#that and they just wanted to move on instead so they just papered over it w/o any of the on screen work to be satisfying for the audience

[goddamnitmahtin]

This is too good… I must add because what if…

During one of their meetups

Tim, sleep deprived and desperate for coffee, “Robu…. I need you.” He slumped onto Danny’s couch

Now normally, Danny wouldn’t prefer to be referred to as a coffee brand all the time but… this was Tim. And it was Tim’s favorite coffee… so in a way… it was like he was Tim’s favorite coffee? It was hard to explain but Danny knew that he liked it a lot. More than he probably should have.

He placed the cup of coffee into his fake boyfriend’s hands. His very big hands. Course from working so hard being all heroic in the field of duty. Calloused and bruised, no doubt broken and reset dozens of times. The hands of a vigilante who was fully and utterly alive.

Danny was never jealous of Tim for that. Infact… he was very happy for Tim that he was so alive. Heartbeats are a good thing of course. And his was very nice. Steady and always going 100 miles a minute from the amount of caffeine he consumed. He supposed he should stop providing said caffeine but he spent his whole life being selfless. He was going to let himself be selfish this one time. He didn’t want to stop seeing his fake boyfriend.

“How long has it been this time?” Danny asked, trying not to sound too suspicious, “Since you’ve slept?”

He watched as the adorable mess of a man slumped over his couch sighed, “Um- 6- no- 8? Um- 74 hours or so?”

Well it wasn’t as bad as sometimes at least. He knew that it was bad for him to be awake so long. Sometimes on their “fake dates” Danny suggested movie nights just so he would take a nap. He wanted Tim’s heart to keep beating so he could keep listening to the sound.

Danny nodded, “Busy man you are.” He made sure his body blocked the coffee table from Tim’s view. He hadn’t properly put his mail out of sight before his vigilante had come to see him and he knew that Tim was nothing if not a detective.

Tim noticed the awkwardness coming from him immediatly, “Hey why are you hiding your mail from me?”

Dammit Tim why do you have to be so smart and perfect all the fucking time-

Danny laughed nervously, “I’m not- doing that…”

Tim sat up and gently adjusted Danny out of the way to look at the papers, grabbing him by the waist to do so.

Danny swooned only a little when he felt those big hands on his hips. Momentarily, he very much forgot why he was hiding his mail from Tim. But not long enough for the distraction to stop him from trying to grab the papers before Tim could reach them.

He failed.

Tim looked at the eviction notice in his hand, “Danny you never told me- I could have given you more money?!” He looked bewildered and confused. And more than that. Danny could tell there was a bit of fear in his eyes. He understood. He felt it too.

“Money isn’t the problem Tim, you give me more than enough,” Danny said fidgeting with the tracker fashionably dangling from his ear, “Everyone in the building got one. Ms. Abernathy sold it under the table to some shady company.”

Tim looked outright pissed, “What company is it?”

“I don’t remember but I remember hearing the name of it and thinking it sounded fake as hell. Probably why we are all getting kicked out instead of our leases transferring to the new owner. Ms. Abernathy doesn’t want her tenants in a bad situation,” Danny explained. He may not have been a vigilante anymore but hey, he still knew shady shit when he saw it.

Then a ding from Tim’s Nightwing tracker. And then immediately after, he feels another presence outside the window. The other birds were spying again.

“Move in with me,” Tim blurted out.

Danny… well Danny…. Danny fucking short circuited.

“Wha-?” was all he could get out. Normally he was better at improvising but ancients be damned, the cutest man ever just asked him to move in with him.

“Look I know I said we should wait since I didn’t want you in harms way if any rogues found my apartment but…” Tim wrapped his arms around Danny’s waist AGAIN, “I trust you to be able to defend yourself (after Danny broke into the Batcave as Phantom, Danny told him everything because why wouldn’t he) and honestly… I’de love having you around more often Robu.”

Danny’s breath caught as he felt those callouses on his hips again. He watched Tim stand to look him eye to eye and felt his entire core purr as one of those calloused hands moved to his cheek. Tim was really playing it up.

Danny could play it up too, “Aw is the tracker not enough anymore Timothy?” He wrapped his arms around Tim’s neck, bringing his face closer, “Of course I’ll move in with you. But don’t think I’ll be taking it off.” (Danny was referring to the tracker)

Tim smiled, “Don’t you dare.”

Then they kissed. Like on the lips. Cuz they were acting. Yeah, that. It didn’t stop Danny from adoring how Tim tasted of coffee though.

The next minute they were packing a few bags of Danny’s things and heading off to the new apartment.

While his core buzzed excitedly about the future of much more close proximity, Danny’s mind couldn’t help but wander off a little. They had gone this far. And Tim had a nickname for him. Maybe he should come up with one for Tim? He called him Tim or Timothy mostly, sometimes throwing other names in there to see if they stuck but nothing ever did. He called him Birdie once and the man gave him the biggest glare he had ever seen. It was attractive but not the response he was hoping for.

Danny knew a lot about death. Obviously. He also knew the irony of Tim’s vigilante persona Red Robin. The most alive man he had ever met used the name of a bird of death. Most people only know about the associations from cardinals, many stating that the dead send the bird to their loved ones as reminders of them.

What not as many people knew was that this was also extended to red robins. Red robins also had a double meaning when it came to the dead as they represented rebirth and starting anew. The same meaning as an upright death card in the tarot deck.

If anything… of the two of them Danny was the red robin. Tim was more of a…. swan. Yeah a swan. Loyalty, fidelity, and grace. Swans also mate for life but Danny wasn’t going to think about that. He knew Tim probably didn’t do that kind of thing like ghosts did. But it was a nice thought that he wasn’t going think about at all.

He set down the box with his clothes in it. He didn’t have very many. Most of the clothes he had were from before he moved here and most of that was destroyed in Amity Park when his parents found out what he was. It was… a lot of fire.

The rest of the clothes he had… well he kinda slowly stole them from Tim whenever he finally decided to shower and crash out whenever he stayed the night.

It wasn’t weird. He trusted Danny to wake him up before he had to leave for work. It wasn’t weird at all. Infact… Danny’s core quite liked it whenever he would stay.

��Well that’s all of my stuff,” he said.

Tim nodded, looking at all 4 boxes and 1 backpack, “Well it’s a good thing you pack so light. Too bad that couch wasn’t yours. It was comfy as fuck.”

Danny chuckled, “The bed wasn’t mine either.”

At that Tim laughed as well, “I know Robu. It was far too comfortable for you to afford.”

Danny scoffed, though the thoughts of his hometown that were brought up by how little stuff he had didn’t leave completely, “Wow thanks.”

Tim’s posture straitened. Dammit. Tim always fucking knew.

“What are you thinking about,” he asked, getting close. He always did that. Got close. He knew Danny sought comfort in physical contact. He could hear a difference in Tim’s heartbeat from the genuine concern.

Danny looked up at him, “Amity… my parents…”

Tim nodded, “Do you want to talk about it or a distraction?”

Ancients, this man was so fucking perfect.

“Distraction please,” Danny sighed, letting his head fall against Tim’s chest. He wanted to listen to his heartbeat. It was nice. And Tim held him for a while just like that. Talking about how he was going to buy a brand new bed for Danny and that after that, he was going to make 3 new tracker earrings all in different colors so that he could always have one on him no matter the outfit (As if Danny didn’t wear the silver one he already had everywhere).

One day… one day maybe it could be real. But until then… having Tim like this was going to have to be enough. It was better than having never met him at all. He couldn’t let go of his swan.

Extra:

*a few days into them living together*

Danny on the phone: So yeah I’m living with Tim now.

Jazz on the other line: So he’s your boyfriend? You could have just said that Danny.

Danny blushing furiously: N-no!

Jazz: Danny… from what you’ve told me, you live together, you eat together, you do laundry together, he knows your past, you know his…. you sleep in the same bed!

Danny: I- well- the new one hasn’t come in yet and before that it was only sometimes!

Jazz: Uhuh. And denial is a river in Egypt.

Danny: Jazz….

Jazz: Daniel the man has a tracker in your ear! So, what did you decide to call him?

Danny: *blushing profusely* I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Jazz: You can’t hide from me. I know your brain Daniel Fenton! He has a nickname for you so obviously you came up with one for him.

Danny: Fine… he’s… my Swan.

Jazz: ….. (processing) …. (Google searching the meaning)…. (Reading) …. Danny you are so insufferably corny. I hope you know that.

Danny smiling: He reminds me all the time.

Jazz smiling wider: Uhuh.

Danny, working as a cashier: Can I help you?

Tim half-deranged: Please I just want a cup of coffee

Danny squinted, then pulled out a binder: I'm sorry, sir, but you are on the Don't Serve Coffee list. I can offer you some tea instead-

Tim: NO. THIS IS THE FIFTH PLACE. BRUCE CAN'T OWN YOU ALL!

Danny leaning in to whisper: Look, man, I can't give you coffee under the cameras. Meet me in the back alley in twenty minutes and I'll get you a coffee. Bring Cash.

Tim: how much? Five hundred, six hundred or hell even a thousand? I'll bring whatever you want.

Danny: Chill dude, it's a cup of coffee. Three dollars is fine.

Tim: It's not just any coffee! It's my favorite brand and Bruce bought them out just to make sure they wouldn't sell to me anymore!

Danny: okay okay, this coffee means a lot to you. I get it. Twenty minutes alright?

Jason three weeks later in Bat cave: Tim's on drugs! I've caught him trading cash for small containers in a shady alley six times. We need an intervention.

Dick: What?! I thought that was his boyfriend!

Bruce: I also thought that was Tim boyfriend but if it's a drug dealer we have to help him.

Tim hiding in the shadows: shit.

Tim texting Danny: If anyone asks your my secret boyfriend who been making me teas in allies

Danny: who the hell would believe that? But I've had a boring week, so yeah, I'm down to be a pretend boyfriend.

[misaerabl]

cockwarming & manhandling w/ g!p abby + stomach bulge

CONTENT: cock warming (obv), modern au, abby has a cock (obv), manhandling (?), stomach bulge from her dick…, you're both still clothed above waist, she calls you bunny, cock riding while she’s sitting in front of her desk, random post i wrote cuz i’m horny or wtv… PURE SMUT

She’s been sitting at her desk for hours, completely absorbed in her laptop and scattered papers. Honestly, you needed her. You tried to be patient—well, not really. A few minutes ago, you were bombarding her with random questions and even tried to climb into her lap. That got you exiled to the other side of the room. Now, you sit on your shared bed, just watching her.

But damn, you really needed her.

You watched as she stretched her arm behind her neck, trying to relieve the strain from staring at that damn desk all day. You bit your lip, feeling a twinge of sympathy as she groaned in pain, her shoulders stiff from hours of work. She barely noticed the way you looked at her, eyes soft and full of longing, as you wrestled with the urge to go over and take care of her, nay—take her.

You stood up, your heart pounding a little faster as you made your way over to her. Without a word, you wrapped your arms around her neck, resting your chin gently on the top of her head.

"Abs..." you said softly, hoping she'd catch the hint, your voice almost a whisper against her hair. You wanted her to feel it, the need that had been building up in you for hours.

But you stopped yourself before the words could spill out—Please, I need you now, Abby. Instead, you simply held her, silently wishing she would understand.

She doesn’t even peel her gaze from the screen as she asks, her voice laced with concern. "What's wrong, bunny?"

The nickname makes your chest tighten, but the distance between you both is unbearable. You try to hold on, but it’s like a dam breaking. You lean in, your voice barely above a whisper, "Please, Abby... I need you."

Her fingers pause mid-type, her gaze flicking to you for the first time. "Bunny... You know this is important."

You swallow hard, the words heavy on your tongue. "I know, but I need you..." Your voice drops to an almost inaudible whisper, your breath catching. "I need you... in me"

Without another word she pulls you onto her lap, lifting up your skirt to your hips and you feel a sense of relief wash over you. She starts prepping small kisses on your neck, grabbing your arms so they would wrap around her neck.

"Lift up for me for a sec" She commands. Of course you immediately comply. she's finally giving you what you need right? 

You watch as she unzips her pants, slowly pushing them down to her knees. You bite your lip, hard, just shy of causing it to bleed. 

She heard you let out a satisfied hum when she stroked her cock for you. "You want this, bunny?" she asks, your mind in a whirl like the cock hungry, needy girl you are for her. 

"Mhm... Please..." 

She shifts your panties to the side, feeling how wet your pussy is already. Abby just smiles at that knowing the effect she has on you. 

She teases you pushing a finger inside, making you moan, but quickly drawing it out and chuckling. You stare at her, wide eyed. 

"Don't look at me like that bunny" 

"Please Abby..." 

Abby smirks but she doesn't want to tease you anymore. She sees how needy her perfect little bunny is for her. She holds you by the hips and slowly pushes her cock inside you. 

God you were over the fucking moon. 

"You like that, hm?" She asks tilting your head to look at her. 

"Y-yeah..."

"Good. Now... Stay like that for a while, okay?" She says, removing her hands from you and shifting her seat back to move closer to her desk.

You pout, knitting your brows together. "What?" 

"You only said you wanted me inside you" She smirks. "Besides, I'm serious about this being urgent, bunny. I have to finish" 

"So you just want me to stay like this?"

"Isn't this what you were after, bunny?" Her voice carried a teasing lilt, a playful glint in her eyes.

"Yes but—" She tsked, cutting you off. 

"I'll fuck you later, if you behave. for now this is all you get for bothering me while I'm doing something important" 

That didn’t last long, though. 

She knows you can’t fucking sit still. Every time you shift she tries so hard not to give in. “I said sit still”

“Sorry, I’ll try” Lie. Obviously you’re just going to rile her up even more. 

What really did it for her was when you lifted up a bit and sat back down. She needed you to do that again and bounce on her cock. 

“Bunny–” She groaned.

“Sorry” you muttered trying to hide a sly smile.

“You’re making this really hard for me…”

That’s kind of the point. 

You didn’t answer. Instead you stared intensely into her eyes before you rested your head on her shoulder and started to bounce on her cock.

“G-God…” She moaned. “You’re going to drive me insane”

She tosses her head, resting on the backrest of the chair as she listens to the beautiful noises you’re making. She loved seeing you whore yourself out for her, a part of her knew making you sit on her cock and ‘behave’ while she worked was a bad idea. But knowing her? Maybe that was really her plan all along. 

“F-fuck… Abby” You whimpered. Your forehead was still resting on her shoulder, and even though your vision was blurry from the pleasure, her dick hitting all the sweet fucking spots inside you, you could see the bulge on your stomach.

That made you so much fucking more needy. You adored the sight, she’s so deep inside you… You started moving even faster, guttural moans and squelching noises filled the room, music to your ears like a fucking choir. 

She reaches her hand out to press on the bulge making you let out a sound that could only be described as pornographic.

“Fuck… Look at that bunny” Abby grins, her words slurred and out of breath.

You couldn’t even respond anymore when she starts to rock her hips along with you. She grabbed onto your hips with a loud grunt, making you move faster on her.

The way she was now practically doing all the work for both of you made your stomach whirl, you were getting more and more desperate by the second.

Abby could read you like an open book, especially when she was fucking your brains out like this.

Panting heavily, Abby leans back, gripping your hips tighter as she continues her pace. “Fuck, look at you…” Her eyes are glazed over with lust, fixated on where you're connected. “Taking me so deep... Such a good little bunny.”

"Mmmh- More Abby..."

She chuckles darkly, her grip on your hips tightening as she slams you down onto her cock even harder. The sound of wet, slapping flesh fills the room as she begins to fuck you with a brutal intensity. “More? You want more?” 

"More like this, bunny?" She speeds up her pace, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you that makes your legs tremble.

 "Or..." in one swift motion, she stands up, pinning you against the desk, causing papers to scatter "Maybe you want it deeper?”

All you could think about was the pleasure she’s making you feel, you whimper and writhe beneath her, back resting on her desk, sweat dripping on the papers on her desk.

She grunts, slamming you down onto the desk as she buries herself inside you even deeper. She wraps her arms around your thighs, pulling you closer as she snarls "Answer, bunny. You want it deeper?" She punctuates each word with a brutal thrust.

"Y-yes..." You managed to gasp out

A wicked grin spreads across Abby's face at your desperate plea. She leans down, her breath hot against your ear as she rasps, "As you wish, my pretty bunny." Grabbing your ankles, she drapes your legs over her shoulders, folding you nearly in half.

She wastes no time plunging impossibly deep, stretching you to your limits. Your back arches off the desk, papers crinkling beneath you as you moan uncontrollably. Abby growls in approval, her hips moving like a piston as she pounds into you mercilessly.

Abby leans back slightly, admiring the lewd sight of her thick cock stretching you obscenely, causing a prominent bulge in your stomach. "Look at that perfect picture of depravity," she purrs, rubbing circles over the pronounced mound.

“I don't give you attention for a few hours and you're this desperate?” 

Abby smirks wickedly, her fingers digging into the swollen flesh of your stomach. "God, I love seeing my cock do this to you," she growls approvingly, rocking her hips to emphasize each word. "Makes me want to pump you full of even more…”

She leans in close, her voice a husky whisper against your ear. "Want to feel my cum flooding this tight little cunt, bunny?" She punctuates her words with a deep, deliberate thrust, grinding against that special spot inside you.

You whimper and arch your back, trying to take more of her massive length as she slowly pulls out, only to slam back in, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. "Answer me," she growls, her fingers splaying wider over your distended belly. You could only nod.

Abby throws her head back with a groan as the bulge strains against her cock, threatening to push her over the edge. "Fuck, yes!" She squeezes the swollen mound harder, using it as leverage to hilt herself inside you with manic desperation, chasing her impending orgasm.

Abby's body tightens, her grip on your hips turning painfully exquisite as she slams into you, burying herself to the hilt. A guttural moan rips from her throat as she cum's hard, pumping you full of her hot liquid. "Take it, bunny”

She doesn't stop, even as her own release subsides. She continues to rock into you, her spent cock grinding against your walls, stimulating you with relentless determination. "Come on, bunny," she urges breathlessly, her thumb rubbing teasing circles around your clit.

You can feel the pressure building to an unbearable level. "Look at me," she demands, her eyes locked onto yours as she thrusts deep and slow. 

“G-God- Abby- I'm- fuck!” 

Her lips curve into a smirk as she finally pushes you over the edge, your walls clenching tight around her. You cry out, your release spreading warmth throughout your body as she continues to grind into you. "That's my good bunny,”

As you finally succumb to your orgasm, your entire body convulsing with pleasure, Abby lets out a satisfied grunt. She holds you down, her hips flush against yours as she milks every last drop from your release, coating her still-hard length. "Good girl,”

She nuzzles against your neck before kissing your cheek. “Are you gonna behave now? Going to stop bothering me while I'm working?” 

God No. Never. and you know she knows it too. 

[o9sessions]

FRACTURED MASKS ── #1 | ◯ △ □

on the edge of desperation, a chance knocks,

offering salvation wrapped in a red envelope

MASTER | NEXT

wc ; 4.1k warnings ; violence (slapping), cursing

THE hum of the fluorescent lights in the lab was soothing, the faint echo of pens scribbling onto the versitile paper made from processed plant fibers filling the otherwise quiet space. You sat at a corner desk near the back wall away from the other students, bent over your notes; the pages filled with medical terminology and formulas, a language you knew well.

Frankly, it was all you had left—the work, the research, the dream of the future you were still so desperately clinging to, despite the storm brewing around you. You’d always known you were meant for something more, something great.

As a little girl, you’d sit in the back of the classroom in America, your home country, gazing out the window daydreaming about what your life would be like in years to come. The world had so much to offer, and you wanted to be part of the change, part of the movement that would make this world a better place. Studying medicine was your true calling, a everlasting dream to help those in need, just as the doctor who treated your parents had done.

Your grip on the pen nestled in your hand tightened at the thought of them, a heavy sadness weighing in on your heart. They were both hardworking people who fought through their own struggles, but they gave you everything they could—love, support, and dreams of a better future. Your mother had always been the one to say, “You’re going to do something great, something that will change the world.” Your father, though quiet, had always supported that belief, his pride evident whenever you made a small achievement. You were their only child, the only one to carry on their legacy, and they poured everything into your future.

But when they died, everything came crashing down.

It had happened so quickly. One moment, they were fine—healthy, full of life, planning for your future in medicine—and the next, they were gone. The cancer had come back, worse than before, it took both of them in the blink of an eye. You’d never really had the chance to grieve properly; instead you had to grow up in an instant, picking up the pieces of your shattered world.

You found yourself alone in a vast, cold world, with no one to turn to. The grief felt like a dark cloud, following you everywhere. No brothers, no sisters, no extended family—just you. The silence was suffocating. The weight of carrying on your family’s name and legacy felt heavier than anything you could ever imagine. Your parents’ absence was a constant, an unspoken ache carried with you every day.

But you had to keep going. They had invested so much in you. Their dreams had been your dreams, and you couldn’t just let that die. So you packed your bags, got on a plane, and moved across the world to Korea. You’d told herself it was for your future, for your studies, but deep down, you were running—running from the memories that clung to every corner of your childhood home.

Korea was a new beginning. The medical technology there was unmatched, the advancements in treatment and research were groundbreaking, and it was a place where you could finally make you mark. You would build a new life, one far removed from the painful memories of your parents. You threw herself into your studies, determined to not only make them proud but also to prove that their sacrifices meant something.

Your proficiency in Korean, a skill you’d honed since childhood, made the transition easier. You had taken classes since elementary school in preparation for the opportunity to study abroad. It had been a dream of yours for as long as you could remember, and now that dream was within your reach. You were going to be a doctor, someone who could heal the world.

You didn’t notice how lost in thought you were until the PA system crackled to life, breaking your concentration.

“Attention, Miss [name]. Please report to the Head Minister’s office immediately. I repeat, Miss [name], please report to the Head Minister’s office.”

You froze, pen still in hand, the words barely registering in your mind. Dozens of paris of eyes landed on you in an instant, butterflies swirled in your belly from the attention. The sudden, sharp jolt of anxiety hit your chest as you sat up straight, setting the pen down. With haste you began packing materials back onto your bag, quickly scurrying out of the study lab and into the hallway.

Your mind raced—you had no reason to think anything was wrong. You had been keeping up with your assignments, acing exams, staying focused on your studies. What could it be?

Each step echoed down the silent halls of the school. The walk to the Head Minister’s office felt like it took hours, and by the time you stood outside the door, your palms were clammy, stomach twisted in knots. With a shaky breath, you knocked.

“Come in,” a voice called from within.

You pushed the door open, the dim light inside casting long shadows across the room. The Head Minister, a stern-looking woman with sharp eyes, sat behind her desk, papers scattered before her. Her gaze flicked up when the door clicked shut behind her, but there was something in her expression that sent a shiver down your spine—something that made your pulse quicken.

“Miss [name], please, sit,” the Minister said, gesturing to the chair across from her.

You obeyed, feeling the weight of the room settle over the both of you like a cloak. The minister didn’t waste time.

“I’m afraid there’s some troubling news,” she began, her voice cool and detached, as though she had delivered this same message countless times before.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. You instinctively clasped your hands in your lap, trying to still the nervous shaking that had overtaken them.

“Your financial status with the school has fallen into the negatives. There’s a significant amount of debt you have yet to clear, and unfortunately, it’s put your enrollment in jeopardy.” The Minister’s words landed like a punch, each one more suffocating than the last.

Your breath caught in her throat. You had been trying to ignore it, telling yourself it wasn’t that bad, that you’d find a way. But hearing the words spoken out loud, so matter-of-fact, shattered the fragile illusion you had been clinging to.

“Y-You’re saying I’m… not allowed to continue?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

The Minister’s expression softened for just a moment, but the coldness never fully left her eyes. “I’m afraid that’s the case. Until this debt is settled, we can’t allow you to continue your studies here. You’re being put on hold.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath you, the room spinning as the weight of the situation settled into your bones. You had thought she could keep it together, that you could finish what your parents had started for you. But now—now it felt like the ground was slipping from under you.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” you stammered, her throat tightening. “How did this happen? I thought my payments were on track.”

The Minister flicked through a few papers in front of her, her face impassive. “It appears the balance has been building for some time now, and the payments haven’t been made in full. There’s an outstanding amount that needs to be cleared immediately.”

Your hands picked harshly at your nails, leg bouncing in anticipation for the answer she would provide to your next question. “How much is the balance?”

The way she looked at you then, eyes flickering with a slight hint of pity was enough to confirm that it was something way out of your limits.

“60 Million Won.” ($41,120 USD)

Your mind raced, that was at least a years worth of tuition. You couldn’t afford this! Not now! Not when everything you had worked for—everything you had sacrificed—was on the line. Your dream of becoming a doctor, hope for a future that seemed just within your reach, was slipping away faster than you could grasp it.

“I-I can get the money,” you blurted out, panic rising in your chest. “I’ll figure something out. Just give me time, please.”

The Minister’s expression softened again, but only slightly. “I’m afraid time is no longer a luxury we can afford. Until your financial situation is resolved, I’m afraid we cannot allow you to remain enrolled.”

A lump formed in your throat, a hot rush of tears threatening to spill over. You wanted to scream, to beg, to plead for them to understand—but the words stuck, lodged somewhere deep inside you, where they couldn’t escape.

You weren’t used to being vulnerable, to letting anyone see how far the weight of everything was crushing you. But this—this was different. This was your future on the line, and there was nothing you could do.

“Take a few days to process everything, Miss [name],” the Minister continued, her tone unreadable. “We’ll be in touch once the situation has been resolved.”

You nodded, unable to form words, too numb to respond. You stood up, legs shaky, and vision blurring. The room seemed to close in around you as you turned and walked out, each step echoing in the hollow silence.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the reality of the situation crashed down on you with full force. You stood in the hallway for a long moment, not knowing what to do, where to go, or how to keep moving forward. Your entire future had just been ripped away from you, and all you had left was the suffocating weight of uncertainty.

The cold air of the train station bites at your skin, a sharp reminder of the emptiness around you. You sit hunched over on the worn bench, your bag at your feet, clutching your phone like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow on the nearly deserted platform.

At this late hour, there are only a few scattered passengers—an old man reading a newspaper, a couple arguing in hushed tones, a woman sipping coffee to stay awake.

But none of them matter.

Your fingers tremble as you scroll through your phone, searching desperately for a contact, a message, anything that might lead you to him. Your sugar daddy—the one who promised to take care of you, who helped you get this far—was supposed to be your safety net. He had always reassured you, always provided. But now, every attempt to call him goes straight to voicemail. Every message the same, ‘not delivered’.

When you’d first moved to Korea, only 19 years old and barley out of high school, things had been manageable. You found yourself a place to stay in Seoul, a small but cozy apartment. You made school friends, and your studies were progressing well. Then came the sugar daddy—an older man who had a fondness for your ambition, an attraction to your foreignerness.

He offered to fund your education, promising to cover your tuition, rent, and even some living expenses. It was an unexpected stroke of luck. You didn’t feel right about it, but you told herself it was temporary—just until you got her footing, just until you could fully stand on her own.

At first, it had been easy to accept his help. You wasn’t using him, you told herself. He didn’t ask for anything beyond your company and very small sexual favors, a kiss here some oral sex there. You’d convinced yourself you could keep things strictly business. But you were wrong. You had fallen into his world, one of easy luxuries and comfort, and for a while, it felt like a dream.

But dreams are fragile, and sometimes, they shatter without warning.

You try his social media, hoping for some sign, but when you go to type in the filmilar username no profile pops up, you’re hit with the harsh realization—you’ve been blocked. Completely.

Your heart sinks further as you stare at the blank screen, the gnawing sense of abandonment tightening in your chest. You never knew his real name. He only ever used an alias, a charming façade that you thought was enough. But now you realize just how little you actually knew about him. No name. No address. No way to contact him outside of the platforms he controlled.

He’s gone.

Your mind begins to race, dozens of questions swirling your brain, yet left unanswered. How long ago had he cut off your expenses? Did he find someone else, someone younger maybe? Did he stop paying your rent aswell?

“Fuck.” The sudden thought caused the curse to slip from your quivering lips. Hopefully you wouldn’t come home to find an eviction notice tapped to your apartment door.

You know you’ve been distant this past year, canceling meetings at the last minute, pushing off wondering touches and kisses. Yet that was no excuse for him to cut you off and leave you completely in the dark. You’ve expressed to have been been stacked with work from your university, trying hard to make it through medical school.

A wave of hopelessness crashes over you, and you press the heels of your hands into your eyes to stop the tears from spilling over. The train station around you feels colder, lonelier, as you sit there, unsure of what to do next. The weight of the debt—the 60 million won looming over your head—feels unbearable.

“You look troubled,” a smooth, unfamiliar voice breaks through your thoughts.

You look up sharply, your eyes meeting a man standing a few feet away. He’s dressed neatly, almost too neatly for this dingy train station, with a crisp suit and a polished demeanor that feels out of place. There’s something unsettling about the way he smiles at you—warm enough to seem kind, yet sharp enough to put you on edge.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” he continues, stepping closer, “you look like someone with a lot on their mind.”

You shift uncomfortably, hugging your bag tighter. “I’m fine,” you mutter, your voice unconvincing even to yourself.

“Are you?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. His tone is calm, almost soothing, but there’s a hint of something behind it—curiosity, perhaps, or calculation. “Sometimes, it helps to talk about it.”

You hesitate, unsure whether to brush him off or let the floodgates open. Against your better judgment, the words spill out before you can stop them. “I’m in debt,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how I’m going to pay it off. I’ve tried everything, but now…” You trail off, swallowing the lump in your throat, head bowed in shame.

The man nods slowly, as if he’s heard this all before. “A difficult situation, no doubt,” he says, his voice laced with an odd sympathy. “But perhaps there’s a way out.”

Your head snaps to him so quickly your surprised your neck is still attached to your shoulders. “What do you mean there’s still a way out?”

The man takes a step closer, his polished shoes echoing faintly in the nearly empty station. He sets the briefcase he’s been carrying on the bench beside you with a deliberate precision, the metallic click of the latches breaking the silence. Slowly, he opens it, revealing two neatly stacked piles of red and blue paper squares, along with a thick wad of cash.

You blink at the sight, your heart skipping a beat.

“Miss, would you be interested in a game of ddakji?”

“Ddakji?” you repeated, the name sounding unfamiliar on your tongue. Wasn’t this an old korean kids game? “What is this?” you ask, your voice hesitant as you glance between the vibrant paper and the man’s unreadable expression.

“A game,” he replies simply, his tone light yet oddly menacing. He picks up one of the blue squares and hands it to you. “It’s simple. You take this and try to flip over my red paper square by slamming it down. Every time you succeed, I’ll pay you 100,000 won.”

Your eyes widen slightly at the number, but suspicion quickly creeps in. “And if I lose?”

The man’s smile grows, sharp and knowing. “If you lose,” he says, almost casually, “You pay me the same amount.”

You freeze, your fingers tightening on the paper in your hands. “W-what..?”

He nods, unbothered by the disbelief in your voice. “That’s the risk. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

Your gaze flickers to the money, then back to the man’s face. The desperation in your chest claws at you, urging you to agree. Sixty million won—the debt that looms over your head—flashes in your mind. Even if you win just a few rounds, it could make a difference.

“What happens if I say no?” you ask, your voice quiet.

“Then nothing,” he replies, his smile unfaltering. “You walk away, and your situation stays exactly as it is.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. “But something tells me you won’t.”

You swallow hard, your hands trembling slightly as you look down at the paper square. Against your better judgment, you nod.

“Alright,” you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel. “Let’s play.”

The man’s grin sharpens, and he places a red square on the ground before taking a step back. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, gesturing for you to start.

You look down at his paper, gripping the blue square tightly. You take a deep breath, then slam it down as hard as you can. The sound echoes through the station, but the red square barely shifts.

The man clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “Tough luck,” he says, stepping forward.

Your stomach sinks. “I don’t have the money to—”

“Relax,” he interrupts smoothly, raising a hand to cut you off. “You look like you’re about to cry. I’ll tell you what—we’ll change the terms.”

You blink, confused. “Change the terms?”

“Yes.” He crouches slightly so that he’s at eye level with you. His smile stretches wider, his gaze unrelenting. “Every time you lose, instead of paying me money, I’ll slap you.”

Your breath hitches, and you recoil slightly at the proposition. “Slap me?”

“It’s fair, isn’t it?” he says, his voice calm and composed as if he’s suggesting the most reasonable alternative. “And if you win, I’ll still pay you 100,000 won. No money owed. Just a little pain if you lose.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your ears. The desperation gnaws at you, urging you forward despite every instinct screaming at you to walk away. Slowly, reluctantly, you nod.

“Fine,” you say, your voice barely audible.

The man’s grin widens, and he gestures toward the red square on the ground. “Good. Let’s begin.”

You kneel down again, gripping the blue square tightly. This time, when you slam it down, the red square doesn’t even budge.

The man wastes no time. He steps forward, his hand swinging sharply. The slap rings out loud and clear, stinging like fire across your cheek.

You press a hand to your face, glaring up at him with watery eyes. “You didn’t have to hit so hard,” you mutter, more out of humiliation than anger.

He shrugs, unbothered. “That’s the game.”

You grit your teeth, determination flaring. You pick up the blue square again, readying yourself for another attempt. This time, when you slam it down, the red square flips over with a satisfying snap.

The man raises an eyebrow, mildly impressed. “Atta girl,” he says, pulling a crisp 100,000 won bill from the briefcase and handing it to you.

The money feels heavier than it should in your hand, like a tangible piece of hope. It ignites something in you, pushing you to keep going.

You play again. And again. And again.

The slaps come harder, the sting lingering longer, but every time you win, the money in your hand grows. By the end of it, your cheek is red and sore, your hand aching from the repeated impact of the paper. But you’ve amassed a small stack of cash—a temporary reprieve from the weight crushing your shoulders.

The man finally raises a hand, signaling the end of the game. “You’ve done well,” he says, his tone almost approving. “But if you’re truly interested in changing your life, there’s a bigger game you can join.”

Your heart sinks at the cryptic offer. “What do you mean?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black envelope, wrapped in a red bow. He holds it out to you, his expression unreadable, although for a second you swear you saw a flicker of uncertainty—guilt, in his eyes.

“Call the number on this card,” he says. “You’ll have the chance to win far more than what’s in your hands right now. Enough to erase your debt and start fresh.”

You hesitate, staring at the card as if it holds the answer to all your problems—and maybe it does. But there’s an edge to his words, a warning you can’t quite decipher.

“Think about it,” he adds, stepping away and closing the briefcase with a decisive snap. “But don’t take too long. Opportunities like this don’t come often.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you alone in the station with the cash in your hands and the card weighing heavy in your pocket.

The familiar creak of the apartqment door echoes in the silence as you step inside, exhaustion pressing down on you like a physical weight. You shut the door behind you, the click of the lock strangely final. Kicking off your shoes, you shuffle toward the tiny kitchenette, your mind too scattered to bother with anything more than a pack of instant ramen.

The fluorescent light above flickers as you fill a cup with water and pour it into the noodles. You toss the packet into the microwave, pressing a few buttons with little thought. The soft hum fills the quiet space, but it does nothing to soothe the growing ache in your chest.

Leaning against the counter, you glance around the small apartment. The peeling wallpaper, the sagging couch, the pile of bills stacked on the coffee table—it all feels heavier now. Without the safety net of your sugar daddy, this place feels less like home and more like a trap.

You exhale shakily, running a hand through your hair. “What am I supposed to do now?” you mutter, the question hanging in the air.

The microwave beeps, but you don’t move right away. Instead, your gaze drops to your bag sitting on the floor by the door. You remember the card. That strange, cryptic envelope the man gave you at the station.

Pushing off the counter, you walk over and crouch down, pulling the card from the pocket of your bag. The glossy surface catches the dim light as you hold it up.

You pull the little envelope open, it’s a small brown card, your thumb traces over the circle, triangle, and square symbols printed on the front before flipping it, revealing the number written inside.

8650 4006

For a moment, you just stare at it, your mind racing with everything that happened today—the minister’s cold words, your sugar daddy’s abrupt betrayal, the stinging slaps, the small stack of cash you’d managed to scrape together.

Sixty million won. The number feels like a noose around your neck, tightening with every second that passes.

You sit down on the edge of the couch, clutching the card in your hand. Your other hand hovers over your phone, trembling as you consider what you’re about to do.

“This could be it,” you whisper, the words trembling on your lips. “My way out.”

Or your way into something worse.

But desperation drowns out caution. You dial the number, the ringing filling your ear like the ticking of a countdown.

On the third ring, someone answers. A calm, even voice greets you.

“Would like to participate in the games?”

You close your eyes, your breath hitching. “Yes,” you say softly, the word carrying the weight of everything you’ve endured.

“I want to play.”

And just like that, your fate is sealed.

a/n — omg guysss first chapter done, so excited to carry on this new story. don’t worry in-ho will be introduced in the 2nd or 3rd chapter i wanted to build up the reader’s background and give you guys an understanding of her thought process and life yk 😭 feel like everyone just rushes their story to get to the good parts 😣🙄 like where’s the build uppp ! hope yall enjoyeddd if you liked to be tagged in the next chapter comment down belowww

[cherrysolo]

can you expand on sweet bf!lu and reader taking a break before he went mia… imagine her having to come into court, the edits of her, and then like a video call of them gets leaked and they’re just so cute

is this controversial idk

omg this is such a interesting idea! I wasn’t sure how to approach this, so I tried my best! hope u enjoy <3

you and luigi had met through mutual friends in Hawaii and instantly clicked. you both enjoyed reading, hiking, and spending time with one another. you really believed that you guys were soulmates or something along those lines…

you guys had finally moved in together after being together for over a year, taking the next steps in a serious relationship.

but, weeks into moving in together, lu began to pull away and become more cold.

he wasn’t as affectionate anymore, didn’t talk as much, isolated himself, and forgot your anniversary. in your mind you made excuses for him. not sure what was truly going on.

early February, one late night, you were getting ready for bed, and lu still wasn’t home. then, he snuck into bed, scaring you half to death, but feeling comforted that your boy was home.

“hey baby, sorry for coming in so late,” he whispers, his arms wrapping around your waist. you turn facing him, gripping onto his hair and lightly combing your hand throughout his curls. maintaining eye contact you begin to feel vulnerable and worried for the state of your relationship.

“it’s okay lu, just please start being honest with me. I’m worried about you,” you sigh.

he nuzzles his head into your chest, breathing in your scent which brings him comfort.

“I know, I promise I’ll do better baby. I love you. let’s just get some rest, we both need it,” he sighs into you, hugging you further.

“love you lulu, I always will,” shutting your eyes, falling into slumber thinking about how much you want this to work.

your alarm waking you up, but what was more concerning was waking up to a cold bed. lu was nowhere to be found. walking out into the kitchen, you see a piece of paper on the counter.

“to my y/n,

don’t worry about me. I’ve taken the last minute decision to go backpacking. not sure when I’ll be back, so don’t wait for me. I don’t want you contacting me, I’ll be going MIA for a bit. don’t blame yourself for this either, it’s all on me. love you sweet girl, always will.

-luigi”

you read the letter with tears streaming down your face. that was it? over a year of creating a life together and all I get is words on a page. it felt like you were backstabbed and left with absolutely nothing. a complete hole left in your heart, not sure where to go next. my love should be celebrated, but instead he left.

months, minutes, and millions of thoughts have passed by. you moved on with your life as he told you to do, even moving states away. you hadn’t even thought of his name for a couple months, until you turned on the news one december morning.

weeks later your life had changed. you had millions of people watching you, sharing photos of your past relationship, and even having to face him in court. you felt like you’d needed to support him in any way you could during such a tough time. you showed up for every court appearance, his supporters loving everything about you too. it secretly pulled at luigi’s heartstrings, you guys still hadn’t talked yet, but seeing you there, supporting him, it gave him a glimmer of hope. it was heartbreaking to see your love in such a bad place, being accused of such horrible things. you just wanted to be back in hawaii watching the sunsets with him.

[hazbinshusk]

blitzø x gn!reader. a very indulgent soft!blitzø fic for @clovrplayz. when he finds you locked away in your apartment overwhelmed by all your work, blitzø takes it upon himself to try and help you relax for a little while.

featuring: general fluff, reader is gender neutral (only descriptor of body involves them having hair), people-pleasing stress.

You barely manage to look up for more than a cursor second when you hear the door to the apartment open, your elbows planted on the kitchen counter in front of you so you can press the heels of your hands into your temples. You’ve been staring at the paperwork in front of you for so long that your eyes have unfocused, and you blink hard to try and get them working properly again.

“Well, howdy-doody, peachy-babe,” Blitzø sing-songs as he kicks the door closed behind him, shrugging off his coat and tossing it towards the coatrack beside him. He misses; you hear it crumple on the carpet instead. The imp seems not to notice as he makes his way over to you. “You are gonna looooove me; I’ve got—”

Blitzø trails off as he realises you’re not actually listening, and his tone drops to something more subdued. “Hey. You okay?”

You jerk upright as you suddenly feel the touch of his hand on the small of your back; the move knocks the papers further askew on the countertop.

“Hey!” you give him a brief, distracted smile, pushing hair away from your face self-consciously. You usually put a little more effort into your appearance when you know he’s coming over; at the very least you make sure you’ve showered in the last… twenty-four hours. You’re suddenly aware of how tight your face feels around your eyes from a lack of sleep, of the beginnings of grease clinging to the roots of your hair telling you that you really needed to wash it. “Hey! Sorry, did we… were we supposed to have… plans?”

Blitzø raises a brow. “Nooope. I’m just doin’ that thing you totally love where I barge in unannounced and make you do whatever I want to – what’s wrong with you?”

“That sounds like the set up of a joke I’m too tired to make,” you sigh, then wave a hand dismissively as you turn your attention back to the counter. “No, I’m fine. I’m just… I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“It’s Hell,” you point out dryly. “They tend to make most of us work weekends.”

He shrugs, moving to lean against the counter beside you, forcing himself into your line of sight. He stands with his back to it, elbows resting carelessly on top of your work. Blitzø studies your face for a moment before he tries for a smirk. “Wouldn’t have to if you came and worked for I.M.P.”

You give him a tired smile. “You just get your rocks off to the idea of me calling you ‘sir’.”

He grins. “It makes me all tingly.”

You shake your head in amusement. “I appreciate the offer – again – but I told you, B. I can’t leave where I am. They need me.”

“They’re assholes,” he replies. He says it simply, like he’s telling you the day of the week, despite never having met anyone you work with. You tried not to complain in front of him, didn’t you? And anyway, they weren’t assholes, they were just…

“They’re not so bad,” you grimace, trying the tug the papers out from under his elbow carefully.

“They’re manky-ass crotch-jockeys, peach.”

You choke on a laugh despite yourself. “Okay, so they’re not… great, but they’re maybe not… that. And they need me there; I can’t just leave them with all this work still needing to be done.”

A soft, affectionate smile you completely miss tugs at the corner of Blitzø’s mouth, and he rolls his eyes before finally relenting and lifting his elbow so you can rescue those pages. “Aaannnd… are you gettin’ much work done?”

You hesitate to respond, and apparently, that’s all the answer the imp needs. Winding his tail around the leg of your stool, he drags it back from the counter, stepping between you and your work. You make to protest, but his expression is this mix of soft amusement and what you’re surprised to see as genuine concern, and your complaint dies before it can escape you. Blitzø’s hands come up to rest on your thighs, and while the touch still manages to send a blush into your cheeks, his touch doesn’t wander any higher than just above your knee, his palms warming you through the worn fabric of your sweats.

“You need a break.”

You sigh, “I can’t—”

“You’re takin’ a break if I have to sling you over my shoulder and carry you,” Blitzø says, his voice matter-of-fact and bright. You feel his tail brush against your ankle. “So, if you want me to get all grabby on that sweet lil bod of yours, keep arguin’. Otherwise, follow me.”

Blitzø surprises you by leading you into your bathroom – a cramped little room of cold tiles and a bath and shower combination that is a little too small for you to really use the former part of it. Before you can ask what exactly he has planned, he turns and plants his hands on your shoulders, pushing you gently down to sit on the mat with your back against the edge of the tub.

You want to ask what the hell he’s doing, but he starts humming to himself as he ransacks the cabinet under the sink, hips and tail swaying cattishly back and forth in time with whatever tune he’s got in his brain. He looks so strangely at home, and it isn’t until he straightens with the cheap detachable shower head hose you had buried at the back of the cupboard that you find words again.

“What exactly do you have that for?”

“Pretty sure it’s not what you usually use it for,” he shoots back, waggling his eyebrows at you suggestively. You snort a laugh, the sound catching as he surprises you by tossing a towel on your head. “Wrap that around your shoulders, perv.”

Confused, you do as he asks, watching him hook the shower head’s nozzle to the bath’s tap. He runs the water, rocking the spray over his fingers a few times until he’s satisfied with the temperature. As the same time his tail collects your shampoo and conditioner from the caddy above him, and your face warms as you realise his intentions.

“Blitz, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up and be pampered, bitch,” he eye-rolls, but his smirk is soft as he moves to kneel beside you. He reaches up to untuck your hair from where it’s hooked under the towel, and you’re not sure if it’s the cooling droplets of water or the graze of his claws against the nape of your neck that makes you shiver. “’Cause if I gotta look at your greasy-ass head much longer you’re gonna put me off pizza for life.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “What’s this warm and fuzzy feeling in my—”

“Just tilt your head back, would ya?”

You laugh at his exasperation but do as he asks, closing your eyes as the towel around your neck cradles you comfortably against the edge of the ceramic. You’re immediately rewarded with a smile and the sensation of warm water against your scalp. Blitzø’s smile lingers as his hand comes up to carefully smooth your hair away from your face, claws ghosting over your forehead in a way that completely belays his joke about grease. Almost immediately you feel the tension in your shoulders ease, and Blitzø chuckles quietly to himself as he notices.

“That’s it, peach. Jus’ relax, alright?” he says soothingly as he soaks your hair, moving the showerhead slowly over your scalp. “I got you.”

Your tail slips over your lap and you curl your fingers around it, the spade swaying back and forth by your hip. “’Kay.”

You notice Blitzø is humming again when you feel the cold squirt of shampoo against the crown of your head, and you hold back a happy moan as his claws slide through your soaking hair to massage it into the locks. He seems to know just how much pressure to use, kneading his fingertips carefully into the skin behind your ears, into your temples. Your lips part with a soft sigh as he lingers there, working away the tension headache that has been brewing there for the last few hours.

“That’s my good baby,” he croons softly, the warmth of voice curling into your chest the way the steam caresses the bare skin of your arms and neck. He lifts your head slightly to press his fingers into the nape of your neck and your own hands tighten on your tail, the soft scent of night jasmine and bergamot teasing at your senses. You still can’t recognize the song he’s chosen as he continues humming, but it’s soft and sweet and slow… something like a lullaby that makes you want to melt right there into the bathmat.

Blitzø takes his time rubbing the shampoo through your hair, lingering around the bases of your horns where he knows stress can settle. When the water returns to wash away the bubbles you shudder, and the steam clings to your cheeks, your forehead, your lips. You want to open your eyes, to see what kind of expression he might be wearing as he does this, but you don’t want to risk ruining the moment.

He conditions your hair with the same care, his fingers returning to your temples and your horns as he gives it time to settle. In any other circumstance you would probably make a joke about how someone who’s been bald for as long as you’d known him knew so much about how to properly wash hair, but right now… Satan, you really didn’t care.

All too soon the water shuts off and Blitzø takes your hand to help you sit up properly again, one hand tucking up under your back to support you. It isn’t really necessary, but you smile at the attentiveness. You find yourself flushing now that the moment is over, and busy yourself with obscuring your face with the towel as you dry your hair so he doesn’t notice.

“Alright, baby, up you get,” he hauls you to your feel, hands wrapped around yours. That warmth lingers in your cheeks, and you try not to let your mind linger on the pet-name he’s just used. “Time for bed.”

“Wh-?” your brow creases in confusion. “It’s like… three in the afternoon! And I’ve still got work to—”

“Right.” You yelp in surprise as Blitzø sighs, nods once, then scoops you up into his arms. He grins at you as your arms go automatically to his shoulders, wrapping around his neck for stability. His hands clutch at your thighs, the small of your back, and you swear you feel his tail curl around yours for a moment before retreating again. “I warned you.”

“Blitz—!”

He ignores your protests as  he carries you into the bedroom, his tail hooking under the edge of the comforter and drawing it back before he drops you onto the middle of the mattress. He clambers onto the bed after you, tugging you back against his chest before you can climb back up off the bed. He tucks his chin over your shoulder as he wraps his arms around your middle, nuzzling into the side of your neck, unbothered by your still-damp hair. “Just shut up and nap with me, alright?”

Blitzø is wonderfully warm against your back, and the soft lilt to his voice is enough to convince you to do as he asks. His breath tickles against the side of your neck, his breathing slowing and becoming more measured as the two of you settle. His tail tugs the covers up over you, and you let your legs tangle with his as you settle against him.

Your breath catches slightly as his fingers curl in the hem of your shirt, his touch barely more than a whisper against the soft flesh of your stomach. Maybe that’s why your voice comes unsteadily when you speak, volume barely more than a murmur. “I do need to get back to work, Blitz…”

He shakes his head against your back, bumps his forehead against the space between your shoulders. “Nooooope… sleep now. Work later. Those assholes will just have to wait.”

“Blitz…”

He sighs, rolling his eyes as he sits up. He grabs at your shoulder, pushing you onto your back. He straddles your hips, bracing his hands on either side of your shoulders. It makes your breath catch, and you press your lips together against the flood of butterflies that suddenly swirl up through your middle.

“You gotta take a break, baby.” he tells you gently. He reaches up to tuck hair behind your ear, claws grazing along the line of your neck. “Okay?”

You exhale, give him a reluctant nod. “Okay.”

He smiles, bending down and brushing a kiss over your forehead. He lets his lips linger there for a moment before he pulls away again, and then he lets himself flop down on top of you.

You cough out a laugh as he knocks the air out of you, and he smiles lazily, his chin cradled against your sternum. You roll your eyes and he sticks his forked tongue out at you, but you still reach up to smooth your fingers over his forehead, scratching at the base of one of the spikes between his horns. A purr rumbles through him at the touch.

“Thank you, Blitz.”

His smile twitches wider, his eyes closed blissfully. “Welcome, baby.”

[gf2bellamy]

rest — bellamy blake

pairing: bellamy blake x reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: walking back to your room, you see an open door, and inside, bellamy is visibly upset. content warnings: fluff , angst , one mention of mount weather

The day had worn you down. Every step through the halls of Arkadia felt heavier than the last, and the box of papers in your arms wasn’t making things any easier. You balanced it carefully, leaning against a door to push it open with your back. The metallic creak echoed in the quiet hallway as you stepped inside the small workspace. 

“Finally,” you muttered under your breath, dropping the box onto the table with a thud. You wiped your hands on your pants, exhaling loudly. The thought of your bed was the only thing keeping you going now. With another sigh, you turned and headed back out, the door clicking shut behind you. 

Your room wasn’t far, and you’d mentally mapped out every corner of it by now—the blanket you’d pull over yourself, the pillow you’d sink into. But as you passed a half-open door, your steps faltered. 

Through the narrow gap, you spotted Bellamy. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, hands tangled in his dark curls. His head hung low, his broad shoulders tense. He hadn’t noticed the door was ajar or that you were standing just outside. 

You hesitated, your heart sinking at the sight of him. Bellamy was the rock for so many people, always taking the weight of their problems on his shoulders, yet he rarely let anyone see when he struggled. You’d seen that side of him before—closed off, guarded, unwilling to talk. 

Gently, you pushed the door open wider, the creak soft enough not to startle him. 

“Bellamy?” you said, your voice low and careful. 

Bellamy’s head shot up the moment he heard your voice. “Hey,” he said, a strained smile tugging at his lips. It was the kind of smile you’d seen him use before, the one he wore like armor when he didn’t want anyone to see the cracks underneath.

“What are you still doing up?” His voice was casual, but his body language betrayed him as he got to his feet, moving to the other side of the room and shrugging off his jacket. 

You stepped further into the room, gently closing the door behind you. You watched him move around, his back to you, his actions deliberate and mechanical.

It was obvious he was avoiding your gaze. You knew him well enough to see through the facade, and he knew you well enough to realize you weren’t buying it. 

“Kane had me working late,” you said, deciding not to press him just yet. Instead, you answered his question as though you hadn’t noticed his carefully constructed mask. 

He grunted in acknowledgment, as he sat down in a chair and started unlacing his boots.

“Bellamy,” you said softly, his name carrying a weight that made him pause for a moment. He didn’t look at you, but you saw his jaw tighten, his hands briefly stilling. “What’s wrong?” 

The room fell into silence, the only sound the faint hum of the Arkadia systems in the background.

Finally, he mumbled under his breath, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it. “Everything.” 

You took a step closer, closing the distance between you until you were standing right in front of him. “Do you want to talk about it?” you asked gently, your voice steady but filled with concern. 

He shook his head immediately, his eyes fixed on the floor. Then, in one sudden motion, he stood up, the abruptness of it catching you off guard and making you instinctively take a step back. 

Bellamy moved back to his bed, sitting down heavily on the edge of the mattress. You, growing weary of his restless pacing and unspoken words, followed and sat beside him.

The silence between you was thick, but you weren’t going to let him wall himself off completely—not tonight. 

You reached out gently, placing a hand on his back. “Bell?” you whispered, your voice soft, almost hesitant. 

He didn’t respond, just shook his head slightly, his dark curls brushing against your fingertips. 

“That’s fine,” you murmured, your hand remaining on his back, your thumb instinctively moving in small, soothing circles. You didn’t press him. You’d learned that with Bellamy, patience was often the only way to reach him. 

For a while, neither of you said anything. The weight of the silence wasn’t uncomfortable, though—it felt like the space he needed to gather himself.

Finally, he turned his head just enough to look at you, his brown eyes meeting yours. They were rimmed with red, the sheen of unshed tears evident even in the dim light of the room. 

Your heart broke at the sight. You’d known he was carrying the burden of Mount Weather, that every decision he made and every life he took haunted him. For weeks, you’d tried to make things a little easier for him—inviting him to join the group for meals, making sure he had someone to talk to during the rare moments of downtime. 

Bellamy looked at you, his tired eyes softening slightly. “You need to rest,” he murmured, his voice low and quiet.

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. “You think I’m the one who needs rest?” you teased, your lips curving into a small smile. 

As your hand drifted upward, your fingers gently brushed against the hair at the nape of his neck. You hesitated for a moment, your hands trembling slightly, but the way he closed his eyes—just for a second, like he was savoring the touch—gave you the courage to continue.

If anything, he seemed to welcome the comfort. 

“Bellamy,” you began, your voice soft but steady, “if you ever need anything—anything at all—I’m here for you. You know that, right?” 

You let your hand fall, resting it in your lap. Bellamy opened his eyes then, his gaze finding yours.

“I know,” he said quietly, the words simple but weighted. His gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep, steadying breath. 

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment.

“You should sleep,” you both said at the same time, the words tumbling out in unison. 

The surprise caught you off guard, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly, 

“I’ll get going,” you said softly as you stood up, smoothing your hands against your pants. But before you could take another step or say anything else, Bellamy’s voice stopped you. 

“You can stay,” he said, his tone quieter, almost hesitant. He met your gaze for a fleeting moment before quickly adding, “If you want.” The way he said it, like a question wrapped in hope, made your heart skip a beat. 

You looked down at him, sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoulders still tense, his eyes still slightly red.

“Okay,” you managed to say, the word coming out softer than you intended. 

It was all you could muster, really, because the weight of his offer—and the emotions swirling in the air between you—made you feel like you’d stutter if you tried to say anything more. 

“Yeah?” he said softly, his voice laced with an unexpected warmth. 

“Yeah,” you replied, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you met his gaze. 

Before you could process what was happening, Bellamy reached out and gently took your hand. As he laid back onto the bed, he gave your hand a gentle tug, pulling you down beside him. 

You blinked in surprise but didn’t resist. Bellamy let go of your hand as you perched on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to remove your jacket and boots. You moved quietly, your socks soft against the floor as you turned off the light, the room plunging into a dim, comforting darkness. 

When you laid down, the two of you stared silently at the ceiling, the quiet filled only by the distant hum of Arkadia’s systems. 

Then, without warning, Bellamy shifted. He wrapped an arm around you, drawing you closer until your head rested on his chest. His hand rested lightly on your back, and his breath hitched slightly, as if he wasn’t sure if he’d gone too far. 

You froze for a moment, your nerves lighting up like electricity. Your heart was racing, thudding against your ribs so hard you were sure he could hear it—or worse, feel it. But then you noticed something: his heartbeat, just as fast and just as unsteady, thumping against your ear where it rested on his chest. 

The realization made you relax a little. 

You let out a soft breath, trying to match the rhythm of his breathing, though it was difficult with the way your entire body seemed to buzz with nervous energy.

“Bell?” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet room. 

“Yeah?” he murmured, his hand giving the lightest of squeezes against your back. 

“Good night,” you said softly, smiling to yourself despite your nerves. You didn’t need to say anything else. His arm around you, his heart beating just as wildly as yours, was enough for now. 

[hrizantemy]

Weeks turned into months, and somehow, against all odds, Nesta was… good. The word itself felt foreign, strange even, as if it didn’t belong in the same breath as her name. Good. She whispered it in her mind sometimes, testing its weight, its truth. It wasn’t perfection—far from it—but it was solid, steady. It was enough.

She found herself waking up without that familiar pit in her stomach, the one that had made every morning feel like a battle before it even began. The days no longer dragged her down into the darkness she’d come to know so intimately. She didn’t dread every hour that stretched ahead of her. Instead, she lived. She moved through her days with something she had almost forgotten—purpose.

It wasn’t some grand transformation. There were still bad days, moments where the shadows crept back in, whispering doubts and regrets into her ear. But they didn’t consume her anymore. She didn’t let them. On those days, she let herself feel the weight, but she also let herself move through it, knowing it would pass.

And, much to her own astonishment, she was happy. That word felt even stranger than good. Happy had always seemed like something meant for other people, for Elain with her gardens or Feyre with her perfect little family. But now it belonged to Nesta too. It was small, quiet happiness—found in the warmth of sunlight through her window, in the pages of a book that drew her into another world, in the sound of laughter shared with someone who didn’t expect her to be anything but herself.

Taryn had a way of appearing just when Nesta needed her most, though she would never admit it out loud. She didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t pry or prod, but her presence was grounding. They had developed an unspoken rhythm, a comfortable give and take. Taryn would knock on her door with a knowing smile and a bottle of that smooth liquid Nesta had come to enjoy, or drag her out to hear music at the tavern, or simply sit with her in the quiet of her small apartment.

Nesta found herself smiling more often, laughing even. It still caught her off guard sometimes, how natural it felt. It didn’t feel like she was pretending or forcing it, like she had in the past. This happiness was real, strange and fragile as it seemed. And for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself hold onto it. She let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she deserved it.

Nesta had found a job, though she wouldn’t have called it that at first. It was more out of spite than anything else, but spite was a good motivator, perhaps the best one she had. The idea had come to her in the middle of a tense conversation with Cassian during one of his visits—if they could even be called that. He’d offhandedly suggested that maybe she ought to “find something to do with herself” instead of wallowing. The words had stung, as they always did, but instead of snapping back, Nesta had steeled herself. Fine. She’d show him. She’d do something, if only to shut him up.

The bookstore was small, tucked away on a quiet street she hadn’t even noticed until she’d been wandering aimlessly one afternoon. The bell above the door jingled when she stepped inside, and the air smelled of old paper and faint lavender. Shelves were crammed into every corner, some leaning precariously under the weight of too many books. A frazzled-looking woman, with hair coming loose from its bun, had glanced up from the counter with a harried expression.

“Looking for something specific?” the woman had asked, though she didn’t sound like she had the time or patience for small talk.

Nesta, on impulse, had said, “I’m looking for work.”

The woman blinked, clearly taken aback. “You want to work here?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.” Her tone had been sharper than she intended, but she didn’t backtrack.

The woman had studied her for a long moment, her gaze sweeping over Nesta as if measuring her worth. Then, with a sigh that sounded like reluctant relief, she’d muttered, “Fine. You’re hired. I need the help, and you’ve got the look of someone who won’t run off after a week.”

Nesta hadn’t known whether to be flattered or insulted, but she’d nodded and accepted anyway.

Now, she found herself standing behind the counter most days, the faint hum of activity from the street filtering through the windows. It wasn’t glamorous, and it certainly wasn’t a grand calling, but it was something. She sorted through piles of books, rearranged shelves, and rang up the occasional customer. The work was simple but steady, and that steadiness was a strange comfort.

The woman, Amina, didn’t ask questions. She didn’t hover or pry, which Nesta appreciated more than she could say. In return, Nesta found herself working harder than she thought she would. She’d never imagined herself in a place like this—surrounded by books, of all things—but the quiet was nice. It gave her something to focus on, something to do with her hands and her mind.

And though Nesta would never admit it, there was a certain satisfaction in it. Spite had gotten her in the door, but something else—something softer, more hesitant—was keeping her there. Amina had trusted her, even when Nesta hadn’t trusted herself, and that was a kind of kindness she hadn’t been expecting.

There was one other worker at the bookstore, a girl who looked younger than Nesta—probably in her early twenties. Her name was Elia, and she was pretty in a way that seemed effortless: soft brown curls that always framed her face perfectly, warm brown eyes that sparkled with every smile, and an energy that seemed boundless. Nesta had taken one look at her on her first day and decided she wouldn’t like her.

People who smiled that much, who carried themselves as though the world was something to embrace rather than endure, always grated on her nerves. Elia was the type of person Nesta would have avoided entirely in another life, too bright, too cheerful, too… good.

But Elia had taken a liking to her almost immediately. From the moment Nesta stepped behind the counter, Elia was there, talking.

“So, you’re the new help,” Elia had said with a teasing grin. “You don’t look like the bookish type, but hey, I’m not here to judge.”

Nesta had scowled at her, crossing her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Elia had just laughed, like Nesta’s irritation was amusing rather than intimidating. “Nothing bad! Just that you seem… sharp. You know, like you’re more likely to tell someone off than recommend a good romance novel.”

Nesta had bristled but didn’t respond. To her annoyance, Elia had stayed, leaning on the counter as though determined to peel back her layers. Over time, Nesta realized Elia wasn’t just talkative—she was genuinely kind, with a knack for finding the good in everyone.

“Want to grab lunch?” Elia would ask during their shifts, despite Nesta’s clipped responses.

“Need help with that stack?” she’d offer, even when Nesta was clearly managing fine on her own.

Elia didn’t seem deterred by Nesta’s cold demeanor. If anything, her persistence only grew, like she’d decided befriending Nesta was some kind of challenge. And though Nesta wouldn’t admit it, there was something disarming about the girl’s sunny attitude.

Elia was always smiling, always humming under her breath as she shelved books or rang up customers. She seemed to carry a little light with her wherever she went, and though it was irritating at first, Nesta couldn’t help but notice how it made the small bookstore feel a little less suffocating.

Sometimes, Nesta would catch herself watching Elia out of the corner of her eye, marveling at how someone could be so unguarded, so at ease in the world. It was baffling. And though she hated to admit it, maybe even a little enviable.

Despite Nesta’s sharp tone and pointed glares, Elia hadn’t been scared away. If anything, the girl’s persistence seemed to double with every cold response Nesta gave. For a while, Nesta thought she’d crack under the weight of Elia’s relentless cheerfulness, but the girl never wavered, always meeting Nesta’s barbs with that same easy smile.

So, begrudgingly, Nesta had decided to let her in—not fully, but enough to stop snapping at her during their shifts. It wasn’t a conscious decision, not really. It just… happened.

It started small: lunch on their breaks. Elia would nudge Nesta toward the staff room with a playful, “Come on, you have to eat,” and despite herself, Nesta would follow. At first, they ate in near silence, with Elia doing most of the talking as Nesta focused on her food. But slowly, the silences became less frequent, filled instead with quiet conversation about books they liked, customers they couldn’t stand, or the day-to-day monotony of work.

Then came the book recommendations.

“You should read this one,” Elia had said one afternoon, sliding a worn copy of The Secret Garden across the counter.

Nesta had raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need a children’s book.”

“It’s more than that,” Elia insisted. “Trust me, you’ll like it. It’s about finding beauty in the unexpected. You’re into that sort of thing, right?”

Nesta had scoffed but took the book home anyway. And to her surprise, she read it.

Before long, their camaraderie spilled out of the bookstore. Soon after their shifts, they were walking together through the city, stopping at cafes for coffee or tea. It wasn’t anything formal or planned—just an unspoken routine that grew between them.

“Do you ever stop smiling?” Nesta had asked one evening as they sat in a small, bustling cafe.

“Nope,” Elia had said with a grin, sipping her tea. “But I’ll tone it down if it bothers you.”

Nesta had rolled her eyes but didn’t ask her to stop.

There was something disarming about the way Elia moved through life—bright and open, like she hadn’t learned to build walls the way Nesta had. It made Nesta feel a little lighter, even if she’d never admit it. Elia had a way of drawing her out, of coaxing her into moments of warmth she didn’t think she had left.

And though it was slow, almost imperceptible, Nesta began to realize that maybe letting someone in didn’t have to be as terrible as she’d always thought.

Nesta had never thought she’d make friends again. After everything that had happened, after the pain, the isolation, the walls she’d built around herself, she’d come to believe that the people she could trust were few and far between. She had her sisters, and that was enough. Friends were something people like her didn’t need.

But, somehow, Elia had slipped past those walls she thought were impenetrable. It wasn’t something Nesta had expected to happen, nor something she had planned for. At first, it was just… convenient. Elia was there, and she didn’t give up on her, no matter how much Nesta tried to push her away. Slowly, though, the exchanges had turned into something more. Something Nesta hadn’t realized she was missing.

It was the little things—those walks through the city, the spontaneous visits to the small cafes, the gentle teasing and the quiet moments where they simply existed in each other’s company. It wasn’t like anything Nesta had had before, not the toxic friendships of her youth or the false camaraderie she’d tried to form after her fall from grace. This was different, somehow softer, without strings attached.

But Nesta had never told Elia that. She hadn’t told her how much she appreciated the quiet persistence, the way Elia had never given up on her when most people would have. She hadn’t told her that she hadn’t expected to ever feel this way again.

Instead, she kept it locked away, hidden beneath layers of her sharp tongue and her guarded exterior. Because admitting it felt too vulnerable, too real. There was always that part of her, deep down, that feared being seen. Being cared for, in a way that mattered.

So, she kept her thoughts to herself, allowing the friendship to unfold without fully acknowledging it for what it was. The idea of opening up again, of letting someone in that much, was terrifying. But she couldn’t deny that she felt something—something more than she’d felt in a long time—and that scared her too.

And yet, every time Elia smiled at her, every time she made some quiet, offhand remark, it felt… right.

Nesta worked tirelessly, every day at the bookstore, taking on extra hours, and pushing herself harder than she thought she could. It was a quiet sort of determination that took root in her, born from a mixture of pride and the need to prove to herself that she could stand on her own. She didn’t need anyone’s help—especially not Cassian’s, especially not the weight of Rhysand’s favor hanging over her head.

The debts she’d owed, both in the form of alcohol she’d binged on to numb herself and the money she’d borrowed from Rhysand to cover it, were finally paid off. She did it slowly, scraping together enough to make the first payment, then the next, until she was free of it. It felt strange to be clear of that particular burden, but there was something else weighing on her now—a freedom that came with being independent. She wasn’t sure when she’d stopped resenting that debt and started using it as fuel, but now it was gone, and she didn’t have to owe anyone anything.

And then came the apartment. The cramped, dim space that had served as her sanctuary for months, but now felt more like a prison. It had never really been home—not after everything. It had been a place to hide, a place to fall apart. So, she left. She didn’t tell her sisters, not even Feyre. She knew they would worry, maybe try to convince her to stay close, try to check in on her, to keep an eye on her. And Cassian? Well, she certainly didn’t want him knocking on her door again, with that knowing look in his eyes, and that infuriating tone as he tried to “help” her, as though she couldn’t take care of herself. She didn’t want to deal with it, didn’t want him barging in, assuming that he had the right to manage her life when he couldn’t even handle his own.

Instead, Nesta rented a small, private flat. It wasn’t much, but it was hers. And she was damn proud of it. No more debts hanging over her head. No more constantly worrying about when someone would come to remind her of how she’d fallen. It was a place where she could breathe, even if the air still felt a little too thin. She didn’t expect anyone to understand, and she certainly didn’t want anyone to ask questions. She had no answers for them anyway.

The move had been easy—just a few things in a small suitcase and the most essential items. The books she’d been collecting over the months, the things she’d started to care about again, they went with her. She didn’t need the reminders of her past life, the way it felt to live under the same roof as people who had never truly seen her, never truly understood her. This was her new beginning. Even if it was only small, even if it was only for her.

And she didn’t say a word to her sisters. They’d find out eventually, when she was ready to let them in again. But for now, she needed the silence, the space to keep working, to keep pushing forward without anyone interfering. Without Cassian barging in.

She wasn’t sure if she was running from them, from her past, or from the very part of herself that she wasn’t ready to face again. But that night, as she locked the door behind her for the last time, she didn’t look back.

Taryn had helped her in more ways than Nesta had initially expected, though she didn’t admit it to herself at the time. When she’d found a new apartment, it had been bare, just like the one she’d left behind. The walls were empty, the floors felt too large and too cold, and there was only a mattress in the middle of the room—a grim reminder of how little she had. She hadn’t even realized how much it bothered her until Taryn casually suggested one evening that it was time to buy furniture.

“I’m coming with you,” Taryn had said. “No more living like you’re in a damn hotel.”

At first, Nesta had balked at the idea. She didn’t need help, she could manage it herself. She had no interest in filling the space with things she didn’t need. But Taryn had been persistent. Eventually, Nesta had given in. And, oddly enough, it hadn’t been as awful as she expected.

The two of them had ventured into the city one afternoon, and as they browsed through small furniture shops, Taryn had somehow made the experience feel lighter. She made the process bearable, even as Nesta couldn’t help but feel a bit uncomfortable in the bustling stores. Her head kept spinning with all the choices, and she couldn’t help but wonder if this would really make her feel better or just create another false sense of comfort.

When they reached the second-hand shop, Taryn had spotted a small couch and immediately suggested it. “It’s perfect for you. Cozy and practical, just like you need,” she had said, grinning. But Nesta had hesitated, unsure if this was really what she wanted.

It had been Elia, of all people, who came to the rescue. Taryn admitted, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that her own apartment was sparse, that she didn’t know much about decorating, and that she needed help picking things out for Nesta. Elia, who always had a bright and energetic way of looking at things, had volunteered immediately. The two of them had met up at the store, and Elia had taken the reins without hesitation.

To Nesta’s surprise, Elia had a keen eye for interior design. She picked out colors that suited the space, offered suggestions for arranging the furniture, and even found a few small decorations that added life to the room. It was strange—she had never expected Elia to be the one to turn this mundane task into something almost enjoyable. The way Elia had seamlessly fit into the process, giving advice and showing her how to make the place her own, made the experience feel less foreign, less like a duty, and more like something that could actually be done.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Nesta had allowed herself to truly feel at ease. There was no judgment in the air. The stress that had lingered in the back of her mind started to melt away, replaced by something unexpected—gratitude, maybe even comfort. Taryn’s presence had always been a quiet support, and Elia’s unexpected skill at decorating had helped guide them both in a way that Nesta could appreciate. It had been a reminder that not everything needed to feel like a battle.

By the end of the day, Nesta had a couch, a small dining table, a few chairs, and a rug to soften the floor. The space didn’t feel so hollow anymore. It didn’t feel like she was just passing through; it felt like hers. It felt like something she had created.

Later, after they’d loaded everything into her apartment, Taryn had sat on the couch with her, and Elia had been the one to break the silence, offering an unexpected compliment.

“You’re really good at making a space feel like a home, Nesta,” Elia had said.

For a moment, Nesta had felt an unfamiliar warmth spread through her. She hadn’t been sure if she was capable of that, if she even deserved to make a home for herself. But in that moment, she allowed herself to believe it.

It had felt strange to open up, to offer even a small part of herself. Nesta had spent so long guarding her secrets, holding everything inside, never giving anything away. She had been terrified that if she shared too much, she would be exposed, vulnerable, and it would only lead to more rejection, more pain.

But there, sitting on her new couch with Taryn and Elia, something shifted. It wasn’t the same as it had been with her family—there was no pressure, no expectation. They weren’t looking at her like she was a broken thing that needed fixing, and they weren’t judging her for the things she couldn’t control. Taryn, always quiet and steady, had never pushed, and Elia had simply been there, warm and understanding, in her own way.

It had started with something small, something easy—a fragment of her past, a single memory she had buried deep inside. She had told them about the Cauldron, how it had changed her, how it had made her into something else, something that didn’t fit in anywhere. About being made Fae, about the pain it had caused her, and how it had left her with scars that no one could see.

She had even told them about the bathtubs, something that had never quite felt right after the change. She had tried to avoid it, to force herself, but the discomfort still lingered, a constant reminder of what she’d lost.

It had been a small piece of herself, just a fragment of her past, but it had felt different when she said it aloud. There was no judgment in Taryn’s eyes, no disbelief in Elia’s. For the first time in a long time, she hadn’t felt like the world was collapsing around her, like she was carrying a burden that no one else could understand.

It had been strange, letting them in, but somewhere in the pit of her stomach, Nesta had realized that maybe, just maybe, this was what it felt like to have friends. To feel seen without being judged. To share something of herself without the fear of it being used against her.

And as she sat there, letting the words settle between them, she knew she had given them something important. A piece of her that she had never shared with anyone else. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Taryn had been the one to bring it up, a quiet suggestion one evening after they had finished dinner together. “I know someone who could help,” she had said, a flicker of hesitation in her voice. “He does this kind of work. A friend of mine. It might be easier than you think.”

Nesta had hesitated, as always. The idea of someone else seeing her, seeing the scars she carried from the Cauldron, felt wrong. She had lived with the discomfort for so long, had forced herself to manage, to adapt. But Taryn’s persistence had eventually worn her down, and after a few more gentle nudges, Nesta had agreed—though reluctantly.

The next day, they met with Taryn’s friend, a man who was quiet and kind. There was no judgment in his gaze, no probing questions. He didn’t need an explanation. That was the most important thing. He simply saw her as a person, someone who needed help, and that was all. No further inquiries, no unwelcome sympathy.

Instead of a bathtub, he had suggested a shower. Something simpler, more manageable for Nesta, something that wouldn’t bring the same sense of unease that had haunted her. The space was clean, comfortable, and the man had worked quickly, efficiently.

When the work was done, Taryn’s friend hadn’t asked for anything extravagant. Instead, he gave her a discount, offering it with such casual kindness that Nesta found herself slightly taken aback. It wasn’t something she was used to. People usually wanted something in return, whether it was money or gratitude, but he had simply nodded and said, “It’s no trouble. You’re welcome.”

It had been an easy thing, a small task that turned out to be a surprisingly freeing experience. But more than that, it had reminded Nesta of how, sometimes, help could come in the most unexpected ways. And for the first time in a long time, she realized she hadn’t had to prove anything to anyone. There were no expectations, no ulterior motives—just simple kindness. It had felt… normal.

Nesta had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, a routine that felt surprisingly stable considering everything that had come before. She and Taryn still frequented the tavern, a place that now held a different kind of warmth for her. The music was still beautiful, the sounds of the violins and voices weaving through the air like threads of a tapestry. And the atmosphere no longer made her feel on edge. It was a place where she could exist without expectations, without judgment.

She had limited herself to a drink or two, something she didn’t do out of obligation, but because she could. It was a subtle form of control that felt empowering, even if it was something small. She had learned to be cautious with alcohol, with herself, and the way it had once loosened her inhibitions now served as a reminder of how far she’d come. No more drinking until she couldn’t remember the night, no more finding herself in the arms of someone she didn’t know, someone who never saw her.

She had stopped going home with strangers, the kind of action that had once felt like a way to fill the emptiness, to drown out the voices in her head. It was a choice she had made, a silent vow to herself. She wasn’t ready to touch anyone, to allow herself to be vulnerable with anyone in that way. Not after everything that had happened. Not after the years of conditioning herself to think that her worth was tied to the touch of others.

She didn’t know when or if she’d be ready to open up like that again, or even if she wanted to. Her mind was still a maze, full of questions she didn’t have answers to. What did she want? Was it men? Women? Both? Her attraction to Taryn, the gentle way the other woman’s presence calmed her, made her feel seen without having to explain herself, left Nesta feeling confused. She had never allowed herself to think about this before. It was as if she’d been too busy surviving, too focused on just getting by.

One night, as they sat side by side at their usual corner in the tavern, Nesta had turned to Taryn, the question bubbling up before she could stop it. “Is it possible?” she asked quietly, unsure whether she even wanted the answer.

Taryn had looked at her for a long moment, her gaze steady and understanding. There was no hesitation in her reply. “Yes,” she said simply. “It’s possible to want both. Or neither. Or anything in between. It’s your choice, Nesta. And it’s okay not to have it all figured out.”

Taryn’s words had settled deep inside her, not offering clarity, but permission. Permission to explore, to ask questions, to take her time. There was no rush. No need for certainty. Taryn had never pushed her to define herself or to make sense of feelings that felt out of place. She had simply allowed Nesta to exist, to sit in her own confusion, and that was the most freeing thing Nesta had ever experienced.

So, she kept going to the tavern, kept listening to the music, kept letting herself feel the warmth of Taryn’s quiet understanding. For the first time in a long time, Nesta wasn’t in a rush. She didn’t need to have everything figured out right now. She could be confused, she could be uncertain, and that was enough. She had the space to figure it out on her own time.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Nesta began to feel… regular. Not extraordinary, not broken, but just ordinary. It was an unfamiliar feeling, one she didn’t quite know how to define, but it was there, creeping into her life in little ways. She was becoming a regular at a small coffee shop that sat on the corner of a quiet street. The kind of place with mismatched chairs and the comforting smell of roasted beans hanging in the air.

The owner, a woman named Mira, had quickly learned her name and her order. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a plain black coffee with a dash of cinnamon, but there was something so grounding in the routine. Every time Nesta walked in, Mira would smile, nod in acknowledgment, and immediately start preparing her drink without asking. It was simple, but it felt like belonging in the best way.

At first, Nesta had been hesitant, unsure of how she would be received, how she could possibly fit into a place like this. But over time, the warmth of the coffee shop, the quiet hum of the barista working in the background, and the lack of expectations had drawn her in. It wasn’t a bustling place like the tavern; it was quieter, calmer, a space that allowed her to just be, without feeling scrutinized.

Elia had been the one to push her, inviting Nesta along for lunch one afternoon and introducing her to some of her own friends. At first, Nesta had felt like an outsider, like she was intruding on a scene that didn’t belong to her. But her fears were quickly washed away by the gentle humor and kindness of Elia’s friends. They were welcoming in the way that felt natural, not forced, and that made all the difference.

It hadn’t been a sudden shift, but over time, she had found herself becoming a part of something that wasn’t broken or tainted. She could walk into the coffee shop now without the usual knot of anxiety in her stomach, and the faces that greeted her were ones she recognized. People who knew her by name, who asked about her day with genuine curiosity. It was simple, but it was everything.

She didn’t feel like Nesta Archeron, the broken sister or the haunted soul, here. She was just Nesta—someone who liked coffee, someone who sometimes talked with Elia about books, who sometimes just sat in silence, sipping her drink and watching the world go by. And for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to be anything more.

Her life was slowly becoming a mosaic of small, quiet moments. There was no grand change, no sudden burst of revelation. It was just… regular. And that, Nesta realized, was what she had needed all along.

As the months passed, a quiet shift began to take place inside of Nesta. She had spent so much of her life locked away in confusion, shame, and fear, unable to understand or accept herself fully. But now, there was a budding clarity that came with time and reflection, a soft assurance that crept into her bones. She had begun to realize, with no small amount of surprise, that she wasn’t simply attracted to one or the other. She was attracted to both—men and women. And for the first time, she allowed herself to sit with that truth.

It hadn’t been easy. There were moments when the weight of it felt too heavy, moments when she questioned everything she had known about herself. Her upbringing, her family, the way she had been taught to see the world—they had all wrapped her in an armor of expectations and judgment. Even now, when she thought about the whispers of her past, the lessons she had been taught about what was right and what was wrong, there was still a flicker of shame that tried to settle in her chest.

But it was different now. The shame was quieter, less able to consume her. She didn’t want to hide it, not anymore. She knew she shouldn’t feel ashamed, and yet, in the stillness of her apartment or when she was alone with her thoughts, it would sometimes creep in. Still, the fear that once held her captive was gone. She was no longer afraid of what she was discovering about herself, of the people she might be drawn to or the complexities of her desires.

In fact, there was a certain peace in embracing this part of herself. It wasn’t a choice, but a realization—a recognition of something that had always been there, quietly waiting for her to acknowledge it. She had spent so many years afraid to explore this side of herself, to even consider that she might be different from what she had once imagined. But now, she was beginning to understand that there was no right or wrong, no singular path she was supposed to follow.

She had met people along the way who didn’t bat an eye at her evolving self, people like Elia who never questioned or judged, who simply accepted. Taryn, too, had shown her a kind of unspoken understanding, never pushing her to be something she wasn’t, but always offering her space to explore. It was in those moments, in the warmth of these new relationships, that Nesta found the courage to let herself be. She didn’t have to choose between one or the other. She could simply be who she was, without explanation.

Though she still struggled with the remnants of societal expectations and the weight of her past, the fear of what might happen, of how she might be viewed, was slowly becoming irrelevant. For the first time in a long time, Nesta realized that she didn’t need to hide, to force herself into any box. She could like who she liked. She could be attracted to men and women, and that was okay.

It wasn’t perfect, not yet. There were days when the shadows of old thoughts threatened to take over, moments when her mind was clouded with doubt. But they didn’t have the power they once did. Slowly, with each passing day, she was allowing herself the freedom to be who she truly was, and it felt like an immense weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

It had been a quiet evening, the soft hum of music filling the air as Nesta sat beside Taryn at the tavern. The lively crowd around them, swaying and laughing, seemed distant as the familiar melody reached her ears. It was one of those songs that had an almost tangible pull, and Nesta felt herself swaying to the rhythm of it, her feet tapping gently beneath the table.

Taryn sat beside her, a little too still, her gaze lost in the distant flickering of candlelight. Nesta studied her for a moment, her heart beating just a bit faster than usual. The feeling was there again—the same flutter she’d felt when she’d first met her, the same uncertainty and desire tangled together.

The music wove through the space, thick and sweet, like it had a life of its own. Something inside Nesta stirred—a desire to step into it, to take a risk she’d never allowed herself before.

Before she could second-guess herself, the words were already tumbling out, surprising her just as much as they might surprise Taryn.

“Will you dance with me?”

Taryn turned to her, blinking as if she hadn’t quite processed the request. Her eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise, the corner of her lips curling up just slightly, like she couldn’t quite decide if she was being teased or if Nesta was serious. The tension between them seemed to shift, a brief moment of hesitation hanging in the air.

“You… want to dance?” Taryn asked, her voice laced with a touch of amusement.

Nesta nodded, her expression determined, though her stomach churned with a mixture of excitement and nerves. She didn’t know why she’d asked. Maybe it was the music, or the way the night felt alive with possibility. Or maybe it was because, for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t afraid to act on something that felt right in the moment.

Taryn’s surprise softened into something else—a curiosity, maybe a hint of something more. After a brief pause, she stood, holding out a hand to Nesta. “Well, then,” she said, her tone light. “I suppose I can’t say no.”

Nesta’s heart raced in her chest as she stood up, her breath catching in her throat. The tavern had fallen into a low hum as she and Taryn moved toward the floor, the crowd parting for them like a tide around rocks. The music, that ever-present rhythm, wrapped around them, and for a moment, everything else fell away.

When they were finally standing together, close enough that Nesta could feel the warmth of Taryn’s presence, she felt a surge of self-consciousness, her hands unsure of where to rest.

Taryn, though, seemed unbothered, her hand finding Nesta’s, guiding her gently into the flow of the dance. The movement was fluid, effortless, the music a gentle current that pulled them along. They moved together in a way that felt natural, like two pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. For once, Nesta didn’t feel out of sync, didn’t feel as though her steps were forced or awkward.

It was… comfortable. And for the first time in so long, she allowed herself to simply enjoy it.

The world around them became a blur—there was no judgment, no past, no expectations. Just the steady rhythm of their feet on the floor, the soft whisper of Taryn’s breath in time with the music. Taryn’s touch, her hand holding Nesta’s firmly, seemed to steady something within her, like she wasn’t just moving through the motions, but actually present, in this moment, in this dance.

The world outside might have continued to turn, but in this little corner of the tavern, Nesta had found something—someone—that made her feel like she wasn’t alone in the storm of it all.

And when the song ended, neither of them moved right away, the connection between them still lingering, the silence comfortable rather than awkward. It was a quiet understanding between them, something Nesta had never expected, but was grateful for nonetheless.

Taryn’s smile was gentle, a hint of warmth in it, and Nesta couldn’t help but return it. She didn’t need to say anything. The dance had spoken for her, more than words ever could.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites

[sikyulioness]

Hi hi! If its cool, could you write something about Jinwoo with timid!reader. Like theyve known eachother for years and as Jinwoo gets stronger, reader lets themselves drift away since they didnt want to be a burden. As a farewell, readwr gives him a letter, a love confession, before running off emabressed?

Thabk you!

✨Hope you like it✨

________

"If Only You Knew"

The ink smudged slightly under your fingertips, your trembling hands making the already delicate handwriting uneven. You swallowed hard, staring at the words you had rewritten over and over again, trying to find the perfect way to say goodbye.

But there was no perfect way, was there?

You had known Sung Jinwoo for years—before dungeons, before Hunters, before the world decided that power was everything. Back when he was just Jinwoo, the boy who smiled at you through his exhaustion, the boy who always tried his hardest, even when the world was unfair to him.

But as he changed, you remained the same.

Jinwoo had grown into something more—stronger, faster, untouchable. The world looked at him in awe, in fear, in reverence. And you? You were still just you. No magic. No power. No place in his new life.

So you let yourself drift away.

Not because you wanted to. God, you wanted to stay by his side more than anything. But you didn’t want to be a burden, the weight that held him back. You convinced yourself that this was the right choice, even as loneliness hollowed out your chest.

But even if you left, you wanted him to know.

So you wrote this letter, pouring out everything you had kept locked inside. And now, standing outside his apartment door, your hands clenched around the folded paper, your heart pounded so hard you felt dizzy.

Would he even care? Would he read it? Would he laugh?

You shook your head. It didn’t matter.

With a deep breath, you raised your fist and knocked.

The seconds stretched unbearably long before the door finally creaked open.

Jinwoo stood there, fresh out of a shower, his damp black hair tousled, a plain black shirt clinging to his frame. His golden eyes widened slightly at the sight of you, surprise flickering across his usually unreadable expression.

“Y/N?” His voice was warm, familiar, and hearing it made something in your chest ache.

You panicked.

Your mind screamed at you to run, but your body refused to move. Instead, you thrust the letter into his hands, bowing deeply to hide your burning face.

“T-thank you for everything, Jinwoo. I—I hope you’ll be happy.”

And then you turned and ran.

“Wait—Y/N!” His voice carried after you, but you didn’t stop.

Not when tears were already slipping down your cheeks.

Not when your heart ached with the knowledge that this was goodbye.

Not when you were too afraid of what his answer might be.

---

Jinwoo’s Reaction

Jinwoo stared at the letter in his hands, his fingers tightening around the edges as the sound of your footsteps faded down the hallway.

His heart pounded for reasons he couldn’t explain.

You had been avoiding him. He noticed. How could he not? The missed calls, the unanswered messages, the way you started slipping away every time he reached out. At first, he thought you were just busy. Then, he convinced himself that maybe you just needed space.

But when you stopped showing up altogether, when he realized he hadn’t seen you in weeks—no, months—he knew something was wrong.

And now, out of nowhere, you were here. Giving him a letter. Looking like you were on the verge of crying. Saying goodbye.

A sinking feeling settled in his stomach.

Without thinking, he tore open the envelope and unfolded the paper, his eyes scanning your familiar handwriting.

Jinwoo,

By the time you read this, I’ll probably be gone. I’m sorry for leaving like this, but I don’t think I could say this to your face without completely embarrassing myself.

I’m so, so proud of you. You’ve grown into someone incredible, someone the whole world admires. You’re strong, fearless, untouchable. And I… I’m just me.

I don’t belong in your world anymore.

I kept telling myself that leaving was the right choice. That you didn’t need someone like me slowing you down. But the truth is… I don’t want to leave. I want to stay by your side. I want to see you smile, to hear your voice, to know that even as you stand at the top of the world, I can still be someone important to you.

But I’m scared.

Scared that you don’t need me anymore. Scared that if I stay, I’ll just be a burden. Scared that you’ll look at me one day and realize I’m nothing compared to the people who belong by your side.

So this is my goodbye.

But before I go, I need you to know one thing.

I love you, Jinwoo.

I always have.

I always will.

Even if you never feel the same, even if you forget me, even if I become just another face in your past—I will always love you.

Be happy, okay?

- Y/N

Jinwoo’s hands clenched around the paper, his vision blurring as something in his chest twisted painfully.

You idiot.

Did you really think he didn’t need you? That you weren’t important? That he could just forget you?

A sharp, desperate urgency surged through him. He didn’t care if it was late. He didn’t care if he had to search the entire city. He refused to let you disappear.

Crumpling the letter in his fist, Jinwoo grabbed his jacket and ran.

---

The End

[thomaslittlegirl]

Hi author, I hope you are well. 😊

I discovered your writing recently and I am completely enchanted, you are incredible! Anyway, if you could write about Tommy dating a much younger girl, like 18/19 years old and completely opposite to him, smiley and completely shy (even with Thomas' family). I don't know, it just seems interesting how a young soul can captivate old Tommy. Stay safe and healthy. xo

hi love! i hope this is even a little bit like the idea you had in your head. im sorry for any grammatical errors, its 4am and my first language is not english. 😅🩷

opposites. thomas shelby

warnings; age-gap, just fluff (?

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

if there was something that amazed thomas, it was definitely how opposite you two were.

he remembers the first time he met you like it was yesterday: it was a rainy wednesday in small heath. water fell mercilessly and the fog was so thick that it was difficult to see the city clearly.

he was leaving his bar when he saw you. your boots were full of mud as was the bottom of your clothes. he had noticed your purple lips and your almost imperceptible spasms due to the cold. it was fucking raining, and espite that, you had decided to go out.

thomas still remembers your beautiful light blue dress and believes that if he closes his eyes he can feel the fabric of the fabric on his fingers.

he had never seen you before, and if he had, he had not paid enough attention to you until that moment, that day where he saw the water soak your hair and your beautiful flower dress.

it was almost an automatic response from his body when he crossed your path and stopped you, wondering what you were doing alone on the street in those horrible weather conditions.

instead of freaking out like any sane person would have done, you accepted that a shelby offered to take you back to your house, claiming that it was dangerous for a young girl to be hanging around on a day like that.

he was surprised that you weren't scared, even knowing who he was and what he did. it seemed naive to him that you trusted his pure intentions so much and that was the first time he noticed the difference between you.

you trusted easily, something that he would not allow himself to do even on the last day of his life. a girl who loved colors, unlike him, the one who wore nothing but depressing grays and black suits.

you were sweet, kind, believed that everyone had a good part inside them; young and innocent... and that's why he could endlessly list the differences between him and you.

you were pure, not like him.

the good in the bad of his world, and he was the bad in the bad.

for him you were a breath of fresh air, something he didn't know he was looking for his whole life until he found you.

in the present, thomas looks at you from the desk; dried blood rests on his knuckles as he selflessly signs some papers.

his eyes can't help but wander over your body, noticing how that shirt you stole from him rests on your body angelically.

the older man watches you as you shyly chat with ada, nodding to everything the woman tells you even if you don't agree. always too peaceful to start an argument or demonstrate that your position was contrary to what was imposed.

the minutes pass and your legs move gently, bouncing non-stop on the floor, impatient. the man can read your expressions as if it were an open book.

time passes and when his sister finally leaves, thomas watches as you look at him with a sweet smile, walking towards his figure.

shelby already knows what you want and carefully pushes his chair back a little, just enough to move away from the desk and give you room to settle.

still smiling lovingly at him you sit on his lap, with your side against his chest. your legs swing gently again, searching for a comfortable position.

thomas, still serious, wraps his arm around your waist and continues with his paperwork. he feels you relax against his body and a smile appears on his face.

even without looking at you, he can feel your sweet eyes watching him tenderly, making him feel unworthy, undeserving.

a small, delicate hand rests on top of his, and he finally allows himself to feel that love in his chest when he feels the pads of your fingers carefully caressing his bloody and bruised knuckles.

neither scared, nor disgusted... simply understanding.

if there is something that amazes thomas, it is how well you complement each other despite being total opposites.

[kat-rose-griffith]

Something that I really appreciate about The Rookie is the very realistic way that they portray abusive/neglectful/or just generally shitty parents. Like they don’t ever magically change them for the purpose of wrapping up an episode, they don’t suddenly choose to be better, most of the time they stay shitty. Lucy’s parents are highly critical of her especially for being a cop, one even going as far as disowning her, and even though they do seem to still be in her life, they don’t magically change their treatment or stance on that no matter how great she does. Tim’s alcoholic abusive father is still an abuser even on his death bed and isn’t remorseful for any of it. Nolan’s mother is a lying con artist that pops in and out of his life as she pleases and directly causes him problems every time, even after her death, with no particular care for him only how she can use him.

The best part of these storylines for me is also that they don’t make the characters forgive their shitty parents, especially when they choose not to change. Nolan’s mother dies and even being the ultimate good guy of the show he doesn’t suddenly act like she was a different person just because she died, even in the face of other characters trying to do so, and that’s completely fine. Tims sister had different experiences with their father because Tim shielded her from a lot of it so they approach their father dying differently and even with her pushing him to act differently about it, he doesn’t ever forgive him or visit him for her sake. The only reason he sees him is because of a murder his father was involved in and to tell him off one last time. Tim walks away from that room not forgiving his abusive father but instead choosing to let go of the resentment he had been harboring for himself and for his sister. He didn’t want to be so angry anymore, he didn’t want to be like him, so he chose to work at being better and that is a far more worthy story to tell.

There’s no forgiving of the abuser in their storylines and I really appreciate that. I like it for its realism but I also like it because in a way it takes the power back from their terrible parents because the story is not about them, at its core it’s about the people that they hurt and how that affects them. It’s so much more compelling seeing the characters constantly working to overcome that to be the people they want to be than the parents magically becoming better because their kids had character development

I don’t want to make this post any longer so I won’t get into it but they also approach forgiveness and change, when it’s appropriate, really well too. The best example is with Tim’s ex wife Isabel. She’s kind of a combination of the stuff I described in this post and how well they do forgiveness on this show.

[doberrrman]

I have this feeling that I have unofficial beef with my neighbor...

[fappellmoan]

i. HATE!!!!!!!! that i feel like i can’t have boundaries with this lady without reinforcing the belief that i’m not good enough to be working on this. as if she’s not the one being rude and pushy and intrusive. i don’t think she has much sway or that it will affect me much in the future but it sucks anyway

[jupiter-reimagined]

ive reached a funny number in my sketchbook collection: number 34. i have something really funny i could do in this one

[malusokay]

Little things that improved my life 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Accepting my sleep schedule. I'm a night owl; I focus at night, I'm calm at night, I'm motivated at night. For a long time, I tried to fight this since everyone always preaches getting up early, but since I started accepting my natural sleep schedule, I've been feeling a lot better and have become way more productive.

"drink more water". TEA. Tea is the secret here. I will be honest, I hate drinking water; it doesn't matter if I have a cute water bottle or a cute glass, I still hate it. TEA.

Replying quickly. I used to be one of those people who get a text message and think, "Oh, I'll reply to that later", and then just forget about it entirely. Now, I text back as soon as I see the message. This has not only improved my texting anxiety (which I cause on my own by now replying and then feeling bad) but also deepened my connection to my friends. <3

Keeping my circle small and being okay with that. Over the past months, I've had this sudden urge to expand my social circle and get to know more and more people, especially after I moved in August. However, this quickly ended in what I like to call my "social burnout". I was tired, annoyed, and overwhelmed. It took a few weeks for it to settle, but I've come to the conclusion that I would much rather have a smaller circle of people who I trust and love deeply than a huge group of friends, and that's totally okay.

Wearing what I like. Even though I live in a big city, I'd still say that my style can sometimes be a bit more extravagant than what most people wear, another point is that I'm very uncomfortable with pants so I only wear skirts, which is also considered a bit odd where I live. But over the past years, I've come to accept that and have become so sure of myself and found such comfort in my style that I now just wear whatever I like, and it makes every day a little bit nicer.

Reading and writing for pleasure. Reading books outside of my studies and spending time researching topics that simply interest me is such a great way to calm your mind. Same for writing, I always like to say that to write is to think; putting your thoughts on paper in cohesive and well-crafted sentences that you can then reread and think over again is such a liberating thing to do.

Reaching out more. fuck the whole "double texting" and "no contact" thing. If you want to speak to someone because they mean something to you, then just do it. Unless they specifically asked for space, you shouldn't feel bad about wanting to be in touch with them. Many even really appreciate it when you show that you truly care. Let's stop the nonchalant act, and instead, let's face deep emotions and true vulnerability. <3

As always, please feel free to share your own little insights and things that helped you improve comments! <3

my insta: @ malusokay

love ya ･:*₊‧✩

[bi-writes]

Okay but MOB sitting on Simon's lap, cuddling as they watch some movie Simon picked out because it was his turn. At one point she gets up and he thinks she's just going to use the restroom, hands on her hips to help stabilize her. Only instead of leaving, she turns around and sits on her knees between his legs. She bats her eyes at him but otherwise just soaking in how pretty he is. He probably makes a joke, says he loves her and when he still doesn't move figures she just wants a moment and continues to watch the screen.

When she finally works herself up to it, she starts sliding her hands up and down his thighs and just the sensation and imagery alone has him hard and he can't bring himself to ask her to stop when it feels so nice. Eventually her hands wander up further and she begins to play with the button of his jeans. Still not stopping her, even as she unbuttons and zips them down to pull out his erection. When he finally looks down, she stops and stares innocently up at him.

As soon as his attention's somewhat back up on the screen, she repositions herself and licks a stripe up his dick to bring his head into her mouth to swirl around. He doesn't even last that long and she doesn't let him pull her off when he comes.

Or something like that...

mail-order bride (18+)

simon likes action movies. they're his favorite, by far. he likes to watch the over-the-top car races in the middle of metropolitan cities, he likes big, stupid explosions and when the protagonist has their enemy at the end of their gun and says something cheesy like "you're not going anywhere now."

he told you once that he likes the simplicity. the happy endings. the key recovered, a family saved, the epic conclusion of an explosive journey that always ends in the bad guy in handcuffs and the good guy on a beach sipping a mai tai, getting the girl, saving the world.

you think maybe he likes it because it dampens reality. you have seen the aftermath of an op gone wrong; in this way, simon can fantasize just a little. he can pretend that there is nothing wrong with the world for 90 minutes or so.

what's so wrong with that?

he's so pretty.

he ran errands for you today. came back from the store with a paper bag in his hands, setting it down on the counter and unpacking it. you were sat at the kitchen counter, the orange cat wrapped up completely in a burrito of a towel so you could cut her dagger-like claws without risk of retaliation. simon was watching carefully out of the corner of his eye, but as he unpacked the bag, you had all but melted in your chair.

a refill of your favorite makeup remover (you were going to run out tonight, guaranteed). vitamins (ya look right sick, baby, drink y'r juice). your favorite brand of pads (just tell me which ones, i'll get it right, promise). sour sweets (cherry-flavored, of course, sour because he likes the face you make when you pop them into your mouth). when the last box hit the counter, you had dropped the cat, much to her relief.

condoms. fucking condoms.

no, he's not pretty. simon is so fucking hot.

he doesn't budge when you get up to put the empty popcorn bowl into the sink. when you come back in the room, simon is still staring at the television, eyes trained on the spy on screen hopping between rooftops as they dodge bullets. you bite your lip watching him, unable to stop thinking about simon, simon, simon.

he's wearing nice jeans. straight jeans, but even the extra give doesn't matter when your husband is made of pure muscle and fat. you can see his stomach through his shirt since it's tucked in, white fabric showing off that nice pudge that you love laying your head on, your palm, knowing how solid and strong he most certainly is. nghghhhh, and his arms--big, bulging, tattooed, a perfect canvas for colorful markers or glitter or maybe your tongue.

it's subconscious, really. the carpet is soft under your knees as you kneel at his feet, lowering yourself so you can blink up at him big and wide as he keeps his eyes on the movie. he does notice you, however; his big hand slides down his thigh, and your eyes flutter a little when he passes it over your head then down your face, a pretty little pet between his legs.

"not supposed to be on y'r knees f'me, baby," simon mutters, but you can't answer because his thumb slips into your mouth. you wrap your lips around it absentmindedly, running your tongue over the thick pad of it. "tha's my job."

you sit up on your knees, leaning over him, and he gives you his attention finally, a twitch of a smile as he bends his neck a little and kisses you warmly. you steady yourself by putting your hands on his thighs, gripping the meat of them firm as you slip your tongue into his mouth and draw a low grunt from deep within his chest.

"always working for me, simon," you whisper between kisses. "always..."

fuck, the blood rushes to his cock almost immediately. he has such a soft spot for you. taking care of you, doing things for you, buying you what you need--it makes him so fucking hard thinking about fulfilling every need of yours. you deserve nothing but nice dreams, good meals, happy cats, a well-loved pussy, all the love his broken heart can give. he chubs up in his pants every time you ask him for something.

can you carry this for me, simon?

oh, i need some help with this, baby, just here...

can you get me more of this? i'm about to run out.

the zipper is stuck, simon...can you get me out of this?

ugh, you're his walking wet dream. and you're kneeling in between his legs, his sweet girl pouting up at him, and--oh, fuck--

your hands are soft under his shirt. you've untucked it just enough, your warm fingers sliding along the band of his jeans. he hisses a little, his body stiffening, and you smooth a thumb over his belt before kissing him again.

"you're so pretty, simon," you whisper, and he licks over your bottom lip in response, drawing a soft whine out of you. his thighs widen just a little when he hears the clink of his belt, feeling the waistband loosen as you draw it out from the loops and toss it onto the carpet behind you. "such a handsome man you are..."

"come off it," simon growls a little, and you giggle, freeing the button and slipping your hand down. his mouth falls open in a silent moan as you cup him with a hot hand, fingers sliding under his length to fondle his balls.

"mmm..." you follow his sputtering mouth, breathing him in. "actually, simon...i really, really wanna get on it..."

"wot a brat," simon murmurs, clicking his tongue. "can't be fuckin' patient--ahh!"

you pull him out of his jeans with a firm tug before sticking your tongue out and kneeling back down to lick a curious stripe up the underside of him. simon is pulsing, radiating heat and already leaking beads of stringy pre-cum, and as you suck the tip of him into your mouth, you realize just how thick your husband really is.

you've never seen him quite this naked, quite this up close. when he fucked your thighs, he had felt big, but his cock is truly making a space for itself in your mouth--

"ah!" you gasp as he fists your hair and pulls you off, leaning down to kiss you hard.

"baby--"

"i want it--" you whimper, using your hands, letting the spit from your mouth drip down his cock as your fingers spread it wide, pumping him softly. "simon, please! please! you always say...always say i can have whatever i want, please..."

when he lets your hair go, you dive. you suck him into your mouth, practically purring as you press him back into the couch and suck. he tastes like a man should, like a husband should, musk and a little sweat and just enough soap to have you a little light-headed. with the first bob of your head, simon shudders, a big hand cupping the back of your neck as he drops his chin to his chest to watch you. he uses his other hand to push your hair back, his mouth falling open a little as he watches your eyes roll back in your head as you try to fit more of him into your mouth.

your mouth squelches with every bob. spit gathers around the edges of your mouth, little globs dripping out as you slurp and flick your tongue over every vein and soft patch of skin. you're making a mess of him, all soft mouth and wiggly tongue and gentle moans that make him seize up.

it's not even a minute of your soft sucking, and simon is caught off guard by his own release. he wants to apologize, but you look so fucking pretty, coughing a little around his wet cock.

you don't stop then either.

some of it drips down around your hands, his own cum webbing between your fingers and getting onto the front of your shirt and staining his jeans, but you keep your mouth on him. you nuzzle the head of his cock against the inside of your cheek, pull off just enough to suck so softly on the tip of him.

"baby, fuck--" simon chokes, watching you through lidded, hazy eyes. "please, fuck--"

"i want it," you whisper, smoothing a wet hand down his length. he's getting hard all over again, and he nearly cums a second time when you let your eyes find his and pepper kisses from the tip of him all the way to the base. "don't i get w-whatever i want, simon? c-can't i...can't i have more?"

simon chuckles a little. he uses his thumb to swipe a glob of cum off your chin, bringing it up to his own mouth to suck off with a snort.

"you want more, baby?" simon asks, and you sit back up on your knees, pressing your forehead to his as he eyes your lips. they're a tad swollen, kiss-bitten and wet. "wot more do ya want, hmm? wot is it my wife wants so much, huh?"

you smile, wide, those big eyes sparkling. you give him another slow stroke with your hand, and he hisses, gritting his teeth as he watches your smile get just that much bigger.

"i want you to stop playing games with me, simon," you say softly. "you'll never win. so just give me what i deserve."

"wot you deserve?"

"don't i deserve you, simon?" you ask, and when he fails to answer, you swipe your thumb over his cock, drawing a cracked groan out of him. "you won't make me beg, will you, simon?"

"no," simon pants, leaning further into you, pressing his face to yours. "never. my wife doesn't beg for anythin'."

"you promise, simon?"

"my wife gets woteva she fuckin' asks for. olways."

[chromoluminary]

*has a breakdown about the small thing because having a breakdown about the bigger thing will get me institutionalized*