#not bad for a superficial sweep

[feralglitch]

Digital Daggers is my Crane Wives.

[zxoaii]

Tease

fem! reader x Kento Nanami

Summary: Nanami gets even after a tease.

SMUT

WC: 1.7k

Find this and more on my wattpad!

Wattpad: _Bolter

[ Y/n ]

The crash of glass shattering on the floor startles me awake. My hands instinctively reach for the drawer next to the bed. As I fumble fearfully in the dark, a curse comes from the kitchen.

"Nanami?"

I get out of bed and make my way to the doorway. Nanami stands in the kitchen with his back to me. "I just broke something. Don't come over here barefoot."

I turn the kitchen light on for him. "I didn't want to wake you." He awkwardly moves to avoid looking at me. "You didn't want to wake me because you didn't want me to know you left the house or because you wanted to let me sleep?"

It's not a well-kept secret he's been sneaking out. Only it doesn't bother me as much as it should because I know he's working as a jujutsu sorcerer on the side.

"I thought you said you were done with all of that."

Nanami sighs and finally turns to face me. "Oh my god." My hands instinctively cup over my mouth. He's covered in blood.

"Not all of it's mine... And really it's just a superficial wound. It's just bleeding a lot."

He sweeps the glass up and dumps it into the trash. "It's not a big deal." I trail behind him as he makes his way to the bathroom.

I would ask but he wouldn't tell me. "Stop it. Sit down." Nanami stops digging through the cabinets and sits on the edge of the tub.

The first aid kit isn't even in the cabinets. It's in the closet. I grab it from the shelf and check the contents. Really, how am I supposed to treat him with this?

I set it down on the counter and wet a washcloth. Nanami can't hide the guilty look on his face. It would probably feel good to chew him out for this incredibly stupid thing he's doing.

When he went back to being a jujutsu sorcerer I thought he'd take it easy. After you almost die and decide to retire you usually learn a lesson. I guess he didn't.

The cloth cleans the blood off of his face. Did he really think he could hide this from me? I tilt his head to wipe blood out of his hair.

"It wasn't supposed to be this bad."

"You don't need to explain yourself."

It's hard not to be incredibly pissed at him. And at the same time, it's hard to not find him incredibly sexy sitting here while I fix him up.

I drop the cloth into the sink and open the first aid kit. He'd probably be better off with stitches. Instead, I grab rubbing alcohol, antibiotic cream, and some bandaids.

I search around the bathroom for our cotton pads to clean the wound with. "You're killing me in that dress." He should be used to a slip and some underwear by now.

I grab the box of cotton pads and bring them back over to him. "It might be easier if you sit on my lap." He isn't actually making moves right now, is he?

"Stop it."

I drench the pad in the alcohol and tilt his chin up. "I'm serious." His hand reaches up to grip my hip as I start cleaning the cut. He's pushing it.

"Hold still." I pass over the cut several times until it looks mostly clean. The bathroom light isn't great for looking at these things. "Sorry, you were just the closest thing to me." Nanami's hand falls off my hip.

I take the cream and apply it over the entire cut. There's more than he needs but hopefully, it will negate anything I missed while cleaning it out.

"Sweetheart, come on." Nanami runs his hands down my waist and hips while I find the largest bandaid we have. "Don't do this to me. Just give me something." The rip of the package replaces the response he wanted from me.

I place the bandaid on his forehead. My hands cup his face, caressing his cheeks gently. It's too hard to not give him anything.

He holds my ass as I lean in to kiss him. My hands slide back into his hair. There's no rush to the way he kisses me. Nanami's mouth is dangerously addictive.

It's almost painful to pull away from him just as he starts to take it further.

"What?" He looks up at me from his seated position. This punishment is equally bad for me. "You're not getting anything tonight." His hands fall to the edge of the tub as I walk back to the bedroom.

"And you should shower too," I add as I shut the bathroom door. If I caught a glimpse of him showering after I told him we wouldn't be having sex, it might actually kill me.

The bed welcomes me back. I can hear Nanami mumbling curses in the bathroom. It just has to be this way.

.  .  .

"I'm back!" The door shuts behind me with a click. I carry the groceries to the counter by myself. Usually, Nanami takes a couple of bags for me when I get home.

He walks out of the bedroom with his tie in hand. "Where are you going?" I ask as I start grabbing things from the bags. "Nowhere."

"Really?" I put my things down as he approaches me. "It's for you." My brows furrow as he holds it out. "What?"

"Put your hands out."

What's his point? I hold my hands out for him, palms up. Nanami closes my fingers into fists and then starts tying the tie around my wrists.

"Kento-"

He presses a kiss onto my forehead and then guides me back to our bedroom. Is this happening? "Do you enjoy teasing me?"

The pieces click in my head. He's still mad about the other night. Oh... I'm so in for it.

"Do you?" His fingers work away at my shorts while he speaks. "I couldn't reward bad behavior." Nanami pulls my underwear off with my shorts.

"That's not an answer. Open your mouth."

He holds two fingers up to my lips. I open my mouth and he places them inside. "Good. Now suck them. You're going to want them to be wet." I suck his fingers shamelessly until he removes them from my mouth.

"I'm going to ask you again. Do you enjoy teasing me?" It's hard to focus with the sexual tension in this room. "Yes." The word falls from my lips once, twice, and then a pathetic third time.

Nanami wipes some spit off my chin with his thumb. He nods. My breaths come rapidly. I can't take this. My legs spread further across the bed.

I choke out a moan as he presses his fingers into me. My hands pull at the restraint. "Look at me." My head is turned to the side, my eyes are squeezed shut. "Look at me." Nanami coos tauntingly.

I force myself to look up at him. His fingers pump in and out of me at a steady pace. Still, it's not nearly enough. "You're so desperate aren't you?" There's no point in not giving him what he wants.

I want it too.

"Oh god, yes."

Nanami pulls his fingers out of me. A frustrated sigh is all I can respond with. My body reacts to every minor touch. His fingers grab the collar of my shirt.

"Don't-"

His arms flex as he tears it down the middle. His lips meet my neck and then my collarbone. All I can do is lay there and moan desperately. I need more.

"Nanami..."

His name comes out as a breathy sigh. It hurts to not be able to grab at his hair his shirt or his pants. I squirm as he kisses down my chest to my stomach.

How is he not going insane right now with me?

My lust starts to turn to desperation. I can't handle any more of this. "Just fuck me." Nanami raises his brows at me. "Sorry?"

Hot blush rushes across my cheeks. "Please just fuck me." The hunger in his eyes grows wilder at my begging. "Well..." He unbuckles his belt and drops it onto the floor.

I can't see as well as I want to but the sounds of him undoing his pants drive me just as wild. He leans over me on the bed. "And your shirt."

"My shirt?" I reach up and grab at his shirt. Nanami stands up, pulling away from my grasp. He takes his time unbuttoning his shirt.

I take in what I can. I hate the way being a jujutsu sorcerer almost kills him. But I have to give it credit for keeping him so fucking fit.

His muscles tense and flex as he leans over me again. "Say it one more time." Our eyes lock in a lustful trance.

"Please fuck me."

Nanami gives a small nod and grabs my hip with one hand. The way he does that drives me crazy. He doesn't waste time starting slow.

My moans echo through the room as Nanami thrusts into me relentlessly. His free hand grips my thigh. It will bruise tomorrow and he'll kiss me there. That thought drags another moan out of me.

"Don't stop." With nothing else to do my nails dig into my palms. Nanami's gruff moans start to mix in with mine.

One of my legs wraps around his hip, allowing him to hit a different angle. He adjusts too. Nanami slows his pace slightly and thrusts deeper.

I watch as his head falls back. His moans and curses turn me on in ways no one before him ever has. He drops my thigh and grabs my hand, pinning them above my head.

Nanami leans in closer while he holds my hands. His lips tease mine for a moment before finally kissing me. I drink up his taste like it's the only thing keeping me alive.

My stomach begins to tighten with overwhelming pleasure. Nanami continues to his me as I moan louder. My wrists are pressed harder into the mattress.

"That's it." He presses desperate kisses along my neck as I give in to my orgasm. "Good girl." Nanami drops my hands and sits back up.

"Good girl, just one more minute."

My head digs back into the mattress as my back arches up. His moans become more and more strangled with each minute that passes. I watch as he presses a hand against his forehead.

"Fuck, Y/n... Goddamnit." His hand falls onto my stomach as he finishes. The room falls silent except for our ragged breathing.

After a moment Nanami brushes his hair out of his face. He licks his lips and looks down at me.

"I enjoy teasing you too."

[wmarximoff]

𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: you return home after being kicked out of college - your father is not happy, but your stepmother certainly is.

warnings (18+): smut, very light somnophilia hints, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving), stepcest, unspecified legal age-gap, mommy kink, heavy mommy issues, sizable daddy issues, drinking, smoking, praise kink, certain amounts of angst, bad parenting, breastfeeding. MINORS DNI.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 4k

A/N: and the whole writing about stepmom!Wanda thing is getting worse…

masterlist.|

༺ᱬ༻

It was a sunny late afternoon, warm on the skin underneath your clothes, when you took the lighter close to the cigarette that appeared between your parted lips and ran the surface of your thumb across the spark wheel, creating the necessary ignition for the ember to flicker and ignite the tip of that little white cylinder, which blinked like a firefly down your nose tip.

Your sense of smell captured an emanation of wholesome, sour, idle odor – an act of teenage rebellion turned into a noxious addiction. A puff of thick white smoke rose from your nostrils. Someone gave you a crooked look when you sighed in heavy smoke.

You were sitting on a wooden bench under the shade of a long-standing oak tree in the middle of the small green square of the city, which sheltered you in the shadows of its ancient branches, in the surroundings of the structure of the white wooden gazebo that could well have been there since the fifties; the small convenience stores spread all around, the people staring at you because they all knew your fate – what your return to Westview represented, the flaw in the perfect family picture.

Everyone in town knew your parents, your father and stepmother, Jarvis (Vis for those neighbors who were more superficially intimate) and Wanda, and so your name was thrown to the wind with totally disconnected intonations to the public admiration assigned to that couple, typical small-town good samaritans – you spray-painted a billboard or got caught by the sheriff drinking in front of the gas station convenience at just sixteen years old, even though you never bothered to hide your petty misdeeds in none of these cases.

It had been a week since your return, seven days had passed that very morning. The short drive back had been as quiet as it could be – a few hours, no more, objectively and adamantly quiet to the core; the well-trained ear would just catch the sound of the asphalt sliding under the well-heeled car's tires, vibrating and petulant, icy air being expelled from the air-conditioning in cold puffs against the warm skin of your face, in a swath soon under your chin.

You followed, solemnly, your tired eyes behind your heavy lids, as the melancholy houses passed by the gloomy panorama presented in that small suburban town, sweet little houses with buttery walls and windows with wide open light cotton curtains, all surrounded by meters of pointed low wooden fences standing close together in lavish, sweeping rows in front of well-trimmed green lawns and behind neat sidewalks and vibrant trees.

You weren't born in Westview , in the heart of New Jersey, but outside in the neighborhoods of that city where all the smallest details had throughout your early life were derived – at the height of your simple ten or eleven years of age, overwhelming in an air of rebellion for an orphaned child of a resigned mother and lacking the affection of a disinterested father, that was the location chosen by that man as a starting point of the unusual life of him as a newlywed, at the time, with your stepmother Wanda Maximoff, pushing for suburban life patterned within the traditionalist mold of a square box, as socially anachronistic as it gets.

Jarvis Stark was a reserved and rather austere man, after all, an old-fashioned thinker, a classic political liberal and an unyielding conservative – abandoned by his first wife with the eldest daughter he didn't know how to raise, a father of three, the breadwinner, a proud Republican voter. And you were, then, the twenty-year-old daughter, the eldest failure, who was asked to withdraw from college because your grades were worthy of nothing but shame and stoning in the public square.

So you believed that only conformism could soothe you out of your succinct attachment to the reality which you found yourself, deeply enraged and dangerously bored, somewhere on the fine line that separated these two opposite poles of mood from ego. The car swerved around a corner, your childhood home looming into view at the end of the street. Westview, always the same, never different. So you sighed, a heavy, icy sigh, lifting and lowering your chest inside the baggy shirt you'd pulled over your head hours earlier.

Sighing was the little you could do, but perhaps it could be a prudent way of expressing your discontent with the current situation around you when Jarvis parked the car in front of the family home, Wanda's well-tended rose bushes rising into the front yard in a polychromatic vortex of blood red color.

The window of your old room upstairs looked at you gloomily as if it didn't want to welcome you back – nobody did, after all. And you looked at it as if you could stone it, with all the hatred worthy of a child that no one ever wanted to harbor wrapped up inside an adult body barely rigid to the touch.

“Y/n,” your father's dictatorial voice echoed into the silence that filled the vehicle, his pale cerulean eyes behind the lenses of his thin-rimmed glasses staring only at the leather steering wheel, irises hard with fury, never turning back to your figure sitting on the bench next to him.

“Before we go in I want one thing to be clear here, Y/n. I’m not kidding. You're not a child anymore, though you're still behaving like one, and I'm not going to treat you like one. I'm going to treat you like an adult, because that's what you are now. The playtime is over. I will no longer tolerate this type of behavior on your part.”

There was a silent pause, not long enough to give you the go-ahead to come up with a response to that man in the cashmere blazer and dark turtleneck blouse, a philosophy teacher who was dissatisfied with the denial of his academic career that had confined him eternally to the position of high school teacher.

“You're going to have to grow up. Do you even understand what that means, at least? Nothing is free anymore, the world is not going to be kind to you, and neither am I. Tomorrow you will look for a job and while you are living under my roof until you can support yourself, you will have to contribute to the household expenses and follow my rules. No more drinking, smoking, being up late or loud music, all of that is over now. If you want to have a bed and food on your plate inside my house, you will do it my way. Did I made myself clear, Y/n?”

And then Jarvis looked at you with the recognition of a father thundering in the circle of his blue irises, but the kind of father who doesn't much like to acknowledge that you are the kind of child he made, that his strict upbringing backfired and culminated in an as unserviceable adult as you could be, a reactionary time bomb in all the splendor of your young-coming-of-age as irresponsible and immature as you could be.

“Did I made myself clear, Y/n?!” he repeated, because his answer was silence. Eyes staring back at him as a result of the upbringing he gave you, your icy breath misting inside the car.

“Crystal clear, Dad,” cynicism crept under your tongue, spitting bitterness between your teeth. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of taming your fury like an angry dog gagged at a muzzle – you never have before, after all.

That man stared at you for a single broken second as if he was going to stuff his tight nostrils to say anything, but he didn't, not in the way he could have said it. He just unfastened the seat belt across his broad chest and looked straight ahead again, stoic, ever so categorical and impassive.

“Fine,” said Jarvis, then already leading his long, bony right fingers to the doorknob, “And while you're here you're going to obey your mom and help her with the housework. This is an order, Y/n. I don't expect less than that.”

There was no opening for an answer as he then got out of the car and closed the door behind him with a hollow thud. Your eyes burned the back of the café-au-lait-colored blazer your father wore on his tall, skinny body with a vaguely British bearing, and a whisper that only your ears caught was said in the icy air inside the car.

“She’s not my mom...”

Stepping out of the car into the sweltering heat of a small town was an act at least fueled by the humiliation that weighed on the muscles just above your shoulder blades, your head hanging down with gravity in a vague impression of cowardice – on the contrary, however, since the poison running through your veins was of pure yellowing fury that compelled you to crease your brow. It's been a week, and you still haven't found a job, and your dad still doesn't lock eyes with you. Not that it mattered. It didn't matter, he never did before.

The afternoon sun hid behind the hills in the distance, and night fell like a veil over the small-town square. Conveniences closed their doors and you started walking. Going back to your childhood home depressed you, but you knew that in time it would stop bothering you. Going back to the childhood home where your father lived with his wife and his other children was what made an unpleasant impression on your nerves.

Especially when going up the three measly white painted wooden steps of the porch that led to the main entrance door of that family residence, with the night also coming the sloppiness worthy of a soul so enraged that only a young girl kicked from the university could contain within herself.

Your father's car wasn't in the driveway, and your younger half-brothers, the twins, were nowhere to be found or to be seen – not on the sofa in front of the television, not a single whiff of two ten-year-olds coming from upstairs. Only she was there, gracefully seated on the dark linen sofa, sipping expensive wine, as red as the roses and her fingernails and her long, glossy locks, in front of the television that was flashing some old program she liked.

Wanda Maximoff, your father's wife, your brothers' mother. A pair of eyes with emerald irises that blinked green in the low lights of the room and crossed their path with your figure standing in the doorway. There was the hint of a tentative smile that was stopped halfway when Wanda looked at you.

“Oh, hello dear, are you–” you looked at her when she did too, “Y/n?”

And something intrinsic to the red core of her soul just unraveled the complex puzzle expressed in the muscles of your face (call it maternal instinct or just taking the time to really pay attention to you), as she promptly discarded the glass of half-drunk wine onto the coffee table in front of the sofa and then leap to her feet, only to cross the living room towards you, like an angel coming to your rescue when all the world around you seems to be in pieces, crumbling and falling. Wanda always noticed you. Wanda was always there for you when no one else in the world was.

“Y/n,” her low voice called out to you, so imbued with warmth and affection, the only person to ever say your name in such a cordial and specious way that it just made you want to hear that word slip past her pearly lips again and again.

“Y/n, honey, is everything okay?” green eyes peered into you before twitching her dark brows, such a sweet expression on such a handsome face, such prominent cheekbones.

“Did you go out for a smoke? It's been a while since you left. And you didn't even let me know before... you only act like that when you're upset, honey. Is everything okay?” a complacent hand of hers reached for your fingers, holding them in a warm, gentle touch, “You know you can talk to me about anything you have in mind, Y/n.”

“I know,” you pursed your lips into a contrite line, Wanda looking into your sleepy eyes and your smell of cigarette smoke, her left thumb stroking the skin on the back of your right hand, “I know, I– I'm just... sorry, I'm... I'm just tired. I'm tired as fuck… Mama.”

“Oh, my baby,” Wanda whimpered, “It's okay, it's okay... my poor baby, Mama is here. Mama is here for you. Come here, honey.”

And then Wanda pulled you into a hug. A long hug, protecting your stepmother's body, her arms encircled around your shoulders, crimson-dyed nails caressing in soft touches the nape of your neck. Your right cheek rested against her left collarbone that poked beneath the thin white wool sweater Wanda wore across her torso. She was warm and comfortable, as only a mother could be – she smelled like a mother.

“It's fine, baby, it's fine, your dad and the boys are out. It's alright, Mama will take care of you my sweet, beautiful girl. Come on, let's go to bed. You need to relieve your stress, honey. Let Mama take care of you.”

And you were feeling her, her figure lifted against your cold body again as it always should be, roaming your nose through the warm strands of orange in a shade of red hair half auburn, the tousled strands exuding an exotic and distinctive dry shampoo scent on an invisible background of freshly applied hair dye. You in your stepmother’s arms, with a hint of cigarettes and the purest melancholy you were sinking into.

She held you as she had that first time, even a few years before that, when you staggered drunkenly down the driveway right after your high school prom night – the inside of your mouth tasted stale, wrinkled, the insides of your cheeks numb, a rudimentary bitter taste flooding the length of your pink tongue, oozing through your teeth the heat of the sly alcohol that chained you in a catatonic state of chronic sickness, numbing down your feelings.

And Wanda, like a good, worried mother never being able to bring herself to fall asleep next to her husband who was snoring in their bed upstairs, not letting her spirits cool down knowing that her eldest child was out and the clock was already past three o'clock in the morning at that point, was there waiting for you. As she had already done so much and so much more she would have to do, Wanda looked at you from the sofa when you opened the door, dragging your heels in soft steps into the house.

“Where were you?” was the first thing the low tone of voice across the room did reach your drunken ears, a pair of verdant irises burning holes in your forehead, “The deal was until midnight at the latest, Y/n. It's almost four o'clock in the morning! I was worried sick about you!”

The world around you was like being on the deck of a fishing vessel in a storm on the high seas, confused and treacherous, ready to engulf you in an eternal sullen, salty darkness. From beneath heavy lids, you glared at Wanda with brazen scorn leaking from your irises.

“Fuck you.”

“…What did you just said to me?”

There was a second of silence. You had to place a sinuous hand on the wall near the left side of your body to force yourself to continue standing during the afterglow of dawn, since, drunk as a skunk, cheeks as red as two ripe apples, eyes lost – you didn't even had an idea what you were talking about.

“Fuck you,” you repeated under your breath, the words as bitter as the alcohol pooled in the corners of your mouth cavity, “You’re not my mom.”

And you couldn't even tell why you said it, words so disloyal and tormenting, raw and piercing, that the woman older than you just didn't need to hear that night – after all, Wanda was your mother in a way, the closest you've been to one since the woman who conceived, bore, and gave birth to you decided to pack her suitcases in the car and disappear one afternoon when your father was away.

But Wanda has always been there for you from the moment her figure became a constant presence in your life. Wanda was the woman who raised you, who gave you the first taste of a sweet maternal love, so discordant and confusing for your cognition worthy of an abused animal. Wanda was the first woman you loved because she was the only person who loved you back.

“I'm sorry,” you wailed in a limp lisp, becoming aware of the sharp pain in your stepmother's vexed brows, the disappointed hesitation in the wavering green of her gaze, “I'm sorry, Wanda, it wasn't my – it wasn't my… my intention–”

“It's okay,” her voice was low, carrying a grief-stricken weight, “You're drunk and I…I overreacted– I know it's not my job, I'm just your stepmo–”

“No,” you whimpered, shaking your head, your eyes filled with tears of confusion, “No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I– I'm sorry–”

“Y/n, it’s okay–”

“No, Wanda–”

And so you crossed the room quickly on your shifted ankles, your lack of motor coordination even reminiscent of a hesitant child staggering still learning to walk – your balance was internal, vulnerable.

“Wanda...”

You cried out for her, stepping across that plush rug to under the coffee table. Your arms raised, probed by the maternal touch that you were denied so early on, everything that you were deprived of and that you only sought to drink from Wanda until the last drop. She looked at you with affection, such an unfamiliar affection, her face too close. But your drunken brain couldn't even prepare you for the soft feel of the commission of your stepmom's peach lips, still tasting faintly of minty mouthwash, against your rough mouth that tasted like cheap beer and rancid blues.

You had kissed Wanda, because your body needed to have her close on an intrinsic level, to her core, as if you wanted to hide from the world within the amenities of her womb. And she kissed you back because she loved you, she always had, absorbing you with strong arms into her motherly warmth, giving you a security that alone you could never reach.

“M-Mama...” your lips connected again, in the living room of that house where only one family lived. And you laid her back on the sofa cushions where your brothers, her children, birthed by her, spend most of their day playing video games.

“Shh, it's okay, it's okay, baby,” Wanda whispered in a love sigh, one hand stroking the alcohol-warm skin of your cheek, you on top of her on those pillows, your heart pounding in your chest, the pride of a mother looking at you through green eyes.

“Mama is here for you, my little girl.”

Wanda pulled you down for another kiss, your knee vaguely brushing the hollow of her inner thighs, skimming against the thin pajama bottoms she was wearing. You apologized softly, stroking her where you could, where your touch reached, on her tummy rolls and in every graceful stretch mark that appeared in your stepmother's bulky silhouette on top of that sofa, with the family portraits hanging on the wall next to the stairs bearing witness to what you had to do. Calling her, reaching for her, for Wanda, for Mama, one being synonymous with the other.

What you did all summer of that year when your dad was away and your brothers were at some other friend's house, on the living room couch biting a pillow and at the kitchen table with her red nails dug into the crown of your head, on your bed of freshly laundered sheets and hers too, crammed with feminine perfume and the sweet red scent of her pomegranate moisturizer – Wanda on top, you on the bottom, she all on all fours, you behind her clamoring with your hips for what was yours, with an adulterine urge to be physically inside her innards at all times.

Even back home from the first semester of college that you already knew you would not finish, during the night when Wanda snuck out of her bedroom shared with Jarvis only to ride your thigh like an animal in heat, because she had missed you so much that her body ached.

“My little girl,” she said, “Mama has missed you so, so much, I can't bear the thought of being away from you, Y/n, please don't leave me again,” and the feeling was as mutual as it could be, because you also couldn't stand spending so much time away from an affection like no other ever felt by your empty and abandoned chest. You would always seek the motherly comfort Wanda had to offer to ward off your ills and soothe your spirits.

Even returning home after the failure of a dead academic life, your stepmother would always welcome you with open arms and legs – the sharpened ridge of red-painted fingernails digging into the thin skin above your shoulder blades, crescent-shaped marks piercing your flesh, marking you as hers, the headboard bumping in impassive rhythm against the wall, you rutting into Wanda's cunt with a silicone toy she had bought solely for your amusement.

“Mama,” you spit against the gleaming sweat from Wanda's throat, your hips bumping in wet slaps that echoed off the four walls of the room, your skin sliding against each other, “Mama, I love you, I love you, Mama...”

“Mama loves you too, baby,” Wanda moaned in a broken voice, “Mama loves you too. Mama loves absolutely everything about you, my little girl.”

You thrust that fake dick down her hole with a yelp of lustful satisfaction, a deafening delight, giving your stepmother's womb a rushing sense of pleasure. It was the height of belonging – being inside her, being embraced by her walls, feeling her loosen up internally to receive you all. It didn't matter that her wedding ring, placed on that finger by your father, felt so cold behind your back.

“Mama, Mama I– I’m gonna–” you growled, your brow furrowed, your hips crashing into hers in waves, your breaths ragged and shabby, your thrusts hard and sloppy, “I'm gonna come, Mama, p-please, please, Mama, Mama– M-Mommy! Mommy, I'm gonna come in you!”

“Do it baby, do it,” she smiled, so sweet and complacent beneath you, “Let Mama see your pretty face while you come, sweetheart. Come in Mama, give me all of you.”

Your clit was sliding frantically against the harness that circled your hips, and smelling her, feeling her heat, hearing her moans, was like an explosion inside your belly. You came – hot, strong, a red electric current inside your veins, running down between your thighs.

“Mama!” a squeaky little scream broke out of you, and from that open crack in your soul, the tears flowed down your face. Hot tears that dripped all over Wanda's sternum, mixing with the beads of sweat that exuded from her pores.

“Shh, honey, it's okay, it's okay,” a hand cupping your head brought you to snuggle against her chest, Wanda's heartbeat could be heard from the position you were in, your ear pressed to her skin.

“You did a great job, baby. You've let all your stress out. Mama is so proud of you, honey,” Wanda hummed, fingertips bent stroking your hair humid with warm sweat, “Do you want Mama's milk now, my sweet girl?”

You looked up from under your lids glistening from a silent cry, into her inviting eyes, “Can I…?”

Wanda smiled, “You know you don't have to ask me, sweetheart.”

You blinked once between lashes heavy with lust and tears before looking down at your stepmother's rosy nipple, which you brought to your mouth to close your lips on the circumvallation of it, earning a satisfied groan from Wanda.

With the twins approaching ten years old, there was no longer a single drop of sweet milk to be actually sipped, but something in the comfort imbued in that very intimate action, facing two naked bodies fresh out of the animalistic mist of such a carnal act, was enough for you to do it again and again, whenever you could, whenever she let you.

“That's right baby, that's right,” Wanda's melodious voice crooned, her fingers stroking a lock of hair close to the tip of your ear.

“Mama loves you, did you know that? Mama loves you so much, Y/n. No matter what others say about you, Mama is very proud of you, baby. You are my special girl.”

It was the movement that reconnected the two of you, bringing together two fragments of a shattered whole that, when put together again, made up a complete whole within Wanda. Consuming the human instinctual act, you both merged with a momentary perfection, a holdover of lustful nature during countless lapses of comfortable affability. A new hot tear trickled from the corner of your eye.

“Mama loves you,” Wanda repeated, one hand stroking the length of your back, “Mama loves you very much, my perfect girl.”

[thedarkmongoose]

SPOILERS: i have mixed feelings about the bear s3 but knowing that s3 & s4 were written/filmed at the same time makes sense. s4 will prob answer s3's q's. (A LOT was left open-ended) usually i love that, but it felt like the show lost itself in certain places, esp the self-indulgent finale. all stories are indulgent to some degree, but too much decadence rarely leaves room for substance.

and i get why they tried to do the chef's table thing, but other than andrea, syd, and luca, everyone else's acting was disjointed and trite. but i loved ep 1; it was an ethereal, artsy, meditative piece (peace) that was necessary after the chaotic s2 finale. however, as a big fan of the show, it was hard for me to finish the eps.

the standout in s3 FOR SURE was tina's ep - directed by ayo. glad we got her backstory. personally i liked her anxiety-inducing job hunt bc it's really like that irl, esp for older woc. the sobbing while eating a free sandwich was relatable, and the mikey convo was super impactful. but as much as i loved the ep, it still felt superficial compared to s2 'forks' (richie) or 'honeydew' (marcus). we never see her son again either; all we get is tina yelling at him to quiet down.

then there was marcus's mother's funeral which seemed like it was going to be more central to the plot than it was. i wish we got more. and claire is still one of the most underwritten characters EVER. nothing about her or the mis en scène really sells it that she's a doctor lol. and the scene with the faks trying to apologize on carmy's behalf was beyond cringe. i like matty matheson - i have his cookbook, but there was entirely too many faks in s3.

and let's be real: where was ebra & sweeps? ebra has such an interesting story that i'm HOPING we get to see in s4. sweeps too - he tried out for the chicago cubs! but on a positive note, i loved the chemistry between syd/luca. it was v sweet and organic. wonder if they'll be a thing in s4 since luca is carmy's foil. too bad marcus was barely in s3, tho the hug between him & luca at the party was cute. syd's meltdown mirroring carmy's in s2 was also a nice touch.

idk how to feel about sugar's labor scene. most praise it, but it didn't hit the same for me. donna's over-acting (the whole series) is really distracting and i can't take her seriously. ik she's supposed to be mentally unwell, but it borders on cartoonish. the hospital moment was heartwarming, but again, artificially. and pete was so underwritten too, just so they could have that mom moment. i liked the scene with him and syd tho. it felt authentically awkward.

i also understand what they were trying to do with the finale, but it was a flop for me. the scene with andrea/carmy staring out into the chicago night was introspective and beautiful, but the msg doesn't hit all the way bc we have a group of wealthy celeb chefs saying it's okay to stop while you're ahead and enjoy life while you can. every second counts. unfortunately for those who are not celeb chefs, it's not that easy to simply "enjoy life."

on one hand, i agree that food is life and restaurants have been community "third places" forever (essential to life itself; historically, like when revolutionaries would gather at pubs or cafes). however, do i think that fine dining and the "art" that comes with it is necessary? no. if there were more spots like the original beef/bear in the world tho, that would be a good thing.

[heliads]

Hello! Sorry if this request is too vague, please let me know, but I wanted to request a Tony Stark x reader Soulmate AU

Thank u have a good day/night :)

it was a little vague lol which is why i had the people vote in a poll. your soulmate au is that every time soulmates are close but don't meet, they repeat the same day until they do meet. enjoy!

masterlist

Tony Stark is beginning to think that he’s lived through this day before.

He’s no stranger to deja vu, or not as much as anyone else, at least. Usually, his days and nights are so bizarre that he has no problem differentiating any given set of twenty-four hours. Aliens only tend to invade the planet once every few weeks, inhumans only go bad once a month, and so he has time in between ends of days to tell which Monday is which.

Still, there’s today, and Tony swears that today has already happened. He woke up this morning, bleary-eyed and not in his own bed. He’d stayed up past his necessary bedtime in the lab again, a practice which is frowned upon by most but produces the results he needs. Maybe that’s why his head isn’t clear. Either that, or someone’s trying to kill him again.

Tony opens his eyes in a mess of gears and wires and thinks, didn’t he just clean that up? Rhodey’s been after him recently to get his shit together, which obviously hasn’t happened yet, given the fact that Hurricane Machine Parts has had yet another landfall on his chosen sleeping desk. Tony blinks unhappily at the bits and bobs scattered helter-skelter in front of him and chooses to solve his problems the usual way, by sweeping everything into a nearby bin and pretending everything is fine.

An alarm goes off on his phone and Tony glares at it before the panic surges. That’s not meant to wake him up, that’s meant to get him out the door in time to make it to a conference. Tony is giving a speech on, well, something he was supposed to remember. Something important. In the end, does it really matter? He’ll say something snarky and possibly brilliant, then pepper in the fact that he’s Iron Man and saves everyone’s asses on a weekly basis so no one can complain. It’s a wonderful scare tactic.

Tony is aware of the fact that he should know what he’s doing, but why should he care when no one else does? Regardless of what he says, he’ll get the same reaction. Everyone in the audience is just there in the hopes that being in the proximity of a billionaire will improve their own trajectory in life. 

Tony used to pour his heart and soul into press conferences and scientific discussions until he looked out into the audience one day and realized that no one was paying attention in the slightest. They were pretending marvelously, of course, even had him fooled up until that point, but their focus was just superficial. They nodded along self-importantly with every one of his bullet points, but their heart wasn’t in it, so why should his? 

Besides, he gives one of these talks what feels like every day, so it’s not like he’ll have anything new to say anyway. Tony did one of these exact things yesterday, even slept late too. He can’t remember where this conference is being held, nor where yesterday’s was, or even the location of tomorrow’s talk. He’ll ask Happy in the car. Surely his head of security should be aware of where Tony is going.

One rushed morning routine later, Tony is in the car, knuckles clenched bone-white around the steering wheel. Happy has to give him course corrections only three times, increasingly let down with each one. Tony reads between the lines in each and every pursed lip, wincing with the disappointed side eyes. Yes, he’s a trainwreck, yes he’s worse than ever, but does he really have to be reminded of that right now?

Tony makes it to the function in time, smooths his tie and waves soullessly to the press. A woman greets him at the door. Her lipsticked smile says, We’re glad to have you! Her pained stare says, Why are you only here thirty seconds before the show begins?

Tony has no excuses, so he doesn’t give them, only recites the usual dialogue about how delighted he is to be at this conference. You know, the conference. The one for this day, the day that’s different from all the others. 

Tony settles into his seat on stage once the moderator introduces him. The funniest thing happens as he waits for the crowd to finish cheering. Although this could be just brushed off as Tony obviously not being as focused as he could be, he swears that this moment seems familiar. The moderator is wearing a rather lurid lime green coat, and wasn’t it just yesterday that Tony was thinking to himself that the man resembled the Grinch if he tried to go corporate?

Tony tears his gaze from the moderator to the crowd. No, this time he’s sure of it. The woman in the front row, left aisle, with the navy jacket asked him a tough question on the possibility of nuclear energy in the future just yesterday. The balding man on the far right nearly knocked himself out trying to get Tony to take a photo with him as he left the event. This is all the exact same as it was before. He has been here before, and if his suspicions are correct, he will repeat this exact same day again and again until he can get something right. Something crazy. Something like a soulmate.

God, Tony didn’t really think he’d get to this point. Soulmates are hypothetically for everybody, but it wouldn’t surprise Tony if they would skip a guy like him. It’s said you can go your entire life without meeting your soulmate, that you end up falling in love with whoever will make do and doing your best to forget that you were slighted by fate’s best gift to humanity. Something about Tony always seemed to fit that bill to a T. Maybe he’d manufacture destiny by finding someone he could love instead. He has always liked to Macgyver his way out of difficult problems, so conjuring up a soulmate out of conjecture would not be his worst hat trick.

Yet here Tony is, stuck in the soulmate loop. There’s only one way to know for sure to know that you’ve met your soulmate. More specifically, there’s only one way to know that you’re meant to meet your soulmate on a particular day:  you can’t get out of the same set of twenty-four hours.

The lore goes like this:  if you end up in close proximity to your soulmate without actually meeting them, you’ll have to repeat the same day over and over until the two of you make contact. Tony’s parents apparently took five days to get to know each other, but that’s on the low end. He’s heard of bad cases that took months of the same damn day for two people to finally figure each other out. And in a city like this, a place like New York? There are quite literally millions of people who could possibly cross Tony’s path. God, he might even be here for years.

It’s a flawed system, that’s for sure, but Tony has no way to fix this. None at all. The only thing he can do is start going about the process of fixing things. So his soulmate’s somewhere in this day, and it’s someone he’s never met. Maybe they were in the parking garage at the same time as him. Maybe they’re somewhere in this conference center. Maybe they were walking outside Stark Tower when he goes home for late night work.

There are so many places and so many possibilities that it’s starting to freak Tony out, so much so that he almost misses it when the moderator starts asking him questions. Were it not for the fact that Tony’s already lived through this once, he might have stumbled a little. Thankfully, he remembers enough of what he said last time that the words flow like water, giving Tony some space to think about his soulmate instead of which brand of coffee he attributes to giving him the most energy to seize his day. That’s a stupid question anyway.

This also helps him the next day, and the next day, and the next. One week of todays later, Tony is ready to scream. He knew the process of finding one’s soulmate would be difficult, but he didn’t count on it being this difficult. Tony is already going out of his way to meet new people, but even then, how would he know which stranger of dozens is actually his soulmate? 

At this point, Tony would settle for just getting out of the loop altogether, soulmate be damned. Maybe that’s not the right attitude to have, but it’s his nonetheless. Every day, he works late into the night, and every morning, all of his progress is gone. Tony can’t even note his discoveries on his phone because his memos clear out overnight, all those breakthroughs vanished into pixels of days past. Happy tells him that he looks tense. Tony fights the urge to hurl himself through a glass window. Such is the way of life.

He tries to look for the bright side of things, if he can’t think about anything else. It’s nice that he gets so many days guaranteed without threats made on his life. If he sticks to schedule, Tony always makes it to the crosswalk in front of the conference center right when the walking man appears. There’s this pretty girl in the back of the auditorium who always gives him this encouraging smile when he takes the stage, like even though Tony starts each show feeling like a trainwreck, she knows he’s going to be alright no matter what.

There are resources available to him. Tony’s had plenty of time to look. There are scores of websites online dedicated to people stuck in a loop and trying to find their soulmate. So long as you don’t mind making the same post every single morning, you can tell people where you’re located and see if you can track down someone in your vicinity. Tony’s been visiting them as of late, hovering over discussion boards like they’ll give him any sort of clue.

Four weeks of the same day. Four weeks of getting nowhere. Tony runs into traffic so he can stare into car windows. He lurks in coffee shops. Pepper thinks he’s going insane, but she changes her mind every twenty-four hours when the day resets, so he doesn’t have it in himself to care much. He just needs to get out of this day. He just needs his life back.

Some part of him wonders, too, who this person must be. Would they be kind or clever? Are they trying half as hard to find him as he is? Have they given up on him already? Tony would like to think that they’re fighting a battle for him, but who truly knows in the end. All he remembers is the same day over and over again.

Then, just when desolation is starting to kick in, Tony sees something. It’s a message on one of a thousand soulmate finding sites. Anyone stuck in today for a really long time? Thirty-three repetitions and counting. I’m in NYC if anyone else is out there. I keep going to Tony Stark’s conference at 10am, but not even his motivational speeches can keep me hopeful for much longer.

Tony almost chokes, then laughs, then lets himself wonder. Thirty-three days sounds about right, and if they’re in the audience of one of his shows, then maybe–

He hits reply before he can stop himself. Also in NYC, also 33 days. 

Tony doesn’t dare say anything else. On the car ride over to his conference, Happy asks him why he looks so confused. “It’s like you’re excited about something but you’re trying to pretend you’re not. What, have you annoyed another competitor into folding?” His head of security comments.

“No,” Tony mutters, “and besides, that was only one time. It’s not going to happen again.”

“You tell yourself that,” Happy chuckles, and then they’re at the conference center and they don’t have much to talk about anything, business ventures or soulmates or otherwise.

Tony checks his phone before he goes onstage. The person has responded to him. Wait, really? Where are you?

Tony glances around him. One of the event hosts, that passive aggressive woman, is coming to escort him to the stage, so he doesn’t have much time. Conference center. The one where Stark is speaking.

Then he’s on stage again, repeating the same stupid answers for the same bad questions. Now that he’s been here a couple dozen times, Tony can confirm that they really, really need to get better topics for him to discuss. He would be dozing off were it not for the fact that his soulmate might actually be somewhere in this building. Maybe somewhere in the same hall.

The interview ends, and Tony dares breach public etiquette by pulling out his phone. The stranger has replied again. I’m there too! What’s your seat number? Maybe we can finally break out of this.

Actually, Tony says, I’m the one on stage.

Tony looks around for someone, sees no one, tries to hide his despair. He stands on that stage for a little too long, past the point where the moderator is standing there blankly, grin frozen and eyes wide with the same expression everyone gets when someone does something they shouldn’t in a public setting.

One of Tony’s aides appears out of nowhere, gently tugging on his arm to get him to move off stage. Just as he goes, though, he hears a shout from somewhere in the back of the auditorium.

“Wait! It’s me!”

Tony cannot describe it, this certainty looming in his chest, but he knows it’s his soulmate. They’re here. He whips his head around even as his aide yanks him away. Tony sees a blur of faces, someone pushing through the crowd in the aisle, but the face–

Nothing. No one he can recognize. No one he could find later. They’re a woman, that’s all he’s learned. Tony frantically checks his phone, sees a message saying that she’s figured him out. Tony tries to fight to stay around longer, but now Happy’s determined he’s delusional and Tony is all but packaged into his car and driven away. He’s put on house arrest once he gets back, Pepper and Happy taking turns asking what the hell has gotten into him. Tony tries to explain, but they don’t want to listen. No matter how many times you’ve repeated the same day, you wouldn’t be acting like this. Please be rational.

Tony doesn’t want to be rational, though, he wants to find his damn soulmate. He tries to message his soulmate that he can’t get out of the house, but she’s not answering her phone. Just before the day ends, Tony memorizes her username and prays she’ll have the same one the next iteration of the loop.

He messages her the second he wakes. Is it still you?

Yeah, she says, my phone died, sorry. What happened?

My friends staged an intervention. Apparently I’m acting irrationally.

He can practically sense her laughing on the other end. Repeating the same day 34 times will do that to you.

That’s what I tried to say, he replies, but did they believe me? No.

There’s about a minute pause, and then they message again. Do you think we can do it today? Try to meet again?

I think we can try, Tony says, and that does it.

They make plans. Tony gets ready early. He lingers backstage, waiting, checking his phone every ten seconds. Happy must pick up on this tension, because when he approaches Tony about eight minutes after they arrive, he lingers on the edges of Tony’s peripheral vision, not wanting to interrupt whatever is clearly wrong with him.

“What is it?” Tony asks, distracted.

“There’s someone here for you,” Happy says slowly, “They say they’re your, uh, soulmate. Should I just tell them to leave?”

Tony feels his eyes grow wide. This is not the first time someone has tried to meet him by playing the soulmate card. He gets it:  he’s rich, he’s distracted, of course someone would try it. This, however, might be the first time it was real.

“Yeah,” Tony says, “it’s them. Where is she?”

Happy blinks, surprised. “Wait, you’re serious? It’s actually–” At Tony’s exasperated hand waving, Happy hurries himself along. “Sorry, sorry. She’s waiting by the door.”

Happy might be saying something else, but Tony doesn’t hear it. He’s already spinning around, walking as fast as his dress shoes will let him. There’s a woman standing by the east exit. She looks nervous, and half a second after he sees her Tony realizes that she’s the pretty woman from his show. He saw her every single day, and he never even knew it was her.

Tony wondered what it would be like to meet your soulmate after so many days of waiting, if there was any way of knowing for sure that it was them. So many weeks later, Tony has an answer:  you feel it in your chest, right between your ribs, an electric shock that makes his entire body stand alert.

She must feel it too, because all of a sudden she looks up from where she’s been scanning the crowd and her eyes land on him. She smiles, and it’s because of him. No other reason. Just him.

Words are hard to come by. Should he say something impactful, the perfect sentiment for such an important moment? Surely this is a time for something to remember. Tony’s been repeating this day for a while, though, never truly believing it would come to an end, so when his mental wheels stop spinning, all he can do is something simple, something real.

“Hi,” he says, “I’m Tony.”

She grins at him. He doesn’t know that he’s ever seen an expression so sweet.

“I’m Y/N,” she replies, “it’s great to finally meet you.”

marvel tag list: @thatfangirl42, @rogueanschel, @mycosmicparadise, @ellobruv, @callsign-scully, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @amortensie, @23victoria, @watchreadfangirlrepeat, @gods-fools-heroes, @w1shes43, @deafsuperhero, @fadedver

[irene9900]

Flowers

Giyuu Tomioka x GN!Reader

Flufftember

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence, injuries, to those allergic to lavender I'm sorry, bed-sharing, night-terrors, getting cut by glass, reader is like a nurse of sorts at the butterfly mansion/has a lot of medical knowledge, limited knowledge of medicine (from me lol),

A/N: I had many different ideas for this one (some might turn into other fics/drabbles) and I listened to Chuck Berry while writing this. This also got more carried away than originally planned. Flowers became an afterthought, nonetheless I hope you enjoy. Posted a few days early just because.

Word Count: 1,000+

The recent battle had been a tough one for the stoic pillar. The demon had been stronger than previously anticipated, leaving Giyuu barely conscious after finally defeating the demon. Through the efforts of the kakushi, he was brought to the butterfly mansion for further treatment. 

Upon his arrival, you were tasked with cleaning up his wounds and bandaging them. As you removed his uniform you noticed glass shards trickle out, and scratches along his torso. Why is all that glass there, you thought, wasn’t he in the forest when he battled the demon? 

Your thoughts drift as you clean the glass from his wounds. You've known Tomioka for a good bit of time, from before he was a hashira. He was always a quiet one, hardly holding a conversation, but he did sit and listen to your rambles when he was treated at the butterfly mansion. He often stopped by along his routes too, he always brought sweets or other trinkets with him when he visited the mansion. When he visited you. Sometimes he told you stories, when you were alone, that is, he didn’t tell you about the bad parts of his missions, but rather the people he met along the way and how he came into possession of the newest piece of your ever growing collection of trinkets. While it was his job to travel across the vast country slaying demons, your job was here, tending to the wounded and healing, seldom traveling to the other wisteria houses for lent support. 

One of your favorite items you’ve received from him was a book on medicinal flowers and herbs. It reminded you of some of the medical books Kocho had stored in her office. It was a useful book Giyuu found when he passed through the city. It’s come in handy a few times, you’ve even added a few notes in the margins here and there that aid your studying. You carried that book with you in your med bag everywhere you went. 

His wounds were mostly superficial, save for the three gashes on his arm, which you had promptly disinfected and stitched. You disinfected the rest of his wounds littered along his arms and chest, before wrapping his arms in bandages. Getting up from the bedside, you carefully pull a top on him, tying it loosely. You grab your med bag, your book falling out in the process. It falls to the page on the lavender plant, one you have held interest in for a while.

Hm? Well lavender does have calming properties, I could put some by his bedside, you thought. You walked out towards the garden, cutting off a few stems to place in a small vase. An extra measure, you draped your haori over him, while you cleaned his. With one last sweep through the room, you turned to leave.

“Rest well, Tomioka, I’ll be back to check on you later.” you say as you quietly close the door behind you.

It was a pretty uneventful day afterwards, with Giyuu still resting, not even a small twinge from you inserting an IV. Until you heard screams down the hall from your room. You jumped up, grabbing your scarcely used blade and ran to the source. Your heart drops in your chest when you realize whose room it is, who it is. 

You burst open the door to find an asleep Giyuu, thrashing in his bed, pulling at his bandages and IV. You dropped the sword you were carrying and rushed over immediately to calm the man. Grabbing his wrists, trying to overpower the man, to no avail.

You let go, moving closer to his head, hands coming up to rub his temples. You whispered to him, trying to gently wake him up. Slowly the thrashing stopped, and he woke up. Your eyes met his dark orbs. His face went from panicked to calm, relaxing in your touch. You moved to the side of the bed, sitting on the edge.

“Where’d you go?” he whispered. You looked at him puzzled, you hadn’t been there most of the day. “You were here, then all of a sudden you left me. I couldn’t feel your presence anymore.” 

Your eyes scanned down to your haori, which had fallen off of him at some point and onto the floor, “Tomioka-san, I haven’t been here most of the day. I’ve been running around the butterfly estate.” You respond. 

A soft oh escapes his lips, leaving you both in a calm silence. You impulsively reached up and stroked his hair, brushing your fingers through his soft locks.

“Are you feeling better?” You ask, retreating your hand from his hair. Before you could fully pull away, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you against him. 

“Don’t leave please,” he barely manages to whisper. So you don’t. You pull yourself under the sheets. Letting him cling on to you for dear life, tears running down his face. It was different to see him so… vulnerable. Before, his body language was always the same, distant. Always an arm length away, except now. He held you tightly to his chest, as if you would slip away at any moment.  You both fell back asleep peacefully like that. 

He wakes in the morning to your sleeping form, arms wrapped around his neck, head buried in his chest, he freezes. His mind can’t remember how you got there or why he was holding you. You slowly awaken from your sleep, rubbing your head against his chest. You meet his eyes, also freezing upon realization. You untangle yourself from him gently, making sure not to hit his wounds. Profusely apologizing about what happened. 

Before you can leave, however, he grabs your wrist firmly, keeping you back.

“What happened?” He asks, letting go of your wrist. You turn to see him better, gliding back to the bed. 

“You don’t remember?” you ask, confused. 

“I remember you leaving and coming back. I don’t remember you getting in my bed.”

He doesn’t remember the nightmare, you thought. You begin to recount the prior events, starting with him arriving at the butterfly mansion, leaving your haori in place of his dirty one, placing an IV later in the evening, to the nightmare he seemed to be having. 

“I remember smelling lavender. I thought I dreamed of you.”

“Oh, the lavender? That’s what I put by your bedside. The book you gave me said it had calming properties. Plus it reminded me of you.” 

“Not from the flowers. From you.” 

“Ohh…”, you weren’t sure of what to say. It was hard to find the words to explain that feeling in your chest, knowing he felt safe and comfortable with you. Awkward silence filled the air.

“What happened to my uniform? My haori?” Giyuu broke the silence, eyes searching around the room for his belongings.

“I discarded the uniform, there were a lot of broken pieces of glass over it, but I cleaned your haori. It’s in my room,” you reply. 

“Broken glass… that means-” he muttered. 

“Means what?” you ask.

“I just-,” He pauses, “I had something special in there for you. It’s nothing really.”

Your ears perked up, “Something for me?”

“There was a stall selling perfumes, the scent reminded me of you, so I purchased it.” 

“That’s so sweet Tomioka-san. You don’t have to bring me gifts every time you see me. I appreciate them though.” 

“I want to bring them to you,” he says, “I don’t really know the right words to say, but I’m fond of you. You give me feelings I never thought I could experience.”

“I’m very fond of you too.” You blush. 

Bonus:

“You know, since you like lavender, I could press these flowers for you to keep. I know it's not much compared to all you’ve given me, but-”

“I would love that. I’ll cherish anything you give me.”

[themaladaptivewriter12]

Title: Break

Part 6 of my “Cray-Cray for Cater” series! Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5 can be found here!

Parings: Cater Diamond x Twisted Wonderland Male OC (Mirai Yuhara)

Summary:

With fall break finally here, Mirai is once again reminded of his place within this world. But maybe, just maybe, it won't be that bad after all?

cw: Kinda spicy? Nothing explicit but I wanna just throw that out there. Biting, love bites, heavy kissing, literal sleeping together. Let me know if the rating should change.

a/n: I don't hate Cater's family, but I'm going for this medium between them trying to fix their behavior towards each other, but it's like, not enough. They are such a grey area for us, yet so impactful on Cater's character.

Reblogs are appreciated, just use my custom tag, #TheMaladaptiveWriter12, if you do!  (─‿‿─)♡

Cross posted from my Ao3: TheMaladaptiveWriter12

It was fall break at Night Raven College and because of that, everyone was going home for a week. Mirai was kinda bummed about that, not that he really missed home that much, but things like that really made him remember how much of an outsider he really was, how much he didn’t belong there at Night Raven College. He didn’t have a place to call his own. No house to go back to, no friends, no family, absolutely nothing. All he had was Ramshackle, but even that was superficial. He could lose it all at the very whim of their oh so “benevolent” Headmage, or when he eventually had to “graduate” from Night Raven College. Then where would he be? He couldn’t stay here forever. He’d be way too old to even live on campus, it would be just plain weird, and worse case scenario, he’d have to stay there forever and become the college campus legend. “Student of Night Raven College that never left” they’d say. He’d eventually grow old and die in the Ramshackle Dorm and become one of the ghosts, haunting the Dorm forevermore. Okay, maybe that was a stretch, but Mirai was too deep in his head to use common sense. 

And if he did leave, where would he be able to go? Where would he live? How would he even survive in a world totally different from his own? Just the very thought of that was beginning to stress Mirai out as he wandered the dorm, alone. Even Grim left, not even telling Mirai where he was going, Mirai just hoped that the little monster cat didn’t stay out too late. Grim came in and out as he pleased, getting food, and going to sleep where he saw fit, but then he was out again. And when Mirai asked what he was up to, he wouldn’t say. All he said was that he was on a “mission to greaten his magic prowess,” whatever that meant. Mirai couldn’t phantom what the cat was up to, but he hoped he wasn’t getting into any trouble, that was the last thing Mirai needed.

Mirai sighed to himself as he made his way back to the lounge. He had cleaned thoroughly, washing the bed linen, washing his clothes, dusting, sweeping, mopping, and he even maintained the outside of the dorm for once. He cut the grass, weeded the garden, and watered the plants. He washed the windows, cleaned the rain gutters, swept the stairs, raked the leaves, and even maintained the gargoyles exactly how Malleus taught him to do. Of course all of that took a while to complete, three days to be exact, but he still had about a week of loneliness to go. 

If this had been a few months ago, this loneliness wouldn’t have bothered him one bit. He’d be back in America, working from sunup to sundown, eating takeout, catching a late night showing on tv before going to sleep, wherever that was, and then repeating the dull, life draining process in the morning. A few months ago he wouldn’t have missed the hustle and bustle of the college, he wouldn’t had missed Ace and Deuce’s bickering, Riddle’s rule enforcing rampages, Azul’s food at Mostro Lounge, Ruggie’s snickering as he messed with Leona, Kalim’s joyous attitude, Rook’s dramatic way of speaking, Ortho’s childlike wonder, and or Malleus’ random visits. Of course he wouldn’t have missed any of this a few months ago, he wouldn’t have known any better, but now? It was a heavy cloud over his head, and a heavy weight on his shoulders and heart. 

And mostly, Mirai missed Cater. He missed Cater’s Magicam photoshoots, Cater’s playful demeanor, and their late night talks. He missed Cater’s hugs, his kisses, the doting nature Cater had when it came to him, he missed everything about Cater. Mirai was berating himself for acting like a lovesick puppy. He could handle not being with his boyfriend for more than two days, but Mirai supposed it was due to the fact he knew that the redhead wouldn’t be back for another seven days. 

Mirai grumbled around his leftover spaghetti, sighing as he checked his phone for any messages from his friends, there were none. Cater had promised to call him to check up on him, all of the guys did, knowing his situation, but not one of them did, well, not yet at least. And Mirai really didn’t want to call them, he didn’t want to be a bother while they all were trying to enjoy their break with their families, and especially not just for something trivial as small talk. But Mirai couldn’t help but feel sad and angry. Sad and angry that the guys had forgotten about him, but also sad and angry at himself for even feeling that way. He felt clingy, and he suspected that it was because he knew, in reality, that he truly was alone. Mirai sighed again as he checked Cater’s Magicam page. Cater hadn’t even posted, which surprised Mirai. Cater posted about everything, no matter how small it was. He was hoping to see a little more of his boyfriend’s life, and if not, then just hear his voice through a post or see a more recent picture of his face. 

Mirai got up from the kitchen table and put his bowl in the sink, not even bothering to clean it like he usually did, but he did have half the mind to rinse it first. Dragging his feet as he shut off all the lights, Mirai made his way upstairs for the night. A depressing mood hung over him like a fog as he showered, brushed his teeth, and changed into his pajamas, taking off his prosthetic, and by the time Mirai was plugging in his phone and crawling into bed, he was biting his lip, trying to stop the tears that threatened to fall. Mirai threw himself into his pillow, pulling his blanket over himself as sobs escaped his lips, chest heaving. He was lonely and he hated it, hated being so weak and clingy, hated the fact that he felt like this and he couldn’t fix it. He wanted a hug, he wanted someone to talk to, he wanted Cater. 

Mirai didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, but woke up to his phone blaring on his bedside table. His pillow was wet, a huge dark spot where his head lay, his eyes stung, burning from crying before he fell asleep, and his eyelids lids stuck together from his dried tears. Mirai wiped his eyes, reaching for his phone. The time read three in the morning, it was nowhere near the time for him to get up. So why was his phone going off? Mirai checked his notifications, heart skipping as he read that he had three missed calls from Cater, one not even five minutes ago. Why would Cater be calling him so late? Maybe there was a time difference between the Shaftlands and Night Raven College? But even still, Cater should know that, so why would he call so late into the night? Mirai was debating if he should call back or just wait until the morning when his phone rang again. Mirai quickly swiped right, putting the phone to his ear, answering.

“Hello?” Mirai called, flinching at how raspy his voice sounded from crying and sleep.

“Hey Mi-Mi,” Cater greeted, sounding guilty, “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“It’s okay,” Mirai reassured, clearing his throat a little, “I don’t mind.”

He really didn’t. Mirai couldn’t describe the relief he felt just from hearing Cater’s voice. He’d wake up any day at any time to talk to Cater. He was so happy that he almost wanted to cry again, but he refused, his eyes already burning from earlier.

“S-So what’s up?” Cater asked, “How’s your break been?”

Cater was being weird, but Mirai ignored it for now, going along with what Cater was trying to hide. “I did a whole bunch of cleaning,” Mirai sighed into the phone, “My body hurts so bad, I might as well have been taking supplementary lessons from Coach Vargas.”

Cater chuckled, his laugh sound too stressed, too dry to be truly genuine, “You poor thing. You should be relaxing, not working yourself so hard. We’re on break after all.”

“Might as well get it out the way now rather than later. But now I have the whole week to relax.”

“That’s good. Don’t work yourself too hard, ‘kay?”

“Mn,” Mirai hummed.

There was silence, neither of them saying anything for a long while.

“So,” Mirai started, “Is there like a time difference between here and the Shaftlands? ‘Cus it’s three in the morning.”

“O-Oh, yeah. A little,” Cater stuttered, “I must be ruining your sleep. I-I’ll, I’ll call you later, yeah?”

“Cater?”

“‘Sup?”

“What’s wrong?” Mirai asked, done pretending that he didn’t notice his boyfriend's mood.

“I-I-I don’t, I’m not, I-”

“Cater? What’s wrong?” Mirai asked firmly.

“I’m, I’m outside,” Cater whispered. 

“What?!”

Mirai dropped his phone, rushing out of bed, not caring that he was only in one of Cater’s shirts and a pair of cotton boxers. Mirai twisted the lock and ripped the door open, looking around until his green eyes finally found Cater’s curled form sitting next to the door. Cater looked up from where his phone was on the ground next to him, eyes meeting Mirai’s as he forced a smile.

“Cater,” Marai gasped.

“H-Hey, Babe,” Cater stuttered.

“C’mere,” Mirai breathed, “C’mere.”

Cater staggered as he got up, ending the call and pocketing his phone to grab his luggage. Mirai let Cater in, and just as he shut the door, twisting the lock back in place, Cater was pulling the Ramshackle Prefect into his arms, squeezing him in a desperate embrace. 

“Oh Cater, you’re cold,” Mirai sighed softly. 

“I-I’m fine,” Cater whispered, shivering, voice sounding broken. 

“Come sit, come sit.”

Mirai pulled Cater to the lounge, turning on one of the lamps and he sat Cater down. As Mirai pulled away, Cater grabbed his wrist in a desperate attempt to keep him close.

“Please don’t go,” Cater begged, “Please.”

Mirai got a good look at Cater and his heart shattered. His usual cheerful face was sullen, dark bags under red rimmed eyes that were void of their usual brightness. His smile was replaced with a deep frown, he looked miserable.

“C’mon,” Mirai said, forgoing his thoughts on tea. Clearly it wasn’t what Cater needed at the moment.

Cater grabbed his things, shutting off the lights, following Mirai up to his room.

“Make yourself at home,” Mirai said, turning on the heat.

Cater nodded, grabbing some clothes to change into and entered the bathroom. Mirai waited, nervous energy building up inside him. He had so many questions, but knew he had to take everything slowly, one step at a time, lest he wanted to overwhelm Cater, who already looked to be on the verge of a breakdown. Cater excited the bathroom, clad in his pajamas. He looked nervous like he didn’t know what to do with himself, teetering back and forth on his feet. 

“Come sit,” Mirai beckoned.

Cater stuffed his clothes away and sat on the bed. He didn’t say anything, he just stared into the dim corner of the room like it held all the world's answers. Mirai didn’t know what to do, what to say, but he was gonna try.

“Hey,” Mirai said softly, sitting on the bed next to Cater, “We can do whatever you want to do.”

Cater nodded slowly, still not looking Mirai’s way.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, and Mirai grabbed Cater’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He wanted to give Cater a chance to speak, to say anything. Even if it was one of the stupidest things Mirai would ever hear in his life, he would wait. But when their silence dragged on too long, Mirai knew he had to take it step by step. 

“Do you wanna talk now, or sleep?” Mirai asked after some time.

“Sleep,” Cater croaked out, “please.”

“Okay, we can do that.”

Mirai crawled up to the top of the bed, flipping his tear stained pillow over, and pulled back the cover to let him in. Cater crawled up next to him and scooted under the covers, pulling them over himself. Mirai scooted closer, slowly wrapping his arm around the older male, giving him a chance to pull back if he wanted to. He didn’t. Cater accepted the cuddle, pulling Mirai closer, pressing his face into Mirai’s chest. 

“Sweet dreams, Cater,” Mirai whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Cater’s head. 

Cater didn’t respond as he pressed himself further into Mirai’s embrace.

Mirai woke up, the sun blaring through the curtains of his floor to ceiling windows. Mirai groaned, hiding his face into his pillow, but instead, his nose was filled with ticklish strands of orange hair. Mirai reeled back, nose tingling with a sneeze. Once the tingling stopped, Mirai looked down, and giggled. Sometime that night, Mirai and Cater rolled over, and now Cater was hugging a pillow as Mirai held him. Mirai found the sight amusing. But then again, there was something about holding Cater like this that made Mirai’s heart warm. Mirai wanted to be someone Cater could lean on when he needed to, and as sappy as it sounded, he sometimes wanted to protect the older male from the harshness of the world, taking the damage for him like a shield. He knew he really couldn’t do that, since everyone had their own wars to fight, but that also didn’t mean either of them didn’t have to do so alone. So just holding Cater like this was enough.

Mirai reached up and pulled Cater’s hair out of his face and behind his ear, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of his head. Mirai would lie here as long as he had until Cater woke, he didn’t mind one bit. Mirai began carding his fingers through Cater’s hair softly, pulling thick orange strands back against his head, blunt fingernails scratching at his scalp. 

“Mn, that feels good,” Cater sighed, voice raspy from sleep.

Mirai chuckled, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No.”

There was silence after that, and both of them didn’t know how to break it. Mirai tried to peer over at Cater’s face, but he couldn’t, not without jostling them from their comfortable position.

“You hungry?” Mirai asked after some time.

“Mn.”

“How about you go shower and I go make breakfast? How do omelets and pancakes sound?” Mirai asked.

Cater just nodded, yawning into his pillow. 

“Okay.”

Mirai scooted backwards, releasing Cater from his embrace, and Cater immediately turned around, chasing after the Ramshackle Prefect. Mirai entered the bathroom to brush his teeth, and Cater followed doing the same, the both of them standing shoulder to shoulder. They both looked a mess. Their eyes were tired and puffy, lined with sleep, their faces were red, marked from their pillows, and their hair tangled and all over the place. Mirai laughed, trying not to spit toothpaste on the mirror as they fought for sink space. Cater nudged him with his elbow and Mirai nudged him back. Cater chuckled around his toothbrush, bumping Mirai back with his shoulder. They were being childish, they both knew, but they didn’t care, the mood definitely better than last night. 

Mirai washed his face, scrubbing at his skin, ridding himself of the night's filth. Mirai blindly reached for his towel, drying his face, and when he checked his appearance in the mirror, looking for any residue soap, he caught Cater’s reflection. He was standing behind him in nothing but his black cotton boxers as he turned on the shower faucet. Mirai’s green eyes raked over Cater’s lean body, his thin waist, his smooth skin, his soft muscle. Mirai looked up and over his shoulders, to his neck, and face, where he met Cater’s green eyes staring back at him, a knowing smirk on his lips. 

“Naughty little Mi-Mi,” Cater teased, walking over to Mirai, “checking me out like that.”

“I mean,” Mirai said with smug thoughtfulness, “the view is nice.”

Cater chuckled, the sound echoing off the tile of the bathroom, “Yeah? And what was Mi-Mi thinking about when he was looking at little ol’ me?”

“Secret.”

“You’re a dirty little thing,” Cater sang, smacking Mirai on the rear.

Mirai gasped, face flushed with a pout. He supposed he deserved it, for he was unabashedly staring at his boyfriends semi naked form.

“Don’t pout, Babe,” Cater cooed, wrapping his arms around Mirai, voice dropping to a sultry octave, “or I may have to bite those pretty little lips of yours.”

Mirai flushed even more, if that was even possible, face hot as he gasped at their close proximity, and Cater’s state of undress. 

“Sh-Shower! Shower,” Mirai commanded, shoving Cater towards the tub.

Cater laughed, throwing his head back, “Mi-Mi’s embarrassed! #Cute!”

Mirai pouted, flicking Cater on the shoulder blade.

“Ow,” Cater complained playfully, “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

“You do that, you dummy,” Mirai huffed, marching out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

Mirai busied himself with putting on his prosthetic, changing the bed linen, and putting on some pants, as he waited for the flush on his cheeks to die down. After he finished, Mirai made his way to find Grim. He was asleep in the lounge.

“You want food, Grim?” Mirai asked.

Grim instantly woke up, little pink tongue darting out to lick at his lips. “Yeah, what are we having?”

“Pancakes and omelets.”

“Oh, add bacon to mine!”

“Alright,” Mirai chuckled. “Go wash up, yeah?”

“Don’t wanna,” Grim pouted petulantly. 

Mirai gave Grim a look, a look that said ‘you get nothing if you don’t wash up,’ and Grim deflated, grumbling as he made his way upstairs. 

Mirai was on his fifth omelet when a pair of arms wrapped themselves around his waist.

“That looks good,” Cater muttered, kissing the back of Mirai’s head.

“Thanks,” Mirai said, his free hand coming up to hold Cater’s.

They stood in their embrace, Cater humming occasionally as he began to rock back and forth, moving the Prefect with him. Cater was warm from his shower, skin and hair still a little damp.  

“Could you set the table? The pancakes and the hashbrowns are already done.”

“Mh hm.”

Cater set the table, placing the decent sized stack of pancakes in the middle of the table along with two cups, a bottle of orange juice and a stack of napkins. By the time Cater was done, placing down the last fork, Mirai was done with the last Omelet, plating it on the empty plate. 

“Here,” Mirai said, placing the plate in front of the seat Cater was standing behind. 

“TYSM,” Cater smiled, sitting down. 

“Grim,” Mirai called, “Breakfast!”

Little thumps were heard, and soon, Grim was scurrying into the kitchen. “Thanks, Hench-human,” Grim said, taking his plate.

And as soon as he was in, he was out again.

“Where’s he going?” Cater chuckled.

“To his room,” Mirai said. “He has been up to something recently, and has holed himself up in his room. I don’t care as long as he cleans up, and doesn’t cause me any trouble.”

“Oh.”

Cater and Mirai served themselves. Mirai took a couple of pancakes, adding a load of butter and syrup. Cater on the other hand opted to just eat his omelet with some bacon and the hashbrowns Mirai had made. As they ate, they chatted about everything, school, tv shows, the weather, anything to fill the silence. But as they did, Mirai knew that they really needed to talk about what had happened last night. Mirai had so many questions, like why and how Cater ended up on his doorstep, how long had he been sitting there, why had he looked like he had been crying? But he wanted to give Cater time and the chance to eat before he brought the topic up again. And Mirai had noticed another thing, Cater hadn’t picked up his phone since they woke up. It wasn’t even on his person, it was upstairs somewhere. Cater never wasn’t without his phone, he was almost always either posting on his Magicam or checking his feed. There was never a moment Cater wasn’t seen without it.

As they finished their food, Cater began to fidget in his seat, a guilty countenance set upon his face. Mirai felt bad, he knew that Cater knew that they were gonna have to have that conversation, and he hated the fact that he was the one that was causing it. Mirai got up, washing his dishes and everything he used to cook with, and Cater joined his side not long after.

“Wanna go back upstairs, or do you wanna stay down here?” Mirai asked, taking off his rubber gloves. 

“Upstairs,” Cater answered.

Back in his room, Mirai crawled atop the bed, sitting up against the headboard, reaching a hand out. Cater crawled in after him, situating himself in Mirai’s arms for a cuddle.

“Wanna talk about last night?” Mirai finally asked with a sigh, not wanting to upset Cater anymore than what he was now.

“I really don’t want to, but I know it’s better that I do,” Cater sighed.

“I’m not forcing you,” Mirai soothed, rubbing Cater’s back. “I’m just concerned.”

“I know. That’s why it’s better if I explain.”

“Okay.”

Cater sighed, burying his face into Mirai’s shirt, hands clutching at the fabric on Mirai’s back. “I got in a fight with my mother.”

Mirai didn’t say anything, but he held Cater tighter in reassurance.

“I normally don’t go home for break, making excuses on why I can’t make it, why I can’t spend it with them, and then I go and spend it with Trey. But I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, so I decided to go home, since I haven’t been in a while.”

Mirai hummed to let Cater know he was listening.

“When I got home, my mother wasn’t happy. She started yelling at me about how I was never home, and that I should’ve never left for school like my father had urged me to, if I wasn't gonna come home. I mean, I deserve that one, but I don’t miss home at all. And of course my sisters had all kinds of things they wanted me to wear, and all kinds of sweets they wanted me to try. And I couldn’t say no, I’m not allowed to,” Cater rasped, voice was straining as he spoke, trying not to cry as he retold what had happened. “It all became all too overstimulating too fast. I wanted to tear apart all the frilly and lacy outfits my sisters made me wear for them, because my clothes were “so not cute.” I wanted to shout back at my mother as she picked apart my wardrobe, as she berated me for my grades, for the way I spoke, for the way my hair was styled, for what I was posting on my Magicam.”

“Cater,” Mirai breathed, holding the older male’s shaking form even tighter.

“I wanted to throw up with the amount of cake I was forced to eat, all the cookies I wished I could change the flavor of, and I did, I forced myself to, and I did,” Cater admitted, hiccuping a sob into Mirai’s shirt.

Mirai felt horrible. While he was here, upsetting himself over something small, petty even, for missing his boyfriend, wallowing in self pity, Cater was suffering, fighting his own wars on his own home front. Mirai felt choked up, tears threatening to fall as Cater spoke. 

“I miss, I miss my father,” Cater cried, “He, He never made me do anything, b-but he’s never home. I-I mean, it was never a better situation, and I-I know they’re trying, b-but what’s it matter if, if they never truly ask what I want? A-And last night, my sisters found out that you were my boyfriend.”

Cater was now crying, tears soaking Mirai’s shirt, chest heaving from his sobbing, and Mirai was crying tears of his own as he rubbed Cater’s back, trying to sooth his boyfriend. 

“We somehow g-got on the topic of partners and marriage. My sisters wanted t-to hook me up with one of their friend’s li-little sisters, when I told them I was seeing someone. They asked why I c-couldn’t be with someone c-cuter, s-someone like Vil Schoenheit, someone w-who wasn’t so ugly, so, so hideous,” Cater stuttered, as he cried, his voice taking an angered tone. “I was so angry with t-them that I screamed at them, I screamed at m-my sisters, at my own mother. They don’t know you! They don’t know you like I do, so how could t-they say such things?! And, and the thing is, they do. They always do and they always did. And, and b-before I knew it, I-I was storming out of the house with my things in hand.”

Cater gasped a breath before continuing, “I didn’t know where to go, I didn’t have anywhere to go. But then I remembered that you were still here, so I came back here. And by the time I got here it was so late, and I really didn’t want to wake you. But I didn’t know what else to do so I called, hoping you’d wake up, and you did, I’m so glad you did.”

Cater sat up, his form looming over Mirai’s as he grabbed the Prefect’s wet and blotchy face between his hands. 

“Cater?” Mirai called, voice quivering with tears.

Cater didn’t know what these feelings were, but he wanted to try. Cater Diamond didn’t fall in love, everyone fell in love with him. He was never one for long lasting relationships, never one for sappy words that came from the heart. He just liked to play his cards right with the next pretty face, and when they broke it off, he found someone else. But Mirai was different, so much different, and he didn’t want to miss his chance. Before Cater could stop them, the words he’d been keeping close to his heart came tumbling free.

“I love you,” Cater confessed, voice warbling, “I love you so much.”

Cater’s face was wet, flushed red from his crying, his green eyes were bloodshot, and swollen, his lips red and abused from biting them. Mirai’s whole world seemed to slow at those words, eyes widening as it all sank in. Mirai was stunned silent, voice caught in his throat, a garbled noise emitting from his lips as he tried to say something, anything. After a while Cater’s eyes widened in realization of what he just had confessed, color draining from his face. 

“A-Ah,” Cater gasped, shooting up, sheer panic coloring his face, “I, wait, I, no, I didn’t mean, wait, no, I meant it but I didn’t mean to say it-ugh! Way to go, Cay-Cay, talk about #Lame.”

Cater ran his fingers through his bright orange curls, exasperated. His freckled cheeks were beet red, his eyes looking anywhere but Mirai as he sighed. Mirai stared at Cater, mind still reeling. Mirai reached forward and slowly pulled Cater to face him. Cater looked up confused, and before he could ask, Mirai was smashing their lips together. Cater staggered, surprised, but melted quickly after, deepening the kiss with a sigh. It hurt a bit, their lips colliding with a clash of  teeth, but neither of them stopped, neither of them cared.  

 Mirai pulled back, holding Cater’s face in his hands. “I love you too,” Mirai whispered, teary green eyes steely and serious, yet so soft and full of love, “I love you.”

Cater chuckled breathily, and Mirai thumbed away the tears as they started to fall down Cater’s face again. 

Mirai and Cater lie together, basking in the afternoon sun beaming through Ramshackle’s floor to ceiling windows. Mirai lay above Cater, his chin resting atop Cater’s head, and as always, Mirai was playing in Cater’s hair, fingers scratching at the base of his neck. Cater lay below him, head lying halfway on Mirai’s chest, their legs tangled together. One of Cater’s feet was rubbing at the back of Mirai’s calf, and sometime during their cuddling, one of Cater’s hands found its way under Mirai’s shirt, his fingers flittering up to his ribcage and back down, his thumb rubbing small mindless patterns into the dip in his hip. 

“Why were you crying last night?” Cater asked, pressing his face into Mirai’s neck.

“Crying?” Mirai asked befuddled, “I wasn’t crying.”

“Your face was really puffy, and your eyes were red, so I thought you had been crying.”

“O-Oh.”

Cater sat up, looking his lover in the face, “So you were crying.”

“It, it was nothing important,” Mirai huffed, looking away from Cater.

“It is, if it made you cry.”

“But it’s not important now.”

“How is it not?”

“Be-Because, because you’re here now! So it’s fine,” Mirai flushed, covering his face with his hands.

“Eh?” Cater huffed, reaching down to pull Mirai’s hands from his face. “What do you mean because ‘I’m here now?’ I don’t get it. And stop hiding.”

“Be-Because,” Mirai stuttered, “I-I-I missed you! I missed you and me and my stupid separation anxiety was being a big baby about it because I was lonely!”

Cater’s fight left him at Mirai’s words, a small smile gracing his lips, “You could’ve called me.”

“And be that overbearingly annoying clingy boyfriend? No way! Hard pass! No thanks!”

“You could never be any of those things to me,” Cater cooed, kissing Mirai on the nose.

Mirai grumbled, hiding his face again.

“Don’t pout,” Cater cooed, leaning down to whisper in Mirai’s ear, “You know what happens when you pout.”

“Cat-ah! S-stop!”

Mirai laughed as Cater ran his fingers across a particularly ticklish spot on his stomach. Cater chuckled, pulling the Prefect’s shirt up his chest, and ran his fingers all over Mirai’s stomach. Mirai was cackling, tears in his eyes as he tried to fight off Cater’s attack.

“O-Okay! Okay,” Mirai laughed, “I yield! I g-give! I’m sorry!”

Cater ceased his attack, giggling as Mirai continued to scoot away from him. 

Cater stared at Mirai, taking in the sight of his lover in the afternoon light. Mirai’s pale blonde hair was haloed around his head reflecting the sun, his freckles that littered his warm pale skin that was flushed a bit from laughing, the dark eye bags that never seemed to fade, his vivid green eye and the scars that marred his face. Cater felt warmth in the pit of his chest, so much that it almost hurt.

“What?” Mirai asked fondly, “What is it?”

“I really am in love with you,” Cater whispered.

“So I’ve heard,” Mirai chuckled, “But yeah, I’m in love with you too.”

Cater leaned down, holding Mirai’s face in his hands, their noses touching with their closeness. Cater hummed happily as he pressed his lips against Mirai’s in a chaste kiss. Mirai breathed a laugh, leaning up to kiss Cater back. After a while their sweet kisses turned into something more as Cater deepened the kiss, his tongue pushing past the Prefect’s lips. Mirai whined, opening his mouth to let Cater in, his tongue chasing Cater’s. Cater groaned, pressing his body closer, his hands snaking up Mirai’s shirt, feeling their way up his lover’s torso. Mirai was whining loudly as Cater’s hands rubbed, pinched and pulled at the skin on his hips. And when Cater’s tongue ran across the roof of his mouth, Mirai was moaning, back arching. They parted, lips smacking, and Cater continued his assault down Mirai’s neck, kissing, biting and sucking wherever he could. 

“Bite me,” Mirai breathed, “Bite me harder.”

Cater groaned, latching on to the skin where Mirai’s shoulder and neck met, biting down hard. Mirai gasped, arching up into Cater, hands scrambling for purchase on the back of Cater’s shirt as he continued to abuse the spot, sucking and licking a big dark mark into his skin. Cater let go, licking the mark one last time before sitting up to look down at Mirai. The Ramshackle Prefect’s face was flushed a lovely red, lips swollen and wet. His hair was disheveled and so was his shirt, all crumpled, riding up his heaving chest, his eyes were clouded with heat, and on his neck was the mark, already starting to bruise, pretty against his pale flushed skin.

“Oh, that’s a good look on you,” Cater practically groaned, breathing haggard, “Wanna take a pic so bad.”

“Only if you let me mark you too,” Mirai smirked. 

Cater reached for his phone that was on the bedside table and booted it up. Once it powered on, Cater was immediately spammed with a bunch of messages. Cater’s face fell for a couple of seconds as he fiddled with the device, and if Mirai could guess, he probably was clearing out the messages from his Mother and sisters. 

“Come here, Baby,” Cater beckoned with a sly smile.

Mirai crawled up to where Cater was, allowing Cater to move him around for the picture. They ended up lying down, facing each other. Mirai’s face was pressed up into Cater’s neck, face hidden, both of them with their arms wrapped around each other, legs tangled together.

“Bite me,” Cater breathed, holding his phone above the two of them.

“Y-You’re gonna take it with me b-biting you?” Mirai stuttered, face flushing red.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I-I don’t mind.”

“Alright, cool. Whenever you’re ready.”

Mirai moved closer to Cater, trying to find a good spot to bite.

“This good?” Mirai muttered.

“Yeah, that’s good. Perfect.” Cater sighed.

Mirai took a breath before latching his mouth onto Cater’s neck. He took to an experimental bite, trying to feel how Cater would react. 

Cater sighed with a gasp, the hand under his shirt gripping his waist a little harder.

“Harder,” Cater begged.

Mirai whined, biting harder, relishing in the way Cater moaned loudly when he bit harder, sucking on his skin. He tasted like soap, his soap, and he smelled like it too, but underneath all of that, he still smelled distinctly like Cater, crisp, clean, and spicy. Cater twitched and shivered in his hold as Mirai continued to suck on his neck. No longer taking pictures, Cater relaxed in Mirai’s hold, gasping and moaning as Mirai continued to suck on his neck.

“M-More,” Cater gasped, “Again. Pl-Please.”

Mirai let go and moved atop Cater, pushing the strawberry blonde onto his back.

“Oh?” Cater teased breathily, “Someone’s feisty.” 

Mirai smirked as he got comfortable on Cater’s hips, hands pressing down on Cater’s chest as he leaned down, lips ghosting against Cater’s as he spoke, “You like it though.”

“I do,” Cater whispered back, pecking Mirai on the lips.

Mirai picked a spot on Cater’s collar bone, kissing the spot before latching on and biting down. Cater moaned, the sound rattling in his chest as his back arched, his hands coming up to hold Mirai’s hips, his head thrashing to the right. Mirai whined, sucking harder at his neck. 

“K-Keep, keep going,” Cater gasped.

Mirai hummed, pulling down Cater’s shirt collar to suck a new mark high on his chest. 

“So good for me, Baby,” Cater cooed breathily.

Mirai continued his loving assault on Cater’s neck, the both of them lost in the feeling of each other. Mirai gave a particularly hard suck on Cater’s jaw right below his ear, and Cater let out a keening whimper high in his throat, back arching, his hips grinding up into Mirai’s, and Mirai unconsciously returned the action, the both of them moaning out at the contact. 

They both froze, hearts hammering in their chests. Mirai pulled back, green eyes wide, face crimson as he looked down at Cater below him. Cater’s appearance wasn’t better off at all, he looked utterly debauched. His green eyes were glazed over, lips wet and red, face flushed red down past his shirt collar, and his neck littered with love bites, red and bruising against his honey skin. None of them said a word, staring at each other, not knowing what to say or do.

After a couple of moments of awkward silence, Mirai spoke, stammering, “So, how does, how does Ramen sound for dinner?”

Mirai boiled some ramen noodles as Cater played some pop music on his bluetooth speaker, dancing around the kitchen as he scrolled on his phone. Mirai laughed as Cater inched his way over to Mirai, hips swaying with the beat.

“Can I post this?” Cater asked, turning his phone around. 

“You took a video?!” Mirai shouted incredulously.

“Yep. It’s easier to get good pictures that way. I can delete it if you want me to.”

“I don’t mind, but don’t post the video.”

“Ok, how about this one?”

It was a nice picture, Mirai had to admit. It was quite provocative, yes, but it was a really nice picture. You couldn’t see the top halves of their faces, Cater’s being cut off by the frame, all that was visible was from his nose down, his lips that were crooked in a smirk. Mirai’s face was covered by Cater’s and his arm, his head cocked up into Cater’s neck, mouth latched on Cater’s neck, the bruise Cater had given him earlier visible to the camera.

“That one’s nice,” Mirai nodded.

“Yeah, this one’s my favorite, totally Cater approved. #Sexy,” Cater smiled. 

Mirai snickered, “You sure you wanna post that? Like doesn’t most of the student body follow you, including Riddle?”

“I won’t post it unless you don’t want me to,” Cater said, pulling Mirai into him, swaying them both with the beat. 

“I don’t mind. My issue is that I’m more concerned about you and your reputation.”

“How so?”

“Like, for starters, Riddle. I’m pretty sure you’re probably gonna get an earful if and when he sees that. And second, are you ready to like, make us more than a Heartslabyul secret? What about your followers?”

“Riddle’s totally gonna yell at me, but yeah, I think, I think I’m ready to officially change my Magicam status. My main reason was to keep it from my Mother and sisters, but since the cat’s out of the bag, why not post an actual picture of me and my totally sexy boyfriend, and not pass it off as friends just hanging out? And just to see my comment section blow up, I’m not gonna reveal who you are yet. Wanna make ‘em jealous.”

Mirai scoffed, taking the noodles off the stove, “Who would want me?”

Cater scoffed playfully, “Uh, me?”

“Besides you, you dummy.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Mirai looked surprised, “What do you mean?”

“You have quite the rep around here, and believe it or not, it’s more positive than negative.”

“I can’t see why? Like, who would want an ugly, scarred up, broken-”

“Finish that sentence and I will tell Riddle that it was you and Ace who put that hole in the wall.”

“Cater,” Mirai shouted, a pout on his face. “You promised! And Ace was asking for it!”

“Then don’t finish that sentence and I won’t tell,” Cater laughed.

Mirai pouted, as he dished the ramen into three bowls, setting the table.

“But back to our original conversation, is it alright if I post this?” Cater asked, sitting down.

“Yeah, I don’t mind,” Mirai said, sitting down next to Cater.  

“Cool.”

Five minutes later, Cater posted the picture.“#FallBreak, #BestVaycayEver, #Boyfriends,” Cater rambled, other hashtags Mirai couldn't catch with the speed Cater was posting at. “And done.”

“Sap,” Mirai laughed.

“Love you too,” Cater cooed with a wink.

Mirai shook his head. 

Grim came down sometime after, taking a seat at the other end of the table.

“So why’s he here?” Grim gruffed around a mouthful of noodles.

“Grim,” Mirai warned.

“What?! Isn’t he supposed to be on vacation? Who’d want to spend their vacation at school?”

Cater smirked, “What can I say, Cay-Cay missed his totally adorable boyfriend and his boyfriend’s totally adorable cat.”

“I am not a cat!”

Cater began poking fun at Grim and Grim retaliated with empty threats and harsh words. Mirai, on the other hand, laughed loudly at their bickering.

Grim left, more annoyed than angry after Mirai gave him a donut for dessert, Mirai and Cater continued to eat their ramen, Cater’s music filling the space. Mirai watched Cater eat, finding it endearing as Cater tied his hair up into a short ponytail to keep it from falling into his food. 

“Is it hot enough for you?” Mirai asked, “Because if it’s not, there’s all types of hot sauce in the pantry.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m good,” Cater dismissed. 

Mirai got up from the table, confusing Cater as he rummaged through the pantry until he found the hot sauce. Mirai brought the small bottle back to the table, setting it in front of Cater.

“You didn’t have to do that. It’s good as is,” Cater reasoned.

“You like it spicy right? So just use it,” Mirai argued.

“But it’s good. I couldn’t mess up your food.”

“The only reason why it’s not spicy is because I can’t handle spicy food.”

“Nope, it’s fine.”

“You really don’t want it to be spicy?” Mirai asked.

“It’s fine, really,” Cater laughed. 

The pair finished their food, washing the dishes together, Cater washing and Mirai drying. Mirai put away the last dish, and when he turned around, Cater was dancing again. The song was upbeat, the kind of music you would hear at a party. Cater looked the Magicless Prefect in the eye as he swiveled his hips, a hand running up his torso, pulling his shirt up with it, his smooth stomach revealing itself in its wake. 

Mirai put a hand on his hip, raising an eyebrow, and Cater snickered, wiggling his eyebrows. Mirai laughed. 

“C’mon, Dollface, dance with me,” Cater laughed.

“Can’t dance,” Mirai smiled, “but the view is nice.”

Cater cackled, throwing his head back. 

Cater grabbed both of Mirai’s hands and pulled him close. The pair did nothing special, swaying to the beat of the music, Cater and Mirai spinning each other here and there. The couple had fun dancing around, Cater belting out a couple of lines, his voice playfully and airy, and more than once did they have each other blushing and laughing. Then a slower song played and they slowed their step to a slow dance, their movements unhurried and steady. Cater sang quietly to the song as he held Mirai close, his head resting on top of Mirai’s, his arms wrapped around the younger’s waist and shoulders.

“You smell good,” Mirai mumbled, pressing his face into Cater’s chest, tangling his hands in the back of his shirt.

“You always say that,” Cater chuckled. “What do I smell like?”

“I don’t know how to describe it. Like, I know you wear cologne, but you always smell clean, crisp, and spicy, sometimes even deep and musky, and sometimes light sweet, but it’s you.”

Cater hummed. 

Cater buried his face in Mirai’s hair, kissing the top of his head, and Mirai pressed his ear to Cater’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat as they danced. Mirai couldn’t explain the giddy warm feeling he felt when he was with Cater. Whether it be talking to Cater, eating with Cater, cuddling with Cater, or simply just sitting next to him, Mirai felt happy, and safe. And he never wanted to let that feeling go. 

Mirai turned his head and looked up at Cater, and Cater looked down with a warm smile.

“Yes, Cutie Pie?” Cater cooed.

“I love you,” Mirai whispered, face warming.

Cater flushed as he held Mirai’s face in his hands, his thumbs petting Mirai’s soft cheeks. Mirai reached up to place his hands on top of Cater’s, his hands running up the length of Cater’s arms until they were on his. They stared at each other, lost in each other's eyes, in the sweetness of the moment, and neither of them wanted it to end.

“I love you too,” Cater finally said, leaning down to kiss Mirai softly.

Cater’s phone went off, the ringer a playful little tune as it sounded through the room. The pair broke apart and Cater rushed over to his phone, face lighting up as he answered it.

“‘Sup Trey,” Cater chirped happily. 

“Not to dampen your mood, but you good?” Trey asked, genuinely concerned. 

“Yeah,” Cater breathed, “I am now.”

“That’s good, I’m glad. Thanks Mirai.”

“It was nothing really,” Mirai spoke up, looking over Cater’s shoulder, “Would’ve done it for any of you, honestly.” 

Suddenly Cater’s phone started going off again and after Cater clicked a button, Ace’s face came into view. 

“‘Sup Acey,” Cater winked. 

“Hi Ace,” Mirai waved.

“So we just not gonna talk about that picture you two posted?” Ace asked, an eyebrow raised. “Riddle’s gonna kill you.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him,” Cater laughed.

“Oh, but I do know.”

Cater froze as Riddle’s face came up next to Trey’s, face twisted in anger. 

“H-Hey Riddle,” Cater said, voice full of fear.

“Oh! Let me get Deuce in on this,” Ace said and not soon after Deuce joined the video call. 

“You’re so dead,” Deuce laughed. 

“Tell me Cater,” Riddle growled, “What would possess you to post something like that!”

“Mi-Mi gave me the okay to post it,” Cater defended himself. 

“Mirai! How could you let him post something so provocative like that?!”

Mirai laughed as he poked his head over Cater’s shoulder, “You have to admit, it was a nice picture.”

“Mirai!”

“It was, though,” Ace agreed.

Deuce and Trey nodded in agreement. 

“Don’t agree with them,” Riddle shouted.

“Lighten up Riddle, they’re having fun,” Trey soothed. “We’re letting the little things go, Riddle, remember?”

“This is not a little thing!”

“Totes a little thing,” Cater laughed.

Mirai laughed at Riddle as his face grew red.

Cater turned around, grabbing Mirai so that he was sitting on his lap, as Riddle and Trey continued to argue.

“Look at his neck,” Riddle yelled.

Mirai looked at their necks from the phone camera, and Mirai had to agree, their necks did look pretty bad. 

“Cater’s is worse than Mirai’s,” Ace laughed.

“It’s worse than it was in the picture,” Deuce laughed. 

“Oh Queen of Hearts, please help me,” Riddle groaned.

“Dang Mirai,” Ace laughed, “You really went to town, didn’t you?”

Mirai cackled, “He asked for it.”

“Mirai,” Riddle scolded.

“Keep telling y’all, wrong impression,” Mirai laughed.

“Looks like it hurts,” Deuce said.

“Oh no, Hon” Cater said, “It feels really good.”

“Cater,” Riddle chided.

Everyone laughed, while Riddle groaned miserably. 

“Ugh,” Riddle whined. “Why are we even discussing this?”

“You brought it up, boo,” Cater winked.

“But how are you gonna cover it up?” Deuce asked.

“It’s not like anyone’s gonna see it, I’m not going anywhere,” Cater said nonchalantly.

“You say that like you intend for no one to see that, yet post it on the internet,” Trey deadpanned. 

Cater laughed, flashing the camera with his signature three fingered salute. 

“So like, you guys aren’t afraid of what people might say?” Deuce asked warily. 

Everyone seemed to quiet down at his question.

“If you had asked me that a couple of weeks ago, I’d say yes, but now, I could care less,” Mirai said sincerely. “Anyone who has a problem can kick rocks.”

Cater, Ace, Trey, and Deuce laughed and Riddle sighed.

“I’ll let this one slide,” Riddle huffed, “But I don’t wanna see any more photo’s like that coming from either of you.”

“No promises,” Mirai sang.

Riddle growled.

“Have you seen Savanaclaw's posts?” Cater asked incredulously. 

“I have no control over Savanaclaw and what they post.”

“I think it was a nice photo,” An unfamiliar voice commented. 

Mirai looked at the screen, and jumped in surprise at the floating head behind Trey and Riddle.

“Get out, Che’nya,” Riddle yelled, swinging his arms. 

“Aww but I missed you,” Che’nya whined, body materializing as he held onto Riddle. 

“Get off me!”

The two began to argue, their voices loud and echoey through the phone, and it wasn’t until a pillow was thrown, most likely by Riddle, did Trey get up.

“Gotta go,” Trey said, wincing as the yelling continued, a loud bang resonating through the phone, “Talk later, yeah?”

“Bye, Trey,” Ace and Deuce waved. 

“Night,” Mirai waved. 

“Laters,” Cater waved. 

Trey hung up, leaving the chat.

“Ima get off too,” Deuce said, “It is late, and my mom is asleep.”

“That’s fine,” Mirai said, “Let’s all just call it a night. We can chat in the morning, yeah?”

“Yeah, night guys,” Ace called, “Night mama’s boy.”

“Hey,” Deuce shouted.

Everyone laughed.

“Night,” Cater chirped.

“Night, Deuce,” Mirai laughed.

“Night,” Deuce grumbled.

Cater ended the call, and Mirai stretched his arms over his head, yawning, as he stood up from Cater’s lap. It was late and Mirai thought about settling in for the night. 

“Wanna watch a movie?” Cater asked.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Mirai said thoughtfully.

“You can set up my laptop,” Cater said quietly, “but first, I’m gonna call my mother, and apologize.”

Mirai nodded, leaving to give Cater his privacy.

Mirai and Cater watched a movie on Cater’s laptop as they laid in bed together. It was some romcom where the female lead gets accepted for a job as secretary, but what she doesn’t know is that her new boss is the man who she dumped back in high school. Mirai was trying to pay attention, he really was, but with Cater playing with the hair at the base of his neck, his fingers scratching at his scalp, the slow relaxed rise and fall of Cater’s warm chest, and the sound of his beating heart, Mirai was struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“Falling asleep, Sweetpea?” Cater muttered, his voice sounding sleepy as well.

“No,” Mirai lied, a yawn escaping his lips.

Cater chuckled softly, “Liar.”

“Am not,” Mirai pouted, eyes closing again.

“Go to sleep, Baby. We can watch this another time.”

“I’m, I’m not tired,” Mirai slurred sleepily.

Not even a minute later, Mirai was snoring softly. Cater chuckled to himself, grabbing his phone to take a quick pic before he carefully shut and moved his laptop.

“Good night, Mi-Mi,” Cater whispered, placing a soft kiss to the crown of Mirai’s head, “Love you.”

Cater smiled to himself, nuzzling his face into Mirai’s hair. For once in his life, Cater could just be. He didn’t need to put on the pretty face created by his sister's perfection for all things cute, he didn’t have to put on the face he reserved for people so that they didn’t get too close, all because he and his family never stayed in one place when he was a child. He didn’t have to keep the fake smiles, no matter how he was feeling, just so that people couldn’t actually see how broken he really was. He didn't have to smile through the pain and lie through his teeth, because Mirai was always a step ahead of him, always so caring and attentive. So he could cry, he could be tired, he could be angry, he could be human again. He could be the man he wanted to be, the man he always wanted to be, not the jumbled up mess he was now. And most importantly, he could be himself. 

For once in his life, Cater felt that he belonged somewhere, somewhere he felt safe, somewhere he felt free, somewhere he felt loved, and somewhere he felt truly at home. And that somewhere was in the arms of his lover.

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

Thanks for reading, I really appreciate it. If it weren't for the smattering amount of yall who ready every time I post, I would have given up long ago, so thank you so much!

[arisenreborn]

For Reverie ☺️

stillness: How does your OC act while still? Are they fidgety? Do they have any common gestures or tics? Does their clothing affect how they hold themselves while at rest?

For Emrys ☺️

bling: What jewelry does your OC wear? Does it have any meaning?

Got to his a bit slow but thank you so much!! <3

(Character Design Asks)

Reverie:

Stillness seems to come pretty naturally to Reverie, in fact it's a little eerie at times just how still she can become when she's watching something, waiting for the right moment to act. But if there's no tension and she's just standing around at the market, waiting, or in a conversation, she will tug and fidget with the ends of her sleeves, or gloves. She also has a tendency to roll on the balls of her feet and sway a bit, occasionally, stretching a little to limber up. If she's wearing heavier armor she does tend to slouch and shuffle about more, getting impatient with the weight of it.

Emrys:

He doesn't have a lot of jewelry actually, or at least none that he would wear around (but does have little 'trophies' of varying but ultimately superficial sentimental value). He might sometimes wear simple, dangly trinkets out of feathers, animal claws/fangs, pretty stones he might make, but mostly stuff hanging off of his belt as opposed to necklaces and the like. He does however have a bracelet that Liùsaidh (@apricot-sprites) made for him. Normally he's ill-inclined to wear stuff like that because he figures it's liable to be damaged, so he prefers to leave it safely at home, but in particular this is one he generally does have a harder time doing so and likes to wear more often. Liù is someone who helped him start to put stock in things like 'hope' again, in good things overcoming bad things, so he thinks on this often when he looks at it, or needs that reminder. The other exception is the eternal bond ring Olivia gives him. She tried to make giving it to him a bit casual and wanted to respect how he felt about such a gesture, so she didn't push for it being any sort of sweeping indication, but... it definitely was and he definitely knew that. So he didn't wear it at first as he tried to fully grasp and accept everything that came with this little piece of metal. (And definitely made quite the impression when he finally did start wearing it around.) He doesn't always wear it when out traveling, but he always has it safely tucked away somewhere on him.

[beautifulpersonpeach]

your bff parkparkjeon is throwing the baby out with the bathwater dragging jimin into tae's mess you should talk sense into her instead of liking her posts if you like jimin as you say

***

Lmaoooooooooo.

A lot of you are insane and have no one to tell you.

I suppose after I'd been deleting your asks sent while Anonymous, you decided to take off anon and send in the same BS. Which is a good choice I guess if what you want from me is a response.

I don't typically get or respond to asks about bloggers and I don't actually know PPJ. I don't know anyone on here at all actually, but as I keep saying, if you're not Black, sit this one out. You have no idea, not even an inkling of a reference point, to begin even trying to partake in this conversation.

**

I was initially going to leave my response to you at that, but I've changed my mind. Because though my feelings don't perfectly align with PPJ's and they don't need anyone, least of all me, to defend them, I do want to say something about how generally, people in fandom and community systems are unable to process complex and dissenting opinions based on experiences (other) those people cannot possibly relate to. Especially when it comes to Black experiences.

It's possibly why I've gotten asks from other people wondering why it's such a bad thing to mouth a word if you're just 'singing along' to a song. Honestly, these are questions you should be asking the Black people in your real lives, not a stranger on the internet. But whatevs.

Even if my feelings don't perfectly align with PPJ's, I completely understand their frustration. Whenever Black people express hurt referring to general groups of people and while making sweeping statements like that, the impulse from other people is to point out the exceptions, the anecdotal instances that show Black people (and in this case, PPJ) they could be wrong. But the reality is that Black American experience is riddled with violations to their person, daily, from other Black people, from other POC, from white people, from really everyone, and yet it’s difficult to acknowledge that fact without sounding like a perpetual victim. Which is how most people see Black people when they make such statements. Nobody woke up two days ago and expected to see Tae mouthing "nigga". He could sing along to songs, but he didn’t need to sing along to that word if he cared about the implications. It’s really that simple. He went ahead and did so because he didn’t think it was a big deal. And that’s not uncommon, which I believe is the source of parkparkjeon’s frustration. It’s that so many people have such a superficial idea of what that word means and why Black people want to reclaim it as only theirs, that they don’t actually see the big deal in mouthing or singing along to it.

It feels like fighting a losing battle honestly, because the fact is people will always do what they want, and saying someone can’t say a certain word, for some people just makes them want to say the word even more, or to look for arguments in which saying the word is fine. The civil rights movement ended in the 60s, and yet it's 2023 and we're still here. The world doesn’t actually, really care about Black people, and this includes other Black people themselves I’d say, which I know sounds defeatist and is controversial to say. The lives and experiences of Black people just aren’t taken seriously, at least not to the same degree as other races and classes of people are, and that’s due to the lingering ripple effects from centuries of subjugation, as well as other factors. We have a plethora of literature, spanning centuries, of Black writers detailing their peculiar experience on this note, but someone saying this in plain English is taken as them whining, being annoying, going on and on about how the world isn't fair to them when 'they should know' everyone knows the world isn't fair anyways.

That's bullshit.

I say nigga because that’s what I am, it’s what I look like and it’s how I’ve lived and been treated in America. I don’t feel any special attachment to the word, it’s just a fact of the matter, but the reality that other groups of people refuse to acknowledge what that means for Black people as a group in America, the people who have reclaimed it and use it in their art, even with daily violations against their person in the US, the fact this still happens only reminds people of hurt. I can totally see where PPJ is coming from. And the last thing I'll do from one Black person to another, is try to stifle their self expression. They get to say what they want on this note. Whether or not I like it. And I say this not because I'm Black, not because I'm Korean, but because I'm a person who recognizes that they're not hurting anyone, they are simply expressing feelings of hurt related to an experience that is long-documented and is uniquely theirs.

As to your mention of Jimin, when I said certain crimes in k-pop are 'sticky', this is partly what I meant also, because the fact is Korean society has evolved through a Western imperialist system and is racist. Taehyung doesn't operate in a vacuum and behaved the way he did likely influenced by his own personal beliefs, and environment. Digging far back enough implicates everyone around him, including Jimin who has also made colorist statements. Does this mean I think Taehyung and Jimin are racist? No. Just as I don't think the people sending me asks wondering why they can't mouth "nigga" singing along to a song, are racist. But it does mean I think neither Taehyung nor the people asking these questions in my inbox, care enough about Black experiences to think about why "nigga" is a 'bad word' that only Black people today are supposed to get to use. Other members in the rapline through direct scrutiny, have over the years become more conscious of what this means, but I'm very certain, just by virtue of their environment, that they still have blindspots.

That's it.

And it's okay for a Black fan, to express their discomfort, frustration, and/or anger with this reality. This is something Black fans do by default anyway, critically moving through a world that claims to care and yet the bare minimum, of thinking about why things are the way they are, is too much of an ask. And this is not a condemnation of you, or BTS. It's simply an acknowledgement of the reality Black people inhabit.

So, no. I won't "talk sense" into them. I don't even know why you thought this was a reasonable thing to ask anybody to do. If they choose to no longer associate with the fandom as a result of their experience, that's very much their right. As it is for anyone who comes to such conclusions for whatever reason. Whether or not I agree with it. Whether or not you agree with it.

Welcome to Pluralism 101.

[clarabowmp3]

Hey. I hope you're doing well and having a great Sunday!I also think this pool party is totally weird, with people who are her friends who got involved in controversies a few days ago. Since last year, Taylor has been behaving completely differently from what she is, her friendships are shaping her not for the good but for the bad! Sorry for the words! But she's acting superficially and I've been in the fandom since the original Fearless era, in all her relationships she adapts to the guy's way and with Travis her attitudes are getting terrible. She's definitely not going to support the Democratic Party this year and if she does support it, it will be silent. Not like in 2020 when she went against her father and the people who manage her career as shown in Miss America, so unfortunately she's adapting to Travis, his friends and the NFL! There's a saying here in Brazil that goes like this: "Tell me who you hang out with and I'll tell you who you are".

hi!! Yupp I think there’s been a huge change in how we’ve seen her acting post-joe. In terms of political activism it feels like she’s treated it like another one of her albums/eras, ie now that time has passed she’s put it to rest etc (and the reason I’m bringing this up is not because I expect her to be political just because she’s a celebrity, it’s cuz one of the main messages of Miss Americana was abt how she herself wanted to be politically vocal). Like you said, she takes on certain traits of her partners, and maybe this was one of them.

That saying is soooo so true fr, someone is definitely the company they keep. Just look at the whole Matty Healy incident, and how she acts like she’s been so wronged on ttpd (eg in but daddy I love him) just for fans criticising her voluntarily choosing to be with a man as disgusting and despicable as him. I think a lot of ppl find it easy to sweep the whole thing under the rug now that he’s gone/now that taylor hates him too even tho it’s not for the right reasons. Like I think at her age you need to be held accountable for your choices and their implications, so I don’t care abt all those ‘oh she was just so in love!’ arguments, and I still think they don’t apply to Travis.

As for the whole nfl/travis thing, yea it sucks but also if this is the person she chooses to be/these are the people she chooses to surround herself with, it’s her problem yk? She’s mature and powerful enough (ie not subject to the whims and fancies of the industry) to make decisions for herself which reveal her character

[alabonshay]

// Since the Tag Game brought up a lot of details on the Duchess' self-esteem, appearance, etc, it's true her genuine opinion is that managing her own body is a daily struggle. She finds this aspect of her life really irritating. However, she still loves when people take an interest in her.

The other half of her brain resides firmly in the gutter. It's the superficial, physical interest which improves her self-esteem. She feels good about herself then. She will sweep them off their feet for the heck of it, indulge them a little. No one else has the same presence, behaves in the understated way which lends so well to the 'big bad' fantasy, and is also willing to cheat. It's what makes her so. Hm. Popular with other people's disillusioned spouses.

She can always go back to being chronically ill and bitterly nostalgic later. (People seem genuinely surprised by how fragile she is, once she drops the act.)

[multi-lefaiye]

Yknow what here's a fun one for you: Do they see The Stepford Wives(2004) as mainly a Comedy, a Horror, or a Cringefest? (i'm in the horror camp, it unnerves me a lot worse than the original did.) and for a little queer test, how do they feel about Roger specifically.

OKAY GENUINELY THOUGH-

i think i actually remember seeing people bring up the stepford wives in a conversation about misinterpretations of midsommar, but i'll admit i haven't seen it myself so there's not much i can add here.

i also wanna do on a quick side tangent here. under the cut b/c this is rambly nonsense

so i'm not at all opposed to the usage of terms like "cozy horror" or w/e but goddamn the use of that gets on my nerves at times. i don't think it's at all bad to find comfort in horror, even more disturbing and upsetting horror concepts, but i think it's important to examine *why* you find something comforting. and i think midsommar is a *fantastic* example of this idea.

midsommar is a movie about a vulnerable person being drawn into and manipulated by a white supremacist cult. that's it. i see a lot of people describe it as cozy horror or a hard-hitting feminist narrative about a woman escaping a shitty boyfriend to find a community of people who truly care about her, and to be honest a lot of those arguments are significantly more disturbing to me than the movie itself, haha! because that isn't even a surface level reading of the movie--it's straight-up just falling for the same indoctrination that the main character experiences.

i don't think it's a red flag or anything for someone to enjoy midsommar or find some kind of comfort in that story (for example, i find it kind of cathartic in some ways to see the tragedy and horror of midsommar unfold, especially considering my personal history i won't be getting into here), but i am *very* suspect of people labeling it as "cozy horror" because i think that takes the bite out of this story. because it's not *cozy*, it's a horrific scenario and the ending is genuinely devastating if you're not approaching it through the superficial white feminist lens the cult uses to recruit the main character.

i don't know how much sense any of this makes actually, i just have a lot of thoughts about how people engage with horror as a genre. and like yeah sure there's no *wrong* way to enjoy fiction, but i am so so uneasy with folks who miss the point that fucking bad. because, y'know, not to make any broad sweeping generalizations, but how people interpret movies like midsommar can be *really fucking telling* for how they might handle a real situation like that.

(obligatory disclaimer: i am not at all saying that people who enjoy darker fiction like that or enjoy midsommar would be completely okay with a real-life cult situation like that. i'm just saying that people who look at midsommar as a girlboss feminist victory narrative about a woman taking revenge against her shitty boyfriend............. you missed the point to such a spectacular degree that i'm wary of whatever other opinions you might have regarding gender, race, etc.)

[zosonils]

Wait, no, actually, tell me about the Scribblenauts timeline. I must be real... I like it too. I love unifying timelines where things seemingly just happen, tell us!

scribblenauts fans rise up >:] to be clear this isn't an attempt to sort out the canon timeline [although if you asked i'd guess unlimited > scribblenauts > super > unmasked based on the few splinters of plot we get] but rather taking inspiration from the scraps of story available to build something new and coherent, although at this stage 'coherent' isn't super accurate lmao it's just islands of solid ideas amidst a sea of autism nonsense

basically i'm deciding that the doppelganger's presence in 10-5 of super counts as a plot and slapping that on top of the more consistently defined world and lore of unlimited and onwards [so kind of what unmasked and the subsequent comic did but batman isn't there], with an added sprinkle of the 'scribblenauts being an actual organisation that maxwell is involved in' thing that never made it past background details in the first game. while unlimited arguably has the most iconic and/or existent plot and for sure i want lily to be a deutragonist i'm not sure how much of it i'll retain because 1. turning your daughter into stone is bad parenting 2. let her tag along and be an actual character instead of a literal rock you cowards and 3. the more super-inspired storyline i have in mind with the doppelganger is probably enough to carry the emotional intensity of a mostly lighthearted story by itself and i don't want to bog things down with too many subplots lol

i'm absolutely reading too deep into this kiddie game but i think the doppelganger as an antagonist of maxwell's own creation reflecting all his worst traits would be super interesting in an environment that puts more consistent and deliberate thought into character writing, so that's the idea i'm basing this autism-powered rehash on. i don't think it's ever actually specified but when i was a little sporelet playing scribblenauts unlimited for the first time i somehow got the impression that starites grant wishes? which is cute so i'm using that as maxwell's motivation to join the scribblenauts and seek them out, that he wants to collect enough to wish for something cool and superficial that a 12ish [?????] year old kid would want. but then after lots of adventures and character development when he's in the dramatic final confrontation with his doppelganger and has matured enough to see him as a distressed kid in uniquely terrifying circumstances rather than just an annoying knockoff he instead uses his wish on giving doppelganger the chance to be a normal kid with a normal life because he wants to make kind decisions now. then i guess they all go home and nobody dies in a scripted ufo explosion

this post is getting toooooo long so i'm gonna try and wrap it up now but god i already have so many ideas rattling around my head for an autism reawakening that could be over in a week lmao. now i'm even sadder that my computer is busted because i want to replay unlimited and refresh my lore so badly..... there's a fandom page [breezewiki sweep though] for the series which has helped refresh my memory but none of the sources are cited it's a nightmare. what do you mean maxwell and lily are twins for the love of god give me a single screenshot or manual scan that mentions this

also i didn't have a good place to insert this but even though edgar and julie having 42 kids is obviously a Silly Joke and excuse to give unlimited some unique characters i am choosing to interpret it as them being experienced foster carers. i don't care to sort through every single character and decide which if any are biologically related to each other lmao but adopted/foster families are swag as hell and there should be more of them in media! it also adds a nice layer to the doppelganger plot - maxwell is more willing to reach out to him because he's seen 'angry bitter kid who will only get better with kindness' in a lot of his brothers and maybe himself, and it gives doppelganger an easy place to go for his happy ending because maxwell's parents are experts at taking in kids like him. didn't want to end this post without mentioning this because i'm already suuuper attached to the concept

[bitchesgate3]

Such a huge leap to make an assumption like that. And goes to show how some users will perceive anyone who doesn't hold their headcanon in bad faith.

What I've been finding more telling lately, is how some people will only look at something superficially, and go with their first gut choice. If there is a problem, they blame the first thing they see that is associated with it.

In reality, there is often a systemic issue that is at play that makes the situation much more complicated than pointing a single finger. I need people to think about situations and ponder what was the intention behind it's creation, rather than taking it at what appears to you as face value.

Think of the ages and perspectives of the original writer team at Larian (before Baudelaire was hired). Remember what the overall story was back in early access. Think of why Larian is ok with how they portray the characters in media outside of the game. You can make a guess on what they intended to write and what they didn't intend to write.

Additionally, when it comes to older dnd lore, think again what perspectives those writers had and what they were exploring in the media they were creating. Do you think they were exploring victimization in 1974 in an interactive tabletop game? Or exploring themes that titillated them to make the game more "exciting"?

I think no matter what, we will always fall prey to confirmation bias when seeking information to support our headcanons. If certain themes jump out at you on a deep level, there is nothing I can do to convince you out of it. On the same end, there is nothing you can do to convince me out of mine.

You would be better off giving others the benefit of the doubt first, rather than making sweeping over-generalizations. You don't know me, and you will never know me. And engaging with media in this tunnel-visioned way will ensure you will only ever see your perspective as the "right" one and hence never see anything to counter it in good faith.

[astrxlfinale]

🧋 - to offer your muse a drink . (aventurine trying to get him to make bad life choices)

Penacony has been nothing but an exercise in bad choices.

So how should he perceive the cup that holds a bitter taste and a lively kick? Amidst the wild array of showlights that danced upon other sections of this club, to the natural, hypnotic sway and jig of many bodies indulging themselves in connection upon the throne of superficial, here's this bastard once again. More good times were made for his good ol' pal Caelus, that hypnotic gaze reflecting an invitation as a lorded source above that very glass.

It must be pretty damn bad if this guy of all people was taking pity on him. He has to look like hell. (Hardly getting any sleep while dead asleep, the irony.) It led to the brawler's face twisting into a visage of discontent and impulsivity as he snatches that very glass. "I swear this bullshit here is for people dead set on running away. Makes me sick." Which the natural conclusion was to become an utter hypocrite in that same notion.

A head tilted swig is taken of that very glass. Instead of glamor, he vies for the burn, rather than pristine wishes, what a gnawing side of him aches for is a form the thorn-like reality to be signified through his body. It felt as if his actual body above and this one received the potent height of being gluttonous with the alcohol. That too is fine, so is the fact his breath may reek of the stuff later on.

Oh well, come what may.

Allowing the fogged over glass to be tilted one way to another in his grip, it clicks, something about this whole situation simply wants to make him laugh. Where in the hell was this 'faith' in their bond coming from exactly? One big situation, a show, and here they were, seeing him be utterly fucked up as his feeling remained wired with constraint and flared all at once.

"........"

"Just can't stop moving one way or another, huh?" Motion at the least meant going somewhere. Whether a path ahead, circles of pointlessness, you name it. Seething within the depth of his being was an urge to let his body sing in exertion, to let his will be the proud caster and immutable flame that burned that desire strong. Maybe another thread of fate decides to join this pit of fancied indulgence. For upon the musical track lies a switch, a rhythm that sings to that very desire.

Being met with a temptation leveled in simplicity almost felt alien at this point. It's enough to bring their initial conversation to a pause, the approving holler of the crowd behind them sweeping his attention as the continuous thrum of that song echoes in his body. Unknowingly to the Trailblazer, he began to bop his head to it, a lost sense of vigor attempting to spark to life as he tacked his glass to the countertop.

He's led towards the sea of bodies that part as if charmed by a siren's song. An idea was brewing, not exactly a means to forget, but simply an act that must be performed for a heart such as his. Being Aventurine's valued guest was enough to warrant attention from some of the other partygoers. Despite those eyes, despite the hint of a growing show light beginning to bubble with life as it follows his direction, within moments he's letting his body express.

Caelus is both content and hates the fact that he very much wishes to learn about his new friend. So why not show him the results of this very gamble?

A firm pop of the hips!

A flawless roll of the head, enough to cause the spotlight to immediately brighten upon his figure.

Only then would a gloved hand ascend, bringing that very attention with a directed point towards one of Penacony's VIPs. Another searing show light situating over their figure (the technicians believed this was planned), leading to the warrior's whimsy to bring.. no, force this very situation upon the Stoneheart.

"How about we get to know each other a little better?" He mentions, offering up a challenging smile in tune with a cant of the head, allowing that silver hair to highlight the deviousness in his features, those golden eyes locked in.

"Let's show 'em how it's done, my friend."

@apocryphis

[mejcinta]

The stuff that happened with TCG is why I don't take this fandom serious anymore ...

For some reason we went from joking about our favorite War Criminals in the darkest humor possible to emotional weirdoes harassing actors on panels.

I blame the fucking marketing for taking a regular ass show and turning it into a goddamn litmus test of morality.

Yet, on the other hand, across the board, people are taking fiction way too serious.

Even in the Downton Abbey fandom super emotional female fans - yeah, I'll say it, fan girls - are basically holding the entire franchise hostage and not allowing any adult or darker storyline to take place because they view the characters as not just real people, but their friends. And no one can do anything but really cheesy fluff plots in the movies, because, the overly emotional wine moms will rip their shit if Lady Mary is shown in a bad light or something bad happens to one character or the other. They don't want any lasting consequences.

It's gotten so bad that even in fanfiction they black list writers if they write too dark or adult storylines with the character ... I mean actively go out of their way to try and hound them off of Reddit.

And this is Downton Abbey for fucks sake!

The level of completely out of control hate messages I still have from the HOTD fans over me defending Jaehaera as the rightful queen is insane. Over me supporting a little girl ... WHO IS A FICTIONAL CHARACTER!

I know you're younger than me (I'm 33) but what the fuck happened where these people can't seem to tell the difference between fact or fiction.

It's even bleeding into actors and actresses personal lives. The TCG incident is tame compared to one actress I know who played a character on a tv show who another female character was in love with in the show ... just once - ten years ago. Now, in her personal life, she can't actually date men openly because her fans will tear her apart if she's not dating a woman. Like their entire career is based on her fangirls believing she's a real life lesbian rather than Bi-Sexual. Even now she gets shit for being a 'fake lesbian' when she never said she was in the first place.

How the fuck did we get to this place?

You were right to say it. The Fan Girl ™ phenomena has become a sweeping and overpowering threat to modern entertainment and actors' personal lives.

Yikes! I can't imagine being forced to put up a front just because fans will lose it if I don't act like the character I play in real life. Wow!

I blame this on this growing desire in the West to tolerate and placate weak minded people, instead of encouraging mental and emotional development. The studios are no better because they pressure actors to play along with the loud and entitled audiences. Actors can't even be douchebags anymore because this obsession with image has taken over, instead of encouraging diverse views, and it's even worse when you factor in superficial feminism in stories, which has melted many fans' minds into goo!!! Literally, people stop using their brains when they see a female lead and don't allow anyone to do a fair analysis of said character because apparently "Woman can do no wrong", "Woman always right", "Woman strong". It feels redundant and cultish.

I don't know about y'all but urgent help in the West is needed. 😂😂😂 Seriously. The mental deterioration going unaddressed is leaking into entertainment and driving people into extremes as well as bankruptcy (Marvel and Disney)!! When the whole point of entertainment is to enjoy ourselves in whatever corner we choose to be and to view characters objectively and to treat them and judge them equally and humanly!

Instead we have morality Olympics on the daily, about how only one character is always wrong and another is automatically right for having a vagina. Weird behavior if you ask me. I'm sick of it.