#something something we become an extension of those we love

[stardustizuku]

This is an excellent read, and I highly recommend it.

That said, I do feel the need to give some thoughts on it.

Selling Magical Tools to commoners isn’t illegal. There’s a far more complex issue going on here than nobles leaving commoners behind simply because they can.

Magic Tool are not only extremely expensive but also rare. Even in noble households, Lower ranking nobles on the poorer side with only one or two magic tools, end up having to prioritizing the children with more mana. The rest are either orphaned, sent to the temple, or left to die.

It is also implied that acquiring them, even for nobles, is not quite as easy as simply buying them. This makes them unwilling to part with any of their magic tools, because it’s not like they’re in abundance to begin with.

In this context, commoners are essentially scammed. They’re up-charged ridiculous amounts.

An almost broken one being almost the same price as a perfectly functioning (if not a bit old) one is crazy.

This is without taking into account the issue with Devouring Soldiers. The piece talks extensively about the parallels between sexual slavery of Women of Color and the way they treat Devouring girls as nothing more than objects to further people’s mana.

But there’s practically none about the way Nobles Weaponize men too. In many such occasions forcing these soldiers into slavery and forcing them to fight and die at the whims of nobility.

Also, theres a bit of glamorization of the lower city. The author of the piece above, implies that people of the lower city help out Myne because of class solidarity and Myne herself being the change that offers social mobility.

This is far from the truth. In the novels, it’s made explicitly clear that the ones being radical are Myne’s parents. Many other commoners explain that, had it been them, they wouldn’t have saved their daughter. A sickly girl, unable to earn her own money, is not seen as something good.

Myne expresses this during part 1. Her parents say “we never expected you to actually get a job”. Which at first she finds condescending, and heartbreaking for her family to assume she’s incapable. But in a world where money is scarce and extra money is the difference between starving a blizzard or surviving- it’s quite an act of love.

They were essentially saying “we were prepared to love and care for you forever”.

A feeling that I think rings all-too-real for women from poor countries. I remember sitting in shock, because, even to me, that was something I didn’t hear often. Nowadays everyone’s worth is assigned based on their contribution to society, so parents saying it’s okay even if you don’t have a job was a bit baffling.

It’s also a bit sad not to recognize that while Rozemyne does have a mindset of “pay it forward” it is not the core of her character. It fundamentally misunderstands why she’s so beloved.

She “helps” others because that’s what helps her. Her actions always will be selfish, if she wants something she’ll get it. Her illness however, made it so that she couldn’t do it herself, therefore she started relying on others, paying them in various ways for it.

It is true that she helps others but it’s not from such a “pure hearted” reason - and that’s what makes her amazing. She’s not someone whose life mission is to “make the world a better place”. She has a view of a world she’s laser focused on getting (books) and she realized that she needed to build a community foundation to achieve it.

If she wants something, she cannot have it by working alone. She needs help from those around her. Which comes as a shock for a hyper individualistic society like the one of nobles. This mentality ends up becoming why Ehrenfest climbs the ranks with such ease.

It is the people left behind or segregated by a community, the ones that end up being pivotal to change. Therefore, instead of cutting off people who don’t fit a mold, it’s Bookworm’s philosophy to instead make room for them and prop them up.

How Ascendance of a Bookworm depicts the challenges and triumphs of chronic illness

Content Warning: Chronic Illness, medical injustice, coerced child marriage

Spoilers for the entire Ascendance of a Bookworm anime to date, as well as Part 3 of the original light novel series which has an anime adaptation scheduled for 2026.

In the crowded field of fantasy isekai light novels, Kazuki Miya’s Ascendance of a Bookwormlight novel series stands out for its extensive worldbuilding, gripping character drama, and rich themes. Bookworm follows Urano Motosu, a college student studying library science who is fatally crushed under a bookshelf during an earthquake. Urano is surprised to awaken as Myne, a five-year-old commoner girl in the Duchy of Ehrenfest. Her new body is affected by a disabling chronic illness, and books are such an expensive luxury in Ehrenfest that she cannot access them. Rather than let these obstacles crush her spirit, Urano embraces her new identity as Myne and swears to spread literacy and reading throughout the kingdom by developing the same kind of printing technology she learned about on Earth. 

While Myne brings a wide variety of Earth knowledge to bear on her new life, the series puts a much greater focus on how Myne adapts to her incurable condition in a highly class-stratified society. Bookworm thoughtfully examines the interplay between disability, socioeconomic class, and community support while eschewing the shallow tropes found in some fantasy series.

Read it at Anime Feminist!

[esote-rika]

𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Smut 18+ MDNI Summary: Bringing your boyfriend to a lingerie sale causes some big problems to arise. Luckily, you’re always down to take care of him, regardless of when and where. Content: 3.3k words, established relationship, Spencer is so so so down bad, reader is a menace, lots of banter, semi-public sex, hand job, improvised gags, unprotected p in v, needy sub!Spencer, kinda switch? Idk they’re both horny for each other, size kink, reader wears lingerie and is shorter than Spencer. a/n: not proofread + am sick, pls forgive mistakes. I just needed something light and stupid after reading THG prequels and rewatching all the movies back to back so here we are. Same girlfriend reader as the last fic. Based on my darling lover’s request.

He’s not sure how he got here.

That’s a lie. He knows exactly how he got here, why he’s here, and it’s because every single atom in his body seems to become irrationally unable to say no to you. It’s pathetic, really. You don’t even have to plead anymore—though you still do, of course, pretty eyes widening just so, lower lip pushing out into a slight pout, and it makes his heart clench and his heart swell in ways that distress him. (You’re dangerous for his health, he’s sure of it, but it doesn’t even matter. If his life is cut short, he can’t think of a better way to go than being loved by you.)

Today, you hadn’t even done that. Just words spoken in a soft little whine, “My favorite store has an ongoing sale.”

How is he to deny you? The boutique isn’t too far away, and while he’d had plans to read for his day off, he can put those off for you. He can read anywhere, at any time. In pockets of vacancy at work, idle minutes during his commute. Time with you is precious, and if you want him to accompany you to a store, then that’s precisely what he’ll do.

There’s just one problem: you hadn’t really specified what kind of store.

Would he have been able to say no if you told him from the beginning that he’d be accompanying you into a lingerie store? Survey says no, probably not, but still, the heads up would have been nice. Kind, actually, because now he’s trailing behind you like a lost puppy, surrounded on all sides by flouncy, see through fabric in suggestive cuts. Lingerie. You brought him along as you went lingerie shopping.

Here’s the thing: Spencer Reid is no prude. He has studied the human body and anatomy extensively as a young boy, and has such a vivid, graphic memory of them from his time working at the BAU. But those had always been under the guise of science, where he could step back and assess things objectively. Often, the human parts are injured, devastatingly mangled. Viewing them requires compassion and intelligence, not lust. 

He has no idea what to do with the thought of bodies in this way—scantily covered by pretty patterns and thin fabric. Your body specifically. The very idea causes a shudder through him, the familiar heat. Focus, he tells himself, hands shoved deep in his pockets, balled into tight fists. His nails bite into his palm, and he welcomes the sting, focusing on that instead of the image of you in that navy silk slip… or in the pretty purple lace set… or—

“Spence?” 

“Yes?” 

“I’m gonna try these on, okay?”

A panicked look must cross his face, because you laugh, a hand reaching out to caress his cheek.

“I won’t be long, baby. None of these clothes can hurt you, and the sales people don’t bite.”

He’d feign offense if he were in a better state of mind, but he’s a little too panicked to come up with a response. You don’t understand. The very idea of you trying on lingerie is sending some very dangerous images to his brain. Images that, in turn, are causing very physical problems. Specifically in his crotch area. Still, he’s in public. He’s a grown man with working functions and impulse control. So he nods, forces a smile on his lips. 

Satisfied, you press a quick kiss to his jaw, and hurry off to the corridor on the far corner of the boutique, where a line of fitting rooms await. He watches the bundle of lingerie in your hands. He hadn’t even noticed what you were choosing, but Spencer decides that’s for the best. It’s easier to fight his imagination if he doesn’t know the details of your choices. Easier to sit on one of the lounge chairs and fiddle with his hands, gnawing on his lip anxiously, patiently, waiting for you to reemerge with a smile that tells him you’ve made your choice. 

Still, being alone while other women mill about is making him restless. He stands, wandering over to the fitting rooms, “Angel?”

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t like being impatient, he doesn’t even mind waiting for you but god he can’t get his mind to focus. “You almost done?”

“Not yet!” 

He nods, before realizing you can’t see him. “All right, I’ll be right here then.” he answers, leaning on the wall and staring at his feet so he doesn’t seem like a random creep. But then you’re calling out to him again.

“I want to show you.”

Oh, you really are bad for his health. 

“Don’t come out!” he says quickly, looking around. The store isn’t busy, but still, the idea of other people catching sight of you makes something in his chest tighten.

A giggle, and then your head pokes through the heavy curtains, “Okay, then you come in.”

Once again, he is powerless to say no. His feet move, one in front of the other, even though his mind is telling him no, this is a bad idea, turn back. Still, he finds himself in the enclosed space with you. A full length mirror greets him, and that’s where he sees you first. Swathes of artfully arranged black lace and soft mesh fabric that barely cover your body, fastened only by thin straps over your shoulders. 

So very dangerous.

“What do you think?” your eyes meet his in the mirror, deceptively, infuriatingly innocent.

“It’s-uh-pretty.”

“Just pretty?” your head cocks to the side, lips pulled into that pout and Spencer swears the room has no more oxygen. He’s about to pass out.

“Gorgeous,” he manages to say, “Stunning, radiant, angel it fits you perfectly.” his eyes drop to your chest and the words stop abruptly, though his mouth remains slack.

You twist to the side, examining your reflection. The fabric floats around your body, giving him a view of your perfect ass underneath. The panties you have on are a baby blue, not matching the sultry, inky ivory of the slip you’re wearing, and he wants to ask why don’t they match, but no words come from his open mouth.

“Spence, baby, you’re gonna catch flies.” your teasing remark wrenches him from his reverie. You whirl around to face him, half naked and mused, the loveliest creature he’s ever seen. He manages to tear his gaze away from the mirror and focus on the real thing, and how did he ever get so lucky with you?

“No flies anywhere.” he replies, hands finding your waist. His grip is shaky, but firm. Your eyes flash with mischief and he knows he’s a goner. 

“It’s just a saying.”

“I know.” he dips his head, unable to help himself. Soft lips latch onto your jaw, open and warm, “God, you’re so beautiful.”

“In this slip?” Your giggle goes straight to his groin. 

“In anything,” he pulls back, trying to reign in his desire, “In nothing.”

Your brow raises, and he lets out a soft sheepish laugh. 

“Sorry, it’s just…” he trails off, his hands rubbing your hips through the flimsy dress. Mind absolutely devoid of any thought except for how beautiful you look in this tiny piece, how it clings to your breasts and shows teasing hints of your nipples through the thin lace.

“What was that, Spence?” you murmur teasingly, stepping into his personal space. Bodies flush. The lack of distance between you, the familiar softness of your body melting into him brings his attention to the growing tightness at his crotch.

“Mhm? N-nothing.”

“Doesn’t feel like nothing.” There’s that sparkle in your eyes again, devious as you sway your hips against his carefully. The action makes his steadily swelling cock twitch with even more want. 

He has to swallow a moan, but the warning still comes out strangled, “Angel.”  Really, you’re closer to the devil right now, tempting him like this. He tightens his hold on your hips to steady you, brows furrowed as he tries to calm down. 

It’s too late though. You’re both well aware of the growing tent in his pants.

“All right,” you step back, wearing a mask of mock surrender, “Fine, no more teasing. You can go back out now, I’m gonna change again.”

“What?” 

One corner of your mouth lifts into a smirk, “I was being naughty, I’m sorry. You can go back out, I just wanted to show you this slip.”

Evil. You’re evil and dangerous and Spencer Reid is so utterly in love with you. And a little turned on by it.

“Angel, I can’t go back out there!” he whispers, tugging his tight pants. It’s no use. He’s so worked up his cock is beginning to ache in its confines. 

(Okay, so more than a little turned on.) 

Your eyes fall to his crotch, widening comically as though you’re seeing it for the first time, “Oh, would you look at that!” You step back into his space, hands coming up to cradle his jaw. He leans into your touch, welcoming your sweet mockery with his usual, eager docility. “Got worked up for me, hmm? All from seeing me in this slip?”

He nods, hands finding your hips again, holding you to him. “You knew what you were doing.” There’s absolutely no hint of accusation in his voice. You both know it’s true anyway.

“Mhm. And I can’t let you walk back out there like this, can I?” you lift yourself to your tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “Not after you’ve been so patient with me.”

A sharp inhale as he feels your hands on his belt. What he would give to just be completely buried in you right now, to lose his mind in your tight heat, but— “We’re in public.”

“We’re in a room.”

“A fitting room.”

“Still a room.” you’ve pushed his pants just enough to free his cock. Even being out of his pants eases some of the tension, the length springing out and jutting from his body. Long and embarrassingly red. Your hands close around it, one hand at the base and stroking up and down, the other at the tip, squeezing gently, thumb running over his slit and spreading his leaking pre cum. 

He fights back a moan and promptly loses.

“Spence.” Your voice is low, but stern, “Keep quiet.”

He nods, teeth sinking into his lower lip to contain his moans. He squeezes his eyes shut, too overwhelmed by the vision of you in nothing but a flimsy slip and panties, in this well lit, public room, giving him a hand job. No, he can’t watch, he’ll bust then and there, but he knows you’re only getting started.

Your hands work up and down his length, twisting just the way he likes, all while continuing to thumb at the tip. Unable to help it, his hips buck into your hands, shamelessly fucking your palms while his cock twitches in them. 

“Look at me,” you croon, breath hot against his neck. Once again, as though his body is wired to obey your every command, his eyes fly open. He moans immediately at the sight of you, which makes you tut disapprovingly. With a shake of your head, you stop, and he can’t help but let out a whine in protest.

“Why’d you—” “You’re too loud, baby, they’ll catch us.” 

He watches with a dazed, glassy eyed confusion as you hook your fingers through the waistband of your panties and tug the lacy blue material down your legs. Crumpled between your lovely hands, it turns into a small ball of fabric which you hold up to his mouth, “Bite down on this.”

His brain seems to snap at attention. “I-I can’t, isn’t that store property?” Leave it to his mind to worry about logistics and practicality.

You chuckle, pulling his collar down for a kiss. When his lips meet yours, he wonders why he ever questioned you.

“It’s mine,” you mumble against his mouth. A nibble at his lower lip sends tremors whispering down his spine, “We’re not allowed to try on panties in this store. Something about sanitation.”

Sanitation. The very thought makes him chuckle. It seems so insignificant now, with what they’re about to do.

Still, he accepts the explanation, and allows you to slip the crumpled panties into his mouth. He bites down, tasting hints of your arousal as the fabric meets his tongue. It becomes very clear that he needs this gag, because he immediately moans at the taste.

You giggle soundlessly, the effort to keep silent making your shoulders quiver from your laughter. “You just can’t help yourself huh?” You give his cock a few more strokes, lazy and playful, before walking over to the mirror and bracing yourself against it by your elbows. The panties nearly fall from his mouth as he watches you push your hips back, the slip riding up to expose your ass and the wet, swollen folds beneath. 

Is this heaven? It must be. Just him and his angel, who’s offering herself up and watching him intently through the reflection in the mirror.

“Come on, baby, before the sales people get suspicious.” you murmur. Your eyes flash dangerously in the mirror, but he knows it’s not a mere trick of the light. You’re getting a kick out of this too, the same way he is. 

With a choked sound, muffled by the lace, Spencer steps up behind you. Cock in hand, he lets the blunt tip glide across your soaked folds, letting your arousal mingle with his precum and coat his length. Normally, he’d use his fingers first, coax your walls into a more relaxed state, but you’re right. There’s no time for that. Someone could check up on the two of you any time. The thought makes his cock twitch, and he finally eases into your entrance, slowly pushing into the familiar warmth of your pussy.

He sees your mouth fall open from the stretch. It never gets old, this initial penetration, the way your body always seems to yield to the sheer size of him, no matter how long it has been. He knows he’s moving on borrowed time, only moments to bring you ecstasy, but still he allows himself to savor this first entrance, the tight grip of your pussy around his cock. 

And then he moves, rocking his hips back and forth, watching the mirror for your reactions, trying to make sure he’s not hurting you. But the mirror only reflects pleasure on both your faces. Your face lax, a vision of bleary eyed bliss. His own brows are furrowed with concentration as he shifts his hips, trying to hit the spot from this new angle, one where you’re upright, but bent slightly and anchored by your arms against a wall. 

One of his hands grip your thigh, lifting it up so that your knee is braced on the mirror as well, opening you up to him a little more. His cock sinks another inch deeper, teeth biting down on the panties as he feels you clench.

“Fuck!” you groan, and he knows he’s found the spot. He moves both hands on your waist, holding you steady, marveling at the way he towers over you in this position. A sense of power fills him, warm and glowing from the trust you’ve put upon him. His thrusts grow firmer, steadier, as he feels your tight pussy fluttering and clenching around him. Spencer has to fight the urge to bury his entire length in you; you’ve never done that before and he doesn’t want it to happen on some random quickie.

Still, even though he’s not all the way in, he knows he’s doing a good job, judging by the increasing gasps that leave your perfect mouth. The looming threat of being found, the promise of people beyond the heavy curtains excites him, alarmingly so. And it seems like you’re on the same boat, as you keep glancing over your shoulder, half keeping watch, half daring people to yank those curtains back and expose the debauchery happening within the tiny space of this dressing room. 

He shudders at the thought, thrusting into you more roughly than before. It sends him deep inside your walls, and a cry escapes your lips. Your gazes meet in the mirror, equally mortified, nervous, and excited. 

Spencer continues to move, fucking you in this position. If someone heard, they must have opted to ignore the sound instead, and he’s going to take advantage of that fact, bending his body over yours so that his chest is flush against your back. You clench around him in response, your body greedily eating up every inch he’s allowing himself to give you. 

“God, you’re in so deep.” you gasp, “So, so deep, feels so good.”

He recognizes this state, mindless and vocal from pleasure and he knows you're close. 

“Spence, oh my god baby, so big, you’re - oh fuck, yes!”

It makes him proud, his chest filling with a warmth only you can seem to produce, the very act of reducing you to this babbling, nearly incoherent mess but it also poses a problem. You’re becoming too loud. Too risky. In the heat of the moment, and without stopping the rhythm of his thrusts, Spencer yanks your panties out of his mouth and transfers the fabric into your own. Crumpled up, damp with his saliva, they stop the silly, pleasure drunk stream of words that have been spilling from your lips.

Your eyes meet in the mirror again, his own amused and slightly apologetic, yours barely comprehending.

“Gotta keep quiet, angel.” he murmurs, voice gravelly from disuse, “We wouldn’t want an audience.”

A whimper, smothered by your own panties, perks up his ears and goes straight to his cock. “God baby, you’re so good, letting me have you like this.” he gasps, dropping his head to the crook of your neck. 

His cock feels sensitive, ready to burst at any given moment. His thrusts become sloppy, erratic, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you tethered to him because he can feel your legs and thighs quivering under his weight. Spencer uses his other hand to brace against the mirror, staining the once clear glass with sweat and condensation.

“Angel, ah!” he’s aware his volume is increasing as the pleasure intensifies, so he bites down on the closest possible thing—your shoulder. As teeth sink into flesh, your pussy tightens around his cock in response, and he’s done for, unraveled, spilling his cum deep into your being. He continues to thrust, recognizing the way you’re squirming against him, the nearly vice like grip of your walls on his thick length.

“That’s it,” he gasps soothing the bite with his lips and tongue, talking and fucking you through your own orgasm, “That’s it angel, come for me, please, need to feel you, that’s it, there you go.”

Normally, he’d bask in the afterglow, hold you to him until neither of you can breath and the lack of space becomes claustrophobic. But not right now. He has to remind himself you’re still in a public store, separated from people by mere fabric—heavy, curtains, sure, but still fabric. So he holds out his hand in front of your mouth, allowing you to spit out the wad of lace into his palm, and pulls out of your fluttering cunt carefully. His cock still throbs but is slowly softening. He helps you stand up.

“God, that was—I can’t believe we did that.” Spencer whispers. Unable to withhold his affection, he peppers your temple and forehead with kisses, relishing in the sweet sighs of contentment that leave your lips, now no longer cushioned by the panties.

“‘Twas so good,” you bury your face in his chest, and he holds you, supports your weight by wrapping his arms around your waist, “‘M so sweaty.”

He laughs, “Yeah, this fitting room got a little heated.”

“Ruined the slip.” you peek up at him, eyes no longer flashing with mischief but cloudy with pleasure.

“Good thing I’m buying it for you then,” he presses his lips to your sweat stained forehead, “There’s no way you’re leaving without it.”

Thank you for reading! Part of the big useless dick chronicles collection.

[neolithicsheep]

I've been meaning to write this down for some time because there are some fundamental errors that people keep making in crowdfunding/sales that shoot their campaigns in the foot. So here's a list of easy principles.

Who am I and why should you listen to me? I am a freelance chaos marketer who has raised well over $100,000 when totaling up various crowdfunding campaigns, mostly for aid to Afghanistan. In addition I've managed to successfully market everything from stuffed plush koalas to hydration salts. Why am I putting this out here for free? Because despite a years long track record of success in social media marketing no one will hire me because I don't have a college degree, so I might as well help people out who can't afford to hire full time marketing. 

If you'd like to hire me to help you evaluate your marketing and sales and teach you better skills on a 1 to 1 basis then hit me up, I am often willing to barter, esp with artists in a variety of mediums! 

Anyway on to HOW TO CONVINCE PEOPLE TO GIVE YOU MONEY:

TL;DR: use positive messaging that humanizes everyone involved and make it as easy as possible for people to give you money.

1. Shame and guilt are demotivators. They will not inspire people to give you money. “Why aren't people helping” “I guess people don't care” “This isn't getting enough shares/donations” etc etc. Online fundraising is often frustrating, heartbreaking, and will make you angry, especially when there's a humanitarian crisis involved. It is critical that if you are raising funds for someone else that you have a place to vent that is not the audience you would like to donate to the cause. 

2. Use motivating messages instead! “You can help!” “Even a small donation is important because it tells Recipient they're not alone, and people care” “We can't fix the whole world, but we can make this one thing right, and that means something”. Emphasize that this is a problem that the reader can help fix with even a small effort. With items for sale, tell a story. "I drew this thinking about how safe I always felt under a tree in my childhood backyard". "I chose the colors in this shawl to remind me of sagebrush and piñon pine in my favorite place."

3. Make it easy for people to give you money. Never talk about your product or cause without a link that leads directly to where people can give you money. They should be able to click one link on your post and land at the fundraiser or your shop. Every required click is going to lose people, so minimize the number of them required. This also means if you have a list of fundraisers for people to choose from the ones at the bottom will be neglected - people will hit the ones at the top. Be sure to take those off when they're met or periodically shuffle the list around to make sure everyone gets a chance to be in the first 5 spots. In online stores people will often only look at the first page or two of items so be sure to shuffle things around and remove out of stock items that are taking up prime real estate.

4. Humanize the recipient - this can be tricksy when raising charitable aid because you don't want to be exploitative. But to use my last Afghan campaign as an example, “We need to raise $500 for an Afghan family” is less effective than “This Afghan family's home was damaged in heavy rains that caused extensive flooding. They only need $500 to repair and rebuild so they can stay in their home and not become displaced.”  If possible, tell as much of the recipient's story as they consent to. Eg “Fred is seven and loves dinosaurs. His favorite is brontosaurus, and he carries a stuffed one with him everywhere. He wants to be a paleontologist when he grows up and discover a complete brontosaurus skeleton that he can give the same name as his stuffed friend. Unfortunately he's also a trans boy living in Texas and his family needs $1500 to rent a Uhaul and get to Colorado so he can grow up in safety and do that.”

5. If you're not the recipient, humanize yourself while you're at it! “I'd be really grateful if you all could share or donate” “This fundraiser really means a lot to me because…” “Thank you so much for any help, whether sharing or donating” 

6. Treat the audience like humans. Speak to them like they are people you're having a conversation with, not ATMs. This ultimately is the goal of not using shame/guilt and humanizing yourself and the recipient. 

7. Set low goals and bump them up when met. One of the weird things about people is they prefer to give to successful fundraisers. Yeah I don't know either. So you're more likely to get the full amount you need if you set a partial goal initially and then raise it when that's met. Raise it in small increments and raise it repeatedly as those goals are hit to keep momentum going. You can't always control this so if you're boosting someone else's fundraiser you can do it artificially via asks like “Hey y'all can we get together and put $500 on this?”

[theorist-fox]

Promise rings

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Filthy. That's it. If you want some more humiliation kink I highly, highly, highly, highly recommend this by @/the-californicationist

Previous << || >> Next

18+

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: Simon fingers you in the rec room and you give him a promise ring. Or two—depending on how many fingers he's used.

CW: smut (fingering, finger sucking, squirting), humiliation kink, semi-public, Simon is a little mean but you love it so it's fine, dub con if you squint and mention of safeword

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

“Don’ wan’ anyone to hear ya now, do we?” 

He hushes you, mouth to your ear. His hand is shackled to your hips by the waistband of your sweatpants, two thick fingers already slick and buried to the knuckle.

Simon holds you tightly in place, hand curled at the base of your throat as an empty threat he won’t fulfill unless you kindly ask. He has you tucked between his legs, aptly spread to accommodate your body in between, as he slowly pumps his fingers into your cunt. Your knees are conveniently hooked on each of his thighs, and they’re already trembling even if he’s just begun.

Sweat collects on your back, dampening your shirt and by extension his own too. You feel his heart rabbit in his ribcage, thrumming against your spine. Thick arms glue your back to his chest—just in case you want to make a run for it. 

As if, right?

Earlier that night, he’d caught you out of your room much past midnight, trying to sneak a cuppa in the common area. Told you something along the lines of how he should have you cleaning the toilets because you’re breaking curfew, and you bit back with a hefty dose of sarcasm about how that’s not your favorite punishment he’s ever given you.

And so, he’d grabbed you by the waist and dropped back on the couch with an arm still coiled around it. 

You’re ashamed to say it only took two fingers circling your entrance and his tongue licking wanton stripes down your neck to make you embarrassingly wet. Balaclava lifted to his nose, he’d murmured unholy things to your ear, like how he’d want to drill in your head that you can’t go and break base rules, how he can’t keep covering for you, how he’d love to teach you a lesson by splitting you in half on his cock until you can only part your lips to apologize for giving him a headache.

But alas, the location isn’t sex friendly. 

However, the notion hasn't stopped Simon from adopting a more subtle approach that would lead to a similar conclusion. Like swirling the tips of his fingers around the fluttering hole of your cunt. Or biting softly at the shell of your ear, while keeping you nice and still with a hand on your collarbones.

Doesn’t stop him now, as he curls the pads of his fingers until they press where the velvet of your walls gets rougher to the touch. 

You abandon your head back onto his shoulder, heavy puffs leave your mouth in tandem with the skilled work of his hand, one that knows every nook and cranny of you. Glossy lips start nibbling at his neck and you relish how his throat bobs each time your teeth sink a little deeper. His growing stubble scratches the tender skin of your mouth, but it’s more than fine because you like how it stings.

“Little more, please?” You breathe.

But it’s then that he stops beckoning his fingers, leaving your walls to clamp around them as they fall still. You protest by biting the tendons of his neck a bit harder, suppressing a groan into it.

“Maybe it went over your head,” he drawls, tugging the balaclava down his chin before returning his hand at the base of your throat. “But this is a punishment, love.”

He cruelly leaves your hole to desperately flutter around nothing, but ultimately uses those same fingers to wet the rest of your sex. Keeping quiet becomes less of an option when he starts rubbing idle circles on your clit. He’s neglected it all this time, making it swell with blood and causing its sensitivity to peak. 

You shudder when he first brushes over it. 

As if out of habit, you search for his lips, sure to add a nice make-out session to pair with his fingers. But your mouth only meets fabric, and you frown.

“Don’t be a bastard, Riley.”

He hums, turning away to press a kiss to your cheek through the balaclava. “Only way I know.”

You pout. “Just one.”

“Behave.”

With a sigh, you relent. There’s no use in begging for something he won’t give you. You’ve learned to recognize what you can get from Simon, and what will be out of reach for the time being. If he’s decided he doesn’t want to kiss you, you will not get a kiss. 

But it doesn’t mean that you can’t be a little petty about it. 

You tug at his mask with your teeth, catching his lower lip too, and sharply bite into it.

In response, Simon slaps your pussy. A wet thwack echoes in the silent rec room. It sends tingles up your spine, and you hiss and gasp against his lips. Your nerves are currently haywire, and they cannot discern whether that rush was due to pain or pleasure.

You pull back only to pout, but it's obvious to both of you that there is no animosity in your eyes. In fact, Simon’s gaze falls to your lips with lust embedded in his pupils, and he takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a little plea for him to give you what you need. Which is why he brushes his wet fingertips to your clit again, and again, until he can feel you soften in his grasp with a sequence of breathy, surrendering sighs. Only then, when you feel like molten wax in his hands, he switches to more rewarding, steady circles.

His focus leaves your lips only to take in your eyes. They’re diligently trained on him, because you know he likes to look you dead in the eye when he’s making you tremble to the bone. Eye contact is the only means he uses to communicate with you in the fog that is your relationship.

He’s more absorbed than you are, your eyes getting glassier by the minute. You want to keep it up, to hold your own against his stare that defies you to crack him open and peel the layers and understand. But you and him both know that is the last straw for you. He’s made you sensitive and supple and dull. Your head rolls back against his shoulder, and you push back, once again, the discovery of Simon Riley.

You breathe softly against his neck, trying to give yourself some containment due to the location you’re in. Nails dig in his forearms until they mark pink crescents over his tattoos, hoping that releasing tension through touch would help you keep your mouth shut.

Simon knows you still have something up your sleeve to use against him, because his weakness is to have you yearning for him as much as he does you—to have you pleading for his words, his touch, his presence, like he internally does each time you walk into his same space. 

You’ve never had a problem begging. When you’re confident enough about your person, pride doesn’t even get involved—they’re just words, and if he likes them, then so be it.

As long as he makes you come until your head spins.

“Please, Simon.” You whimper, putting up that act he knows all too well. As if he’d believe you’re truly submitting to him—but it’s fine, to be honest.

He's never wanted you to bend for him. Simon likes that fire that singes your pupils when you’re on active duty, or when you fuck him. He wouldn’t dream of snuffing it out, not when he’s more than aware that it makes him glow, too.

“Bit louder.” He rasps against your ear.

And you oblige, going as far as to wet your lips and bat your pretty lashes at him. Minx.

“Please? I’ll suck your cock after.”

Simon huffs. “Sellin’ it alrigh’.”

He loves to feel the stiffness of your clit under the pads of his fingers, how the more he skims them over it, the harder it gets—as if he’s flipping a switch. Which he sort of is, isn’t he? You’ve turned from the snarky little minx that could make him crack a smile or two, into this soft clay molding under the warmth of his touch.

“Wanna cum,” you sigh sweetly against his skin, sucking tenderly at the exposed flesh on his neck. “Please, Simon, let’s go to my room.”

He tuts at you, slowing down with his hand only to get you annoyed.

“We’re gonna stay ‘ere,” he murmurs, softly shaking his head so that the fabric of the balaclava scratches your skin. 

Then, out of the blue, you feel fingers dig into your jaw and pulling your mouth away from his neck. He forces your eyes forward, where the door of the rec room opens to the dark hallway. 

“You’re gonna cum on my hand, yeah? Soak it nicely.” He rasps against your ear, “An’ you’re gonna be quiet ‘bout it.”

Your cunt flutters.

“Need you sharp. Tha' clear?” He says, commanding as ever. “Answer, Sergeant.”

It almost makes you unravel then and there. Your eyes roll back and your hips buck against his hand. But you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. 

He leaves the grip around your jaw and returns his hand at the base of your throat, thumb and middle finger gently pressing at its sides. Your head lolls back onto his shoulder with blissful abandon.  

“Cameras,” you mumble, sounding a little stupid and definitely on the verge of surrender. “There’re cameras.”

His response comes swiftly. “Not pointin’ at the sofa.”

Your chest stutters. He feels it under the weight of his palm. Your soft moans quiet down, too. A telltale sign of your beautiful brain whirring its cogs again. How he loves it, more than your body. Outwitting his every move. A true opponent—or ally, if only he’d allow you a little closer.

“You planned this, haven’t you?” You whisper cleverly, face still hidden in the crook of his neck and chest still heaving under his hand. Still affected by him, and yet your voice sounds steady and smooth.

And you’re so right. He knows this place by heart and could walk around it blindfolded. When he saw you in your grey sweatpants and an old white t-shirt, fumbling lazily with the electric kettle, blood had rushed so quickly to his cock he thought he could have fainted.

There is something about you invested in this almost boring, domestic light that always strikes him breathless. When the outline of the pillow fabric is imprinted in your cheek. When your hair is tousled by the bedsheets.

You look good in uniform too, all safely cradled in Kevlar and padded in neoprene. But it’s when you look drowsy and soft that sends him spiraling.

With the calculating mind of the pathological control freak he is, he’d retraced the position of the cameras in his head, and promptly decided to have you then and there.

The silence following your question must not be as subtle as he thinks. In seconds, you go from pliantly soft, into a squirming mess trying to escape him. Simon manages to hold you still only because he overpowers you in strength.

“What is it, mh?” You hiss, pushing at his forearm. “Been following me, L.T.?”

He hadn’t. Truly, he’d just stumbled upon you. It wouldn’t be too odd—he’s a sleepless ghost, after all, oftentimes found wandering around base at ungodly hours. The fact that he’d found you in his usual haunting grounds had been mere luck—true, blessed luck.

“You are-”

“Shut up.”

“-Fucking obsessed, and you-”

“Don’t.”

“-can’t even admit it.“

“Sergeant.”

“Coward.”

He plunges those two fingers back inside, punching a gasp out of you, and he gives no time for your hole to readjust to the stretch. Simply, he starts dragging against the front of your walls with a voracity that could be mistaken for hate, if you didn’t know him better.

You stiffen suddenly, arching your back off his chest. Teeth catch your bottom lip in an almost bloodthirsty grip—as much as you want to scream at him, you don’t want to get caught either.

He rams relentlessly into you until you're melting once again. His mouth is painfully pressed against your ear, and if the balaclava wasn't in the way, he would be lapping at whatever piece of flesh he could land on.

“Y’re a clever little thing, uh?” He groans huskily. “Always got the fuckin’ answer ready.”

You laugh under your breath, perhaps because you’re getting exactly what you want, or perhaps because you’ve been reading him more keenly than he thought and you've finally uncovered some new information that has been shrouded in darkness up until now.

He doesn’t care, and he gives in to you.

“Oh, you love it, you bastard,” you bite back breathlessly, which only makes his cock twitch in the tight space of his briefs.

“Smug little cunt.” He breathes in your ear, but you swear there isn’t an ounce of hostility in it.

You turn your head to meet his eyes. The playful smile on your fucked out face is straight out of his dreams—he's seen it so many times and yet it never ceases to amaze him. Nor does the way your hair bounces off your face in recoil from the frantic work of his hand. Or how your cheeks turn ruddy for him. Or how your lashes cast heavy shadows down your face.

“You love this smug little cunt, too.” You breathe, smugly.

Just proving his words, really.

“Don’t get cocky,” he hums in your ear. “Might gonna have to prove ya wrong, then.”

The heel of his hand rolls against your puffy clit in tandem with his fingers, because he wants you to come undone impossibly quick now that you’ve caught him red-handed.

It’s enough to make you forget you’re having a battle of wits with him. Your eyes roll back again, and your head falls limply onto his shoulder.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wheeze, and he takes that as a sign to not stride away from the pace he’s taken.

His hand at the base of your neck tightens slightly, causing your breathy moans to lodge in your throat. Your cunt clenches right then, and your lips tug in a smile—because you love it, and he knows.

His contorted little mess. His cunning fox, strutting around the base with so much confidence in her gait, looking seemingly untamable. But when you're in his clutches, you're nothing but his pet, the one who enjoys having her leash tugged a little more firmly than socially acceptable.

“S-Simon.” Yes. Yes. C’mon, sweetheart. C’mon. “Simon – oh God –“

You’re being too loud. He doesn’t care if he gets caught with his pants down. He dares someone to confront him about it. Simon doesn’t revel in fickle things like dignity, not after life has done its goddamn worst to strip him of it.

But you? Hell, not you. He cherishes your privacy, in spite of how this whole predicament might make it look otherwise. On top of that, he selfishly likes to think he’s the only one with the delightful honor to see you so flushed and breathless, moaning his name like it’s the only one you know.

“Told ya to stay quiet.” And he stuffs two fingers in your mouth.

You groan and suck them back to your throat, until his pads graze the soft palate at the back. You gag around them, and he almost comes in his pants, wishing it was his cock instead. 

“Bite, don’t shout.” 

And you do. You bite the flesh around the base of his fingers, while his other ones are bringing you closer to the edge. An edge you’ve touched plenty of times with him, but one you’d rather not reach in such a public spot.

Granted, it’s night. It would be a fateful event for someone to walk by—rare, if not unique.

But still.

“Simon,” you moan, voice muffled around his fingers. “Fuck’s sake, no’ ‘ere.”

He chuckles, because he knows.

And you confirm it, by getting all agitated in his arms, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling. Your hand curls around the wrist of his offending hand, still ramming deep into your sex.

“Simon, stop –” You croak, slightly pulling back to speak. “M’gonna cum—stop.”

He doesn’t. That’s not the safe word, is it? Say it, and he’ll stop stock still in less than a heartbeat. 

But you won't, right, sweet thing? No, you won’t. Because it feels too good, doesn’t it? 

“Red?” He rumbles, voice low and measured to give you the impression that he still has some semblance of control left.

You cry around his fingers until your brows touch. Tears prickle the corners of your eyes, and maybe, he thinks, you like this. The thought of getting caught. The thought of someone seeing you come for him, shaking and bucking your hips like you’re a fucking cat in heat.

His fingers don’t relent, because that tiny word still hasn’t left your lips.

“Red?” He insists, as he feels your cunt clench impossibly tight each time he speaks. “Answer.”

But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head with a sob, and Simon would bet his fucking right hand that it’s out of pleasure more than anything else.

He chuckles, low and deep. “Dirty fuckin’ slag.”

He’d recognize that fucked out look anywhere. As if you’re struggling to breathe, eyes unfocused and glassy, lustrous lips puckered right above the knuckle. He regrets refusing your kiss, because he's sure they’d look even more delectable after he’s bitten them to bits.

“You like this, uh?” He rasps against your ear. “Wan’ an audience all for ya, yeah? Wan’ the team to pop in to see you like this?”

You shake your head, muffling a cry around his fingers. 

He tuts at you. “Don’t lie to me, love.”

You squirm and moan, sniffling with your nose as tears travel down your temples and into your hairline. You nod, then, because you’re a good sergeant and you follow orders as dutifully as you hand them out—every time.

"Wan' em all to 'ave a wank as you cum 'round my fingers, don't you?" He croons, even if the thought of someone seeing you like this has his blood boiling.

Drool gathers at the corners of your mouth as you buck your hips to intensify the work of his hand. And you nod vigorously, once again, with your eyes rolled back. Heavy puffs leave your nostrils, shallow and quick.

Simon hums a groan deep from his chest. He loves to see you break, loves to see you crack so easily. Doesn’t care if your mouth is quieted by his fingers, because your cunt is so wet it’s making sounds of its own that are enough for his greedy, insatiable ears.

His forearm starts cramping but he'll be damned if he stops, keeping his ring and middle finger inside as he presses them to the front wall of your vagina, while rhythmically dragging them in and out in a dance he knows will make you shatter.

And then you tense, corded neck tilted back. A long, agonizing moan escapes your stuffed mouth, and your walls signal your orgasm before your lips do. You ripple around his fingers, initially making movements hard, if not impossible. He easily overcomes that obstacle and keeps fucking you raw with the help of your come collecting on his palm. You’re so wet he barely has to try.

He looks at your profile on his shoulder. At the fucked out look in your eyes, misty and unfocused. Keenly listens to the moans you're trying to contain, as they turn into wheezing mewls. Feels the vice grip your pulsating cunt has on his fingers, the indents left by your teeth on his other hand.

Fuck it, you're gorgeous.

You come back down from the high with a wet gasp choked by his knuckles. Your nose is stuffy and it’s probably a little hard to breathe—but he’s merciful and takes out his fingers. 

Or, at least, tries. 

Your head lunges forward before he’s fully pulled them out. You gag when the tips touch the back of your throat again.  

Simon’s eyes widen but he doesn’t waste a second.

He resumes the pace that has already made you come, watching with rapt attention how your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. There’s spit on your lips, and tears down your eyes. He’s already seen you wrecked, folded in half on his bedsheets. But there’s something even more unhinged about having you panting in the common area of a high security military base. It feeds him a great deal of power—you’re doing this for him, you’re putting yourself on the line because of him. 

That, of course, requires a reward. 

“Look at you,” he croaks. “Gimme one more, yeah? One more.”

Your legs squirm and you kick your heels against the sofa in sudden overstimulation, the hold of your hands on his arm turns into a death grip that paints your knuckles white and his flesh red. You could be skinning him alive, and he wouldn’t stop the onslaught on your pussy. 

He can hear you heaving, sees your pebbled nipples brush against the soft cotton of your t-shirt. Your teeth are sinking into his flesh, and he will most likely be sporting bruised bite marks on his fingers for a few days. He rolls his wrist to cause fluctuations in the pressure on your swollen clit and against your walls. Your hips swing together with his hand. He knows where to touch, you know how to guide him—it’s an intimate dance, and it belongs to you two only.

Simon scratches his cheek against your temple to collect the tears that are falling into your hairline.

He flattens the heel of his hand against your clit, which is once again a stiff kink of nerves—he’s shocked by how far he can push you before he wrings you dry. 

Your eyes touch his own, but you’re not even looking. Still unsated, still greedy for more—you love this, don’t you? Too much on your shoulders: responsibilities, a haunting past and an uncertain future. This job gives you very few rewards for the effort you put into it. That’s why you love it, when he brushes away every fear and uncertainty with a simple roll of his hand. 

He starts beckoning his fingers inside of you, teasing and pressing against that one overstimulated spot that has already made you come. The squelching noises coming from your pussy are enough to make his cock leak as he keeps pressing and sliding against your ass.

“Leakin’ like a fuckin’ faucet.” He rasps against your ear.

You moan around his fingers, and it vibrates through his bones. Your eyes are hooded, lushes clumped with tears, and your body is completely abandoned and at his mercy. You trust him to ruin you in the best ways, and he can only comply.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whispers in your ear. “Could cum just by lookin’ at ya.”

Feeding you this knowledge seems enough to tip you over the edge again.

He wishes he’d taken this to another room like you asked before, because you slip into a second orgasm with a choked “Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck!” muffled by his digits that will haunt him forever.

A rushing flood invades his palm, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning at the sight. You come spraying liquid, tense and quivering in his arms. The soft grey marl of your sweats first darkens with tiny speckles, and then it blends into a larger spot covering the crotch of your pants.

Breath is caught in your throat, and if he wasn't witnessing the strength of your orgasm firsthand, he'd be dead worried by the look on your face. Pinched and overwhelmed.

"There it is." He murmurs, low and gravelly, "Fuck, tha's a sight. Fuckin' lovely."

He leaves your hole to flutter emptily only to skim the pruny pads of his fingers on your clit to prolong your orgasm, watching mesmerized how your squirt keeps staining the fabric.

It’s impossibly hot and it makes something in his head tick at the sight, almost like a needle puncturing his brain. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously keeps rubbing the swollen head against your plump rear, before an unexpected warmth floods through him and invades each one of his nerves. 

He tastes blood on his tongue for how hard he’s been biting his cheek. 

Fuck.

A ragged breath around his fingers tells him you’ve returned to yourself. You soften against him like a doll prettily placed on his lap. 

"Breathe," he says softly, watching keenly as you come back to your senses. "Slow n' steady, love. Deep breaths. Tha's it."

His fingers slow, guiding you down to earth. Your eyes are hooded, glossy and now apparently sated, blood collected in the apples of your cheeks. You’re looking at him too, now gently suckling on his fingers to keep quiet, nostrils flaring to breathe as he's instructing you.

You’re so beautiful he forgets he has to be a bastard around you, or you’ll come and try to steal the heart you unknowingly already own.

Simon takes his fingers out of your mouth, not without smearing the spit they collected all over your lips first. You pant and smile. And apparently, you don't care that he's wearing the mask, because you lean in and kiss where his lips would be. Just a peck. He can’t fathom giving you more, not now. Not when his head is so confused, thoughts and feelings twisted in an imprecise knot. He simply kisses you back, silently cursing the fabric separating your skin from his, but ultimately doing nothing about it. Then, he helps you stand. 

“Go on, now.” He murmurs, patting your thigh. “S’after curfew.”

You're looking a little out of it. Simon can't help but feel a brief moment of guilt for leaving you to fend for yourself, when your legs look like they're made of jelly and your head still swims in ecstasy.

You wobble to the table, flattening your hands on the faux wood to regain your balance. Head bowed and still panting, your hair falls to frame your face and hides it from his sight. You feel dizzy, blinking your eyes to center yourself. The pleasure ebbs away slowly, languid, like molten lava leaving the crater of a volcano, dripping down your quivering legs scorching hot, until it puddles at your feet.

Differently, Simon doesn’t move from the sofa. A hand comes to adjust his crotch, and he lifts his hips to get into a more comfortable angle. He stays like that, legs spread as the ghost of you still sits in between them. His thumb grazes the fabric of the sweatpants he uses as loungewear, and he looks at you. Bent at the waist, wet, messy and panting—his name is written over you with a big, fat indelible marker. 

You’re his, his, his. No matter what you say, or what he says—you’re his.

Simon’s eyes are dark and heavy with lust and a tinge of anger, and you can feel them like lasers drawing your profile as if he’s carving it into marble. Whichever thought about him was about to bloom, however, is smothered to cinders when you spot the huge wet patch between your thighs.

Your eyes widen and you turn, if possible, even more flushed. Your head snaps upward and to him in a flash. Your eyes are burning, and Simon can’t help but think he’d love for you to scorch him to the bone.

“Y-You fuckin’ bastard.” You point an accusing finger in his direction, walking awkwardly as the sodden cotton of your knickers sticks uncomfortably to your pussy.

“Go on, I said.” He murmurs in his usual, jaded way. “S’late, you’re gonna get caught.”

You’re infuriated. Incensed. He wants to fuck you all over, flatten your tits to that same table, and ram into you while you shower him with curses and come.

“How am I s’posed to walk around like I’ve pissed myself!”

You’re whisper yelling. Smoke is billowing out of your ears. Your eyes turn crimson and you’re growing horns and a pointy tail.

You look beautiful.

But he simply rolls his neck and keeps his big hand draped over his groin. 

“With your legs, love.”

And you stomp to him until you’re standing once again between his thighs.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

Simon throws back his head onto the top of the couch and looks at you through hooded eyes, pupils blown into a black hole that sucks the light of his brown irises.

“Can’t kill a ghost.”

"Oh, shut your gob with that shit.” You spit with vitriol. 

“Not so smug now, uh?”

You suck in a sharp breath.

“You-you fuckin’ wanker.” You hiss, but the embarrassed stutter makes you look like a puffed up cat more than a viper. “I fuckin’ hate you.”

“Bet you do.”

“I’m a respected sergeant, I can’t go ‘round like I’ve piss-”

“That all?”

You glower at him. If he didn’t know you like the back of his hand, he would cower. Shame for you that he does, and the irate flame in your eyes only makes his hunger grow because he knows how voracious you are when you’re furious. 

“Told ya t’was a punishment, didn’t I?” He deadpans, “Jog on, now.”

Once again, you splutter. It would be such an entertaining sight, one he’d relentlessly tease you for, if he was in the mood. But he isn't, and in fact, he needs you to leave as soon as humanly possible.

You clench your fists, probably ready to strike him right in his mug. Totally deserved it, he’d let you get him straight on the nose. 

But then you huff and strike you don’t, stomping your foot on the floor like an angry child. Cleverly, you decide to put your hands to better use and tug down the hem of your oversized t-shirt instead—trying to cover, as best as you can, the wet patch on the crotch of your pants.

Scowling, you threaten him with a sizzling “I’m gonna make you pay for it, Riley.”

You turn around, marching away with ire in each one of your steps as if the soles of your feet could melt the linoleum of the floors by sheer, angry heat.

“Sure you will.” He murmurs to himself, knowing fully well he’s started a battle he’ll gladly let you win. 

Simon waits for the noise of your steps to disappear before he sinks into the couch with a defeated sigh. Tugging off the balaclava, he runs a sloppy hand across his face. He can still smell you on his fingers and something in his stomach knots.

Wearily, his eyes travel down his torso until they meet the hand covering the crotch of his sweatpants. With his thumb, he traces the purple indents left by your teeth at base of each finger. Tomorrow, he’ll wear them proudly. A weird promise ring, sure. But yours, nonetheless.

He lifts his hand slowly and scowls.

An incriminating stain stares back at him. Untouched, softening cock sensitive to the barest of movements he makes. 

Looks like you’ll meet again tomorrow in the laundry room, first thing in the morning.

[acourtofchaos]

'TILL WE TURN TO BONE | Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader

Summary: An unwanted reunion with your cheating ex forces Mattheo and you, his best friend, to confront your feelings for each other. [14.7K]

Warnings: 18+, soft smut, oral (fem receiving), piv, cheating ex, rough breakup, minor violence, insecurities, slightly feral, protective mattheo but he's soft as fuck with you 🖤

A/N: i'm back with another re-write of old fics, but this one absolutely took on a life of its own and turned into this chunky beast

He was not sure what came over him.

Mattheo had, of course, always been known for a terrible lack of impulse control, for the rapid flare of his anger that followed more often than not, but it was rarely ever like this.

It rarely felt like he could tear someone to shreds with trembling, bare hands and the dull bite of blunt nails. Ripping at them until they peeled apart, ribbon by ribbon, until there was nothing left but a miserable pile of blood soaked skin and massacred entrails.

There was simply just something that made him irrationally protective over you - something that blossomed from deep within his soul to coil tight around the stuttering flesh of his heart like tendrils of ivy.

And it didn't matter how much he denied it. The many different ways he thought of to try and explain to himself, to the friends you both shared, to absolutely everyone.

We’re just friends.

It always found a way to spectacularly burst out of him, to make his head spin like a top and all those lessons his brother gave him, the extensive hours of learning how to compartmentalise and switch off and to not get emotional, be wiped from his brain like they had never even existed.

Because it was you.

And if there was anything Mattheo absolutely loathed with every wretched fibre of his being - it was when somebody hurt you.

**

It all started when they were at honeydukes.

When they were stocking up on chocolate and sweets before buying firewhiskey afterwards because it was Friday, and they’ve had this tradition they’ve refused to let go of since they were sixteen. Films and takeout - snacks and booze - everything you need at the end of a stressful as fuck week.

You were in sweats and one of Mattheo’s old jumpers - one he once couldn’t find no matter how hard he had looked until you revealed you’d stolen it. Kept it as close as you'd so desperately wished to keep him when he’d followed Tom into the wrong side of their father's war.

Something to remember him by had you lost him for good, whether to death or to darkness.

He had been all but devastated when you'd told him - when you'd ultimately ended up following him with the intention of dragging them both out because you couldn't stand the thought of your best friend, or either of them really, getting manipulated by fear and undeserved loyalty into being weapons.

Into becoming the monsters they had always wrongly believed, somewhere wretched and wounded deep down, that they already were.

It had caused a seed of something aching and unruly to take root in his chest that still bloomed to life whenever he remembered, whenever he saw you in the worn material all these years later.

Because you glowed like this.

When you were both safe and alive after almost selling your souls to ensure it, when you wore that jumper and still looked at him with so much heartbreakingly lovely affection despite the reminder of all the terrible choices he had made along the way to here.

To you being happy and utterly at ease, trying to see just how many sweets he'd let you pile onto the already looming mountain in the basket hooked over his arm before he finally told you enough was enough.

Embarrassingly they hadn't discovered that final amount yet - he was still that bad at saying no to you after so many years. That undeniably suckered in by the sparkle of your grin and your too pretty eyes to ever want to be responsible for making them dull.

But then they did anyway.

One minute you were babbling about inventing a new snack for them to try and then your eyes flickered just beyond his shoulder and it was lights out. Your voice stolen from your throat and your glow diminished like a burning star swallowed up by the wide open maw of the ocean.

His brow furrowed and he was turning before you could stop him - expression instantly morphing to something dangerous - a dark, deadly shade of calm where the only hint of the gathering storm within him was an almost missable twitch of his jaw.

Because it was your ex.

The one you wouldn’t allow Mattheo to kill, slowly, painfully, despite everything he did. The one who reduced his angel of a best friend into a mere shadow - an empty husk cleaved in two.

He remembered the weight of your grief hitting him like it was his own, the way you couldn’t sleep and couldn’t eat and your eyes seemed in a permanent state of glassy red whilst you stared numbly at the walls of your bedroom.

He had felt lost, scared to smother you yet equally terrified of making you feel abandoned if he tried to keep his distance and in the end he had simply thought fuck it.

If you had wanted to be left alone you would have told him to leave and until that happened he had resolved himself to becoming a permanent presence at your side, dropping bags of your favourite food beside you for when you had the energy to pick through them and then slipping in the bed to curl himself around you.

Hoping if he held you tightly enough he could meld those shattered pieces of your heart back together.

You had murmured one day, voice smeared with sadness and a sense of self-loathing that had made Mattheo feel like his heart had been violently slammed against the bones of his ribs, leaving the muscle aching and bruised.

“You must think I’m pathetic.”

He had frowned, carefully turning you in his arms and dropping his chin so he could look into your eyes when he asked. “Why would I think that?”

You refused to meet his gaze however, seemingly far more interested in the old, worn fabric of his t-shirt beneath your fingertips.

“Look at me, Matty.” You had huffed, annoyed. “I’m supposed to be the best of the best, a member of the team of aurors who strike fear into dark wizards and witches everywhere, but instead I’m a fucking mess over a break up - unable to function like a normal human being just because I caught the man I thought I might marry sticking his dick in his assistant.”

He’d winced at the reminder, the memory of your devastated voice, hitching with rattled sobs, when you’d called him straight after.

Drawing back to study you then, he could still see the ghost of that raw agony, the echo of it present in your downturned lips and the bone-deep weariness lurking in your eyes. But there was also more - the stirrings of white-hot rage lurking beneath your pupils that you refused to allow to break the surface.

He'd knew you were attempting to skip over the uglier stages of your healing. Preferring to feel nothing because you have this tendency of turning your anger inward and letting it fester rather than deliver it at the feet of where it belongs.

It pissed him off to see you doing it then and so he’d switched tactics and prayed it wouldn’t backfire horrifically.

“Hey, anyone would be just as upset if they were in your position.” He shrugged casually. “I mean c’mon, an assistant? The lack of originality or imagination is just insulting.”

Mattheo felt you go deathly still - a statue in the circle of his arms - and held his breath.

“That’s what you think I should be upset about? The fact he wasn’t more imaginative about who he cheated on me with?” You questioned, incredulous.

At least you hadn’t straight up punched or hexed him.

“Not just that obviously but he could of at least been less of a stereotypical dick and fucked the head of department or something.”

“Mhm, because sleeping with the boss isn’t cliche at all?”

You were finally looking at him by then, using his chest as leverage to hover yourself above him with brows pinched like you were trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him.

He pretended not to notice - to be deep in thought before he snapped his fingers and grinned.

“I've got it - what about the cleaner? You never hear about anyone fucking them”

“Well for starters, the cleaner is a dude.”

“Even better.”

“He’s like seventy, Matty.”

“Everybody loves a cougar - ouch!”

He jerked as you pinched his hip, arms binding tighter around your body out of reflex and causing the weak press of yours keeping you above him to buckle. His chuckle had died in his throat as you’d fallen back into him, every inch of you pressed together and your nose brushing his whilst you’d regarded him.

He had felt something expand in his chest then - a swell of warmth that had made him swallow hard. He hadn’t managed to make you angry, his attempt at getting you to work through that part of your break up had failed but the end result was undeniably better.

You were smiling.

Not a full blown grin or anything close, it was subtle - just a faint curve of your lips but it was enough to make Mattheo practically giddy, like he’d taken a shot of pure adrenaline or liquidised sunshine.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t missed your smile.

“I know what you’re trying to do.” You’d chastised him half-heartedly . “Arsehole.”

Mattheo huffed a soft laugh. “You love me anyway.”

He felt your fingertips at his jaw - a fleeting, hesitant touch that had him sucking in sharp breath as your gaze swirled warm.

"Yeah, I do."

A tension had bloomed between them in the following silence, his eyes searching yours before subconsciously dropping to your mouth. He breathed and you moved with him, sunk deep into his chest with his trembling exhale as your head dipped lower until he felt like he could taste you on his tongue.

It would have only taken the slightest movement to kiss you - a small lift of his chin to seal his lips over yours and drink you down the way he'd secretly wished to for years. But he couldn't.

It would be wrong when you were in so much pain, your judgement clouded, even if it was what you thought you wanted.

He could kiss you and you'd regret it - you'd be mortified no doubt, either blaming yourself for using him to make yourself feel better or resent him for taking advantage of you in such a vulnerable state. And he couldn't bear the thought of either.

“C’mere.” He murmured instead. The tips of his fingers trailing over the swell of your cheek before they cupped the back of your head to tuck you back into him. He wondered if you could feel his pulse where your mouth skimmed his skin, if the wild thrum against your lips gave away how easily you could affect him without truly even trying.

The air was still heavy - still swollen thick with want and longing and the confusion he could feel in the trembling drum of your fingers over his heart.

Mattheo wanted to kick himself, he hadn't wanted to be another person who made you doubt yourself and you never would if you knew just how desperately he was clenching his jaw to stop himself from spewing his fucking feelings everywhere.

To stop himself saying, "If you want me to kiss you I will - I'll kiss you until I can't fucking breathe, until my damn lungs burst - just not when you're grieving for another guy. Come to me in a month, several months - a year. I'll wait and I'll kiss you until you can't remember any other name but mine."

Instead he croaked softly into your hair. "It's not pathetic to be weak when you need to be. Take as long as you need, I've got you."

**

You healed eventually.

You suffered and you overcame it - cried yourself dry before deciding one day that enough was enough and you bloomed once more. A wildflower sprouting from the rotting corpse of your ruined relationship.

There wasn't any mention of what had nearly happened between you and Mattheo, and he was okay with it.

He'd dealt with the fact you were probably just seeking comfort - that you didn't feel the same - because at the end of the day having you in his life as his best friend and nothing more was infinitely better than living without you.

And as long as you were happy, as long as he kept getting to see that glow in your eyes and the dazzling beam of your smile then Mattheo was happy too.

But now you weren’t.

You were looking at the boy who had once upon a time taken your happiness and cruelly obliterated it and he could see you crumbling that little bit. The ghosts of that old pain and humiliation coming back to twist the loveliness of your features into something shadowed. Haunted.

He reached out to touch your hand, drawing soft lines from your wrist to the tips of your fingers before he tangled them together.

Whether it was to steady you or lead you away he wasn't sure.

He wouldn't get the chance to decide because all of a sudden that voice was splitting through the air. Your name yelled across the brightly-coloured shop in such a way that it instantly felt like a grater being thrust over Mattheo’s nerves.

You blanched. Fingers tightening around his as your eyes darted from over his shoulder again and then back to his in horror.

"Oh shit - what the fuck do I do? He's coming over."

"Break his nose?"

"I'm serious, Matt."

"Oh, well in that case then a well-aimed crucio should work wonders."

"Mattheo!"

It was the panic lacing your voice that did it - that made him lose any real humour and rationality whilst his eyes flickered between your rapidly approaching ex and the insecurity bleeding through every move you made.

You were trying to smooth over your hastily shoved up hair, picking nervously at the way your clothes hung, and it took everything in Mattheo to not slap your free hand away. To not snap at you to stop it because he couldn't understand why you didn't see how soul-wrenchingly gorgeous you were no matter how you dressed.

He glared at your ex again - close enough now that Mattheo got the perfect view of him realising just exactly who you were standing with as his expression curdled.

Good.

Let it stick in his side like a cursed blade that Mattheo was still a permanent fixture alongside you, let it scrape against bone and nick at his shrivelled excuse of a heart that he had failed spectacularly in trying to drive a wedge between the two of you - something you had never seemed to realise but Mattheo had sniffed out immediately.

He watched the way the other boy's eyes narrowed at your hand in his, something disturbingly possessive lurking in those pale, soulless depths and Mattheo could have snarled at the sight. Teeth bared like the feral beast you sometimes liked to joke he was.

Not that he gave a damn if that was how he appeared, he'd gladly appear every bit the monster if it meant that this waste of oxygen stopped believing he had any right to look at you in that way - or any kind of way ever again.

“C’mere.” He told you lowly, voice slightly rough with his anger despite how he tried to gentle it for you, and his heart dove into a maddening pace at how easily you slipped closer and into his arms regardless. The way you happily let him tug you into his chest like you craved the closeness as he always did.

You blinked up at him and all that fury, that volatile energy crackling in his veins, almost bled out of him completely when the trust in your eyes made his breath catch. His lungs sputtering at the absolute look of faith that no matter what, Mattheo wouldn't let a single damn thing hurt you whilst he stood there breathing.

But then you were murmuring his name, soft as whisper, and he swallowed hard as his eyes drifted to your lips. His hand leaving yours to brush permanently bruised knuckles along your jaw.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He sighed, desperately trying to ignore the fierce ache in his chest when your eyes widened - lashes fluttering in surprise. “I won’t stand here and let him make you doubt yourself, not again, not when he’s the one who fucked up by letting someone as incredible as you go. Let me show him what he’s missing.”

And then he pressed his mouth to yours.

It was chaste at first, innocent, a barely-there touch to test the waters in case he was crossing an irredeemable line and you decided to shove him away, disgusted.

You didn't.

You returned it almost immediately. Soft lips moving gently beneath his own, a hesitant exploration that had Mattheo kiss drunk far too easily and seeking without thought to deepen it. The gentle nudge of his tongue made you gasp into his mouth, made your fingers scrape up his chest and around the back of neck to twist into his hair and press him closer.

And oh fuck, he was burning, his whole body going up like kindling and he couldn't care less if there was nothing left of him but ash afterwards. There was a broken sort of noise that echoed in his ears and he dazedly realised it had come from him just before your tongue brushed against his and he forgot everything.

How could he remember anything when there was no room left between them, Mattheo gathering you in his arms until he had you utterly sealed to him. The heat of you searing him despite the many layers and even then there was a part of him that craved you closer, like if he could crack himself open and let you crawl inside, he would.

He’d give you everything he could as long as you kept kissing him like that, your pretty soft mouth sounds swirling in his ears as it became something more hungered.

If he wasn’t careful he’d end up lost to you completely.

Maybe he already was, because it wasn’t until he heard an obnoxious voice pipe up right next to them that he realised just how utterly consumed he’d allowed himself to become.

“Am I interrupting something?”

You tensed and he kissed you once, twice more. Sweet brushes over swollen lips that kept your attention solely on him even as his mouth finally parted from yours achingly slow. His thumb trailed a path to your mouth where he rubbed at the spit-slick shine left there and grinned golden with pride as you shuddered with hooded eyes under the new attention.

“Ahem.”

It seemed your ex was still as arrogant and impatient as ever and it only made Mattheo’s grin morph into an insufferably satisfied smirk when he watched a flood of deep-seething irritation burst behind your pupils.

He turned then before you could say anything, slinging an arm around your shoulders to tuck you tight against his side - an unnecessary display after the show you’d both put on but he was positive it was worth it when the vein in your ex’s forehead seemed dangerously close to rupturing.

“Hello, Steven” Mattheo drawled, his voice dropping to something dark and silken, head tilting as his mocking stare glided over the man before him. “Did no one ever teach you it's rude to interrupt? I was under the impression that your irritating family valued manners and kissing the arse of their betters above all else. Daddy must be so disappointed that all that money he threw at the ministry to get you a job was a total waste if you can't even remember something so simple.”

For a moment he thought Steven would back off, abandon whatever stunt he was trying to pull by approaching you when he heard the venom in Mattheo’s tone, the shade of threat lingering just beneath the feigned calm, and shifted warily.

But apparently he had either forgotten the kind of person Mattheo could be, the kind of person that you could be, or he had deluded himself into thinking nothing would happen to him in such a public space.

Because he decided to ignore the blatant hostility radiating towards him with nothing more than a dismissive scoff, a disgusted glance barely thrown at Mattheo before he focused on you.

“Hardly. Unlike Riddle here, who's still in the same position he was when he started despite his family's ‘influence’, I've actually just been promoted.” He replied smugly, condescension rife in his tone as he added. “You're looking at the new head of the department of magical transportation.”

You snorted at that and Mattheo felt the corner of his lips twitch despite his irritation at your ex’s jab, his pathetic attempt at a display of power. He felt the laugh bubble in his chest and surge up his throat where he caught it and refused to let it slip free when you muttered a less than impressed ‘how riveting’.

“What about you?” Steven asked, and when he made a move as if he was about to step towards you, Mattheo's response was immediate. The shift of his body to tuck in you tighter and put more of himself in the way, making your ex stop in his tracks.

Huffing, “have you finally chosen something more suitable for a career than running around after criminals? You look better than you did when we were together, always coming home filthy and bruised.”

He felt you flinch against him like the words had knocked an old wound, like they had sharp nails that picked and dug at a scab until it was torn open and bleeding once more.

This was not the first time, Mattheo guessed, that you had taken a hit from this boy who was supposed to love you about your career, your occasionally roughed up appearance after a particularly hard day. And Mattheo was suddenly livid.

Rage had begun to spit in his belly, it snapped in his veins and scorched at the chambers of his heart that were full of every aspect of you that had ever been or would be. It made his breath still, every single part of his being tensing until it seemed like raw fury would burst him apart at the seams.

But then your hand was on his stomach like you knew, like you knew without a warm, grounding touch that the boy you were already holding so sweetly would violently crack and explode if he did not have that extra part of you connected to him.

He felt himself deflate as that hand slid slowly upwards, as it reached for that space above his heart and covered it lightly, tenderly. Fingertips tapping once, twice, a third and fourth time, in a quiet, steady rhythm for his galloping heart to follow.

And all the while you let the rest of your attention land where Steven remained, glaring at your hand on Mattheo's chest as if repulsed by the sight. Your own stare was flinty, cold and unyielding, as you chose to ignore the slight and simply responded,

“Thanks. But maybe don’t let Elvie hear you say that or has she come to her senses after finding you hanging out the back of someone else too?”

And if that quiet, lethal tone had been directed at Mattheo, he’d have seriously considered just fucking running for the hills - you were terrifying when somebody had the misfortune of pissing you off, a fact that had always made Tom proud and scared the other boys half to death- but he wasn't the one in danger this time and fuck, he could barely contain his delight.

Amusement forcing him to bury his face into your hair when an undeniably shit-eating grin bloomed across his face.

Steven, however, only tutted at you.

Annoyance briefly flashing through the haughty look on his face like he couldn't fathom how you were still not over it before he chastised. “Not this again. I told you that was just a one time thing - that I was just stressed with work and she was there. You didn’t have to make it into such a big deal.”

Mattheo stiffened, smile gone and head snapping in Steven's direction like a hound who had just scented blood. “A big deal?” He echoed, incensed, just as you straightened to your full height and your once mild expression shifted to something flat - a touch too calm.

“We were talking about a future together.” Your voice was blunt, deadpan and brittle, the laugh that followed somehow worse. “Buying a house and getting married, what kind of reaction did you expect when I found you fucking your assistant.”

“I expected you to understand that I had needs and you hadn’t been there. I was under a lot of stress and you were always too busy with ‘your boys’.”

Wait a fucking minute.

Him and the others had barely seen you at all before the break up. The day you returned and found out about the cheating you had just spent the week with them but that had been the first visit in months - Mattheo calling you half frantic because Tom’s nightmares had returned and his once apathetic brother had spiralled hard.

You had dropped everything to come running and it must have bothered the selfish, insecure, pathetic excuse of a wizard in front of you that much that he’d immediately done the worst thing he could just to spite you.

The realisation bred a whole new brand of anger, the sheer vehemence of it smashing against the walls of Mattheo’s skull, screaming through his chest to rattle the bones of his rib cage whilst he fought breathlessly to lock it down.

You, on the other hand, looked suddenly ill - stricken as your train of thought clearly followed the same path that his own had stumbled down only seconds before.

“I barely saw them.” You whispered before a snarl twisted your lovely features into something murderous. “I barely saw them because you always complained that I spent too much time with them and not enough with you. Because you accused me of being too close and having feelings for them.”

Steven pursed his lips at that, arching a cool brow as he gestured at where you were still snug beneath Mattheo’s arm - your own snaked around his waist in what he knew was an effort to ground yourself and not the incriminating evidence of romantic intimacy that your ex thought it was.

“Well it seems like I was right after all, doesn’t it?”

Oh, Mattheo was done.

He'd had suspicions that Steven hadn’t liked him, that he hadn’t approved of your friendship.

But to hear that he hadn’t liked you being friends with any of them, that he effectively did his best to keep you away from the boys who were your family whilst accusing you of potentially being the unfaithful one, made Mattheo so unbelievably delirious with rage that he almost couldn’t breathe from the force of it.

“You’re a piece of shit” He seethed, ignoring your warning murmur of his name as he dropped his arm from your shoulders and took a menacing step forward.

He watched the slight widening of Steven's eyes in panic before he attempted to cover his weakness with a pitiful scoff, uselessly trying to make himself look more intimidating when faced with Mattheo’s broad frame.

“Who do you think y-” Steven hissed but in a blur Mattheo surged forward, shoving the other boy into the shelves behind him with such force that the jars of sweets rattled and tilted, threatening to fall around them whilst he pinned him with both hands fisted in his collar.

“You’re a fucking piece of shit.” He reiterated harshly, voice rough, darkened with all the violence that had been steadily unlatching inside him. “She has always been too good for you. You knew it, we knew it, the only one who didn't realise was her and that’s why you were so fucking desperate to keep her away from us. Because you knew she would have figured it out a hell of a lot sooner with us right by her side.”

“I wanted her away from your miserable pining.” Steven spat and he froze. Shock, like a punch to the face, momentarily making him loosen his grip and your ex took quick advantage, shoving forward with what seemed to be all of his strength and knocking Mattheo a few steps back in your direction.

He laughed cruelly as he took in Mattheo’s expression awash with surprise, a spiteful gleam in his eyes.

“What? You didn’t think that I knew you were in love with her? How could I not with the way you constantly trailed after her like an adoring puppy.” He sneered and Mattheo’s stomach dropped when he heard your sharp intake of breath. “Tell me, how does it feel to have someone else's scraps? Though I guess you’re used to that now aren’t you - always second behind your brother in school and your parent's favour, so why should it be surprising that the girl you wanted didn’t want you first either.”

There was the faint ghost of a metallic tang in his mouth, an invisible crimson film on his bone-white teeth, like Mattheo knew exactly how Steven’s blood would taste and feel if he sank them down right then and ripped his fucking throat out.

The thought drowned out everything else in his head, muddling it all and clouding his vision in a veil of red until there was nothing left. Nothing but the ferociously compulsive chant of, make him bleed, make him bleed, make him bleed.

And when everything came swimming back through that familiar fog of darkness he hadn’t even realised he had lost it so violently until he was suddenly face to face with you.

Until Steven was back to being sprawled against the vivid green shelving and you were wedged between his quaking frame and Mattheo’s heaving one.

His sudden burst of wrath was still a wild, unruly thing - still tearing around inside his head, a vicious, incandescent roaring that you had stopped him from repeatedly smashing his fist into your ex’s face until his skin swelled an ugly bluish purple and split. Until the snap of bone was enough to satisfy his hunger for retribution.

But you were there and your hand was clasped around the fist Mattheo had unknowingly reeled back. The other one had smoothed out from its stern grip on his bicep to sweep up, up, up until you were cupping his jaw and brushing your thumb over his cheek.

And once you saw you had gained his attention you drew his forehead lovingly to yours, voice calm, devastatingly gentle, as you told him. “Matty don’t listen to him okay, listen to me, he’s not worth it. Everything you ever said about him was right and he’s not worth it. I refuse to let you get arrested because of a worthless piece of shit like him.”

You gripped his chin, pressing the softest kiss to his mouth without the slightest hesitation and his heart spasmed. “Let’s just go home, yeah? I don’t want to waste any more time on him. Not when I just want to be with you.”

The last part was a whisper, an intimacy for him alone, and every part of him melted with it. Like it was a balm to the raw edges of all that howling rage that you seemed to only ever be capable of providing.

“Okay.” He answered simply, hoarsely, and you beamed as he tugged the hand still wrapped around his raised fist to his mouth and planted a ridiculously sweet kiss to your knuckles before stepping back and pulling you with him.

He began to lead you away, ignoring the way other customers weren't even hiding that they'd been watching, their jars of sweets held in limp, uninterested hands as they whispered excitedly between themselves.

Instead, he turned slightly one last time to call over his shoulder to your ex. “I would say see you around, but I’d rather avada myself before that happens.”

“Fuck you, Riddle.” Steven spat back, vindictive in his humiliation. “You’re pathetic, she’s using you and you're so desperate for someone to love you that you can’t even fucking see it. She’ll chew you up and spit you back out and you’ll probably still be begging her to let you fuck her, you sad wast-”

You slammed your fist into his nose before he could finish and his insults shattered into a high pitched wail of agony that echoed through the sweetshop.

Mattheo hadn’t even seen you move - couldn’t even remember feeling you tug your hand from his, you had been that fast. A vengeful crash of lightning cased in bone and flesh, striking before anyone else had time to blink.

He watched you with his mouth agape as you shook your hand out - flexing your fingers with a look of dark, fleeting curiosity at the blood sprayed across your skin before your gaze swung back to the boy whining on the ground at your feet.

You stalked closer and he cowered - pride swelling in Mattheo’s chest at the power radiating from every inch of you.

He admired it as you dropped smoothly into a crouch, as the venom Steven prepared to weakly spit withered and died on his tongue when you lent forward and whispered something that Mattheo couldn’t hear but whatever it was, it made your ex gulp and nod frantically.

It was so stupidly attractive and he could barely regain control of his features that had glazed over in a ravenous, unrepentant want before you rose and turned back to him, the movement lazy with self-satisfaction.

“Ready to go?” You grinned.

Salazar help him, he was so fucking in love with you.

Mattheo’s face fell then.

If you had heard what your ex had said and believed him, then you knew it too.

Fuck.

**

The journey home was tense.

Did you know? Was he supposed to ask or did he wait to see if you mentioned anything?

He tried studying you out of the corner of his eye as he walked, the fading sun and the flickering of the streetlights coming to life, illuminating the lovely planes of your face but little else.

No hint of what you were feeling - if you had any feelings at all towards what you had possibly overheard.

Even watching you now he felt at a loss - like a code he’d always been able to decipher had all of a sudden switched up on him and he didn’t even know where to start cracking it again.

You moved around his kitchen easily, pulling out bowls and glasses for whatever you could scavenge together to make up for the fact you'd had to leave everything behind that you’d picked out at Honeydukes.

There was a domesticity to the way you were so comfortable in his space, like you belonged there, like it had always been your own as much as it was his and it made something golden fizz through Mattheo's veins at how right it felt.

His attention drifting whilst he revelled in the warmth of it and he didn’t realise you were talking to him until you were stepping close to wave a hand in his face.

“Earth to Matty.” You laughed and he blinked, startled, before offering a sheepish grin that soon fell in concern as he gently grabbed your wrist.

A noise of discontent rose in his throat whilst he inspected your hand. “You’re hurt, you should have told me.” He accused softly and before you could shrug it off he was letting go just to drop his hands to your waist - lifting you on to the dark, glossy countertop with a shameless grin at your surprised yelp of his name.

“Just sweeping you off your feet, princess.” He winked and you snorted before rolling your eyes - muttering jesus, you’re such an idiot as he hunted for the first-aid kit under the kitchen sink.

“Haven’t you played the knight in shining armour enough for one night.” You teased, watching him playfully when he returned to dump a small box on the counter before slotting himself between your thighs. “Seriously Matt, it’s just a few scrapes, I’ll live.”

“Not if you get an infection, now stay still.” He grumbled - pulling out wipes, antiseptic cream and a roll of bandage before picking up your hand to inspect the damage again. “You got him good.”

A small, cheeky smile graced your mouth at his praise, proud and utterly captivating. “Yeah well, serves him right for thinking he can say shit about you.”

It took everything in him to bite back a wicked grin at that, hiding his elation as he used his teeth to tear open a wipe - using the distraction of tending to your hand to ignore your gaze on him - the way his body was reacting to your proximity now that he knew what it felt like to have you pressed into him. Kissing him.

“Remind me why you aren't healing this with magic?”

“Punishment.”

“For what?” You demanded petulantly, offence flaring in your gaze before the little bright burst of pain from the wipe mellowed it back out to something slightly pathetic.

Something so endearing that Mattheo didn't know whether to laugh or to lay down a flurry of apologetic kisses just shy of the stinging cut.

Instead, he tilted his head up and shot you an amused glance as he tossed the wipe and grabbed the cream, taking greater effort than before to dab it gently over your broken skin. “You know the rules, Rocky. You fight outside of work and you have to heal up like a muggle so you think twice before doing it again.”

“Those are the rules for you.” You huffed back at him, a half hearted scowl on your face that he definitely wanted to kiss until it melted into a pretty, satisfied grin beneath his lips. Fuck, he was pathetic. “You're the one who can't go a day without punching someone, you psycho, this was a one time thing.”

“So you think it should be one rule for one and not for others - that's not very lawfully fair of you. Are you sure you should be an auror?”

Your head fell back in exasperation. “I hate you.” You muttered, but it was too fond, too drenched in affection for Mattheo to react any other way besides chuckling warmly.

“No you don't.” He smirked, voice devilish, taunting, as his eyes rose to meet yours briefly once more. “Now be a good girl and be quiet whilst I wrap this - you're being too distracting.”

Silence followed.

Just like he'd asked for because you were too busy staring down at him in surprise. The moment lasting a little too long to be ignored as you blinked, lips parted ever so slightly, and he hated the blazing heat that rushed through his entire body at the realisation he had made you flustered.

The way something ached and pulsed in his stomach as his mind flooded with all the other ways he could make you flush if something as simple as calling you good girl was enough to have that perfect brain of yours emptied. That whip-sharp tongue falling silent.

Salazar help him, how was he supposed to concentrate like this?

He bit down on a groan and attempted to force the thoughts from the head, refusing to pay attention to anything other than the texture of the bandage as he rolled it out in his hands, as he cut off the amount he needed and distractedly took your hand back into his own.

He felt like he was having trouble breathing properly, his blood refusing to cool no matter how much he willed it, your closeness to him not helping when all he could see in his mind was the way something had flashed in your eyes, quicker than even he could decipher, and how he was almost desperate to know what it was.

His heart would not stay at a normal pace and as it stuttered and beat itself violently against the cage of his ribs, he wondered if it was possible to die from something like this. From the desire and longing trapped and blistering beneath his skin, a wicked hot thing that was trying to burn him from the inside out.

Matty?” You asked quietly and it took everything in him not to jump, not to flush guiltily as he made a quiet noise of acknowledgement, a rumbled hmm in his throat before he glanced up at you curiously beneath the dark fan of his lashes when the silence stretched on and you didn’t continue.

You were chewing your lip - a hesitant look on your face - and there was barely a chance for him to swallow down the excruciating urge he felt to gently tug it free with hid thumb, to soothe away the rawness with soft touches and his mouth pressed to yours.

Barely a chance for his stomach to drop as his frazzled mind finally registered fuck, this is it, when you suddenly blurted. “Why did you kiss me?”

Because I couldn’t stand to see you breaking all over again when you’ve come so far.

Because you deserved to make your shithead ex feel as insignificant as he made you feel.

Because you needed my help and I’d give my fucking soul if it mean’t you never had to doubt yourself that way again.

He ran each reason through his mind and just as quickly discarded every one. They were too revealing - those truths that he weighed on the tip of his tongue too heavily threaded with another.

I love you.

So instead he shoved it all back, his nervous gaze dropping back to where he was looping the bandage tightly around your hand whilst he scrambled to come up with something that wouldn't make you too suspicious.

“Mistletoe.”

Nailed it.

“Mistletoe?” You echoed, the choked off noise of barely-restrained laughter colouring your tone.

So much for avoiding suspicion, but maybe he could still work with this.

“Mhm, saw it and had a moment of divine inspiration. You're welcome.”

“Matty, it's February.”

He shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips as he carefully tied off the bandage. “Maybe they forgot about it, not everyone has the decorations down practically a day later like you, weirdo.”

“Yeah because you make me put them up in November, Mattheo.” You shot back.

And then there was silence - a heartbeat moment where they just stared at each other, all soft, warm smiles and breathy laughter and when did you get so close, because Mattheo was sure as hell when this conversation started you weren’t right there.

Not right where he could see every individual fleck of colour in your eyes and the way your lashes fluttered as his breath fanned over your lips.

He wanted to resist but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop himself.

It was like you were staring right through him and he was helpless but to spill everything - to peel back his skin and crack apart his ribs to let you take a peek at the mess of his heart just so he could sate that unsatisfied gleam of curiosity you held.

“I hate him.” He declared with such sudden vehemence that it had your eyebrows raising and your lips parting in surprise. “I hate that he hurt you and I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. I hate that he made you feel like you were worthless and I hate that he can make you doubt yourself even after all this time because you are fucking incredible and an absolute saint and lets be honest we’d all probably be dead or at least significantly more traumatised without you.”

A small chuckle slipped past your lips then, watery and thin, and the sight of your trembling smile and glistening eyes made him ache - made him yearn to wrap his arms around you and cradle you flush against his chest.

Instead he took your face into the warm cup of his hands and swept his thumbs in tender strokes over the swell of your cheeks, resisting every cell in his body that was screaming at him all the while to kiss you there and then until you were both breathless.

“Do you know what I think I hate the most?” He whispered, shuddering slightly as your fingers trailed gently up his arms to rest around his wrists. “That he had everything. Everything I ever wanted and he threw it away like it was nothing. I could kill him for that alone.”

You sucked in a breath and he forced himself to hold your searching gaze whilst his heart threatened to erupt. “Matt,” You eventually croaked, eyes troubled and brows knit into a soft frown. “I know today has been a lot, but please, don’t say anything you don’t really mean.”

"When have I ever?"

You hummed a half-hearted acknowledgement, still unsure. “Are you trying to tell me that you- that what Steven said? Was that true?”

He had to tell you.

He'd gotten this far, gotten to experience this semblance of relief blossoming in his gut because he’d coveted these feelings for so long and despite the fact he knew it was going to hurt catastrophically in the end, it also felt so fucking good to finally be honest with you.

And maybe it was wishful thinking but if he just got it out for you to tell him that you didn't feel the same then he could maybe find a way to not make things weird and move the fuck on.

“Before I answer that.” He coughed, clearing his throat, mouth suddenly dry as bone. Fuck, this was terrifying. “I need you to know that I’m not expecting anything from you. I know you don’t feel the same and it’s okay - I’m okay with it. I don’t want to lose you so if I get it out in the open, we can work past it and nothing has to change.”

“Matty.” You murmured, before one of your hands leaves his to cradle his jaw.

His eyes fluttered closed.

Now or never.

“I love you.” It punched out of him, powerful like so many of Mattheo’s emotions had always been. A blunt force, or too much, as some people had told him and he couldn't help but be petrified that after it all you might be one of them.

“I’ve loved you since we were kids, I just never realised.” He continued, rooted in place despite every fibre of his being telling him to bolt, because the words just kept coming. Jumbled and tumbling, near frantic to make you understand.

“At least not until you were with Steven and I saw all the ways I would treat you better if it was me being allowed to love you and not him. And then it hit me just how much I wanted it to be me, I was just too scared to do anything about it. I’m sorry.”

When he finally fell silent he didn't dare move or even look at you for the first moment, nor the one that followed. You had seen Mattheo in just about every state there was to see a person, but never, until right then, had he ever felt so vulnerable. Cracked open and so completely and irrevocably at someone else's mercy as his emotions bled from him to stain you both.

It was the brush of you against him that startled him back to life. The tender caress of your fingers over his cheek, nose nudging his, that gathered the little courage he had left to open his eyes again, to face the aftermath and look at you.

At the way your lips were clamped together in a trembling press, eyes shining and pained.

And for a sickeningly horrifying moment he thought that he had upset you so badly that you were about to cry, that his feelings were so wholly unwanted that he was hurting you, breaking your heart by having them and ruining everything you had been to each other before he had opened his mouth.

Numbly, he let his hands fall away from your face before taking a step back when a heavy wave of nausea rocked into him.

But then your expression changed, it morphed into something mystified - a touch incredulous.

“And you think that I don’t feel the same?” You questioned. Nose scrunching in confusion and your voice, merlin, your voice, it was so quiet, so full of disbelief that it felt impossible, despite how desperately he tried, to not fold all of his hope into it.

You didn't give him a chance to answer, not that he could have in any distinguishable capacity. Not with his heart lodged somewhere up in his throat.

“You think that I haven't loved you from the moment you came crashing into my life?” You shook your head, the words cracking on your tongue, flooded with emotion as the confession bubbled up out of you and all Mattheo could do was blink - stunned. “You think that I haven't imagined kissing you a thousand times over and not just to get back at some bloody ex?”

“For salazar’s sake, Mattheo, I practically followed you everywhere. School, the war, and now here. Did it never occur to you that I only started dating Steven because in all that time, you never seemed interested in me like that? I thought you didn't love me like I loved you, and so I tried to move on, but I never wanted all the forever stuff with him. Not at first anyway. I always wanted it with you.”

I wanted it with you.

With you.

With you.

With you.

He inhaled sharply, a small noise slipping from his throat that he couldn’t stop if he tried. Those words were spinning around inside his skull like it was a carousel, all bright flashing lights and the swell of tinkling music - drowning out every other thought until it was the only one he had left.

“I - I didn’t –” He stammered, a little bewildered, and your expression melted into something so sweet and understanding that it broke his heart to think he'd ever doubted you.

You reached for him then and he all but stumbled back to you in his desperation to meld himself against you. To bury his face in the crook of your neck and nudge his shaking hands beneath your jumper so he could curve them around your bare sides, seeking out the warmth of you to ground himself because he felt like he'd been totally unmoored.

You huffed out a soft laugh, a lovely, almost giddy thing that made it feel like there were flowers blooming in all those hollowed out spaces between his ribs, decorating the soft vines that breached through all of his organs to join them. Suffocating him in the best way with just how much he was in love with you. “Me neither, but it's okay, we both know now.”

It was almost too much, after all Mattheo had always been utterly unused to to the act of loving and being loved out in the open. No masks or repression or insecurities with needle-sharp claws dug into his brain to hold him back.

It almost felt overwhelming in its rawness, like a violent kind of vulnerability, and yet he couldn't force himself to hide the embarrassingly stupid grin that tugged at his lips at that, lashes fluttering as he sighed at the gentle pass of your hand over his curls before humming a choked, but coy, “Do we?”

“Uh huh.”

“Are you sure?” He teased softly, something sparking in his chest when he felt the way you shivered beneath his hands as he drew a line with his nose up to your jaw. “Because I don't think you actually said whatever it is we're both supposed to know.”

Your cheek rubbed against his with the mild shake of your head that followed then, breath hitching on a chuckle, a knowing little sound that told him you were on to him immediately.

Yet still, you indulged him, as you always had.

A hand clutched at his shoulder whilst the other slipped from his hair to dip beneath the collar of his hoodie, fingers toying with the clasp of his necklace as you asked, voice full of faux confusion. “Didn't I? I could have swore I did.”

“Nope.” He told you quietly, forlornly, his tone heavy with mourning though the smile he held when he slid his nose over your cheek so he could graze it against yours was anything but. “You asked if I'd thought about it which I don't think is quite the same, do you?”

Your eyes shone, lips twitching into the loveliest grin that Mattheo had ever seen. “I think you're impossible.” You whispered and he wondered if it was possible for his heart to lurch out of his chest, for it to dive through his bones and his skin and straight into yours, because it sure as hell felt like it wanted to when you added. “But not wrong, at least not about this.”

“I'm never wrong.” He rasped and when your hand found its way to his jaw, thumb trailing sweetly back and forth against his too flushed skin, he leaned into the touch like he was starving for it.

His entire body almost swaying into yours with how gone he was for the way you were looking at him, how your fingers touched his face like he was something precious as you cupped his cheeks.

“More like, eighty five percent of the time?”

“You wound me.”

“I love you.” You corrected him cheekily, gaze twinkling when his eyes widened and god, he must have looked as dazed, as utterly dumbstruck, as he felt because you laughed. A bright burst that made his heart swell and his cheeks tinge pink. “I love you, Mattheo Riddle, I always have and I'll continue to do so long after we've both turned to bone.”

And then you kissed him.

You kissed him and he drowned in it - lost to the pure radiance that glowed in his veins and the tender heat of your mouth crushed to his. The hand that threaded itself through the curls at the nape of his neck, tangling within and dragging him closer.

His touch fled from your hip and the ladder of your ribs to cradle your cheeks, gently tilting your face up to his own as he did so and it all burned so fucking sweet that if anyone was to ask Mattheo to pinpoint the exact moment he fell to ruin, he would be incapable of providing such an answer.

He could only tell them that he had.

That he was magnificently lost to you as the kiss deepened and you unravelled him with each brush of your lips against his. As you moaned, breathless and needy, into his mouth and he felt like you had brought down heaven and placed it in his arms. Pressed it into his skin until, for the first time in his life, Mattheo knew what it felt like to be so full of light it could burst from him.

He could do this forever he decided - he could die with an appeased soul despite the atrocities of his past when he had the salvation of your devotion. The fire of your hunger burning away all those ugly, dark parts of him until he shone.

You shivered when he wound an arm around you, wrenching you firmly against the solid press of his body as you clung to him and his name poured from your lips like a prayer. An offering.

A softly gasped, “Mattheo,” that dripped golden pleasure down his spine.

And he must have made a noise - some wrecked, low sounding thing in the back of his throat - because you pulled away just a fraction, eyes flickering over his face. Drinking down his hungered expression, his blown-out gaze that slipped from your own to your mouth before he dragged it slowly, heatedly, back up again.

“Do you want me?” You whispered, your hand sweeping over his side and to the bottom of his back, dipping beneath the layers of his hoodie and shirt to splay across flushed skin.

He could barely focus, his forehead falling to yours as he shivered beneath the gentle stroke of your fingers. He felt the touch like it was inside him - like they had sunk through flesh, tissue and bone to fist around his heart.

Merlin.

“Of course I do.” He rasped.

“Then show me, please.”

He sucked in a breath before surging forward to kiss you then, his lips crashing against yours like the world would spin off its axis if he didn’t have his mouth on you.

It was nothing like the kisses he had ever given before, raw desire making his head spin, making him a little clumsy, messy, but it still had your breath catching in your throat.

It had your body melting into his and your hands flying to clutch at the slopes of his shoulders as your surprise dissolved into something hungrier, the sensation of his mouth moving over yours dragging you into delirium with him.

He was gripped with a singular, overwhelming urgency to devour you entirely - the need possessing him until there was nothing else but you and the feel of your mouth under his - and it took a herculean type of strength to remove himself the centimetre it took to ask huskily against your lips. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

You sighed sweetly into him, the hand in his hair drawing him back so you could kiss him again, a little more demanding before your lips slipped to the corner of his mouth, his chin, his jaw, sliding down his throat to suck a bruise at the skin before dropping a sweet kiss over the mark that made his lungs stutter.

It had a groan tearing through Mattheo’s chest when you pressed yourself against him so he could feel the way your chest heaved - the way you were trembling for him. “I want you to make me yours, Matty.” You breathed. “Just like I always have been.”

And salazar help him, how could he ever refuse you.

So he hauled you forward off the counter and into his arms. His mouth recaptured yours and he let you part his lips, let you flick your tongue, quick and dirty, against his own and lick the needy groan from his mouth as he stumbled. Attempting to navigate you both to the sofa that he swore was suddenly a million fucking miles away whilst you laughed into the kiss.

In the end, you didn’t make it.

They bounced off a door frame and there was a curse hidden beneath more laughter before he muttered fuck it and laid you down right there in the hallway.

Your back hit the floor and immediately he was stretching himself over you - caging you in - his hips nestled into the cradle of your own in a filthy, slow grind that had you panting against his mouth. A keening noise sounding in the back of your throat that made Mattheo’s head go fuzzy.

He pulled back an inch then and stared - tried to brand this image in his brain because god, it was doing something indescribable to him.

Because it was you, gazing back at him with eyes darker than he'd ever seen them, hungry and wanting. Lips kiss-bruised and parted as you sucked in a sharp breath when he rolled his hips and caught you just right. Looking so fucking sinful that it had him swallowing down a choked moan.

Mattheo was almost embarrassed by just how close the sight drove him. There was a swell of something unforgivingly hot behind his ribs, searing in his stomach and his veins, all liquid gold and white flame, and he couldn’t resist re-capturing your mouth in a kiss that echoed just how helplessly he was affected by it all.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He whispered into it, voice lovesick and bleeding awe, painting your mouth with a sparkling grin that knocked him flat, made his heart flip behind his ribs, as he pressed each word to your lips. “More beautiful than anyone or anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Mattheo.” You breathed, a little choked, eyes shining, and he had to drop his head before he could get too entranced, before the way you were looking at him had every little thought and feeling he had surpressed for years bubbling up from his chest and out of his mouth.

Instead, he began pressing featherlight kisses along your jaw, down your throat , gently scraping his teeth along the curve as your fingers caught in the fabric at his shoulders.

He travelled reverently down your body, worshipful hands ghosting down your sides until they reached the hem of your (his) jumper and with a quick glance and a tender smile at your nod of approval, he was lifting it up and over your head, throwing it somewhere to be forgotten entirely.

Mattheo made a greedy noise of appreciation at the sight before him. As his gaze, followed by the almost sacred touch of his trembling hands, discovered the warm, silken skin of your belly, then your ribs and finally your lace covered chest.

You shook beneath him, exhaling a shuddering breath when he bent to kiss your stomach, the droop of his curls tickling softly at your flesh before you carded gentle, adoring fingers through them.

They tightened into a fist as he dragged his tongue from your belly button to the edge of your bra, tugging at the strands just a little meanly enough to make his hips lurch and his molten gaze snap to yours.

“Salazar, Mattheo, stop dragging it out and just take the damn thing off, are you trying to make me explode?” You huffed and he chuckled. A rough, throaty sound as he nudged his nose along the swell of your tit, his mouth hovering just shy of touching whilst he glanced up at you with a smug grin.

“Of course not, princess.” He teased, bleeding self-satisfaction and half-drunk on your need. “Not yet anyway.”

Then his mouth closed over your nipple and whatever witty comeback he could see brewing on your tongue cracked into a choked moan as you arched into him, your thighs tightening as he flicked and pinched at the other with deft fingers.

He swirled his tongue over the wet lace before ripping it down to taste your bare skin, teased the stiffening bud between his teeth whilst he worked the bra from your body and tossed it aside without a glance.

And when he’d drunk his fill of your soft little sighs, the shaking of your body in anticipation, he finally slipped down. Trailing hot, open mouthed kisses over your ribs - your stomach - the patch of skin above your waistband until you were tilting your hips up in a silent plea.

Like he would even consider refusing you, like he ever could.

He curled his fingers around soft fabric and drew it down, slow and careful, past your thighs and your calves until he was curving a gentle hand around your ankle to slip your sweats and your underwear off entirely.

It tore the air from his chest, having you utterly bare before him, enough so that for a moment he did nothing but press his face into the softness your leg and breathed you in, refilling his lungs with you.

You were so warm against him that he couldn't resist moving closer, kissing his way up the inside of your leg until he was between your thighs once more. Broad shoulders wedging them apart and his hands stroking over the sides.

He watched you watch him, eyes darker than he'd ever seen them, as he lowered his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to your clit.

It made you jolt, made you whimper prettily, and Mattheo's grin was downright wicked as he murmured. “Oh, you liked that didn't you?”

He did it again, a little messier, his tongue barely just grazing you before he stopped and your head thumped back against the floor. “Matty–please.”

“Ah, ah, you’ve got to look at me when you ask for something, princess.” He taunted, soft with it as his fingers swept over your hips. “C'mon, let me see those pretty eyes, yeah?”

You obliged and the shiver that overtook him was less from the late-winter chill that still clung to the bare bones of his flat and more from the fire that snapped in your gaze as you stared down at him.

It was glorious, the war between begging him for more or demanding it of him that played unguarded across your features, the adrenaline rush that came with the knowledge only he inspired such indecision.

You didn't beg for anybody and when Mattheo saw that you realised he knew that, his grin turning smug as he waited, your eyes flared.

“Just because I love you doesn't mean I won’t– oh my god.”

He chose then to bury his face between your thighs, dragging his tongue in a slow, firm stroke over your cunt until your whole body arched with it - your palm slamming to the floor beside you as you wheezed. “Fuck–Mattheo.”

His eyes snapped up to watch you, raking over your pleasure-drunk expression, the raw vulnerability of it nearly enough to make Mattheo lose his damn head before the movements of your hand caught his attention.

You were skating it over the carpet, fingers flexing, clawing, attempting to twist into the coarse fibres in an effort to ground yourself and failing as he swirled his tongue over your clit.

He reached for you without another thought, his hand leaving the unyielding grip it had on your thigh to snatch up yours, entwining both your fingers before he squeezed. Silently telling you, use me - anchor yourself to me - it’s okay, I’ve got you.

The first flick of his tongue after that made your head fall back. The second had you twisting your fingers in the silk of his curls. His lips sealing themselves over your clit before he sucked hard had you tugging at him enough that Mattheo whined into you, fingers digging into the meat of your arse to press you to him tighter, his hips rocking against the floor whilst you bucked into the searing heat of his mouth, utterly uninhibited.

The sight of it was maddening, it was divine.

He was torn between never wanting to leave the space between your legs and pulling back to fully appreciate you writhing beneath him. Letting all the praise that was crashing through his head come spilling out so he could see the way you'd go liquid, pretty eyes glazed over, as your thighs quaked.

There was sweat beading at your hairline as he made a mess of you - glistening along the column of your throat, the valley between your gorgeous tits. He watched the way your free hand left his hair to trail the softest path to one of them and squeezed, felt the way your body reacted to both sensations when he pushed two fingers inside you and curled them nice and deep.

You were feverish under him, mewling and arching as he picked up the pace and Mattheo almost lost it at the state of you, trying his hardest to not embarrass himself when every crook of his fingers had you flexing your hips into his hand, fucking yourself on him.

It made your voice turn thread-bare when you whimpered that you couldn't take much more, that you were ‘so fucking close’ and ‘please–Matty–don't stop’.

He went to flame then. To desperation and insanity and all burning, searing need to devour you whole and drink you down until he either drowned or you had nothing left to give.

“I won't baby–fuck, that's it,” Mattheo groaned, sounding equally as wrecked as you looked. “Let go for me. Let me hear how it feels– that's it, good girl.”

And just like you begged him to, he didn't stop until your entire being shook beneath him with a choked cry and you clenched unforgivingly tight around his fingers. He didn't stop when the call of his name cracked and broke as your voice gave out whilst he licked you through the violent crest of your orgasm until it's dying breaths and your body fell slack against the floor.

He didn't stop until you jerked in his hold, gasping and pleading, your fingers eventually releasing their tense grip in his hair to slip down to his chin, tilting it. Away from your glistening cunt as he was made to look up at you.

“Are you trying to kill me?” You laughed weakly, stunned gaze roving over every inch of him as you tried to catch your breath, and he wondered if he looked as undone as he felt before you. Wild haired and panting. On his stomach with his eyes dazed and face coated with you.

“I'm sorry,” he rasped, not bothering to even try and appear like he was very sorry at all, “but it's not my fault you taste better than I dreamed you would.”

Your eyes glazed a little at that, a dopey little smile playing at your mouth with it, and he laughed softly when you released his hand to pass it over your sweat-damp hair with a breathlessly murmured ‘fuck’.

He nuzzled at your thighs as satisfaction rolled through his chest, pressing gentle kisses to the still trembling skin as he soothed his hands over your legs - your belly - massaging your sides until you made a playful grab for them and brought them to your lips, eyes shining down at him at the way his lashes fluttered and his expression turned smitten before you tugged at him.

He climbed back up your body with a grin, a shining, pleased thing that he was sure probably took up nearly half of his face and you huffed a quiet laugh when he nudged his nose against yours. His mouth surrendering once more to yours in a syrup sweet kiss that burned deeper, more feverish, the longer it lasted.

“You’re adorable sometimes, you know that?” You smiled when he eventually drew back, eyes bright and twinkling with mirth whilst your fingers skimmed his jaw.

He snorted. “Sure, that’s the word you’re gonna use for someone who just made you c-” He teased, cheeks dimpling as his grin widened when you quickly covered his mouth with your fingers and jokingly warned.

“Don't ruin the moment, Mattheo.”

He laughed and kissed you insead. He couldn't stop, couldn't stop touching you, couldn't feed the ache fast enough that came with needing to do it more than he already was.

He choked as you rolled your hips into his own, as he finally allowed himself to fully acknowledge the pleasure sparking in his veins whilst it gathered intensity. Letting the thick outline of his cock slide against you until you were groaning into each other's mouths. Hands knotted in his hair and pearl-white teeth grazing the plush of his lip when you drew back to murmur.

“I want you–I've wanted you for so long, fuck, Matty, you have no idea.”

He did. He’d wanted you for just as long, if not longer.

But still, hearing it sent a shock through him - ripped a low, guttural moan straight from his lungs that was followed by a heat-soaked curse that you took from him just as readily as you had everything else he'd given so far.

He didn't even blink before asking. “Can you say that again?”

You licked your lips and grinned, breath stuttering as he continued to move against you, fingers snatching at your jaw so you couldn't take your eyes of him. “I need you inside me or I'm gonna lose my mind, it's all I've thought about for months–the way you'd feel– how you'd fuck me– oh god.”

Another desperate noise. “Fucking hell. Again. Please.”

He didn't try to stop you when you reached for his clothes, rising to sit back on his haunches so you could follow and strip him of his hoodie, his shirt. His hand curling around the back of your neck to drag you into to him, mouths connecting the instant they were both over his head in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth, a little messy, touched with desperation. Frantic.

You flattened your palms to his chest, sweeping them out and then down, exploring the expanse of flushed skin, the muscles of his chest and his stomach that twitched beneath your touch. The hunger behind every slow, drawn out trace making his heart rattle behind his ribs.

He shivered when your mouth trailed over his jaw, when he felt teasing nips marking his throat before there was an open mouthed kiss pressed over the scar on his chest.

A soft clink of metal echoed in the room as your hands drifted to his belt, your fingertips slipping over the leather whilst you pulled it free from the loops of his jeans before it fell to the floor with a quiet thud.

And then you were pushing his jeans down just far enough until he was able to hastily kick them off. His heart in his mouth as he knelt before you, utterly naked apart from the shadows that slanted over his skin.

He felt a flicker - the ghosts of that insecurity of not being enough passing over his face before he could blow it away like a cobweb- and prayed that you wouldn't notice. That you wouldn't mistake his hesitation for something else and even consider it to be directed at you.

But instead it seemed that you understood. Your hands found his jaw and you drew him into a kiss that ached. A lovely, bruising thing that had him melting into you, any insecurities fleeing so fucking far away that he could barely remember what they felt like.

You held him as tightly as you could and hummed in delight against his lips when he did the same and crushed you to his chest, the sound of it morphing into something needy as his cock throbbed, hot and smearing wetness against your belly.

“I want you, Mattheo, I don't know how else to explain it, just that I need you so badly it hurts– it's hurt from the moment I realised exactly what you mean to me and I don't think it'll ever stop no matter how much I might have you.”

Mattheo swallowed hard, throat bobbing.

You would be the death of him, he was sure of it. His hands shook, fingers grasping at your cheeks in an attempt to hide it, and there was this unfathomable feeling of love swelling inside him so brilliantly that he could barely contain it as he peppered your face with sweet, breathless kisses.

"You can have me whenever you want,” he pressed the words into your skin, the glowing warmth of your cheeks as he pushed you back, murmuring the next ones over and over until he hovered over you once more, “I’m yours.”

You went soft for him in the cage of his arms at that. Stripped down to your barest bones in the face of his raw emotion and it made his heart flutter and thump all too fast behind his ribs when your voice trembled on a sigh his name, so sweet and lovely, as his forehead dipped to meet yours.

“Hi.” He breathed, voice dropping low, his smile achingly soft.

Your lips quirked, nose slipping against his when you whispered back a tender, “hi.”

In the dimly lit space of his flat and with soft carpet at your back, you drew him closer, kissed him like you wished the two of you could fuse together and touched him as he fought to commit it all to memory. The way he felt - burning with each and every stroke of your hand, each part of him alight as you murmured beautiful affections against his mouth - at the intimacy of it all.

The image of you that he was sure not even death could take from him when it eventually came - eyes bright as jewels, lips marked with his kisses, all pretty, soft skin that gleamed under the weak stream of light the evening had yet to swallow.

You looked like something ethereal, something otherworldly and untouchable, and the privilege he felt in being the one to see you that way, to contribute to the way you were a gorgeous mess, felt like something holy.

“I love you.” He choked.

His words coming out jumbled and almost broken, followed by a hiss slipping sharply through his teeth when you finally guided him into you. A low noise caught in his throat and eyes screwed shut as he slid inside you inch by inch until his hips met yours.

He felt like he was on fire, the warmth that had been blooming in his gut morphing into something violent and unimaginable that had his body tensing as he struggled not to finish before he’d even started. Head falling against your shoulder just before he felt your lips brush against his temple, parting on a rushed exhale.

“I love you too,” you moaned, voice strangled. “Oh, god, Mattheo–”

At least, it seemed that you were in just as bad shape as he was. He’d probably say something similar if he could remember how to speak.

But his mind had splintered. Shattered apart to fragments and the only thing he could focus on was the way you were surrounding him- all slick, tight heat and the overwhelming sensation that burst through his chest of all his lost pieces suddenly slotting into place, like you were a part of his soul he wasn’t aware he was missing until you were finally joined once more.

“Shit, I'm sorry– just give me a minute.” He stuttered, voice hoarse and eyes blown wide, endlessly dark when he peered down at you. Half determined, half pleading. “I want to make it good for you, you just feel so–merlin, you feel too fucking good.”

He moved carefully only moments after that, unable to resist. An oozing honey pace that only made him moan when you kissed him, a filthy sound that would have stunned him had he not been so out of his mind.

He could only stare at you like you were pure magic taken form - no ancient bloodline or cursed objects needed for whatever it was running through your veins - as you threaded your fingers through his hair and whispered. Breath hitching. “It's okay– it's already so fucking– oh– so good, just let go. I want to feel it.”

It made his desperation threaten to win over. Head spinning as he dragged himself back out of you before surging back in, hitching your leg high up at his waist so he could do it again and again and again. Each thrust knocking you further up the floor and pulling a strangled noise from the back of your throat that he quickly stole with greedy lips moulded over your own.

It started slow, deliberate and devastating, and then turned faster. Needier and unrestrained. The sound of panting breaths and skin on skin rising in the otherwise silence. Open mouthed kisses that were forced to come to an end because all the oxygen felt like it had fled both of your lungs, punched out every time you met the frantic rolling of his hips.

Mattheo had never felt anything like it and it was dangerously close to annihilating him completely.

There were wicked bolts of something animalistic, a feral rush of desire, threatening to send him spiralling and you gasped in surprise, hands clenching tight at his arms, when he pulled out and reared back to kneel before you. Desperate hands shoving your knees against your chest before he buried himself back inside you again.

It changed the angle that he speared into you with and with the next thrust that came you were sobbing for him, seizing up like he’d plunged into the heart of your pleasure and pierced it - letting it flow out to the farthest reaches of you until you were curling into the solid press of him against you. Fingers scraping down his arms and back arching like a bow.

“Mattheo,” you whimpered and fuck, you sounded just as overwhelmed by it as he felt. Shaking in his arms as the heat wrapping around you both grew and grew. “Oh–god–”

It made him choke on his tongue, eyes rolling back at the way you were clenching around him as his thrusts became deeper, greedier. His cock harder than it had ever been whilst you made a mess of his stomach and his thighs and Mattheo couldn’t get enough.

He was so close to losing his mind, so close to devouring you entirely and begging you to ruin him because every sound you made, every sweet little uh,uh,uh that tumbled past your lips was unlocking something wild tucked deep inside him that he was helpless to rein back. That had him babbling praise, incoherent words that dripped down on you like scalding hot honey.

“So good for me– so fucking perfect– just look at you, fuck, you're beautiful.”

And then he was folding himself over you to latch his mouth to your nipple. Relishing the way you jerked as he flicked his tongue, scraping his teeth across the peak until you mewled before trailing a path of fire up to your collar bones and then higher again to the tender skin of your throat. Sucking a kiss there that had you keening and shone like a bruise when he drew back to meet your burning stare.

“Show me.” Mattheo asked roughly, more than a little desperate because you were so tight around him and he was so fucking close. Stomach quivering and flooding with golden heat. “Show me how you've touched yourself all those times you thought about this, how you made yourself come thinking about me.”

You nodded slowly as if dazed by the request, lips parted and eyes gleaming dark. But you were quick to comply. Quick to grasp his hand and drag it down to where he was fucking up into you, to the place where you were soaked and aching.

And once you were there, you pressed his fingers against you and manipulated them to draw quick, messy circles over your clit that had you throwing your head back with a loud cry of his name whilst he watched, lust drunk and in awe.

“Shit, shit shit.” Each word that bubbled its way up your throat was ragged, edging on breathless as you writhed. “Mattheo, oh my god, I’m gonna–”

He surged up before you could finish, his other hand tearing away from your leg to tangle itself in your hair so he could drag your mouth to his and kiss you as you came. Holding you fiercely in place and groaning against your lips, swallowing down your own noises whilst your cunt fluttered around him, convulsing over and over until his movements grew frantic and messy. Warmth pulsing brightly in his groin and his stomach and his too tight chest.

“That’s it, fuck–” He grunted into your mouth, lungs heaving. “Cum for me, baby– make a fucking mess of me–”

It was too much - he was bordering on delirious, wound so tight that any moment it felt like he’d explode. Burst apart like confetti.

It took every ounce of strength he had to stave off his own release so he could extend yours by letting the frantic rhythm of his snapping thrusts morph into a slow, intense grind that stole the breath from your chest and made it feel like he was melding himself to your body.

Like you were burying into each other so deep that you would never truly be able to remove the imprint of the other afterwards.

There was a flash of pain from your nails scratching down his scalp and across the broad sweep of his shoulders, teeth scoring the softness of his bottom lip whilst shudders wracked your frame and it startled him, the low, starving noise it drew from his mouth.

Knocked him flat when you drew the stinging flesh into your mouth, flicking your tongue against the marks you had left behind, and began to press your hips into his that little bit faster despite the way he could feel the muscles of your thighs trembling around his waist.

And when you cupped his cheeks, eyes burning with a wicked hunger whilst you whispered against his mouth, Mattheo was utterly lost.

“C’mon Matty, let go,” you encouraged him, voice wrecked. Desperate. “Want you to cum– want you to fill me up–make me yours–”

He fell apart for you then, crashed into bliss with his arms wound achingly tight around you and let it wrench him open as his hips stuttered and then came to an almost stop, twitching desperately and fused unyieldingly to your own. His vision going dark and your name like a prayer that he gasped into your skin over and over.

And when it all eventually calmed, the crashing of his heart beating against his ribs and your chaotic breaths, the exhaustion had him collapsing into you. Both of you tangling in a heap of slack limbs on the floor before he managed to lift himself on weak arms to the sound of your startled laugh.

The way you were looking up at him when he raised his head was making his chest ache, filling his lungs up with an adoring kind of wonder, the kind that created sunshine and sprouted wildflowers in even the darkest parts of him.

It made it impossible for him not to ask. “Can I kiss you?”

And if he thought that you would laugh at him considering everything that had just happened, that only moments ago he’d been buried inside you, then he was delighted to be proven wrong. Because you were beaming at him the second the question rushed past his lips, eyes sparkling in the near dark of the small, narrow hallway.

“Of course you can.”

So he kissed you like he’d always craved to but never dared to hope for, slipping his fingers through the messy tangle of your hair to cradle your head whilst his lips pressed sweetly and almost shy against your own.

It unfurled like it held its own magic, the type that could stop time and make him feel like he was floating, tingles rushing all through his body until he was lightheaded and needed to draw back before he lost his breath to the irresistible pull of it all.

He never wanted to leave this moment. There was a contentment settling in his bones that he’d never experienced before and you, you were glowing again.

It radiated from you and he wondered if he had been painted in its loveliness the same way, if his happiness was as blatant to you as yours had always been to him.

If the adoring way you were looking at him counted for anything then he thought that it was.

“You're incredible.” He murmured, snaking his arm to rest as a pillow under your head and curling the other around your waist. Folding you into him. You wound your own around his neck in return and smiled, fingers dragging softly through his hair and slipping down his face. A reverent touch.

“You’re pretty amazing yourself, Mattheo.”

He melted at that, pressed little butterfly kisses to your cheeks and your nose and your hair until his throat no longer ached with how tight it had become.

He wanted to say that he felt it, when his voice no longer seemed like it would crack.

That here in your arms he didn't feel like he was less and he was no longer afraid of being a disappointment to you. Not when you refused to make him feel like he had to destroy himself to match expectations created by someone else, like he fell short just by being him and not them.

He had always been enough in your eyes and he didn’t know how he had ever managed to deny loving you when it had been right in front of his face the whole time.

You made him glow.

And he would love you for it long after he had turned to bone.

[morlock-holmes]

The Conspiratorial Mindset

So, I've always had a bit of an interest in scams and hokum, and what people call "Cults".

One of the common refrains when you talk about religious Cults is, "If you think about it all religions have beliefs that seem odd to outsiders" and this is true, but as I read more about cults I started to think,

"Wait, a lot of these groups aren't united just by having unusual religious or supernatural views; a lot of them also seem to have matching patterns of behaviors that have nothing to do with belief in psychic space aliens"

I'm talking about things like,

Having a leadership structure which is absolute, where the top leaders cannot be disciplined or even openly criticized by lower members;

Exerting tremendous control over the dress and behavior of adherents;

Telling adherents that outsiders are untrustworthy and that contact with outsiders should be strictly limited and heavily monitored by organizational leadership;

The extensive and common use of shunning and reprogramming in response to violation of any of the above rules.

In some groups, failing to adhere to the dress code and spending a lot of time with outsiders is, at worst, the subject of a few little jabs at family gatherings. In other groups, those same behaviors are treated as Defcon one crises and become the central issue of the adherent's relationship with everybody else in the organization until they can be bullied back into doing the organization's bidding.

It was gratifying to learn that other people have noticed these patterns (Some people prefer the term "High Control Group" to "Cult" because it highlights what the actual problem is)

I am starting to notice similar dynamics in what are commonly called "Conspiracy theories".

The thing about conspiracy theories is... Well, conspiracies exist, and sometimes groups of powerful people get together to do something in secret which would get them in big trouble if they were to do it openly.

But I am starting to notice a particular, I don't know, a particular way of conceptualizing the organization and purpose of conspiracies which is unique to some people and which characterizes the kind of conspiracy theorist who takes Alex Jones seriously.

I kind of think of it as a "Witch-Hunting mentality".

For certain people in more primitive times and places, if they, say, slipped off a ladder and hurt themselves, their first thought would be, "That must have happened because a witch cursed me. We need to find and punish the witch who cursed me."

And this isn't just the attribution of malice that characterizes this idea:

One malicious conspiracy that might make you fall off a ladder is a manufacturer who doesn't care about safety ratings. Imagine that the manufacturer is really deliberately malicious here. A subordinate comes to him and says, "Our ladders can't reliably hold the weight of a person and a lot of them will probably break and cause people to fall and hurt themselves." and he says, "I know that but who cares, by the time people figure it out it'll be too late to get their money back."

That's a malicious conspiracy, but, importantly, if Bob buys a faulty ladder and falls off, the conspiracy wasn't trying to hurt Bob; it merely didn't care whether Bob got hurt.

Now, this distinction doesn't take away the malice and hostility towards Bob, but if you go to the ladder manufacturer and say, "Hey boss, Bob bought one of our faulty ladders, but he's really skinny so the ladder didn't break" the manufacturer will go, "Who the fuck is Bob? And good, that's one less angry person."

Whereas imagine Bob's ladder has been cursed to break by a witch. The witch did it because she hates Bob, and wants him to fall, and if she finds out he didn't fall, she'll go, "Curses, I'll have to find some other way to hurt Bob."

Conspiracy theorists, it seems to me, are far more inclined to conceptualize conspiracies as acts of deliberate malice aimed at them rather than acts of negligent malice.

@loving-n0t-heyting posted this article from the New York Post which contains a good example of what I mean:

“I thought I was on the cutting edge of promoting rights for gay people,” Yang said. “But then I started looking deeper into where this was coming from and who was paying for it, and I started to get very disillusioned...

I assume the people paying for it are LGBT advocacy groups? Did you, uh, not know that the people you were working for were paying you to work for them?

“When you really dig down you can see how much of this comes from documents and plans at the United Nations,” Yang said, referring in part to the UN’s “Gender Equality” initiative. “It’s part of a global agenda to restructure society, re-structure our social norms and the economy,” Yang claimed. “They are undermining the sexually dimorphic nature of reality and breaking down the differences between the sexes to break down our identity. They are constructing identities for us and they want us to adopt them.”

Oh, I see.

This is exactly what I mean. LGBT rights efforts make Yang and others feel disoriented, like society is being restructured and that they are being left behind, like they aren't quite in control of social norms and that stable identity categories can't be relied on anymore.

Now, one kind of conservative might look at that and say, "These are bad second order effects of LGBT people trying to assert their lifestyle in public and that's why we should oppose them."

But another kind says, "These changes make me feel unstable. Therefore, the main purpose of the changes is to make me feel unstable. In order to understand these changes, I need to figure out who wants me to feel unstable and what they would gain from making me feel unstable."

The idea that Yang's feeling of instability is simply a side effect of a series of efforts mainly focused on LGBT rights is incomprehensible. Instead, she believes that there is a series of efforts focused mainly on making her feel unstable, with LGBT rights as a kind of side effect to the main goal of making her feel unstable.

This kind of thing is, to me, a big red flag that indicates that we are starting to float away from reasonable conspiracy thinking into crazy town.

I am particularly curious if folks can recommend any writers or researchers who have noticed this dynamic.

[vxlentinescookies]

Ajax listen,,,,listen to me Ajax-

Self Aware AU, where the cookies come to the player's/reader's world. Pick whichever characters you wanna include, I just need to see this 🙏

→ ❛Part of your world❜

→ Characters ; Longan Dragon Cookie, Burning Spice Cookie, Shadow Milk Cookie, Timekeeper Cookie & Millennial Tree Cookie → Quote ; ❛❛If someone came to you and told you “One day you’ll have those who you love the most in the palm of your hand”, well… you never thought that’d become true, nor that it’d be a metaphor…❜❜ → Genre ; Headcanons/Drabble → A/N ; This took me a whole ass night to make and 2500+ words to finish, I hope you like it /lh

Longan Dragon Cookie

“How quaint… to believe someone like you lives in such a… small place”

Having Longan Dragon in your home was… curious to say the least. Not something you expected, yet here you were, with a dragon looking at you as they squatted in your bedroom.

Longan would be hypercritical of the place you lived, noting things like “This looks cheap” or “Its far too small”

Despite that, Longan would be quite intrigued in your life, wanting to see how you worked or what you did, they’d follow you around when not sitting in your living room and meditating.

Nevertheless, they’re there for a reason, they’re with you for a reason, and they’ll make that reason known very, very soon.

It’d take Longan a few months, but eventually, they would come to sit by your side at the table, not sitting down on a chair but instead, sitting down by your side quite literally. They’d stare at you for long moments before finally leaning their head on your shoulder, the weight catching you off guard as you looked at them. 

“... I’ll make sure you live like you deserve one of these days” They’d say, and in that moment, you understood why there had been so many disappearances of delinquents and robbers nearby…

If you’re wondering what they’d do in your world, then…

One of the few favorite activities of Longan was to read, so much so, that you had to request books from the library more often than not, but with the way Longan was reading them… It had just been a few months, and yet this dragon had consumed almost all of your local library’s books.  So, when they finished reading most of your books, they’d chose to write them. And they’d write about what they saw, about everything they had seen around them, everything they had seen in this new world, and in some sense, it was intriguing to see how a dragon explored the new world they were in, the little things that werent intriguing to you were greatly important to them, in a way that got you even more intrigued by how they saw you.

“... You want to know how I see you?” They’d ask.

You knew fully well that you shouldnt expect much, after all, this was Longan Dragon we were talking about, they werent a kind dragon, they saw cookies as lesser beings, and humans now by extensions, but as you asked them that question, they’d only smile and pat your head softly.

“You’re the reason Im here… Of course I would think highly of you”

A genuine smile, it made your heart flutter as they spoke, a hand going to cup your chin in it.

“You’re interesting, perhaps, one of the most interesting things I’ve seen in this world.”

Besides writing, they’d follow you around and take note of everything you’d do… And by night, they’d curl by your side, taking most of the bed as they allow you to take rest in their chest, as they allow you to take rest in their breaths while their hands thread on your hair.

Burning Spice Cookie

“How intriguing…! Never would I have expected your home to be so… so… erm…”

Another one who seems to heavily judge your house, but also, another one who appears in your home kneeling because it is so small compared to him.

Either way, he gets eased into the ambient quite easily, his search for entertainment leading him to see through everything and all the world has to offer.

Until he… gets bored, again, because your world isnt as different from his (and in some sense, it is… actually… more boring than his old world…)

So, he moves to the next thing closest to him for entertainment!

“Little one, come here” 

He’d call forward to you once, looking at you with dark yet fiery eyes and an everlasting smile, though you knew this once it hid something, after all, despite him coming to your world for x or y reason, it involved you, it always involved you…

“Entertain me” Would be his words once you approached him, his smile becoming only more cryptic as you lifted an eyebrow at his voice. Entertain, him? In what sense or way would you be able to entertain someone akin to a god? 

Seeming to sense your doubt, Burning Spice would only come and hold you from your shirt, lifting you up before staring at you and then…

“Hahahah, you should’ve looked at your face, you really are an interesting one!”

If you’re wondering what he’d do in your world, then…

Besides seeking something for entertainment, Burning spice is in some sense able to somewhat pass through the crowd, and by that I mean he can somewhat pass as just a very tall human. Nonetheless, between choosing to hit the gym and sending you pictures, he’ll also follow you around, finding even the most monotonous tasks fairly entertaining if it has you in it. Its a weird combo, being outside with a dude in a hoodie and sweat pants following you around while doing groceries, or being in the metro and getting a fairly nice picture of him flexing for you. Burning spice is a menace…

“Aye, welcome home! I took care of some pesky people while you were gone… It was fun hearing their screams…”

…in far more ways than one.

Either way, you two also share a bed, its not like you have a choice with how clingy he can become when sleeping, pulling you in his arms in a heated hug (in the sense that he literally irradiates heat) while snoring loudly, you’ve gotten complaints from neighbors (if you live in an apartment), but somehow… they’ve… they’ve quieted down recently… However, when you ask Burning Spice, he just laughs it off.

Shadow Milk Cookie

“Woowee, what do we have here, sweetheart?”

Not as judgemental of your home, no, for once someone isnt as focused on where you live but…

He is focused on you, looking at you up and down, before hitting his head on the roof of your room, ouch!

He spends most of the days following you around though, using his magic to stay hidden from most people, so much that people may find you crazy for seeing you talk to… nothing!

Either way, much like the others, he’s there for a reason…

“Why Im here?”

You asked Shadow Milk once, after a good few months, what the jester had come to do in your own home. In fact, it perplexed you so much that when you asked him, the feeling seemed to be shared. It was… intriguing to say the least, but he’d only smile before clasping his hands together and saying in a song-esque tune.

“Becuase you’re sooooooooooo interesting, darlin! Just look at you, how could I NOT come here with you?”

Truth to be told, he saw you as who you really were, in some sense he saw you as someone who didnt fall for lies easily, he saw you as someone who saw beyond that and you were… interesting. You were a shot in the dark, and he just had, to have you near.

“You’re so silly, darlin, sososososo silly” He’d add in, patting your head softly as you only smiled and blushed slightly, even while knowing his smile and gaze hid a million of thoughts, and a million of even more ideas.

If you’re wondering what he’d do in your world, then…

When not reading around in your home, or following you to the library to read some books, he’d be looking over your shoulder, reading every single note, watching every single thing you do, it makes him curious, how someone so quaint has him wrapped around your finger. And yet, he cant help but smile at the idea of being just like that, wrapped around your finger in a sweet loving embrace.

He’d be the most romantic of the bunch, the one that makes it the most prominent that he’s there with you because he likes you, he dosent even hide it fully despite his jester-esque persona, he just cant hide it! So, when you ask him about what he was doing one day in the balcony of your apartment, he’d only turn and smile softly.

“Why, I'm recreating one of your world’s theatre plays!” He’d say, and you make a mental note to go to the theatre more often… “And you’ve come just in time, silly (y/n)! I need someone to play dearest Juliet!”

You add that it is a tragic love story, and he only brushes it off, adding in that “actors are actors, sweetheart, now come in and act!” so you do, and you have a fun time doing a monologue to a bunch of people who stay and watch, before claps fill the air.

And when time comes to bed, he’ll be the first to curl up in your bed, curl like a cat who welcomes you into his arms so sweetly, you feel the scent of milk, lactonic as it is, and for once you feel safe.

Timekeeper Cookie

“Well, look what we have here!”

To find Timekeeper in your home means to have done something either right or wrong. In your case, its right.

They’re very much curious about everything from the things you do on a daily basis to your home and how electronics work.

Still, and much like some others in this list, they become quickly bored about it, choosing to focus on you as main form of entertainment

Still, you can expect certain shenanigans to ensue.

It was late at night when it happened, just as you were playing when a portal opened and dragged you inside of it. You were scared shitless that much is true but, when you saw the person who dragged you in, you simply could sigh in slight annoyance.

“What? Cant I drag my favorite person in for some fun?” They’d say with that ever present smile, Timekeeper chuckling as she smiled widely at you, before noticing… “Oh, right, it is night where you’re from, guess I took you out at the wrong time!”

You huffed and yawned, before sitting up and looking at your phone… Right, it didnt exactly work when in time rifts, but then again that raised the question, why did they bring you here to begin with? As if being presented with the question loud and clear, they’d clear her throat and speak yet again.

“I simply wanted to see you, nothing wrong with that now?” They’d say quite mischievously, picking you up and bringing you into her lap “Go on, lets- Hm?”

You’d fall asleep into her arms as soon as she picked you up, your calm quiet face being shown to her as you were held in her arms. Well, guess fun had to wait.

If you’re wondering what they’d do in your world, then…

Much like the others, they also enjoy reading, however, they focus on reading about engineering and mechanics, more so about the mechanics of your world to see if they’re any different from the ones of her world. To say there isnt much difference is but an understatement, there was a hefty amount of difference counting the technology from the TBD was far more advanced, but, even then, you’d be able to get the timekeeper intrigued by the nature of your world.

“Tell me more about your world, c’mon!” They’d ask one day, floating from a time rift as you cooked dinner. 

Unlike the others Timekeeper wasnt keen on staying in one place, still finding comfort in being inside time rifts most of the time, though they still visited you more often than not, more often than other places. Seeing them you’d ask her what she wanted to know, to which she’d hum before saying.

“Anything, I dont really find it entertaining seeing it myself—Explain your world to me yourself, doll!”

So when night comes after a long day chatting, it is you who clings to her softly, as she watches you sleep cozily by her side. She smiles and pats your head, because as much as she’d prefer to fade into a time rift, she knows she cant let you go so easily, no. Not when you finally showed her happiness.

“Interesting, this place is… quite interesting…”

Seeing someone as tall as Millennial Tree in your home is but a piece of the whole puzzle. You are dumbfounded but in some sense, seeing them kneel to greet you is almost laughable.

He’s big, very tall and a gentle giant overall, and it shows when he holds your hand and tells you that your world is interesting to him.

He’s just as curious as everyone else, looking at everything, looking at everyone, he’s curious about you, curious about your world, yet he knows it’d be dangerous to leave on his own.

So, you take him to the forest, planing on leaving him go but…

“I dont want to leave you alone…”

He’d speak with conviction, looking at you as your eyes widened and your face dropped. Just what you feared would happen. He’d hold your hands together, looking at you with some concern before smiling softly, kissing both of your palms.

“I came here for a reason, that much I know, and I know that reason is within you… Allow me to stay by your side, and I’ll do everything in my power to make it worth it.”

You have no power in you to say no, to turn down his offer after his gentle and sweet words, that day you realized that perhaps he did come to your world for a reason, a world so clad in evil and pain…

If you’re wondering what he’d do in your world, then…

When not travelling nor reading, he’s at home with you, cooking or revisiting each place he has gone to to help. He’s become… a sort of Messiah, you cant help it, become public enemy no.1 to some, and a savior to others, it truly depended on who you were asking. Your gaze would follow his as he trailed on a book you both were reading before he’d lean and kiss your forehead, things were… easy, happy with him there… You felt much happier.

“Is something the matter, sapling?” He’d ask, his gentleness carrying over to his voice as he hummed at your words saying it was nothing, but he knew better, still, he wouldnt push. “Are you perhaps tired?”

You pouted slightly before nodding, yes, you were quite tired, but you didnt want to admit to it. Still, he’d nod before moving the book to the side and lifting you into his arms. He’d carry you to your shared bedroom, careful on his way there before setting you on the bed with him, cozily, softly, carrying you to him as he pressed his lips on your forehead and your body to his.

“Sleep well, sunshine” He’d say, brushing hairs off your face before speaking again “Thank you for accepting me into your world…”

Honestly, how could you not at this point? With that thought in your head… You fell asleep.

[keferon]

Thinking about spellbound, it’s interesting how little is really known about Blurr, how much his motivations have remained obscured. Why did he summon Shockwave? Unknown? And yet seemingly not a first time “I wonder what would happen if….” kind of summoning, since Blurr also tells Shockwave early on that he’s the first demon to actually ask to be killed at the end of it all. So has Blurr been summoning demons with the intent to kill them? Or for some other reason entirely? It wouldn’t seem to be to hunt, because why would Blurr be hunting monsters if he, as a graduate of Shockwave’s school, would himself be considered one?

Further, Blurr calls himself a knight, not a hunter. Blurr’s certainly shown to get victories and trophies from whatever he does as a knight, so it seemingly has some value. Blurr says that Shockwave made it possible for those with magic, like him, to be accepted enough by society and become knights. But what is a knight really? What is his function in society in this role? Unknown?

Blurr clearly has some standing — not just with receiving the trophies, but also with the fact that he’s able to visit the memorial to Shockwave without any disturbance (with a demon no less; which raises an entirely separate question of just how common is it for demons to be seen walking the streets of civilization? because this would seem to imply it’s possibly not that uncommon?). Unless Shockwave’s memorial is more isolated than it appears? But either way, outside of that interaction, Blurr (and so by extension Shockwave) seems to be shown operating mostly in isolated wilderness areas? Which also raises the question of whether society has truly accepted Blurr as a knight as much as his statements to Shockwave suggest? Or is there, so to speak, more going on than meets the eye?

(Love that Blurr always seems to have so many layers as a character — that whatever appears to be going on at a surface level, there’s always more that’s unseen underneath. It makes him so interesting to explore.)

Shockwave: I never really asked. What are you doing? What is your job? I barely see you doing something for other people. And where is your home?? You look too shiny to be homeless.

Blurr: :)

Shockwave: You’re always travelling WHERE ARE WE EVEN GOING? What is the final destination????

Blurr: :D

Shockwave is too busy being depressed and miserable to notice how fucking WEIRD Blurr is. Just because. You know. Blurr has this chill and normal look to him haha. Just a little guy infinitely walking through places that have minimal amount of people👌

[starsinthesky5]

in you are in love

can we get a reader meets joes parents for the first time

that's my whole world || joe burrow x reader

description: ask sums it up! a flashback blurb to meeting joe's parents for the first time

a/n: she met his parents in febuary (7 months since the day they started dating). they knew there was a girl in the picture, and he had told them about her on numerous occasions. but they didn't meet until the time was right :)

word count: 3.4k

series: you are in love

warnings: none

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

she was a complete mess. like she genuinely had never been so nervous for something in her life.

joe had been trying to reassure her all week that everything would be okay, but she couldn't help the nerves from twisting in her stomach at the mention of...the dinner. she wanted to believe him, but the voice inside her head told her a different story.

it was a constant tug of war in her mind between the side of her that thought this would be a complete disaster, whispering things like "i'm too much for them," or even, "they're going to hate me and everything i bring with me...all the attention, prying eyes, the drama. they seem so nice and normal, so calm. i can't do this...why did i think i could do this?".

and the side that was bringing ice to the searing anxiety in her chest, whispering, "joe loves you. he chooses you. they will too,".

but god, it was just so hard to believe that when she knew exactly how not normal her life was. she wasn't just any girl meeting her boyfriend's parents for the first time. she was her. the woman whose entire existence and being was scrutinized by the world, whose biggest fails and fatal flaws were aired out like dirty laundry. she brought even more flashing cameras, headlines, rumors, and attention to joe's life, even more than he was already dealing with. that couldn't be appealing to the parents of any child, especially since they knew how much joe had already struggled to balance privacy since he came into the league.

and the burrows? they were so normal. warm, kind, small-town folks who lived a quiet life outside of the football world that engrossed every single one of their weekends since joe could walk. they were the embodiment of home, at least from everything joe had told her--from his mom’s famous snicker salads to his dad’s lengthy football spiels, always delivered from his signature reclining rocking chair whenever joe visited. it was an established routine that joe valued, because it was one of the few constants in his life. no matter how much his world changed--draft nights, contract extensions, playoff games, becoming the designated heartthrob of the NFL--the burrow household remained the same. his parents still sat on the porch in the evenings, still had their favorite local diner they went to every sunday morning for brunch, still called him joey like he was six years old running around in the backyard.

this was one aspect of his life that never changed...that couldn't change.

athens.

his family.

his home.

until she came into the picture.

he made space for her, not only in his heart, not only in his closet, but in his home. physically and metaphorically. he had never done that for a girl before, but he did for her. and that meant something.

even though she knew all that, she still had never felt this much self-doubt in months, but don't get it twisted, this wasn't caused by a person this time (previously, her self-doubt was often implanted within her from those around her). this time, she was just getting in her head, going over every possible scenario where she could embarrass herself or rub them the wrong way.

and joe did everything he could to calm her nerves, to ease her into his family by first introducing her to his brothers and wives (who absolutely adored her). but she was the biggest overthinker he knew, so he knew that it wouldn't be that easy to bring her back from the ledge.

"baby, my parents are going to love you. like immediately. just like i did," he laughed, rubbing his hand along her thigh in an attempt to calm her frayed nerves.

she stayed silent as she watched them pull up to his childhood home. the anxiety boiling under her skin, threatened to explode once she saw the first glimpse of their picture-perfect porch, the porch where joe said his mom and dad would spend hours watching him practice his little peewee throws with his older brothers when he was a kid.

his mom and dad.

his mom...and dad.

his mom.

oh right, this wasn't just meeting his parents. it was meeting robin burrow. joe's mom, his biggest supporter, the woman he adored more than anything in the world. the woman who moved mountains to make sure joe could get to where he needed to be. she had heard firsthand how much respect and love he had for her, how he spoke about her with so much admiration. she knew how close they were, how much her opinion mattered to him.

and that is precisely why this dinner felt like the most important test of her life.

it was honestly funny how nervous she was. i mean, she had met some of the most famous individuals on the planet, sold out stadiums and arenas, but somehow, this felt bigger than all of that. more intimate.

--

the second they stepped inside, everything shifted. the warm scent of home-cooked food lingered in the air, a mix of sweet and savory, and the cozy lighting cast a golden hue over the living room. numerous framed photos decorated the walls--baby joe photos, football related snapshots, family moments frozen in time. you know, the usual.

she had seen a glimpse of his childhood through his stories, but standing here, in the house that built him, made it all so real.

robin was the first to greet them, moving right past her baby boy to first hug the woman who had stolen his precious heart. "finally! we've heard so much about you, sweetheart," she squealed.

her breath hitched while she almost broke a sweat, her smile however, remaining as steady as her feet. (thank years and years of practice for the paparazzi for that). "all good things, i hope," she beamed.

robin chuckled, "oh, only the best," while giving her a warm squeeze. "it's about time we got to meet the woman that got joey to learn the difference between dark and light wash denim,".

jimmy snorted, shaking his head. "and got him to wear something other than sweats in public,".

she laughed at the silly jabs at joe, glancing up at him, whose face was already contorted in playful annoyance. "okay, we’re already starting with this?" he muttered, rolling his eyes.

robin gently let go of her before turning to face her son, "you know we love you joe, but she got you to give up the gray jeans and the sweats? screw being the best thing that happened to you," she smiled, then faced her again, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, "she's the best thing to happen to us,".

she couldn't even process what was happening because it felt so...easy. easier than she had thought. off the bat, the banter and vibe that had been established for years in the burrow household was engraved into her system. and it literally had only been 5 minutes.

his mom was so...comforting? she just had this vibe about her that immediately calmed her nerves, no matter how loud the voice inside her head was. and you know what's funny? only one person could do that for her.

joe.

now she knows where he got that from ;)

jimmy, joe’s dad, was just as comforting, shaking her hand with a firm grip and an easy grin. "you must have some real patience if you’re dating my son,".

joe groaned, rolling his eyes. "thanks, dad,".

she laughed, already feeling the warmth of their family dynamic, the way they teased but loved fiercely. it was easy. effortless.

and then, suddenly, she wasn’t her. she wasn’t the woman who graced magazine covers, wasn’t the person whose lyrics echoed through sold-out stadiums, wasn’t the figure people screamed for in arenas. she was just joe’s girl, standing in the warmth of his childhood home, being welcomed into his family like she had always been there.

she couldn't even remember why she was so worried in the first place? it's not like they would come out with pitchforks and a lighter incase she said the wrong thing. this was joe's family. the ones who made the person she was so madly in love with, who he was.

--

his parents could see how infatuated he was with her right off the bat. they could tell she was special to him from the way he spoke about her, but actually seeing it was a different story.

joe barely let go of her the entire night too. at dinner, his arm rested along the back of her chair, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against her shoulder. every so often, he leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek, murmuring something soft in her ear that made her heart flutter and a giggle to come to her lips. he knew she was nervous, so he made sure to do anything and everything he could to remind her it was okay...and he was right here.

the conversation flowed easily--stories from joe’s childhood, football talk, the occasional embarrassing story from robin that made joe groan.

"mom, seriously?" he complained after she detailed an elaborate story about him dressing up as batman for nearly three years straight as a kid.

jimmy chuckled, shaking his head. "he’d even wear the cape to bed. wouldn’t go anywhere without it,".

she turned to joe, wide-eyed with happiness. "oh, this is gold,".

robin smirked, taking a sip of her drink. "oh, honey, i have plenty more where that came from,".

joe sighed dramatically, slumping against his chair. "i walked right into this,".

she reached under the table, giving his knee a reassuring squeeze. "it’s okay, babe. i still think you’re cool,".

his eyes narrowed playfully as his hand joined hers, fingers entwining under the table. then he have her three squeezes. "i don’t believe you. i just lost so much cred with that,".

joe was even clingier after dinner, practically attached to her as they settled onto the couch. his fingers still laced with hers, thumb brushing softly over her knuckles. every so often, he’d press a lingering kiss to her hair, like he couldn’t help himself.

oh, and then there was that moment--one she’d remember forever--when his parents started playing home videos of joe’s childhood. everyone was huddled around the TV, the warm glow flickering across their faces while joe, ever the gentleman, was finishing up the dishes.

her eyes were glued to the screen, completely transfixed, as if she were watching the most important film of her life. baby joe babbled at the camera, a toy football clutched in his tiny hands, making incoherent little sounds through a drool-covered grin. his dinosaur shirt was stained with whatever snack he’d been munching on, and his chubby cheeks were impossibly round. she felt something deep in her chest tighten at the sight--it was him, the boy who would grow up to become the man she loved.

she was so caught up in the moment, she didn’t even notice when joe snuck up behind her, his arms wrapping securely around her waist. he rested his chin on her shoulder, his breath warm against her skin, watching the screen from her perspective. for him, it was surreal--seeing these memories through her eyes, seeing her watch him at his most innocent, his most unguarded.

soft kisses pressed along her jaw, slow and affectionate, but she didn’t take her eyes off the screen. instead, she shifted one hand up, her fingers trailing over his jaw, nails scratching lightly in that way she knew he loved--a silent i feel you, i love you, i know you’re here.

his parents, however, fully noticed.

they turned to face joe and her, completely in awe of how touchy-feely he was being with her.

jimmy chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "well, would you look at that," he mused, nudging robin with his elbow. "our boy's turned into a big ol’ sap,".

robin grinned, her eyes twinkling as she took in the sight of her son clinging to his girlfriend like she was the only thing grounding him to earth. "i don’t think i’ve ever seen him like this," she said, her voice laced with warmth.

joe groaned against her shoulder but didn’t make a move to pull away. instead, he tightened his hold on her waist, pressing another soft kiss beneath her ear. "you guys act like i don’t have ears," he muttered, lips brushing against her skin.

she giggled, finally tearing her gaze away from the screen to look at him. "they’re just observing, baby,".

jimmy laughed. "oh, so baby is what we’re calling him now?".

joe shot his dad a deadpan look, but it was hard to look intimidating when he was literally nuzzling into her neck like some love-sick puppy. "you’re both insufferable,".

she laughed, turning her head just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. "you’re kinda proving their point, joey,".

robin sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. "oh, it’s just so nice to see him like this. all affectionate and soft. i mean, he’s always been sweet, but this? this is new,".

she wasn't wrong. everyone knew how joe was opposed to PDA and being so soft in front of other people. but with her, he didn't give two fucks. and that was beautiful.

"this is disgusting," joe grumbled, though it was completely contradicted by the way he was practically melting into her touch.

"oh, hush," robin scolded, waving a hand at him. "you love it,".

he didn’t argue. he just held her a little closer, completely unbothered by his parents' teasing, because deep down, he knew they were right.

and his parents shot each other knowing glances all throughout the night, their hearts overflowing with happiness and gratitude.

later in the evening, while joe was off showing jimmy something on his phone, robin gently touched her arm, "come help me with refills?".

she followed her into the kitchen, her nerves creeping back in like the first time she stepped on stage, the weight of the spotlight reaching down on her and the unsure hint of adrenaline in her chest. it was also like trying out a new song live for the first time, unsure how the crowd would react, only this time, the crowd was one very important person--joe's mom. but robin didn’t jump into anything serious right away. instead, she moved around the space like she had a hundred times before, topping off drinks, grabbing extra napkins. then, finally, she turned, leaning against the counter with an easy smile.

"i just want to tell you how happy i am that joe has you,".

she blinked, caught off guard. "oh."

robin’s smile softened. "he’s always been focused, always had big dreams that revolved around football. but there’s something different about him with you. i see it in the way he looks at you, the way he talks about you," she reached out, squeezing her hand. "you make him so happy, sweetheart. you make him dream of a future beyond football, and for that, we're forever grateful,".

her chest tightened--not with nerves, but something warmer, something deeper. she swallowed hard. "i love him a lot," she admitted, voice softer than before.

robin nodded, as if she already knew. "and he loves you. that’s all a mom could ever hope for. we were so worried he'd get so caught up in football, miss out on the other aspects of his life like love, a family," she said, reaching out to grab the 'j' initial necklace which sat around her neck. "but then you came around,".

she exhaled a small laugh, shaking her head. "i was really nervous to meet you,".

robin raised an eyebrow. "why? because of who i am? honey, you’re the famous one,".

she shrugged, chewing on her bottom lip. "because of how much joe loves you. how much he looks up to you. i didn’t want to mess this up, you know?".

robin’s expression melted into something even softer, her thumb running over the surface of the pendant. "the only way you could ever mess this up is by not being yourself. but from what i can tell, and mother's intuition is never wrong, you’re perfect for him,".

before she could stop herself, she wrapped robin in a hug, this one even more meaningful than the one at the door. and then, the damn of emotion flew open. "thank you. thank so much you for making him who he is. i don't know what i would do without joe,".

robin's arms tightened around her in response, holding her as if she was already family. "oh, sweetheart, you don't have to thank me for that. joe’s always had a big heart, and he’s always known what he wants--he just needed someone like you to bring out the best in him," her voice cracked slightly, emotion clear in her tone. "he's been so much more himself since you came into his life,". she pulled away slightly, but her hands stayed on her shoulders, a steady presence. "you complete him, and we all see it. no matter who you are, what your life is like, screw the cameras and the attention. you're you. and we all know that. he knows that." robin added, her voice dense with emotion.

one thing echoed deep within her throughout the night--her career was never brought up. her fame, her music, the whirlwind of headlines that followed her everywhere she went. not a single mention. not even a passing comment.

because here, she wasn’t a superstar.

she was just a girl in love, spending time with the people who loved him first.

robin’s lips curled into a smirk, mischief twinkling in her eyes. "but just so you know, if you ever need to gang up on him, i’m always available,".

she blinked, surprised at first, but then a laugh bubbled up from her chest, light and effortless. she wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, warmth spreading through her like the glow of the kitchen light above them. "i might take you up on that," she admitted, voice laced with something softer--something that felt like relief.

robin squeezed her hand one last time, a silent reassurance, before stepping back to grab their drinks. and just like that, the last bit of nerves melted away, dissolving into the love that filled the room.

joe found her a few minutes later, his presence known before he even touched her. the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering warmth from the oven, and then, suddenly, his arms were around her, strong and steady. he pulled her into his chest, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her cheek. "what were you two talking about?{ he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with curiosity.

robin grinned, her gaze flicking between them, and then she smirked. "just how much we love you, joey,".

joe hummed, nuzzling into the crook of her neck like he belonged there. "you better not have been scaring her off, mom,".

robin gasped, placing a hand over her chest in mock offense. "me? never!".

she giggled, leaning further into joe’s embrace, feeling the way his hands instinctively tightened around her waist, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. he had been like this all night--touching her in soft, subtle ways, like he couldn’t quite believe she was here, with him, in the house he grew up in, surrounded by the people who had shaped him.

and then she realized that there was absolutely nothing to be so nervous about, now that she thought about it.

you know why?

because joe chose her. and they saw that. he chose her for a reason. and they knew that. he loved her, and that was everything they had ever wanted for him.

she felt it in the way robin had hugged her like she was already family, in the way jimmy had teased joe about being whipped, in the way they had welcomed her into their home without hesitation, without expectation--just love.

because at the end of the day, it wasn’t about who she was to the world. it wasn’t about the bright lights or the sold-out shows, the cameras flashing or the headlines screaming her name.

it was just about this.

the warmth of joe’s arms around her. robin’s knowing smile. jimmy’s easy laughter. the quiet hum of the house that had built the man she loved.

"it's you and me, that's my whole world,".

joe’s whole world was under this roof.

and somehow, she had become a part of it.

--the end--

[amazinglyashy]

hellow ash! Dropping here since I got hooked from the last post ehe. If it's okay...idk if its OOC but, can you do some shorts or fic on like mc just wanting a peaceful, quiet life? away from fighting or mental battle. Esp Raf and Sy, they canonly seem to be the ones with most hard-core agenda. What if MC just want peace, yet entangled with them is sureway of NOT having that life? can they make it happen? or will they just shield mc in her dream fantasy life while they battle the real world? as we know even mc herself is already target from many unwanted people...so how?? idk sorry for ramblinggg😫😫😫

(its kinda personal since if I could, I'd just live in a small town with a garden like harvest moon game, away from stress and ambitious grasp of capitalism, buttt yea that's a dream only 🥲🙃)

I'm a firm believer that MC is however me and my readers/requesters make them, so no worries about OOC here :D also don't ever worry about rambling, I always love your comments on my posts and works 😭😭❤️ I did my best, hope you enjoy!!

LaDS men when all you want is to live a quiet life -

Sylus -

He knows his way in and out of the world, and every which way to get what he wants. Still, knowing your wishes-

It's hard.

Not because it's not conducive in your relationship, no- he'd give you the world if you so much as asked him. But it is a bit... difficult, to say the least, trying to figure out how to acquire you the life you seem desperate for.

He does understand your reasoning, though.

He would do his best to first make some of his more rural safe houses even more habitable- style choices that fit your tastes, a nook for you to relax in or do work, and anything you could think of that would help with your hobbies. Those houses become your little retreat, and they always have anything you could ever want stocked to the brim.

Luke and Kieran visit you often, or will occasionally take you elsewhere for a day out in town or further in the city. Unbeknownst to you, it's usually when someone has been targeting you and Sylus is... taking care of it behind your back.

Even if he can't stop his work after being so deep after all these years- even if he can't stop the people who are constantly targeting you for simply existed- he's going to do absolutely everything within his power to ensure you get to live the life you have chosen.

Especially with him.

Zayne -

All he wants in life is to help you find your peace.

That's all.

If living a quiet life is what helps you achieve that, then he's all for it.

He may sheepishly admit to you just how worried your Hunter's Association job would make him, wondering if the next gurney wheeled into his operating room would be you after a particularly grueling battle, or after running into the wrong person who had been after you for what nestled within your heart.

So this is definitely a plus to him.

By extension, he's also perfectly fine if you want to be stay-at-home. He makes more than enough as a surgeon to support the both of you extremely comfortably, and he knows that life really... hasn't been the kindest to you.

He's used to a bit of a commute, just trying to fight out of his driveway in the city center, so if you want to live somewhere further out in order to have space to garden, he'll figure out how to make it a reality for you.

Sometimes, he'll come home with something new for you- a type of seed for the coming season, a new book, some fresh supply for a craft you've been working on- anything, and he takes a lot of pleasure in seeing the smile break across your face whenever he does.

Rafayel -

Oh that's easy. Four words-

Beach house + Sea God.

Easy.

Hearing your wish surprises him a little, but it's nothing if not relieving to him.

He's spent forever, and then again, just trying to find you and also ensure your safety- from both up close, and from afar. It's difficult with how much trouble you get yourself into, and with the trouble you don't get yourself into that just seems to find you.

Honestly, this just makes his life so much easier.

Rafayel is so used to soloing against people looking to do you harm or bring trouble to you, so this isn't too much different than what he used to do before you two met again. And if you come to live with him along the seaside, it's that much easier for him.

He's in his element, so discovering anything insidious lurking near is easy, and he can usually take care of the issue long before it could ever reach you, much less get to you and you finally getting to have a breather in life.

One of his favorite things is a quiet day at home with you, sitting high on a ladder as he works on another giant painting, working towards the top just so that he can peer out the window- he loves watching you work on the garden boxes he bought for you, even if you don't notice him yourself.

Xavier -

He's bared witness to everything you've been through- at least the worst of it. Anything he hasn't, you've definitely brought him up to speed with nervous laughs and late night conversation when the two of you were awake past when you should be.

So he knows.

He knows you mean it when you tell him your wish.

He also knows you more than deserve it.

Xavier will smile it off easily, asking you if that isn't already what you've been doing with him- snuggling during the colder months on the couch in his apartment, waiting for him to finish his assignments and come home to a half-finished movie and a stale bowl of popcorn you fell asleep eating. The butter was tacky now like the tips of your fingers against the blanket he'll need to wash tomorrow as he picks you up to take you to bed.

Living somewhere out of the city is doable to him, and he'll let you pick the place. Occasional visits into the city are a necessity, though- how else is he going to supply Jerimiah with the harvests from your gorgeous garden if not? It's a nice little living, in addition to whatever Xavier brings in.

It also helps him really appreciate the smaller things in life. He never really knew how much he would love dancing in the kitchen as the sun sets through the window, until now.

[ethnicallymoral]

Reframing Vander as protective, rather than peaceful.

posted this to twitter here, if you’d like to yap about arcane together! I’m a bit more unhinged on it, heads up.

Here’s a case for reframing Vander dropping his gauntlets on the bridge as choosing PROTECTION over violence, instead of peace. And how, contextually, this could work well with his and Silco’s characterizations pre and post-betrayal. I don't see him as a pacifist.

We know Vander as the Hound of the Underground, and he didn’t earn that title lightly. "Be a shame if I had to put them on again. Cast iron's, well, it's hard to clean." Young Silco, on the other hand, is shown with his journal. He was strategic and that trait stays consistent.

Silco isn’t naturally physically violent, but he surrounds himself with people who are strong, capable, and willing to act on the anger he internalizes. And he knows how to foster that well — something we later see with Sevika & Jinx. He channels his revolutionary ideals through people.

What’s compelling about this is we could then easily make a case that Silco respected Vander’s duty to the cause AND his violent nature. Maybe young Silco wanted to specifically channel Vander’s violence toward their cause/Piltover, often by instigating his temper a step too far.

Vander, by contrast, is capable of terrifying violence, but it’s shown to us as reactive: when the people he’s responsible for are threatened. That can suggest he’s more naturally driven by a protective & parental instinct. His default is to be passive, gentle, & voice of reason.

In this same conversation, Silco listens for most of it and contributes by reaffirming his commitment to their cause. “To Zaun, then.” It would be a great way to foreshadow an inevitable divide between them — regardless of Felicias death. An echo to where their true loyalty lies.

Either way, I think Silco would have kept pushing limits that Vander couldn’t reach. And eventually, he would have hit a wall that Vander refused to cross. AKA, I think Felicia’s death may have been the final catalyst for Vander losing his patience with Silco, but it didn’t START there.

“You had my respect—the Lanes’ respect—but that… that was never enough for you.”

The phrasing makes it sound like Vander was already fed up with just how far Silco was willing to go to not be seen as a filthy little thing anymore (and all of Zaun by extension). That wasn’t new.

When Felicia tells them she can’t parent and be a soldier, she says they’re not allowed to fail anymore. Except they did “fail,” with Silco instigating again. The protest led to a massacre, ankle biters orphaned, and that’s where all of it was brought back up to the surface.

Vander reacted by prioritizing safety. He narrowed his scope to what he felt responsible for: protecting The Lanes and those he loves.

Silco dug his heels in further, staying fixated on ALL of Zaun & its cause. He could not let Felicia’s death be in vain.

In Jinx Fixes Everything, Silco praised Felicia’s courage to have kids with admiration and signed the bottom with “Blisters and Bedrock” — a direct call back. It could suggest that her memory as a martyr fueled his resentment and resolve even more.

Silco was always going to keep fighting, no matter what. Whatever it takes. He had to see everything they did up until then as meaningful. The Day of Ash strengthened his conviction and MAYBE caused survivors guilt that he couldn’t shake.

“What is truth but a survivor’s story?”

Vander’s betrayal may have actually pushed Silco into becoming an even bigger zealot than he already was. It turned his love for people into love for ambition. People hurt you. Ideals don’t. And Vander’s choice to give up the fight was like killing Felicia all over again.

But, Vander saw Felicia’s death as a sign that the Nation of Zaun wasn’t possible. His job as her friend was to protect her and he failed to do that. So his ideals shift: now the only thing that matters is his responsibility to protect what’s left of the community they built.

He tells Silco as much and pleads with him to “spare the Lanes.”

Vanders scope: The Lanes and his family

Silcos scope: ALL of Zaun or nothing

Which does say a lot about Vander’s leadership… but I digress. Even then, he doesn’t say he’s against war or violence, just that they won’t win.

I also don’t think Vander is a pacifist because he never tried to eliminate violence in the Lanes — just contain it AWAY from Piltover. When Vi takes the kids to rob a topside apartment, he isn’t angry about the crime itself. He’s scared because it happened in Piltover.

He gives the “violence isn’t the answer” speech, but smiles when Vi says she beat up Deckard. So violence within Zaun is acceptable; what he fears are the consequences that come from provoking Piltover.

The letter shows Vander still blames Silco to some extent after the river: “The dirt is on both our hands.” Vander regretted the way he went about the split, but I don't get the impression that he feels cutting Silco off at the time was a mistake. Since despite the time that’s passed, he still considers Silco an extremely dangerous loose end. A lurking threat to the people he wants to keep safe. Enough so, that even Benzo was convinced. He knew Silco would still burn everything if it meant saving it.

Meanwhile, Silco had already forgiven Vander by time they meet again. He doesn’t even ask why because he’s not hung up on it. He just wants his Hound back. But they can’t coexist in Zaun. Not in the main timeline.

One was always going to either die fighting or protecting.

TLDR: I think Vander realized that Silco would still stop at nothing to pursue Zaun’s independence causing him to snap out of grief, guilt, but also intense fear. Vander’s responsibility to protect The Lanes kicked into high gear, which meant killing what he saw as the #1 threat: Silco.

I also like this because it parallel’s Silco’s arc as his scope narrows in, too. He wouldn’t stop fighting for Zaun, but he does come to understand Vander by choosing to protect (and love) Jinx.

"The greater good."

[cherrybomb107]

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: forgiveness, or the way it’s often presented, is harmful. That’s one more gripe I have with season two. The way it frames “forgiveness”(the idea that you are obligated to forgive someone lest you be “just as bad as they are” is problematic.)

Because for one, having Jinx apologize for killing Caitlyn’s mom and vow to stop the “cycle of violence” doesn’t make any sense. One, that’s just not something Jinx would ever say. Two, the idea that Jinx killing some Councilors is anywhere near the same thing as Caitlyn becoming a dictator is laughable at best, and insulting to my intelligence at worst. Three, Caitlyn never apologizes or faces any meaningful consequences for her actions! Losing an eye was nothing! She should’ve lost a hand at least and we should’ve seen her reflect on her actions and pledge to do better for Zaun!!! Not just fuck off and ride off into the sunset after everything she did! And lastly, the “cycle of violence” literally isn’t a cycle, it’s just one city oppressing the other for centuries and the other city deciding to fight back! This “cycle” doesn’t begin and end with Jinx and her attack on the Council, so framing it like Jinx is the one who has to take sole responsibility for fixing everything is nonsense.

“But Arcane was never about heroes and villains, everything is morally gray!” You sound dumb. This is obviously a story with overt themes of oppression and revolution. I’m not here to critique morality, I’m here to critique its framing. Why are certain characters “justified” in their heinous actions but others don’t get that luxury? That’s what I’m talking about. Moving on, the problem with “forgiveness” implies that it’s necessary, and the way people conflate forgiveness with letting someone have access to you after everything they did is the problem. You don’t have to forgive someone if you don’t want to. That doesn’t make you “bitter” nor does it mean you’re “holding a grudge”. There is a difference between forgiving someone and just removing yourself from the situation and becoming detached, imo. That’s what should’ve been done with Caitlyn and Jinx. No one in Zaun should’ve been shown dying for their oppressors because “teamwork” nor should Sevika have been shoved on the Council to push this idea of “unity”. Why would Sevika, a Zaunite who has never had and never will have any love for Piltover, be forced to cozy up with the Council? Why is the onus on her, as an oppressed person, to make nice with her oppressors? Why does the institution of Piltover, and people like Caitlyn who uphold that institution and wreak havoc on the underclass of Zaun, never have to answer for their crimes?

Answer: Because they(the writers) want to convince us that Jinx and Caitlyn, and by extension, Piltover and Zaun are “just as bad” as each other, and that both sides need to work together to heal. Only problem with that is, the Piltover/Zaun conflict was not presented that way in season one. I’m sure the writers want us to think it’s one city vs another, when that’s not the case at all. In reality, it’s one city OVER the other, and now they’re trying to convince us “both sides are bad”. While it’s true that there ARE problems on both sides, the problems in Zaun literally wouldn’t be problems if Piltover wasn’t an oppressive institution. Why were the chem barons able to amass power? Because the systems Piltover set up left Zaun behind and allowed power hungry people like Finn, Margo, Chross, and Smeech seize their opportunities for control. Why is there so much crime in Zaun? Again, because of Piltover. The class disparity that Piltover set up means the economic divide between the two cities is a chasm that grows wider and wider every day. People are forced to steal to eat. They join gangs out of necessity, not because they have to. Why did Jinx kill all those enforcers?

That shouldn’t be the question. The real question is: Why does “Jinx”(as in, the persona Powder adopted to feel strong) even exist? Answer, once again, because of Piltover! Jinx is an oppressed person with severe mental health and self esteem issues that have been exacerbated as a result of the crooked system of Piltover. She saw her parents get killed by enforcers(militarized police force that carries out the will of the powers that be and is responsible for harassing, brutalizing, and over policing Zaun) right in front of her before she was even in the double digits. She was then adopted by Vander, but she had to struggle her whole life. Zaun doesn’t even have air to BREATHE unless Piltover decides they deserve it. And thanks to Caitlyn, we get to see how even THAT gets weaponized when Zaun steps out of line. So if they don’t have access to clean air, it’s safe to say that they also don’t have access to the same quality food, water, shelter, clothing, economic, educational, or medical services that Piltovans do, just by virtue of living in Zaun. So you take a severely mentally ill little girl, systematically oppress her, and then clutch your pearls when she becomes violent and lashes out? Label her a “psycho” and a “monster” for killing cops, gang members, and politicians while Caitlyn gets a happily ever after after everything she did? I thought “both sides” were “just as bad”. So why is Jinx the only one who meaningfully suffers? Why does Zaun as a whole always have to pay the price?

Lack of commitment. “Terrorist” is a loaded word that’s been weaponized against marginalized people for ages now. It’s another one to add to the list: angry, crazy, mad, belligerent, monster, savage, animal, etc. All these dehumanizing words are leveled at folks who get tired of taking shit lying down. I’ve never thought that Jinx was a “monster” for killing cops, Councilors, or politicians. Never will. But the show clearly WANTS me to, as well as simultaneously wanting to see Caitlyn’s actions a certain way. I’ve already made a post about why comparing or trying to equalize Caitlyn’s actions and Jinx’s actions is disingenuous and intellectually dishonest imo. Think of it like a bully vs bullied type of thing. There’s this kid and his asshole friends who gets to bully you for weeks, months, or even years and face no repercussions. Then, one day you get fed up, and start fighting back. Whether that be with words, feet, fists, or what have you. If you go down, you go down swinging. When the dust settles, BOTH of y’all are getting disciplined(detention, suspended, expelled, not allowed to go on trips, etc) for “fighting”. And there’s a very good chance one of you will be punished much more harshly than the other. Even though you started fighting back. BACK being the operative word. Every single time this kid pushed, hit, kicked, punched, started rumors about, and isolated you, nothing was done. The one time you start fighting BACK, both of y’all get in trouble because the school has a “zero tolerance policy”.

But you know that’s not true. It can’t be. You’ve been telling the teachers, guidance counselors, and vice principal about what’s been going on. But nothing was done about it. Or if it was, you were the one who was told to move seats. Or switch to a different classroom. Or just ignore them. Or “maybe they’re lashing out cause they have problems going on at home.” It was nothing but excuses when you were getting pushed around. Now when you fight back it’s a problem. Now take that metaphor and apply it to Caitlyn and Jinx. Caitlyn is like that fat rich asshole with parents on the PTA who make hefty donations to the school. Jinx is like the scrawny little nobody who has no one to stick up for them. Piltover is the school system. Caitlyn’s privilege isolated her from any meaningful consequences, while Jinx’s lack of privilege guaranteed she’d face hefty consequences, much more than Caitlyn ever would.

Jinx has lost: her birth parents as a result of state sanctioned violence, her adoptive brothers, her sister, her best friend, her adoptive father, Silco, her sister again, her adoptive father again, her new friend, her sense of self, her life(possibly) and she has to deal with being an oppressed person who struggles with mental health issues on top of all that. Caitlyn has lost: her mother, and her eye. That’s it. She’s never forced to give anything up. She never had to reckon with the reality of what it means to be not just a Piltie, but a Kiramman, and a dictator on top of that. We never see her be genuinely remorseful about her horrible actions in Zaun. Nor does she try to apologize to the people in Zaun or meaningfully make amends. No, Caitlyn gets to live in that big shiny house of hers with her father and girlfriend and the months she spent co-signing martial law will never be addressed. To bring it back to the bully vs bullied comparison, this means that Jinx would have been expelled for fighting back, while Caitlyn gets ISS(in school suspension). “Both sides are bad” yeah well you clearly believe one side is worse! And it’s not the correct one!

Piltover is an oppressive, classist, ableist, and brutal institution. Caitlyn was the head of this institution for months after she experienced a fraction of what Zaunites have experienced for centuries. At the end of the day, Caitlyn’s actions were brushed aside and she got her happy ending, though it wasn’t deserved whatsoever. Meanwhile Jinx, Sevika, Ekko, Isha, countless other Zaunites, and Zaun as a whole did nothing but suffer their whole lives and now they have nothing to show for it. “Both sides are bad” but the bad that the institution is responsible for is never called out, while the bad that the oppressed people did is blown out of proportion and they are severely punished for it.

And yes, I know I’m talking about a mainstream television show with white/non black people in the writers room. I knew I was never gonna get the pro revolution story I wanted to see, and I’ve made peace with that. But, if they wanted to have a “both sides” narrative so bad, then they should’ve stuck with it. BOTH SIDES should have equally suffered and had to reckon with their wrongdoings. The responsibility for doing so shouldn’t have solely been on the shoulders of the minority group. THAT’S the crux of the issue. I was always gonna think “forgiveness” was the coward’s way out. But they never show Piltover apologizing. Only Zaun does, and that’s not right.

[lych33dragoncookie]

Only the masterpieces that survive the fiercest flames earn their place in history.

(Analysis post)

Alright, they absolutely cooked this update. Like, undeniably so. I was admittedly not that huge of a fan of the last 2 beast yeast chapters we got; they had really good ideas, and Mystic Flour is a wonderful character, but... Dark Cacao hasn't really been done enough with for it to feel like it had the amount of weight it could have, and it really doesn't feel like much about him actually changed at all. Combine that with a complete lack of interesting dynamics and you have a lot of very good and genuinely pretty well thought out story concepts with extensive cultural research, executed in a way that feels more like a traditional old-school story that weakens the attachment the audience feels to the components of said story.

Here, though? I have no complaints so far. It was absolutely wild in fact, to the point where I don't think it's gonna happen again (nor am I entirely sure it should ever happen again). This was back to back, non-stop, smack to the face one after the other. The moment the first point of conflict came up, it was just shit happening left and right; even in the mandatory moment of rest where we chill out for a bit, it's revealed that hey, these sandstorms? Yeah the sand is actually ashes. It's the remains of all the people that live here. Whether they died off on their own or were killed by someone else.

And if that wasn't enough, very shortly after;

... It's fucking crack.

So, people die and kill each other here very frequently, and not only are their remains visibly on display, their ashes also become sandstorms that make it near impossible to navigate the land; on top of being something that people snort like cocaine to become more energetic and aggressive.

We started fucking wild, dude. This whole thing is pulling no punches.

Though, I do wanna note; I really, really enjoyed the interactions between Smoked Cheese and Golden Cheese. It shows not only how forgiving she is, but how these two have known each other for an incredibly long time, and know each other well. They're incredibly comfortable around each other, despite it all, and despite how brazen and Very Much Not Strategic the queen here can be. I really, really enjoyed them.

Always fun to see a recovering villain do things for good, but in their own unique way that's still not exactly heroic but definitely effective and, at times, very gratifying.

Though I enjoyed all this, there's one thing I wanna talk about above all else.

The star of the show. Note that every single part was enjoyable, of course, and he wouldn't be half as interesting without Golden Cheese Cookie to serve as a parallel, but they've cooked up something special here.

So far, Burning Spice's extent of onscreen appearance is very, very short, but... I don't think I need to tell you that he's already made an impact and a half.

Christ, that's violent. With the sound effects and everything too, god damn. But, I'd be lying if I said this wasn't a pretty superficial source of judgement for this character. It's very very telling of what kind of person he is now, what he's all about, what he's willing to do, what he likes doing, but...

More than anyone else in recent memory, the devil is in the details. So let's look at those details.

Nothing too much so far, other than how much he absolutely loves destruction, but there's already a trend; namely on "Nothing lasts forever. It's as simple as that", "In the end, everything becomes dust.", and "You, too, shall see that destruction is the only way.". There seems to be an infatuation with the natural process of everything fading away, turning to dust and dying out. An entirely honest one, believing that there is just about nothing else to life. These will be important to keep in mind.

Here, we see a bit of his current relationship with his own immortality. He doesn't seem to mind the idea of losing it, finding something that may eventually take him down, but he still takes great pride in it. These lines, in text, seem somewhat miserable (and trust me, they definitely are), but the voicework in just about every language conveys that they are said in a more neutral, even potentially proudly manner. Again, not much on their own, but...

Here's where we get into the fun part.

This. This is the crux of their character. At the start, him and Golden Cheese cookie were more or less the same. Benevolent royalty, close and personal with their subjects. Beloved, and loving.

And then, they lost it all.

One way or another, their kingdoms were lost, reduced to almost nothing. They were overcome by grief, desperate, unable to cope with their loss. One tried to latch on as hard as possible. Preserve what she could, blindly, replacing the harsh truth of reality with an idealized, constructed world, where no one would ever have to know pain ever again. She shut herself off, and retreated in the safety and peace of a false reality. She would rather have lied to both herself and all her subjects than face reality. And eventually, she had to learn to move on. Let herself and her kingdom heal more naturally, facing reality. The other, meanwhile, was desperate to let go. He detached himself, trying to move past the pain of loss. But, of course, he couldn't force it to happen. No one can. And so with the grief of losing that which he held dear, continuing to be faced with the reality that nothing is forever, over and over, while he endured, the world slowly turning to ash around them again and again... It's no wonder something in there eventually cracked.

What will it take to destroy me. Nothing is forever, and yet, I am.

Nothing is forever. And yet, I am.

With time, misery turned to mania, and in an attempt to overcome their grief, they embraced it, in the worst way possible. A coping mechanism gone horrendously wrong. That destruction, that loss, the inevitability of death... It's not painful, no. It doesn't have to be. It can be thrilling. Exhilarating. A new reason to live. If all you care about turns to dust anyways, if that's really the only logical destination... Why not have some fun with it? Why not embody that inevitable, unstoppable force? Why not become what you fear, so you no longer have to be afraid anymore?

... You know, at least that's what I think is going on here. The next chapter could contradict this reading, but... From what all we have right now, it seems like Golden Cheese and Burning Spice are two completely different paths for the exact same type of pain. They are, in a way, the same, but diverge in almost complete opposite ways where it counts.

Spice is genuinely equal parts absolutely terrifying and absolutely miserable; a balance that is incredibly hard to strike in writing, but always absolutely fascinating and wonderful to observe when it happens. I have to say, the more I found out about them, the more I couldn't keep my eyes off everything they have going on.

I'm loving every little bit of this update. Mad props to the devs for cooking something up here that I am genuinely incredibly invested in, almost to the same degree as White Lily and Dark Enchantress. Banger update. Absolute S tier material.

TL;DR: Burning Spice is terrifying, miserable, and ridiculously cool. Everything about this update was an absolute merciless flurry of consecutive gut-punches. And I loved every second of it.

... Now we sit and wait for Shadow Milk's release next year.

[graysoncritic]

A (Negative) Analysis of Tom Taylor's Nightwing Run - Introduction

Introduction Who is Dick Grayson? What Went Wrong? Dick's Characterization What Went Wrong? Barbara Gordon What Went Wrong? Bludhaven (Part 1, Part 2) What Went Wrong? Melinda Lin Grayson What Went Wrong? Bea Bennett What Went Wrong? Villains Conclusion Bibliography

I want to start this essay by admitting I’m actually embarrassed by its length. Why did I spend so much time on something I dislike? The truth is, I did not begin this with the intention of creating such an extensive, formal study of the Tom Taylor and Bruno Redondo’s Nightwing run and how it reflects the wider problems with DC’s handling of one of their most iconic characters. I was just trying to organize the thoughts that came up during discussions with other Dick Grayson fans. Before I knew it, I had enough material, enough desire to challenge myself, and enough frustrations to vent to properly create this monstrosity.

I did not begin this Nightwing run determined to hate it. In fact, I was ready to love it. As Taylor promoted the run before the first issue was officially released, I was so excited for it. As I read short interviews where he discussed Heartless, I could not wait to have a new, incredible villain. Foolishly, I believed Taylor when he said he loved Dick Grayson. 

Needless to say, I was disappointed. Then frustrated. Then angry. The beginning of any story is a period where writer and reader form an indirect bond, and as the story progresses, so do the highs and the lows of said relationship. As such, a reader’s tolerance for negative factors will either increase or decrease depending on their experience up until that point.

In other words, if the writer fails to earn the reader’s trust and instead takes their attention for granted, even seemingly insignificant details become irritating in a way they would not be if presented in a better story. In such scenarios, the reader can no longer overlook those minor moments because there’s little good to balance them out with. It is a death by a thousand cuts. 

In the case of Taylor and Redondo’s run, along with those thousand cuts are also broken bones, internal bleeding, head trauma, and severed limbs. A weak plot, simplistic morality that undermines the story’s stated themes, and, most importantly, a careless disregard for Dick Grayson and everything he stands for utterly destroyed my enjoyment of this series. 

It is still too early to tell what sort of impact Taylor’s (as of time of writing, still unfinished) run will have on Dick Grayson’s future portrayals. But just because we cannot predict its long term significance, it does not mean we cannot critique it. Currently, we simply lack the benefit of hindsight. 

If this essay were to have a thesis, then it is this: Tom Taylor and Bruno Redondo’s Nightwing not only fails to tell a compelling Nightwing story, but it also exemplifies a cynical, self-serving, and shallow approach to storytelling that prioritizes creating hollow viral moments to boost the creators’ own online popularity over crafting a good story, honoring the character in their care, and respecting his fans – fans who have, historically, often been women, queer folk, and other individuals who felt othered by a cisheteronormative patriarchal society. Taylor and Redondo’s thoughtless and superficial narrative not only undermine the socially progressive ideals they supposedly care for by propagating a cisheteronormative patriarchal worldview, but they also demonstrate a lack of love and understanding for the character in their care. At best, Taylor and Redondo have no interest in getting to know Dick Grayson, nor any respect for their predecessor and their contributions to this character. At worst, they despise Dick so much that they wish to reinvent him into something completely different, tossing away everything that was special to his fans in order to appeal to a readership that never cared about Dick Grayson. 

I structured this essay so that, hopefully, each part will build on the ones that came prior. Naturally, because all aspects of a story are interlaced, there will be overlaps between each of the sections. As it may have become obvious from this introduction, I’ll be focusing primarily on the writing of this run. That is not to say that I will not address the art, but writing is the field I know most about, and so it feels only fair to focus my critique on that. 

I hope that by the end of this essay, I will have successfully proved that this run’s mishandling of different narrative elements betray a cynical appropriation of progressive ideology and a disregard and disinterest in what makes Dick Grayson so special to so many people. This is an attitude that is present within DC Comics’ current ethos as a whole.

Now, who is this essay for? Honestly, it’s probably not for Tom Taylor fans. I do not believe I’ll be persuading anyone with my writing, and, to be quite honest, neither would I say I wish to do so. Taylor and Redondo’s run has won numerous awards and has many dedicated fans who adore it for what it is. If that is you, then I’m glad. I wish I could be among your numbers. I wish more than anything that I could love this story. But I do not, and I know many others agree with me, and it is to them, I think, that I’m speaking to. As Taylor’s run is praised to heaven and back, I needed a safe space to voice my thoughts. This essay became this safe space. And to others who also feel unseen by the constant praise this run is getting, I think this could speak to you, as well. To be cliche and cringe, this will hopefully let you know that you are not alone. 

Finally, I want to acknowledge some people whose thoughts greatly contributed to the creation of this essay. For around three years now I’ve been having wonderful interactions with other Dick Grayson’s fans, and those discussions were not only incredibly fun and cathartic, but also provided great insight into what needed to be included in this essay. My best friend especially gave me a space to vent when I got frustrated, and my original outline borrowed a lot from the messages I sent her, as well as notes I took for our discussions.  

I’ll also be directly quoting four different Dick Grayson fans (identified as Dick Grayson Fans A, B, and C in order to allow them to keep their anonymity). Their analyses were so critical to the formation of my thesis and for a lot of what will be addressed in this essay that I actually feel like they deserve co-credit in this essay. Dick Grayson Fan B especially deserves a shoutout in helping me track down a couple of pages used as supporting evidence, as I knew what pages I was looking for but was having a hard time remembering in which issue they were located. I’m quoting them with permission, and crediting their ideas and contributions whenever relevant. 

Now, without any further ado, let’s get started. 

[raikirikiri]

anbu tattoos remain one of my favorite things in naruto purely because they’re like a sign of ownership. anbu ninja are tools moreso than than the normal shinobi of their village. so much so that the village marks them with a signature that everyone recognizes. and even when that anbu—that tool—is allowed to rest, manages to leave anbu ranks, or dies, they remain branded by the village that owns them. they don’t truly escape, they can always be called on again because a tool does not have feelings, it does not have choices, it’s only made to be utilized by those who know how to wield it.

anyway. anbu is so fucked up and minato…i love minato but the illusion that he’s a pure little guy who’s a wife guy and a little shy nerd is crazy. he saw kakashi, someone he’s seen grow up, someone he’s guided and taught, some he’s supposed to care for. and he thought, ah yes, i need to keep you close to me. how best to do it? perfect! you are now forever marked as an asset to me and the village! and he does it with what he assumes to be love in his heart.

and i’m not saying this is a good or a bad thing, the morality of minato’s choices within the context of the story is nothing entirely out of the ordinary, but the way in which he’s portrayed, how we see him and his demeanor… it’s all very much a sweet facade to mask what’s hidden underneath. he’s twisted and calculated and ugh, i love him. because he genuinely thinks he’s doing the best thing he can by kakashi and also by the village. kakashi is talented. he has a sharingan and he’s vulnerable. of course minato wants to help but he also sees an opportunity and he strikes. now they have kakashi of the sharingan in their highest ranks, and he won’t ever be able to escape the duty instilled in him. not unless he becomes a nukenin but everyone knows by that point that kakashi is so indoctrinated, the thought of leaving never crosses his mind.

and then minato dies. and kakashi is still a tool. his feelings should not affect his use. but they do. and for the first time…

kakashi of the sharingan, anbu hound, thinks maybe… leaving the village might be a good idea. if not to get away from everything. he can’t be a good tool if he’s rusty and broken. he can fix himself, he can he can. he doesn’t want to keep breaking over and over again. it hurts it hurts it hurts and the village never puts him back together the right way and for once he just wants to feel whole.

so when kakashi disappears, it’s quiet. it’s full of guilt. ashy tongue, scratchy throat, tears in his eye, and aches in his joints. but he leaves because he needs to be whole to be useful again. but it hurts. it’s not right. he’s not supposed to feel this way. he’s a tool he’s a tool he’s a tool. a weapon. an extension of the village’s wide reach. he almost can’t bear it. he throws up bile all night, on the verge of returning and getting on his knees and begging for forgiveness. he didn’t mean it, he’s sorry he just wants to be better. to feel better.

he doesn’t return that night if only because he can’t make himself get up. his body weak and feverish. he’ll go back the next day.

but he doesnt. he feels better the morning after. only a little bit but it’s enough. maybe he can take care of himself. he can mend his wounds, tighten the loose screws, clean off the rust and dirt. he can do it.

and for every day he stays away, he feels better. more whole. he’s still a shinobi. he does odd jobs when he can but mostly, he takes to helping out villages in need. he likes to help out on different farms, it feels right to him, like something in his muscle memory. he’ll also help with construction if needed, anything that uses his hands in a thoughtful, meaningful manner is good. it makes him feel good.

he likes being a shinobi, he thinks. it doesn’t feel quite right when he says that anymore. but he loves the way it feels when he builds something instead of destroying it. when he uses chakra to make the kids in all the villages he visits eyes light up with joy and wonder. he loves using katon for fires that create. he loves it he loves it he loves it.

it takes time to learn what he’s feeling, and the ever remaining guilt and shame linger in his chest when he remembers that’s he’s supposed to just be a tool and he has to return back to his wielder at some point. but for a long time, years even, kakashi lets himself be something else. something that feels close to human and he thinks he can put off going home a little longer.

[bwat5-blog]

Vi's Ending

**Spoilers for all of Arcane**

I have written about and discussed Vi in significant detail. However it was pointed out to me recently that her ending is worth its own detailed discussion and I completely agree. For those who have been sticking with me on these, you already know Vi is my favorite character. She means a lot to me, as she does to many of you for various reasons. So before we dive in let me say this:

Vi is NOT the Jinx

Vi is NOT a bad sister

Vi did NOT get Jinx killed

I have written in great detail defending and explaining each of these points, and because of that I will not detail those here. But if you are interested I'd love for you to check out my other posts and share your thoughts! Ultimately I am just another fan, and I am really enjoying celebrating the achievement in story telling this show has become, and its legendary characters.

The End:

At the end of this story, we find Violet, sitting alone, drinking, humming powder's song from the very first moments of the show. She appears deeply in thought and is curled up on herself, only opening up when her beloved Caitlyn joins her. They share a tender moment where Caitlyn asks her if she is still in this fight, to which Vi responds "I am the dirt under your nails cupcake, nothings gonna clean me out" and lays her head on Caitlyn's shoulder allowing herself to relax as Caitlyn smiles softly looking into the fire. This seems to be our last look at the couple outside of the game if Riot is to be believed (money talks people, keep these characters popular and they may listen!), and it has understandably sparked reactions across the board. For myself, I found it bittersweet. Beautiful and hopeful in many ways, but recognizing the weight of what they have survived, and validating the healing they still need. I view it as Vi finally being on the road to peace, just not quite there yet.

The Heart of Zaun:

I have extensively detailed who Vi is in other posts and therefore will spare you the diatribe here. But to properly appreciate and understand why her ending was so meaningful we do have to understand who she is.

"You've got a good heart. Don't ever lose it, no matter how the world tries to break you"- Vander

Vi is not perfect. She impatient, quick to anger, stubborn beyond belief and impulsive. But these are things born of the dark and angry world she has been forced to survive in all her life. At her core, who is she really?

A Daughter

A Sister

A Warrior

A Guardian

What Vi proves time and time again throughout this story is that she is fiercely loyal, loving, and true. She is tough as nails and brave sure. But we also get these beautiful moments of fragility. Moments where her love, her fear and her hope bleed through the mask she keeps up showing us who she is beneath. Other lessons from Vander plays a major role in who she becomes as well:

"When people look up to you, you don't get to be selfish"

"Who are you willing to lose?"

-- Vander

Vi was already trying to care for the kids around her, and had at a young age been through so much trauma and loss. But as any teenager would, she still displayed a lack of understanding about the potential broader consequences of their actions. After her talks with Vander, almost every decision she makes she is trying to protect those she loves, or trying to atone when she feels she has fallen short. Her own happiness becomes her last priority in almost every situation. And her journey to overcome this, to learn that its okay for her to know tenderness, and peace, and love and that those things don't make her unworthy. This is Vi's inner journey.

She deserves the things she fights so hard to give the people she loves. I meant to re-blog it and hope I did, but another user pointed out something I have never considered. When she and Vander are talking on the bridge, and he gives here these lessons, what does she say is the reason she wants to fight? - that she grew up knowing she was less than, but she wants more for her little sister and will bleed to do it. Even at that young age, before experiencing so much of the pain she goes through, she doesn't see herself as deserving of that same defense as everyone else in her life... She believes is meant to be the shield, and never the shielded.. An inspiring and heroic notion on paper, heartbreaking to recognize in a teenage girl who is only just beginning in life.

Back To The End:

Okay, with that refresher lets return to Vi's ending. We see this beautiful, tender moment between Vi and the woman she loves. And sure, on the surface of the moment alone it appears your standard happy ending. Safe, warm, and in the company of the woman she loves. These are all undoubtedly good things. But context matters. No decision in this show, no plot point, no animation, no detail is accidental. So we need to account for the following factors:

They have just survived a truly terrifying battle which no matter the result in terms of life and death ,would be deeply traumatizing

She and the woman she loves have made it through together its true (thank god). On a purely physical level, Caitlyn's heroic willingness to sacrifice a part of her own body to achieve victory has left her forever changed. And Vi's body has become a tapestry of scars from a life time of sacrifice and struggle

Caitlyn and Vi's reconciliation is a controversial topic in the fandom. I feel that it was justified in terms of us being given the necessary pieces to believe it, but rushed (the whole season was). Like if I asked a student to show me his work on a math equation, he got the correct answer, but he could only show me the beginning of each step he took to solve it. Correct, but incomplete. All of that to say this, their scene in the jail cell was beautiful, and it was full of meaning far more than the spicy quality (although god damn who are we kidding), but we are talking about months of time apart, with both of them living through an extremely dark period, all precipitated by an extremely traumatic "breakup". I don't think it's unreasonable to assume they have more to work through and heal from regarding this issue, although thankfully their love for each other remains strong.

The death toll of this battle is seemingly enormous although we are not given an exact number. The impact of this is obvious. And although I agree his character was not perfectly utilized, I saw Loris as the face of the countless faceless citizens of Piltover and Zaun who died in this conflict. His death right in front of Vi happening so quickly, and brutally.

Vander.. Vi had to watch her adopted father die not once, not twice, but three times. The first time after saving her life, the second time after they seemed so close to saving his, and the third time with him very nearly killing her. I'm not a mental health professional but I don't think I need to be in order to suggest this may leave lasting emotional and mental scars on her

Jinx. Vi's crusade for her sister's soul begins the moment she steps out of Stillwater with Caitlyn. The relationship between Vi and Jinx is far too complex and detailed to cover in a bullet point like this, and is one of the pillars upon which this show came to be. I'm not getting into fault or blame or any of that right now, because what it comes down to is this. Vi loves Jinx and fought so.. so hard to BE her sister again. And finally, right at the end when it seems like they are finally going to be okay, she loses Jinx. again (not dead but Vi doesn't know that). And why? because Vi breaks at the sight at the sight of Vander's body and Jinx sacrifices herself to save her. Vi's breakdown is heartbreaking. It its understandable, its realistic, its painful and its human.. But after a life time punishing herself for how she feels she failed her sister.. it hurts to admit the truth that as things stand now, Vi will probably carry the guilt of Jinx's death for the rest of her life.

I know that is all so bleak, and so heavy. And it hurts because you want to see Vi happy. We want to see her and Jinx living as sisters catching up on the time that was stolen from them. We want to see a world where she and Caitlyn are energetic and happy and healed. We want to see Vi in some way acknowledge that in the end, Jinx's sacrifice was not because Vi failed her. It was because Jinx saw that her sister who had always loved and believed in her, needed her this time. That the woman who had always stood for those she loved needed someone to stand for her. So Jinx became the shield Vi never believed she deserved.

That Vi is a bad-ass is never in dispute. We see her fight countless times in defense of those she loves, and do so quite well. Her journey is not to find her strength. It is to recognize that she is worth more than that. She deserves more. And our hope for her is born of the changes we see. As her relationship with Caitlyn evolves, and she sees her belief in her sister finally validated, She comes to understand she has more to offer than the strength of her arms.

Her relationship with Caitlyn: Their love story is so amazing, and complex, and layered. It is far too much to cover as a bullet point in another post like this and I do intend to deep-dive it soon. But in terms of this discussion, I want to stay this. That Vi and Caitlyn have their ups and downs is obvious. Its not that every moment of their time together is an unending parade of joy and romance, that would be not only bad story telling but not realistic. But the best romantic partners are those people who can fall into the flames together and walk out not untouched, but re-forged into something stronger. These two women are a great example of this. There are many important moments in their relationship that greatly effect Vi, but I am going to focus on just one:

Caitlyn Finds Vi in Jinx's Cell:

As I mentioned previously, this scene is so important for so many reasons. For our purposes, we need to remember what leads up to it. Vi immediately goes to rescue Jinx after confronting Caitlyn over her imprisonment, only for Jinx to stun her and leave her in the cell herself (there is so much context and meaning here in terms of Jinx and Vi/Jinx but we are focusing on Caitlyn right now). Then Caitlyn finds her. Alone. In the cell of the woman who killed her mother. Now there are a lot of ways this could go and Vi is clearly expecting the worst. She laments that she always chooses wrong trusting and believing in Jinx, and that this time its cost her everything. Her sister is gone. She assumes Caitlyn will be enraged, and not to mention she is in this incredibly vulnerable state, in a jail cell, after surviving seven years of false imprisonment that started when she was still in her teens. But it doesn't go how she expects.

"Sorry to say, you've grown a bit predictable"

Vi believes that this part of her, this emotional, trusting, vulnerable part of her is always wrong. But Caitlyn reveals just how much she knows that part of Vi. And not only knows, but accepts it, predicted it, and even stepped in to help the woman she loves, putting aside her own hate and bitterness. Its a powerful moment. It shows Vi just how much she is worth to Caitlyn, and it has nothing to do with her fists. Just her heart. And Vi's response to this revelation shows us maybe the first time in the entire story, where given this tiny seed of evidence that she may deserve to be happy, she chooses to let herself be. Right there in that cell with Caitlyn.

Her Relationship With Jinx:

Like Caitlyn, this relationship could only be explored properly through it's own deep dive. So again, I am going to focus on a single moment between these two as evidence of Vi hard earned affirmation of her refusal to quit on those she loves. When Vi goes to break Jinx out of jail, Jinx stuns her and escapes instead, leaving her locked inside. As Vi panics for her sister, Jinx walks away, pleading with Vi to let herself be happy, and to stop looking for her. This of course leads to the incident we just mentioned in which Vi claims she always chooses wrong in trusting her sister. "I really thought she'd help" Vi says to Caitlyn about her sister when Cait arrives. And how does her belief in her sister shake out? Jinx rides in on a war balloon at the head of an under city army, and saves the day... and then later on, saves Vi's very life at what seems to be (We know better) the expense of her own. Vi was right about her sister all along.. its just that some lessons are hard won indeed..

Conclusion:

Vi is an amazing character who has quite frankly, earned her rest. And that's what the end of the show is sharing with us. Vi is warrior. She has fought, and bled, and lost so much, but she has endured. Through her two most important relationships in her life she has found the road to the recovery from the many, many wounds her existence has left on her, and they are still wounds that need healing. There is grief, and pain, and guilt still dwelling in her. But we have seen the seeds of her self-worth beginning to bloom and it is in them that we place our hope for Vi. Because she has an inkling that what Vander told her, the same thing the woman she loves noticed within hours of of meeting her, and the same reason Jinx knew Vi would never give up on her, has always been a far greater power than her ability to do violence.