#like genuinely what is it like to own cool clothes and know how to construct an outfit that expresses your individuality?

[unechienandalusia]

what is having a sense of personal style like?

[theogonies]

what they look for in a partner ft. the cast of touchstarved

characters: ais, mhin, vere, kuras, & leander

word count: 2k

content warnings: some suggestive elements but nothing explicit, mentions of corruption kinks (ais), brat taming (kuras), and light exhibitionism (vere and leander), leander is a little emotionally manipulative

AIS.

Considering his relationships with MC and Vere, it's not exactly a secret that Ais has a thing for brats. He loves teasing, and wants a partner who can keep up with him, giving as much as they get. He's all about the thrill of the chase, learning exactly which buttons to press to get you flustered--so don't make it too easy on him.

Surprisingly, he's not usually the one to make the first move. He'll flirt, but struggles to take initiative when things start to feel too real for his comfort.

He finds people who can find a cool head in moments of crisis insanely attractive. Whether it's pulling him back when he's about to pick a stupid fight or constructing a perfect alibi on the spot when you find yourself in trouble, the contrast between your self-control and his impulsivity always gets him itching to push your limits even further.

Humans and Monsters alike, he's grown accustomed to the absolute devotion of his followers. So being around someone who isn't constantly bowing and scraping to him is a refreshing change of pace.

He still greatly values loyalty, and it's something that he's more than willing to return--he's a ride or die type of guy. What he's not interested in is empty flattery; telling it like it is is, in his eyes, a much more valuable kind of devotion than total obedience.

I definitely think he's got a bit of a corruption kink, and is drawn to people with a more innocent, even naive personality--easier to get them flustered that way. More importantly, though, he enjoys the interplay between his impulsivity and his partner's willingness to stick by their personal code of ethics, no matter how impractical. For all the teasing he does, he has a very deep and genuine admiration for people with strong moral principles and sense of self.

The only thing he loves more than drawing out your hedonistic side is knowing that he's the only one who can do it. It's a very specific, psychological kind of possessiveness, knowing that you want him enough to show him the greedy, impure side of yourself that you hide so carefully from the rest of the world.

On the other hand, narcs are a major turn off. It's one thing to tell him off for fucking up, and another entirely to get others involved. He fantasizes about a Bonnie and Clyde, us against the world type of love.

MHIN.

Another one who isn't particularly subtle about what it takes to get them heated. Mhin loves it when you can keep up with their acerbic personality. Even more than sharp tongues, they're drawn to people who are physically assertive enough to follow through on their threats.

Mhin is all bark and no bite, a fact that they're very much aware of. Deep down, they desperately want to feel safe and protected. It's not exactly that they're insecure; they don't have any hang ups about their own strength. But it's exhausting to keep their guard up all the time. So, they figure that their perfect match is their perfect equal--and 90% of their bluster is just that, a test so see who's willing to break past their emotional barriers and strong enough to keep up with them.

They're a switch, and definitely have a thing for size difference. One of their biggest fantasies is dominating a partner who's bigger than themself.

One of Mhin's most immediate turn-offs is people who look too clean and polished all the time. They're enamored by scarring and callouses--basically, the physical traces of a person's life, especially those associated with hard work. They're not particularly interested in fashion or flashy clothes, either; rather than being with someone who's always up on the latest styles, they admire those who know how to make things last, and who would rather underdress than overdress.

It's not hard to get them flustered. Put them in a good ol' fashioned kabedon, whisper simple praises in their ear, and they'll absolutely melt (not that they would ever admit that to you, of course). Mhin's affection is very subtle, blink and you'll miss it (they're big on acts of service, and usually quite sneaky about it), but they like partners who are more forward than themself, whether verbally or physically.

While they are a loving partner (once you break past those oh-so-strong emotional walls), Mhin isn't a super relationship-oriented person. They have goals of their own outside of romance, and would prefer to be with someone who feels the same way, supporting each other in the pursuit of their own, independent dreams.

VERE.

It's not exactly that Vere is a commitment-phobe. When he falls for someone, he falls fast and hard, and he's never been one to be secretive about his feelings. But he views relationships of all kinds--platonic, romantic, sexual, even antagonistic--with a kind of levity that can be offputting to many. Love, to him, is a game, and he has zero interest in dropping out of the race the moment he takes the lead, so to speak.

Even in a committed, monogamous relationship, Vere is a flirt and a bit of a player--with his partner and outsiders alike. In his eyes, it's not a sign of disloyalty, but rather, a way of keeping the spark alive. Possessiveness is an immediate dealbreaker for him (although he's not opposed to a good ol' jealousy fueled romp in the sheets--that's half the fun of teasing).

Vere tends to bottom more often than he tops, but he's attracted to switches far more than he is fully dominant types. He likes having dynamic interplay in a relationship, especially sexual, and wants to be with someone that isn't content with always falling back into the same old routines.

Physical attraction is very important to Vere, although he doesn't necessarily require that his partner is conventionally attractive. He's especially drawn to unique senses of style and physical traits--a particularly intense look in a person's eyes, a scar or blemish that gives their face an interesting character, even an interesting tilt to the way they hold themself. The only thing he loves more than standing out in a crowd on his own is hanging off the arm of someone who does the same, intentionally or not.

He likes to imagine himself and his partner as a power couple--the two most powerful personas in the room, the ones that everyone else wants to either fuck or become.

While he is very attracted to confidence, there's a bit of a feedback loop here, because he's also extremely good at psyching up his partner's self-image--stick with Vere long enough, and it's hard not to see yourself as someone powerful and desirable.

Massive tit guy. 'nuff said.

KURAS.

Kuras is also attracted to oddballs and quirky types, although unlike Vere, he's not super interested in physical appearance or their ability to stick out in a crowd. He's much more drawn to interesting personalities: people with unique tics, speech patterns, responses, and the like.

His favorite part of relationships (sexual, romantic, and otherwise) is gradually learning what makes the other person tick, so unless he gets the sense that there's something interesting lingering under the surface, it can be hard to get his attention. He needs to feel like there's some kind of puzzle to be solved, and a tricky one at that.

On the other hand, once his curiosity has been captured, he's an incredibly attentive partner--even if it's not entirely unlike the kind of attention an entomologist would give a bug under the microscope.

He's also drawn to outspoken, forthright personalities to counter his more polite and subdued persona. There's something he finds incredibly amusing about a person who speaks their mind even when they know it'll get them into trouble.

For that reason, Kuras is, much like Ais, attracted to bratty types. Unlike Ais, he expects them to learn the rules at some point down the line. While his form of discipline is a gentle, cool-headed one, he still views himself as more of a teacher than a playmate.

He very much prefers to feel in control of a given situation (even if that isn't immediately obvious in the way he presents himself). It can make him stubborn, to the extent that he'll reject the advances of a person he's interested in just because he wants to be the one to confess.

While this characteristic can make him come across as rather clinical in his approach, it gets its chance to shine when paired with his detail-oriented nature. From a grand confession of love to a simple weeknight dinner date, he's extremely methodical about preparing the perfect romantic atmosphere for his partner's tastes, from the locale and decor to the scent of his cologne.

While his partner needn't necessarily come across as kind at first impression, it is deeply important to Kuras that they have a good, generous heart. All the better if he gets to be the one to make them feel safe showing it to the world.

He likes 'em a little clingy and needy, too. Independence isn't necessarily a turn-off, but he needs to feel like all the effort he puts in is appreciated, or he'll move on to some other curiosity.

LEANDER.

We all know that this man loves to flirt, and in a much more grandiose, romantic sense of the word than Vere or Ais at that. In the same way that he gets a bit of a rush putting his strength to use in a fight, he likes using his charm and good looks to get a reaction out of people.

That's not to say his teasing is ingenuine; Leander comes on strong because he knows what he's looking for, from his partner's looks and the way they carry themself in a crowded room to the way they respond to his advances. He wants to be with someone who'll fall as fast and hard as he does, and as manipulative of a tactic as it may be, he's willing to put on the mask of a romantic until he finds the one that responds in kind.

Leander doesn't play games. Once he commits himself to a person, that's it. His absolute devotion is yours, and he expects that loyalty to be returned. Some of his biggest turn-offs are people who don't seem sure of what they want, or who won't express their feelings to him straightforwardly. He'll put up with some level of shyness, but too much beating around the bush and he starts to feel more like a therapist than a partner.

Total ass man. He has no compunctions about grabbing it in public to get a rise out of you--not to mention how utterly shameless he is behind closed doors.

He also really likes long hair. He has a lot of restless energy and tends to fidget when forced to stay still for long periods of time, so playing with your hair is one of his favorite ways to calm his mind. Braiding it and running his hands through it if it's straight, or spiraling your curls around his fingers--he doesn't mind either way, just wants it silky-soft and long enough to play with. (He also loooooves helping you wash and care for it.)

He's very physically affectionate in private, and even more so in public. He likes showing his partner off, and being shown off by them. To some this might make him come across as rather shallow (his favorite date nights involve going to bars or out dancing--anywhere that gives him the opportunity to turn some heads), but to him, it's a way of demonstrating that no matter how many may want him, he's decided you're the only one deserving of his attention.

[httpvomitello]

tmnt 2012 donnie x gn!reader who's an aspiring fashion designer headcanons pretty please? :DD

Hello, hello! Uuuugh, i love TMNT 2012 Donnie. That gap between his teeth is just adorable! Anyways, hope you like it ~ ♡♡♡♡

Fashion Designer, Baby! *⁠.⁠✧

Donnie absolutely admires your creativity

The moment you told him you were into fashion design, his mind started spinning with ideas on how your talents could align with his love for invention

He’s so fascinated by your process.

If you’re sketching a design, he’ll sit nearby, quietly observing as your pencil flows across the page

Sometimes, he’ll even offer suggestions. “What if you made it glow? I could rig some LEDs into the fabric!”

If you ever work with fabric or patterns in the lair, Donnie insists on giving you a proper workspace

He repurposes a corner of his lab, setting up a table with extra lighting and storage for your supplies

He’s genuinely impressed by how detail-oriented you are, and he can relate to that because of how meticulous he is with his own projects

It makes him feel closer to you

Donnie will happily share his tech to make your work easier

Need a precise measurement? He’s got a gadget for that. Want to try designing something digitally? He’ll program a fashion design software for you

He loves watching you sew or work on your designs

Sometimes, he’ll ask questions like, “How do you know what fabric works best?” or “What inspired this color combo?”

If you ever make something for him—like a scarf to fit his unique frame—he’s stunned

He’ll wear it proudly around the lair, showing it off to his brothers. “Y/N made this for me. Cool, right?”

Donnie is surprisingly good at giving feedback

He’ll offer constructive criticism in the gentlest way possible, always making sure you feel encouraged

When you hit creative blocks, he’s there to help brainstorm

He’ll pull out his sketchpad and start doodling ideas with you

Some of his concepts are hilariously impractical, but it makes you laugh

If you’re ever working late into the night, Donnie will stay up with you

He’ll bring snacks, tinker with his gadgets nearby, and remind you to take breaks when you start to get too focused

He secretly loves how passionate you are about fashion

It inspires him to put even more heart into his own projects

Sometimes, he’ll surprise you with a “challenge,” like, “Can you design something inspired by the stars?” or “What about a stealth outfit for April?”

He’s always eager to see how you’ll tackle it

The first time you invite him to a showcase or event where your designs are featured, Donnie is nervous but incredibly proud

He’ll stay in the shadows to avoid drawing attention but makes sure to support you however he can

Donnie thinks your creativity and talent are beautiful. To him, you’re not just designing clothes—you’re creating art, and he’s completely in awe of you.

[ms-demeanor]

sorry if you've answered this before, and i hope you don't mind me asking, how do you know so much about computers and what seems to me like everything in the world? how did you become so knowledgeable? it's amazing

i just know a little about a lot of things and I probably have a fair number of things that I've dug into more than most people and less than people who actually focus on that stuff! It's kind of an illusion!

I do know a lot about computers and that's because I've worked at a computer company for 12 years and have been deep into a computery subculture for about 20 years - I do genuinely know a lot about consumer computers. That I'll own and that's experience.

I know a fair amount about literature because I've got a degree in it!

I know a fair amount about journalism because I've got most of a degree in it and I worked with journalists for a long time!

I know a fair amount about nutrition because I've got most of a degree in it and because I've been focused on reading a lot about nutrition for more than a decade because of my own food issues!

But mostly I'm just someone who falls down rabbitholes and has a decent ability to recall what I find when I run down them.

Also I get curious about things and will just go. Experience them.

Like at some point i came across a site for people who own and use RealDolls and I got interested in learning more. The site required an application because they didn't want people just trolling so I applied and I ended up reading through the whole site and reading the magazines they sent out for years after because it was just interesting. The way these guys bought clothes or compared repair techniques and cleaning techniques, the way they constructed identities for their dolls - it was all interesting! So now I know about the proper way to store a RealDoll and how their skeletons are put together and the best way to prevent rips or clean inserts.

Now imagine that with everything.

I got interested in quack medicine so I ended up reading the entire back catalogs of quackwatch and science-based medicine.

I got interested in the history of aspartame as a scare-word and I ended up reading a couple of books, SEVERAL entire blogs with decades-long runs, purchasing a military magazine from the 90s, and submitting a FOIA request.

But, like. I don't own a RealDoll or work in that industry. I am not a medical professional. I am not a chemist who works with aspartame. So I get these weird little collections of information where I know what *seems* like a lot to someone who hasn't looked into it but I know a lot less than someone who has taken the time to actually dedicate themselves to that topic.

And sometimes it's a years-long dive and sometimes it's a months-long dive and sometimes it's a few hours of me digging online until I feel satisfied with what I've learned and I never come back to it, but I've got three more talking points than your average joe at a party would.

(Also though I've attended various colleges at various levels for ten-ish years now and I've taken probably more college-level classes on a lot of subjects than most people have because I've now spent several years just kind of kicking around at community colleges and deciding that a cartooning class sounds fun or that a mesoamerican art class fills certain transfer requirements or that I might as well brush up on spanish, french, and german. Access to low-cost college classes in california is a big part of this, and having the time and money to take classes while i'm working is something that I've been very lucky with)

I've also worked pretty much continuously since I was 18, sometimes holding multiple jobs at once, and I know a lot of interesting people who do a lot of interesting things and I ask them about their interesting experiences and if they offer me a chance to go do cool shit with them, like launch a high altitude balloon or blow up some dynamite that's about to expire or join a band, I do it!

I was also one of those kids who had no friends and spent too much time at the library so I'd do things like read through medical textbooks or pull a book of home chemical formulas out of the trash and read it or take it into my head that I was going to read all of Shakespeare before I got to high school so I was a really annoying twelve-year-old and that kind of thing never really let up.

I don't know! I don't think it's that unusual and I think most people do this kind of thing I just happen to have less focus than a lot of people and talk a lot more.

[bittersweetarts]

Shades of Cool - Carmy Berzatto Fanfiction (The Bear)

Summary: Carmy Berzatto never considered himself to be lonely, just frequently alone. His neighbor however, makes him think otherwise.

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language

AO3 Page - Spotify Playlist

Chapter 1: Strangers

At half past midnight, Carmen Berzatto did not expect to find his neighbor perched against the wall, beside the dull wood door, which was built next to his own.

The young woman was clothed in an oversized burgundy jacket and a black dress, too short for Chicago’s bitter winter, and had her eyes shut, with her arms wrapped around herself. Her brown hair was limp against the side of her face. Carmen Berzatto also did not fail to notice how the girl was slightly shivering. She’s cold? Who would’ve fucking guessed.

Normally, Carmen Berzatto did not deal with shit that had nothing to do with him. God knows he has enough on his own plate.

Yes, he knew his neighbor, but vaguely so. He did not know her name, or literally anything about her.

Instead, Carmen Berzatto knew her as the girl who lived in Apartment 3B.

Unlike him, who slept until noon, Carmen knew that the girl, his neighbor, was a morning person; or at least had a job which forced her to be. She woke up at the crack of dawn every single day and played obnoxious music which seeped through the building’s thin walls, and Carmen could hear it in his sleep sometimes.

Carmen Berzatto could have nicely asked his neighbor to shut it off, but he knew that he probably was not great neighbor towards her either. In between the stench of his cigarettes, his screaming from night terrors and the fire alarms going off in his kitchen, Carmen Berzatto was sure that his neighbor hated him.

Yet, she didn’t. Because on many afternoons, as Carmy set off to oversee construction at The Bear, he would bump into her upon leaving. And the girl, always dressed more nicely than he was, would politely greet him, with a genuine smile, catching him off-guard.

This time however, Carmy Berzatto is the first one to greet her. Letting out a heavy breath, Carmy removed the hands from his pocket and walked up to the sleeping girl. Stood in front of her, he realized that he didn’t know what he should do.

How am I supposed to wake her without scaring her into thinking that I’m fucking Ted Bundy re-incarnated?

Thankfully, Carmy Berzatto did not have to contemplate his options for long at all, as the brunette, sensing a warm body near her, softly opened her eyes, to find a pair of familiar vibrant blue ones watching her. Slightly shaking her head, the young girl sat up straight and tilted her head, waiting for the man before her to speak.

“Evening.”

Carmy Berzatto mumbled, his gaze falling to the ground. What the fuck was he doing. That’s the only thing that ran through Carmy’s mind, as the girl before him stared back, with her bright hazel eyes.

“Hello.”

Her soft voice ricocheted along the narrow hallway.

It was silent for a heartbeat, as the girl stared back at Carmy. The silence was comfortable, in a way which confused Carmy Berzatto. Snap out of it.

“Everythin’ alright?”

Carmy brought his gaze back up to meet her’s. She, the girl, was pretty, Carmy noticed. Younger than he was for sure. Her face was done up nicely, in a way that was not too much. When was the last time he noticed things like that about a woman? He couldn’t remember.

With a tight smile, the girl responded.

“Peachy.”

Pressing his own lips together, Carmy Berzatto glanced at his door and contemplated whether to leave her and head to his apartment. It was obvious that his neighbor was locked out, and this was a first for him to see, in the months since he moved into the block. What did it matter to him?

“Already called maintenance?” Carmy spoke up, tilting his head to her door. This elicited a humorless laugh from the girl, who uncrossed her arms and pulled out a phone from her leather jacket’s pocket.

“Phone’s dead. Not that it matters, maintenance can’t fix a broken key.”

“… a broken key?”

Carmy’s brows furrowed at the girl’s response, and this seemed to humor her, as a bright smile broke out on her face.

“A broken key. I know, I can’t believe it either. Snapped in half when I was unlocking the door after coming back a few hours ago from a shitty date. Perfect end to the night.”

With her other hand, the girl took out a key, or rather the remnants of one, yawning as she did so.

As he looked at the broken key in the palm of her hand, Carmy couldn’t help but feel sympathy towards her. She was right, maintenance couldn’t help her. She would have to call someone in, and whoever that is, it would be only tomorrow morning, if at that. It was a Sunday, so even if she managed to get a locksmith to come in, they would charge premium rates. Letting out another sigh, Carmy’s righthand unconsciously snaked towards the back of his neck, rubbing at it lightly.

“You can borrow my phone. Call family or a friend.” As he spoke, Carmy pulled out his phone, reaching it out to his neighbor. At this, the girl’s smile strained.

“No one to call.”

And that is how Carmen Berzatto, unexpectedly, found himself inviting a girl to stay over at his place, at the early hours before dawn.

Carmy should have minded his own fucking business, he knew better. But it’s not like he could leave the barely clothed girl outside on her own, especially now that he knew she was all alone. Even though she was his height, she was still frail in appearance, and Carmy knew that a girl like her shouldn’t be left alone, even in the hallways of a building. Surely she could have gone to a 24-hour diner or some motel. Unless she only uses Apple Pay. Fucking Steve Jobs.

The girl, despite feeling apprehensive about accepting his offer, fearing that he might be a murderer, still accepted his offer, thanking him for his generosity. His large stature and the tattoos which she spotted on his hand as he unlocked his door intimidated her, but she tried to rationalize things to herself.

“Seline Hepburn.”

The young brunette called out as her new host had his back towards her. Turning around, the side of his lip tilted upwards slightly as he nodded.

“Carmy. Carmy Berzatto.”

“Nice to meet you, Carmy. To meet you properly, that is.”

Seline responded, her hands clasped behind her back. Upon entering, she was immediately slapped with the smell of cigarettes. She didn’t love it, but it didn’t bother her either.

Her eyes strayed towards room, taking in the surroundings as Carmy flicked a switch, the room’s ceiling lights flickering on after. As Seline glanced around the room, seeing how normal it looked, her smile relaxed. Not a murderer. Seline hoped.

His home was not much, Carmy knew that, and he never cared about it before. So why was he feeling slightly self-conscious about it now?

“Thank you again, genuinely. You can leave me here, I’ll sleep on the sofa. I promise not to rob your TV set or anything else here – Scout’s honor.”

Seline declared, placing a hand onto her heart. Carmy let a slight chuckle, and decided that he must have been really tired, because why else would he find her joke funny. Stripping off his winter coat, hanging it on a nearby hook, Carmy turned back to face Seline, who was still stood somewhat awkwardly by the door.

Normally, when Carmy returned home, he would eat whatever crap he had in the pantry, watching re-runs of whatever cooking show was on, until he fell finally asleep. Sleeping did not come easy to Carmy Berzatto, and as he watched his guest, her eyes wide and bright, he realized that the girl might suffer from a similar affliction.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.” Seline’s bright smile returned to her face.

“This is the best meal I have had since moving here, what the fuck.” Seline exclaimed, as her fork scraped the sauce remnants on her plate. Carmy raised brows at her statement, not believing her.

The kitchen was warm, taken hostage by the smell of sizzling onions and garlic, aromatically sweet. Seline loved eating good food dearly, and as she devoured the pasta before her, she felt on top of the world.

Unaccustomed to cooking at home, Carmy had little to work with. Consequently, what he managed to whip up, was very lackluster, in his opinion: Spaghetti Aglio e Olio. Spaghetti with garlic and olive oil. The dish name sounds more impressive, and pretentious, than it actually is.

Carmy was used to having eyes on him whilst he was preparing meals, but rather than judgmental, Seline’s eyes were comforting. He didn’t mind being watched by her, nor her company, he realized not long after he started cooking. She did not feel the need to talk unnecessarily, and Carmy appreciated that, especially after how long his day has been.

The two strangers were stood in his spacious kitchen, leaning against the cabinets whilst eating their late dinners, mostly in comfortable silence. Unlike Carmy, who kept his eyes glued to the ground, Seline was attentively watching the man, as though he was the most interesting thing in the world.

“You must be easy to impress then.”

Carmy finally answered back, bluntly, as he approached Seline. For a moment, he wondered whether he had offended the girl, but he didn’t have to for long, as his comment garnered a light laugh from her.

Taking hold of her empty plate, Carmy turned to the sink, and began to rinse the dishes.

“No, Carmy, please let me. You have been so kind and courteous, it’s the least I can do.” Seline protested, coming up to Carmy, close enough that he could smell her. Earthy, like sage. Carmy Berzatto found the scent comforting.

Carmy ignored her protests, focusing on the motions of scrubbing the dishes. Understanding that he was not going to oblige with her request, Seline leaned near the counter, crossing her arms, let to her own devices, or rather, her thoughts.

Seline wanted to ask her neighbor where he had learned to cook so impressively. She wanted to ask him about his tattoos, which were spread across his muscular arms, exposed in his simple white tee. Seline wanted to pry into his life.

This was one of Seline Hepburn’s worst traits. Seline was a curious child growing up, and as she grew older, she found herself drawn to anything, and anyone. When she was younger, Seline would open herself up entirely to people she hardly knew, believing that companionship could grow from there. But Seline learned from her past that being caring and compassionate only leads to pain.

So instead, Seline refrained herself and kept her cool, smiling at her new-found acquaintance as he cleaned the dishes, and then the countertop and cooker. Carmy didn’t seem keen to talk or share his life story anyway, so it was not difficult to remain silent, just watching him.

And watching him was… interesting? How could Seline describe it?

All those days she had seen him in passing, Seline had never particularly noticed her neighbor. Their meetings were fleeting, and beyond Carmy’s captivating eyes, there was nothing remarkable about his appearance. Or so Seline thought.

Now watching him, his stoic face focused and his arms tense as he worked, Seline felt herself flush. He was really handsome, and Seline felt like she could admire him as people admired works of art. Observing him, Seline had long forgotten about what lead her to this point in the night.

“Pretty girls like you normally have boyfriends to go to. Where’s yours?”

Carmy spoke up as he finished cleaning, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He offered the box to Seline, who declined, shaking her head, before tilting it to the side and responding to his comment, cheekily smiling.

“You think I’m pretty?”

Though Carmy remains silent, this reaps a small smile from him, his cigarette hanging on the side of his lip. This made Seline feel triumphant, and perhaps that is why she ended up oversharing about her personal life, despite her earlier resolve not to. Leaning more into the countertop, she answered lowly.

“My boyfriend is sleeping around with my best friend. Hence, I don’t have a boyfriend, or a best friend, to call now.”

As Seline finished, her eyes shifted towards the open window, her smile dropping and her mood turning sullen. The view was nothing spectacular, just another brick building, with no life, all its residents asleep. As Seline looked away, Carmy intently watched her, her chest rising and falling steadily, betraying little of her feelings beyond apathy. Carmy thought that girls were usually more emotional with shit like this.

In the brief time they had spent together, Carmy had become accustomed to the happiness that radiated from Seline, which was perhaps why he tried to cheer her up, without even intending to, which was abnormal for his character. Taking another drag of his cigarette, Carmy spoke up again.

“Well, pretty girls also shouldn’t have to deal with shitty boyfriends.” Another drag of the cigarette.

“… you’re better off.”

Seline turned back to face Carmy but kept her eyes down. Instead, she observed his tattoos, or rather the ones that are visible. They were – silly, cute – Seline thought. A snail. The outline of a globe contained in a beaker. A knife stabbing a hand. The letters – S O U – detained on his fingers. He is either a nut job, a dealer, or a chef. Can’t imagine many offices would be keen on having him around.

Forcing a smile, Seline raised her eyes, and met Carmy’s stare. In most circumstances, a silence drawn out as theirs would be awkward, uncomfortable. But it wasn’t for them. In the background, the city murmurs quietly, accompanied by the sound of sirens and kitchen static.

“So is Sou your girl or your wife?” Seline jested, a genuine grin sneaking on her mouth. Carmy’s brows furrowed in response, confused.

“Sue?”

Seline raised her own hand, showing her bare knuckles.

“S-O-U, Sou?”

At this, Carmy let out a laugh. He really must be more tired than he thought. Glancing to her left, Seline found a mug, with various pencils and pens. And a sharpie, perfect.

Seline quickly grabbed the black sharpie from the mug, and gently grasped Carmy’s left hand, which wasn’t holding his diminishing cigarette. Carmy, unfazed by her actions, merely jutted his chin down, watching his neighbor.

“Did your tattoo artist forget the -P or -S?” It took Carmy a few moments to process her question.

“You really think I wanted SOUP to be inked on me forever?”

“Some people really love soup. Who am I to judge?”

Seline took his response to mean that an -S was missing. Sous. A sous-chef then. The brunette thought. Taking the sharpie, she carefully tried to mimic the font and size of the rest of the letters. As she finished, she set down the sharpie, her eyes still fixed on his hand, and she let her fingers trace over the tattoos on his fingers, her maroon nails gently scraping over his skin.

Her hands were cool, Carmy noticed. He liked it, the feeling of her cold touch against his warm skin. Carmy knew that he was warm-blooded. It was not unusual for him, in Chicago’s freezing weather, to be underdressed. He deduced that Seline was not the same. Even now, she was dressed in her heavy jacket indoors. Maybe he should turn the heater on?

“Xanny or lasagna?”

“What?”

Carmy’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, and when Seline looked back up at him, he felt like he was deer caught in the headlights.

“Do you sell xanny or lasagna?” Seline asked, her smile bright as stars. Carmy couldn’t help but laugh again. When was the last time he laughed so much?

“Lasagna, I guess.”

He made more than just lasagna, Carmy thought. We didn’t even serve lasagna at the fucking Beef. But why should she care?

“So you’re a chef?”

Carmy nodded, his face back to a neutral expression. Feeling triumphant about guessing correctly from the beginning, Seline’s smile grew even wider. She then let go of his hand, leaning back against the countertop, and Carmy was saddened by that for a moment.

Shaking his head slightly, Carmy crushed his cigarette stub into a nearby ashtray. The fumes started affecting Seline, who let out a yawn, which made Carmy realize how tired she looked now, her eyes red and glossy. Glancing at the clock, he saw how late it was. Past one in the morning.

“Take my bed, I’ll take the couch.” Carmy said, walking out of the kitchen, expecting his neighbor to follow. Follow Seline did, albeit a little behind, as she stood in the kitchen alone for a moment, thinking on what he said.

“Wait, I can sleep on the couch, it’s not an issue at all. I can sleep on the floor if you’d prefer, I don’t mind as long as you don’t have any rats.”

Seline ranted as she caught up to Carmy, who turned around to face her as she finished. Flatly, he answered.

“I do have rats. Take the bed.”

Seline’s diluted eyes widened as Carmy spoke. She stared at him blankly, feeling slightly sick now, at the thought of there being rodents in the building. As she did, a small smile appeared on Carmy’s face. He found her reaction cute, as though she was a little girl. It took Seline a moment to realize that he was not serious.

“… and you’re fucking with me. Asshole.”

Seline muttered, pulling on the sleeves of her jacket as her stare dropped. She then strode ahead of him, to what she assumed was his bedroom, and Carmy watched her amusingly.

“Yes, I’m fucking with you, princess.”

At his mocking pet name, Seline turned around to face her host, in front of the closed door of his room, her brows cross.

“I thought we were getting along with each.” Seline muttered again, but her tone half-serious, half-joking.

“We aren’t?” Carmy responded, his arms crossed in front of him, the muscles on his forearms tense.

Carmy was a lot more closer to her than he realized, but Seline noticed. Though they were the same height (or were they, maybe Seline was slightly taller than Carmy), Seline still felt small in front of him.

There was something about him, so unlike the guys she was used to meeting. Carmy was harsh and intimidating, Seline could tell. But he was also soft… tender? As she stared at his blue eyes, Seline felt stupid for thinking about this, for making shit up in her head.

But was she imagining something between them, she wondered, especially when she saw his eyes stray lower, to her lips, and then lower. When his arms uncrossed and a hand slivered towards her, she did not move, nor flinch. She merely tilted her head in anticipation, but was met with disappointment, as Carmy’s hand grasped the door handle before her, opening the bedroom door.

As he did, Seline unconsciously moved to the side in surprise, and Carmy strode into the cold room, small in size and empty, except for the few pieces of furniture which did little to make the room seem not bare. In contrast, Seline’s apartment was loud and lively, stuffed to the brim with books and other knickknacks, as though she were a tidy hoarder.

Wordlessly, Carmy switched on the lights and rummaged through his dresser, and then turned around, handing Seline a pair of dark sweatpants and a long-sleeved top. Mumbling a silent “thanks”, Seline began stripping off her jacket, much to the shock of Carmy, who immediately turned around and turned his gaze downward.

“Oh… you are changing here. Like here, right now.”

This made Seline laugh, her teeth chattering slightly as she shivered in her lingerie, before putting on his clothing, which was soft to the touch. It smelled like fresh laundry.

“Don’t tell me you’re a prude, Carmy.”

He slightly chokes at this, and keeps his eyes glued to the floor, remaining silent. When she finishes, Seline watches him for a moment. Seline has shared a bed with friends many times before, and they were kind of friends, in some weird, convoluted way, right?

“You can turn around now. I’m dressed.” Seline said as she began folding her small dress, placing it atop the dresser. Instead of facing her, Carmy headlined towards the door, but before he could leave, the young brunette grasped his wrist.

“Listen, I am not letting you sleep on the couch in your own home.” Seline protested. Turning to face her, Carmy met her gaze.

“It’s not a big deal. I sleep there most nights.” Seline shook her head, not believing him, despite the fact that he was telling the truth.

“Share the bed with me.” Carmy raised his brows at this.

“It’s not a big deal, honestly. And tomorrow morning, you’ll lend me your phone, so that I can call a locksmith. Wait, do you have an iPhone charger?” Carmy’s brows raised even more incredulously.

“Yes, beside the nightstand.”

“Great.” Seline walked away from Carmy, digging through the pockets of her jacket, before approaching the nightstand to plug her phone in, still speaking.

“See, I don’t even need to borrow your phone. I’ll call the locksmith tomorrow, go back to my home, feed my little turtles, and we can go back to being strangers, slash neighbors.”

As Seline finished, she sat down on the bed, tilting her head, waiting for him to say something. But he doesn’t and continues to stare at her emotionlessly.

Sighing, Seline stood up, and continued speaking as she walked towards the door, where Carmy stood, his arms crossed again.

“It’s fine. I really appreciate you not letting me stay out on the hallway. Take the bed and I’ll take the couch. It’s not a big deal.”

Carmy doesn’t budge as Seline stood in front of him. Stood in front of him so closely, Seline felt small, despite him not being taller than her. The two of them stare at each other silently for a heartbeat before Carmy finally speaks.

“You’ve got turtles? As in plural?” Carmy’s side of the lip tilts as he shakes his head. At this, Seline lightly slaps his chest, letting out a laugh.

“Is that the only thing you heard?” Seline shook her head in slight disbelief, and waited for Carmy to move so that she could leave the bedroom. He doesn’t though, and remains silent, staring at her, the two almost touching each other. Not brown. Her eyes are not brown. They have some grey in them. Or a muted green. Carmy noticed silently.

Sighing aloud, Seline took a step backward, and then another, until she reached the bed, the side of the nightstand, which was near the bedroom’s window. There were no curtains, Seline noticed. She sat down on the bed again, and stared at Carmy, who was still stood by the door. Shaking her head again, she slipped under the duvet cover, turning her back to her host.

And Carmy, while watching her, contemplated his options. The couch was fine, he really did sleep there most nights. But for some reason, he couldn’t understand why he felt drawn towards her, Seline. Fucking testosterone.

Glancing back once more at Seline, who still had her back to him, Carmy exhaled and quietly rummaged through his dresser for a towel and change of clothing, before switching off the lights and leaving the bedroom.

Feeling dirty from the day, Carmy headed to his bathroom, and stripped his clothing for a quick shower. As he mechanically scrubbed his body clean, Carmy’s mind was else. He was so distracted that he didn’t notice how he roughly scrubbed away the -S drawn onto his finger only a while earlier.

In addition to the usual anxious thoughts about The Bear, especially as its opening is behind schedule, due to another fucking burst pipe, something else crossed Carmy’s mind, for the first time in a while.

His night terrors, and sleep-walking/cooking. He hasn’t experienced them in months now, not since he read Mikey’s letter and shut The Beef. Really, there was no reason for him to have them that night, and nothing had stressed him out particularly more that day. The Bear was doing good enough, they will be able to catch up on the schedule. Finances were fine. The family was getting along, even fucking cousin and Sidney.

But then again, there was still one thing that never failed to drive him crazy: Mikey.

“Shut the fuck up.” Carmy absently mumbled to himself as he turned off the shower faucet. Carmy hated when he was alone like this, with no work to distract him. His thoughts were too much for him to bear sometimes. Too fucking much.

Exhaling loudly, Carmy dried himself, and put on his clothing. In his pants and wifebeater, Carmy passively brushed his teeth whilst staring at his reflection. He tried to focus on his appearance, anything to distract himself. He hasn’t shaved in a couple days, and it was obvious. And as usual, his overgrown hair demanded a barber.

The apartment was dead silent as he laid down on his couch, which was musty and in need of a deep clean. Normally, he smoked before sleep, but he didn’t feel like it now. Instead, he stared at his TV set, debating whether to switch it on. He didn’t care about what was on, whatever it was, it would be distracting enough.

The remote was on the stand though, not within arm’s reach.

Sighing, Carmy stood and went up to the TV. But he didn’t grab the remote. Instead, he stared at it, before he impulsively walked past it, and towards his bedroom once again.

The room was dark as he quietly entered, except for the city lights which crept in through the window. Carmy gently sat on the bed, trying not to wake Seline, who still had her back, and was about to lie down, until a girlish voice echoed through the room, making Carmy flinch in surprise.

“Good night.”

Seline turned around to face him, her voice cloudy with sleep. Is she a light sleeper? Carmy thought.

“Night.” Carmy finally responded, laying down on his side of the bed. He faced the ceiling, watching the fluorescent lights that shone onto it. I really need to get some fucking curtains.

And Seline, half-awake now, watched him, her face half buried into the only pillow on the bed. She probably was ruining it with her makeup, but she couldn’t care. I’ll wash it for him tomorrow. Seline resolved sleepily.

At that moment, she did not notice that Carmy not only let her have the pillow, but the comforter entirely as well. What she did notice though, was how dreamlike Carmy looked. Even in the dark, his eyes were glowing, and his features reminded her of the statues that you see in museums.

Carmy could feel her lingering stare, but again, he didn’t mind it. After some time though, he spoke up, still not feeling tired at all.

“Bife de tartaruga.” Carmy whispered, so quietly that he didn’t expect Seline to hear him.

“What?” Seline responded, her voice bouncing off the walls again.

“Bife de tartaruga. It’s a Cape Verdean dish. Turtle steak. I made it once.”

His time at the CIA, the Culinary Institute of America, flashed through his eyes. Pierre Thiam, a visiting chef, taught the dish in an elective class he attended once. He even got to try it. It was really fucking good, the acidic turtle flesh melting into his mouth.

Carmy felt the bed shift slightly, and suddenly, he was softly smacked on the head with a pillow. His pillow. Her girlish laughter followed, and she giggled through her words as well.

“Shut up.”

Seline’s laugh was warm, real, and Carmy couldn’t help but smile at it.

Author’s Note: Carmy is so babygirl – I had to write a story about him, I really had to, you know

– Chapter 2

[wowzerwyrm]

As a cis guy, I’ve been considering going on estrogen and HRT.

Cis, in this case, being that I was born male, identified as a boy in my youth, still do identify as a man and use He/Him pronouns, and have no desire to stop if/when I do start on HRT. I probably wouldn’t still label myself as cis at that point, but until then I am just a guy.

I’ve been generally genderqueer and non-conforming, at least as far as I could be in the church I was raised in. Pink ties and long hair and occasional painted nails was closer to blasphemy than not half the time, but I was lucky enough to have a mother and sisters that had fun playing dress up with me so long as I didn’t actually wear a skirt to church.

Now I’m out of that church and in a world and a city where trans and genderqueer people are common, where my colorful socks are standard, where I don’t have to be limited to shoulder-length hair or even skirts. I can genuinely do whatever I want now.

And I’m thinking about HRT.

I’m not a girl, or at least not exclusively. Maybe genderfluid, maybe something else. I don’t feel dysphoria about presenting as a guy, and I’ve always enjoyed being seen as having positive male qualities. But I also think I would enjoy being seen as a girl, more often that I am now.

And under it all, it I had to give myself a specific label or gender based on how I feel inside, (at least compared to how I hear other people talk about it) I’d probably go with agender, or genderless.

I think, if gender is a construct and a performance, then it’s one I enjoy being an actor in, but for others more than myself. At home, I don’t feel any urge to wear anything particularly defining, and I don’t really want to transition in any way just for my own sake. Almost entirely, it would be so I could go out in public presented one way or another, meet people, make friends, flirt, play the part I’ve chosen for the day.

I’m thinking about HRT, so I can more easily do both. I want to be closer to androgynous, not so I can avoid the gender binary but so I can more easily play either part.

And, most importantly, so I can be a little weird about it.

I want to push some of the norms and expectations of those around me, have interesting conversations. I want to follow the rules of being either a guy or a girl so I can more easily break them in interesting ways.

Sometimes, I’d like to just be a girl in the eyes of others, body shaved, makeup on, outfit casual and normal, chill, friendly. Sometimes I’d like to be a little more sexy, loud, silly.

Sometimes I’d like to be a guy, tall and confident and cool and kind, or maybe with ripped jeans and funky clothes and hair styled all over.

I want to go outside as someone else, see how people react to it, and play into it, play around with it. I don’t know what my coworkers will think if I grow boobs but never tell them to call me different pronouns, and it makes me nervous, but also interests me.

I’m just worried, mostly, that I won’t be able to keep up with the image in my head. It’ll be a lot of work, and I’m not sure if some of the side effects will be worth what I’m trying to achieve, especially when I have other priorities, art and writing as well. As well as if I choose to bind fairly often, that won’t be good for my ribs long term.

I’ve got an appointment tomorrow to go in and talk about it and possibly get started on hormones, if I choose to. I’m excited, and nervous, and not sure what I’m going to do.

[innaeight]

Hesitation is Death

   Everyone is always so excited for New Years. The new year is a chance to focus on becoming the “best version of yourself” or focus on yourself and new chances to build new habits in replacement of the old ones you had. All those ideas honestly sound stupid at least in my own opinion. I spent my 2024 New Years at church and my church is a pretty small church compared to others in Texas, but this one night was packed like to the brim with people I have never seen before dancing sprightly and praying with hope towards the new year. While I was just standing there during prayers with my eyes closed pretending that I was praying. God forgive me, but I do that regularly to just examine my thoughts and feelings at that time. I was looking back on everything I had done that led me to where I am now. And I was just lost.

     I feel like I have always been on my own, but I never felt more spaced out from reality than I did in that moment before the new year. I understand that my life isn’t even relatively bad compared to other people. Both my parents are married and they care alot about me plus I have friends who care about me, but I just couldn’t help harboring that feeling of detachment and separation from everything. I just didn’t feel content with the life I was living. I wanted more for myself. I decided then and there that I don’t want to have any goals for 2024 because society reinforces this idea that if you don’t achieve this, You are just a loser and you need to work harder to achieve that platformed goal.

      After that thought generated in my head, I just started building an immense amount of resentment towards everybody in my church around me even though they had something and nothing to do with the social construct. I even started to resent myself for falling under this guise that my whole worth as a human being is determined by what cool clothes I wear, who I am friends with, how much money do I have currently, whether or not I have a lot of followers and likes on Instagram, I just started running all these different reasons as to why I am not at fault for feeling in this separated state when at the end of the day I am wholeheartedly at fault for even allowing all these external irrelevant conditions to affect the way I see myself and the other people around that I genuinely care for. 

      Before prayers concluded, I kept telling myself that you have to acknowledge you can only save yourself from becoming that version of yourself you absolutely despise.  My life is my choice, but at one point in time my worth to myself was completely based upon things that people value. I didn’t even know if what I valued was really even my innate self actually wanting to be present. I wasn’t even on any type of suicidal mindset, but I was just contemplating how far in life will I be able to go and will I be able to even get that far? 

      After church prayers concluded, I was just still like the calm storm after a whole catastrophic storm of thoughts. I got up from my seat to use the restroom and the minute I got to the doorway of the congregation from the restroom, My seat was taken by an eager young adult who wanted to sit and enjoy the service. I couldn’t even be upset with him because he was just trying to get closer to God while I was just contemplating in my head. Instead of getting upset or just waiting to do the same to someone uninvolved. I told my mom who was insisting on me finding another seat that I was fine and could just wait by the door leading into the congregation.   

      In the moment I was kind of feeling a certain way, but I had to just let it go because that action wasn’t worth putting in some type of resentment towards someone who maybe didn’t even know that was someone’s seat. The whole interaction was completely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but as the vibrant and colorful music accompanied by the relentless and mercy warranting prayers came to a soft silent conclusion for the night to celebrate God beginning us in a new year, I ended up leaving the blank pale white wall towards the congregation to a bright vision for self introspection and affirmation with a clear understanding perspectives are what is important in regards to everything involved in the world. In that moment, I decided that humanity in general is just flawed and hypocritical, like we are all just products for an imaginary audience and if you don’t appeal to this audience by conforming to their ways then you are just a lost cause. I told myself that I didn’t want to be in a rat race with all these people in regards to being better than one another. I just want to be better than the person I was yesterday. 

      Even the smallest changes in life can bring huge amounts of character development. I will continue to believe in this idea in order to actually get a better understanding of myself as a human being in order to help the others around me who may need that support, but to also better myself everyday in regards to yesterday.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Contact Comfort

Spencer Reid x (gender neutral) Reader

Word Count: ~2000

Warnings: None, really? Emotional hurt/comfort and sorta like a touch starved deal doing on, but it’s pretty thoroughly fluffy and sugary-sweet. 

A/N: For the “bed sharing” square on my @cmbingo​ card! 

Title is from the referenced psych study, because I’m a dork. 

“One sec,” you call, wincing at how thick and nasal your voice sounds.

You wipe your cheeks hastily as you sit up. It’ll be obvious anyway, though; wouldn’t take a profiler to notice your tear tracks and blotchy face. 

It’s Spencer. Of course it is — because he’s the last person you want to see you like this, when you’re all snotty and puffy and gross. 

His eyes go wide and solemn when he sees your face, genuinely distressed. There’s that empathy again, the too-big heart that everyone seems to overlook in favor of his big brain. You love him for it. 

Well, you love him for a lot of things. 

“Hi,” he says quietly. “I was going to just ask if you were okay, but… I guess I don’t actually need to ask now.” 

You let out a watery little chuckle. “Guess not.” 

“You want some company?” He looks hopeful, almost, and then seems to catch himself, dropping his gaze with a shrug. “I understand if you just want your space, though.” 

If it was anyone else, you absolutely would not want company right now. But it’s Spencer, so. You pretty much always want him around. 

“I was just about to turn on some shitty TV because it felt too quiet in here, honestly. Company would be really nice.” 

He gives you a quick twitch of a half-smile as he steps past you, and after you close the door, there’s a pause where you both stand there and look at each other, Spencer suddenly shy as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, in a thin unhappy voice. 

“Not really. Just… one of those days. One of those cases.” 

“Can I do anything to help?”  

You hesitate, because it seems like such an immature thing to say out loud, but you’re too tired to be anything other than honest.

“I could use a hug.”  

Spencer’s expression goes all soft and sweet, and your cheeks feel hot under the drying salt water as he steps closer. He wraps his arms around you, and you bury your face in his chest and try to inhale. Your exhale is a ragged little shudder, and you fist both hands in the back of Spencer’s cardigan as you cling to him, feeling raw and sensitive and so very young. 

He lets out a quiet, shaky sigh of his own, squeezing you tighter. 

How long has it been since anybody hugged you like this? It’s like the contact — the warmth of him — the pressure of his arms around your shoulders — the rise and fall of his chest under your cheek — is lifting some massive weight you never realized you were carrying. All you want in the entire world is to hold him tight, take the comfort while you can, but you know you should pull away. 

He hesitates for a second before releasing you, like maybe he doesn’t want to let go either. 

Then he’s stepping back, hands in his pockets, slightly pink-cheeked as he bounces on the balls of his feet and gives you one of his frog-faced not-quite-smiles. 

“You said something about shitty television?” he asks. “Or maybe we could watch some television that’s not actually shitty?” 

“That sounds perfect.”

Turns out Planet Earth is on, which is the rare overlap in your and Spencer’s tastes, and it’s not until you’re eagerly toeing off your shoes that you realize the bed is the only seating option. 

Spencer sits cross-legged, with his elbows on his knees and his chin propped on his fists, and he stays as close to the edge of the bed as physically possible. You lean back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, feeling the need to hunch over, like you could physically protect your heart. 

Then again, it’s much too late for that. You knew your heart was in trouble the moment you met Spencer. 

Today, especially, you already feel vulnerable, like all your carefully-constructed walls cracked open the second you let yourself cry, and now you’re just ripped-open and bare. You need a good night’s sleep and a long, hot shower before you’ll be able to go about your life as a professional, fully-functional, grown-up human again. Right now you’re just kind of a mess.  

“I know there’s the germ thing,” you blurt out, without looking at Spencer. “But —” 

His laugh sounds crackly and nervous, but relieved, like maybe he’d been holding his breath. “Come here.” 

You give him a grateful smile as you scoot closer to each other, and apparently you’d been so worried about your own swollen eyes earlier that you hadn’t noticed the fatigue evident in every drawn, wan line of his face. 

Not that he isn’t still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

You duck tentatively under Spencer’s arm, and it’s not like you’re cuddling, exactly, because there’s still an inch or so of space between your hips and legs… but the bony plane of his chest, between collarbone and heart, makes a surprisingly perfect pillow. You pull the sleeves of your sweater over your hands, tucking them under your chin, curling up.

The moment feels delicate, like a soap bubble that you could burst if you simply breathe too loudly, and you hold yourself stiffly, at first, not wanting to move any closer for fear of pushing a boundary. It feels like you’re glowing at the points where your bodies are touching; the warm weight of his arm feels like bright spring sunshine across your upper back. His palm on the round of your shoulder is thawing away the last chilly bits of your self-consciousness. 

When the commercial break starts, Spencer says, “Do you ever think about how little physical contact the average single adult experiences on a regular basis?” His voice is quiet and almost sheepish. 

You smile. “Yeah, I’ve considered it.” 

“Especially when we live away from our families,” Spencer says wistfully. 

You can feel the vibration of his words in his chest. You shift, making yourself more comfortable, feeling dazed and dumb with his proximity.

“The monkeys. I feel like — you know?” 

“Harlow. I know exactly what you mean.”

Trust him to get that from your ridiculously vague mumbling.  

“Except they’re babies,” you add. 

“The emotional benefits of physical touch don’t decrease just because we get older,” he says softly. “It’s just that the fear of judgement makes it difficult to be honest.”

There’s silence for a minute as the show starts again, and David Attenborough says something about sloths. Spencer’s thumb strokes your shoulder gently, back and forth, soothing. It’s hypnotic, and the tension drains from your muscles, leaving you more relaxed than you’ve felt in a long time. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

You swallow hard. “For what?” 

“Being honest.” 

There’s no reason for your eyes to be stinging like this, but they are. “I should be thanking you.”

“Nothing to thank me for. This is… really nice.” 

“Yeah. It really is.” 

He’s quiet again. 

Spencer smells like vanilla and old books — although the latter might just be your imagination, something to do with the power of mental association — Spencer could probably explain the science behind that. Your brain has them inextricably linked, though. You’ve caught hints of that smell before, but never up close like this. 

The softness of the worn knit of his cardigan makes you want to rub your cheek against it like a cat. His arm, skinny as it may be, feels like protection — like you’re safe here. 

After the brutal violence of the case and the emotional turbulence of the day, this quiet, golden moment is even more breathtakingly peaceful by contrast. It doesn’t feel real. 

It’s too good to last. This isn’t yours. It’s not going to last, no matter how right it feels, and your chest already aches with the idea of letting him go.    

You try to appreciate it while you can, to remember every sensation, but your body is leaden, exhausted down to the bone, completely drained of whatever adrenaline-stubbornness-caffeine combination was keeping you running until now. Spencer’s thumb rubs invisible circles on your shoulder, and he breathes evenly, and you feel safe. 

You’re asleep before the next commercial break. 

A distant car alarm wakes you, sometime later. In the handful of seconds before it’s turned off, you come to without opening your eyes, trying to remember where you are and who you’re with. The smell of vanilla makes you relax instinctively, before you can process why. 

Spencer has all but melted against you in his sleep, soft and boneless. He’s got both arms around you now, holding you close, his breath tickling your forehead. Then he stirs, and you can feel the moment he realizes where he is, because his muscles go tense as he freezes. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs hoarsely. He’s barely audible over the infomercial voices coming from the TV. “I didn’t mean to — sorry. I’ll go.” 

And before you can think better of it, you whisper, “Don’t.” 

He’s still frozen, and silent for a second that feels like an eternity. “You mean —”

“I don’t want you to leave. Stay.” 

Honesty seems to be your default setting tonight, and anyway, you can tell without looking at a clock that it’s long past midnight, well into the early-morning hours where boundaries and reservations and reality don’t seem to follow their usual laws. You can’t lie to him (or to yourself) right now. 

Spencer’s voice cracks as he says, “Okay. I’ll just — let me get the light.”

You don’t open your eyes as he slips away. This all seems like a dream, and the sharp bright lamp light might make it dissolve around you. You might wake up. 

The TV goes quiet, and when you tug at the hotel comforter, sliding between cool sheets fully clothed, the barely-there rasp of moving fabric sounds loud in its absence. 

Spencer turns off the lamp, and you open your eyes. You can just see his shape as he navigates the dark room, negative space on a charcoal backdrop, but as your vision adjusts, you can see a faint suggestion of his features in the blue-black. 

You feel it, though, when his weight makes the springs of the old mattress dip. You’d expected him to lie on his back again, but instead his face is just inches from yours when his cheek comes to rest on the pillow. You feel the way he’s breathing, quick and shallow and nervous. You feel your heart kick in your ribs, thudding so loud he must be able to hear it. 

He reaches out slowly, hooking an arm around your ribs, and pauses with just the very tips of his spidery fingers touching your back, between your shoulder blades: five soft points of contact that you feel so intensely they might as well be electrode pads connecting you to a defibrillator. 

This is crossing a line, and you both know it. 

It’s not a sexual touch, it’s not that sort of thrill going through you, but something about this feels profoundly intimate. That intimacy is almost more shocking than lust might’ve been, and it’s much more dangerous. It’s the sort of closeness you don’t walk away from unscathed.  

Spencer’s fingers flutter, butterfly-wing delicate, like one or the other of you might be trembling. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” he whispers. 

“Yes.”  

Maybe you’re both trembling. 

His palm comes to rest on your back, easing you closer, and you shift, settle, readjust. He pulls back and tilts his head just long enough to brush his lips over your temple, soft and sweet, before tucking you neatly under his chin, where you fit like you were meant to be there, with your nose nudging at the gap between his collar and the delicate skin of his throat.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispers, sounding just as awed as you feel. 

“Sweet dreams, Spencer.” 

.

.

.

If you enjoyed this, please reblog or leave a message! 

More Criminal Minds fic is here. 

[bunny-hoodlum]

For the mashup fic!! Naruhina (obviously xD))

Massage AU + "I didnt mean to turn you on" 👀👀

pssst! Thank you so much for the ask, @char-lotteral !! It was a lot of fun!! 😍

Fic under the cut. ;3

Hinata is majoring in Massage Therapy and her dropout boyfriend works construction. She owns a massage table in her apartment and Naruto let's her practice what she's learned that day in class on him. He thinks it's a win-win since his job often leaves him with all kinds of aches and tension, and personally, he would rather keep saving up for the ring than spend $80-$100 per hour for a professional.

He feels as giddy as he did on their first date when he gets ready to receive his first massage. His girlfriend of three years looks so damn cute in her heather gray spa uniform. He also loves how it hugs her incredible curves.

A confused mix of pride and jealousy flits across his mind briefly when he imagines the day a customer tries to hit on her. He'll be more than happy to upgrade their treatment to a year of Physical Therapy if they try anything with her.

Hinata hands him a towel to hide his bits and he tosses it onto the massage table before reaching to unzip his jeans.

His clothes are pooled at his feet before he hops on the table, settling his face comfortably in the face support ring, completely unaware of the effect his stripping had on his girlfriend.

His body is completely different since his first day on a construction site half a year ago and it throws her off. She doesn't recognize him at all, but she's not complaining.

She asks herself whilst fanning her face how is she ever going to navigate this new terrain. And beneath that thought sprouts another albeit strange one: Is it cheating if this new Naruto inspires dirty thoughts faster than his previous self ever did? Somehow it feels like cheating. Her palms simply itch to touch him, to explore him, to memorize every tough swell of muscle until he's tender beneath her hands. She simply can't get her hands on him fast enough.

She shakes off her weird train of thought and grabs the bottle of massage oil from her utility tray. Her first mistake is greasing him up like a hibachi griddle. The cool oil shocks him, and Hinata apologizes profusely.

She knew better, too. She can't believe she didn't warm up the oil in her hands first.

Her next mistake is massaging him too lightly.

He doesn't know what to tell her. Between knowing that he wasn't going to get any relief before his next shift and not wanting to discourage her, he stays quiet at first before having the boneheaded idea to fake contented groans.

Hinata realizes there's no way he's feeling good from her self-conscious massage, so she amps up the applied pressure.

That's her third mistake.

But when it comes to Hinata, Naruto has god-like patience for her and he doesn't let this first experience scare him from being her practice dummy.

The moment he leaves her apartment, the smell of his skin is still clinging to the oil along her palms, and in the sanctuary of her bedroom she can hardly stop herself from reaching down into her panties. The oil feels so, so gooood.

The next massage, she doesn't excuse herself from watching him undress, neither for the third time. The fourth time, however, he notices her engrossed stare, and his smug smile nearly gives her a heart attack.

It feels so good by the sixth massage when her well-oiled palms smooth up and down his back, he can no longer contain his genuine grunts and groans.

He begins to wonder what kind of sounds she would make on the massage table. He vaguely considers taking up Massage Therapy, just so he could be her exclusive masseuse, and wouldn't have to share her noises with another person, no matter how professional they may be about their job.

The idea of squeezing her thighs with lubed hands, eliciting sweet little moans from her lips, it causes him to swell to full length.

What he wouldn't do to have her wrap her oily hand around him and jerk him off to completion.

But this is for her school.

He doesn't have the stomach to turn such an innocent arrangement into something so perverted.

So he doesn't.

Back at his apartment, he's so relaxed he could fall asleep yet so restless that he can't.

He swore off initiating sex ever since she followed him out of University. Back in high school, their sex life didn't seem to affect their grades all that badly, they still graduated after all! Although her cousin Neji seemed to vehemently disagree. 'So she should've had a 3.8 GPA and not a 3.0, so what?' is what eighteen-year-old him thought, but then he found out she was getting dropped from course after course, and he blamed himself.

They were drinking too much, sexing too much, and hadn't the coursework to prove they were serious about any earning any sort of degree.

That's why he chose this paltry one-room apartment, when he could be splitting the rent with her. He needs to give her her space to study and grow.

Even if this isn't the occupation she originally envisioned for herself.

The last thing she needs is distraction.

But when the fifteenth massage is a chest massage and she needs him to lie on his back, he realizes just how much she herself is a distraction.

Her masseuse student uniform is hanging a little loose as she bends forward, the softest line of her cleavage is peaking up from her V-neck collar, and the motion of the massage is causing her large breasts to sway powerfully.

The things those breasts used to do for him to get him off.

The memory tortures him.

He knows this isn't her intention, but he's so goddamn horny for his little massage therapist. He wants to massage deep inside a place nobody teaches you about. He's a self-taught expert thanks to her, but he's sure there're a few more lessons they haven't studied yet together.

A draft settles over his hot-and-bothered region.

To his horror, he realizes that he forgot to move the towel around his front. So instead of tenting, the folds have completely fallen away, and he's fully erect as she kneads her palms into him, the utter concentration on her face captivating him as it always does, reminding him of how he fell for her in the first place. How he needs to hold himself back for her sake.

The sound of the wheezing oil bottle breaks his horny enchantment, and he wonders where the rest of it went.

The next day, she asks him if he can pick up another bottle of oil.

On his way to her apartment, he searches his brain, trying to understand how sixteen ounces could dwindle so fast. Now that he thinks about it, between massages, the amount wasn't static. No, it was definitely decreasing.

His stomachs sinks.

The thought of her relying others for practice gets to him, and he can't seem to make sense of this bitterness sprouting up so suddenly.

She needs this.

She needs this degree more than she needs his shenanigans.

Maybe even more than she needs him.

She'll make more money than him, that's for damn sure.

All he's done is cause her trouble, hasn't he?

He's not with her all the time. He can't be. And sometimes he's too wiped from work to even come over, and if he does, he passes out on her sofa.

The time they spend together has dwindled to frequent yet brief visits, marred by exhaustion or a need to abstain from distracting her.

There are gaps in her daily life left open for another person to fill.

And she's probably been using all of her oil on him.

When he arrives outside her door, she welcomes him with the same precious smile and he enters the threshold to remove his shoes.

He told her he was on the way.

So if another pair of size twelves had been here, they had been given ample warning to skedaddle.

She takes the bag from him, thanking him, and he numbly follows her inside, his eyes sweeping her apartment for any clues of a previous presence.

Maybe a second cup of tea, partially sipped. Or half-eaten senbei abandoned in their haste.

"Naruto-kun?" she calls from behind him. He turns around, dully humming in question. She's preparing the massage table. Disinfecting it as if, maybe, someone else had used it before him.

Her eyes connect with his. "You look exhausted. Is a massage no good today?"

He can't answer her. The words, his worries, they all feel lead in his voice box. So heavy, they just sink back down from wherever his sifting fingers had managed to unearth them.

He just has to come out and say it.

"Where is all of your massage oil going?"

Her eyes widen and his heart begins to break. Red fills her face and he thinks it's the color of her guilt. It's made all the worse when she ducks down, hiding herself from him. She's wringing her hands, the silence stretching on, stretching his normally god-like patience and he thinks he could be happy for her.

Maybe whoever her new guy is they might try and encourage her to chase her dream, the one he ruined without even trying.

"... it's embarrassing..." she utters so quietly it barely qualifies as a whisper.

"Where is it going, Hinata? This stuff should last forever."

"I-I'm putting it to g-good use."

He tilted his head. "Hah?"

Her eyes squeezed shut. She pressed her balled fists up to her cheeks, and imagined she was about to break down and cry.

Maybe he is exhausted.

Not thinking straight.

He carried three tubs to be installed today. Not by himself, but still. Going up stairs with that shit was tough.

"Whatever, forget it," he sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "I'm taking a nap, then I'll be out of here."

As if he'd be happy with that.

She doesn't stop him.

He collapses in the usual spot, with his arm curled beneath his head, but this time he's facing inwards, as if he's shutting her out while he rests.

He hopes he'll feel better when he wakes up.

He'll apologize if he has to, but right now he needs sleep.

Just as he's drifting in between realms, her presence settles down behind him, her soft, pretty whisper brushing the vestiges of consciousness, holding him in the waking realm for just a moment longer. And what she told him became lost in the plausibility of being a dream.

"I use it when I think of you, Naruto-kun. I miss you so much."

"Hmm?" he mumbled, so drunk with sleep. "Oh. Sorry. I didn't mean to turn you on."

[earth-wyrms]

Hey! It's super cool that you're getting into mending - the more folks fixing their own things the better. I'm more-or-less new here myself (I only started mending my clothes about a year ago) so I really understand how overwhelming it can seem. There's so many materials, so many skills, so many methods, and they all seem mandatory. But worry not! Despite the avalanche of information, this is a surmountable problem.

This is not an exhaustive list and I'm sure there's others with more experience than me. If anyone has more information, please send it my way as well.

(this is gonna get long, so the rest is under a readmore)

ADVICE:

Here's some things that helped me out when I was first starting. If they don't work for you, nose around for inspiration that fits what you need.

Your first project may end up looking really bad. Literally no one else is going to notice. I promise. "Hey, I like your pants" "Thanks! I mended this part right here, myself" "Really? You can do that?? That's so cool!"

2. Every article of clothing you fix is one less gone to waste. This is not meant to frighten you. You cannot singlehandedly overturn all of fast fashion, but everything you do accomplish is a tangible bit of progress.

3. Every minute you spend having fun mending is another minute you aren't being sold something. Simply genuinely enjoying yourself is more than worth it.

4. Most tears, even major ones aren't on a time limit. Yes, the more you wear a torn garment the bigger the hole will be. But that just means you make your patch a bit bigger! There's no set expiration date.

5. If it's a huge hole in a major structural area and it looks like eye catching visible mending is going to be too much of a project just... make it ugly. Slap a big black patch over the hole and secure it with a couple layers of stitches. Sometimes practical is better than pretty.

MATERIALS:

You really don't need expensive materials to get started. Fabric construction concerns can come later down the road. All you need to really keep in mind is to roughly match the weight of the patch with the weight of whatever you're mending. Using silk to mend denim will be a huge headache. You can do it, there's no rules.

Stuff to keep around: There's lots of specialty tools that you may want to look into later, but for now all you need is the basics.

1. Needles. Many needles have specific uses, but you can avoid those for now. Just get a thick medium-sized needle with a large eye so its easy to thread.

2. Thread. Embroidery floss can be used as an all-purpose basic thread for doing things by hand. Sashiko thread is great but it can be pricey.

3. Scissors. The stork shaped scissors have an absolute chokehold grip on my heart but they aren't mandatory. A full-sized pair of paper scissors can cut fabric as well as thread.

4. A stitch ripper. If you want to go back and pull out some stitches, a stitch ripper is the way to go. I've pulled out stitches with scissors and with xacto knives and I’ve found nothing better than my $1 stitch ripper from walmart.

5. Pins. Safety pins, round-headed pins, pins from your florist friend, anything will do. All you need is something to hold your fabric in place while you work. I even pinned down my fabric with other sewing needles once, in a time of crisis.

6. Fabric. Everything is fabric. Old shirts, some curtains you were gonna throw away, the cushon from your neighbor's outdoor patio furniture (with permission), the dog bed your puppy chewed up (wash it). Attack the fabric with some scissors and you suddenly have more patches than you know what to do with.

Where to get stuff:

1.Thrift/consignment/charity stores. Buy whatever is on sale in the material you need.

2. Sewing shops. Some sewing shops sell small samplers of mixed fabric they're trying to get rid of. The one in my town has a bundle of five for $5. It's more expensive than bying a full yard but the upside is that you don't have to buy a full yard.

3. High school, uni, or community crafting classes often have scraps left over. If you ask nicely they may let you walk away with an entire trash bag of scraps.

4. Dental floss can be used in place of thread for heartier projects. Not good for fine details, but you may have it in your house already. Free is nice.

5. The ground. I've found socks, bananas, leather belts, whole sweaters, and various t shirts just lying around while walking my dogs. Toss it in your washing machine! Avoid garments that look caked in mud or like they've been rained on too long since the effort it takes to wash might not be worth it. Also keep an eye out in case it looks like someone is coming back for the item. If there's work gloves in a construction zone, someone probably wants em back.

6. Walmart, or whichever large store is in your area. There's no shame in buying yourself a $5 starter sewing kit just to get basic materials. It'll have some cheap scissors, a stitch ripper, some buttons, a measuring tape, and maybe a thimble. You can find packs of pins on the same aisle. BOOKS: If you've got access to a public library near you these can gotten for completely free. Ask the help desk if you don't know where to look for what you need. You can also ask about Inter Library Loans if your library doesn't happen to have the book. (You can also acquire pdfs of many of these online if you're cool with piracy)

If you just can't make that work, no worries! There's no shame in ordering these books online and having them shipped to your door.

Mending Life: A Handbook for Repairing Clothes and Hearts by Nina and Soya Montenegro Really great for starting out. Covers several common methods of fixing holes and has step-by-step illustrations that explain things better than most books I've found. The hardback cover has a cool texture to it, too. I often open the book to the page I want and search youtube for a video on the same method. That way i can go back and fourth between the two if I just don't understand.

Modern Mending by Erin Lewis-Fitzgerald This one's great because it uses photos of the author's actual hands. I struggle with illustrations because it's hard for me to think in 3D space which is why I like youtube videos. I disagree with the section on "essential equipment". It's a bit intimidating since the author has an array of fancy tools that you may not find you need. Other than that, though, this is a great resource to keep around. It's useful to help you get ideas on how to mend things other than just pants. ONLINE RESOURCES:

Wasteless Crafts is a great blog to go to with questions. They cover more advanced topics like garment modification, but they have a whole section for bare-bones-beginners. If you're super stuck, their askbox is always open. They have great links to outside videos to help you learn a technique you're struggling with.

Made Everyday has helped me a ton whenever I've needed to pull out my (bad, old, cheap) sewing machine. The host is lovely and encouraging. She explains what she's doing and goes into detail as to why it is that she's doing what she's doing. Hit up the search bar on her channel and she likely has a video explaining how to do what you need doing.

I hope you find some of this useful. Mending can be a relaxing and rewarding activity but I know that there's so much to learn. It can seem like you have to know all of it right now before you can even start. You don't. Pick up a needle and make an ugly patch!

I really want to learn how to sew, but I'm very overwhelmed. I'm afraid of practicing on most things for fear of messing them up and wasting them. I'm really the kind of person who needs someone teaching me and available to answer my questions, but I don't have anyone for that and there's several reasons I'm apprehensive about finding a class (the most rational of which are my lack of income and COVID, but social anxiety is also a factor).

I know there's guides and videos online, but I always get so overwhelmed and usually don't know where to start because all my ideas are abstract, abstract to me specifically (because I don't know how fabric construction works), or difficult and/or risky enough to scare and/or confuse me out of wanting to do it.

Does anyone have tips for teaching yourself to sew? How do I practice without being wasteful?

[merakiui]

I think it’s pretty cool of u write about dark themes like mental abuse etc👏🏼 can I request Venti with gn reader who have been living with strict af parents who have never let them be themselves or show any negative emotions? So when they move to Mondstadt and finally have freedom they’re like “?? Can I? Are you sure?” (Sorry if this is too long/specific)

Venti with a Reader who has Strict Parents

cw: strict parents

Freedom. That’s what you need.

You’ve always been an adventurous soul who enjoys exploring new places with friends, but your parents always disapprove of this hobby.

Arguments aren’t uncommon in your household, but they always end under the same veil: your parents tell you it’s unbecoming of a person to shout and talk back to their elders and you’ll never be able to grow into a suitable adult if you continue your rebellious streak.

You’ve been told countless times to act properly. Stop going out with your friends to look for treasure around Mondstadt. Stop dressing in rags when you clearly have nice clothes at home. And, most of all, stop frequenting those rowdy, no-good taverns!

While you are old enough to drink and work—basically old enough to be your own person—your parents refuse to let you move out. They think it’s for the best. If you were living on your own, who knows what crazy things you would get up to! And they can’t have their child stain their name or legacy with foul mannerisms and silly hobbies.

You meet Venti in Diluc’s tavern. Having seen him frequent this establishment before, you find it funny when Diluc’s always so quick to kick the bard out when he can’t cough up the Mora to pay for the extensive bill.

From what you’ve seen, he’s definitely not the type of person your parents would approve of. He’s a bard, after all, and your parents aren’t exactly fond of what they like to call ‘jobless, noisy rodents with nothing but time on their hands.’

It’s harsh criticism, but you’ve met plenty of bards before and most of them were genuine and kind. And they shared a passion for singing and weaving tales into their music—something you find to be absolutely charming.

Venti isn’t any different from that, so when you offer to pay for one of his drinks the friends you are with get eager at once, inviting him to drink with the lot of you. And thus a friendship blooms.

Ever since that act of kindness, you’ve started visiting that tavern more often, curious about that strange bard. He’s usually there 90% of the time and you end up striking a few conversations with him.

He talks in lyrical rhymes when he feels like it and you find that to be interesting, despite how tiring it can get trying to understand some of those poetic lines.

Somehow you manage to become close friends with him and it isn’t long before the two of you are hanging out outside of the tavern, finding new places to visit within Mondstadt. Your parents don’t know anything about him and that’s the way you intend to keep it.

So when Venti asks you to go wind-gliding with him in a part of Mondstadt that’s way too far from home—farther than you’ve ever gone before—you have trouble agreeing.

You’ve always listened to your parents, but now you’re reconsidering. If they found out, you’d probably get into a lot of trouble. They might even prohibit you from seeing your friends or even going out altogether!

Venti notices your sudden lack of enthusiasm and explains that if you don’t feel up for it you shouldn’t force yourself to do it. Besides, he’s very happy spending time with you like this! You don’t always have to go somewhere in order to have fun.

“This is the city of freedom, after all! Live a little!” he reminds you with a cheery grin.

It doesn’t feel like freedom to you because you’ve been trapped under the harsh rules constructed by your parents.

But you want to live your life by your own rules, so maybe moving to a another part of Mondstadt is just what you need. You consider living with a friend or even with Venti himself, and it takes a while before you can actually work your way up to that milestone.

Once you’ve moved out, having ignored every tongue-lashing from your parents for however many months it took to save and pack and actually find a suitable living space, you’re beyond relieved. Sure, your parents will nag you about it until the end of your days, but this is the start of your new life.

And Venti’s very glad to see that extra pep in your step now that you’ve managed to feel freedom for what it truly is. Now the two of you can hop from tavern to tavern, drunkenly sing in the streets, and wind-glide to your hearts’ content without having to worry about making your parents cross.

Venti’s going to make sure you have the best time in the city of freedom, and you’ll never have to feel tied down by your parents’ rules ever again.

[troubatrain]

good for you - t. jost (part two)

a/n: apparently the only things i can finish are smut which is honestly on brand for me. this part is a bit of filler but to be fair this entire fic is smut with barely a plot so i meannnn but anyways, let me know how you guys like it :)

big shoutout to @hookingminor because nothing gets posted around here without ilyana fr fr

part one

warnings: it's smush time (smut)

So you fucked?

Mat was confused, posted up in his hotel room in Philly trying to navigate the bits of information he’d been getting out of you. You’d barely spoken to him all week, your classes were already killing you and you’d been missing the nightly Facetimes you promised when you moved. Mat thought there was another reason you were ignoring him, the evidence that you did the diry with Tyson was obvious. He was pretty sure you did, the mark on your neck wasn’t as hidden as you seemed to think it was, and you had a pep in your step that you only got after a good hook up.

“Yes Mat, we fucked,” You sigh, pressing your hands against the cool countertop and staring at Mat through your laptop screen, “This is your fault.”

“Oh it’s my fault two consenting adults had sex? Did he stay over?” Mat asks, trying to grab onto as many details as he could.

“No I kicked him out after a second round in the shower,” You admit, covering your eyes so you wouldn’t see the shit eating grin on your best friend’s face, “I kind of want to do it again.”

“Three’s the limit,” Mat reminds you of the golden rule of hook ups. You both came to the conclusion one day, if you fucked someone more than three times, you had more feelings than you realized and it was time to run or let yourself get hurt. Mat seemed to do just fine with it, and most of the time so did you, but Tyson was tempting you.

“Oh my god, he’s calling me,” You panic, Tyson’s contact flashing across your screen. Mat went to open his mouth, some sort of roast about how nervous you were would probably have followed if you hadn’t hung up on him. You waited for one more ring, not wanting to seem too eager to answer his calls, “Hi?”

“Hey,” Tyson drags out his greeting, pacing around his own apartment trying to figure out what the hell he thought he was doing. He wanted to see you again, clothing optional if he was being honest with himself, he just needed you to know somehow that you weren’t just a booty call, “What are you doing?”

“Drowning in homework already,” You whine, rolling your eyes at the chaos around you. The city has been jackhammering outside your place since the day you moved in, stalling you every time you tried to do anything.

“Everything alright?” Tyson asks, his voice was laced with concern by the crashes coming from your end of the phone.

“Yeah, sorry they’ve been doing construction outside since I moved in,” You sigh, rubbing a hand over your forehead, “I really need to get these done-”

“Bring your stuff over here,” Tyson blurts out, grabbing onto the opportunity to see you. He could handle hanging out while you studied, you were sort of friends before, how hard could it be?

“You want to spend time with me while I study?” You question, genuinely curious about what kind of dude you’re fucking wants to do nothing while you actually get some studying done.

“Yes Y/N, I want to spend time with you,” Tyson chuckles, shaking his head at your shock. Of course you didn’t do that with anyone hooked up with, but you’d never hooked up with anyone you knew outside of the bedroom either. Keeping both of those worlds separate kept your heart safe, “C’mon, I’ll even buy you dinner.”

Okay fine, I’m on my way.

***

This was much harder than Tyson thought.

It was easy at first, you came over a little while later and Tyson thought he could control himself. You settled on dinner a few minutes ago, and that’s when things went south. It was the pout, the way you looked at when Tyson said he wasn’t in the mood for sushi. You batted your eyes at him, a small pout on your face and the words Tys please following. Tyson was a goner, calling up for sushi almost immediately while you smirked at him for giving in so easily.

Now, Tyson was just watching you, and not even in a way you wouldn’t notice. Your nose was tucked into your notes, it’d scrunch up every once in a while and Tyson assumed that meant you got to something you didn’t want to deal with. Your cardigan had fallen down your shoulder, leaving a spot where Tyson’s lips could have just landed easily. Your feet were across his lap, Tyson’s large hands on your legs while his thumb rubbed along the fabric of your leggings. His hand was creeping up slowly, your lip between your teeth while you watched him, “Don’t get distracted princess.”

“You’re making that a little hard,” You whine, just as Tyson’s finger slid under the waistband on your pants, “Tys-”

“No keep reading,” Tyson reminds you, humming when you let his hands slide your leggings off. His lips pressed softly against your hips, your eyes far more focused on Tyson’s head between your thighs, “I’ll stop if you can’t focus.”

“Don’t do that,” You sigh, feeling Tyson’s smirk against your skin. Tyson chuckled, a finger sliding your panties to the side.

“This wet already huh? Physics must really get you going,” Tyson teases, glancing up at the book in your hands. His breath was hot against your core, “Smart and pretty is a dangerous combination princess.”

“So I’ve been told,” You let out a gasp, Tyson’s tongue lapping at your pussy slowly. Your hand fell from your book, pulling at Tyson’s curls. His mouth unlatched from your core, forcing you to let out a whine, “Tys that’s not fair.”

“I told you keep reading, can’t have you failing on my watch,” Tyson laughs, laying his head on your hips. He had you in the palm of his fucking hand, every bone in your body was on fire and you hated every second of it. The way you were whining for Tyson to touch you was uncharted terrority, a craving you couldn’t satisfy and it was going to get you into trouble. You focused on your work, a small hum came from Tyson before his finger slid up your folds, “Good girl.”

Your eyes were fixated on the words in front of you, retaining as much as you could while Tyson’s fingers were teasing your entrance. He was moving slowly, loving the way your body reacted to his touch in a way he could have only dreamed. One finger slid in, curling against your g-spot and pulling a moan out of you, “Fuck, I’m almost done-”

“Finish pretty girl, go ahead,” Tyson pushes, smirking to himself at your reaction. His mouth moved to your core, swirling his tongue around your clit and sucking on it. Your breathing was heavy, chest rising and falling while you finished the last paragraph before you were seeing stars. You tossed your book on Tyson’s coffee table, throwing your head back and grabbing his hair.

“Faster, Tys, please,” You beg, your hips lifting off the couch. Tyson slipped in another finger, tongue working against your core. He fingered you through your orgasm, fingers moving lazily in and out of

you when you finally came down, “Tyson, holy shit.”

Since when was Tyson this cocky? His smile was smug when you finally met his eyes, the same sparkle in his eye from the first time

you fucked. You pressed your lips to his, grinding your hips against him, “Your turn.”

Tyson’s eyebrows raised, a wave of shock over his face while you lowered yourself off the couch. You weren’t going to let Tyson just get off with a smile that smug. If Tyson wanted to play that game, you

needed to remind who he was playing it with. Your fingers slipped under his sweats, pulling down his boxers and letting his cock spring free. Tyson’s hand ran through your hair, a finger tracing your jawline while his thumb ran across your bottom lip, “You’re so fucking hot.”

“I’m aware,” You tease, licking the underside of his cock. You moved slowly, teasing him just as much he did to you. Tyson’s hands went to push your head down faster, so you pulled back with a smug smile that matched his, “No touching Tys.”

“C’mon, princess, that’s not fair,” Tyson’s hands flew back, a giggle falling through your lips at his whine. You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock, taking his length into your mouth until you couldn’t anymore. Tyson groans, his hands balling up into fists to keep himself from touching you, “Fuck, your mouth babe-”

The echo from Tyson’s doorbell bounced through his apartment, reminding you both of the food you were supposed to be waiting for. You pulled away, a smirk on your face, “I think you need to get that.”

“You did that on purpose,” Tyson groans, collecting himself enough to open the door for your food. You waited patiently, watching the way Tyson snapped back into the incredibly kind man you’d always known. If he thought you were dangerous, then he was absolutely lethal with the way he could speak to you as filthy as he did and smile as kindly as he does to others. He closed the door, watching back over to the couch where you were still sitting in just your panties and a tank top, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, “Let’s get you fed babe, I’ve got plans for us.”

“Hm, how about you eat it off of me?”

“I swear Y/N, you’re never leaving this apartment.”

[citrus-cactus]

Finished the story of Psychonauts 2 last week! It was really good. Like, REALLY, really good. I don’t have anything profound to say, but here are my thoughts if you wanna read ‘em. Obviously there are SPOILERS BELOW, so click at your own risk if you haven’t played into post-game! (FWIW, I HIGHLY recommend playing this game as spoiler-free as possible. And play the original, while you’re at it!).

Here’s a pretty tame spoiler that I don’t think anyone will mind me sharing though: RAZ IS A CUTE. JUST LOOK AT HIM:

Things I appreciated:

Raz asking permission before entering almost every brain

PET THE GOATS

BOBBY DANCE

Getting to see Whispering Rock a couple of different ways! Actually, the theme of showing events from multiple perspectives (and the different forms of trauma resulting from certain events) was really good.

Raz helping the Psychic Seven help themselves. The game is so gentle with these old damaged hippies. SO GOOD.

QUEEPIE AND FRAZIE and just… all the Aquatos, man. What a group.

The family being given space to grieve together (important) before yeeting their middle boy into the whirlpool (badass). And them still having a lot to unpack/figure out post-game. It’s complicated, man! Of COURSE they wouldn’t have it all figured out yet!

Larry and Pam! LOL.

SAM BOOLE, WTH. Best dialogue tree in the game??? XDDDD

WHOMST in-universe put the graffiti on the back side of the funicular? Oleander?? :O

I have not finished the Scavenger Hunt yet, so idk if Raz gets his clothes back. I’m betting not *shakes psychic fist at Norma* XD

Powers and combat were all really cool!

ANIMATION! ALSO!! REALLY!!! GOOD!!!!!

I’M STILL LOSING MY DANG MIND OVER RAZ’S ARCHETYPE, good god. Double Fine, you mad geniuses, how DARE you stage a Zim/Gir reunion in the year 2021??? If anyone has ever equipped the pin that mutes that delightful little paper lad, I cannot emphasize enough how dead you are to me XD

I thought Cassie sounded a little like Mona Marshall?? The credits proved me wrong, but there were several moments I thought “…maybe??” (I have a much easier time ID’ing her when she’s playing a boyish character than a woman, whoops!)

So much symbolism in the brains! “Subtle” is maybe the wrong word to use, but between some of the throwaway dialogue, the different subsections in each, and the different set designs, most of the mental states just felt more… complex? nuanced? than the first game.

I don’t actually know if I could pick a favorite level! Compton’s Cookoff was definitely the most unique (I would have appreciated the option to try the food challenges again, but “getting the best time” is obviously NOT THE POINT, so kudos to the game making it about the story/character and not about the player here!), and I really enjoyed the paper-and-book-aesthetic of Cassie’s! Bob’s boss battle was one of the most poignant, but the 60’s psychedelic aesthetic and Nona’s different layers were really creative and fun. I also liked that we got a few different styles for Raz (especially in the 2D sections!) but I always could have used more!

On that note though, CENSORS! IN!! SEQUINS!!! XDDDDDDD

THE MUSIC!!! My husband and I JUST realized that Peter McConnell scored the Sly Cooper series as well, so we have newfound RESPECT and AWE for this guy’s ability to write absolutely fantastic music in so many distinct styles and genres. Both of the songs w/ lyrics also slap.

The return/spiritual successor of Goggalor (Pootie-lor???). Amazing. Incredible. Did not expect it, loved it for how narratively important it was. The ending in general just made me quite emotional.

The post-game conversation between Truman and Lilli. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but it absolutely RADIATES Tim Schafer dad/real-life daughter energy.

The Grulovia level was a really interesting way to introduce a villain. Based on every level previous, I was actually prepared for the game to offer some sympathetic facet of Gristol (such as finding out the ride was something he had been conditioned to think from a lifetime of hearing an idealized version of the story from his parents, and it was somewhere he would go to rationalize his actions despite not really believing them… or something), but obviously the longer you spend there, the more you realize it’s something he constructed himself, and he is actually delusional (er, delugional) about Maligula and his family’s legacy. Really sets up an interesting parallel with Raz, in a way. Gristol’s mental state is essentially that of a child… but Raz is an ACTUAL child, and demonstrates more maturity, empathy and understanding than both Gristol the kid (see the Mental Vaults) and Gristol the adult. Kind of amazing he was able to fool a whole building full of psychics for as long as he did (and I guess he was a fine mail clerk too??), but tl;dr I like how the game’s “true” villain is the only one who is unable to change/experience any sort of remorse for his actions (maybe the jury’s still out on Dr. Loboto though XD)

A little concerned that Hollis said Gristol’s fate was to be “experimentation,” and only corrected to say “therapy” when questioned by Raz. UM. This game does make it part of its point showing us the flaws in the Psychonauts, both as an organization and as individuals, leaving them in a bit of a mortally grey area (who are clearly mismanaging their resources if they have a whole Motherlobe of agents doing who-knows-what and their primary source of funding is running summer camps for psychic children). I am… definitely concerned about what Hollis said (as well as Otto’s assertion that he would be picking up where the Seven left off!), but I guess I can accept it as part of the theme that no one and nothing is perfect. Maybe that’s sequel fodder though??? (hey, I can dream about Psychonauts 3, can’t I? XD)

Genuinely though, I’m just… SO PROUD OF RAZ. He’s going to be such a good agent someday!!!*cries forever over one begoggled psychic acrobat son boy*

[magpie-to-the-morning]

Pull the Blinds - Part Three

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: Javier Peña x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 4k

Tags: Established Relationship, Journalist reader, no Y/N, Established relationship, Dom!Javi, female reader, unprotected p in v sex (don’t do that), fingering (female receiving), oral sex (female receiving), rough sex, name calling, aftercare

Summary: A failed raid sends Javi spinning, desperate to take the edge off. Luckily for both of you, you’re also in need of something to take your mind off work. This is the third in a series, but they can be read individually.

Huge thank you to @keeper0fthestars​ for the encouragement, brainstorming/co-thirsting, and beta’ing when I couldn’t look at this anymore. Love you babe! 😘

Part One - Part Two - My Masterlist

Read on Ao3

“God damn it,” you slam your folder shut and tear your glasses off to pinch the bridge of your nose. You’ve hit a dead end on this assignment and even taking the day to work from home, all your papers spread out on the kitchen table before you, hasn’t helped. Tension is radiating down your neck and shoulders, lines of stress and pain only worsening the harder you try to force yourself to think through the problem. Pressing a thumb between your brows eases that tension somewhat, and you’re just standing up to take a well-earned break when you hear someone pounding at your door.

You freeze. You’re not expecting anyone. Normally you wouldn’t be so concerned (it’s the middle of the afternoon, after all, and you live in a decent neighborhood), but between your career as an investigative journalist and the drug war tearing Colombia apart at the seams, it never hurts to be cautious. Reaching behind the sofa, you pull out a baseball bat before inching towards the door. The door rattles on its hinges, the knocking louder and more insistent than before. This is no casual visit. 

“Who is it?” Your voice is level, even as your knuckles tighten around the aluminum and you take a deep breath in, out. Your mind is already spinning through potential scenarios- has someone clocked your undercover work, tracked you to your home? Adrenaline surges through you, your body screaming at you to be ready for anything, and you only relax a fraction when you hear a familiar, muffled, “It’s me.”

“Javi?” A glance through the peephole confirms that it is Javi, palms braced against your door jam, his dark brown hair slick with sweat and his green, DEA-issued tactical vest wrapped around his chest. His gun is holstered, hanging from the leather belt slung low around his narrow waist. No immediate danger, then. 

Setting the bat down you open the door, eyes wide with concern. “Everything okay?” You look behind him, expecting to see the street lined with official vehicles and men bristling with guns, but there’s just his Bronco, parked rushed and crooked against the curb. 

Javi’s already brushing past you so you shut the door and follow him. None of this is like him, not the disheveled state of his hair or the sweat-drenched pink shirt clinging to him, and certainly not him barging in, looking like he’s just come from a raid. You get in front of him, taking in his wild eyes, the way he can’t seem to keep still. It’s unnerving, and not doing a damn thing to reassure you that he’s remotely okay or to calm your own racing heart, but you adopt your calmest tone and say “Javier. Talk to me.”

Finally seeming to actually see you, Javi stops pacing for a moment to answer you. “We had them, we fucking had them!” 

You’ve never seen Javi like this. It’s not that he never brings the work home with him- how could he not? You’ve seen him exhausted, worn out from lack of sleep and endless hours spent chasing leads that go nowhere. You know what it’s like when the seeming futility and endless bureaucracy wear him down, seen him stressed and frustrated and devastated by loss. But you’ve never seen him like this- electrified, explosive. It’s all you can do to meet his raw, frayed energy with your own carefully constructed calm. “Slow down. Tell me what happened.”

Javi gives you the gist. Nothing confidential, nothing that would put either of your professional ethics in jealousy, but enough to see the shape of the thing. A raid, weeks in the planning, turned up nothing but an empty warehouse. Someone must have tipped the targets off, warning them before the DEA could spring their trap.

You wince. You know the effort that had gone into it, the countless hours of sifting through transcripts, painstakingly confirming scraps of rumors whispered through hushed calls. Weeks of work, wasted, all gone to ashes in mere moments. No arrests to show for it and worse, a potential leak. Javi’s desperation makes sense to you now. If one of your investigations had imploded this catastrophically you’d be out for blood, too. 

But of course, there’s nothing he can do about it. Not yet. Not until the dust has settled and the analysts can come up with new leads. Until then, Javi just has to sit with the knowledge that his last several weeks of work have been utterly wasted, that the cartel has slipped from their grasp yet again, and are likely laughing their heads off about it from a safe distance, all while plotting their next devastating move. It’s eating him alive.

His story finished, Javi heaves a sigh and scrubs his hands over his face, still coated in a sheen of sweat. Belatedly, he takes in your scattered papers, the chair shoved away from the table where you were working when he burst in. “Shit, you were in the middle of something, sorry. I shouldn’t have burst in on you like this, I just-” he shrugs vaguely, still looking bewildered and only half present.

“Hush.” You lay a hand on his chest, can feel it rising with every heaving breath beneath the solid tac vest, and tip his face up so his eyes meet yours. “What do you need?” 

You’re assuming it’ll be something like ice water or, more likely, a shot of whiskey. Maybe a shower to cool off. He’s got some clothes in a drawer in your bedroom, maybe he’ll feel better if he changes…?

While you’re brainstorming potential solutions, Javi is staring at you with all the intensity of a panther sizing up its next meal. Before the thought can properly register, he surges toward you, so suddenly your back hits the counter, its edge digging into your lower back as his arms surround you. His broad hands clutch at the fabric of your dress, making the skirt ride dangerously high up your thighs. His lips crash against yours, slanting and molding to you as he grabs the back of your head. When you gasp he deepens the kiss, his hand clenching in your hair as he tips your head back, plundering your mouth so aggressively you feel teeth. It’s only after those teeth nip sharply at your bottom lip that he pulls back, his breathing ragged. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not- I should go.” He hunches his shoulders like he’s ashamed to be seen like this and makes for the door. 

Oh. So that’s what he needs. You can picture it now- him bending you over the counter and taking you, hard, right then and there, using you to work the sharp edge off his temper. Just the idea of it, Javi pouring that frustration into fucking you, is thrilling. Besides, turning your brain off for a bit, giving yourself over to all that fury is exactly what you need right now, and he thinks he needs to shield you from that impulse? Hell, no.

You stop him with one touch of your hand. “Don’t go.” Javi’s head jerks up and he stands rigid as you press yourself against him, your hips touching, your hands moving over the taut lines of his arms. “You clearly need to take the edge off.” He hisses as your lips close on his trapezius, your tongue flicking out to taste the salt on his skin. “And I could use a distraction,” you croon. 

“I’m too worked up- I don’t want to hurt you, cariño,” he bites out, even as he looks at you like he could eat you alive and spit out your bones, still hungry for more. 

Javi knows you like it rough. Hell, he’s fucked you through gritted teeth and snarls enough times to know you love it that way. This is different. This is burning rage and rough hands, the difference between training rounds and live fire. 

You want all of it.

Your lips curl in a knowing smile and you straddle his thigh, denim-clad muscle taut against the scrap of cotton separating your bodies beneath your skirt. You grind down on him and meet his burning gaze. “Not even a little?” 

He growls at your challenge, a caged jungle cat, all sleek, bunched muscle and barely checked savagery. He eyes you up and down, assessing, his knuckles tightening against the counter. He runs a thumb over his lower lip and that’s when you know he’s genuinely considering it. You clench and shudder in anticipation, eyes locked on him as he demands “give me your safeword.”

“Javi, you know what it is.” The two of you had chosen it months ago, a reminder of the vacation you’re always meaning to take but never quite get around to.

He leans closer, eyes dark and grin darker. “Remind me,” he rumbles, clutching the edge of the counter he’s got your back up against. 

Your throat bobs as you swallow. He’s so close. You can see the sweat sliding down the planes of his neck, feel the edge of his tac vest digging into you, practically taste the bitter tang of unspent adrenaline. The thrill of the hunt rolls off of him in waves, the livewire burn of his need sparking an answering flare in your blood. You have to lick your lips before answering in a whisper “It’s Aruba.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, his voice the inescapable rumble of an impending landslide. His nose drags against your cheek, his lips ghosting over your jawline. “And you’ll use it if you need to.” He’s no longer asking. He’s telling. 

 “Yes, Javi.”

His teeth close on your earlobe sharply. “Yes, what?”

Another shiver runs through you. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s fucking right.” Without further warning, Javi grabs you by your upper arm and shoves you towards the bedroom. 

Your heart rate spikes, blood thrumming in time with Javi’s heavy tread marching you down the hallway. His grip is fierce, his expression fiercer, and you suddenly wonder what it’s like to go toe to toe with this man, Agent Peña, in the field. For all his honor and dedication to justice, there’s a streak of ruthlessness running through the heart of him, a need to see the mission through to the end, no matter the cost. Javier is a good man, better than he’ll admit to himself, but that darkness is there. Not a flaw, not really. A smoky occlusion in the ruby heart of him, one more facet in the complex matrix of his inner self.

This knowledge isn’t new to you, but Javi letting you see it firsthand is. It doesn’t scare you. Nothing about him ever could. You trust him, know him, too well for that. No, you’re honored that Javi is willing to show you the jagged edges of himself, to trust you to handle these broken pieces without either of you winding up bloodied.

As you step through the doorway to your bedroom, Javi pushes you towards the bed. “Strip.” His eyes rake over you hungrily, devouring every new bit of skin you reveal as you obey, dropping one garment after another on the floor of your bedroom. He watches, arms folded, still fully clothed, still wearing that tac vest that shorts your brain out. In no time you’re completely naked before him, your body on full display in the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, but he makes no move to undress. He sits in the middle of your bed, leaning his back against the headboard like he owns the place and crooks his finger at you. You crawl to him on hands and knees, letting him pull you into his lap.

“Tell me what you want, querida.” His voice is low and sweet, amber honey dripping into your ear while he noses at your cheek, the deep rumble of his voice reverberating through you. Fuck if that voice doesn’t go straight your cunt.

You squirm in his lap, shifting to straddle his waist, your naked sex molded to the bulge swelling beneath his tight jeans. “I want you to fuck me, Javi. Let me help you get rid of all that tension.” You reach up, start kneading his shoulders, but he tsks and pushes your hands aside.

“Not yet. Not until you’re ready.”

You jut out your lip in a mock pout. He’s the one who pounded on your door, amped up and aching, so it hardly seems fair that he’s turned the tables on you this easily, and yet... 

You’d expected him to take you quickly, to burn through you wildfire fast, but now that he’s got you where he wants you he’s intent on breaking you down slowly. 

Your fingers curl over the edge of his vest, clinging to him while he kisses you breathless. He’s in complete control, every gasp and jut of your hips unfolding at his urging. He tastes every part of you, his teeth closing over pulse points, tongue flicking over every dip and hollow of your body. You lose all sense of time when he reaches your breasts, drowning in sensation, only pulled back to the present when he pinches a nipple or bites down on the full moon swell of your breast. 

He leaves marks as he goes, livid reminders of his claiming every inch of you. You submit to all of it, your fingers scrabbling for purchase over the expanse of that heavy vest as Javi bears down on you. Heat is building in you with every bite and suck and caress, but your body is screaming out for more, more, more. It’s then that it finally hits you- the bastard is doing this deliberately. He wants you as keyed up as he is. That realization pitches you headlong into the blaze he’s been stoking all along and you moan, desperate for more. 

He indulges you, still painfully slowly, more fuel for the fire raging in both of you. Reaching down between you, he drags his fingers over your thighs, already slick with the desire dripping from you. “Christ, you’re so wet from just this. You like letting me do this, don’t you? Getting so worked up being my good little slut.” 

You gasp and nod, whimpering now that he’s so close to where you need him but still not quite there. He rewards you by finally pressing those thick, clever trigger fingers against your weeping cunt. He moves in slow, torturous circles, and you reach for him, try to kiss him, to beg wordlessly for more. He pulls away, chuckling at your eagerness. “No. Let me do this for you.” 

He knows damn well what he’s doing, pushing you to see when you’ll get impatient. You try to wait him out but forget yourself when he slips one finger into the molten clutch of your sex. It’s so good but you need more. “Please,” you murmur, moving to kiss him once more, your hand dropping between you, needing to feel him. Besides, a wicked, wanton part of you wonders what he’ll do if you disobey him like this. 

Your answer comes swiftly. Javi flips you onto your back with a snarl, one hand behind your head to cushion the sudden move. Grabbing your wrists in one hand, he hauls them above your head, pinning you in place. “What did I tell you? Hold still!” He slaps your pussy once, twice, three times in rapid fire succession, each hit harder than the last, leaving you stinging and aching for more. You moan and writhe in his hold, rubbing your thighs together, desperate for some kind of release. 

Javi watches you mercilessly. “Yeah, you like that? Filthy thing. Want me to do it again?” Your toes curl and he takes that as your answer, delivering one more slap to your cunt. He leaves his hand there, tracing slow, deliberate circles around your clit. The sudden tenderness, the tantalizing possibility of finally gaining some relief has you practically sobbing.  

“You gonna be a good girl and keep those hands to yourself?”

“Y-yes, Javi.” 

He pulls his hand away at once and you whimper, realizing your mistake as his expression darkens. “I know I didn’t just hear you forget your manners.”

“Sir,” you correct yourself quickly. “I meant, yes sir.” 

“That’s what I thought.” You know from experience that he loves this, temporarily reducing you to a pleading, pliant mess. He knows the trust this requires, and the way it frees you to give yourself over to pleasure completely. It’s a responsibility he never takes lightly. He always knows just how far to push, what boundaries to test or limits to prod, knowing that’s half the fun. As for the other half...

He works you open, one thumb on your clit, his fingers probing deeper and deeper inside you. Your breath hitches when he’s knuckle-deep, massaging that spot that makes you clench and shudder. He gets you off like this more times than you can count, sending waves of pleasure rippling through you from your curled toes to your tingling scalp. He strokes you and finger fucks you for what feels like an eternity, all the whole whispering sweet filth into your ear. Dark promises of how he intends to take you, to use you, all without filling you the way he knows you crave.

“Please, please fuck me. I need you so bad baby, I don’t think I have another one in me like this.” He’s made you cum so many times you’ve lost count, worked your clit until you’re completely over stimulated and begging for mercy. 

He has none. Instead of giving in, he delivers another harsh smack to your abused cunt. “Tell me who owns this pretty pussy.” 

“You do, Javi, please...” 

“Then give me one more.” He spits and you feel it land, slipping over your swollen folds. It’s lewd and obscene and forgotten the instant Javi lowers his head and licks the sting of the latest slap away. His broad tongue works you mercilessly, ripping another shuddering cry of his name from your lips as he brings you to the edge and shoves you over it once again.

“Get on your knees.” He makes you wait, arms trembling, pussy drenched and waiting while he gets up to undress. He misses nothing, clocking the instant when you clench, your throat bobbing, as he unbuckles his leather belt. Javi quirks an eyebrow and, folding it in half, he swats it once, hard enough to be loud but not enough to truly hurt, against your ass. An experiment more than anything else. You let slip a filthy moan, confirming his suspicion that you truly are this comfortable with rougher treatment. 

“Maybe next time, querida,” Javi chuckles. He tosses the belt aside, along with those tight jeans and every other bit of clothing, rejoining you on the bed. He takes his place behind you, hands clutching your hips as he teases your entrance with the fat head of his cock. You can feel how hard he is, the length of him like steel as he pushes himself lazily against your folds. It’s more agonizing buildup, and even when he finally, finally starts to fuck you, he does it with just the tip of his cock, thrusting shallowly, enough to make you clench without being filled. It’s torture. You try to push your hips back to take him deeper, but his firm grip holds you motionless.

“Something the matter, baby?”

You grit your teeth. If he doesn’t fuck you properly right the fuck now you might actually combust. “I need more Javi, please,” you beg. 

“Yeah, think you can take it?” 

Your only response is a desperate whine, met with a harsh chuckle. “You asked for it.” 

He shoves himself inside you in one savage thrust. Even with all of his teasing, the orgasms he’s already pulled from you, and the slick practically dripping from your swollen pussy, it’s a shock. You gasp, his thick cock plunging into you with a filthy squelch, and the sudden overwhelming fullness forces another climax from you without warning. You clamp around him and cry out, barely even registering the flood of wetness practically squirting from you, soaking the rough curls at the base of Javi’s cock. 

“Fuck that’s it,” he groans. “That’s my good - fucking - girl.” He thrusts into you in time with his words, working you through the sudden orgasm. As if your release was some sort of signal, this is the moment when Javi finally lets the leash of his control slip, fucking you like a man possessed. His hands grabbing your hips hard enough to bruise, he pulls you onto him as his hips slap against you, setting a brutal, punishing pace. 

You’re dimly aware that the harder the fucks you, the more your body slips against the sheets and away from him. Frustrated, Javi shifts his grip, pulling you up, your back flush against his chest and his arms bands of steel around your breasts. His breath is ragged in your ear and even when his teeth close on your shoulder, it does little to muffle his harsh grunts. 

Time slips away again and all you know is the bone-rattling ferocity of Javi fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. You’re so overwhelmed with pleasure you hardly know when one orgasm rolls into the next, all you know is that Javi has you in a death grip and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Finally, through a haze of sweat and bliss, you feel him stiffen behind you, his hips stuttering and a strangled groan escaping him as he drops his head to your shoulder, his cock spitting deep inside you. You bury your hand in his hair, mutter soothing nonsense as he spills himself into you. When he finally stills, the two of you collapse into a heap on the bed, his body a comforting weight on yours.

You lay there, in a sweaty, blissed out tangle for several minutes, both trying to catch your breath. Javi recovers first, rolling off of you and gathering you into his arms. He pushes the hair from your eyes, his own going concerned when you’re still too boneless to respond to him calling your name.

Giving you some time to recover, he gets the arnica gel from your nightstand and is already smoothing it over the livid marks on your hips when you come back to yourself enough to speak.

“Mm, feels good,” you slur, rolling onto your side to give him better access. You’d introduced him to this particular remedy when he’d shown up with bruises after a particularly difficult arrest, and it had quickly become a favorite aftercare ritual whenever things turned rough in bed. Javi’s thick fingers glide soothingly over every ache and sting, though you catch his wrist when he moves to smooth the gel over the bite marks he left on your breasts. 

“Oh, baby, was I too rough here?” His eyes are soft with concern and the beginnings of apology, so you’re quick to shake your head no. You roll closer and brush away the sweat-slick curls threatening to hide his face. 

“It’s not that, Javi. I just… kind of like seeing the marks. The gel makes them heal faster, so leave a few for me, would you?” 

He kisses you. “Ok, wild thing,” he says affectionately. “Give me your wrists though, unless you want everyone at your office seeing what I did to you.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” you tease, but offer him your wrists nonetheless. He’s so gentle, cradling the back of your hand in his own massive palm, his fingers rubbing the gel into your wrist in slow, circular strokes. When he’s finished, he raises your hands to kiss your palms, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes you melt. 

“C’mere, baby.” Javi pulls you to lay on top of him, running his hands over your hair and pressing kisses to your face. “You good?”

It’s sweet, the way he fusses like this after having just taken you entirely apart, soothing you with the same single-minded determination he brings to every other part of his life, and you bask in the glow of his care. “Yeah Javi, I’m perfect.”

Javi huffs out a laugh at that. “I'll say.”

You shift in his arms to get a better look at him. He seems more like himself now, less agitated, more present. “Feeling better?”

“Much. I feel like I could sleep for a week.” He drops a kiss to the crown of your head and breathes out. You can feel his body relaxing as he does it, proof that he’s telling the truth. 

“Sleep then, I’m sure you need it.” He nods, his breathing already turning slow and even as he drifts towards rest. You close your eyes, about to join him when the solution to your work problem flashes through your mind, clear as day. As soon as you’re sure Javi has drifted off, you slip out of bed and back to work. 

Maybe you both could use that vacation after all…

[katnissmellarkkk]

Chapter Three

Hiiii, all you cool cats and kittens 😂😂😂😂. Okay but seriously, imma just word vomit all the things I need to cover in this author’s note — that I can remember.

I’ve been writing this chapter for like a week, I’m super nervous about it, I’m really sorry if this angst is upsetting you, I am gonna do my best to make it all right in the end, the angst is gonna continue though for a bit longer, yes this fic is only 10 chapters, yes I still want your comments even if you’re upset, my eye is still having trouble so I can’t look at a computer screen for too long because it physically hurts so I’m editing on my phone and there is a high chance I’ll re-edit these chapters after my eye isn’t all Heltor Skeltor anymore.

Okay I think that’s everything, I very much am gratefully for all the feedback I’ve received and I hope you all continue to read this fic.

Peeta stayed for hours after that. He smiled and laughed and, for a while, made me forget all about my unbearable loneliness, how empty this home feels, how uncomfortable I am with the prospect of my mother moving on with her life, how much I really miss my sister right now.

How I miss my sister more than anything.

He still makes me feel safe, I realized, as we sat on the couch and ate our third helping of the chocolate cake he’d baked for me. He knows how much I love chocolate from all the meals we shared on the train.

“Actually, from the time you decided to just eat the chocolate fountain by itself,” he had corrected. Off my quizzical look, he added, “At Snow mansion? We were there for a party?”

“Our engagement party?” I amended, teasing him a little.

My attempt at levity works as I watch his mouth contort into smirk in response. “Sorry, I guess I forgot what party it was.”

“They did drag us to a lot of them,” I agreed, not foreseeing the jab he was about to throw.

“And you pigged out at every one of them.”

I pretended to be offended for a moment but his proud laughter made me lose the facade far sooner than I should have. The joyful glint to his gaze, the way his body language was relaxed and open, the way he seemed to remember small details of our shared past now, I just couldn’t hold even a false grudge against him. I just couldn’t help giggling alongside him.

But he had to leave around dinner time, having an appointment to get the construction for the new rebuilt bakery approved and in motion.

As soon as he departs, and I’m left once again inside a void, hallow house that only emphasizes the greatest loss of my life—the one I’ll probably never go a single day without feeling the ache of—I decide I need to leave too. I decide as soon as I glance around the empty place that it’d be in my best interest to get out as well, to prolong the inevitable despair the deserted home brings come nightfall.

My first thought is to drop off the liquor I picked up for Haymitch a few days ago at the train station. He was passed out drunk and I was already there and it seemed at the time like a good bargaining chip when he was feeling particularly caustic towards me. Which lately had been often.

Now it just poses a good excuse to go talk to the sour man, to perhaps pick his brain about Bailey Robyn. To perhaps see what he knows that I don’t about the mysterious girl who blew into both our lives.

And only evidently disturbed one of them.

He has clearly has gotten to know her better than I have, and he’s quite transparently taken quite a liking to her. If I want to know this girl, or even begin to understand what Peeta sees in her, it only makes sense to get Haymitch to share some details in exchange for his favorite liquor.

After all, our entire relationship has always been a series of bargains, one way or another.

Throughout mine and Peeta’s entire time together—which amounted to the whole afternoon—he had never once mentioned Bailey. He hadn’t said she was waiting for him or what she thought about the cake or if she even knew he would be at my house today.

And for some reason that led me to assume she was busy in town somewhere. That she was working on the salon she mentioned wanting to start up, that she was out doing things herself, that she wasn’t even concerned with Peeta celebrating my birthday today.

That she wasn’t sitting on Haymitch’s counter, talking to him about that very subject.

“It just doesn’t make me feel great, you know?” Her clear and high voice rings out from the window right as I’m gearing up to barge my way inside the pig sty. “I want to go with him, in case he has an episode or something, and he tells me no. Like flat out, full stop, no.”

I slip in through the unlocked front door, quiet as a mouse, eavesdropping like I know I shouldn’t. Like I know is a complete violation of privacy, both for Bailey and for Haymitch. And maybe even Peeta, since he’s the one they’re conferring about.

“He’s stubborn,” Haymitch agrees, sounding more sober than I’ve heard him in months. Sounding more sober than I’ve seen since we were in Thirteen. “Try mentoring him in the games.”

Bailey scoffs at that. “No. You couldn’t pay me enough.”

They share a laugh and I feel my hands tighten around the bottle, as an extremely uncomfortable sensation settles into the pit of my stomach.

They sound like old friends. They sound happy and pleased to be hanging out and conversing. And if I’m being honest, it gives me one more reason to instinctively dislike Bailey, despite the fact that I’m trying hard not to.

Because in the short time she’s been in Twelve, she’s slid into my place in both Peeta and Haymitch’s lives with complete and utter ease. Even beyond taking my place, she’s outrankedme in both men’s lives and entirely knocked me out of the saddle.

That’s what disturbs me above all else. Because—even though I’d never admit it about Haymitch—they were mine. They were my family. They were all I had. They were my haven from the darkness surrounding my entire life. The three of us were a team once.

And now it feels like she didn’t join the group, she kicked me out of it entirely. Haymitch has never had me sit on the counter of his kitchen—not that I really wanted to, the place is absolutely filthy—and talk about my problems. He’s always mocked my feelings and troubles, when they didn’t pertain to the war or rebellion.

I don’t get what is so special about this girl that the two most important people in my life are willing to just let her in. Are just willing to let her take me out without a second thought.

“I mean, is it odd that I wanted to be included?” She inquires genuinely and to my surprise, once again, my old mentor gives her a pretty thoughtful answer. For Haymitch Abernathy, at least.

“They’re both a little weird. War messes with people. Especially kids,” he murmurs and then grunts uncomfortably. “Don’t get worked up over nothing. Just let whatever happened go and try to be happy.”

For some reason, even without hearing my name mention specifically, I’m fully convinced that they’re conversing about me as well as Peeta. About our afternoon together, void from Bailey’s presence. Without hearing my own name, I still know in my bones I walked in on a talk about me.

Bailey wanted to come today and Peeta told her no? Peeta told her an unequivocal no? Because he wanted to spend time with just me?

That satisfies me beyond measure. That makes me even happier than the carefully handcrafted birthday cake did.

Suddenly, for the first time since she’s arrived in Twelve, I don’t feel like Peeta put me on the back burner to make her more comfortable. I don’t feel like I’m being slided so she can be accommodated to her liking. And that’s a better present to me than anything else I could have asked for.

“But I’m his girlfriend,” she states quietly, before sighing deeply and setting down a glass that she must have been drinking from. Risk-taker, she is. “And I just feel like every day all he thinks about is Katniss. He’s either worried about her or afraid of her.”

Now that catches me completely off-guard. Peeta’s afraid of me? Is he telling Bailey something I don’t know? What did I do that he’s so afraid of?

Please, I internally beg to no one. Please tell me he doesn’t still think of me as a mutt. Please tell me he doesn’t feel the same way about as he did in Thirteen.

No, I venomously refute. That wouldn’t make sense. If he still thought of me that way—the way Snow tried to brainwash him into—he would surely not be baking me a cake and spending an afternoon alone with me.

At least, I don’t think so.

But I’m always wrong nowadays and I long ago learned to stop trusting my instincts because they don’t any good for me in the end anyway and I just end up more jumbled and confused and stressed than I started out.

I take a deep breath to calm myself down just as Haymitch mutters, “That description isn’t a far cry from the kid I met two years ago on the tribute train.”

Evidently, I breathed out too loudly almost immediately, Haymitch barks out, “Is that you, girl?”

Realizing I’m caught, I rip off the bandaid and step out of the corner of the entryway, where I was hiding. “Sorry, I just got here,” I quickly explain. And then, despite my atrocious acting ability, I throw out for good measure, “I didn’t hear anything you guys said, I just didn’t want to interrupt.”

Neither of them believe me. In fact, they both appear pretty disgusted with me now. But when I pass Haymitch the bottle of liquor, his features shift and I feel him lightly pat me on the head as he passes me to grab a bottle opener.

“Haymitch,” Bailey murmurs unceremoniously, as she hops off the counter with a grace I have no dream of ever possessing. “I’m going to head on home.”

Her eyes meet mine for a split second before flirting away, and all I see there is irritation.

I hope she doesn’t try again to make nice in a day or so. Quite frankly, there’s a reason I never made many friends. Social interactions aren’t my thing and they just wear me out unnecessarily. Especially girls, who only want to gossip about other people or share clothes or irrelevant life tips. I’d much rather be left alone in solitude than have to yo-yo with Bailey’s mood swings.

Haymitch has always empathized with this trait of mine. More than empathized. He embodied it to the fullest, in a way I never even have. That’s what makes it so startling to me that he’s found such a friend with Peeta’s new girlfriend. It’s downright shocking how pleasant he is towards her.

When he returns now, she’s already gone and he’s right back to his surly self.

“No one clears a room like you do, sweetheart.”

But I’m not interested in swiping back and forth with one another. “Why are you hanging out with Bailey Robyn?”

Haymitch rolls his eyes as he takes a seat at his still unwashed kitchen table.

I mean, if Bailey wanted to help clean in here, that’s where I would have suggested to start.

“The better question, Katniss, is why are youhanging out with Peeta alone? How do you think that makes his girlfriend feel?”

“He’s my friend,” I argue, infuriated by the implication that I have to go through a random stranger to be around Peeta now. Infuriated that it’s Haymitch making the implication nonetheless.

“But he isn’t!” The old man snaps back. “Peeta isn’t your friend, Katniss. You look at him like he hung the moon and you do it right in front of his new girl.”

“No, I don’t,” I retort sharply, because I definitely don’tand I repel the accusation.

“Anyone with eyes can see your stupid little crush,” he exclaims and it stings. The words sting for some reason and I feel the ache in my chest come back once again, because apparently I’m stepping over a line I didn’t even know was there and I’m once again the root of every problem and it’s all becoming too much.

Evidently, Haymitch just doesn’t care if he hurts me today. “Just back off of the boy. Let him be happy for once.”

I uncharacteristically spit an unkind name at Haymitch as I slam his door in my furious wake.

Through his still open kitchen window though, I hear him chuckle. “Well, that’s one I haven’t heard before, sweetheart.”

Read More On AO3 Where The Italics Actually Work

[petri808]

Pranks Are So Revealing Sometimes…

@itafushiweek One bed prompt

After everything had finally settled and damages were assessed to Tokyo jujutsu high following the Kamo incident, the faculty decided it was time for a full renovation. They would fix the damaged areas but also update other undamaged parts. Including the dorms according to their teacher. The students were given a schedule of when each of their rooms would be worked on and given boxes to pack their belongings for temporary storage.

“Don’t worry,” Gojo grinned. “Shouldn’t take more than a day or two per room.”

“Yeah, okay,” Megumi stared back up at his teacher after reading the information. “But where are we supposed to sleep if our room is being renovated?”

“Oh, well since the unoccupied rooms will also be renovated during this process…” the man tapped his chin. “Got it! You bunk with Yuuji, then switch when it’s his rooms turn.”

“Cool! A sleepover!” Yuuji pumped his fists in the air. “We can hang out and watch movies and eat junk food and just crash from a food coma.”

Megumi swallowed thickly with a groan. “I’d rather you give me your credit card,” directing his comment to Gojo, “so I can get a hotel room.”

“No, can do buddy. Come on, it won’t be that bad.”

Yuuji threw an arm over Megumi’s. “It’ll be fine,” his brilliant smile causing the man’s cheeks to redden. “Movies and food, we’ll have fun.”

Megumi looked away and crossed his arms over his chest. “Ugh! Fine!”

“Good.” Gojo patted his student on the shoulder. “Now that’s settled, get packing young Megumi. Tomorrow we’ll be starting with your room.”

With Yuuji’s help, it didn’t take long for Megumi to pack up his belongings. There really wasn’t much, fitting everything into 3 medium sized boxes. Mostly clothes, some books, and minor items. He packed a bag with just enough to be displaced a couple of days, and if the renovations took longer, he could probably just borrow clothes from Yuuji. They were roughly the same size anyway. The boxes were then taken to Yuuji’s room and stacked in a corner out of the way.

But the full toll of the situation didn’t really hit Megumi until the morning of the renovations. He was awoken around 7 am by Gojo, letting him know the construction workers would be there in 15 minutes. Great. So, he dragged himself out of bed and walked into Yuuji’s room planning to get a couple more hours of sleep. It should be fine considering Yuuji rarely got up early on a day off.

The problem was— ‘Only one bed…’ Megumi groaned internally as he swiped his hand down his face. Duh! How could he have missed this detail?! And there was no way to fit a second bed in the room since they were only designed for single occupancy.

“Ugh…” Megumi shuffled back out of the room in irritation. Guess he’ll just go get breakfast and figure out what to do next!

Look, he didn’t have a problem sharing a bed with another person. It’s just sleeping on a bed instead of the hardwood floor, what’s the issue with that? If it was anyone else, Nobara, Toge, Maki, Yuta, whatever— no problem. The PROBLEM is it’s Yuuji. Maybe one of them will let him stay with them? Megumi put his head down on the kitchen table with his arms over his head in frustration. No… that would be weird to ask. Gojo already made all the arrangements between everyone, so if he suddenly had an issue with it, they might find that suspicious and he really didn’t need them asking questions, or worse teasing him about it.

He could hear it all too. What’s wrong with Yuuji? You worried something might happen? Too afraid to confront your feelings. Wink, wink. Aww that’s so cute you’re embarrassed. But Yuuji’s a good catch. Yada, Yada. Maki’s monotone, “just man up” tone was not something Megumi wanted to hear. ‘It’s just a night or two… no big deal. He’ll sleep on one side; I’ll sleep on the other. What could go wrong?’

“Morning!”

Megumi’s body immediately went stiff at the sound of Yuuji voice. Damn guy was like a cat this morning, he never heard him come in! Or did he just miss it because he was too wrapped up in his mind?

“Yeah… morning,” Megumi responded as he sat up in his chair and pretended everything was fine. “Sorry, I didn’t make coffee or anything yet.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I can make breakfast. Want some?” Yuuji responded in his chipper way.

“Sure, since you’re offering.”

“I see they started working on your room. That’s what woke me up.”

“Huh? Oh yeah, That’s why I’m up too. Gojo kicked me out at 7.”

“Oh, if you were tired, you could’ve just gone back to sleep in my room.”

“Nah. I’m fine.”

“You still look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” Yuuji placed a plate of food in front of his friend, then sat down across from him with his own. “So, got any plans for today?”

“Not really.”

“I was thinking of grabbing some snacks from the store for tonight.”

“Something happening tonight?”

“Movie night! Remember?”

“You were serious about that?!”

“Of course! We rarely have time to relax, so this is a perfect opportunity.”

“Well, since I’m stuck in your room… what movie are you picking?”

“You can choose. I don’t really care. How about I’m in charge of snacks and you grab the movies.”

“Fine. I’ll dig something up.”

The pair part ways for the rest of the day. Megumi felt it best to keep himself occupied so he wouldn’t think about that night. So, after breakfast he got some training in with Yuta and Maki who between the two really kept him on his toes. The construction work on his room sounded a lot more extensive than Gojo had relayed based on all the noise coming from within. Someone had placed a “do not enter” sign on the door, and so when Megumi walked past it, he didn’t bother peeking. By the time he returned from shopping around 5pm, it was silent. ‘Guess they’re done for the day.’ But since the sign was still up, it wasn’t finished. ‘Ugh, it better be done by tomorrow night.’

“Hey, Megumi!”

Megumi froze in place. Damn it with Yuuji sneaking up on him! He turned around. “Yeah?”

“I got food!” Yuuji held up two plastic bags stuffed full. “Dinner, snacks, drinks. Did you grab the movies?”

Megumi pulled three DVD cases out of his shopping bag and showed it to his friend. Three movies would kill about six hours, which meant sleeping right after they were finished, equaled less dead time to worry about.

“Sweet! Let’s get started!”

The moment of dread was upon Megumi the instant he walked into Yuuji’s room and laid eyes on that single bed. And as the dorm mate puttered around oblivious to his nervousness, he just watched quietly as the man plopped the bags onto the bed and grabbed a laptop from the desk. This was it, no turning back now.

“Why are you just standing there?” Yuuji questioned with laughter in his tone and patted the bed. “Come on, before the food gets cold.”

Megumi rolled his eyes as if nothing was wrong, but his heartbeat picked up the pace with each step towards the bed. He should be happy that Yuuji was so oblivious to emotions, and yet a part of him was annoyed… maybe disappointed… Megumi quickly shut those thoughts down as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“So, just to get it out of the way. How is this gonna work? Like which side do I sleep on?” Megumi questioned.

Yuuji stopped fusing with a food container and looked over. “Oh, hmm, doesn’t matter to me. I can sleep on either side.”

Well since he was already on one side. “I’ll just take this side I’m on then.”

Yuuji gave him a thumbs up. “Pass me the first movie.”

The first movie… all the movies he’d chosen were just action types. Megumi wanted something with as little romance as possible and knew Yuuji didn’t mind action or horror. Frankly, he thought it was funny his friend still loved horror after becoming a jujutsu sorcerer. Don’t they see enough of it in real life? Between the movies and the eating, he was pleasantly surprised to find that Yuuji became so engrossed in what was on the screen, it helped his anxieties stay lowered.

Megumi had taken up a position with his back against the wall sitting upright, and legs stretched out in front of him, while Yuuji was next to him with about a foot of space between them. Mid-way through the third movie, Megumi was genuinely paying attention since he’d never seen it before, when he felt a pressure against his shoulder. His eyes flared, cheeks heated up, and adrenaline spiked his heart rate. Yuuji had fallen asleep against his shoulder. No kidding this guy could fall asleep anywhere! Versus him who was too wide awake now to even think about it.

The last thing he wanted to do was awaken the sleeping man and make things even more awkward. So, Megumi tried to gently push his friend away to simply rest against the wall. His first several tries failed, but on the fourth, success… briefly.

“Mmm,” Yuuji stirred without waking and shifted on his own to curl up in Megumi’s lap instead!

‘Fuck, my life!’ Megumi screamed in his head. Things just went from bad to a disaster!

Again, Megumi tried to shift the man away, but every time he tried Yuuji would whine.

“Stop moving…” Yuuji mumbled and wrapped his arms around Megumi’s waist, snuggling his face deeper into the man’s leg.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Megumi gritted out in a muffled anger. By now, his whole body felt like it’d been stuck in a furnace and was being roasted alive. Ugh! Yuuji had turned into a damn octopus clinging to its meal! And yet… Megumi had to admit the man was cute as he slept. Geez, he even smiled in his sleep!

Not much he could really do, Megumi exhaled in defeat. So, he did his best to turn off the laptop screen using his foot and shift it close enough to reach. He then grabbed it and placed it onto the nightstand next to the bed, leaving them in a darkened room with only the gentle breathing of Yuuji as any sound. Okay, fine! Megumi counseled himself. Just ignore the fact there’s someone attached to you and try to get some sleep. The faster he went to sleep, the faster the nightmare would end. So, he shifted his body to lie down, then turned over onto his side hoping Yuuji would also readjust.

And the man did, just not in a way Megumi wanted. Yuuji simply snuggled up to his back and weaved an arm around his torso like he was one of those giant stuffed animals you win at a fair! He pushed the arm away, but it sprang back into place.

Megumi screamed in his head. He was so tired… ‘just ignore it, ignore it, ignore it…’

The sound of birds chirping caused Megumi to rouse the next morning. Perfect, his torture was over, it was time to get up— ‘Why was the pillow so hard—’ his eyes opened in a panic as his hand felt the unmistakable sensation of muscle beneath clothing. Without moving an inch only his eyes shifted over and saw the outline of Yuuji’s body lying on his back and he was curled up against his side! ‘Oh, fuck!’

Fight or flight kicked into overdrive as Megumi sprang from the bed like a cat and bolted out of the room. Every nerve ending along his skin was on fire and his mind freaking out, praying Yuuji had slept through it all. ‘This is gonna be so awkward if— What the?!’

As soon as he made it out of the room, Megumi almost ran right smack into Gojo. The man had one hand on Megumi’s bedroom door and the other carried a cursed doll, like the one Yuuji had trained with to practice energy control. “What is that for?”

Realizing he was busted, Gojo slipped the doll behind his back. “Nothing. I was just gonna check on the progress.”

“Uh-huh…” Megumi’s eyebrow raised, instantly suspicious. “Well, let’s just check,” he opened the door himself and walked in. “What’s going on?!” He whipped around. “Are they finished?” Because his room looked exactly like he’d left it the morning before. And he meant exactly!

“Really?!” Gojo pretended to be surprised. “That was quick! Looks like you can move back in. Well, see you at breakfast.”

Gojo turned to leave but Megumi grabbed his shoulder.

“Oi! What the hell?! There was no construction was there you prick?!”

“Nonsense! They must’ve finished yesterday.”

Megumi narrowed a menacing glare at the teacher. “That damn doll was the one making all the noise, wasn’t it?”

“Um… no…”

“And you were about to plant it for a second day!”

“Of course, not! I’m just carrying it around…”

“You’re such a shit liar!”

“Careful Megumi, might wanna keep your voice down lest wake up Yuuji.”

“What do I care if he wakes up now?”

“He’ll find you missing and the bed empty and be sad.” Gojo grinned defiantly then took off in a sprint, cackling like a mad man down the hall.

Bastard pranked him! Megumi screamed as he took off after the man. “I’M GONNA KILL YOU!”