#not because no one else is willing to step up

[corkinavoid]

Thank you, @aceinacorner, for this gem:

You are the inspiration for

DPxDC Ring of Rage? More Like Ring of Engage [pt. 3]

[<- part 2]

Duke narrows his eyes.

He swears Tim was not in the Cave just five seconds ago, and yet, in the brief moment when Duke wasn't looking, he just materialized out of motherfucking aether. Smelling like Chinese food and holding a chicken skewer that looks so good that Duke's mouth waters.

"Can I have a piece?" He asks, the divine smell of food overriding the urge to ask 'where did you get it' or 'how did you get here'.

Tim nods, smiles, and hands Duke the whole skewer before going for the elevator.

Is it Duke's hallucination, or is he really humming something as he goes?.. Actually, that doesn't matter. The chicken tastes even better than it smells, and Duke is perfectly willing to keep his mouth shut in exchange for food.

You don't talk with your mouth full, after all.

~☆~

Cass watches Tim over the table. She hasn't heard him coming into the dinner room - no steps in the hall, no rustle of clothing or breathing. It's like the boy has somehow appeared right in front of the door out of nowhere before entering.

What's more, he seems obviously not hungry, picking at his food with an absent, if a bit dreamy, expression. Granted, Tim always picks at his food, but Cass can see the difference between 'Tim's mind is busy with a new case and therefore too distracted to eat' and 'Tim already had dinner elsewhere and is too full to eat now'.

The bags under his eyes are also not as dark as they usually are. Come to think of it, Cass hasn't seen him in a bad mood for a few weeks now, which shouldn't really be that strange, but it's Tim. The smallest of inconveniences can put him in a bad mood.

Tim notices her looking and raises an eyebrow.

Cass blinks and goes back to her plate. Whatever is keeping her brother happy, it deserves her full approval.

~☆~

Jason is... not so sure as to what is happening.

He did notice that Tim was really chill lately, but this is going a bit overboard.

"Did you spike it with arsenic, Replacement?" He asks, suspiciously looking the offered cup of coffee over without taking it. Tim - surprisingly, actually - doesn't react to the nickname in the slightest, instead giving Jason a deadpan look. Then, he brings the cup up to his mouth, takes a sip, and hands it back again.

Okay, well, that proves no arsenic, at least. It's still very weird. Tim doesn't just buy coffee for people, and he especially doesn't buy coffee for Jason.

"Am I going to owe you something for it, or what?" He asks, slowly reaching for the cup. Tim sighs.

"No. It's just a drink - my boyfriend loves it, and I think you'd like it as well," he explains with a shrug, and Jason is honestly too befuddled to ask about anything. Including the boyfriend part.

No, but since when does Timbers have a boyfriend? He sure hadn't mentioned anything about it to any of the others.

The drink turns out to be not coffee but something else, tangy and thick, and when Jason takes the lid off, it's green like Mountain Dew.

It does taste great, though, and later Jason considers asking Tim for another one. He hadn't had anything better in ages.

~☆~

Damian strikes through the last one of the training holograms, breathing heavily. And yet, just as the 'simulation complete' message pops up in the air, he hears a step behind him.

He turns around faster than a lightning, and-

Finds Timothy's neck at the tip of his katana, with his hands up in surrender.

"What are you doing here?" Damian sneers, lowering his weapon, and Tim swallows. Not because of surprise or fear, though, he clearly had some half chewed up food in his mouth.

"Inaccurate drop off," he says, looking Damian straight in the eyes, "I was aiming for the main floor."

He smells of Indian food and spices, and Damian almost sneezes.

"What do you mean 'aiming'?" He demands, but Drake just waves him off, heading towards the elevator up.

"No worries, I'll do better next time," he shoots a smile over his shoulder, "See you on patrol!" And with that, the elevator doors close after him, leaving Damian alone.

Drake has always been strange, but this is too much even for him.

Not that it's Damian's business. He huffs and starts the simulation over again.

~☆~

If Dick didn't witness it with his own two eyes, he would have never believed it. Alas, he did, and even though the swirling green vortex has already disappeared like it was never there, Tim, whom the strange portal just spat out on the floor of the Cave, is still here.

"What the fuck was that?" He nearly yells, and Tim looks up, a face of perfect innocence.

"What was what?" He returns the question, and Dick can't find the words to explain, so he just wildly gestures to the place where the portal has been less than five seconds ago. Tim blinks, "Oh, that. That was my date."

Dick chokes on his breath.

"Your date?" He parrots, hoarse and breathless, and Tim nods, like there's not a single thing wrong with anything that has just happened. "Since when do you go on dates? Wait, I thought you were engaged, you said it was cheating to date anyone else, even if you didn't know the spouse, you said-" he cuts himself off, feeling his own face slowly falling and his stomach sinking down in horror. "No. No, don't tell me."

But the shit-eating grin on Tim's face is already proof enough.

Dick clears his throat. Takes a deep breath.

Seeing that Tim is still in one piece, and, well, that he did just casually come out of a magic portal in the middle of the Cave, it's probably safe to say that it's not the first time.

And, judging by the mirth in Tim's grin, it's also safe to say he's been rather enjoying it.

Dick releases one long, loud breath and forces a smile on his face as well.

"So, how is it?" He asks, trying in vain to sound light-hearted, not suspicious. Tim's smile gets wider, and there's a glint of excitement in his eyes now, which Dick considers a good thing, all in all.

"Oh, I thought you'd never ask."

~☆~

Bonus Scene (that somehow turned out longer than I planned)

~☆~

"Where's Tim?" Bruce asks when all the rest of his kids are already seated around the table for breakfast.

"At Danny's, probably," Steph shrugs before digging into the waffles on her plate. Bruce frowns.

"Danny's?" He asks. He hasn't heard that name before. Is that a friend of Tim's?

"Drake's paramour," Damian clarifies, not bothering to look up from his own food, and Bruce's mind comes to a screeching halt. He blinks stupidly, looking around the table and sincerely hoping it is some sort of a prank, but Cass smiles and nods, and Dick has an expression of pure exhaustion on his face, and Duke is huffing a snort of laughter at him for it.

"Since when-" Bruce starts, but he is suddenly cut off by a glowing circle that appears just a few feet away from them all.

It grows quickly, morphing into a vortex, a green and ominous tear in reality big enough for a person to walk through, hanging in the air a few inches over the ground. The space around it feels staticky somehow, and the color is too bright to look at directly, and it definitely doesn't belong to their dining room. But before Bruce is able to say another word or do anything at all, Tim steps out of it, his hair and clothes ruffled.

"Oh, fuck," he mutters upon seeing them all, and turns around, sticking his head into the vortex just as it starts to close. The vortex pauses.

Bruce is almost too stunned to move.

His kids don't share the sentiment, though, most of them not paying the portal any attention at all. Bruce would have reprimanded them for the poor awareness of their surroundings if he didn't notice how Damian simply glanced up at it before going back to his food.

They saw the portal. They just didn't deem it dangerous. For some reason.

Tim's face comes back out, and he turns to Bruce. His expression looks different than before: a bit smug, a little mischievous, and just a tad bit nervous.

Then, another head pops up through the surface of the portal. A boy - or at least they look like a boy - with snow white hair that floats in the air and bright, almost neon blue eyes. His skin is far too pale for him to be human, and- he has freckles that look like constellations.

For some reason, that's the part that makes Bruce finally resign to the fact that this is just how his life is. With breakfasts interrupted by green portals and otherworldly boyfriends - because who else might it be, really - before he even had his morning coffee.

"Hi!" Said otherworldly boyfriend grins and waves his hand. "I'm Danny, Tim's fiance," he introduces himself, and Bruce conjures the last scraps of his scattered mind to smile and nod back.

"Good morning, Danny. I'm Bruce." He has no idea what else to say; it seems like a bit late for shovel talk, but a bit early for welcoming speech.

"Would Young Master Danny care to join us for breakfast?" Alfred's calm, but still slightly amused voice comes from the door. Bruce turns to look at the butler with a sense of exasperation - is he really the last one to learn anything in this house? - but the man seems... well, not surprised, at least not on the surface. But his grip on the pitcher of orange juice is just a little too tense for him to have been in the know all along.

Danny turns to him and smiles nicely - his teeth are also way too sharp for a human - before shaking his head, "No, sorry, I was just dropping Tim off."

"For God's sake," Tim rolls his eyes, "Just put on some pants and come out, I refuse to suffer through this alone."

Dick chokes on his toast. Steph gasps, her eyes snapping between Tim and Danny in delight. Cass snorts and kicks her under the table. Damian groans.

"Spare me from the details of your personal life, Drake. Need I remind you that I am thirteen," he narrows his eyes.

The constellations on Danny's cheeks shine just a bit brighter, and Bruce has no idea what that is supposed to mean, but his guess is along the lines of embarrassment. Especially when the boy completes it with rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"You mean to tell me that, at thirteen years old, you don't know what sex is?" Tim deadpans, running a hand through his hair in a useless effort to smooth it and taking his seat at the table. Dick's coughing fit comes back with renewed force.

"We didn't-" Danny starts, still kind of hovering midway through the portal, but Damian pays him little attention.

"I do. Yet, I prefer my mind free of the knowledge when it applies to you."

"I want all the details, though," Steph pipes up, looking at Danny from her seat, "Can you, like, sprout tentacles or something, because I know for a fact Tim likes that kind of-"

"Steph!" Tim yells at her, face red, and then turns to Danny, who suddenly has a very interested, if a bit mischievous, look on his face, "Don't you dare."

"Yeah, okay," Danny snorts and disappears back in the portal. Bruce half-expects it to close after him, but the vortex stays.

Which probably means the boy - the King of Infinite Realms, Keeper of Unseen Worlds, Eyes of the Universe - is going to be right back.

After he puts on some pants, supposedly.

Bruce watches Tim rub his face in frustration while Steph giggles and elbows him in the side, and sighs. This is so not how he expected this morning to be.

[venomwrites]

Pure unadulterated post-cannon Christmas fluff/angst to say thank you for being the best readers. On Ao3 too

Caitlyn wakes alone on Christmas morning. 

It’s not strange in itself. The room shuffling that has taken place still has her waking up every morning wondering why she is in her parents bed. Then she remembers it is her bed now. Some mornings it makes her want to cry. A lot of mornings that feeling wins. It’s not where she wants to be. She wants to be back in her room. She wants her mother and father to be in this bed. She wants to feel awkward perching on the edge of it. No, she wants to go back to the days where she refused to perch on the edge of it because that bed was where her parents kissed. But time does not allow her such luxuries. So she wakes to the grander room every morning. And every morning she wonders if she has somehow ran to her parents for comfort like a a child. But the nightmare is not when she is asleep anymore. It greets her every morning. Stretches endlessly in front of her as she looks at the thing she calls a life and wonders if it will ever make sense. 

She doesn’t even remember it’s Christmas until she smells the perfumed soap in the cavernous bathroom. Her parents bathroom is a double, massive thing. Two sinks, two showers, two toilet closets. In the center is a massive tub. It’s completely foreign to her bathroom in everything except color. Everything is settled in different corners. Which is fine by Caitlyn. She refuses to use her old bathroom. To this day, she would rather mess herself than step foot in that place. When the staff had put her things here they had nestled them in the middle, but she had immediately gravitated towards her mother’s side. Now her bottles nestle next to her mother’s. Sometimes Caitlyn mixes them, but she wants to make all those products last. Wants to keep anything her mother touched for as long as she possibly can. It’s foolish and she cannot stop. On days when it is unbearable she washes her hands in the other sink and ignores everything. 

That’s the benefit of having two of everything.

The rest is just drawbacks. 

This room is not designed for one person. Especially not one who lives most days half scooped out. She was not supposed to occupy this room until she could make it her own. And even then, she was not supposed to occupy it alone. This room was her parents, but truly it was her mother’s. And before that it was her grandmother’s. The room is a suite for the head of the house and their partner. It is designed to make the task of running the Kiramman family as easy as possible. Two wardrobes, two desks, endless nooks and crannies and cabinets. Two people are supposed to have a life in here. Caitlyn tried to bring something over to the other side but snatched it back. Her things are sparse on the side she has taken for herself. The other is just bare. Caitlyn doesn’t know who it is waiting for yet, but she cannot bring herself to touch the room and admit it may be waiting for no-one at all. 

Caitlyn dresses in her usual black and heads down the hall. She raps on the door gently but it swings open to reveal an empty room that was once hers. 

She never would have agreed to the move if not for Vi. 

She tucked Vi into her bed after the fight with Warwick and she just never truly left. During those weeks of preparation they would tangle there and talk. Vi brought such life back to the space it made it tolerable. Before that Caitlyn had just occupied a guest room, unable to bear the thought of returning to her own bed. After the fight when Vi had staggered down and walked past the ashes of at least one member of her family, when the medical team had finally released them, she had just staggered back to the bed. Caitlyn would never have given up her room for anyone else, but if Vi was willing to collapse there, then Caitlyn was willing to surrender it. Surrender was somehow the tenant of Noxian warcraft she was drawn to. So she surrendered her girlhood room. Surrendered to her father’s quiet, tearful insistence that she belonged in her mother’s old room. Pressed another key into her unworthy hand and choked out that she would have wanted to give it to Caitlyn herself. Then he retreated as he always did. 

The bare walls of her room seemed ill suited to someone like Vi. But Vi had no things of her own. So Caitlyn has dragged in things she might like when Vi is off on an endless walk or a long-fought over medical appointment. Caitlyn picks out books and pretty things and piles them on the shelves that once held her shooting trophies. She may leave one or two of those there as well. She leaves out a paint set and a ball of yarn, little things that Vi can do with her hands if she wants. Sometimes Caitlyn catches a glimpse of something moved, but she tries to give her privacy. Mostly, Vi reads. The place where she lay next to Vi has become it’s own small library of whatever she is working through at the moment. Caitlyn knew Vi could read, but she also knew she had little access to books. Vi is not fast, she does not sit for hours turning pages. Sometimes Caitlyn hears the sound of something heavy and book like hitting the ground. But then it is always picked up a moment later. 

Caitlyn doesn’t care, Vi can burn the books for all she cares. But Vi handles them with upmost care. When she’s finished she leaves them in a neat stack on the table by the door and Caitlyn makes sure they are always replaced if she is unable to do it herself. 

Today there is just a note there with a single word on it. 

Kitchen

As Caitlyn makes her way down, the hallway takes on a wonderful smell. Savory, sweet, tempting. Caitlyn has been eating when she is hungry or when it’s insisted, but she can’t remember the last time she felt her stomach rumble with want. The gurgle is almost embarrassing. But no-one is here to hear it. Actually, when Caitlyn glances around she realizes the house is shockingly empty. There is usually a skeleton staff on the holiday at least. Maybe they were lured in by the smells coming from the kitchen. Caitlyn realizes the kitchen she’s walking towards is not the polished one for entertaining but the one the staff uses more regularly. One where they can make a mess and no-one will see. It’s a large, rectangular room with an island in the middle and appliances tucked on the sides. It’s always warm thanks to the stove that hums in the corner. Caitlyn was petrified of it as a child. Even now she rarely comes down here. But she can tell that is where Vi is. 

Actually, it’s where everyone is. 

Staff, her father—everyone is gathered around a table filled with food. There’s meat and rolls and golden brown cakes with butter and syrup. But more than that there’s Ionian dishes from Caitlyn’s childhood. Congee and dark marinated eggs and green briny seaweed sprinkled with sesame. She enters and no-one looks up. No conversation stops. People glance at her but only to see her come in. It’s strange to enter a room and not destroy the sound of chatter like taking a needle off a gramophone. It just continues around her. Caitlyn swallows against the lump it brings to her throat and finds the culprit easily amongst the chaos. Mostly because one of the cakes goes sailing up in the air and she catches it in the pan she’s holding to voracious cheers. 

“Hey,” Vi says with something almost resembling a smile, “merry Christmas. I made some of everything.”

“It smells wonderful,” Caitlyn says politely as her stomach makes the rudest noise. She can feel Vi watching as she picks up one of the bowls. Caitlyn is determined for it to be wonderful, but she’s caught off guard when it actually is. Texture, flavor, all of it is flawless, “how on earth—“

“You left a cookbook,” Vi says with a proud shrug, “I just followed the instructions,” she clears her throat, “it’s gotten better though.”

“It was good from the start!” Someone calls and Caitlyn realizes much more work went into this than she thought. 

“Save some room,” Vi says as a ding rings out. She hefts a tray of scones from the oven and Caitlyn’s mouth waters at the sight. Especially when she spots the pot of blueberry jam on the table, “your dad said it was your favorite,” Vi tells her. 

“What’s yours?” Caitlyn asks. She hadn’t even thought Vi was eating, let alone that she was cooking. Vi gives her half a genuine smile and jerks her head towards the skillet on the stove, “share that with me.”

Something lights in Vi’s eyes and she nods. Vi likes her pancakes dripping with butter and syrup. There have to be at least two though, so the butter melts between them. They are tangier than Caitlyn ever remembers and completely delightful. Vi is suspicious of the scone when Caitlyn holds it out, but agrees to take a bite. She seems equally surprised and delighted by the taste and texture. Despite never making them before, she’s managed to do it nearly perfectly. People come in and out of the room through the morning as they try each other’s favorite dishes. It’s a new sensation to learn each other. Somehow it’s the easiest conversation they’ve had since Caitlyn lost her eye and Vi lost everything. Jinx’s name even slips from Vi’s lips a few times without the gut punch of emotion that usually follows it. The only miss between them is when Vi wraps some kind of cured meat around a briny pickle. Both of them immediately decide it’s too salty and choose something else from the spread. 

“Who told you to do that?” Caitlyn questions. 

“Ekko,” Vi says, taking a large sip of tea, “do me a favor and say you loved it if he ever asks.”

“Is he coming?” Caitlyn asks, looking around. 

“Here? Nah,” Vi says, “I wouldn’t bring him to your house.”

“You live here too,” Caitlyn points out. Vi shifts her weight and shrugs.

“Yeah but—“ she mumbles something that sounds like fancy.

“So bring him here,” Caitlyn says with a shrug. Vi looks surprised. Caitlyn isn’t sure why unless she considers that Vi has only witnessed people coming through the front door and being led to the sitting parlors, “you know you can bring people wherever you want, right?” Caitlyn asks gently. 

“Course,” Vi says, her finger fidgeting on the tabletop, “yeah I just figured—“

“Vi I brought you in through a window,” Caitlyn points out. Vi still looks hesitant, “you weren’t the first. You can bring Ekko into the kitchen.”

Vi is silent for a moment. Caitlyn braces herself for whatever Vi is abut to say. But her face breaks into something not miserable. Something almost mischievous. 

“That’s why the lock was broken on your window,” she says and snaps her fingers, “that’s why your mom looked annoyed.”

Caitlyn drops her head to her folded arms as Vi laughs. The sound catches her off guard, though not as much as the laugh it pulls from her own lips. The notion that Vi was able to see past the shotgun to her mother’s annoyance makes a warm feeling settle in her chest. She raises her head to see the first genuine smile she’s seen on Vi’s face in a long time. It echoes on her own as they laugh. For once Caitlyn doesn’t think about sitting up straight. She lets her head drop into one of her hands and gives into the urge to press the heel of it to her currently empty socket. It’s a constant urge, one she’s fighting not to become a nervous tick. But at the moment it feels wonderful to just sit in the warm kitchen with Vi and be comfortable. Even Vi’s posture has shifted to something more relaxed as they chuckle about her mom’s annoyance at Caitlyn bringing girls through the window. 

“It’s your room now,” Caitlyn says, “I invite you to continue the tradition of bringing people through the window,” she motions, “it will probably be easier for Ekko on that board.”

“Yeah,” Vi says and seems to perk up a bit, “maybe, yeah.”

Fully fed and pleased with this turn of events, Caitlyn picks up the gift she tucked under the chair and holds them out to Vi. 

“Since we’re exchanging,” she says motioning to the food. Vi hesitates, “I picked them out myself,” Caitlyn adds. 

Vi takes them in her hands with a mumble of thanks and undoes the red twine. Caitlyn forwent all the fancy papers and wrapped them in simple brown. She can’t help but watch as Vi tears one of the corners carefully. Her face shifts and the paper comes off the first parcel much more quickly. She turns the book over in her hands and slides her fingers into one of the dented letters, looking at the list of words that spiral across the page. Her eyes light up with a hunger that has nothing to do with food and Caitlyn feels a beat of pleasure. Vi is smart, but Caitlyn knows some of the books use words she might not be familiar with. The dictionary is the only book that has not moved from the shelf, as though Vi does not want to admit some of them are strange. But the books Caitlyn hears her throw in frustration are ones Caitlyn often needs a dictionary for. 

“I figured you needed one you could mark up,” she says. 

“This is—“ Vi swallows, “thanks,” she says and the tone is so sincere it makes Caitlyn’s heart ache. She picks up the second package and tears the paper a little more carelessly this time, but Caitlyn can see when it clicks on her face what she’s holding, “no way,” she breathes. Her head flies up, “how?”

“Abuse of power?” Caitlyn says. Vi’s eyebrows shoot up, “and Sevika.”

The name makes Vi’s throat bob but her focus is drawn back to the book. All things considered, it was a mild abuse of power. Just a bribe really to get into the Enforcer archives. It wasn’t like anyone was actually doing anything with the contraband from an old half war. She had made Sevika aware of it’s existence and she had immediately demanded access. She was part of that fight. She took most of it back to Zaun, where it belonged. Where it always should have been. Caitlyn had simply smoothed the wheels so the Enforcers didn’t kick up too much of a fuss. Sevika had almost yelled when she had asked if there was anything in there of importance to Vi. Caitlyn had learned it was a good idea to let Sevika yell first, then let her consider the request. Then she had told her she had no idea. Then two weeks later she had dropped the book on Caitlyn’s desk. She didn’t bother saying what it was, Caitlyn didn’t need to ask. It took longer to have it properly cleaned up from the dust and decay of sitting in a box. But every cent had been worth it to see Vi reverently brush her fingers over the cover. 

“What is it?” Caitlyn asks. 

“You didn’t look?” Vi says. Caitlyn shakes her head. Vi gets up and comes around to her side of the table, sitting on the seat next to hers and thumbing open the book. Caitlyn is surprised to see pictures accompanying the words, “our families would pass it around when there was a new kid,” she says, “so you could read a crying baby to sleep,” a smile tugs at her lips as she looks at the page, “when Mom said she was gonna have a baby, I was so excited because I knew it’d be our turn,” she lets out a laugh, “I think I was more excited for this than I was for Powder.”

“May I?” Caitlyn asks and moves the book before Vi’s tears can stain the pages. Vi wipes messily at her cheeks, “did you read to her?”

“No, I’m shit at reading aloud,” Vi says, “I remember telling my mom she had to show her the pictures though. I really liked those.”

Caitlyn does not know how to comfort her. She knows they are not just sad tears, that Vi’s memories usually bring them up. Risking it, Caitlyn tucks a piece of hair behind Vi’s ear. Just something to let her know she’s there. Vi sniffles and wipes again at her cheeks before looking over at her with a wet, honest smile. 

“Thanks, Cupcake,” she says, “these mean a lot.”

For the first time in her life Caitlyn helps with the dishes. 

Vi takes pity on her and assigns her drying duty. Caitlyn knows better than to point out someone else can do this. Vi won’t hear of it. Vi scrubs, she dries and then Vi directs her where things go. By the time they are done, Caitlyn half knows her way around the kitchen. That is also incredibly strange, but Caitlyn tries to commit it to memory. It wouldn’t be terrible to make a cup of tea down here every so often. Especially if this is where Vi spends a lot of her time. Vi makes sure her hands are dry before she gathers her precious books in her arms. Caitlyn has seen Vi lift impossibly heavy loads with and without the Gauntlets, but she wraps both her arms around the books like they might fall away. They both go back to their rooms to attend to various things and Caitlyn expects Vi will go on one of her long walks. There’s some silly bead of hope in her heart that maybe Vi will invite her along. But she pushes that aside. She knows those walks aren’t for her. Maybe one day, but not yet. It’s something that makes physical therapy a bit more bearable as she learns to navigate her new world. 

Still, her heart jumps when there is a knock on her door. 

“Come in!” She calls and watches Vi step into the space. 

She doesn’t spend a lot of time in the room. Caitlyn can’t blame her. She’s lucky Vi was willing to accept her old room and she half thinks that’s only because it was somewhere she could navigate to and from with minimal help. This room is worse somehow. It’s even more grand. The ceiling is set with colored glass that sends rainbows across the polished floors. It takes two fireplaces to give it any kind of heat and Caitlyn thinks when it is empty when she one day changes it, there will be an echo. The only part of the room Vi ever lingers near is the balcony. It’s still set with the small table and two chairs from when her parents would sit every morning before the day began. Caitlyn hasn’t set foot on it. Vi’s eyes sweep the grandeur and the balcony before they settle on her. Caitlyn turns to face her but Vi doesn’t cross the room. She half fidgets in the empty space, her book of fairytales clutched to her chest. Her eyes are still reddened but there’s a set in her shoulders that makes Caitlyn aware she’s come to some decision. Feeling oddly nervous, Caitlyn pushes herself to her feet and stands on her side of the room. 

“I don’t want to bring anyone but Ekko through the window,” Vi says and Caitlyn’s heart begins to race, “I know there’s a lot going on and you’re sleeping here now but—I’m not bringing anyone else through the window.”

“I’m sleeping here so you can be comfortable,” Caitlyn blurts out. 

Vi swallows and runs her fingers over the edge of the book, like she’s drawing comfort from it. They tighten on the corner and she looks almost nervous for a moment. 

“I thought I could—“ she jerks her head towards the empty shelves, “if it’s okay with you.”

“They’re yours,” Caitlyn says without meaning to. Then she realizes what she’s said and has to fight the urge to throw herself off the balcony, “I—“

“Yeah, okay,” Vi says simply. 

As if Caitlyn has not just said the most embarrassing thing. She says it as if she knows it too. Caitlyn realizes she may be the only one who was hoping and everyone else just knew. She watches as Vi walks over to the empty shelves. Caitlyn realizes it’s not just the fairytale book in her arms. There’s that one, two cookbooks and a book on cartography. Vi settles them on the shelves sandwiched between two heavy metal bookends that made Caitlyn think of her tattoo. It’s just a corner of the shelves but immediately they look better. Vi considers her handiwork calmly as Caitlyn stares at it with a pounding, hopeful heart. Then Vi takes the fairytale book from the shelf and walks over to the empty desk. She pulls out the chair and seats herself in it, shifting her weight on the upholstery to get comfortable. She winds up with a knee drawn to her chest in what Caitlyn’s learning is a comfortable position for her. She thumbs open the book as Caitlyn sits back in her own desk. Whatever she’s supposed to be doing is forgotten as she looks at Vi sitting there. Vi is aware of her gaze but is focused on the book. So Caitlyn forces herself back to her own work. 

“We can change anything,” Caitlyn says to the paperwork, “make it our own when you’re ready.”

“Thanks,” Vi says quietly, eyes still on the book, “can Ekko come through the balcony?”

Caitlyn is silent long enough for Vi to glance over at her. 

“That lock isn’t ‘fixed’,” Caitlyn says finally and Vi snorts out a laugh, “I wasn’t planning on sneaking in when I took this room!” Caitlyn defends hotly, “if Ekko comes though the balcony you’d have to actually unlock it from the inside.”

“Noted,” Vi says and turns the page. 

Suddenly the life that stretches out before Caitlyn seems a bit less impossible and a bit less scary. She tries to imagine the room with a tangle of Vi’s books and her things. Closets jumbled together because they will probably keep things like gear in the other. Mornings at the sink and night in the bed. Her throat tightens at the thought of coffee on the balcony and one day the sound of smaller feet running to their bed in the middle of the night. She’s not sure she deserves the thought of any of it, but when she glances at Vi’s half smile, she knows she probably never was worthy of it. Not with someone like Vi. But Gods, Vi is worthy of all of it. Deserves all of it. And if she wants it to be with Caitlyn, Caitlyn vows that she will rise to the occasion. But for now, it’s just nice to sit in the room at the two desks. She’s glad it feels nice. At some point Vi uses the bathroom and settles into a chair by the window. She’s a bit closer but it only takes a minute for Caitlyn to move to the neighboring chair. 

“What are you working on?” Vi asks. 

“Staff payroll,” Caitlyn says. Vi actually looks interested though Caitlyn finds it unbearably boring, “do you—“ she holds up the paper. 

“You can show me another time?” Vi offers, “if you’re busy—“

“I don’t mind,” Caitlyn says. Vi swallows but the interest doesn’t wane from her eyes. Caitlyn doesn’t know what possesses her. Maybe the books on the shelf or the fact that Vi is sitting here, “it’s a lot to learn,” she warns, “but it would be easier if we went slow,” she tries to smile against the sudden burning in her eye, “I wouldn’t recommend learning it all at once alone.”

“Cait,” Vi is suddenly half on the chair with her.

She wedges them tight together. It makes the burning worse but Caitlyn fights the urge to cry. Vi has been stupidly wonderful and Caitlyn doesn’t want to burden her. Not when Vi has lost everything and Caitlyn is only dealing with the consequences of her own foolishness. This is Vi’s first Christmas with them and Caitlyn wanted to make it special. Instead she’s fighting tears as Vi wraps her arm around her shoulders and presses her lips to her temple. 

“You’re not alone anymore,” she says in that firm, convicted way of hers. Caitlyn shakes her head, “I’m here.”

“No,” Caitlyn protests, “you shouldn’t be taking care of me,” she sets the paper down and wipes her cheeks, “I suppose payroll really does bore one to tears,” she says, fumbling for the humor even though it feels dangerously like she might sob. 

“Great,” Vi says and takes the paper, “I need to start with something boring before we get to the hard stuff.”

“But—“

“Hang on, I need to concentrate,” Vi says and tightens her arm around her shoulders. 

If she’s not talking though, then there’s nothing to do but choke on her sobs. And if there’s nothing to do but that, then at some point her body forces her simply to cry. Even though she’s been dreading it with the lack of an eye. It feels terrible, as crying usually does. The lack of an eye is worse but the feel of Vi’s arm around her shoulders is better. Somehow it puts her back even with the miserable tears that remind her she’s powerless against some things. 

“Gives us a minute!” Vi calls and Caitlyn realizes someone has knocked. But Vi holds her close so she can be tearful in peace. She somehow lets Caitlyn have privacy and let’s her know she’s not alone, “tell me how to help,” Vi murmurs into her hair when the tears have slowed, “I was gonna invite you over to the old room,” she says, “what if we stayed here?” Caitlyn nods.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Vi says, tightening her arm around her shoulders, “I’m sure.”

“I can’t believe I made us both cry your first Christmas,” Caitlyn says, embarrassment churning in her gut, “that wasn’t my intention.”

Vi gives her a long look and then tugs her upright. She guides her over to the bed and spares one fond, annoyed look towards it. Caitlyn rolls her eyes. This bed is even larger than the monstrosity in her room. Despite all her tossing and turning, the other side of the bed is completely untouched. It’s that big. Vi guides her down until Caitlyn’s head is resting on her lap. Her remaining eye still trickles with tears. Vi makes sure her hands are dry and thumbs open the book. Caitlyn realizes she’s already tucked a scrap of paper into one of the pages. When Caitlyn looks at the illustration, she can see why. Multiple girls are twirling in some kind of ballroom, but two that clasp hands are dressed in pink and blue. 

“I told you I’m shit at this, right?” Vi says. Caitlyn nods and curls her fingers around Vi’s thigh in a silent plea. 

Vi clears her throat. 

And starts to read. 

[quirekey]

ty for confirming my question! I hope this request isn’t too hard to do with Hightide.

Hightide x femme cybertronian who’s a big sweetheart and is so beautiful that Hightide is smitten!!😭

(I also think he would definitely kiss readers hand/servo bc he’s a gentleman when he’s in love-)

This could be HCS or a lil fic, wtv u can do!🫶

WAWA HIGHTIDEE! Sorry if he’s written badly, I don’t know him too well… (i added him to my list tho :3)

[ HIGHTIDE ] x [ FEMME!READER ]

[ hightide x cybertronian!femme!sweet!reader ]

HEADCANONS

- Your height is just shorter of Hightide, being pretty massive for the average femme. You also focus more into the sea-side practice. Optimus Prime has sent you and Hightide to teach the Rescue bots water-rescues.

- When you guys arrive, you two definitely keep your relationship a secret. This idea was from Hightide since he’s way too embarrassed to show off his sparkmate. You are very accepting of his decision and don’t complain one bit, no wonder why he’s in-love with you!

- When he is harshly criticising the Rescue Bots, you usually step in after the session to talk to him. You do confront him but in a softer approach, asking why he was so harsh and that you aren’t proud of his work. Hightide doesn’t fight back unlike the usual. You cup his face into your hands when you do confront him, forcing him to listen while also showing him affection. Though he is stubborn at first, your words will eventually get to him and he’ll try his best to be nicer to the Rescue bots.

- When you two have to separate because of missions or the Rescue Bots only need one of you two, Hightide has a habit of going on one knee and kissing your hand before leaving, you just give him a warm smile and that definitely gets to him fast.

- You do tease Hightide, but not in a mean way. You like to mention when he is flustered. The way you tease is adorable to him, when you poke his nose and giggle at his stern expression. You are able to crack his hard exterior. Sure, he will definitely get pissed at your constant physical teasing, but he doesn’t have the spark to tell you to stop. When you do it infront of others, he just gently pushes you aside while keeping a stern expression (but he will definitely be blushing, a lot).

- Between the two of you, you were the first one to get used to humans. Sure, they were somewhat freaky, but they are also adorable! You really enjoyed talking to the humans from the Rescue crew, they had so much personality and life to them! Hightide was not fond of them though. When you were chatting to literally any human, he’d tried his best to tell you that they were untrustworthy. You don’t budge one bit and you actually flip the tables on him, convincing Hightide that humans are really kind and useful if you just trust them.

- Hightide has many interesting and horrific stories. You would listen to them all fully listening and without interrupting, Hightide definitely loves that part about you. You are too sweet to stop him and you don’t mind his stories, even if they are boring. If somebody else is getting bored of his stories, you try to divert his attention so he’d be talking to you. Hightide is pretty stubborn and keeps telling his story anyways.

- You two are always alone, together. Being get off at sea with no-one to interrupt the both definitely has its benefits. You and Hightide are able to show affection without being embarrassed whenever you guys want. You definitely take advantage and show Hightide lots of love and affection because you enjoy his flushed state.

- You enjoy it when he lays in your lap and you both watch the sunset, it’s a beautiful and peaceful scenery for the both of you. Hightide wanted to lay in your lap at-first but thought it was strange, so you were the first one to bring it up. When you did, Hightide was very willing to go with it.

[alaydabug2]

Secret Santa 2024

Run by @song-tam

This is my secret Santa project for my lovely cognate @wow-youre-so-pretty !

I have absolutely zero idea how I got you for it, but I had so much fun writing this!

Ngl motivation was so low it was playing limbo with the devil at first but then it finally started rolling

*cough* over 3500 word count *cough* 👀

Ummmm.... I was struggling really hard tk at least get 1000 believe it or not but... yeah

I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!!!

(FYI this will probably be the last time you ever ask me to write you angst 😅)

⚠️CONTAINS UNRAVELED SPOILERS AND SUICIDIAL IDEATION⚠️

(Keefe pov)

The eerie stillness of the emotions in the hallway spooked him. He was hoping that by the time he went back to Foxfire, the silence of emotions would go away, and he could go back to normal. However, things seemed to be taking a turn for the worse.

Hopefully, his empathy teacher would be able to help him get to the bottom of what was happening. The lack of progress he'd made on his own made him apprehensive. If he couldn't turn his empathy back on, he didn't want to know where that would spiral to.

Then, with the other developments while he was with the Forbidden Cities, he felt like he was currently falling apart. His hands were cold, and the more walls he built around the pools of energy in his mind, the more than achy feeling set in into the palms of his hands.

He sat in the chair across from Lady Velle, his mentor. She studied him for a moment before starting the lesson for the day.

Keefe kept fumbling to pretend his empathy wasn't majorly screwed up at the moment. A cold sweat trickled down his back when Lady Velle finally held up a hand to cut him off. It had been the fifth one in a row he got wrong. Only one he had gotten correct, and that was truly just because of a lucky guess.

"What's going on with you, Keefe?" She asked. "You're usually spectacular at this."

He debated how much to say. After a couple of breaths, he said, "Say, hypothetically, an empath shut off their ability, and couldn't turn it back on. What could that empath do to get it back on?"

Lady Velle crossed her arms. He shifted his gaze away from hers.

"Hypothetically, that would be impossible," she informed him. "Abilities can't be shut off once their triggered."

"Ok. But hypothetically, what if someone did?"

She stepped closer, brushing her thumb across the back of his hand and furrowing her brows. Keefe tensed up, afraid his mental blocking might not be enough to keep from something awful happening when she touched his hand.

"Your emotions are difficult to decipher," Lady Velle murmured. "But there's a lot of uncertainty. And fear. How did you do this to yourself?"

Keefe wrapped his arms around himself, unsure of how much he should tell her.

"The human emotions, they were too much for my empathy. So, I tried to visualize a switch connected to all the emotions and shut it off. Part of the string connected to them were tangled, so I unraveled it. I haven't been able to feel emotions, even with contact, since."

Lady Velle leaned on the wall and sighed. "That... is a first I've heard of, to be honest. Quite a talent, I'll admit. But have you tried flipping the switch back on?"

He scoffed. Of course he tried flipping it back on! He gave his mentor a quick nod.

"Have you tried retangling the threads?"

He had... not. He shook his head.

"Try it," she urged.

Keefe closed his eyes. He went back to the giant switch in the back of his consciousness. The strings attached were straight and in uniform, side by side.

He tried to mix them together. Tried to intertwine them. Didn't work. Had he really shut off his empathy for good?

He opened his eyes back up. "Nothing."

"There was something else when I read your emotions," Lady Velle said. "Dread. Almost like you're afraid of your empathy. Like you subconsciously don't want it. Why is that? Because that could be all the difference to turning it back on."

Keefe shrugged. He wasn't willing to let slip that much. Besides, it wasn't just his empathy he dreaded with all the other crap he'd been putting up with. Some of which weren't his right to tell.

Lady Velle looked out the window. She started to speak, but the chimes of session ending cut her off.

"Never mind," she muttered. "We'll continue this Thursday. Go to lunch."

Keefe grabbed his satchel and hurried out the door. Saved by the bell. Big time. He'd ditch Thursday. He didn't want his mentor prying further into the rabbit hole that was his life.

He went through the line and sat down at the table beside Sophie. It felt like all eyes on him. He was suddenly glad not to feel their questions buzzing through the air. It, however, didn't take away the weight of their glares.

Sophie could see the way he shifted in his seat. He kept his eyes downcast from the others. After everything that happened, he didn't feel a part of his friends anymore. He felt like an outcast. Maybe he should have just stayed in the Forbidden Cities with Alvar.

Keefe could have been eating pancakes right now. Instead, he was back at the place of horrid memories. Especially when he accidentally caught Dex's eye.

He wanted to make a joke to lighten things up. But now that he couldn't read anyone anymore, he was afraid of making jt worse. And when he opened his mouth to risk it, his tongue was dry. He couldn't make himself to it.

He could feel himself cracking. Too many pairs of eyes were staring straight through his soul. He felt himself shaking. His breath quickened.

Keefe truly thought he was ready to go back to Foxfire. He hoped getting back in his sessions would help him make sense of everything happening with his abilities.

He hoped being back with his friends would boost his morall and give him more motivation. No. The opposite effect was occurring. All of them staring at him like he was an alien creature made him realize how much him running away affected him. His friendships. His perception of life. The awful things he couldn't let slip. Not Alvar. Not Eleanor. Not his new healing ability.

He had never felt so outcasted. Not even his first few months at Foxfire, before the Great Gulon Incident that earned him his street cred. At least then he had Fitz. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud, for a while, they were the weird kids in the level.

This felt like a deeper kind of isolation.

One where he didn't know if there was a way out. One if he even thought living on to see another day was worth it. With the mixture of hopeless doom spiraling him into a darker head space and his mother's plans for him. He was genuinely considering the unthinkable.

The only thing stopping him was not having the stomach to do it himself. Sure, he was better with violence than most other elves. But taking his life with his own hand was too much. As much as everything hurt. As much as he couldn't stand to stay on this hopeless planet anymore. The thought made his nauseous and dizzy.

Keefe shook out of his dark train of thought when Jensj across the table told him, "Long time no see." A grin. "Glad to have you back!"

Keefe plastered wobbly, unconvincing smile onto his face. "Glad to be back," he lied.

Since when had Jensi been back sitting with them? Every time he thought he knew how much time had passed since being at school last, he was proven wrong once more. How much did he miss?

Keefe followed along the conversation best he could, more things he didn't understand being brought up, reminding him of how far left behind he was. He tried to stay out of the conversation.

That was until Jensi asked him, "Hey, Keefe, could you please pass me a napkin?"

Keefe glanced beside him to where the little black napkin dispenser was. "Uh, yeah, sure."

He stretched his arm across the table. But as he passed the napkin, their fingers brushed. Keefe froze.

No. No, no, no, no. No!

Keefe had built thick mental walls to keep this from happening. Why else did his hands feel so freezing cold it ached?

But it was unmistakable. The empty hollow feeling of someone who would never manifest. Of someone who was talentless.

He never wanted to feel that ever again in his life. But now, he had. And he felt sick.

He didn't even know whether Jensi had manifested or not yet. Now, here he was, with the knowledge that He. Never. Would.

Another burden on his shoulders. Another secret to carry. Another straw on the camel's back.

It was too much.

Dex gave him a look, sensing the wild look in his eyes. The quick nod Keefe gave in response said it all. Dex's face dropped.

Keefe was shaking. He excused himself to the bathroom and ran off into the hallway. He slid back against the locker and placed his head between his knees. Breaths came quick and short

Not again. Not again!

Another life he had ruined. Was he supposed to tell Jensi? How was he supposed to do that?

Jensi was close to the manifesting cut-off age. Could Keefe pretend to not know until he inevitably finds out. Did he already know?

Probably not. If so, he likely would have been kicked out of Foxfire already.

If it's going to happen anyway, would it be cruel to keep it from him? It's not like with Rex, who had years of hope left. Jensi was very well close to the age where, if you haven't manifested, they weed you out of the system.

Should Keefe rip off the bandage for him?

Keefe clutched his hair. Tears finally escaped. This was a nightmare. He couldn't deal with this. He didn't want to be the one deciding someone's fate.

He wanted- needed -it to end.

Maybe Ro left some lethal microbes back at the Shores of Solace. That mixed with a sedative would make it bearable.

Steps echoed through the empty hall. Keefe didn't have the willpower to pull himself together. He already decided he wouldn't be here much longer.

"Keefe?"

Keefe whipped his head up to meet Dex's eyes.

"It's not your fault." Dex sat beside him. "It's still going to end the same way if you hadn't found out."

Keefe sat on that for a second. "I have to tell him," he whispered.

"No, you don't," Dex assured him. "Sometimes oblivion is better."

"He's already to where they can take him out of Foxfire. If that's going to happen, I don't want him to think, 'What if?', you know."

Dex didn't speak for a moment. "I suppose you have a point. But are you sure you want him to know about your ability?"

"Not really. But... he deserves this more than I deserve privacy."

"I'm pretty confident that, if you ask him to, he won't say anything to anyone about your ability."

"You think?"

Dex pondered for a second longer. "I believe so. Question is, when do you want to do this?"

Keefe thought of his little microbe plan. "As soon as possible."

"So today or tomorrow?"

"That would work."

"If you want, I can be there when you tell him," Dex offered.

Keefe shook his head. "This is something that I need to do alone. I won't say anything about your brother in case you're worried about it."

"If you're sure he truly won't say anything, you can tell him about Rex if it helps soften the blow."

Keefe nodded. He dried his eyes before leaning his head back against the locker.

"Do you plan on heading back to lunch?" Dex asked.

"No. You can head back, though. I'll be fine here."

"Nah." Dex pulled his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. "I think I'll stay."

Keefe closed his eyes, wishing he was a telepath so he could give Dex a silent thank you. Instead he settled for trying to gather his thoughts in the quiet of the hallway, grateful to not feel totally alone.

The next day, Keefe waited in the same hall during lunch. He had asked Jensi during orientation to meet him there to talk.

The sound of someone heading down the tiled floor had his heart skip a beat. The curly headed boy appeared from around the corner.

"Sooo," Jensi drawled out the word. "What did you want to talk about?"

Keefe's mind drew a blank. He was regretting deciding to this plan.

"I wanted to talk about... ability detecting! How's it going?"

"Ability detecting?" Jensi asked. "That's what you wanted to talk to me in private about? If that's it we can talk about that at the lunch table." He turned to go back from where he came. "Cause I'm hungry."

"Wait!" Keefe squeezed his eyes shut. "It's not just about ability detecting. Has anyone told you about me manifesting a new ability yet?"

Jensi turned back around. "Kind of. They've mentioned it. But it was always vague, so I don't know what it is."

"Yeah... about that." Keefe's heart pounded against his ribs as a warning. "I can tell what people will manifest. And trigger it."

Jensi's eyes widened. "You can?" He got an overly giddy grin on his face. "Are you going to do that for me?"

Keefe needed to choose his next few words very carefully.

"I already did. Yesterday when I passed you the napkin."

Jensi tilted his head. "You did? When will it kick in? Is that why you left lunch? Does it take a toll on you or something?"

Keefe closed his eyes and swallowed. "You could say that. And... it's usually overnight when it kicks in."

Jensi furrowed his brows and studied his hands. "I don't feel any different. What was it?"

Keefe leaned against one of the lockers for support. He could already feel his knees shaking.

"Yeah. Before I tell you this text bit, can you promise me to keep this a secret? My ability can be mentioned at the lunch table. But this... you can't tell anyone. I got permission to tell you this as long as you can keep quiet. Can you do that?"

Jensi nodded.

"Ok," Keefe continued. "Yesterday, when I touched your hand, it felt... hallow. Empty. I've felt this twice before that. When I touched Rex's hand.... and Kesler's."

"But... Kesler never manifested."

"I know."

"But Rex..."

"I know."

Realization set heavy into Jensi's usually happy demeanor. He bit his lip hard.

"So your telling me... I'm talentless?"

"I'm so sorry. I wish I knew how to control this ability, and I thought I did, but-"

"It's ok," Jensi cut Keefe of from his downward spiral. His chin wobble. "I... had a feeling this was coming. Usually if you haven't manifested by level four, your not going to. I've just been waiting for them to finally give up on me and pull my classes."

Keefe nodded solemnly.

"I'm gonna head to lunch," Jensi told him. Keefe could feel the broken truth in his eyes even with his empathy screwed. "Are you coming?"

Keefe chewed his lip. "I'll be there in bit. You go ahead, I'll meet you there."

Jensi nodded and took a breath before heading back down to the lunch room.

Keefe went into the bathroom. He splashed his face with water. When he looked back at his reflection in the mirror, he could hardly recognize himself.

He was sixteen. But the heavy bags under his slightly crazed eyes mixed with his unusual palor made him look like an ancient. When he ran a hand through his hair to try and refresh its usual fluffynes, he half expected sharp points on his ears to poke through the blonde.

This wasn't a life he wanted to live.

He'd go straight to the Shores of Solace after school to look through the remainder of Ro's microbe stash, he'd decided. He already knew there was slumberry tea in the kitchen. He'd go out to the patio on the swing out by the ocean, somewhere quiet and peaceful, and do it there.

The end of the day rolled around. Keefe tried his best to separate from his friends to get to the leap master alone. Just when he thought he was in the clear, Sophie seemed to have materialized behind him.

"Keefe, where you going?" She asked him.

"I'm just going to get something from my dad's," he responded a little too quickly.

Foster's face fell. "You're not... leaving again, are you?"

She thought he was running away again. But... it was better for her to think that. She'd never let him out of her sight if she knew what he was planning to do. She cared for him. Way more than he knew he deserved. This was just another way he was letting her down.

Was he selfish for this?

Maybe.

But he wanted nothing to with his mom's plan. And he wanted nothing to do with these abilities. All of the secrets he was keeping from his friends would die with him.

This would be the one smart move he'd make in this game of life and death.

Making sure none of the information he had would live on and had the chance of slipping free. Making sure no more people's lives were ruined.

"I'll be back." Keefe leaned down and kissed her forehead, taking a moment to drink in her warmth as she wrapped her arms around him. "Promise."

A lie.

Like all of the other things he told her after coming back home. What was new.

But he found peace in knowing it would be last one he'd ever tell her.

One more thing bubbled in the back of his mind. One thing, if he didn't know what he was about to do, he would probably come to regret.

"I love you, Sophie." He closed his eyes, too afraid to see the look on her face.

"Keefe," her almost angelic voice rang out. Her hand ruffled through his hair, eventually coaxing his eyes open.

Her's were filled with tears.

"Please don't go again," she begged. "We're supposed to be team, remember?"

Her hand moved from his hair to cupping the side of his face. He couldn't help but lean into her touch, resting his hand atop hers.

"I have to go." Tears quickly welled in his eyes. When he blinked, they slid down his cheeks. "I'm sorry."

Sophie brushed them away with her thumb. She closed her eyes for a couple moments. Her eyebrows scrunched together.

When she opened them back up, they were almost pleading. "Come to Havenfeild. Just for the night. To make a plan. To help you pack." She paused for a breath, a fresh batch of tears brewing in her gorgeous gold flecked eyes. "Please?"

Keefe swallowed. "Ok."

He'd go through the motions. And then he could get back with his original plan.

Foster hooked her arm through his, pulling him into the beam of light to Havenfeild. As soon as they glittered into the pastures, Sophie turned and tackled him with a bone crushing hug.

"Keefe Sencen, I swear," she warned, "If you kill yourself I am going to murder you."

Keefe's jaw went slack. "How did you-"

"I read your mind," she admitted. She pulled back to look him straight in the eyes, keeping a firm, almost painful, grip on both his biceps to keep him from twisting from her grip. "I'm sorry, I truly am, but I had a feeling I needed to. And I'm glad I did."

She threw her arms around his neck, pulling him down. "People care about you, Keefe. I love you," she whispered.

Keefe felt his throat become thick. He had to clear it several times before answering, "But that isn't why I'm doing this." He tried to pull away. "This is because of my abilities."

Sophie yanked him right on back down to her. She cradled his head down on her shoulder. Resigning to his predicimen, he buried his face into her neck. He inhaled the soft scent of her panakes perfume, giving him flashbacks to the clearing in The Grove. It only succeeded in making his heart heavy.

"We'll figure something out. I promise," she whispered.

"And how many people will I hurt in the meantime? I can't do this anymore, Foster," his voice cracked. The pitiful sound made way for the gut wrenching sobs that wracked his body. "I! Can't! Do! This! Ok?"

Sophie held him tighter to her. She carefully lowered them down to the soft grass. She kissed his shoulder.

His own cries of mental anguish drowned out any of the other noises of the world. Slowly the sobs slowed into hiccups and whimpered. However, not by his own accord.

Soon a warmth filled it's place. Like the crackling of a fire on a cold winter night. Brightening up the chilling darkness. Comforting his aching soul.

Was Sophie... inflicting on him? Positive emotions, that is.

She untangled herself from him to look him in his icy blue eyes. "Hey. Can you talk to me now?"

He wiped at his eyes, nodding.

"Swear to me, Keefe. Swear to me that you won't even consider doing that again before talking to me. Before we can actually come up with a plan to help you."

He looked away, ashamed with his awnser. "I can't-"

"No, Keefe!" She snapped, startling him with her tone. "Swear. Swear on Silveny's life!"

Keefe squeezed his eyes shut and pursed his lips. He tried very his best to mean it when he awnsered, "I swear."

He'd try. He'd try his absolute hardest. For her. She deserved that much.

She must've been able to tell he meant it. That or she was reading his mind again. Either way, she pulled his face closer and kissed him. He melted at her touch.

This. This feeling was worth living for. If nothing else, this.

This amazing girl in front of him cared for him like no other person did. He'd do everything in his power to fight off the dark thoughts deep in his head.

For Sophie.

She finally broke away. She studied him for a minute.

"Come on," she told him. "Let's go inside and get comfortable. There should still be some mallowmelt left if I recall."

Keefe pulled himself to his feet and started to follow her in. Just as they entered the threshold, she turned back and smiled at him.

"It will be ok," she whispered.

And funny enough, he believed it.

[made-my-peace-with-all-the-bad]

Imagine Two-Bit learning from Marcia how to have healthy coping mechanisms and not drink to make his problems go away.

Because before meeting Marcia, Two-Bit drank to solve most of his problems. Because he was such an anxious person, but he grew up being told that whatever he was worried about wasn’t important (by his dad). So, he turns to drinking because it lets him forget and it makes him less focused on his fears. And he can’t be focused on his fears because other people have it worse (his mindset). He can’t be focused on his problems because he has to lighten the mood with the gang, which includes three kids who just lost their parents, a kid whose parents are at each others throats so often and when they’re not they’re at his throat, a kid with no actual family, and a kid whose dad is ready to throw him out or hit him at any moment. So he needs to be the one to lighten the mood and bring laughter into their gang. He can’t be upset.

But then he meets Marcia. Marcia, who doesn’t judge him for being nervous or worried about something he thinks is stupid. Marcia, who lets him talk about anything and everything. Even if it’s something that isn’t happy or upbeat. She lets him be himself. So, he stops drinking as much. Partially because he knows it upsets her and she doesn’t like alcohol, but also because he doesn’t need it as much. Because if he’s nervous, he can go to her and her arms are open and waiting. And eventually, he kinda just stops all together. And when that happens, suddenly a lot more of the rocky relationships in his life start getting better. Suddenly, his sister is much more willing to spend time with him because she’s less scared that he’s going to become a deadbeat drunk. Suddenly, his mom is gentler and isn’t worried that her little boy is turning into something he shouldn’t be and she doesn’t want him to be. And Marcia was the reason. And so Marcia is welcomed in to the Mathews family with open arms. And it wasn’t easy to get Two-Bit to slow down or stop. But Marcia worked with him every step of the way to show him he didn’t need to hide behind a drunk facade to be liked. She reassured him that his friends, family, and her would still love him, even if he wasn’t always ok with being the comedic relief. She taught him to come to her if he was feeling nervous, instead of turning to a bottle. She showed him how she coped with anxiety and offered him other options. She showed him the ways that she felt better and he started picking them up.

Just Marcia teaching Two-Bit how to cope and accept love regardless of whether or not he was helping others feel better. Because sometimes, he couldn’t always be helping everyone else, sometimes, he needed help himself.

[sflow-er]

3 Rowing practice

Henry tried talking to Simon again at lunch both on Thursday and Friday to test the situation, but neither of those attempts lead anywhere. The first time around, Simon simply let Wilhelm carry the conversation when Henry addressed them both, asking what they thought of the enormous load of homework they had been assigned on top of all the revision they had to do for their end-of-term exams. The second time, Simon replied a few times when Henry asked him directly what the choir was currently rehearsing, but he was not willing to engage any further and excused himself as soon as he was done eating.

The failed attempts at casual conversation solidified that Henry would not be able to sway Simon in a roundabout way. He could bang his head against the wall all he liked, but that would not be enough to make it crack. Even if it did, Simon would patch it right back up again. He would have to think of something else.

Just as he had resigned himself to giving up for the week and planning his next move over the weekend, he suddenly caught an enormous break at rowing practice that very afternoon, when August paired them up for a workout.

[---]

It soon became clear he would not be able say much to Simon over the actual training session. Nils and Vincent were close by the entire time they spent on dry land, and it wasn’t even remotely possible to talk in private while rowing their single sculls, as the water would have carried his words straight into everyone else’s ears. He thus resolved to wait and conjure up an opportunity to talk to Simon alone at the end.

When they finally returned to shore, Nils and Vincent were there again to help them up on the pier. It was a nice gesture, albeit slightly patronising.

That impression was reinforced when the older boys proceeded to pick up one scull each, lift them over their heads and jeer at the ‘soft first-years’. However, it only took them about fifteen steps to succumb to the physical exhaustion of the training. They had to put the sculls down again, swallow their bravado, and carry them together, one at a time.

As Henry instinctively glanced at Simon, they actually locked eyes for about two seconds before Simon rolled his eyes and Henry snickered. The shared amusement felt encouraging. Simon was evidently tired and mellowed enough from the training to curb his apprehension. Even he found it hard to be strictly aloof after working together for the best part of the afternoon.

Henry stepped over Simon’s scull, made his way to the stern and crouched to get a proper grip, while Simon moved to pick up the bow. Upon lifting the boat, he realised he had not thought the task all the way through, as he ended up having to walk backwards up the path. The situation had a silver lining, though, because Simon now had to guide the way and tell him when to watch his step.

They went back for Henry’s scull, and this time they both thought ahead: Simon piped up to remind him to face the other way on the exact same second as Henry himself was about to turn around. They made fast work of it, and Henry found himself further emboldened by the unusual calm. He could do this.

By the time they returned to get the oars, the others had already disappeared into the locker room. Henry took a minute to catch his breath, looking towards the lake. August and Wilhelm were still quite a long way out. The captain was absolutely ruthless towards himself, which also led him to push those he trained with much harder than strictly necessary. Poor Wilhelm bore the brunt of it since he had the misfortune of being August’s favourite. Henry felt a bit bad for the prince, although not quite enough to want to trade places with him.

All of a sudden something clattered behind him, and he snapped around to see Simon fumbling with the oars. Vincent and Nils must have forgotten to get theirs, as there were four pairs still on the pier.

“Should we carry those together?” he suggested, sensing an opening.

“No need, I can manage mine. Those two show-offs can come and get their own,” Simon muttered, putting down the extra pair of oars he had clearly been trying to take along.

Henry ignored him and made to gather up all four pairs.

“What are you doing? Just leave them,” Simon hissed. His cheeks were a little flushed, betraying his embarrassment at having prompted Henry to make a fuss.

“Isn’t it faster if we just bunch them all up and carry them together?” Henry suggested, peering up from under his sweaty hair. Simon shot him a disinclined look which he met as patiently as he could manage.

They stared at each other for a moment, until Simon relented, seeing how determined Henry was to do this his way. Henry was overjoyed when his training partner did not say anything more to protest, but he managed to hide it well enough, ducking his head so his upturned collar hid the smirk brewing on his lips.

They bunched up the oars and carried them together, Henry walking backwards again. The boathouse wasn’t far, but Nils and Vincent still caught them on the way, jogging down from the locker room after having finally remembered their oars.

They offered their help, but Simon rejected it, stating that he and Henry were doing just fine. His tone was a tad sassy, and Henry chuckled to himself at the way the older boys sheepishly stepped aside to make room.

As soon as they had put the oars away, Henry pounced on the chance. He quickly stepped into the doorway to keep Simon from leaving.

The move earned him a confrontational glance from his cornered teammate and a question that almost sounded like a growl, “What now?”

“Nothing,” Henry said in a tone that he hoped would come across as jovial. “It was just, uh, fun training with you today.”

His resolve wavered somewhat, seeing that Simon was not the least bit amused by this turn of events. He did not want to squander the goodwill he had managed to generate over the afternoon, and he wished he’d had more time to plan. As much as he had tried to plot this out during their training session, hard exercise always lulled him into a pleasantly blank state of mind. This ungraceful arrest in the boathouse was the best he had been able to come up with. It was bound to be a horrible idea, but it was too late to switch to a smoother approach now, so he simply remained where he was and tried to act like he wasn’t intentionally blocking the way.

“Okay,” Simon said in a sceptical tone, crossing his arms. He seemed both irritated and perplexed by Henry’s sudden urge to talk. In an attempt at some control over the situation, he returned to the most recent topic of conversation. “I would’ve managed my own oars just fine, though. It’s not our job to clean up after Nils and Vincent.”

“I know, it just seemed like the sensible thing to do since we were the only ones there.”

“Whatever you say, I guess.”

Simon’s eyes were still filled with caution, so Henry tried for some levity. “At least we got to show them how it’s done for a change.”

They could both certainly hold their own on land as well as water, and most of their other teammates were not exactly heavily built either. Still, Henry and Simon were the ones whom some of their older teammates were always telling to be careful when it was windy, lest they be carried off. It was not mean-spirited, but it could get very old very quickly.

The sentiment was not lost on Simon, and it coaxed a genuine grin out of him. The glee automatically loosened his posture and softened his eyes a little. In fact, his brow smoothed considerably, until it was less furrowed than most times when he looked at Henry.

No words were exchanged for a minute. To Henry’s relief, Simon did not try to push past him to the door just yet. Clearly sensing that Henry had something to say, Simon stayed put and let his eyes wander from him to the walls and the equipment around them. He still kept his arms crossed for protection, though.

Henry combed one hand through his matted hair, found it disgustingly wet, and wiped his fingers on his other sleeve. He blinked at the stain for a few seconds as he mustered up the courage, and then he said in a slightly uncertain voice, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

Simon did not respond, but his eyes darted back to Henry. He let his hands fall to his sides and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The look on his face was expectant, albeit slightly wary.

Henry decided to just go for it before the anticipation could grow too heavy. “I um, I know I’ve been kind of shitty towards you, and I’m sorry.”

Simon’s expression changed. He now stared as if Henry had suddenly grown a second head, and after taking a few sharp breaths, he narrowed his eyes and asked in a disbelieving tone, “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Henry repeated, and the words came a bit easier now, so he went on, “I’ve been wanting to apologise to you. For the way I’ve been acting, I mean.”

Simon’s eyes widened. His lips parted slightly, and his neck and shoulders tensed in reaction. When he spoke, it was clear from his pitch that he had been caught completely off guard.

“This is a joke, right?”

“No, it’s not,” Henry insisted. After Simon actually snorted in response, he added as sincerely as he knew how, “I know it sounds really weird coming out of the blue like this, but I’m serious.”

“Right, because I’m definitely stupid enough to believe you had so much fun with me today that you suddenly decided you didn’t want to be a stuck-up asshole anymore.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a few days already, but kind of, yeah.”

Simon scoffed at him, and Henry felt his nerves wiring up again. Before they could make him rush out the door in embarrassment, he blurted out, “I just, ever since we met, I had like, my own assumptions about you based on your background. I never really questioned them, until this week, I suddenly did. And I wanted to apologise to you.”

“My background?” Simon nearly hissed as he repeated the words.

Henry instinctively raised his palms to de-escalate. “That came out wrong! I just meant I was a prejudiced jerk. And it stopped me from seeing you for yourself, if that makes sense.”

Whatever Simon had been planning to say next, Henry’s distressed tone killed it on his lips. He was finally allowing the words to sink in, and in the meantime, he settled for examining Henry’s face for the slightest sign that this was a wind-up. Henry forced himself not to shy away from the piercing look and did his best to appear more composed than he truly felt.

The exhaustion of the workout was weighing on them both. It helped to lower Simon’s defences while also lending credibility to Henry’s words – he was physically too tired to spin some elaborate lie, and Simon knew that. Furthermore, it was extremely fortunate that Henry got a chance to do this today, fresh off the back of his latest failed effort to strike up conversation over lunch. He could almost see the pieces slotting together behind those brown eyes.

Sure enough, Simon’s expression slowly turned from hostile to hesitant. Henry decided to nudge him in the right direction just once more. Because he didn’t want to allude to any of what he had found about Simon and Wilhelm for fear of overstepping and wasting this opportunity, he went for the next best thing.

“Like I said, I did have fun with you today. And I think it’s time to just admit I was wrong about you. So, again, I’m sorry.”

He felt a sudden gush of triumph as the explanation seemed to land well enough. Simon tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. Despite himself, he allowed his face to relax a bit and his guard to fall just a little lower.

Simon’s eyes were still scanning Henry’s face intently enough to burn his skin, but he did not have to hold out much longer. When Simon failed to find anything to suggest a trap, he eventually had to wrap up the search.

Some of the tension dissipated, and Simon’s shoulders dropped again – not all the way, as he wasn’t ready to put all his trust in Henry’s sincerity just yet, but enough for Henry to let out the breath he had barely realised he had been holding.

“Well, if you really mean it, thanks, I guess,” Simon said then. “I appreciate the apology.”

His voice was level, but the way he fidgeted with his sleeves as he said the words betrayed his unease. He had definitely not gone into the training session thinking it would turn out like this.

Henry on the other hand found himself more than a little surprised at how easily Simon had budged. No matter how tired they were, he had certainly expected his teammate to reject the apology outright and put up more of a fight. But no – Simon mostly just looked taken aback. There was still a shred of wariness left, but most of it had melted away. Maybe Henry’s efforts this week had not been completely wasted, after all.

Henry allowed Simon some time to fully absorb the situation in case he wanted to express more resistance once he really wrapped his mind around it, but that never came. The indisputable conclusion was that Simon had to be serious.

Henry could not help sounding a little stunned when he asked to confirm, “So, you accept?”

“I guess so. Unless you’re just going to treat me like dirt again when we step out that door.”

Simon tried to sound tough, but there was no fire behind it. For a few heartbeats, Henry even saw a sliver of vulnerability. It reminded him of the way Simon had looked on their first days at Hillerska, back when the slate between them had been clean.

“I’m not, I swear. I’d like to, I don’t know, try to get along. If you’re open to that,” Henry assured him. Not wanting to apply too much pressure, he quickly added, “I understand if you’re not. Like, the apology isn’t conditional or anything. But if you’re open to it, I’d like to start over.”

Henry had no idea how Simon usually felt about second chances, so all he could do was hope for the best while his teammate considered it. He felt calmer now in any case. Whatever the outcome, he had at least managed to say he was sorry, and Simon had accepted.

Sooner than Henry thought, Simon nodded to reaffirm. “Okay. Let’s try that.”

And that was the last one, I hope you enjoyed! (You can read more in the original fic if you are so inclined.)

For YR Faves Fest organised by @youngroyals-events Prompts: 2. favourite teen side character (Henry), 7. favourite (not-quite) friendship, 9. favourite season (S1)

To accompany my Henry & Simon analysis post, I thought it could be fun to post a selection of scenes from my S1 longfic Other people's secrets as Sunday snippets!

These three scenes consist of 1) Henry observing Wilmon on the night of the Society party, 2) him trying to small talk with them the next day, and 3) him apologising to Simon after rowing practice some days later. They should be easy to follow and enjoy even if you haven't read the entire fic.

The first scene is under the cut, and I will reblog this twice (later today) to add the others!

1: The night of the Society party

When a cold breeze touched Henry’s ankle, he realised he had failed to close the window after climbing in. As if on cue, there was a noise from outside – it sounded like someone falling down, followed by muffled voices arguing.

“Fuck, not again. Get up, Wille!”

“Sorry, sorry! Just need to catch my breath.”

“On your feet now, come on!”

“It’s nice here, sit with me for a bit.” Sounds of a scuffle again. “I want to sit with you, come on!”

“No, you’re going to get up and point me in the right direction. Unless you want me to just leave you here.”

“No, don’t leave me! Everything’s spinning and I just, uh. I need a minute to – ungh…”

As more struggling followed, Henry gradually unfroze to look over at his roommate, who seemed to be fast asleep still. He wondered if he should wake Walter up for this but decided not to waste time. This sounded like a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it type of situation. He curiously approached the window and peered out through the corner pane, hiding behind the curtain to avoid being seen from the outside.

It was dark, but Henry could make out two figures on the lawn. One was pulling the other to his feet, but the one reluctantly getting up – Wilhelm, obviously it had to be Wilhelm – threw his arms tightly around whoever was helping him and slumped against them.

“Damn it, Wille, get a hold of yourself! We’re almost there.”

“Don’t be mad,” Wilhelm slurred, still hanging on for dear life, even though the object of the hug tried to pry him off. He sounded desolate saying, “Don’t leave me, Simon, please don’t leave me.”

Henry’s eyes widened as he mouthed the name: Simon? His thoughts were a whirlwind in his still slightly inebriated brain. Why was Simon bringing Wilhelm home from a party he had not even attended, and more importantly, were they really this close?

This was best-friend territory. Not something any two classmates would do for each other. Henry for one couldn’t imagine other than Walter dragging him home like that. Simon didn’t even live here, so he was really going out of his way to do this.

Henry squinted his eyes to see better as Simon let out a stifled grunt and heaved his clingy friend off. It was too dark to see their faces, but luckily there was enough moonlight to catch their silhouette.

“Of course not, I just said that to get you moving again.” Simon held Wilhelm by the elbow as the prince almost lost his balance from the push. His other hand was gesturing towards the windows. “Now, focus: which one is your room? How do we get in?”

“That one over there. I left it open. I’m clever like that.”

“Just not clever enough to say no to whatever junk they put in front of you,” Simon muttered, lifting Wilhelm’s arm on his shoulders and starting in the indicated direction.

Wilhelm groaned and signalled his reluctance to move. He grabbed a handful of Simon’s jacket and whatever he was wearing under it, most likely a hoodie knowing how Simon dressed. Then, he actually nuzzled his face into the crook of Simon’s neck.

Simon, who was quite clearly at the end of his wit, tried to push him off again.

“I don’t need this from you, okay? I know you’re hurting, but this is not the way to fix that. I can’t be dragging your ass home high in the middle of the night, it’s not fair. Okay?”

“Please don’t be mad,” Wilhelm whined again. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

“We can talk about this when you’ve sobered up,” Simon said, obviously mad.

Henry was holding his breath, transfixed. This was a much more private conversation than he had expected. He tried to get a better look, but all he could see was Wilhelm’s frame slumped against Simon while the shorter boy insistently dragged him along.

“Will you stay until then? Please stay.”

“Well, somebody has to make sure you don’t choke to death in your sleep.”

Henry stifled a giggle at the similarity with the sentiment Walter had expressed earlier about him potentially dying in the woods. Yes, definitely best-friend territory, although he couldn’t really imagine himself being quite that physical, even with Walter. Hugging, sure, but the nuzzling was a bit much. But then, Wilhelm was obviously high out of his mind, so it was no wonder he was acting strangely.

“Thank you, Simon. Thanks for coming. I can’t believe you came.”

“Of course I came.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Wilhelm sounded sincere, his voice small and broken.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” Simon replied a bit more bitterly than Henry expected.

“I didn’t really want what I wanted.” It was getting harder to hear Wilhelm’s slurred words now as they were getting further away. Henry silently pushed the window slightly further ajar to catch the rest. He couldn’t risk looking out anymore for fear of being spotted, but at least he could hear better. “I’m sorry.”

“I know. Now, is this your window?” Wilhelm did not say anything in response, but he must have made a gesture to that effect, because the next thing Henry heard was the window creaking open. “Get in, and don’t make any noise unless you want your bodyguards to rush in.”

“Quiet as a mouse,” Wilhelm proclaimed at a volume that was anything but. He proceeded to knock something over on his way in, then cursed as that something clanked against the floor. His bodyguards must have heard, but they probably had enough tact to avoid catching the crown prince in the act.

Simon laughed quietly despite himself, and Henry could imagine him shaking his head in exasperation. Wilhelm muttered an ’oops’ and shushed himself, still extremely loud in the absence of any other noise.

When Simon spoke again, his voice sounded less angry. Instead, it was laced with affection. “Real smooth. Now get out of the way.”

Henry heard Simon climb in and close the window. It was quiet again, and he turned back towards his sleeping roommate in disbelief. He really should have woken Walter up for this, because he had no idea what to make of it on his own.

“Well, I guess that’s what happened to Wille,” he whispered to himself. Rubbing his wrist on his cheek, he realised he had blushed vigorously at the awkward excitement of watching and eavesdropping on something he so clearly wasn’t supposed to witness.

He shook his head to snap out of it, then he shut the window and curtains. He lay down to contemplate the discussion he had just witnessed, hands behind his pillow.

Obviously, Simon and Wilhelm had to be very close friends based on everything they had just said and the touchy-feely nature of it all. But if that was the case, why were they hiding?

[---]

He lay awake for about an hour, listening to Walter’s steady breathing from the other bed and feeling low as conflicting thoughts swirled around his slowly sharpening mind. Witnessing that interaction had made it abundantly clear how different Wilhelm was with a true friend than he was with Henry and the others – and if Simon had been able to get through Wilhelm’s seemingly impenetrable walls, there had to be something special about him.

The more Henry thought about how wrong his approach to them both had been, the larger and heavier the ball of guilt inside him grew, until he had to clear his throat in an effort to move it. Thankfully – or unfortunately, he wasn’t sure which – Walter didn’t seem to stir.

And so, he whispered quietly into the dark, “Maybe we should try to be nicer to Simon.”

[bunnieswithknives]

sorry if idk this but what do you think about Wordgirl now in 2024 do you still like it do you still want to make art or talk about it or are you just done with all of it forever and plus i seen that you haven't made art of it since 2022 so you just done with all of it oh yeah and what about The Magnus Archives + Wordgirl ao3 fic too like is that just going to be and i know that your working on 2 au's now just wanting to know that's all

My interests tend to come in intense bursts and then fade. Unless something like, big happens like it gets a reboot its unlikely I'll be coming back to it anytime soon. As for the fic I don't have any current plans to finish it unfortunately.

[todayisafridaynight]

Anyone else thought about Ryuji and Aoki kissing?? I can see Ryuji just not taking any of Aokis shit... Fellow Aoki enjoyers.. plz tell me someone else thought about this

anon i think youre flying solo on this one. Respectfully. But maybe im wrong who’s to say Not Me

[thenerdcommander]

We're less than a week away from moving day and not even finished packing or cleaning yet I'm so depressed and burnt out from doing Tasks and being anxious that I was barely able to warm a frozen pizza

[faylighting]

its the way that they seem, at first glance, to be the least prepared out of all the protagonists to lead. to be a hero. they make jokes about people's loved ones coming back to life and flopping around the streets, they laugh in the face of death. but instead of falling into the role, or being conscripted into it- the role of hero is quite literally molded by/around them. it fits them like a glove. and they don't need to alter it or shrink or grow to fit it- the glove was made for them. and i think that's what drives a rival carver so crazy- that they don't even seem to try (SEEM being the key word), and yet purple hawke just IS the hero.

red hawke may be my favorite but there is a unique sadness to purple hawke that constricts my heart and makes me fall down upon the floor you get me. it's the covering up of pain. the (often failed) attempts to make their friends and family a bit safer, a bit happier. it's knowing that if they are the pc, that means they take after malcolm hawke and it is a legacy of smiles they don't feel stretch backwards through the years.

it's the snarky comments to their baby sister about that family heirloom staff she got that has a very, very naked woman on top that makes bethany sputter and flush and roll her eyes, saying "at least my naked w-"

"isabela!"

[cyarsk52-20]

When Tina Turner left her first husband - who was also her boss, captor, and brutal tormentor - she snuck out of their Dallas hotel room with a single thought in her mind: "The way out is through the door." From there she fled across the midnight freeway, semi-trucks careening past her, with 36 cents and a Mobil gas card in her pocket. As soon as she decided to walk out that door, she owned nothing else. When she filed for divorce, she made an unusual request. She didn't want anything: not the song rights, not the cars, not the houses, not the money. All she wanted was the stage name he gave her - Tina - and her married name - Turner. This was the name by which the world had come to know her, and keeping it was her only chance to salvage her career. Things could have gone a lot of ways from there. She could have labored in obscurity for decades, maybe making records on small labels to be prized by vinyl connoisseurs in Portland. She could have stayed in Vegas, where she first went to get her chops back up, and worked as a nostalgia act. And, of course, given what she had been through, she might have … not made it. What happened instead is that Tina Turner became the biggest global rock star of the 80s. I'm old enough to barely remember this, but if you aren't, it was like this: The Rolling Stones would headline a stadium one day, and the next day it would be Tina Turner. A middle-aged Black woman - she became a rock star at 42! - sitting atop the 1980s like it was her throne. She managed this because of whatever rare stuff she was made of (this is a woman whose label gave her two weeks to record her solo debut, Private Dancer, which went five times platinum); because she decided to speak publicly about her abusive marriage and forge her own identity, and in doing so give hope and courage to countless women; and also because - in a perhaps unlikely twist for a girl from Nutbush, Tennessee - she had her practice of Soka Gakkai Nichiren Buddhism, to which she credited her survival. She remained devout until the end. Tina's second marriage - to her, her only marriage - was to Edwin Bach, a Swiss music executive 16 years her junior. Of him, she said, "Erwin, who is a force of nature in his own right, has never been the least bit intimidated by my career, my talents, or my fame." In 2016, after a barrage of health problems, Tina's kidneys began to fail. A Swiss citizen by then, she had started preparing for assisted suicide when her husband stepped in. According to Tina, he said, "He didn't want another woman, or another life." He gave her one of his kidneys, buying her the remainder of her time on this earth and perhaps closing a cycle which took her from a man who inflicted injury upon her to a man willing to inflict injury upon himself to save her from harm. Born into a share-cropping family as Anna Mae Bullock in 1939, she died Tina Turner in a palatial Swiss estate: the queen of rock 'n roll; a storm of a performer with a wildcat-fierce voice; a dancer of visceral, spine-tingling potency and ability; a beauty for the ages; a survivor of terrible abuse and an advocate for others in similar situations; an author and actress; a devout Buddhist; a wife and mother; a human being of rare talent and perseverance who, through her transcendent brilliance, became a legend.

Credit: Will Stenberg

[marylxvrr]

" THE KING'S OBSESSION "

read part 2 here

𐙚 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 — a ruthless ruler who commands loyalty from all, yet becomes a desperate, obsessive mess when it comes to you, willing to destroy kingdoms just to keep you by his side . . .

𐙚 Trigger Warnings: Obsession, power imbalance, emotional. manipulation, implied captivity, and threats of violence.

You kept your head down, your hands trembling as you scrubbed the grand marble floors of the royal palace. Just another nameless servant in the king's vast estate, you worked tirelessly to keep your place in a world that cared little for someone like you.

The rumors about King Adrian were whispered in hushed tones among the maids. He was ruthless, ruling with an iron fist, but his charm was undeniable. His mere presence could silence a room, his sharp green eyes piercing through even the bravest of souls.

You had only seen him from afar—until the day fate crossed your paths.

It happened when you were carrying a heavy vase filled with fresh flowers, your arms straining under its weight. You misstepped, the vase slipping from your grasp and crashing to the floor. The sound echoed through the grand hall, and your heart dropped into your stomach as you realized King Adrian himself had just entered.

He paused, his eyes landing on you. You froze, breath hitching as you knelt, frantically gathering the shattered pieces.

“I-I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” you stammered, your voice trembling as you avoided his gaze.

“Leave it,” he said, his voice low but commanding.

You stopped, your hands stilling. Slowly, you dared to glance up, meeting his piercing green eyes. His expression was unreadable, his gaze intense as it swept over you.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Y/n, Your Majesty,” you whispered.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Y/n,” he repeated, as though savoring the sound of your name. “How fitting.”

---

From that day on, you felt his presence everywhere. The king would linger in the halls where you worked, his gaze burning into you. At first, you tried to dismiss it as your imagination, but the gifts began to appear.

A necklace of pearls left on your cot. A fine dress, far beyond anything a maid could afford, folded neatly on your small bed. The other servants whispered, their envy thinly veiled, but unease churned in your chest.

One evening, a royal attendant summoned you to the king’s chambers. Your heart pounded as you stood before the massive double doors, anxiety tightening your throat.

When you stepped inside, Adrian was seated by the fireplace, a glass of wine in his hand. He looked up and smiled, motioning for you to approach.

“You’ve caught my attention, Y/n,” he said, setting the glass down. “And I am not a man who lets go of what he desires.”

Your breath hitched. “Your Majesty, I’m just a maid—”

“You’re mine,” he interrupted, his voice firm and unyielding. “From the moment I saw you, I knew. No one else will ever have you.”

You stepped back, fear curling in your stomach. “Your Majesty, please. I don’t belong in your world.”

Adrian rose from his chair, his imposing figure towering over you. “You belong to me,” he said, his tone soft but laced with steel. “Whether you realize it or not.”

Tears pricked your eyes, and you shook your head. “I can’t… I can’t be what you want.”

He stepped closer, cupping your cheek in his hand. His touch was deceptively gentle, but the obsession in his gaze was unmistakable. “You already are,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your skin.

You flinched, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened. “There is no escape from me, Y/n. You will stay by my side—whether as my queen or my prisoner. The choice is yours.”

Your voice cracked as you whispered, “Why me?”

His smile darkened. “Because you’re perfect. Because you’re mine. And I will destroy anyone who tries to take you from me.”

[fairuzfan]

I'm to the point where if I hear you're endorsing/voting for Kamala Harris and you're publicly getting mad at people for not voting for her, I'm not even going to listen what you have to say, you've made it clear you have to strong principles to guide your decisions beyond "what's worse for me personally?" I think Harris voters have no actual ideologies to live by, despite claiming they do, and I fundamentally don't respect them for it. It's one thing to be angry at people who won't vote for Harris, but it's another thing to pretend you're doing it because you have some sort of moral authority and not basing it off pure selfishness. You think that solidarity is posting about things and that's it. You refuse to make yourself uncomfortable, even momentarily. And you get mad at people who are willing to go through discomfort for the sake of others. You call them names, ans claim that THEY are the selfish ones in this scenario. You've given up on making a change in the world for the better, or maybe you were never interested in it. All of your arguments pale in comparison to reality, because Harris is actively funding a genocide. She has even refused to acknowledge a reality in which she does not fund that genocide. Has made such a thing clearer and clearer. All my problems here in the imperial core are secondary to that. I'm about to go through multiple personal issues that are made increasingly hard by political factors and I still think that's nothing in comparison to what Palestinians and Lebanese are going through overseas. You've placed yourselves as the ultimate victims in the world and to me it's laughable and completely out of touch with just how fucked everyone else is because of the imperial beast that is Amerikkka. And speak nothing of the way the victims of Amerikkkan imperialism on Turtle Island bear the brunt of societies' woes for your personal comfort and refusal to make any meaningful change. Not ev baby steps! You think trump is an accidental anomaly and not a product of a larger issue within white amerikkkan politics. Is it not shocking to you that so many people here are voting for trump so enthusiastically?

Seeing things like the weaponization of personal identity, like "Muslims for Harris," used so plainly is an insult to the ideas of internationalism that you all claim to follow. What use is solidarity with the victims of imperialism if you refuse to acknowledge the entirety of the imperial complex? That includes the democrats you hold so dear as well as the Republicans? What use is any of this if you only think for yourself?

You claim to be thinking of others, and that's why you vote for Harris... but what is so incomprehensible to me is the comfort in which you accept the inevitability of Palestinian deaths. Why are you so willing to accept that reality? Why are you comfortable with that reality? It shocks me and disgusts me in a way that I can not really describe. You lot argue and argue and argue, but in the end, the difference between you and me is that I refuse to engage in a reality where Palestinians must die in any case. You have yet to refuse that. In actuality, you all refuse the baby steps, the bare minimum, of refusal to engage in continuation of that reality. And because of that, I do not take you seriously, nor do I view you as being moral in your decision to sacrifice Palestinians.

[sleepymarimo]

❝𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐮𝐩!❞

synopsis: you're tasked with waking up zoro for dinner, but it's hard to make him budge.

pairing: zoro x gn!reader cw: more tooth rotting fluff for my favorite swordsman :) wc: ~1.6k an: i had a dream about this and added some even more fluff because why not. ty all i hope you enjoy <3 also i realized i have a decent chunk of zoro fics about napping lol maybe this is why im sleepymarimo i just love that sleepy lil guy

"Where the hell is that shitty swordsman?" Sanji grumbles, cigarette hanging from his lips as he sets a hefty plate of rice on the dining table.

Even though you're acutely aware that the marimo is missing, you pretend to peer over shoulders and swivel your head to give the impression that you're just as clueless as everyone else. You're already sat at the table, utensils neatly resting beside your plate.

Everyone else is already in the dining room, Luffy practically on the brink of perishing as the food is placed before him. Chopper and Usopp are close behind, their forks glinting in the light.

Robin is patient, smiling at the sight before her, the one she's grown to love. "I believe he said something about taking a nap," she reveals, her fingers wrapping around the stem of a wine glass. "He might be holed up in the boy's room."

"You mean the men's room?" Franky speaks up in an attempt to lighten the mood, the cola bottle in his hand hissing as he pops the cap.

Nami shakes her head, not in the mood to entertain the hooligans she calls her crewmates- her family. When Luffy, Usopp, and Chopper start to chant for their food, the navigator's last straw cracks into a million pieces.

Her chair slides back with a screech as she stands, planting her hands on the table. "Ugh, I can't believe that guy, sleeping through dinner!" The sigh she gives is intentionally dramatic, her charm working its magic as Sanji quickly offers to knock some sense into the green-haired swordsman.

It all comes to a halt when a pair of hands sprout from the table, tugging at the cook's shirt in a silent command to stay put. All eyes go to Robin, her knowing gaze easily hiding whatever ploy is running through her mind.

She calls your name and you immediately feel your cheeks warm, though you still feign obliviousness even if it seems like she's peeking right into your brain.

"Why don't you get Zoro?" she suggests, yet deep down you know you don't have an option.

Even if the thought of protesting crosses your mind, the chorus of growling stomachs and pleas for you to hurry have you standing and scampering up the stairs and to the deck.

Standing in front of the door to the boy's cabin, you feel your stomach drop a bit. You're quite literally entering a tiger's den, into the willing jaws of a beast who has been known to treasure booze, swords, and naps above all else.

The air inside the room is significantly more warm, heavy, compared to the cool breeze blowing outside. It's dark, your eyes adjusting to the lack of lighting as you carefully step over shoes and dirty clothes.

For a moment the beds seem empty and you wonder if he's even inside, yet the massive figure atop one of the bunks makes you quickly reconsider that thought.

His bare back rises and falls at a leisurely pace, his arms sprawled over the sides of the bed while he lays on his front. Cheek pressed comfortably into his pillow, Zoro naps away without much care for anything else.

After gawking for a second or two, you step toward the bunk, mentally cursing, and steel yourself for what feels like the millionth time. The wooden structure is a bit too tall for you to get a look at him, so with a small grunt you step onto the bottom bunk and grip onto the rails to hoist yourself up.

As soon as you take a glimpse over the top bunk's railing, you feel the warmth of his exhales across your nose and cheeks. It makes your face warm, your own breaths stalling as you take in the sight of him looking so… serene.

His face is softened, relaxed, a stark contrast to the pinched brows and scowls he usually wears.

Imagining the exasperated faces of your hungry crewmates, you get on with your small mission. Even though you're there to wake him, you're considerate enough to keep mindful of your tone. "Zoro?" comes his name from your lips, a murmur not quite suited for waking a beast.

The most you get out of him is the slight wrinkling of his nose, like a fly had perched there for a second before buzzing off. In a way it's expected given that he's slept through storms and whole marine attacks.

Your tone is louder the next time you call his name, more firm, his silhouette becoming pronounced as your eyes adjust to the dark room. "Zoro," you call again, arms starting to ache from how you're pulling yourself up to the top bunk.

Again, nothing. It's almost comical at this point, really.

You resist the urge to groan in frustration, your options becoming more limited. Time really isn't on your side here, not when the odds of a hungry pirate barging into the room increases by the second.

Taking a big breath, you decide that this is going to be the last try. This is going to be the one to wake the marimo, whether he likes it or not.

Unfortunately, the sea has other plans for you.

The ship hits a patch of rough water, the violent movement causing you to lose your grip on the railing tethering you to the top bunk. Your breath also catches when the sudden jolt makes your feet slip off the mattress belonging to the bottom bed, your heart skipping a beat when you feel yourself starting to fall back.

You're fully prepared to brace yourself against the harsh floor, your muscles tensing and jaw tightening, but you don't even have the chance to fall back a single inch.

A strong arm, previously hanging limp over the bed, curls around your waist and holds you steady. It supports all your weight, even as your legs kick out in an attempt to find solid ground. With your face suddenly squished into the junction of his neck, your own arms act on instinct and wrap around his shoulders.

Zoro's awake now, steel-grey eye open and aware as if he hadn't been knocked out cold just seconds ago. His senses have a unique threshold, not bothering to pick up on the calls of his name but always managing to be ready when his crewmates need him most- especially you.

His skin is warm, a tell tale sign that he'd probably been napping for hours. Tightening his grip on you, he sits up, pulling you with him. You're still disoriented, wondering why you haven't hit the floor, but he's as sharp as ever.

"The hell are you doin'?" he grumbles, voice still heavy from his rest, carrying that delightful rasp. His irritated tone is a facade, more of a light chide than anything. "You tryin' t'break your neck or something?"

You feel like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing a couple times while you're still dangling from the top bunk. It's hard to not get in a few mumbled apologies, not knowing if he's ticked from being stirred from his sleep.

"Dinner is ready," you reply, managing to find your words, your hold on him not letting up due to fear of falling once more. He feels so warm, the definition of a guilty pleasure, and you're left to exert as much self-control as possible.

He lets out a scoff, amused, then grunts as he finally realizes you're still hanging over the bed. His hand moves, sliding across your waist to grab at the back of your shirt. While Zoro's strength is known throughout all the seas, it always leaves you in awe. With nothing more than a bicep curl, he hoists you up and onto the top bunk with him.

A sigh of relief leaves your lips as you sink into the soft mattress, the bunk creaking with the added weight and how Zoro shifts into a seated position. Legs crossed over one another, he stretches his arms over head, unintentionally showing off his physical prowess.

Your eyes find the ceiling out of respect, but mostly because you're another second away from bursting into flames.

He yawns, then rubs at the back of his neck. "Dinner, huh?" he repeats, finding the answer satisfactory enough and shrugging his shoulders. "They sent the right person. I don't need that shitty cook hurling a kick my way."

You nod and even get out a laugh. "Yeah, I'm sure waking up to me almost falling is a lot better," you joke, looking over the bunk to see the drop to the floor.

"It's no problem," he assures, his gold earrings catching in the slivers of moonlight entering through the window as a lazy smirk grows on his face. "I got ya."

While you'd be willing to skip dinner to stay with the swordsman, your stomach protests with a hefty grumble. Zoro's stomach follows suit, making it's need for food known. The timing of it makes another laugh slide past your lips, a sound that makes his smirk soften into something more genuine.

With a small grunt, he hops off of the top bunk and lands on the floor with a solid thud. "Alright," he starts, stretching his back out a bit more before lifting his head to meet your gaze. "Let's go eat." His arms raise, ready to help you down from the bed. Whether you want to take the ladder or propel yourself into his embrace, he silently vows to be there to offer support. Although Zoro could be stubborn, gruff, and brash, he'd never let you fall, not ever.

[risuola]

ENTRY #11 ♡ F. READER X GOJO SATORU // I starve for your touch yet fear to savor it.

contents: arranged marriage!au, nudity, reader discretion is advised — wc. 1690

a/n: there was no way i wouldn't write a fic based on this picture. just no way.

series masterlist

Satoru loves to sleep naked.

The beauty of his innate technique, the blessing that he mastered to no end, has stripped him off one of the most basic human needs — touch. He wasn’t missing it that much, he thought, but there was something in letting go of everything and allowing himself to be wrapped in the silky layers of bedsheets that made his body crave the feeling.

He has always picked expensive garments, the ones with soft fabrics and luxurious feel, despite everyone telling him it’s unreasonable to spend so much on a shirt or a pair of trousers, but to him, it did matter. To him, that was the only thing touching his body when a thin layer of infinity effectively forced everything else back. To Satoru, touch was forbidden, threatening. It was a vulnerability that he, the strongest, couldn’t afford.

But that until he’s met you. Until he’s married you.

You were one of not many people he’s made an exception for. You were able to touch him whenever you wanted because the protective surface of endless matter let you in. Because he himself altered his technique to make you capable of laying your hands on his body.

He longed for your touch. So soft, and delicate, and warm. He craved more of it and yet, despite being shameless and confident, he has not allowed himself to sleep bare even once since the day you and him were bound by the knot of matrimony. It would cross boundaries he wasn’t sure you’d wish to cross; it would make you uncomfortable, awkward maybe — and he liked the way your relationship looked like now. He liked the late evenings you talked quietly, alone and intimate in the warm embrace of sheets and your own house.

For you, he let go of the way he used to sleep before because you were worth the sacrifice, but now, you were gone for few days. You were sent on a mission away from Tokyo and the hours Satoru spent alone in bed, thinking of nothing more but your fingertips on top of his skin, made him desperate — and so, he allowed himself the comfort of soft cotton and silk.

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

You were tired. Exhausted even, by the intense fight you had to pull through, by the uncomfortable nights spent in the dingy hotel room, by the humid weather and rains. In moments like this, there was nothing you envied more in the world than your husband’s ability to warp from one place to another, but you got lucky. Incredibly so, because Ijichi offered you a ride home two days earlier than you were supposed to head back and you thanked all gods and devils for that man’s kindness. He was willing to put on some more road just to get you home.

“Thank you so, so much, Ijichi,” you kissed his cheek — a ghost of a peck that made him all red and steamy and you felt giddy for a moment, seeing the tips of his ears turn crimson. Adorable. You liked him, he was dutiful, polite, trustworthy and constantly terrorized by your husband, so you were determined to at least be the Gojo he likes.

“You’re very welcome,” he mumbled and fixed the frames on the bridge of his nose, pushing them up with the tip of his pointer finger. “Have a good rest.”

“You too, Ijichi.”

Then, he was gone and you were stepping into the house with a deep sense of relief washing over you. Home sweet home. If you were to guess, it was most likely somewhere around 4 am, way too early for anyone to be up — especially your husband — so you gave it your all to stay as quiet as possible. The sun was just showing its first rays from way below the horizon line, crawling up with golden hues and breaking the nightly, navy darkness.

On your toes you moved across the house. It seemed as if Gojo was spending his time alone quite ordinarily — you saw a modest stack of empty takeout boxes, much less humble pile of candy wrappers and his uniform jacket thrown over the couch backrest, along with few other little items that you struggled to differentiate in the nocturnal haze.

You put down your bag, hung up your coat and pushed off the shoes. Ghosting your way towards the bathroom, you were desperate to wash away the combat residuals. You lathered up the shower gel in a rush, desperate to rest and sleep in the comfort of your own bed and then, wrapped in the towel, you tippy-toed to the bedroom, but—

“Came back earlier?”

—you truly didn’t expect to be met with a sight like this. Your husband was awake, just barely, most likely awaken by the water running in the bathroom. His eyes were closed, hidden underneath his forearm and shielded from the lights that were slowly creeping inside, between the dark curtains and onto his face. His body seemed relaxed between the sheets. The softest, gentlest lines of golden glimmer that painted its patterns over his uncovered chest and leg, his hip and one of the muscular arms. The duvet was covering less than half of him, hiding a part of his stomach, the other leg and—

“You’re staring.”

Satoru didn’t even have to look at you to know that your gaze was lingering on his frame. On his very, very naked frame, just barely concealed by the comforter.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, feeling the heat creeping up your cheeks and reaching the tips of your ears and you thanked the darkness for hiding it away. You walked around the bed, hoping to find your pajama where you left it and trying to force your head out of the gutter. You heard your husband letting out a deep exhale and then, a soft hum. His voice was as melodic as always, though you could tell how much sleepiness was laced into it.

Satoru should’ve notice you when you entered the area of your house, but he didn’t. Tired by his own job, by the classes and all of the meetings, he allowed himself to lower his guard and when he realized you’re home, he contemplated for a moment getting up and dressed, but he just didn’t want to.

“You’re exhausted, screw pajamas, just come here,” he said before he managed to think twice about it. It was a daring offer, inappropriate even and he opened his mouth to apologize for it, but then, you rendered him speechless.

Your weight felt good on top of him. You lay your body over his own with feathery gentleness and carefully maneuvered your way to rest on his chest completely. The touch of your skin flush to his own made his brain to short circuit, it felt divine, too good to be true and just so very right, he couldn’t say a word.

“Is that alright?” You asked quietly, pressing your ear right above his heart and letting out a breath that you held for a little too long. Your face felt hot, you were flushed and flustered but also oddly at ease with the current position and you wondered for a moment if it was the tiredness that made you so bold.

“More than that,” he replied, pulling the covers to hide you beneath them. He allowed one of his arms to snake around your waist and his lips to kiss the top of your head. “Rest. Sleep well, wifey.”

“Good night.”

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

10:19 AM

Satoru thought he was dreaming, but the weight on top of him felt too real. The soft scent of citrusy shower gel that lingered on your skin filled in his lungs each time he took a breath in and there was a tickle, he realized — every time his chest raised, a strand of your hair seemed to be moving against his jawline. You were not a dream.

He opened his eyes, blinking few times, adjusting them to the bright light that forced its way into the bedroom and then, he looked at you. You were still very deep asleep, he could tell based off the long inhales you were taking, slow and relaxed, fanning against his peck rhythmically. Your body was mostly on top of him, you were on his chest, your leg was between his and only your hips were resting on the bed. He still had his arm around you, as if making sure you were as close as possible.

It felt incredible. Intimate. It was everything he could have wished for. A touch, skin to skin, so intense it almost took his breath away. He felt nauseous at the thought, realizing that it’s the first time in his life, he’s that close to someone. So impossibly close that just a little bit more and you’d become a part of him. His heartbeat quickened.

It was so right. So awfully correct and at the same time, so very threatening. He felt helpless. Vulnerable. He was at your mercy, he was robbed of everything what made him the strongest, because at this very moment, he was bare. Uncovered before you, wrapped in an embrace that felt loving, that felt soothing, addicting, but if you only wished to hurt him, you’d—

You moved, shifting your weight a little bit, adjusting the position and the way your hand run down his side made him shiver. A soft sound escaped your throat when you let out a deeper exhale. He felt your fingers squeezing the flesh above his hip and then, you relaxed again.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” you whispered, not bothering to open your eyes, and Satoru held his breath. “Relax…”

And he chuckled. His chest vibrated below your ear and the adorable sound of displeasure you let out made him lose all of the tension. He turned, twisting his body inside your embrace to face you fully and he squeezed you with both of his arms, pulling you close. So impossibly close, and you whimpered, suddenly enclosed in a tight hold of your husband’s limbs. That was it for your sleep.

You could get used to it.

taglist: @kinny-away @anan-baban @lotomber @netflix-imagines @kawliflo @nishloves @ghostfacefricker6969 @thejujvtsupost @yozora7154 @cherrycolabarbedwirebedpost @stuckinmoilalaland @ae-mius @ropickle @chokesonspit @lansy-4 @mo0sin @just-pure-trash @foliea @bakarinnie @big-booty-joe

[tojisun]

still on that "simon teaching you how to shotgun while you're riding him lazily" shit and will always be on that shit!!

•°. *࿐

he pinches your chin, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the smooth of your skin. “breathe it in slowly—it will burn, especially ‘cause this is y’r first time—so tap when s’too much, okay?”

“okay,” you hum, eyes fluttering slowly at the gentle touch, a caress you know that is meant to be beckoning.

simon shifts the two of you on his seat, shuffling carefully, but the slight movement still makes you gasp, a sputtering of your breath, as muted please races through you at the deeper press of his cock.

he croons at your reaction, eyes crinkling as he murmurs praises and ‘i love you’s, his voice so full of adoration. it makes your heart clench, lips wobbling at the softness of it all—

simon is not a good man. he said this to you the first time you begged him to take you to his place.

(“please,” you whimpered then, too overwhelmed with your lust to notice the way he was straining against his self-control. “i need you.”

your voice broke, a sad tinge curling in your words, and you wonder if it was that which finally pushed simon to the edge. if it was the desperation he could see burning in your eyes and rippling into the way you held him—loose fists bunching up his shirt—that finally made him buckle.

“i’m not the man that you think i am, sweetheart,” he spat out, his voice weaving between his teeth in a barely-contained snarl. “y’re too good f’r me.”

“i don’t care,” you murmured, stepping closer into him, devouring even the minuscule space between you two because simon needed to know. he needed to understand that there is no one else you yearn for but him—

“goddamn it.”

his snarl was followed by the way his teeth sank into your skin, marking, tugging.

yes! you thought with giddiness, a sharp gasp getting torn from the base of your throat. yes!yes!yes!)

simon is not a good man, but he kisses you like one. he cares for you like one. he loves you like one.

simon is not a good man, but did he need to be? he was yours. was that not enough?

you rut your hips in slow circles, quiet rasps of your gasps filling up the space. you watch with hooded eyes as simon lights his cigarette, before you lean forward to snuff the fire off his lighter. your eyes meet his above the wafting smoke, desire mutual as it drips into each other’s laps.

sweat beads on your forehead, sliding down your temple.

you brace yourself on your knees, mewling as you feel the base of his cock sliding out from the grips of your wet walls, before slowly sinking back down to engulf the thickness of it. his cock digs deep again, settling somewhere that makes you feel so full—you swear your organs shift to make room for him—and it is in the midst of your stuttered whimpers that simon takes a drag of his cigarette, slow and deep.

you become so hyperaware all of a sudden, watching as his chest expands with every inhale. then, he takes the stick out, and he turns to you with pursed lips. simon cups your cheek once again, his thumb swiping just underneath your eye.

anticipation courses through you as you pitch forward, willing your shaking body to sit still. you see the muted spark of the cigarette in your peripheral as you go—a temptress in its own right—until you feel the scruff of his unshaven chin tickling your own.

you didn’t realize how much your lips are trembling until you feel the steady press of simon’s against yours. he gives you soft pecks, reassuring kisses, and then he’s breathing out the smoke into your willing mouth.

you breathe it in slowly, feeling the burn on your tongue slither to your throat until it fills up your lungs. it feels like a thick miasma is being poured down your trachea, choking you with the tendrils of its fiery fog, and you cough, ripping your lips from simon’s.

“shh, shh,” he murmurs, quick to comfort you, his hand steady on the base of your head. “y’did great, sweetheart. y’did great.”

you can’t hear him, ears ringing as the heat spreads within you.

it is so foreign, dangerous, yet it is so, so sensual—

a metaphor for simon.

suddenly, sharp pleasure curls in the pit of your stomach, batting away the burn, and you keen, drawn out and high-pitched, before tipping your head down, needing to watch the way simon circles his thumb on your clit.

he’s let go of his cigarette—

“sim-onnn,” you hiccup, heart thudding with your disappointment. “wan’ more.”

he chuckles, the sound of it so fond.

so proud.

“look at you,” he croons. “it hurt you an’ yet you want more.”

his hand slides down from the base of your head to trace the plane of your spine before settling atop your ass where he grabs a fistful of your flesh. you groan, feeling truly edged out—the lapping euphoria you feel from the slow caress on your clit is not enough, and the thrill of breathing in simon’s sin having been cut short.

any more teasing and frustrated tears will trickle from the corners of your eyes.

simon catches your pout, and he grins, one that is a bite too mean.

“so needy,” he says, sighing dramatically, before he reaches for the stick and pinches it between his lips.

it makes you squirm, excited, your mouth already open—

needy, just like he said.