets her because he wants her to touch him. All of the time. He thinks about her so often that one day it’ll probably get him killed, but if he goes out with her on his mind, he’ll consider it a pretty decent way to die. Cassian would throttle him for saying that. Rhys and Feyre too. Mor would look at him like he’d lost his mind and call him an idiot.

Merrin would make a joke and smile at him.

“I don’t think we’re fucking tonight, Azriel.”

He hums in agreement. “We’re not in a state to do that anyway,” he says, “but I would if we were.”

“I would too.” She goes back to resting her cheek against his shoulder and he can smell the shampoo she uses. Gently, she rubs circles with her thumb on the back of his palm. It’s probably more intimate than they have ever been in bed and the feeling runs up his arm and into his brain. He traces her reddened, bloodied knuckles. “Wanna just sleep?”

He raises a brow at her. “Together?”

“Literally. In the same bed. Just sleep.”

“...Okay.”

“Come on then,” she says softly, pulling herself up more gracefully than the amount of drink in her system should allow for, then she’s tugging him up too, despite the fact that he’s heavier. With the amount of force it takes, she almost loses her balance and tips backwards, but he catches her at the waist. “Back to mine?”

In response, his shadows languidly start to swirl at his shoulders. They’re objecting to the presence of her cat, but the chances are that it’ll be asleep, or otherwise outside, since it likes exploring the city in the early hours of the morning. 

Raskal meows at the bedroom door at inconvenient times: sometimes when they’re asleep; sometimes when they’re in the middle of something else. It’s so achingly domestic that Azriel can’t even be annoyed. Merrin always comes back after letting Raskal out and buries her face into the crook of his neck, clings to his torso like he might disappear if she didn’t. She blames it on the cold, but she’s from the Winter Court and never gets chilly. If he’s awake enough, he pulls her on top of him and cards his hands through her hair, usually in an attempt to lull her back to sleep.

Hand-in-hand, they stumble back through the city to her apartment. Merrin makes him crouch down so she can pet a stray cat for what seems like half an hour, but it’s really only for a few minutes. Passersby stare at them and look away when he glares. No one will mention what they see, not to the rest of the Inner Circle; that’s asking for trouble, and the city has had enough. 

He has no idea why he’s letting her do this with him. They aren’t together. They’re club rats who keep finding themselves in each other’s company and more often than not, they end up sleeping together because they trust each other and it’s easier than gaining the attention of a stranger. 

Though, recently, they’ve been ditching Rita’s for dinner, and he’s glad because these days he’s eating less and less when he’s in the House of Wind. Merrin takes him to little bistros he knows only by name. He brings her to fancy restaurants and she always laughs because they look so out-of-place with her in slinky, little dresses and with his lipstick-stained cheeks that the High Fae actually turn up their noses. She once ate a whole meal with her fingers to really push it, and they couldn’t kick them out because he’s a member of the Inner Circle. Things like that are why he likes her company. She’s so unconcerned about what other people think of her in the way that the rest of his family pretend they are. 

She’s a smart person. She understands that people assume things about the nature of their relationship, about her, and about him, even though they know nothing. More than once, she’s been called a whore, and, more than once, he’s scared someone shitless for it. And she doesn’t care. Not that she should be ashamed, but Azriel isn’t certain that Merrin ever feels shame for anything she does. Regret, maybe, but not humiliation. 

People, the ones whose opinions are worth listening to, like Merrin. She’s compassionate and generous and she can make even him roar with laughter. She isn’t those things because she wants approval for them, she just is. It’s so rare that he meets someone who has no ulterior motive, who speaks their mind and says what they want with no caveats.

Azriel can’t tell if he’s in love with her or if they’re just friends who fuck sometimes. If they’re really friends at all. He doesn’t know which of those things he even wants. He knows that he likes holding her hand. Likes the sound of her voice and that his heart stutters sometimes when she laughs. He could sit and listen to her go on tangents about anything and everything for hours on end. 

Her choice of dress tonight is driving him insane: the black velvet hugs her curves and it barely reaches her mid-thigh. Open at the back, the expanse of her smooth skin that he has dragged his hands down countless times teases him. He wants to pull at the curls in her hair.

When they’re in bed, he’s almost insatiable. He’ll stay between her thighs and do pretty much anything she asks of him. Seeing her flawless form when she punched that male earlier sent twitching heat racketing through him. But so does waking up to her making tea, wearing his shirt, humming to herself. 

It’s a lie that he isn’t happy. Here, on this random street in Velaris, with his head pounding and his legs not quite working as they should, in Merrin’s blissful presence, he’s happier than ever.

Maybe he does love her.

Would she have invited him back to her apartment just to sleep if all she wanted from him was sex?

Would it feel so normal to be with her, to recognise the scent of her even in a crowd of writhing bodies in a club, if he didn’t feel something for her? 

Is it strange that he sleeps better in bed with her curled into his side than he ever has in the townhouse? That she can chase away his bad dreams just by tightening her grip on his waist? That he hasn’t had anyone else because the thought of sleeping with another makes him feel ill?

He can’t figure it out and maybe doesn’t want to right now.

He squeezes her hand and drags her away from the stray, leading her down alleyways so they can get to the townhouse where she owns the top-floor apartment. The stairwell is in no way designed for Illyrians, so his wings scrape against the walls. She's pushing him up in front of her so he goes quicker and doesn’t have to endure the discomfort for so long. They’re definitely stamping about and waking her neighbours.

But they’ve undoubtedly done that before. He’s reminded of the time he carried her upstairs and didn’t wait until they were at her door before he pulled her underwear down. Merrin shamelessly moaned his name particularly loudly halfway up and complained in the morning that the female who lives below her might not cat-sit for her on account of disturbed sleep. He’d snickered. She smacked him in the arm.

Not tonight, he reminds himself. Tonight, they’re sleeping off whatever was in their drinks.

When her front door clicks shut behind them, he almost pins her against it and kisses her. It’s only her ducking under his arm and taking him to her bedroom by grabbing his shirt which stops him. He can kiss her in bed, he thinks. Not with any expectations. He just wants to.

“I think I lied earlier,” she says, pulling at the ties of her dress before he takes over for her wordlessly, letting her continue. “I am happy sometimes. I just don’t think I’m content. They’re different, right?” She peers over her shoulder at him when his fingers still at the small of her back, the dress starting to slip off her as he nears the final tie. 

“They are,” he replies. “I don’t think I’m content either.” Then he undoes the final tie and the dress falls to the floor in a heap of black velvet. She steps out of her stupidly high heels and kicks them towards the door. 

He’s absolutely not focusing on the fact that she’s left wearing nothing but lacy, black panties. He’s not thinking about the fact she’s topless as she disappears into the bathroom to clean off her makeup. He does not care that when she comes back and he’s lying on her bed in his underwear that she picks up his shirt and drapes it around herself to sleep in.

Instead of going to her side, Merrin climbs on top of him, her knees in the space between his hips and his wings, and he instinctively curls his arm around her to pull her down to him. She’s practically pinning him down with her arms braced against the pillow below his head. Despite the Autumn chill, she’s warm.

He gets his kiss. It’s tender, slow, and without heat. Her lips are soft and he lets her push her tongue in his mouth lazily. They’re uncoordinated and a little messy, but it’s fine, he doesn’t care because it’s her. It feels like they’re the only two people in the world, like all things have led to right here, right now, and he thinks that everything that’s happened to him has been worth it. When they separate, she presses chaste, wet kisses on his cheeks and along his jaw and makes him smile. 

“What would make you content, Az?” she asks quietly.

He could say lots of things, most of them he shouldn’t admit to because they’re both still drunk and it’s a bad idea to make serious decisions when your head feels like lead. 

But…

“Just—stay there,” he says, shaking the vulnerability from his tone, sliding his hands under the shirt and settling them at her hips. He refrains from toying with the waistband of her underwear.

Merrin kisses the crest of his brow and his cheekbones. “What?” she asks, smiling when he starts to blush. “For the whole night?” He hums confirmation. She whispers against his lips, “That would make you content?”

“If I wake up with you on top of me too.” The distance between them is closed. He runs his fingers along the back of her thigh while his other hand creeps up the dip of her spine, pulling her impossibly closer until they’re chest-to-chest and he can feel how her nipples have pebbled through her—his—shirt. Of her own accord, she shifts her hips a little lower until she’s sitting on his pelvis, giving him just a hint of friction. He tuts and pulls away. “What happened to just sleeping, Merrin?”

They need to rest. At the same time, he also needs to know how wet she’ll be if he sinks a finger into her tight heat. She’s always so… reactive. Learning all her sensitive spots has been a lesson he never wants to finish. She isn’t shy about showing him. 

She catches his hand before he can satisfy his curiosity.

“Just reminding you of what we would be doing if we hadn’t drunk that last bottle of liqueur,” she says, shimmying even lower so she can rest her head on his chest, slotting her legs between his thighs. 

He sighs a laugh, his eyelids suddenly heavy. “Like I needed reminding.” When he rests his free hand on the back of her head, dipping his fingers into the fine hair at the top of her neck, he feels her melt against him and fully relax. He tugs the covers and pulls them over the both of them. “What would make you content?” he asks softly, letting himself sync his breathing with the rise and fall of her shoulders, with the soft puffs of air he can feel on his pectoral where his tattoos mingle with her flaring curls. Somehow, the sight of them doesn’t make him wince as often as it used to, but he sees them more these days. Merrin likes to trace the lines of ink in the mornings.

“I don’t know,” she says, “‘suppose we’ll find out if I feel the same as you when we wake up.”

He blames the drinking, but he hopes that she does.

[allertonhoe]

A2 + A5 with rafe please, a bit of angst then fluff at the end !!! also congratulations on 500 !!

thank you!!! hope you enjoy ☺️☺️ really had fun writing this one!!!

prompts: "Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry" + "Well. Yell, scream, say something. Anything"

content warnings: 18+ MDNI, original afab!reader, men being men/being gross about women,

500 follower celebration!

It was humiliating to say the least. You knew that being Rafe Cameron's girlfriend wasn't always the easiest task. There were expectations of you, one of them being that you had to accompany him to fancy Kook soirées. But tonight, you'd gotten pushed too far.

"Come on," he complained, banging against the locked guest room door. "Please just talk to me. I know I fucked up."

It hadn't been anything out of the ordinary, another obligatory appearance among Figure 8's upper echelon since he was now running Cameron Development. Hanging off Rafe's arm with a cordial smile as he faked his way through small talk with important clients and investors.

At one point, the two of you split off from each other. Being wrangled by one of the other trophy girlfriends to gossip over drinks and 'leave the men to their business,' whatever that meant—something you'd learn very soon. Eventually excusing yourself to the bathroom, you became distracted as you strolled past the billiards room and noticed it was buzzing in conversation.

"Is she that good, Cameron?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you only keep a girl like that around for one reason."

Your jaw dropped at the sexist declaration, especially when you knew there was a good chance this person had probably acted the complete opposite less towards you than an hour ago when Rafe was by your side. It's not that you were ignorant to that type of behavior in these settings, you'd just never heard it so explicitly. 

This was part of why you loved Rafe, though. He was headstrong and fiercely protective of the things that were important to him, which included you. He had a reputation for having a dangerously short fuse, a trait you were appreciative of in this moment. But that wasn't the response you heard at all.

"Seriously, dude? You should brag about your girl more. The stories I've heard-"

"Shut up, Topper."

"No, no. I mean it as, like, a good thing. Those two have the freakiest sex. The stories I've heard. Tell them about that thing she can do when she puts her legs over her-"

"Damn, Rafe. And you aren't sharing any of the dirty details with the rest of us? That's cold, man..."

"My girl's just amazing; what can I say?"

"Enjoy that while it lasts. I wish my wife was still eager and willing like that. Didn't talk back yet, just did whatever I told her because she wanted to keep me around. Made sure I was taken care of like your girl still does, if you know what I mean."

The group of businessmen laughed boisterously as they proceeded with their banter, while your supposed knight-in-shining-armour stood along with them. Actually clinking his glass with the man's who made that comment, not even attempting to clear your name.

Your mind raced as you helplessly watched the scene unfold in front of you. Usually the two of you were on the same page, but right now you could barely recognized your boyfriend. Why didn't he confront them at all? Was he embarrassed over you? 

Your clutch fell from your hand, making your presence known as it hit the ground. Not daring to shift your regard back to the room full of local moguls, their conversation stilling there. Rushing to pick it up and return to the group of naive women you were seemingly better off with, but hearing a familiar set of footsteps follow behind you.

At first, Rafe tried explaining himself a few times. So you stubbornly shut him out and did what you apparently did best—blindly follow his lead like a doting puppy. Getting knowing looks from the same snobby men he’d just been chatting with as he quickly decided it was time to make his exit, your rage not going unnoticed.

Your silence prevailed throughout the car ride home despite his continued attempts to apologize, not sparing him a glance as you stormed into the house and up to one of the guest bedrooms. Locking the door behind you as the disparaging remarks swirled through your brain.

"Baby, let me in," he reiterates desperately.

He kept pounding on the door and you kept ignoring him, not in any mood to spend the rest of the evening rehashing your unsettled conflict. Becoming startled when it suddenly stopped after a few minutes, the quiet only worrying you knowing your boyfriend's unpredictable temper.

And then, in his irrational fashion, the thick wood broke off its hinges like it was no big deal. Barreling into the formerly tranquil room, brushing a hand through his hair dramatically as he caught his breath. Feeling a little resentful that he decided to channel his frustration into that outrageous display instead of actually backing you up earlier. 

"Are you fucking serious?" You grill him, not hiding how unimpressed you were.

"What?" He counters, glancing at the wreckage and waving it off. "Don't worry about that."

You just rolled your eyes, diverting your attention from him as resentment crept back up on you. A tear rolling down your cheek as you remembered why you were in here, avoiding him, in the first place. Rafe kneeling down to bring himself to your level, his thumb wiping it off your skin. 

"Please don't cry. I can't stand to see you cry." He whispered hoarsely. "I'm sorry. You know how the guys can be..."

"It's not that, Rafe. You didn't come to my defense at all when they were all objectifying me. I thought I meant more to you than that..." You detail with disappointment. "I'm just... I'm tired. It's been a long night. I'm gonna sleep in here, or one of the rooms that has a door attached."

"No, baby. Let me make it up to you," he contends further.

Not having any more energy to keep scolding him, you slipped under the covers and got as comfortable as you were able to without changing out of your cocktail dress or taking off your makeup. Feeling a dip at the bottom of the mattress, Rafe reaching out and caressing the shape of your silhouette.

"Yell, scream, say something..." he begs weakly, his voice breaking and barely a whisper as he finished his plea. "Anything..."

He crawled across the bed, lying behind you and placing his arms over your torso. Pulling you as close as he was able to with the comforter still separating your bodies. Shutting your eyes momentarily as you basked in the calm you'd been craving all night.

"I'm so sorry, baby... I should've told them to knock it off, but it's complicated with these guys. They're some of my dad's oldest clients. I can't just lose my shit on them, as much as I might want to." He justifies to you. "Please... I'll let you do whatever you want..."

As he waited for your answer, he moved your hair off the back of your neck and started pecking across the flesh. Pressing delicate, wanton kisses before stopping at your shoulder and resting his chin there, leaving one last chaste peck on your cheek. Trying your absolute best not to give in to his persuasive tactics. 

"Whatever I want?" you echo, catching his grin reappear as your discomfort faded.

"Anything," he coos, prompting you to turn over to face him properly.

"You're definitely gonna regret that," you threaten playfully. 

"Yeah?" he mutters, squeezing your waist possessively.

"Mhmm..." You hum, capturing his lips with yours. Rafe tangling his tongue with your own as he took over control and spent the rest of the evening helping you forget about the disastrous gala.

[tricoloreddango]

Yandere Phainon sabotaging reader’s relationship

contents: gaslighting / gender neutral reader / mention of the death of the readers’s cat/ word count: 1k

The relationship you had with your boyfriend might not have been the most exciting, but you thought of it as satisfying enough… just the fact it let you live a stable and predictable life was enough to be comforting and not leave you lonely. Your relationship hasn’t started a long time ago, but you assumed it was going into a right direction.

However, Phainon wasn’t having it. He’s been consistently trying to prove it to you that you have settled down just for a bare minimum or has been bringing up things that (in his humble opinion) were red flags. This wasn’t any different when you invited Phainon over for tea.

He looked around the kitchen, noticing a spill of coffee beans on the counter. “Is this his mess?”

You nodded. “Yes, I’m sure he’d clean it any other day. He just had to leave early for work,” you shrugged. You decided to change the topic, before Phainon would start telling you how you shouldn’t have to clean up after your own boyfriend. It was an innocent mistake from him, as he usually did his share of work. Phainon would still probably say something along the lines of “Even if, this is just the beginning—”

“He bought me flowers today,” you bragged to your visitor, sounding happy—not expecting your friend to soon make you lose that feeling. “What flowers did he give you?” he asked curious, smiling for your enthusiasm. “Roses,” you responded.

Suddenly, your friend looked disappointed, killing your smile. “Roses? Look, it’s nice he got you flowers. But aren’t peonies your favorite flowers?”

“Yes, but… he still didn’t have to give me any outside of occasions,” you muttered.

Phainon disagreed, “No, no. If he was buying them he might as well had picked the ones you like. It means he doesn’t really care about what you want but about what he wants and expects you to be grateful. Roses are so cliche and boring. He’s not romantic in any way.”

The look of uncertainty, wondering if you should believe his words, didn’t discourage Phainon. He was ready to prove you wrong furthermore your conversation. “Well… I can always tell him that. I’m sure he’ll understand and will make sure to get me the right ones the next time? He just didn’t know my favorite.” You smiled encouragingly, hoping your friend will agree.

He didn’t. He was ready to debunk your claim. “You really think he’ll listen? If he cared, he’d have asked you about your likes first. Also, don’t you remember when you asked to help you fix a tap? He didn’t,” he said with a slight disgust.

“Yes, but he was tired! He promised me he’d do it tomorrow, I just managed to do it before him,” your voice was now frustrated. Why was he so not understanding?

“I doubt that. You had to ask him to not tighten jar lids multiple times before he eventually had stopped, or had to ask him to stop putting jars on a shelf too high for you. He clearly doesn’t care about your boundaries. Don’t you remember his reaction? You said he raised his voice at you, didn’t you?” he said with worry.

“Right, but it’s because I asked him when he was busy and I wouldn’t stop interrupting—”

“My friend,” Phainon put a hand on your shoulder, his face all soft and apologetic you had to deal with such a bad man. “Even if busy, a right boyfriend wouldn’t raise his voice, as it signals anger issues if he’s snapping at something so simple. He would have remembered to not tighten lids in the first place, and be considerate of you having less strength or you being shorter. A boyfriend who cares is the boyfriend who knows you well.”

Phainon’s words were getting to you slowly, making you have second thoughts. What if you were naive and didn’t notice signs? You trusted Phainon, he’s never given you a reason to sabotage your happiness, so surely there must be some truth to his words… which doesn’t mean hearing it all was easy. You felt self conscious at the idea of letting yourself end up in such a bad relationship or being used. Tears blurrier your vision, threatening to fall.

“But… when I ended up losing my cat, he was there to comfort me! He definitely cares! He listened to me and did things for me so I could rest! He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t!”

Phainon shook his head gently, making his voice more serious, “He was using affection to get you attached in your vulnerable moments. That has to be true, considering he normally doesn’t show you much affection? He even acts all distant.”

“He’s just not that comfortable with being vulnerable, cause he had a difficult childhood! He still gets adjusted to opening up to me but we’re getting there!” you protested, but your efforts were starting to feel useless in your perspective. Phainon might really be right—if he didn’t mind easily showing you affection during your sad day, why wouldn’t he do so any other time?

“Emotionally unavailable people don’t change. They make relationships one sided! Aren’t you tired of making yourself vulnerable while he doesn’t give you anything in return?” he scolded gently, pulling you into his arms when you were finally crying. You didn’t protest, letting him rub your back. Phainon has never let you down, unlike your boyfriend, apparently. “I think you just want to ‘fix’ him. Yet this isn’t your role. You should find someone who makes you happy, rather than someone that you have to be responsible for! Relationship should make your life easier, not burdening. You have to say so many ‘buts’ to defend him; that should be enough concerning,” he added, his voice made cashmere to comfort you.

He felt all joy and relief when you ended up nodding into his chest. He’ll gladly show you what a boyfriend model should be, as no way in any universe he’d let you be with someone else. Phainon wholeheartedly believed that only he was meant for you, and that you can be the happiest with him only—he may as well be your soulmate.

Didn’t he know your needs the most? You could ask him what he thinks you’ve eaten yesterday and he’d have no problem guessing. You weren’t aware of the extent of his knowledge about you.

[kaisentine]

oliver aiku won’t leave you alone.

and no, you aren’t exagerating it.

one time, he transferred money in your bank account with a message attached to it ( actually, he sent multiple because it only had a character limit of 5 and his message was “please talk 2 me”—at least he had manners . . . ) because you weren’t responding to his calls nor his texts . . . nor the letter he tried to send you through a freaking bird?!?! anyway, you didn’t respond to any of his attempts because they were very much avoidable by ghosting or ignoring.

in public, however, it’s not as easy. you aren’t able to turn into a ghost unless you wanna be one of those white sheet ghosts for halloween or something—spoiler: you don’t.

okay, maybe you do.

no matter how long you hide behind your friend, he is just not going away. “is he gone?” you ask in a hushed whisper like how a child asks their parents if they’re there yet during a long roadtrip. they turn their head to face you, “nope, he’s not even looking for chocolate anymore . . .” they say and your curiosity gets the best of you and you take just a little peek from their back.

yeah, he isn’t looking for chocolate anymore. but that man isn’t that much of a chocolate fan anyway—unless he’s buying it for another person? well, at least maybe he was because he is no longer browsing the lanes of confectionary, he’s discreetly browsing other people instead. to anyone, they’d probably think of him as a weirdo for checking people out and you’re probably anyone too because he’s just . . . weird.

you’ve been here for half an hour and he’s been here for 20 minutes of those 30. knowing him, he just picks out anything and shoves it in the cashiers’ face and then walks out of there—he isn’t careless about the quality of chocolate, though, he just doesn’t care what brand it is—being the absolute gentleman he is!

“can you just pick a box, please.” you plead with your friend because they were the reason why you went in the first place. maybe it’s your friend who is the lunatic here because how can one take that long to buy a box of chocolate? they sigh and roll their eyes but oblige, grabbing whatever was on the shelves.

now this, this was a horror game. waiting for your guys’ turn in the line was like hiding from a monster in which you don’t know where it is ( you refuse to turn your head ) and your heart is racing. “hey,” the voice you hate to hear calls from behind you and you slowly turn around to face whatever creature is here to torment you. “aiku, hi.” you feel your heart stop at the eye contact which you immediately end.

“you haven’t been responding to me,” he continues with an eyebrow raised.

“what?”

“you know . . . my calls, my texts, the letter, not even the money.”

sticky note. aiku might . . . become one of my favorites omfg CAN THIS MAN LEAVE ME ALONE PLZZZ zorry for not finishing this i just wanted to do smth for aiku ha . . . ha ( KAISER I STILL LOVE U MY GLORIOUS KING )

[hitlikehammers]

POV: when you overhear your boyfriend’s bandmates who ⛔️do not like you⛔️ talking to him—about YOU

“Be real though, Ed. Harrington? You can’t actually be serious, here.” Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle. Which is to say he totally does it. He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it. “You got me,” Eddie sighs, longer and deeper than can be taken wholly seriously. “I’m running my longest successful con to date.”

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, established relationship, corroded coffin, as in: the gang’s all here and being VERY JUDGEMENTAL of eddie’s taste in men, and maybe steve had to pick eddie up from practice today so he overhears it WHOLLY WITHOUT INTENDING TO OKAY?, no one ever REALLY want to hear what the people they love really think of them when said people don’t know who all’s actually listening, true love, declarations of feelings, it’s actually really fucking hard to stand up to your friends, happy ending♥️

for @steddielovemonth day ten: "We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." —Dr. Seuss

also! Unnamed Freak is Doug for the purpose of this fic because the book can fuck itself I say so 🖤

“Be real though, Ed,” the voice that filters through, and holds Steve’s hand from pushing the car door shut loud enough to notice, is fairly reasonable, like trying to talk down a suggestion absurd enough to send someone to the ER—which means, of the subjects at hand? It’s gotta be Jeff.

“You can’t actually be serious, here.”

Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle.

Which is to say he totally does it.

He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it.

“You got me,” Eddie deadpans, but it’s like, venom-laced. It stings just to hear and Steve’s struck with how much his life’s changed since Spring Break, and more still since…well.

Since Eddie.

Because Steve is well aware the man can cut glass with how sharp his tongue can get, they did go to high school together whether they ran in the same circles or not.

It’s just strikes Steve in the moment that not once since Vecna, has Eddie turns that tongue on him.

Now, other uses of his tongue—

“I’m running my longest successful con to date. Yep, totally pulled it over on all you bitches,” and where it could be playful, every single word is sharpened to stab, to pierce, to drag the wound out so it bleeds, like a shiv to remind someone where they fucked up, in perpetuity.

“Please applaud.”

And oh, even Steve flinches at that tone, and he’s not even the target. Hell, he’s still in the driveway—he doesn’t make a rule of crashing band practice, no matter whose parents’ garage they’re using; Eddie’s van is just regularly in the shop for one thing or another, so he’s gotta come get his man. But he doesn’t, like, push his way in. Sometimes doesn’t even get out of the driver’s seat. He knows Eddie would more than welcome him; has the handful of times he’s ventured to step in to apologize for interrupting but remind him they have to pick up the shitheads. But one: Eddie is alone in his welcome, and like, the polar opposite of the other three guys, who range from staring daggers at Steve to sneering so scrunched up to the nose that it’d give Carol Perkins at her snittiest a run for her money.

And Steve wouldn’t have made it this far if he didn’t know how to recognise where he’s not wanted, and learn how to make the calculated decision of whether to walk or push his way in. And much as he loves Eddie? Steve actually wants his friends to eventually come around from probably, like, muttering ancestral curses under their breaths at him or something.

Plus, from what Steve understands? Jam sessions are personal. Sacred. Eddie had blushes and stammered the first time he let Steve listen in on works in progress; and Steve had rewarded him for the gift of it liberally and with genuine gusto. It’s earned him repeat performances on the regular, but Steve gets it’s a private thing in general. And these guys don’t know him, don’t presently care to—don’t trust him.

He figures it’s like…masturbating in front of someone. The art thing, the depth of making music and stuff. Showing your soul a little bit, losing control for the betterment of the final product.

Now, he and Eddie definitely have masturbated together, it’s actually fantastic foreplay, or even just a deliciously sloppy go on its own. But that’s neither here nor there. And also totally fucking different.

Steve really doesn’t want Eddie masturbating in front of anyone other than him, ever again. Steve’s sure as shit not looking to on his end; definitely not with the other members of Corroded fucking Coffin.

The metaphor might have gotten away from him. But you get the picture.

“No, man,” and that’s, that’s Gareth’s voice, Steve’s almost sure. Sharper. Concerned but also caustic on the undertow. “It’s just,” he snorts, the disbelieving sort: “this can’t be real.”

Okay, yeah. Tone plus actual words add up.

“Yeah, just,” Doug laughs a little nervous, like of all of them, Eddie’s verbal attack had the most weight in tempering his response of the three of them; “blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”

They all chuckle, but it’s toned down the whole way around—even Steve can clock that. These guys are boisterous when left to their devices, Steve’s taken note of that. Mostly watching from the sidelines—almost exclusively when they don’t know he’s there to watch.

Again: does not condone eavesdropping.

Does not try at all to refrain from doing it.

“I mean, you don’t expect us to believe you’re actually fucking him,” and oh, yeah, okay: Steve was pretty sure he was the topic conversation here, and despite some of the setbacks of recent years, he’s not insecure when it comes to relationships especially.

He’s definitely the only one fucking Eddie. And Eddie’s the only one fucking him.

And while he doesn’t really hold it against these guys for being wary of him—he wasn’t really a perpetrator of their high school woes, but he definitely didn’t do anything to make them less…woeful—so he’s mostly bummed about it for Eddie’s sake, and on principle, but like, seriously.

Doubting Steve successfully scoring Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie’s a catch, Steve of ll people is well aware, but. Steve’s also been long past fishing the shallow end of the pond, y’know?

Give him some credit.

“Right,” Steve narrows back in on what’s happening in the garage that he’s definitely feeling less guilty bout, seeing as he’s definitely a subject of the debate unfolding, but Eddie sounds…angry. Pissed off in that way he gets when he’s fed the fuck up.

“I’m out,” Steve hears scraping of equipment, the guitar case flipped open; “can’t actually make it next week,” he adds like a footnote.

It’s clear within a second he’s the only one who takes it with that same…energy.

“But we have to practice before the open mic—” Jeff, ever the voice of reason, sounds baffled; on his way to ticked off but not quite there yet.

Eddie, however—as is his wont in this type of mood—could not give two shits where the people around him land on the anger-o-meter; he’s exceeded them, even if only in his own head, and they are all therefore irrelevant to his very responsible decision to put distance between himself and doing something stupid he can’t take back.

It’s not the nicest way to deal but, honestly? Steve’s mostly just proud of Eddie for sticking with a coping mechanism that, while not without consequences, generally works better than most.

“I’ll see you guys in two, then. Probably.” And the case clicks shut, definitive, and Steve’s proud of that too; that Eddie’s not digging a hole when the guys re trying to bait him, intentionally or not, over Steve.

Steve doesn’t need Eddie to complicate his band, his friendships, over what the two of them have. One, it’s not their fucking business. And two?

Steve doesn’t thing he’s being self-important in saying he and Eddie…are bigger, and more, than even the very beat high school band.

Not that Steve would ever ask Eddie to choose or some bullshit like that. And he really does believe Eddie’s going places, if that’s what he decides he wants. But…there’s that.

Then there is them.

Different, like, stratospheres.

“What the fuck came up that you can’t make it next week? When we’re staring down our first actual shot at Battle of the Bands this year,” and yeah, of course, if anyone’s gonna try to drag the whole thing out, it’s Gareth. Kid’s got a fucking temper.

“Something more important.”

Which yeah, that’s what was going through Steve’s mind, basically, but—

“The hell could be more—“

“I have plans,” Eddie hisses, viper-quick and fucking deadly, shuts them all right up for it, but then he spins a 180–preens so big Steve swears he can hear his shoulders go back and his chest puff out:

“It’s my anniversary.”

So…yeah. Just because it was where Steve’s head had just been at doesn’t mean his whole chest goes all gooey to hear it said out loud.

And in front of Eddie’s band, who…they aren’t hiding from, but they have discussed keeping kinda mum around. For the same kinds of reasons Steve’s been privy to just in the past couple minutes.

But then Eddie’s voice follows the feeling in Steve’s chest like they’re tethered there, and honestly, more times than not?

Steve thinks they just might actually be, and he’s not proven wrong with the way Eddie halfway coos:

“Our anniversary.”

“Your what?”

Jeff, again, is that middle ground: actually confused, laced with being angry that Eddie’s ducking out.

“Six months,” Eddie answers, soft-like, a little dreamy but in this way that’s rooted somehow still, and in being struck all over again by a level of shock Steve understands, sometimes feels in reverse, but still doesn’t understand being felt so deep as it sounds, now, when it’s applied to…him.

It’s wild y’know?

“I’m like,” Steve hears Eddie’s curls brush against something as he shakes his head—Steve’s money’s on him crouched by his case, or having it already slung over his shoulder:

“Never thought I’d get something to celebrate like that in the first place, but get to keep it, that long without fucking it up?”

Steve, again, wants to give up the pretense and walk the fuck in there and kiss the shit out of his boyfriend because one, same, but two?

Dumbass.

Steve goddamn adores him.

“You mean, with Harrington?” Gareth’s spitting and Steve just shakes his head, a little sad—he doesn’t know what’s crawled up that kid’s ass about him, man; he’s not so much younger that Steve never saw him or didn’t know of him but godDamn: the circles he ran in at the time weren’t the ones doing shit yet when they were in the same elementary school, Steve was barely popular in middle school, and come high school the worst anyone he knew did to the frosh was bang them into a locker—not great, but.

Not worth this shit. And the worst part is if he doesn’t know what’s crawled he did to really piss Gareth off this bad? He can’t even try to Harrington-charm his way back into the guy’s tolerable category. Like, even his best fucking not-pot brownie recipe didn’t sway the fucker.

“Yes,” Eddie is answering, the answer emphatic, like he’s brimming with feeling over it, but then clipped too, like demonstrating that he was brimming and is now being forced to clip it all backis very much the intent: “of course I mean with Steve, who the fuck else?”

It’s not lost on Steve how Eddie says his name. Ever. All the name.

But right now, how he’s making a point to say it in that warm, kinda…beloved way, when anyone else uses his last name in a way that’s anything-but.

“You cannot be—” Gareth scoffs, Steve can imagine him throwing up his hands, that sort of deal, but then Eddie comes in, and it’s a tone Steve’s only ever hear when he’s about to run a campaign into the ground where the characters may never recover, and if somehow manage it, they’ll wish they hadn’t:

“Oh, I am deadly serious.”

Because it’s not Steve’s character, but in defense of Steve’s relationship, that tone trickles something molten through his veins and prickles up his spine and…he’s gone have to stick that one in his back pocket to explore at a later date, for sure.

“Six months?”

Jeff—and Steve kinda likes Jeff, and not for the reason his bandmates would like, that he kicks around Hawkins after graduation, too, but more because Steve knows why; that’s to make more money for a college outside Indiana, and Steve thinks that’s fucking cool—but it’s here where Jeff dips fully away from being angry to being stupefied. Steve lets himself smirk at nothing because fuck yes: him and Eddie.

Six whole goddamn months.

“I was actually gonna ask you guys to come over soon, introduce him properly and stuff,” Eddie says, the disappointment in his voice again; Steve’s niggling desire to go and hug him from behind, maybe kiss under his ear a little, back in full force.

“He picks you up from practice, we see him,” Doug pipes back up, likewise confused, but Steve just takes the useful confirmation that no one did catch on that he pulled up ages ago, now.

“We know who Steve Harrington is—” Gareth snaps, protests in the way that betrays his eye-rolling, his thin-wearing patience.

“No!”

And that comes out of Eddie fierce enough to echo down at least half the block they’re on—seems like Eddie’s patience was worn out a while ago.

“You don’t!”

And everyone is silent in that way Steve knows all too well: when shit’a gone down but now you’re waiting in the edge for the worse thing to hit.

Then it does:

“And it’s a good thing I didn’t bring it up because you dipshits aren’t ready,” Eddie snaps, says dipshitso different from how he does with the Party, theirParty, their kids; he says it here with something real fucking close to disgust.

“Asking hostage questions, fuck off,” he huffs, and Steve hears Eddie’s footsteps, can’t tell if he’s gonna leave it at that, come find Steve and know he’s been standing there but that’ll be fine, it’s not like Steve wasn’t going to let him know as soon as they left—but then:

“Look,” and Eddie sounds the way Steve sounds when he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to fight a growing migraine, the sting of tears for all sorts of pain behind his eyes, and that hurts to hear from his boyfriend, like, a lot.

It fucking hurts.

“I am not just fucking him,” Eddie growls through the bridge-pinching pain; “I mean, fuck yes, I am, but,” and Steve hears the way he swallows all the way down the drive:

“I’m in this for the long haul,” Eddie tells his bandmates like throwing down a gauntlet; “and if you can’t respect me enough, and my choices, that stings,” Steve knows Eddie shrugs then: “but I’ll live.”

Steve’s about a millisecond from saying fuck it, opening the door just to slam it to announce his approach, and then going to physically grab his boyfriend, drag him to the car, and park in the abandoned lot down from the Wheelers’ neighborhood to kiss him senseless because that’s the closest place he can think of and he doesn’t think he’ll make it to either of their homes before he can’t fucking handle himself.

“But if you are gonna disrespect the man I love, no. Absolutely not.”

Eddies voice is a deadly sort of whisper. Steve would cower at it, the way it washes through a person, if he hadn’t just…said.

That.

“You love him?”

And for what Steve thinks is the first time since he climbed out of the car and committed to listening where he wasn’t invited, Gareth sounds…muted. Genuinely asking a question.

Steve, for his own part, kinda expected that he’d be more breathless, heart racing and shit, to hear the answer but in reality?

“Of course I love him.”

Steve already knew that in his cells, in his bones.

In his steady, not all-that-fast but particularly-especially-happily beating heart.

“Have you guys, like, said it and stuff?”

And of course Steve already knows that answer, both the literal one and the one that matters more, but he does perk up a bit, curious to hear what—if anything of note—Eddie chooses to give away here.

“He has,” Eddie says, and now…now maybe Steve should stop listening because this part, the way Eddie says that as flat fact—Steve doesn’t knowthis part beyond speculation. But…

“I wanted to, like,” and eddies voice can’t hide the way he’s gotta have that soft smile, the one he used to hide behind his hair before Steve started pulling it back to see in full, so now he only brings his hair out just to tease, to okay.

“I don’t think I’ve wanted much in my whole life, but he’s,” and Steve thinks he hears how Eddie chews his bottom lip for a second, in the subtlest click of how it slips free before Eddie takes a deep breath and—

“He doesn’t know what he’s worth,” Eddie starts, a little mournful almost, even, and Steve is unexpectedly glued to the spot in his fucking Nikes.

“He doesn’t understand that I’d sell the sun and the moon just to keep him,” Eddie’s saying, and with passion. With whole-ass honesty. And here, maybe, is where Steve gets to have some of the heart:fluttery feeling after all:

“He comes out the gate with the whole you don’t have to say it back and I just,” Eddie sighs, sniffs a little before heaving another breath deep enough to stretch his shirt, which Steve’s not imagining or anything, at all;

“I couldn’t say it, not right then, and risk him everthinking it was something I’d done to like, match. Like that I didn’t mean it with everything I’ve got, when I mean it with everything I’ve got and then also everything else. Like, anywhere. Ever.”

Steve realized he’d stopped breathing at some point when the little dots start floating in front of his eyes and he sucks in a shaking breath because: he’s known Eddie loves him. Unshakeably.

But, but all this—

“I couldn’t say it and have him ever wondered if I wouldn’t rip my heart out of my chest just to keep his safe.”

And of-fucking-course Steve’s pulse is running fucking riot about how much he’s in love right now, make no goddamn mistake. Jesus, he—

“Fuck.”

And Steve has never heard Gareth Emerson pushed just this side of speechless but: that’s the best way Steve can describe the kind of breathless wonder he says it with, like watching a rare bird take flight.

“You mean it.”

And Steve can pick out Eddie’s huffs and categorize them, on demand at this point: he doesn’t need to see the eye-roll to know Eddie’s deemed the expression of pure shock to be so beneath him in this specific context that he’s deemed it unworthy of any more attention.

His heart’s not jumping that loud to have missed it. So.

Steve just kinda grins toward the blacktop under his shoes.

“Why didn’t you,” Doug starts, still—usually, really, in Steve’s limited experience at least—the peacekeeper, the one who’s most invested at the human level when he’s not getting swept up in whatever the rest of the gang has deemed the cool thing to laugh at or make fun of at any given moment.

The huff Eddie gives this time is his incredulous one, which allows for just the slightest bit more consideration:

“The fuck do you think?”

The slightest bit, being the operative point.

“I’d hoped you’d take it better but,” Eddie adds, and there’s less drama in it than Steve might have expected. He’s being serious with them, and he sounds…disappointed.

Steve kinda want to make some kind of noise, give away his position, and just…hug Eddie tight from behind, if nothing else. Be there. Solid against him, wrapped up around him. Never wavering. Always at his back as much as at his side.

But Eddie’s not done:

“I’m not even asking you to like him, just be decent,” and it sounds like it hurts him to say as much, and Steve knows why; he genuinely despises when anyone thinks Lea with a the very beat thing about Steve. Steve believes this to be n unreasonable standard, and has expressed as much to Eddie who nods and smiles and kisses Steve’s forehead and does absolutely nothing to change his stance, but deep down?

Steve fucking feels so…loved for it.

“And like I said,” Steve can hear the judgement in Eddie’s tone clear as day; “you’re not ready, and I’m not putting him in that kind of situation.”

Steve sucks on the inside of his cheek, lest his grin at the way Eddie is not just defending him, but…protecting him, not his honor but his heart…

No ones ever even tried that before. Steve may not need it, or maybe he just learned he couldn’t survive needing it.

Getting it now…now it’s just…

Wow.

“And I’m in this for keeps, like, this is a forever type thing, so long as he wants it,” Eddie saying, explaining the color of a sky to a small child like what these words are that fundamental, that unalterably true. “So—”

“We’ve known each other forever, man,” Gareth eventually mutters, sounds indignant, but mostly gutted.

Steve knows before it happens that it’s not gonna make a difference.

“And we can still know each other. Just not everything, anymore,” and Eddie does sound a little sad but he’s…he’s a monolith, unshakable. “I don’t trust you with the parts that revolve around him, yet,” and Steve feels more than hears the ways his friends deflate, maybe shrink for being deemed so…insufficient. In the eyes of their ostensible leader, no less.

“Eddie, we didn’t,” Jeff starts, slow, and he doesn’t sound remorseful but—Eddie has all those coping mechanisms for a reason, right?

Because he’s quick to feeling, good and bad, and sometimes neither is fit to the moment.

Steve can’t help but be kinda glad Eddie doesn’t bother with those mechanisms just now, though, if it means he gets to hear this part:

“I know you didn’t, that’s the fucking problem,” Eddie groans, Steve can see the way he lens, bends at the knees and throws his body around a little in sheer, undiluted exasperation. “

“Because I could tell you he’s changed since school, and that’d be true, but that’s not even it,” and there’s more of the frustrated stomping round, Steve can hear it, but he’s…he’s ready distracted by that thing in his chest that has to has��to be tied up in Eddie’s, too, that thing tugging on him to pay the fuck attention.

And who is he to ignore it?

“he was never who we thought he was in school in the first place. He is,” Eddie licks his lips, just to snack them loud:

“He is kind and funny, and goofy, and such a fuckin’ nerd, and he’s smart in these incredible ways where he’s sees what everyone else misses, and he’s protective as fuck and he’s got a heart of gold,” and Eddie’s voice only gets more heartfelt in its own right that longer he goes and Steve just, he’s, it’s—

“And I would tear my skin off just so it doesn’t get so much as a scuff on it,” Eddie ends with the most scathing delivery imaginable: he fucking meansthis shit. And Steve is going o live and die next to this man, scuffed heart still kept safe to the fucking end, he will swear that shit to anyone who needs to hear it.

He is going to have a whole fucking life with Eddie Munson, and love him for every single breath of it.

“And I don’t trust you guys yet not to tempt me to tear off my skin,” Eddie says finally after enough silence to catch his breath, and temper his tone just enough to sound tired; a little dejected. “I don’t trust you with him, and until that changes, we’re still friends,” Eddie sniffs, breathes out long; “you just won’t get to know about that part of me.”

He says it so simple, like he’s not half-cutting off some of the longest, closest friendships he’s ever had, and for Steve.

Steve doesn’t know if it makes him a person, or a really selfish one or whatever, if he doesn’t feel any urge to talk Eddie down, to make him walk it back just a little.

He doesn’t think he cares, though, either way.

“Seems like a really big part of you,” Doug says, deflated entirely.

“It is,” Eddie answers, unapologetic in a way that swells and sparkles in Steve’s ribs. “He is.”

“You’d walk from the band?” Of course Gareth asks, but it’s the first time he sounds small in his words. Like he maybe knows the answer, and isn’t so okay with how he got around to it even before Eddie wishes all doubt:

“In half a fuckin’ heartbeat.” Boom. Done. No hesitation whatsoever.

Less than half-a-fuckin’-heartbeat.

“That’s not what I’m saying I’m doing right now, but,” Eddie laughs a little, and that probably cuts deeper than anything for the boys, Steve suspects, especially when Eddie makes it unquestionable:

“It’s not even a question.”

And…maybe that drives a knife deeper for the band, but for Steve?

Steve kinda wants to…giggle, or some shit. He hadn’t realized just how much he wanted someone who answered a question like that, exactly like that, who talked about Steve exactly like that, without anything to gain, just because they…believed it.

“Jesus,” Gareth mutters, sounds kinda blindsided, kinda thrown and then some.

“If we,” Jeff clears his throat after a long period of quiet; “if we do better, could we meet him someday?” And the way he says it, earnest and shit:, like he wants to at least think about, at least maybe try:

“Like, really meet him?”

Like Eddie means enough that he’ll try, and that sings sweet in Steve’s veins because goddamn straight, his Eddie deserves that from the people hecares about. No matter who or what Steve is, Eddiedeserves that much, and so much more.

But he sounds like even just this is something amazing, Steve can hear the smile in his voice:

“Yeah, man,” he answers Jeff, claps him audibly on the shoulder; “I look forward to it.”

And shit, y’know what?

So does Steve.

“See you in two weeks,” and Eddies footsteps follow, guitar slung over his back for the way his weight falls with each one, but then:

“Eddie!”

That’s Doug; the footsteps stop close to the edge of the garage door as another set rushes to catch up, where he’ll see Steve if he walks much farther, where Steve’s got his hand on the door handle of the car, slowly inching it open to push shut and look wholly-unsuspicious now that Eddie might be followed out to his ride:

“Get him flowers. For your anniversary,” Doug says, tone low like a secret; “I know, like, it might seem like guys wouldn’t want flowers, but,” and Steve actually has to strain to hear the next part:

“My mom gets my dad flowers on his birthday every year, and he lights up like the Fourth of July.”

Steve remembers the first time he ever got flowers. His favorites, even if he thinks he only knew it subconsciously because they were handed to him with the stammering explanation of I don’t even know if you like flowers, or like these ones, but you look at them when we’re out, like, just walking or something and your eyes linger, and these ones just remind me of you and—

Apparently, Steve loves hyacinths. And sunflowers make Eddie think of him.

Because of course Steve’s first gift of flowers came from Eddie.

“Thanks man,” Eddie sounds the lightest, most genuine Steve’s heard him since he pulled up and got out of the car; “they’re already ordered.”

And Doug chuckles, and Steve?

Steve bites down his smile to less exploding-star levels—if he’d just pulled up he doesn’t have a reason, save that Eddie is enough of a reason in Steve’s eyes, his mind, the way his chest expands just thinking on him—as he pulls the car door closed again, loud enough to be noticed.

For Eddie to walk out of the garage fast as anything and meet Steve with a smile of his own that justifies the fuck out of where Steve’s had started, anyway.

All star-bright and everything.

btw this is either titled ‘halcyon shoegazing’ or ‘heart in your shoes’ so if you have an opinion you should maybe tell me or something, my brain’s tired and is resisting decisions rn

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and here and here

[silentplanetcat]

I have many thoughts on this. All the Emphasis that is given to the whole “Save the [Trans] Children” schtick has always had kind of a sinister undertone for me, and not for the reasons one might think. I don’t talk about this often IRL because whenever I bring up my misgivings, people either assume I hate kids, transpeople or both. None of these things are true. Anyway, here are my thoughts:

On Those Who are Caregivers for Control: As a Professional�� I have met a lot of teachers/parents/counselors/caregivers who go into the field of “Childcare” not just because they want to help kids, but because they want to have control over kids. They may say that they want what’s Best For The Children but they also want to be the deciders of what’s Best For The Children.

On Those Who Are Caregivers for Clout: They also may be enamored with how being a caregiver for a child makes them look. I don’t have as much room to criticize because the reactions I get from people when I speak even vaguely about helping children in need are intoxicating. If I could bottle the feeling I actually wouldn’t become a millionaire. I would just inject all of it immediately into my veins. To be clear this is still Not Ideal and I realize it’s something I will probably need to work on for the rest of my life so I don’t turn into Oprah-But-White-And-Evil.

On the Fetishization of the Young: Speaking of being a Caregiver for the Clout™…I’ve noticed that within our society there is this weird fetishization of super early childhood. I know this sounds as grounbreaking as florals in spring, but hear me out. Basically, the less autonomy young people have—>the easier it is for adults to project their desires onto them —>the more they are seen as inherently good/worthy of care. I also often see this fetishization of the very young by ultranatalist shitheads like JD “We Need More Babies in America” V*nce, or by boomers overly concerned with their own mortality. This second category of people hits a bit closer to home for me because some of them are my older relatives and colleagues. They’ve already realized that, because I am a Lesbian with a uterus, my having kids is going to be a Whole Affair™ (a Spending-Lots-Of-Money-On-IVF type of affair). This fills them with anxiety about when or if I will have kids at all. I have asked them for their patience, but I still get weird comments. One holiday I was playing the part of “Cool, Childless Older Cousin with spare time, energy and income” with my younger relatives. As I was being dog-piled on the couch by a gaggle of children over the age of 3, one of my these boomers commented: “you know you can make your own, right?” WILD SHIT! -1000/10! Do Not Recommend! I am a person who very much wants to have kids and this comment/attitude still angers me! I can’t imagine how people who are child-free by choice or circumstance must feel. Kids who are older than babies are also impacted by this because OF COURSE THEY ARE. I myself remember hating that, the more autonomy I got, the harder it was to be nurtured, coddled and cared for. Then I discovered kink got therapy and was able to fill that hole be a well-adjusted person. But it was a pretty painful road.

Anyway, thank you for coming to my ted-talk about the ways in which “Save The [Blank] Children” rhetoric can have sinister undertones for me, a person who likes and works with children.

(i'm not great at wrapping words around my thoughts, so i hope this makes sense!) i like the phrase 'sex exceptionalism,' it really makes me think. this morning i also had the thought: 'youth exceptionalism' -- i have a feeling you've already thought about this, about how we sort of treat children/youth as both sacred and subhuman.

i get this hard-to-describe unease whenever i see signs saying 'protect trans youth.' like changing words doesn't actually change actions, but i wish it said something more like 'defend trans folks.' without trans elders, trans youth don't have a future modeled for them. and we lose the wisdom and insight of people who transitioned in politically tumultuous times, when doing so was at least as stigmatized and difficult and dangerous as it is now. people with the benefit of seeing changes come and go, who have the lived experience of survival-pending-liberation and trans folks helping trans folks through direct immediate action and support.

youth exceptionalism -- it gets in the way of thinking clearly and critically whenever it pops up. it seems more emotional and ingrained than conscious. i feel it around programs aimed at giving youth opportunities, with cutoff ages. which to some extent makes sense, but not to the degree of fetishization of youth & kids our culture hangs on to. one too eager to discard humans as soon as they age (or rage) out of this impressionable, doll-like imposed role.

i think it also puts unconscious stress on youth, a sense of adults/power-havers heaping dreams & expectations on the next generation. and claiming all the sacrifices they chose to make were for the children/next generation. but at the same time expecting a specific outcome, a specific return on that transactional investment.

anyway, that's my jumble o' thoughts.

I think you're getting at something real. I have never liked the "Protect Trans Youth" shirts and banners, the way that certain supportive and well-intentioned parents cling to an identity for themselves as parent to a trans kid (often putting their kid's trans status out into the open and denying them the chance at ever being stealth, should they want to be), the advocacy that gets too perversely focused on the threat of a trans kid killing themselves (as if that were the only reason to give young people rights), the fixation on protection and innocence rather than on liberation... the heart is genuine that is driving a lot of this stuff, but it still sees children as the helpless precious object of their parents, a proto-human that has to be shielded from the world rather than a human of their own, with their own right to make decisions. it still treats transness as a rare fringe case; we might as well be talking about child cancer patients, for how focused the language is on protection and death. everybody's debating about what is best for the kid, and how to best prevent harm, and nobody is letting the kids speak for themselves. there's something so cloying and inert about it. even if the Protect Trans Kids group wins every political battle they get involved in, all they've done is provide children with one exception from the usual denial of body autonomy they live with. and they only get that exception because supposedly death is the alternative and they're that rare and sick. it's not good when you really drill into it.

[pinkcutiepiee]

Sirius Black Confessing his Feelings💌

Day 1 of 5 day of my Valentines Writing Event💌 || Masterlist 🍓

Sirius confesses his feelings for you. But you don’t believe him straight away💌

Hogwarts Uni AU. All characters are written as 20+. Not a house-specific reader.

Word count: 796

[A/N]: I'm seeing Ben Barnes live tonight so it only seemed fitting to start the Valentine's event with Sirius<3

Maybe gonna write a part 2<3

You watch from across the courtyard as Sirius and his friends are, you assume, planning yet another one of their infamous pranks. It was hard to tell, but that guess was the most likely. The pranks could be an inconvenience and frustrating, to say the least. It was true that none of their pranks affected you directly, but the way they indirectly affected you, when you were trying to study, hang out with your friends, or even concentrate in class, annoyed you.

Which is why you hated the way you found yourself becoming more and more attracted to Sirius. He was charming, undoubtedly so, and attractive. You often found yourself seeking him out, purposely studying somewhere close to him just to catch a glimpse. It almost made the pranks tolerable. He was way out of your league, you weren’t even sure that he knew you existed.

Which is why, when he approached you, you were more than certain that it was some sort of mistake, or (the more probable reason for his sudden approach) a prank. Quickly returning to your book, you hope that he didn’t see you staring. In attempt to slow your racing heart, you take a deep breath and try harder to focus on the words in front of you.

“Hey…” he started when he finally reached you. If you weren't so focused on how nervous you felt in that current moment, your rapid heart rate, or sweaty palms, you typically would have picked up on the hint of nervousness in his own voice. Or the way he anxiously played with his fingers, and the way he ran his fingers through his raven hair.

“What is it, Black?” All you wanted was for this whole interaction to be over. The last thing you wanted was for the one person you’re interested in romantically to use you for one of his pranks; to be laughed at by him and his friends. The thought hurt more than the idea of him simply just not knowing of your existence.

He takes a deep breath: “I just wanted to ask you if you wanted to go out with me sometime… kinda like a date because I think I’m in love with you and I think you’re really pretty, and I’m really nervous to ask…” he rambles. If you wasn’t convinced that this was a prank, you would have found the nervous rambling cute. But there was no way.

“You’re in love with me? You’re expecting me to believe that?” It broke your heart, to say the least, that this was the prank the Marauders decided to pull on you. it was just another cruel reminder of this never being a relationship that could work. No matter how much you craved it.

The look of disappointment and confusion on his face when he hears your words look very real, though. Feeling almost guilty, you look away, mentally reminding yourself why he’s actually here. None of his words were true. The way his friends watch the interaction tells you that much. They aren’t laughing, though. In fact, it looks almost as if they are watching with a sense of hope.

“Yes… it is true, please you need to believe me,” he now sits next to you - your breath hitching at the sudden close proximity. You noticed by the way he stiffened slightly when your knees touched slightly that it affected him too. Not being able to look at him, you take a deep breath, as he rakes his fingers through his hair yet again. An anxious tell.

“Why would it be?” He responds when you ask him if this is a prank, finally looking into his dark eyes. Watching him closely, you start to believe him.

After taking a moment figure out what exactly you wanted to say, you a deep breath, you start to speak; “I just never thought that… someone like you would find someone like me…”

“Perfect? But that’s what you are,” Sirius says when you don’t continue, as he grabs your hand gently. By the look on his face when he does, you know it wasn’t his intention, but you like it. So you hold onto his hand before he can pull away. You smile softly at his compliment.

“Well, for the record, I think you’re pretty perfect too… and in response to your question, I would love to go out with you… just tell your friends they need to be a little more subtle,” you joke, seeing the way that James, Remus, and Peter are staring at Sirius and you, hand in hand.

Sirius laughs softly, agreeing, as he squeezes your hand softly, running his thumb across your knuckle. Maybe this could be the start of a beautiful love story.

[tarotorchid]

My 2nd reading for Tumblr collective. Thank you for the support! ❤️

Group 1

Channeling: This is someone you’re waiting message from & it seems like you will be getting some kind of news from/about this person. They’re saying “I’m ready.” Whatever that means for you. This could be someone you don’t know where you stand with. It’s giving status Quo energy. They find you really cute & “soft”, maybe someone they need to “read”, or they can’t figure you fully out as well. Here’s the energy of that playful “I hate you.” As in why you’re doing whatever you’re doing… The connection alone is probably something they don’t know how to control yet. “There’s secrets I hide but I feel like you already know them.” I feel like they do have big attraction towards you, this can be platonic connection for some of you, but for some reason they’re trying to stay away from you.

💌Leo / Pisces / Scorpio / Aquarius / January / September / Blue Eyes / T, K, A / 5, 10, 3

Tarot: For some of you, you met through friends or a job. Someone surrounded with people, can work with people and right now it seems like they’re successful. Could be a party person or they find their close friends important. This person is coming forward as someone who knew to be selfish at times or causing drama & conflict. Don’t let it fool you, this is connected to their anxiety or fear of failure. It’s like their mind is playing games with them at times which confirms my channeled message “I hate you”. I’d just say there’s a big question mark in their mind. If this is someone you recognise already but you’re separated - this person is not having the time of their life even if it looks like it.

Group 2

Channeling: This is someone who wants to feel your touch. Feeling might be mutual here. They are coming in with a gift, especially flowers, & it seems like they have a lot to say. This is someone who loves you & for a lot of you this person is waiting for you to call them! If you’re in a dilemma the answer is yes. You have a green light for something but be wise. Golden color can be significant here. They also see you as their gold. “I am protecting you from evil people, you’re my treasure.” Here’s definitely communication coming in. Sex or romantic moments in general for a lot of you in this collective. Tattoos and smoking can be significant!

💌 December September / Z, J, H, A, J, L / 7. 1, 4 / Aries Taurus & Air signs

Tarot: This gives me either ex vibes or someone you already had some type of connection with. It seems like you guys are working on this over some time & planning how to make this happen. Here’s very important to speak your mind, speak your truth. It’s can be that this is a turbulent connection or going through tension right now and at the other moment everything’s good? Either way don’t hurry with anything & “come prepared”.

Group 3

Channeling: This person can be a traveler, either they love taking trips or their work is related to cars or going from a place to place. On the other side this is someone who’s going through a transformation but it feels like you’re both going through it at the same time. You guys could be energetically connected & it can feel tiring at times, that’s why I’d say this is someone you already know, not someone new. Someone here is egomaniac, I hear “Me, me, me!” This person is thinking about you & wondering if you have someone or not but their pride plays a significant role here. It just represents someone who’s childish. Some of you feel like you need advice on all of this, you can try searching for books who can help you grow. There’s a change coming soon but we’ll see what tarot says. They could’ve used you in the past in a way but it’s nothing new for you & they feel sorry for it. They find you beautiful & can daydream about your children.

💌 Piesces Gemini Taurus Scorpio / Wednesday / December / 6, 4, 9 / J, G, V, A

Tarot: Staring off with heavy energy, this person is someone who was feeling absolutely defeated & desperate for some time but their “rebirth” is coming. Whatever has happened in their life - it was meant to be & this major change that is coming is part of something bigger as well. You just can’t change it. This is someone who’s coming in with pleasant energy. They want to be generous and give you what you deserve. A change is coming, embrace it!

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Dear Quality,

Do you think Fyodor and his wife Reader would have wanted to have children, or would they have preferred to live a child-free life? What do you imagine his views about him having a kid would be like?

.

.

.

All right, listen to me. I was watching one of Chloe Chua's videos. You can also check it out if you want. :>

https://youtu.be/WT9jOZLFaEY?si=VCkz7fuBhK9HOpz0

Meanwhile, I was also browsing on Pinterest when I came across John Collier's painting "The Sonatina."

Then, for some reason, this scenario popped up in my mind. 🥺 We know that Fyodor is already a skilled cello player, and he presumably also spent many years of his life practicing a variety of other instruments in his free time, given his love and appreciation of classical music. I thought to myself—Fyodor having a child who was just as passionate about music as he is, and I thought of them playing together, Fyodor being so proud of his little one—it was just adorable to think about.

Anyway, I just wanted to share this random idea with you. What I'm really curious about is your answer to my earlier question.

My own answer to that would probably be like this: If I stop daydreaming, I think that although Fyodor may like children, he wouldn't want to have a child of his own for reasons you can reckon. BUT let's say hypothetically he meets the love of his life. He already knows that he will outlive her due to his ability. Therefore, he might not be against having children with his beloved if she wishes to.

Despite the fact that he knows he will have to watch them pass away, he would have wanted to make sure that their shared moments together were the happiest it could possibly be for her - so if she had really wanted to have children with him, I think he would have agreed to it. Besides, he would have liked to have a perfect mixture of them. After all, they have a limited amount of time, and he would have tried to make the most of it. He would have stayed by their side even in their final breaths.

And a child would be the fruit of their love, wouldn't it? Years pass, and his descendants live on, unaware that one of their oldest ancestors is still very much around. After all those portraits he spent countless hours painting her, they are the only flesh and blood reminders he has of his darling wife, whom he misses terribly. And Fyodor keeps a keen eye on them from afar. But no one would know about his connection to them except himself.

Okay, I started to daydream and talk nonsense again despite saying I wouldn't do it, lol. 😭 Feel free to respond whenever you want. Love u.

Hello, dear Berry! <3

AHHH—thank you for this question! I’ve spent far too much time contemplating the idea of Fyodor and fatherhood, and let’s just say… it’s a complicated dream. On paper, he is the absolute worst candidate to be around children (I mean, the man has literally used children strapped to explosives as part of his grand schemes—joke, but also not really). And yet, if we set aside that rather damning detail and indulge in a little fantasy, things become much more complex.

The video you sent me? Absolutely enchanting. Chloe is a true gem—so expressive in her artistry. It was wonderful to hear that she’s still doing well, even years after this performance. ^^ I also loved seeing how warmly the other musicians treated her. And don’t even get me started on the comments—equal parts delightfully wholesome and gloriously unhinged. :))

As for the painting—it carries this timeless, wistful elegance, and I can’t help but see Chloe’s performance within it. The title, "The Sonatina", is also such a poetic touch. A sonatina is, in essence, a short sonata. In naming his work, John Collier may have been likening the young girl he painted to a sonatina herself: a melody not yet fully realized, brimming with potential but still small, still tender. Perhaps, had she been older, the title would have been The Sonata instead, reflecting growth and completion. To me, this name captures something fragile: a moment of youth suspended in time. If anyone ever called me something so achingly lovely, I think I would simply dissolve on the spot.

But back to Fyodor—because as much as I want to dream, I cannot. I don’t believe he was ever destined for fatherhood. As you pointed out, there are countless reasons why he would never bring a child into this world.

To him, children are the epitome of purity—beautiful, fragile, untainted. And above all, he would love them too much. So much that the thought of them growing up in a world so corrupted, so uncertain, so riddled with suffering would be unbearable. So he would refuse. He would be against it.

And yet, for his beloved wife, he would waver. He would never seek fatherhood, but if she pleaded—truly pleaded—perhaps he would give in.

The only world in which he could accept raising a child is the one he envisions—a purified world, stripped of ability users, free from the sin he so despises. But what is Fyodor himself, if not the embodiment of that very sin?

In the end, his pursuit of perfection would demand the ultimate price—his own existence. He would carve his utopia into reality with blood-stained hands, only to erase himself from it. And in doing so, he would leave behind the woman he loved—pregnant, perhaps—to raise their child in the world he died to create. A world without him. A child who would never know their father, except through echoes of his ideology, shadows of his absence.

And then what? Would his name become a whispered legend, a martyr for a cause too grand to hold love within it?

The mere thought of it makes me want to claw my own eyes out. :(

But let’s step away from doomed inevitabilities and take the hypothetical path—one where we entertain the thought of Fyodor as a father, no strings attached. Like you, I do believe he would want children, even knowing he might outlive them. He would love his descendants quietly, distantly—never smothering, never overbearing, but always there.

I also think he would search for traces of his late wife in them.

He seems like the type to linger in the shadows, watching over them unseen, ensuring they are safe, protected, untouched by the horrors he himself endured. A silent guardian, orchestrating their happiness without ever stepping into the light.

I can see him leaving anonymous gifts—books filled with cryptic annotations, letters never signed but unmistakably his. Little traces of himself, scattered through generations, proof that he was there even when he wasn’t. His great-grandchildren might grow up with the quiet knowledge that someone—some enigmatic presence—has been looking after them all along.

And when death inevitably comes for the ones he loves, I do not think he would bury them. Graves are too final, too absolute. No, Fyodor would keep their ashes, refusing to let them return to the earth so easily. Perhaps he would scatter them somewhere meaningful—a place only he knows, where the wind can carry their presence across the world. Or perhaps he would keep them close, hidden away in a place untouched by time, a shrine of memory that only he visits. A way of preserving them, as if to defy death itself.

And yet, no matter how you twist it, it is always tinged with sorrow. He either never gets to see his child, or he will see them die before him. More than anything, he longs for rest. For peace. But peace, for someone like him, is as fleeting as a whispered prayer.

Now, let’s imagine a scenario where Fyodor does have a child—and teaches them to play.

Berry, thank you so much for submitting this. It truly made me happy, and I hope I’ve answered your question. I love you too, and I hope you’re taking care of yourself. <3

Word count: 2,000

The evening at home unfolded in its familiar embrace of gentle, comforting quiet. Nestled beside your husband on the couch, you let your knitting needles work, the quiet click of yarn looping together marked the steady progress of a scarf for your darling daughter. Beside you, Fyodor reclined slightly, a book in hand, his expression as calm as ever. The air carried a serene harmony that bound the three of you together. 

You had always cherished these moments. The rustle of turning pages, the reassuring warmth of Fyodor’s presence, and the way silence never felt empty but full—rich with the quiet understanding shared between family. 

Then, breaking the gentle silence, a small voice emerged. 

“Papa,” came the tiny, curious question. “Do you only play the cello?” 

Dunya—Avdotya, though always Dunya to you both—had just turned four. Her dark curls framed her round face, her eyes bright with curiosity as she peered up at her father. You smiled as she wordlessly wiggled between you, pressing close in the way only a child could, small hands reaching to claim his attention. 

Fyodor set his book down, its cover closing softly with a deliberate thud. His gaze softened the instant it fell on his daughter, the cool detachment in his eyes dissipating in favor of something rarer—something infinitely more tender. A small flicker of warmth crossed his features, subtle but deep, before his lips curved into the faintest smile. 

"No, myshka," he whispered. "I play many instruments." 

Dunya’s eyes widened with wonder, her small hands latching onto the sleeve of his shirt. “Then… what was the first instrument you ever learned?” 

You watched, utterly taken by the quiet exchange between them. Fyodor’s gaze grew distant, his usual composed exterior wavering as he considered her question. A brief pause settled over him, a rare moment of stillness where even he seemed to step beyond his carefully measured presence, touched by something close to vulnerability. 

Then, with a soft, knowing smile, he answered. “The gudok.” 

Dunya blinked, lips parting in a quiet pout as she processed the unfamiliar word. Then, as understanding gave way to excitement, she grinned, her whole face alight. “I want to learn it too! I want it to be my first instrument—just like you, Papa! Please teach me!” 

Her enthusiasm was so pure and untouched by the weight of the world, unburdened by doubt or hesitation. She had no reason to question her place in it. And that—more than anything—was what Fyodor had always longed for. What he needed. Hope. Hope in a world he saw as tainted. 

They talk of hope as if it's a fragile thing, something transient, wrought from whispers and spider silk. But his hope was another story altogether—bloody, dirt-filled, trampled by the world. His hope never flinched—it always got back up for the next bout. 

You didn’t know exactly what Fyodor was thinking at that moment, but you were certain of one thing. He was happy. 

Your heart swelled as you watched them, father and daughter, wrapped in something so simple yet overflowing with love. 

He reached out, resting a gentle hand against the crown of her head, fingers threading through soft hair. “Is that so?” he mused, amusement threading through his tone. “Then we shall begin at once.” 

The joy that filled the room was clear. Fyodor’s gaze softened further, the shadows that so often clung to him dissolving in the light of his child’s presence. And for that fleeting moment, you saw it—the weight of tenderness in his touch, the quiet promise that no matter the cost, he would shape and protect this little life with everything he had. 

With that promise, the lessons began. 

As the days passed, a quiet ritual took root. Fyodor’s words were always calm, measured—yet laced with a warmth rarely seen in his dealings with others. When Dunya had expressed her wish to learn the gudok, he hadn’t dismissed it, nor had he treated it as a passing whim. He had seen the spark in her eyes, the determination brimming just beneath the surface, and he had made a silent vow—to nurture and guide her with the same care he gave to precious things. 

The first few lessons were slow, methodical, just like him. Dunya’s small fingers fumbled, uncertain of where to press, the bow trembling in her grasp. But Fyodor, ever patient, never sighed, never furrowed his brow, never let frustration touch his voice. 

He would sit behind her, hands hovering just above hers like a guardian angel, ready to guide but never to force. His quiet, steady voice guided her to understanding. “Hold the bow lightly, myshka,” he would murmur, careful never to let his words shake her confidence. “Like holding a breath—gentle, not too tight.” 

Every now and then, you would catch them in some hidden corner of your home—his hand resting on the shoulder of her smaller frame. Dunya's face tilted upwards in purposeful listening, as though she saw the world through his eyes. Fyodor was not a man who granted his full attention readily, and yet in those moments, something in him yielded, something held back came to life—something that only existed for Dunya. 

Now and again, you would be shooed away, welcomed with a firm yet teasing, "Not now, Mama. It's Papa's time." Their studies were inviolate, a world that belonged to them alone, cut off from the world as though it existed in another time altogether. 

Yet, even from a distance, you would hear Fyodor’s voice as he adjusted Dunya’s posture or murmured quiet praise for a well-played note. What they were building was more than music; it was something deeper, something unspoken. For Fyodor, teaching had never been just about the notes, the bow, the strings—it was about passing down something more. 

Every lesson carried with it a quiet kind of love. A love he might never say aloud, but one that was felt in every patient correction, in every steadying hand, and in every fleeting smile that softened his otherwise sharp edges. 

It was in the way he watched over her with quiet intensity, ensuring she was never rushed, never forced—only guided. He let her move at her own pace, teaching her not just how to play an instrument, but how to be patient, to endure, and to strive quietly yet steadily toward something greater. 

And Dunya, for her part, was a model student. Her resolve was a mirror image of his, steady and unshakeable. With each new day, her modest but consistent improvement was a testament to his patient teaching. She was developing under his attentive eye—her spirit undefeated, her affection for her father, this silent, cautious, and reflective man, growing with each lesson. 

Occasionally, when the lesson was over, Fyodor would reach out—tucking in a stray curl, brushing a gentle kiss against her temple in a rare moment of affection. “You’re coming along nicely, Dunya,” he would murmur, his voice low and affectionate. And yet, even as he spoke, his gaze remained distant; it was as if he saw something beyond the present moment—something only he could understand. 

For Fyodor, this was never just about teaching her to play. It was about giving her something of himself—a piece of his soul, a gift she could carry long after the lessons had ended. 

Weeks passed, and the lessons continued, steady and unhurried. Dunya’s grasp on the gudok grew firmer, her fingers more certain, her small efforts beginning to shape into something real, something resembling music. Every practice session became a quiet, careful dance—his focus on her, and her eager determination to live up to the father she adored. 

The understanding crept in gradually, unfolding like a gentle melody in your chest. But when it finally formed, it caught your breath. Fyodor hadn't been passing on a love of music. He had been preparing the way for something more—something personal, something for you. 

He had been teaching Dunya a song. A song for you. 

The day itself came on a still afternoon, the yellow light outdoors growing softer as evening set in. Something in the air held a particular heaviness, an unspoken expectation you couldn't quite define. 

"Sit, dearest," Fyodor whispered, easing you onto the couch. His eyes, fixed and inscrutable, didn't leave Dunya's face. 

As you settled in, Fyodor sat beside you, his expression as serene as always—although beneath it, there was something you couldn't quite grasp. His fingers traced over yours, drawing slow, soothing circles on your skin, grounding you in the here and now. 

Over by the window, Dunya sat stiffly on her small stool, the gudok held delicately in her lap. The bow shuddered a little in her hand, but her face reflected only steadfast resolve. 

The room fell silent. 

With a small inclination of his head, Fyodor nodded to her. 

And Dunya started to play. 

For a few seconds, it was as if you were standing in a vast concert hall. You and Fyodor were used to go to such places—beautiful theatres, ornate opera houses—but this? This was different. This was private, sacred. Your daughter, this little shining creature, was more gorgeous than any spectacle you had ever seen. 

The initial notes trembled, uncertain, slightly off-key—but they were deeply moving. Unpolished and raw, yet painfully sincere. The melody, searching and fine, filled the space, a mirror of her small hands navigating something much larger than merely music. It was love, crafted into sound. A song formed by her father's quiet devotion, borne by her own earnest heart. 

And it was for you. 

You could hear him in her every movement. In the way she adjusted her posture, in how she eased into the rhythm, in the careful precision of her small hands. Every note carried his voice—not in sound, but in guidance. But it was more than just a song. 

It was a message. A gift. An unspoken vow, shaped by his hands and entrusted to hers. 

The music was simple—a gentle lullaby, exquisite in its quiet elegance—but to you it was the most beautiful music you had ever heard. As Dunya's bow danced across the strings, her confidence increasing with every note, you knew what this really was: a silent message from Fyodor. A message of love, time, and effort, crafted solely for your ears. 

And when the final note faded into the room's silence, your throat swelled with a lump. You were so proud, so unbearably moved, and you swore you wouldn't cry. 

Dunya's eyes met yours, expectant and wide. 

You clapped, your palms striking together in love, your heart aching with fullness. But before you could say anything, Fyodor's fingers brushed against your shoulder. 

"She did well, didn't she?" 

His tone was low, but in it was something unusual—something tender. When you faced him, you smiled gently and nodded. And then you saw it echoed in the blurriness of his eyes: a tender pride, a soft love he rarely spoke of but wove into every lesson, every moment spent molding this little miracle in front of you. 

His fingers drifted down, tightening around yours for a moment before his gaze was back on Dunya. He didn't miss a beat as he whispered, "Well done, myshka." 

Your heart brimmed with so much love at this moment, it felt as if it might overflow. Smiling, you extended a hand, placing it on Dunya's face and kissing her forehead. 

"You were wonderful, Dunya," you whispered, your voice warm, full of all the things you couldn't quite say. 

Then you settled back into the couch, your head against Fyodor's shoulder, as Dunya climbed into his lap. He didn't shift, didn't pull away—his hand stayed in yours, firm and certain. A silent vow. A bond as profound and unshakeable as the music that had filled the room. 

And for that moment, everything felt right. 

Fyodor, ever reserved and calculating, had given you something priceless—not just his time and care, but something far more profound. His love. Woven into every note of the song he had taught your daughter to play. 

A quiet concert, where words weren’t needed. 

Because love had already been spoken in the melody. 

Now some interesting things about the gudok! It is an ancient (similar to Fyodor) three stringed Eastern Slavic musical instrument, played with a bow. Its design and playing technique bear resemblance to other instruments like the Bulgarian gadulka and the Byzantine lyra. One would hold the gudok on their lap, like a cello or viola da gamba (but I have seen the gudok being held as a violin as well).

Feast your eyes:

Dividers: saradika-graphics

[memoirofasparklemuff1n]

no body, no crime- r.c. x reader chapter 3- imposter syndrome

summary: three years after your disappearance you return to the outer banks, only with no recollection of your time away. now that you're back, weird things start happening and everyone seems to be hiding secrets. the nightmare is far from over.

warnings: 18+ MDNI not because of this chapter but for the story in general <3

a/n: i had this in my drafts for so long, specifically the text messages that took me forever. my dad has pneumonia so i've been pretty busy along with school this past few weeks. also, my first language isn't english, so sorry for any mistakes. anyway, tyyy to @sematarygirls for inspiring me with gone girl <3

masterlist

i met someone very special today. who? and the whole not belonging bit hit too close to home. i guess feelings never really leave even when memories disappear.

i took a deep breath and decided i had to find a person that fit in this, somehow. kildare is full of secrets and i could feel it, as if on cue my phone buzzed. oh right, somewhere during my hospital stay and coming home my mom had given me one. she said that now that i was back, the police would come and give me back my old belongings. i dreaded it because i knew the amount of questions i would get. i honestly could not for the life of me tell the truth, not yet. especially since my memories weren’t particularly stellar at the moment after the accident. i should probably make a list or something of things i have to do and piece together in order to have my story straight. a to-do list of things to investigate before it was too late.

i shook my head and sighed. i held the journal in my hands and stared at the wall. im in danger, that much i know. the doctor had said i was found by a passerby unconscious in a car accident. i was then taken to the hospital and the police began to investigate my possible identity. they apparently ran the license plates and contacted the owner who had reported the car missing three months before. my mother then told me that by the state i was, it was obvious i could not be questioned. thus, the police then notified all of the other departments to see if they were looking for someone with my description because it was standard procedure to check for missing people, you guessed it, they hit the jackpot. y/n gilbert. and the rest i honestly, didn’t want to hear because i knew the police would explain everything when they would question me so for now i just have to find out how to protect myself and my family. i needed to be star. but i barely know her, so i have to get to know her me so i can be safe.

my phone buzzed again, pulling me out of my thoughts. i unlocked it, seeing sarah had texted me.

i smiled to myself when i saw the group chat:

i threw my phone as far away from me as possible. they saved a seat for star me. as if she i were dead and in a way she i was. that girl was never coming back. i heard it buzzing for a bit and i read silently as they wrote. i laughed when i saw what they were going on about:

after it went silent i decided to just turn it off for the night. i was exhausted honestly, the day had been overwhelming and the journal didn’t help at all.

i stood up from the floor and pushed the mattress onto the bed frame. god, it was heavy. i put the bedding as close to how it had been and plopped down on the bed, this time no hard lump sticking into my spine. i looked at the journal on the nightstand, wondering why it was stitched that way so no one could find it. sure, journals are private and we don’t want people to find them but to this extreme? it didn’t make any sense, unless there wasn’t reason to keep writing.

i then took it and hid it under my pillow just in case. it was my only hope of ever getting to stay here as the old y/n.

the breakfast at the country club was amazing, the people not so much. my mom had woken eleanor and i for a much needed “girl time.” and i know she meant well but all i wanted to do was to lie in bed and think. i needed to remember what happened in the accident and the years before that. even the night i went missing was blurry so right now i am in the dark . my mind was spiraling mainly because the police were going to interview me tomorrow and i had to get my story straight. i didn’t want them to discredit me, or worse, close the case. ugh, stupid concussion. what do you mean it could be months before i got my fragmented memories back? if they ever did. i had to start investigating and for that i had to be home reading every single page of that journal. i also had to search my entire bedroom for clues. who knows how many things the police missed. i’m sure they believed i was a runaway but still conducted an investigation for the sake of my family.

“elaine?” a male voice interrupted my thoughts and when i glanced up i was met with a pair of icy blue eyes, a beard and a too bright smile to be genuine. i knew he was faking the surprise, the entire club was staring at us the moment we got out of the car.

“oh hello, ward. how are you? your daughters were at my house yesterday.” my mom smiled but hers seemed genuine.

“yes, they told me. sarah was particularly excited because of y/n,” he looked at me with the same faux warmth of his. hypocrite.

i smiled reluctantly at him, earning a nod in acknowledgment.

“yes, they were very emotional. it was a bittersweet moment, but i think more sweet than bitter.” my mom looked at me and grabbed my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

ward proceeded with his script, which i’m sure he’d prepared beforehand to make himself look good.

“i wanted to tell you y/n, that whoever was responsible for your disappearance will face the consequences. i personally will make sure of it. you’ve always been a dear friend of sarah’s and eleanor of wheezie’s. you’re family and that is the least i can do.”

eleanor smiled but kept eating quietly, obviously uninterested in the conversation. i was beginning to notice that the constant vigilance from the other club members was pissing her off. that makes two of us.

my mother though, looked at ward as if he’d just told her he discovered the cure for cancer. she was so blind sometimes. “thank you so much, ward. i truly appreciate it and my family as well.”

“of course, elaine. well, i’ll leave you girls alone now. y/n, it’s good to have you back.” he gave me a knowing look and left the same way he’d come from. asshole.

the thing about ward cameron was that he was power hungry and his way of gaining said power was by being “helpful” when in reality those favors always had a price.

“that man is one of the best things to ever happen to outer banks. so kind and willing to help. pity that his son isn’t the same way.”

“what do you mean?” i knew rafe from a distance, mainly through sarah, sometimes seeing his extreme partying lifestyle with her ex boyfriend, topper. somehow where sarah was sweet but sometimes bitchy, rafe was a complete asshole. so i don’t know why my mother’s remark surprised me. well, maybe because he would do anything to get his father’s approval however he could.

“well, don’t repeat this to anyone ok?” she waited until i nodded and then waited for eleanor to do the same. when she did, my mom started gossiping eagerly.

“rafe was arrested for selling drugs and possession of a firearm about a year ago. but nobody found out because ward allegedly asked for it to not go public. if it had been anybody else i’m sure they wouldn’t have done it, but since ward has always been such an active member of the community they took pity on him.” oh mother, how innocent. eleanor and i shared a look that told me she was thinking the same thing.

“mom shh!” eleanor’s eyes widened. “he’s going to pass by us i think.” i looked down and my mom immediately pretended to be talking of her newest vase collection while el and i were suddenly very interested in our food.

i was staring down at my plate when a familiar voice interrupted our conversation.

“hello, mrs. gilbert. i’m very sorry to interrupt, it’s just that my father wanted me to give you this in regards to the project being done with cameron development. he was going to pass later by your home but since he found you here, he asked me to deliver them.” rafe was different somehow. he looked older and stronger. i mean three years had passed since i last saw him but the difference was abysmal. he was healthy, physically at least. his hair that had been styled to the side with gel, was now buzzed short. and despite all of those apparent changes, his attitude was just the same. he ignored my sister and i as if we were children imposing on an adult conversation. the cameron men were horrid, which always made me wonder where wheezie and sarah got all their goodness. el and i shared a glance that told me our thoughts were one and the same.

“thank you, rafe. i’ll notify ward as soon as my husband and i review them.” my mother smiled but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. rafe smiled back and excused himself without sparing us a glance.

i raised my eyebrows slightly while lifting my orange juice to my lips and eleanor said what we’d all been thinking, “jerk.” i spit out the juice laughing, splashing my mom, making eleanor burst out cackling at our mothers expression only for her to join in. we were giggled for a while and i suspected it was a release of years of tension and not at el’s comment.

the shared moment made the rest of the gathering comfortable and the tension was long gone. when we finally returned home, i went straight to my bedroom and lied on bed.

maybe being here wasn’t so bad. i lifted my head and checked my phone for any new messages but none from anybody i was expecting.

my heart dropped as i looked at my screen in utter fear and disbelief.

FINALLY I COULD DO THIS

if you made it this far, thank you!!!! i love seeing people read my silly thoughts. and let me know theories and thoughts. i even accept constructive criticism, i really don't mind.

i know rafe's appearance was short but BEAR WITH ME. the poor reader is traumatized lmaoo plus i want him to be a jerk at first (she won't know what hit her)

anyway, the flashback is almost done. i know i had said chapter 3 was going to be a flashback but i got stumped, i'm sorry.

butttt i now know what i will do <3

i love you all xx

dividers by: @yeossemble

[mrs-barnes-rogers-writes]

A Second Chance Is A Better Chance - Part 25

Marvel AU

Pairing: Alpha Steve Rogers x Omega Witch Reader, eventual ? x Omega Witch Reader and Alpha Steve Rogers X Omega Witch Reader

Theme: A/B/O / True Mates

Series Warnings: A/B/O, eventual smut, violence in parts, witchcraft, shapeshifters

Chapter Summary: Laura offers Steve some advice. The X packs baby is well on the way, but is the reader starting to spiral?

Chapter Warning: Mentions of witchcraft, childbirth, past trauma.

“What the hell happened?” Asked Clint. “I thought you said it was going somewhere, moving forward?”

“I thought it was.” Steve replied confused. “I just got a message from Logan asking if she was here yet.”

Steve passed his phone to Clint, never taking his eyes from the house.

“There’s no way it’s taken her an hour Steve. It’s less than that by car, probably half the time by broom.”

“Maybe I should call him.”

“No, just let him know she’s back. They have a new baby, it’s their first, the first to the pack too. Trust me they’ll be stressed enough as it is, let’s try and figure this out ourselves.”

Before Steve had a chance to respond their attention was pulled towards the scent and sound of Laura approaching.

“Well, I was going to ask if Luna wanted to join us for dinner but I see that might not be an option now.”

Clint sighed.

“We’re not sure what’s happened but she just came back and the shield went up.”

“I just don’t know what to do.” Steve said throwing himself down into the chair.

“Mind if I throw in my opinion?” Laura asked, directing her question at Steve.

“Sure.”

Clint sat down in the seat next to Steve and pulled Laura into his lap.

“Hear me out okay?”

Both of the men nodded.

“I was on my own, albeit for a much shorter time. But I know how that felt. Always having to be alert, looking over your shoulder all the time, never knowing who to trust. You have to have a routine too but not an obvious one. Make sure you get rest but not too much. You can never be in a deep sleep. You never know when you make a bathroom stop if it’s safe or not. It was months for me. It’s been years for her. She’s an omega and from what you’ve said a beautiful one at that, and a witch and a white wolf, all of that brings unwanted attention. She’s dealt with all or that, moving around constantly, being alone and being constantly let down. She left home for a reason and from what Sam and Bucky have said it wasn’t a good one. It’s a wonder she trusts anyone. We’re lucky that she hasn’t ran off. She wouldn’t be even staying here if the Coulson’s cottage wasn’t out of bounds. She’s not going to trust us easily but she’s gradually opening up. The guys have built a bit of a rapport with her, so we keep going. Build her trust and we definitely don’t accuse her of drunk flying or delivering babies whilst intoxicated.” She said pointedly at Steve.

“You missed that part out of your story bud.” Clint laughed.

Steve huffed and started to rock the chair back and forth.

“And” Laura continued, “she’s been up since yesterday morning, had an emotional day and had to deliver another witches baby, whilst keeping a whole coven calm and under control. So if she wants to put her shield up and keep herself uninterrupted and safe, let her.”

Inside the cottage…..

You’d stood staring at the bath tub for the last ten minutes, debating where you want to soak or get in the shower instead. It really wasn’t that complicated, just pick one.

Maybe invite Alpha in. He could scrub your back.

You could ask Beta to bring you food.

Ask Alpha to meet the rest of the pack.

Stop it, stop it, stop it.

You turned the shower on and started to throw off your clothes. Socks, leggings, and then your hoodie. You hesitated as the fabric of your hoodie made contact with your nose. Baby, brand new, newborn baby. Your godchild.

You’d half expected Logan to assert himself as alpha and say only the pack could be godparents but he hadn’t. Squeezing your shoulder as you held their beautiful baby boy and telling you it suited you to hold a baby, was not what you’d expected him to say.

You snapped out of your day dream, finished undressing and stepped into the shower. The scents of the X Pack stuck to you, having hung heavy in the air as they awaited the arrival of their Alphas and Luna’s baby. The whole town would probably have smelt them if it hadn’t been for Storm’s shield. You hadn’t been surprised when you’d arrived to see it covering the house. You had been surprised though for her to blast you with a scenting spell the moment you’d walked into their bedroom.

“You reek of him!” She snapped from her place on the bed. Jean eyes went wide and you could tell she was going to tell her off but you cut in.

“I was talking to him before Scott called. You all pulled on the wound at the same time. I nearly passed out. He was making sure I was okay.”

“You’re keeping things from me!” Storm snapped again, shaking the room. Worry crossed Jean’s face, this was not the calm omega you both knew.

“I’m not keeping anything from you. This was the first time I’ve spoken to him properly. Now, I’ll let the fact you just threw a spell at me slide because of the circumstances but do it again and you and I will have a problem.” You told her firmly.

She muttered something about handing your ass to you.

“You’re not the only white wolf in the room sister, remember that. I can hear every word you’re saying. You wanted me here. You told me to put you in your place if I had to, don’t make me have to.” You said, as your eyes flicked gold and then back to your natural colour. Storm lowered her head and looked down at her hands.

“Where are the others?” You asked them both, referencing the members of the pack that should be helping with the delivery.

“She threw them out, right before she did the same to Logan.”

Storm whined. Jean automatically reached out to comfort her. You watched as Storm fought with letting her comfort her and going to stiff at her touch.

“Storm, if you don’t want them in here that’s fine.” You said. Jean let out a low growl in disapproval. “Oh hush you, I’m not done. If you want them to not be in here that’s okay but we spoke about this. You wanted them in here. You wanted the others in here too so they could learn how to deliver a baby. Now you told me to be honest with you, be firm and tell you to get your head out your ass if I had to. So this is me telling you nicely to get it together. You have a baby to deliver and throwing your pack around isn’t the answer.”

“It’s just happening so quick. One minute my water broke and now I want to push.”

“I know, but you knew this could happen. You knew you wouldn’t go to full normal term because of you switching between wolf and back so regularly and you also know the labour would be quick for the same reason. This isn’t new news Stormi.”

“I know.” She whispered.

“And don’t think I’ve not noticed your spell to slow this down either. It’s dangerous, knock it off.”

Storm huffed and lifted the spell. The labour started up again.

“Now, get your shit together and let’s have a baby.” You told her as you wandered into the adjoining bathroom and rolled up your sleeves.

“Does she realise she sounds like Fiona?” Storm muttered to Jean. You popped your head back out the bathroom, startling them both.

“Last warning.”

They both laughed lightly and leaned into each other. You ran a bath for the expectant mother, throwing in flowers that Cordelia had sent to you especially. You and Jean had helped her soak in the tub and after a short and firm chat with Storm. You called out to the others to change the bedsheets and to bring in the birthing mattress. Similar to a nesting one, it was waterproof and could be put directly on to the floor or the bed. Storm agreed for Logan to add the sheets and blankets to it and once she’d dried off she started to rearrange them to her liking. Your firm voice and comforting nature had been the balance Storm had needed. The birth hadn’t taken long once she’d dropped the spell and soon enough a baby’s healthy cries rang out through the house and Logan and Jean were cutting the cord. A couple of hours later and with Storm resting and tucked into a fresh bed, you had started to tidy away your things and you expecting to head back to the cottage.

“Where are you rushing off to? Eager to get back to Rogers?” Logan asked as you tidied up the bathroom. You scoffed.

“Don’t you want to hold your godchild?” He asked. You turned to face him where he stood leaning against the doorframe.

“I’m not going keep you to that Logan.”

“I know. Come on. Scott’s already held him. Time to elbow the other godparent out the way and get your turn.”

You followed Logan back into the bedroom. You made eye contact with Jean as you headed towards Scott who was rocking the baby gently in front of the window.

“Are you sure about this?” You asked her.

“You just delivered our child safely into the world, what do you think?” Jean replied. You glanced at Storm.

“Don’t even think about asking me. I’d have brought the house down with them in it if it wasn’t for you.”

“Okay, okay. Now give me the baby Summers.”

“Hey, I’m not done.”

“You get cuddles on tap, I don’t live here. Gimme.” You said gesturing at Scott to pass you the baby. He rolled his eyes and carefully passed him to you.

“Hello beautiful boy.” You said softly.

“When the roles are reversed we’d like to help deliver your baby.” Jean said from her spot beside Storm on the bed. You rolled your eyes and turned away from them and towards the window.

“Definitely suits you having a pup in your arms.” Logan said.

Storm said nothing but watched you carefully. You side-eyed her.

“Just because you thought it would never happen, doesn’t mean it can’t sister.” She said quietly.

You nodded and brushed a stray tear from your face. The last two days had been an emotional blur and right now, as you held baby Howlett in your arms it smacked you in the face. Had the fates threaded to show you the last few days? Your own stupidity had led you to ring your mother. Resulting in you having to lean on Bucky and Sam both physically and emotionally. Fiona’s wise words had followed and then Bucky was at the door, quickly followed by Steve. Now surrounded by a pack that loved each other but also drove each other crazy on occasion, their baby in your arms. A beautiful boy. The whole situation put you to a reflective state and a thought passed through you. Could you have this?

Were the fates trying to show you what you could have? You had no idea. But the thought of it sounded nice right?

The next few hours you'd alternated with helping Storm and telling Logan, Jean and the other pack members how best to care for her. Which potions, herbs and oils to use and which to avoid.

The last few days still play on your mind as you eventually leave hours later and you find yourself flying around aimlessly. It’s not until your phone buzzes in your pocket, a message from Logan checking if you’ve got back ok, his concern about you flying exhausted flashes in your mind and you realise it’s nearly be an hour since you’ve left them. You turn and head back to the cottage. Just as you approach you feel your phone go again and when you glance at it, you have to grip your broom to stop falling off.

Tyler Are you ever going to pick up when I call? Or even text me back? You’ve missed the last two check-ins.

Lies. You’d been late the first time because you’d been running off from Brookville and the second time you’d been in a hospital bed. Elektra had snatched your phone the fourth time you’d declined it. You left her to it, exhausted and recovering from the fight with Agatha. When she gave you your phone back later and said he wouldn’t be calling again, you wondered if she meant ever again.

Yet here he was. Reminding you of the past. Reminding you of all the things you’d have to tell Steve. Reminding you of all the steps you’d need to take before you’ll know if your alpha and his pack really want you as their luna.

When you finally come around from the events of the day running through your brain you realise you’re still in the shower. Only you’re sitting and sobbing. The cottage doesn’t shake, your powers don’t flicker and you weep as your tears sweep down the drain.

Enjoy this fic? Fancy a cuppa? My Ko-Fi.

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[zablife]

Focus (Part 2)

Johnny Davis x female reader

Summary: After Johnny urges you to leave the dangerous life of the Vandals, you return home to concentrate on your studies. However, a call from Kathy draws your attention back to the man you swore to forget.

A/N: This was requested by the lovely @solomons-finest-rum who also provided Kathy's dialogue. It was the perfect inspo for part 2 of my Johnny fic Focus!

Warnings: mention of fighting

Read Part 1 here.

You hardly noticed the trills echoing down the hall, engrossed in your textbook. You’d fallen behind in your classes since the trip with Danny and now you were working hard to catch up. It wasn’t until your roommate called, “Y/n, phone’s for you!” that you registered the noise. 

With chattering girls lining the hallway of your dorm, you held the receiver to your ear in an attempt to hear the caller. Your grip tightened for a moment as you spoke, wondering if Johnny might be checking up on you. However, your hopes were dashed the moment you heard Kathy’s honeyed voice with that unmistakable accent.

“Hey hun, how are ya?” she asked, a note of hesitancy in her greeting.

“I’m okay, I guess. How bout you?” you countered, waiting for the formality of it all to end and have her tell you what was really going on. When Kathy remained silent, you prodded, “What’s this all about, Kathy? I haven’t heard from you in months.”

“I know and I’m sorry about that, I really am,” she rushed out in uneven breath, conveying there was something more important on her mind. “Just thought you would want to know.”

“Know what?” you asked, a feeling of dread pooling in your stomach.

“It’s Johnny,” she admitted and you could hear the anxiety peaking in her voice as though you were the last hope.

You swallowed harshly as you reminded yourself to do as he said and stay out of his life. “I don’t have anything to say to him," you stated effecting a cool indifference.

“Please, you gotta talk to him. Nothin’ is the same since you left. The man is a mess for God’s sake!” she pleaded.

“He was always a mess, Kathy,” you reminded her softly, fingers tangling in the phone cord as you turned away from prying eyes.

“Listen, he stabbed a guy last night for giving him a look. A look!” she emphasized.

Without thinking of your promise to remain indifferent, you sputtered, “Is h-he…alright?” 

"Yeah, he ain't hurt, but he needs you," Kathy insisted.

"I don't know about that," you whispered, thinking of his swift departure from your hospital bed the moment he decided he was finished with you.

"That's where you're wrong," she countered, adding quickly, "I'm coming thru town tomorrow at noon and if you want to come with me, I'd be glad to take you to see him."

Your heart raced at the prospect, hand flying to your hair as you wondered when you'd last had it set. Biting your lip in anxious indecision, you finally nodded into the receiver slowly.

"Well, honey?" Kathy finally asked, unable to read your pensive silence.

"I-I'll come," you decided, affecting a firm tone that belied the sense of fear blooming in the pit of your stomach.

"I'm real glad to hear you say that," Kathy admitted, her relieved sigh crossing the line in a hiss of static.

"See you tomorrow," you ended the call with a small grin.

"Tomorrow," she agreed. "You're doin' the right thing," she rushed out before you hung up.

————————-

You'd been in town for two hours and your heart still hadn't stopped racing at the prospect of running into Johnny. He was probably working, you reasoned. No sense upsetting yourself when he wasn't even around. However, Kathy's retelling of recent events had set you on edge, unsure what to expect from the man you'd once trusted implicitly. It sounded as though he was losing his mind.

"Is it true he pulled a knife on somebody?" you asked Brucie when you ran into him at the garage.

Brucie averted his eyes, before hanging his head. You could tell from his posture he didn't want to give Johnny away and yet, you also sensed a desperation in him.

"He hasn't been the same since you left, Y/n," Brucie eventually confided. "I wanted to tell ya...honesty, I did, but he kept sayin' everything was fine."

You nodded sympathetically. "Is it a mistake to show up at the bar tonight?" you asked with trepidation.

Brucie let out a long sigh before admitting, "I think that's what he's been waitin' for."

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

You changed your clothes a few times before settling on a denim mini skirt and patterned top. It was sweet and demure, leaving just enough to the imagination. When Kathy came into your room, she agreed you looked stunning.

"Oh, honey, he's gonna love that!" she exclaimed with her signature optimism.

"I'm not trying to get him back," you clarified in a stern voice.

Kathy nodded back at you, knowing it was best to bite her tongue.

She took your hand in hers, giving your sweaty palm a squeeze before leading you toward her waiting car.

"Don't be nervous," she advised.

"M not nervous," you insisted, gulping as you fixed her with a long stare.

"Okay," she agreed, opening the door for you.

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

The bar was crowded, more than you remembered for a Friday night and Kathy informed you a few new motorcycle gangs were in town. You quickly noted that Johnny was holding court in the back with an impressive amount of men surrounding him. It made you nervous to approach while he was doing business so you hung back, fingers wandering over the jukebox buttons as you tried to remain inconspicuous.

As the strains of "Lonely Room" played you couldn't help but gaze across the room at Johnny.

He recognized the song instantly, his chin jerking up in response to the first strains of music. When he caught your eye, he excused himself from the cloud of smoke and conversation to make his way toward you.

"Y/n," he exclaimed drinking you in with a hungry gaze and you found yourself hoping he hadn't had the same appetite since you'd been away.

"Hi Johnny," you replied on a low breath, somehow unable to manage anything more when faced with his imposing form.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asked, a note of hope in his voice as he waited to see if you wanted anything more to do with him.

"I'd like that," you agreed with a nervous smile as you claimed a chair far from the pool tables and the raucous noise.

Johnny soon returned from the bar with two cold bottles of beer, sliding one across the table to you.

"What brings you back to town?" he asked, cocking his head to the side as he studied your nervous expression.

"Kathy asked me," you answered vaguely.

"So you're in town to see...Kathy?" he asked, eyes boring a hole into you as he waited for some sign of the affectionate girl he once knew.

You nodded quickly in reply, placing the bottle to your lips in an attempt to appear casual.

Johnny leaned forward, the pad of his thumb resting over his chin as he asked, "You sure it ain't cause you're still in love with me?"

You nearly choked on the mouthful of now warm beer pooling in your mouth, unsure how to reply. Swallowing it down, you placed the bottle down with a thud, gaze fixed on Johnny. “Love's never meant much to me,” you confessed breathlessly, fingers tracing the beads of condensation sliding down your beer bottle.

“You ain’t a very good liar, sweetheart,” Johnny chuckled, watching your hand clench suddenly as irrefutable proof. 

Your eyes locked with his for a moment, ready to protest before pushing away from the table. Deciding not to give in, you simply shrugged as you rose from the table. “I made it this far without it.”

Johnny jumped from his spot across from you, capturing your elbow in a tight hold. You could practically feel his body vibrating with energy as he stood face to face with you in some sort of challenge.

“What do you want from me, Johnny?” you demanded, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Nothin," he replied too quickly for your liking, dropping your arm as a shadow of despair crossed his brow.

"That's not true is it?" you asked, watching his features contort in pain.

Johnny's blue green eyes fixed on your grief stricken face, holding you hostage as he took one long, deep breath.

"I ain't learned to live without you," he admitted sorrowfully.

Taking a step closer to him, you ran your hands against his stubbled cheeks, staring into his eyes with purpose. "You asked me to go, Johnny, remember?"

"I know I did," he nodded gently, relishing the feeling of your hands against his skin. "And I'm so sorry. It was a mistake. I was only tryin' to keep you safe cause I never loved anyone like I love you."

You inhaled sharply at his admission, lower lip trembling and fat tears escaping down your cheeks as you he spoke the words you'd longed to hear.

"Don't cry, darlin'," he begged, swiping the pad of his thumb over your cheek. "I want to make it up to you, I swear."

You stood frozen to the spot, emotions overwhelming you. Kathy stared intently from across the room, waiting to see if you needed her, but you gave her a soft shake of your head to indicate you were alright. Everything seemed right with the world now that you had Johnny.

Looking up at him, you beamed with happiness. "I'm ready to start fresh," you told him confidently.

With a whoop of excitement, he picked you up and spun you around, eager to embark on this second chance with you.

"You wanna go for a ride?" he asked, eyes shimmering in the dim light.

"Thought you'd never ask," you grinned with a giggle. And he pulled you from the bar toward his waiting bike, a new adventure on the horizon.

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

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[missmouse43]

6 weeks of breathing clean air, I still miss the smoke…..

🏝️🤙🏄🏾‍♀️🏄🏼‍♂️💔

[ajournalingtrex]

“how was your day?”

it’s one of my favorite questions. (it’s also easy to notice that it’s maybe always the first question of the day i ask someone). on both the receiving end and the giving end, i love it.

whether it’s the words of affirmation love language in me and i didn’t realize it until this break or that it’s been almost two weeks since i’ve seen so many of my friends i don’t know,,,, but i really love it when people ask me how my day was??? it makes my heart do a little butterfly flutter

it’s that whole casual intimacy thing that’s the same thing as wishing someone sleeps well. the i care so much about you that i wish for every moment of your day to be pleasant, even your unconscious hours. but it’s the step beyond that??? the curiosity about someone fueled by love?

i care so much for you that i not only wish you well, but i want to know how you spent your hours away from me in as much detail as you’d like to give.

it makes me so happy when people ask; if you know me well, you’re guaranteed to get at least one animated story about the day. it also means i get to hear from the people i love about what stuck out about their day, which makes me really happy to listen to. it paints a vivid picture of someone’s day to day life that’s honestly so valuable to me in knowing someone. loving people in the mundane >>>>>

i live partly for words. reading was maybe my first love, with writing as my second. i love expression, i love all forms of subtle and non-subtle communication. i love vocal inflection and facial expressions, how easily we can give ourselves away to a knowing eye (and it makes me weak in the knees when people describe how they read or perceive me).

and as i’ve grown older and more confident in my identity, i’ve loved talking. there are so many topics that i could go on about for hours—very little exaggeration there. (especially with a back and forth!!!) when i’m talking and it’s very clear to me that someone is listening (via body language, probing questions, and/or building off what you’re saying) it’s such a validating feeling. it fills me to the brim with so much love. it makes my heart soar. some of my most memorable moments with my chosen family are moments where i’ve shared something ridiculously personal and it was met with least the confirmation they were listening (though so much of the time they reach so far above that and it makes me cry).

(probably also why someone remembering something about me sends my brain into a spinning frenzy.)

but one of the most beautiful things about words are the innate desire for a return!!!! letters aren’t sent to be read and then shoved into a back drawer, never to be seen again. no!!!!! communication is a two way street love!!!

i love responses. i LOVE hearing other people talk. other people are so interesting!!!!!! please just talk. what i would give to hear certain people just talk forever. i love listening. (i try hard to be good at listening!! it’s one of the things i'm most conscious about.) i love when other people infodump. i love hearing nuanced opinions and i love personal stories. i love asking questions that people give thoughtful responses to. i love hearing things about other people. i love knowing things and remembering things. elaborate stories and simple anecdotes and personal details and self-proclaimed preferences make me so happy.

tldr; i just love words, i guess. i just wanted to write about words and how i love words and why i love words so deeply. (and it’s my blog damn it. if you got this far you clearly wanted to hear me rant about words).

and i miss people and i try so hard to love people with so much of myself. (and a surefire way to brighten my mood? ask me how my day was.)

[fingertipsmp3]

How do I steer my friend who wants to learn a martial art with me towards karate and/or kickboxing without admitting that the only reason I don’t want to do MMA is because I’ll probably break my nails by punching stuff