#the concept of the piece has been done before. i know this and i knew it going into it

[hinamie]

ough haven't been unhappy enough with a piece to scrap it entirely in a while that doesn't feel good lmao,,, anyway turns out i lied about the gojo-centric 2parter gomenasorry it's lookin like a solo :'3

[joelmillergirl]

Don’t Hate You- Joel Miller

An enemies to lovers story.

Word count: 3,298

Warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, one spank, rougher sex, slight degrading, oral (m receiving) hate sex, but they actually don’t hate each other!

Author’s Note: Love a good enemies to lovers. I did not proofread because I was ashamed!! :D

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

He was your neighbour; an interesting concept after 20 odd years of being alone with no sense of community. The apocalypse had torn through the world, separating friends from foe and dividing humanity into crushed pieces.

And then there was Jackson.

Jackson was small when you first showed up, bloody and beaten, tired of fighting. There were about 20 people at that time, all working hard to fix up the old town they had taken residence in. Maria had taken you in without any thought, allowing you to be someone after years of just living as another being, untrusting and rough, a shell of who you once were.

Five years later, you, along with the town, had blossomed. Buildings were now as new as they could be, with the resources the townspeople could find. Jackson had a bar, a laundrette, a clothes and a grocery store; things that had been hard to adjust to because your brain had been hardwired to live a certain way, were now able to just relax.

Slowly but surely, you were able to build yourself up into the personality you had before everything fell apart. A nicer, happier version of yourself. You knew everyone in town, always being greeted when you stepped out your door, they called you Honey.

“Sweet as honey, you are.” Eugene had said to you, an older man who had fought alongside Tommy in the fireflies.

The latter man scoffed, “Not to me, always teasin’ me, makin’ fun of me.”

You smile at him, “Chin up, Tommy. Someone has to keep that ego of yours in check.”

Every face in that town you could put a name to, until one day you couldn’t. Two new faces, one gruff with a frown, and the other smiley with her mouth constantly moving. You learned of their names; Joel, and Ellie. Before you could get the chance to introduce yourself, they had left.

“Where’s your brother? And the girl?” You hesitantly asked Tommy one day, raising the glass of whisky to your lips.

He shook his head once, downing his drink in one go, “Just needs to get something done. He’ll be back.”

Tommy's short reply had irked you more than it should have. Everyone in town was talking about the mystery man with his mystery kid; who were they? How long would they be away? You wish you knew the answer.

A few months later, you awoke to a distinctive voice; Tommy, yelling orders right outside your bedroom window. You tried to endure it for a while, a pillow placed over your head in an attempt to muffle the echo of his voice, but that proved to be a fail.

Thin cardigan around your body, fluffiest socks you could find, and a frown on your face, you move down the stairs in your house, muttering to yourself angrily. "Tommy!" You call out, gently closing your front door.

Tommy looked up with a guilty expression, "I'm sorry, I know-"

"It is the crack of dawn, you better have a good reason why I'm hearing your voice so early!" You finish, standing by the edge of your fence, arms crossed against your chest.

A third voice. A man stepping out of your neighbouring house. "Sorry, Ma'am, Tommy was just helpin' us settle in."

He was unapologetically handsome. Simply wearing jeans and a short sleeved shirt, with one expression plastered across his face at all times. Joel. You hated how at the sight of him, your arms unfolded from your body, hated how you couldn't really find yourself to be angry anymore.

You shift on your feet, cheeks flushing pink, "You're back."

Tommy raised his eyebrow, eyes moving between the two of you, "Honey, this is Joel, my brother, and your new neighbour."

Joel nodded in your direction, looking at you curiously. You shake your head softly, "Keep it down, Tommy." Your eyes move over to his brother, "Welcome to Jackson."

Then you were moving, back into the comfort of your own house where you slapped yourself in the face, embarrassment bubbling its way inside of you.

Two days later, you felt bad. Your bad impression with Joel replayed in your head endlessly, so bad that you had avoided going outside whenever you could hear voices next door. It was later when you knocked on their door, now in more appropriate clothes and with a clearer mind.

If he was shocked you were standing outside his door, he didn't show it, you spoke straight away. "I just wanted to properly introduce myself, I know you mustn't think too fondly of me." You give him your name along with a small smile.

Joel watched silently as you rambled an apology, only offering a small grunt and a nod of his head before closing the door in your face. You stood there for a moment, taking in what had just occurred. The rejection stung slightly, your inability to make amends with him weighing down on your shoulders. You hated how small that made you feel, hated how much you yearned for him to say something, just so you could hear his voice in that low, Southern drawl.

Tommy couldn't understand why your face soured whenever Joel's name was brought up, or why your fists clenched after watching his brother talk with other people. Why Joel seemed to talk to everyone except for you. Tommy sat in front of you in the booth at the bar, waiting for an opportunity to finally figure out what he had been suspecting. His eyes locked onto someone behind you and before you could ask, he was already calling out. “Joel! C'mere."

Your eyes widened slightly as you sat up straighter, kicking Tommy's leg under the table. You heard his boots stop next to you, his presence looming over the table you were leaning on. Tommy nodded his head slightly at you, "How're you guys gettin' along as neighbours? Haven't gotten any complaints yet, so must be goin' well."

Joel stayed quiet for a moment, eyes glancing over to you for a split second, "'S fine. Nice house you put me in."

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head with a smile, "Wasn't asking about the house, brother. You guys good?"

Joel looked down at you, eyes flickering down your face and to your hands that rest on the wooden table. “We’re good. She’s uh…” He paused, seemingly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “She’s a good neighbour.” He confirmed, suddenly looking everywhere but you and his brother.

Tommy smiled triumphantly, looking at you again. “Honey? He a good neighbour?”

You look at him unimpressed, feeling uncomfortable to be put in such a position, and furthermore the sight of Joel tapping his fingers against the table impatiently from the corner of your eye, made you feel angry. Unnecessarily so.

“Actually, Tommy, no. He’s not a good neighbour. He’s a dick. Always… slamming his gate when he gets back from night patrols.” You breathe out deeply, feeling the brothers’ gazes on you as you looked away. “I needa head back, I’ll see you Tommy.”

You hastily make your way out, “Oh god, why did I say that?” You whisper to yourself, embarrassment coursing through your body.

Three days after that incident , you had managed to avoid Joel like he was the plague; more than how you used to ignore him. His little girl, Ellie had approached you a few times, mocking your silence and asking why you didn't get along with the oldest Miller. You couldn't say that it was because how unnecessarily hot his accent was, or how he liked to wear tighter shirts that made your skin crawl with need, so you shrugged.

On the fourth day of ignoring Joel Miller, you had lost your streak.

It was later in the evening, everyone was either crowded in the dining hall, or in the comfort of their own homes, everyone but you. The winter coat you had on was not doing you justice, the freezing wind managing to slip through the small cracks, touching your skin. Although, you could barely call it a coat, material so worn and thin you would've been better in a long-sleeve shirt. You had been walking for a few minutes, nose pink, when you heard your name being called behind you.

"What the hell are you doin, wearing this in the middle of winter?" None other than Joel Miller scolded, grabbing you by the arm when he was close enough to. "You suicidal, woman?"

"Charming." You responded, trying so hard to ignore the warmth he provided by holding your arm. "Just walking, don't see the problem."

Joel scoffed, looking genuinely annoyed, "Don't see the pro-..." He trailed off for a moment, "You're going to freeze. And given our unpleasant history, I'll probably be blamed for your death."

Not waiting for a response, he started to pull you behind him, making a beeline for his house. You stuttered out, trying to object, "Joel, I'm perfectly capable of walking back to my house."

"Don't want you going back to your house. Need to talk with you." He shortly responded, ignoring your tugging. Once he had opened his door and you could feel the heat emitting from his house, you had settled slightly, but still shot Joel a glance as you entered.

"Go sit by the fire." He ordered, walking off into his kitchen, "Fuckin' hell." He mumbled.

You scowl at his back, debating with yourself for a second before deciding to follow his orders, sitting yourself down on the floor in front of the hot embers. You moan out in relief, shuffling a bit closer before turning your head to the side, watching Joel frown as he poured something in two mugs.

"Coffee." He grunted, walking over and placing the mug in your hands before sitting down on the chair next to you, sported with his own cup. "Drink it."

The mug helped you warm up faster, the heat reaching your fingertips and moving up your hands. "Prefer tea." You shortly respond, taking the drink up to your lips.

A moment of silence commenced before either of you talked again. Joel sighed deeply, and you saw from the corner of your eye his hand resting over his face, "Why're you so difficult?"

His words sunk into your brain. You scoffed, "I'm difficult?"

"Yes. You are."

You place the mug down beside you, looking into the flames for a moment. "I tried making amends with you, Joel. Tried being nice."

His silence fuelled your frustration. "Talking and smiling to everyone but me... Because I, what? I scolded your brother for being loud?" You continue, shaking your head.

Joel didn't talk, he didn't move. Only when he was sure you were finished talking did he speak. "You did try bein' nice... And uh... God, I hate this." He paused, taking a deep breath, "Didn't think it was a good idea for us to be nice. To talk."

"What?" You asked, turning to look at him, "You didn't think it was a good idea? That makes no sense, Joel. If you just don't like me, say that, don't try making up all these excuses!"

His eyebrows furrowed, he too had abandoned his mug onto the side table next to him. "Not makin' any excuses."

You laugh shortly, "Okay, Joel. I'll leave you then, get outta your hair... Seeming as this,' You gesture to the both of you, "Is not a good idea."

As you stood, Joel quickly followed, grabbing onto your shoulder to stop you from running. "I knew it would be a bad idea because the second I laid my eyes on you, you had me wrapped around your finger. Fuckin'," He took a breath, looking away from you for a moment, "Can't get you out of my head, you're everywhere."

"I don't..." You frown, looking up at him, your uneven breathing matching his, "I don't understand."

"I can't stay away from you, I can't do it anymore." He confessed, letting go of your shoulder, instead running his hands through his hair. "You don't even know what you do to me."

You watch him for a moment, trying to rationalise your feelings, "So, you... You act like a dick, and ignore me, shut doors in my face, and now I'm finding out it's because you can't stay away from me? That's so stupid!"

His neck was flushed, the pink hue travelling down to his chest, you forced yourself to keep your eyes on his face. He looked borderline desperate now as he stepped closer, "Tell me to stop, I will. If... If you let me have you, I don't think I'll be able to stop."

"How did we go from hating each other to this?" You ask, eyes flickering over his face.

Joel shook his head gently, his hands moving up to touch your neck, fingers ghosting your skin. "Didn't really hate each other. Did we?"

"Hated you. You're arrogant." You whisper, taking off your thin jacket, a shirt on underneath.

"Keep goin'." He nodded, frowning at your choice in clothing.

His fingers moved on his own accord, moving down to the bottom of your shirt, tugging on it. "You slammed your door shut in my face." You continue, pulling the shirt off your body and throwing it on the floor.

"Like an ass." He agreed, his eyes taking in your upper half, hungrily staring at the bra you were wearing.

As if in a trance, you pulled your pants off yourself, "Just wanted to apologise to you for my bad impression." You tell him, now standing in your underwear in front oh his clothed self.

Joel nodded, his breath intaking as he looked at you, "Didn't care what you were sayin' that morning, baby. Comin'. out in that singlet of yours, tiny shorts. You thought that cardigan was gonna help ya? Was hopin' you'd yell at Tommy all day."

Your pussy clenched at his words, a gush of heat travelling upwards. "I was rude to you in the bar the other day... In front of Tommy." You confess, kneeling down in front of him, your face now in line with his growing bulge still restrained in his jeans.

"Yeah, baby." Joel agreed, "Had to listen to him lecture me for an hour." He reached down and moved your hair out of your face, looking deeply into your eyes.

His zipper was down before he could blink, quickly helping you pull down his pants, his boxers following soon after. His cock was big, bigger than you had expected it to be. Its red head was dripping with pre come, falling down the sides of him. Your hand experimentally wrapped around him, seeing how much you'd be able to take, only to find that your hand was not able to close properly.

"It's big, I know." Joel hummed, his cock twitching in your hands, "You can take it."

Your hands began moving after he spoke to you, making sure to squeeze down on him. His head fell back in pleasure, a groan releasing from his throat. After a few minutes of slowly jerking him off, you brought your head closer to his tip, carefully wrapping your lips around him. At the added pleasure, Joel looked down, letting out a whimper.

"Fuck, feel so good." He told you, scrunching his eyebrows together, "Look so good." He added, his hand coming down to hold your cheek.

With new profound confidence, you moved your head faster, making sure to match the speed with your hand. His moans grew louder, his hand moving from your cheek to the back of your head, fisting some of your hair. "Alright, alright." Joel quickly said, pulling your head off his cock, now topped with the glisten of your saliva.

"Need it." You whisper, using his hand to help yourself up, tugging down your underwear before helping Joel out of his shirt. You look up at him expectedly, legs clenching together.

Joel looked down at the sight, mockingly sighing, "You wet, baby? Need me to take care of ya, huh?" He gently grabbed your hand pulling you behind him as he approached his couch. You watched as he sat down, spreading his legs widely, a sight that was truly sinful.

He gestured to his lap, and you took the hint. Climbing onto him, you didn't break eye contact, your chest pressed against his as you looked into his eyes. "Here." He whispered, reaching behind your back and unclasping your bra, peeling it away from your body. "God, you're..." He sighed, leaning back against the couch as he stared at your breasts, "You're gorgeous."

"Still hate you." You mumble, leaning up with your hands on his shoulders. He gripped his cock from under you, dragging the tip across your clit and down your pussy.

"Yeah?" He asked, looking up at your face as he placed himself up near your entrance, your legs already shaking with need. Your arousal dripped down the side of his dick, fluids mixing together. "Doesn't feel like you hate me."

You shook your head, moving downwards gently, just far enough that the tip of him slipped inside you. You both groan. "I do hate you." You try and convince him, taking him further inside you with every second that passed. When your ass met his thighs, you moaned out loudly, tilting your head backwards. "Feel so deep."

Joel smiled lazily, pressing his hand against your abdomen, "Right up here. Go on, show me how much ya hate me. Fuck it all outta ya." He slurred, his accent becoming more pronounced the further he lost himself inside you. You started with small grinds, getting your body used to the intrusion first, shaky breaths and pants falling from your mouth as your clit rubbed against his pubic hair.

He helped you bounce after, his large hands on your ass, pulling you up and down on his dick, roughly meeting those movements with his own thrusts below. Once he was confident you had found your rhythm, he leant back, watching. "Still hate me?" He shakily asked, his hands moving from your breasts down to your clit, rubbing slow circles there.

"No." You cry out, moving your body forwards so you were laying on him, your face resting in the crook of his neck. "Please." You beg, although you weren't sure of what.

Joel wraps his arms around you, holding you tight as his hips drive faster up into you. The sounds of your skin colliding echoing through his house, aiding in the pleasure you were feeling. Joel grunted in your ear, one of his hands coming down onto your ass, slapping it. "Gonna cum, baby. Come on, need to feel it."

You lean up slightly, chest heaving against his. "So close." You whisper, leaning your forehead against his. The sensation of his hands roaming your body, the feeling of his cock pistoning up into you, and your own need for him fuelled your orgasm. Just as you started clenching around him, Joel moved his head up, catching your lips in a kiss before his own orgasm escaped him. You came together, legs shaking and breaths coming out hot as you kissed.

Somehow, the kiss felt more intense than the mind-blowing sex you had just had, the intimacy of it had your heart clenching. "Don't hate you." You sighed, pulling away from his lips. "Hated how you made me feel. Wanted you so bad."

He nodded. "I know, baby. Me too."

As they dressed themselves and sat with each other by the fire, discovering new emotions and sensations with one another the rest of Jackson had continued moving around them, acting like another day; though your life would now be irrevocably changed.

[moonlight-prose]

This is just a food for thought thing bc I have no where to really share this. I (ofc) do the self insert/day dream thing with Logan, and yeah like most fan fics I tend to put others first and TRY to be kind. But I'm also very stubborn and protective. And I know MY ass would get all defensive and "I'll beat the shit out of you for insulting him" about Logan (even if he's taller and stronger), but I never would about myself. So imagine tiny lil s/o reader being held effortlessly by Logan when they get mad at how someone for how they treated him

this concept actually has me swooning as someone with my father's temper. i would go down bloody and bruised in a fight for logan's reputation, but he wouldn't LET ME.

He's laughing. You've got vitriol on your tongue, rage fueling your actions, and blood spread across your knuckles and he's fucking laughing. You aren't sure what's worse. The words the man - now stumbling away from the bar - spewed, or the fact that Logan has his arm clamped around your waist - a grin curved around the lit cigar he's been puffing.

"You about done bub?" he chuckles, hand yanking at your hip to turn you into his body.

The glare you give should send him six feet under, but the pride on his face kills your rage quicker than you would have liked.

Whatever argument transpired was petty. You knew this. Logan knew this. He just never expected you to throw your drink in the drunk's face. Proceeding to nearly break his nose by slamming his face into the bar-top.

"He called you a piece of shit," you growl - feral and untamable to others. Cute and his little spitfire to him.

Logan shrugs. "Been called that before."

"Not with me around."

"And what were you gonna do about it huh? His face is bleeding. I think ya made your point."

Anger trickles down into the petulant grim expression you wear like a mask. It's sobering to know that you'd be laid out flat on the filthy floor of the bar if you kept that fight up. If Logan hadn't yanked you away from the man, curses flying out of your mouth quicker than Wade's jokes.

His hand is warm against your cheek, the amusement clear in his expression. "He can call me a piece of shit boyfriend all he wants. I'm fine with that. You know why?"

The pout isn't cute - you know that - but the sight of it makes his grin deepen. His hazel eyes sporting a shine of awe he only wore for you.

"Why?"

"Cause I have you. And he doesn't."

[softshuji]

You're starting to believe Shion doesn't have the capacity to be mad at you,

and it makes you a little angry when you've done something wrong, and he can only click his tongue and say 'I don't mind, I'll sort it out' and he's on his hands and knees picking up the shards of the broken glass now scattered over the kitchen floor.

He might nick his own palms with a wince, but he diligently grabs the broom and sweeps the flints up before you can comment on how you should have been doing it.

He turns up with a replacement the next day and it finds a home next to the others, as if it had never happened in the first place. And he never gets mad, never yells, never speaks negatively even if you deserve it, even if you're pushing his buttons and being irritating, he can only smile.

You crash your car, you lose your handbag, you set the smoke alarm off, you get into trouble constantly and he has nothing to say except, 'it's okay, it'll be fine' and you're torn between believing maybe that he doesn't have the capacity to get mad at all with you,

or maybe he doesn't care enough to do so. Anger is passion after all, isn't that what they all say?

You've taken to doing more reckless things just to get a reaction that isn't the softhearted and loving smile thrown towards you whenever you drop something and send the pieces flying and you hate yourself a little bit every time when you know he's being so kind, and you'd be devastated if he wasn't.

That's always the thing about him- and the rules are different for you.

He doesn't take you to gang meetings often and they call him 'mad dog' when you're not around and it baffles the others (ran and Rindou especially) that his girlfriend is a sweet, innocent, intuitive thing that dotes on him every day- enough for you to send him out with home cooked lunches that don't give him stomach aches. Though he'll never admit he gets them at all, he's never really been one to complain at anything.

If anything they're a little jealous. How can someone as 'unput together' as him bag a girl like that?

You would have a mind to tell them exactly how if you ever knew that conversation had happened- but he makes a point to keep 'all that gang shit' away from you anyway. He likes your little corner, the slice of domestic life that you offer him where he can perhaps be something else, where he gets to be the man in charge for once, where you don't mind that he is sometimes hard to put up with (his words, you'd never believe that). His dear girlfriend is a saving grace at the end of the day when he kicks off his shoes at the door and heaves a big sigh, scratching his hair as he slides off his jacket and misses the bannister when he throws it onto the wood cornering the stairway.

He is too good at the centre of it all. You don't and have never felt at all ashamed of being his girlfriend, or his girl, or anything,

and the snickers don't bother you when you know who he really is and what he really means. People have always chosen to see exactly what they want to, why would this be any different?

But you can't lie and say the guilt isn't eating you at all, when you provide so little to him in the way of his life. To him, he might not be the Haitani's but to you that's never mattered. You like the simplicity of him, and duplicitous feelings have never been your forte because he's always been so upfront about his feelings for you. He likes you, he loves you, he makes it known all the time and you wonder if you really do enough when he is so forgiving and you're under no illusions that maybe he isn't like the others, but it doesn't mean another woman won't want him if he left you. He's still part of the biggest gang in the country, and you know that counts for something.

It's making you a little sick when you think about it again- the concept of him not caring enough to be pissed off at you when you deserve it, of being so quick to defend you, even when you have done something wrong.

Like today, when you're deliberately being tetchy with him, sketchy and evasive and he's prodding in the gentle way of his to find the root of the issue, and it burns you a little inside when he trails after you- a puppy following an owner- with your discarded jacket in hand, clothes kicked off and left on the floor.

'You going to tell me what's wrong or not?' he says, bending to pick up your shirt as you round the corner to the bedroom. It makes his heart quake inside when he thinks about it. Are you not happy enough with him? Do you not love him? Is he doing something wrong? If so, how can he fix this?

'Mhmmm no, no nothing's wrong,' you say airily, as if nothing is and you miss how his eyebrows crunch towards your back as you slip off the rest of your clothes and pick up your discarded robe from the tower of them on the chair.

And you hate that you're being like this for no reason, or rather a reason you can't discern in any easy way when you know he doesn't deserve this, when he's been more than attentive to you over time. You're lucky in a way few others are. When you meet with friends and they talk on and on about husbands and boyfriends that it sounds like they don't love at all- all the issues, all the nagging that you can't relate to and you curse yourself for ruining what others would kill to have, albeit unintentionally.

'You're being funny.' He folds your clothes and leaves them on the chair, filling a glass of water for you as you both pass the kitchen.

'Funny how?'

'Weird, like you're upset.'

'You think so?'

You hate the evasive game. You hate even more that he can probably see through it so easily. He's always been like that. The other's call him airheaded, but he's never forgotten a thing about you.

'I know so. Can you tell me what's wrong?'

You turn, a look over your shoulder to him in the doorway, fiddling with his hands, a little lost, a little adrift, the worried and anxious tilt of his brows matched by the bite to his lower lip and it aches inside when you know you're the cause, when it hurts because of that fact. You love him, but where is that love meant to go when you have so much of it? When you wonder one day whether he's coming back, whether he's staying or dying in another man's battle, when you know his loss would tear something in you that you could never heal.

Your mouth forms the words before you have time to catch up with it, and it comes off seamlessly when you say 'I'm sorry,' and he frowns in that way he does, his brows pinching, the slight curl of his blond hair framing his cheeks, a strand or two falling over his tattoo away from the fray.

'Huh? What for?' he says, now shutting the door behind him, your glass of water and painkillers for the headaches you get left on the nightstand.

Clockwork.

You're a fish when you open your mouth, close it again and turn wordlessly towards the dresser to pick up a hairbrush, mumbling a "nothing, forget it," that has his ears pricking up, expecting him to take the bait and leave you to sulk on your own, the kicked puppy attitude that you hate you still show even now.

His hip brushes the dresser when he comes up to you now, pulls the hairbrush from your hand with a noise of indignation at the back of your throat, before tossing it onto the bed, your wrists now encircled in his bigger hands, his thumbs finding the dips over your knuckles seamlessly.

"no."

"no?"

"no, it's not nothing, and you can tell me." A beat. "I want you to tell me." 

And your cheeks burn with heat, a fiery ice that licks at your neck when his thumbs come to rest on the incline of your wrists, a knowing look in his eyes with an eyebrow raised. And you avoid his gaze for a moment, settling it on the dresser, on the corner where the paint is chipping and the wood is exposed and he lifts a hand to tilt your head, your chin between his thumb and forefinger, till you stubbornly turn back to him with a pout.

‘Sorry,’ you say, your lip pulled by your teeth, bitten down and reddened, an anxious bite that he presses down on your lip to stop, the edge of his thumb skimming the dip in your chin. 

‘You’re saying it again without telling me what it’s for,’ he says now, hands slipping down to your waist that he pulls till it’s flush with his own. ‘I wanna know what has my Dear girlfriend so sad.’

‘I just feel stupid y’know? I’ve been shitty to you recently, and you haven’t gotten mad at me once, and it makes me feel guilty when you don’t.’

He frowns, a crease to his brows that you resist the urge to smooth over with your fingers. ‘You want me to get mad at you?’

‘Yes! I- well no, but just- don’t you get mad at me?’

‘No, why would I?’

‘Why wouldn’t you? Don’t you love me?’

He shakes his head, incredulous, a stunned and pained expression flitting over the warm apples of his cheeks. ‘Of course I love you, but what does that have to do with anything?’ His grip tightens on your hips, a slow rock and thud against his own as he smooths circles into the slip of skin between your shirt and pants.

‘Well, people get angry at who they love sometimes, and you don’t, so that might mean…’

‘That I don’t love you? Is that what you’re saying?’ he says, the inflection at the end that betrays his hurt, the worried and hushed flash of pain glimmering in his eyes where the reflection of you avoids his gaze. You don’t speak again, opting to stare at the ground, your feet, the one spot on the carpet with the immovable stain that never lifts. 

The silence seems to stretch, a quiet so loud that your ears ring with it, yawning on till he breaks it with a ‘I’m not sure who told you that but they were an idiot.’

Your head snaps up, apprehension and unease creeping along your skin. ‘What do you mean?’

And he laughs somehow, his eyes creasing, the sharp edges of his teeth revealed with the curve of a smile, lowering his head till it rests against yours, the edge of his blond hair tickling your cheek. ‘You’re so silly sometimes y’know?’

‘Huh?’ you say stiffly, a warning bell ringing lightly against your ears, a little ashamed, a little pressured despite yourself, even though you're the one who started it, you're a deer in headlights at the soft easiness of him. Maybe it would be easier if he burned through you, if he bared his fangs and bit straight into you - in the way you know would take a long time to nurse. 

And he laughs harder somehow, a little giggle that provokes your own, a light and hesitant laugh that has you prickling with self consciousness. 'What are you laughing at? What's so funny?' 

'You! You are!' And he raises his hands around your shoulders, a light shake of them as his breath ghosts over your Cupid's now, warm, sweet and scented with the undertone of menthol. You catch the reflection of yourself in the vanity to the side- you're puffy, cheeks puffed out, eyes watery, not your best by any means, especially when you angle in the way that shows the scar on your shoulder - a horrifying sight really, and you lift your cami to hide it , as if you ever can, as if it still matters this many years later.

And he softens, that glimmer in his eyes, a faint click of his tongue before you're pulled- gently still, into the warmth of his chest, your cheek squished against the soft linen of his shirt now creased from the day, your hands somehow instinctively finding purchase on his back where the muscle slips and slides underneath his skin, all sinewy flesh that feels warm and alive under your hands. 

'Y'know…..' he starts, a rumble of his voice that ruminates against your earlobe, one hand coming up to rub at your back, the other still firmly on your hip pulled flush to his. 'Sometimes I do get angry at you, but it never means anything, never changes anything.'

Your voice is a whisper against his skin, your breath curling along the exposed flesh of his arm where your lips skim across now, faint freckles and marks now pressed to your mouth. 'You do?'

'Mhm, sometimes. When you do reckless things, when you don't take care of yourself, when you don't talk about what you like because you don't think you should.' 

A hot fiery ice thunders into your veins and your neck prickles with embarrassment. 'I do that?' 

'You do. It's like you don't think you ought to take up any space, like you feel bad for wanting things.' 

'Oh.' 

'But it doesn't mean I don't love you. You're my girlfriend aren't you? Just because I don't get mad at you doesn't mean I don't love you. It's because I love you that I don't get mad.'

'But other people say-'

He pulls you back, his lips ghosting over your forehead, hands coming to cup at your cheeks, tenderly, the knuckle dusters and rings left forgotten on the bedside table. 'I don't care what people say. Loving you will never make me angry, or mad, or anything like that and whoever told you that was a loser.' 

'But…..' 

'No buts. It's either love you as you are, or lose you all together.' He shrugs, the glint of eyes now pearly and glimmering with a soft rosy shine. 'It seems like an easy choice to make.' 

You look away, a lick of heat making a slow crawl along your neck. 'Oh.' And you move from foot to foot self consciously, a hand coming up to scratch at your neck. You wonder in times like this, whether it bothers him to constantly give you this reassurance that comes so easily and often, when you doubt him and it has you shameful, and you find that he never relents in neverending love. 

Why would he? You're his dear girlfriend and that's the way he likes it.

Happy bday to my darlin' ❤️

Reblogs appreciated!

[frannyzooey]

Short Days,Long Nights: 10

Joel Miller x f!reader

Rating: Mature (anxiety, pregnancy, grim mentions of childbirth)

Series Masterlist

A/N: thank you endlessly to @the-ginger-hedge-witch for reassuring me that this isn’t a terrible, no good, very bad piece of writing ❤️ and also, I wanna reassure you that despite the emotions in this chapter, my intention has always been a happy ending for these two. Don’t fret. ❤️

—

Something is off. 

He treads carefully down the path he’s followed for months, his boots leaving pressed imprints in the soft dirt and his eyes scan for signs of life. His mind is back in the cabin where he left you sleeping, your body curled into a tight ball along the edge of his form left on the sheets, and he tried hard not to wake you, though he didn’t have to be too careful given how tired you’ve been lately. 

Sleeping late, turning in early, naps in the middle of the day. You blame the heat, or the boredom, or the way reading makes you drowsy, but even he knows that’s not all it is. 

You’ve been distracted, quiet. Drawing into yourself more often these last couple weeks, he tries to recall if he’s said or done anything, to remember if he himself is the cause. It’s been a long time since he cared about what anyone else thought – definitely since he cared enough to want to atone for anything he’s done – but for you, he sifts through his words and actions.

He knows you so well by now. Knows every tell, every minute shift in your mood. More molecular than reading your body language, the air between you shifts and changes when you’re upset, your face betraying nothing to someone who doesn’t know you as well as he does. You’ve been hiding your face more from him lately, because he knows you must know it’s open for him like his is now open for you. 

The back of your head facing him in the garden, the peek of your forehead over the top of your book, the way you look at him like you’re about to say something, but when he gives you the space, you look away. 

Even at night, you hide your face into the soft crook of his neck to sleep.

He kneels to inspect deer tracks, his fingers brushing aside growth to follow their lead and heading deeper into the forest, the air around him cools under the canopy of trees. The woods are alive with sounds: bird calls, soft chittering, the rustle and slide of leaves, the crunch of his boots as they snap small twigs underfoot. 

Amidst it all, he tries to work out the puzzle of you; his bow held loose in his grip. 

–

Your hands shaking with nerves as you watch him disappear beyond the treeline, you pull your bottom lip into your mouth with a bite and scold yourself for not telling him about your suspicions this morning. 

Or yesterday.

Or the day before that.

You know you could probably keep your secret for at least a couple more months, but there was no point. Everything about surviving here depended on preparing; the sooner, the better, making all the difference between life and death. 

Your palms turn clammy, another rush of bile creeping up your sternum as you run out the cabin door before it comes pouring out into the grass and feeling shaky after, you walk over to the rocking chair on the porch and take a seat, letting your head fall forward into your hands. 

Being forced to confront the concept of your life ending more times than you would have ever imagined over the last ten years, you’d thought you’d be desensitized to it now… but this was a wholly different type of fear. Not so much the idea that you might actually die while going through with this, (which, over the course of the last few weeks has become a much more terrible, terrifying thought) but more the fear of doing it alone.  

Nothing to guide you, no one to help in case something went wrong. You knew that women had been birthing children in their homes for centuries now, many of them in the same exact position you were in – but they had midwives and neighbors who came from afar to help. Other women around them who had gone through it before, advice handed down from generation to generation. Reassurance in the form of knowledge. 

You would have someone, you reasoned with yourself, if you told him. Joel has always been there to take care of you, and you know this time wouldn’t be any different, but how much did he know about this? Even if he knew a little, that information was almost three decades old. 

Another small part of you felt, even though you know he would never mean to make you feel this way, that you let him down. As if you could stop the science of your body and it betrayed you, or that you compromised this entire setup by foolishly ignoring the consequences of your actions. The last couple weeks a brutal reminder that you have been somewhat romanticizing this possibility, that alone carried its own humiliation.

Now faced with the confirmation of it, you were ashamed. And scared. 

This odd mixture of feelings, just like the odd mix of sensations in your body, kept you from saying anything every time you had a chance. He wouldn’t be mad, you knew that, but your hormone addled brain kept conjuring images of his disappointed face and that was almost worse. 

You press your fingers into your eyes, liquid warmth seeping through the digits as you think and you let the tears fall, taking deep, shaky inhales. 

More than anything, you worried about fracturing the bridge that had been built between the two of you, especially given his past. He already lost one child, what if something happened to this one? His perceived failure almost ruined him the first time; a gaping, ten year wound that tore him apart and ravaged his mind and morals. Only now just beginning to heal, what will this do to him?

The thoughts are circular, never ending. 

Will he even want this? Are you unknowingly forcing him into something he’s dreaded? You know he knew the far away consequences of your shared actions, but will he hate you? Will he resent the burden you are? The one you’re carrying, for the rest of his life?

How will you care for it? How will you feed it? Is there enough food prepared for something like this? How will you do this alone? What if it gets sick?

The worries expand and grow, filling your head with a relentless noise that makes you queasy. You think about telling him as soon as he gets back, and a cold sweat breaks along your hairline, running over your limbs. 

Getting up, you lean over the railing and purge your nerves onto the ground below. 

–

Standing in the kitchen, his back is to you and you take a moment to study the broad width of his shoulders. The dark curls that edge around the nape of his neck, the strength held in his solid frame. Cleaning his gun, he’s recounting his day in the woods to you and you are trying so hard to focus on his words, but you can’t. Not while the worries from this afternoon run rampant in your head, clouding everything. 

Still, it’s the image of his back that convinces you to tell him: sturdy, solid, familiar. Those curls are the same you’ve felt in your hands for months: sliding between your fingers as you run through them at night, coiled tightly on the ground before they lifted into the air when you gave him a haircut last week, slicked smooth along his head after a swim. 

You hand wash the clothes on that back, massage the tired, thick muscles of it, stroke the tanned, freckled skin in the sunlight. Dig your fingers into the meat of those shoulders, curl your legs around that torso, feel its broadness underneath you when you straddle him. 

It’s guided you, carried you, the formidable strength in it has made this place a home, and the reassuring reminder of those things forces you to open your mouth. 

“Joel, I –” you start, and he stops talking, turning his ear in your direction. 

“Yea?” His attention is still on his task but he slows, and your gut churns with nerves and anxiety and new life. You take a deep breath and focus on his back; the one that you’ve been following for months, before you even knew who he was. 

“I’m pregnant.”

He immediately stills, his frame locking up as his hands stop what he’s doing. 

When he doesn’t move, you take a hesitant step closer, pushing through the urge to run into your bedroom and hide under the blankets. The air in the room is charged, your heart thundering in your chest and when you take another tiny step closer, he finally speaks. 

“You’re sure?” he asks, resting his hands carefully on the edge of the counter. 

“Yea,” you reply, letting out a breath and trying to ease the tension. “I mean, no test, obviously, but…”

He nods slowly, absorbing the information. 

You stare at the back of his neck, willing him to turn around, but when he doesn’t, shame and embarrassment begin to bloom. Starting in your chest, the emotions take root and your fingers find the bottom of your sleeves and twist into the fabric, the familiar tingle of heat growing behind your eyes. 

Even though you know that both of you had a hand in this, you find yourself apologizing.

“I’m sorry —“

As soon as the words leave your mouth, he turns quickly. 

“Hey — stop. No, don’t say that. Come ‘ere.”

Shortening the distance between your bodies, his face is a worried expression so thoroughly earnest that you step right into his arms, tucking your face into his chest. He gathers you into his hold, his familiar scent of sweat and cotton and woods soothing your nerves, and you lean into him, holding tight. 

“I told you, you don’t gotta say sorry. Not to me.” His arms squeeze tighter, his chin coming to rest on the top of your head. “I was just – I didn’t expect that. I was just thinkin’.”

“That’s all I’ve been doing these last couple weeks,” you admit. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. It’s just that I didn’t know for sure, and then I thought maybe I knew, and then I did know but I was so scared –”

“Shhh,” he soothes. “Hey, it’s okay. S’okay.”

Those words, said in his voice, bring fresh tears to your eyes, not realizing how much you needed to hear them until they were spoken out loud. Only by him, the only person you would accept them from because if he says it’s going to be okay, you know it to be true. He hasn’t failed you yet. 

As if it only just occurs to him to check, he suddenly cups your face tenderly in his hands and makes you look up at him.

“You okay? You sick? How do you feel?”

“I’m….okay. I can’t tell if I’m more sick from the –” you stop short, unable to say the word out loud. Saying it makes it real and you aren’t ready for that yet. “I was pretty nervous to tell you.”

He says nothing, frowning. Searching your face for a moment, he nods as if he understands and brings you back to your place in his arms. 

“I’m not mad at you, honey,” he murmurs. “If anything, you should be mad at me. I’m just as much at fault as you are. More, even.”

Your cheek staying pressed to the hollow of his shoulder, you frown. “How so?”

“I’m older than you are. I know better. I —“

“I know how sex works, Joel. I asked you for it, and I’m just as guilty —“

“I’m responsible for you.” His hand tilts your face up, so he can look you directly in the eyes and the statement is said with a finality that closes your mouth. “I gotta keep you safe — and there ain’t nothin’ safe about this.”

You feel your face start to crumple, your chest heavy with the shared knowledge. 

“No,” you swallow, the edges of your mouth turning into something solemn. “No, there isn’t.”

His expression softens, his thumb stroking the fine hair at your temple and his voice softens too. 

“It’ll be okay, honey. I’m right here.” His hold on your face firms, his eyes silently willing you to understand. “I would never, never let anything bad happen to you. Not ever.”

You both know that’s not a promise that he can make, but the words are like a raft in a storm; you cling to them, holding on with every fiber of your being. 

“You understand?” he asks and you nod, the constant weight on your chest these last few weeks temporarily dissolving. 

Your nod reassuring him, he guides your face back to his chest and with the weight of his broad hand sliding soothingly down your spine, you loosen under his touch. 

Each lost in your own thoughts, the two of you stand there, wound tightly together. 

–

It’s been hours, and he still can’t sleep.

A light breeze catches the curtain and the fabric waves lazily, your body still beside him in the dark room. You took some soothing to come down from the confession earlier, and he stayed by you until you went to sleep: tucked you into his side on the couch, wound himself around you in bed, took you apart only after he got your okay. 

He lays naked, nothing but a thin sheet covering his form but it might as well be a weighted blanket with how his chest feels. It tightens and burns, a crushing pressure settling on top of it. Every breath becomes a pained struggle for air as he tries to stay still so you don’t wake up. 

He doesn’t know anything about this. 

Hazy memories: partial pieces of advice, parenting books and pediatrician visits and the day Sarah was born. Everything blends together in rapid succession: her sharp, bright wail, the team of doctors, her impossibly tiny body, featherlight in his hold. 

He pictures the same thing in this room, but instead of bright lights and beeping machines, all he can picture is blood. So much blood. 

Your face, twisted in pain. 

Your face, crying. 

Your pretty face, pleading for him to help you. 

He tries to pull in air, his hand coming to push against the plane of his chest as the anxiety floods and gathers under his sternum, catching on and coating the muscles there until he’s locked in place. A cold sweat breaks out over his skin and he can barely hear the rapid, shallow pants of his own breathing under the rush of blood through his ears. 

His vision tunnels, the walls of the room disappearing and self loathing creeps into his mind, as dark as the night outside. 

He did this to you. You wanted it, but he knew better. He was supposed to protect you. 

He closes his eyes tight and swallows hard, willing the panic away. 

If something happens to you, it’s going to be his fault. He’s going to fail you, like he failed her. Fail the both of you. 

Reaching out to grasp the sheet at his side as a means to anchor himself, he brushes the back of his hand against your hip and he opens his eyes, turning to face your back. Faced away from him, the soothingly slow rise and fall of your breathing catches his gaze and focusing on the pattern of it, he forces himself to match it. 

In and out. In and out. 

His hand splays over the slope of your waist, curving around your side and the warm give of your flesh reassures him. His vision clears, the softened edges of your shadowed form bringing him back to the room and the white noise filling his head fades, the tension in his chest slowly easing. He flexes his hold on you, his thumb sliding across your bare skin. 

You turn in your sleep, rolling over to face him and lifting his hand just enough to let you move, he rests it back on your side. His thumb drags across your petal soft skin, his eyes dropping down to watch and before he can stop himself, the back of his knuckles brush delicately against the natural swell of your stomach. 

He remembers the fear, but looking down at his hand, something blooms deep within that pit beneath his sternum. Something else, something that’s been lying dormant for years, but when he sees his hand against your bare stomach, it takes root and pierces through the surface of the panic.

Hesitantly, he lets himself feel those things, in the safety of the dark room. 

Anticipation. Joy. Happiness, contentment. Love, that he’d never imagined he’d feel again. 

He feels a version of it when he looks at you right now — a deeper version of it, a calmer one. A steady, anchoring emotion, one that he fought in the beginning but now has given in and gotten used to it. 

The love that he has for you planted within your body, taking root. 

His thumb drags over your belly button, and you shift in your sleep. 

“There’s nothing there yet,” you mumble, the words a soft slur in the darkness. “Go to sleep, baby.”

He hums lowly, his hand splaying to cover your stomach. Fingertip to thumb, it spans from hip to hip, but when you shift again next to him, he reluctantly pulls it away. 

Gathering you as gently as he can in his arms, he tilts his chin down to catch your mouth with his. Sleep warm and soft, you kiss him back and his arm winds around your waist, tugging you close. 

With your belly cradled between the two of you, he falls asleep. 

[thestorycomesalive]

And I Would Do it Again

George Weasley x Reader

Summary: When you stick up for George in front of your whole Defense Against the Dark Arts class, Professor Umbridge has a certain consequence in mind for you.

Angst and Fluff, Hurt/Comfort.

TW: Mentions of Blood

****

“Eh hem, Mr. Weasley,” hummed a trilling voice from behind the tall red head next to you.

“Professor?” George raised an eyebrow to the pink clad woman behind him, wondering what in the world the small, angry lady could possibly want. Afterall, he hadn’t done anything wrong. And he knew better than to test her at this point. Or at least he knew his limits. Ron had told him of the tragic events that took place in Harry’s detention. Ever since then, he and his twin brother had gotten quieter and cleverer about pulling their tricks around school. Of course, they hadn’t stopped altogether. George wouldn’t be George without his pranks. But George knew he couldn’t get detention. Not out of a kindness for himself, but rather for your sake. He knew you’d worry too much.

But this time, he hadn’t done anything to provoke Professor Umbridge. He racked his brain for a moment, but he couldn’t think of one thing that would call her attention to him.

“You have received a generous amount of our class time today to complete your writing assignment, and while even Ms. L/N next to you has come up with a few paragraphs, you seem to have nearly nothing on your page. Care to explain what you’ve been up to all of this time?” The woman teetered to the front of your table, peering down at George.

He gave her a look of disbelief. “Well, it is not for lack of trying. I just have a hard time learning on paper. And you don’t let us use our wands,” he pointed out.

She giggled a single, ugly giggle. “Mr. Weasley… I can’t say I’m surprised. Afterall, I have come to expect less than from you. You shouldn’t need your wand to learn. Perhaps it is time for you to accept the fact that your own stupidity is to blame for your shortcomings. I really do my very best, but some students are just purely unteachable.” She hummed the last part to herself, shaking her head.

Your eyes shot up to her instantly. You had been watching her for some time, but in this instance, your eyes had been on the boy next to you, offering looks of kindness and sympathy without words. But now you were angry. Practically fuming. “Excuse me,” you muttered sharply, grabbing her attention with a whip of her head. “That is not, in any way, fair or warranted. George is one of the smartest people I know.” Your eyes were shooting darts at her as a piercing, condescending smile crept up to her ears.

“Ms. L/N. Talking out of turn will not be tolerated in my classroom. Especially not when it is used to talk back to your superiors,” she huffed.

You felt the smallest sensation of George’s pinky finger entwining with yours, as he tried to simmer down some of the anger, he knew was bubbling within you. You sighed and decided to leave the subject, having said your piece.

“You shall not question my knowledge and wisdom in any sense. If I say he is stupid, he is stupid, and if I say you are a flying Niffler, well then, you must be a flying Niffler. Do you understand, young lady?” she grinned, clearly having been satisfied with what she thought was winning the argument. You feel the heat and anger rising even higher than before at the mention of the sweet boy next to you. And then you finally realized what it is she was asking of you. She was asking you to agree with her cruel assumption about your George in front of the whole class. She cocks an eyebrow in the air with a wild smirk on her face. The rage pools over as you finally let it escape your mouth.

“No. I do not. I do not understand how you can call someone so bright and creative stupid, simply because you lack the skills and empathy to teach them what you would like them to know. Or because their knowledge simply extends beyond concepts that you can understand. You might not agree with me, Professor, but not everyone is like you. Not everyone wants to sit in a dark room and just pretend to learn for the rest of their lives. You want to give me detention, Professor? Fine. But I will not stand by while you abuse really great wizards, let alone, the ones that I love.” You cock your eyebrows back at her, knowing she has you right where she wants you. You don’t have a care in the world as the steam almost rises from your ears. It is now you notice that George’s hand had moved from your pinky to your wrist, gently trying to stop you from making the decision you had just made, his eyes pleading with yours with a gentle sadness and slight shock. However, for the briefest moment, you thought you could make out the tiniest glimpse of pride pass his eyes at the same time.

“Detention, Ms. L/N. I will not have anyone tell me how to teach in my classroom or question my abilities and judgement as a witch. Let alone someone so new to magic, as yourself.” She smiled smugly as she returned to the front of the classroom continuing her lesson immediately, not giving George or you a chance to respond to her. It was this act that left George hunting her down with a glare that could kill for the rest of the class, hand still in yours.

****

George spent every moment away from you that day, skipping his classes, trying in every way to get himself detention with Umbridge as well. However, every attempt ended with a quiet humph and scolding from her filled with cruel and nasty words. It was clear that even though she dreadfully wanted to, she was not going to give in and give George the detention he so desperately desired. She knew his punishment would be far more effective if she let you suffer and put him in a position where he would not be able to do anything about it whatsoever. It was the only time that he had the freedom to do nearly anything he wanted at Hogwarts, to break almost any rule he wanted to break, and get away with it. The painful irony is, he hated every second of it.

*****

Your detention arrived quickly that night when the corridors of the castles quieted. You had spent all day since your class with Umbridge quiet by George’s side. On the moments that you would be separated, you would go find a place in the Gryffindor Common Room to sit and wait for him to return from his classes or what you thought must be prank trials with Fred. But you weren’t worried about your detention like most people probably assumed you had been. Hell, you probably should’ve been. No. You were furious. Furious at Umbridge for targeting George, furious at her for backing you into a corner until you couldn’t take it anymore, furious at her for hurting Harry, furious at her for getting away with all of the terrible things she has done… furious.

When darkness befell the Common Room, only George, Fred, Lee, and you remained. You hadn’t told Harry or anyone else about your detention. You didn’t want him to worry. However, Fred and Lee, of course, had known of your soon-to-be punishment, considering they had been in the class when you received it. When you left the classroom, George pulled you into his side protectively and Lee had given you proud pat on the shoulder. With an exaggerated wink, Fred had run up and exclaimed, “Blimey, that was amazing, L/N! Nice craftsmanship, excellent execution.” Fred had tried to wipe some of the anger from your face throughout the day with a few, “don’t mess with that one, she’s fiery” and “Oi, Lee, careful. Catch yourself even looking at ol’ Georgie too long, and you might have to answer to that one,” with a point in your direction. These usually earned a genuine, soft smile from you as you chuckled to yourself. Freddie was the one person in the world who could make any person laugh no matter the circumstances. George would blush, and if he saw you laughing, he would also laugh to himself at the mention of the last joke from Fred. Part of you wondered if he may have enjoyed feeling your protectiveness over him. And you didn’t mind. You liked that he liked it. Even now.

But as the four of you sat late in the quiet Common Room, you felt the jokes wash away as George twiddled with his fingers, your head on his chest. You could tell he was feeling worried and helpless as you waited for your time to leave for detention. When that time came, you gave them a gentle smile and said, “Alright, I’m off. I’ll see you guys in the morning. Don’t go worrying about me too much.” You gave Fred and Lee a wink and kissed the top of George’s head.

As if on instinct, George grabbed your hand, pleading with his face, as if he were trying to keep you from going. But he knew that if you did not show up tonight, it would only earn you an even bigger punishment with the nasty, pink-shoed woman later. You took his hand and held it to your cheek as you gave him a little smile and whispered, “I love you. Goodnight.” And off you went, George watching your back as you left.

*****

As you creaked through the half open door of Umbridge’s office, you heard her squeal in delight. She toned out, “Do come in, Ms. L/N.”

You walked in without a word, eyes piercing through the small woman as she continued. “I do hope tonight will serve you nicely. You will be writing lines for me, dear.” You nodded your head, eyes still shooting at the Professor. This is what you had expected to hear from her. “Take a seat. There is a quill and parchment already for you at the desk there.”

 You took a seat at the desk she pointed to as she tutted. “Hmm… What lesson is to be learned tonight, do you think?” You, of course, didn’t answer. “There are many lessons I believe you could benefit from learning, Ms. L/N, but I have chosen to be generous to you, for reasons unbeknownst to me. I believe the lines, ‘I will learn my place and be respectful to my superiors’, will do just fine.”

 Your mouth dropped. You were expecting to write lines, and you knew the pain that would come with that, but you had not expected the number of words she would give you to write to be so extensive. You only prayed that the number of lines she would have you complete would be less, to even out your sentence to compare to the stories you had heard from others, including Harry. You dared to ask. “How many- “

“One hundred,” she interrupted without hesitation.

You nodded, eyes still a bit wide from shock. You assumed that you had really struck a nerve with your defiance towards Umbridge. Afterall, why else would your sentence be nearly double that of any other student you have heard from so far? You figured that you also were being used as punishment towards those you loved as well. Those who have also unmeaningly struck a nerve of Umbridge’s too: Harry and George. But you wouldn’t be used as bait. No, you quite refused to be used as such.

As you dared to hover the dry quill over the paper, you prepared yourself for the pain that would inevitably begin once you touched them down to meet. And when it did, the pain was one hundred times more unbearable than you had even begun to imagine, just like the number of lines you were to complete.

By the time you had arrived halfway through your assignment, blood was dripping down your fingertips, drenching your parchment along with the tears crawling down your face. Finally, soft whimpers that you had tried to hold back for so long, began to escape.

 The clock ticking echoed in your ears, taunting your brain with the idea of freedom. After what felt like an eternity, you had finished the lines, and you were a both dry and wet bloodied mess. You sat up from your seat and handed the now quiet professor your scarlet stained parchment full of scratches reading, “I will learn my place and be respectful to my superiors”, front and back.

“May I leave now?” you uttered.

She simply nodded with a conniving grin plastered on her face as she watched you walk out the door.

*****

You held your breath until you arrived back past the portrait into the Gryffindor Common Room, not wanting that evil woman to hear you cry. When you stepped into the room, you pressed your back to the cold wall next to you and grabbed your wrist, blood flow never-ending, and finally let the tears and sobs escape you, as your back fell down the wall. You were so blinded by the pain that you didn’t even notice there was someone in the room with you. They ran up from the couch, over to your place by the wall, and sat right next to you, pulling you into their lap. From the moment you discovered the figure, your brain and your heart knew it would be your George. Part of you had a feeling he wouldn’t sleep until you were back, and you didn’t want him to see you like this. You fought your brain which told you that you were allowing yourself to be the live weapon that Umbridge wanted you to be. You just hadn’t expected the pain to be so much. You hadn’t expected that you would collapse right in front of George. You so desperately wanted to be strong. To stay strong for him. For yourself. But, oh merlin, did it hurt.

His big arms wrapped around your shoulders and brought his hand to pull your bloodied one into his line of sight. His breathing hitched and he felt his blood run to his cheeks and his ears as his other hand clenched into a fist. He was seeing red at the extra bloodied hand you fostered, much worse than he had ever seen, even on Harry. But the rage he felt was nothing compared to the crunch of his heart splitting in two as your cries of pain reached his ears. He didn’t know what to do, he felt so helpless, just as he had all day, but a million times worse.

“Darling, I know. I’m so sorry. I’m- I’m so sorry. Please. Please, I have to wrap this. You have to let me wrap this,” he struggled, pleading with you.

Your head heard his words, and it told you to move, to stop crying, to say something. But your skin was on fire, and the roar of the flames outspoke the language of your brain trying to reason with your body. You were able to lean your head into his shoulder, as you tried to compose yourself as best as you could, but the best you could do was quiet your sobs ever so slightly, as any and all words fell silent in the back of your throat. Your tears soaked through his shirt and coated his upper arm that still held you. He began to take his arms and pull himself up, untangling himself from you. He moved to sit on his knees in front of you, eyes searching for yours as he tilted your chin up to look at him.

“My love. Please. I need to wrap your hand. Can I bring you to the couch?” he asked, peering through your eyes for an answer.

You slightly nodded your head, barely noticeable. But George, he saw it. He always saw it. He could read you better than anyone in the world. The moment he saw your head move, he scooped his arm under your bent legs and placed his other one across your back and under your arms. You turned your head into his shoulder as he gently move to place you on the couch, your back pressed to the arm of the chair. You pulled your knees up on the couch, moving your heels to touch your bottom. Splayed out across the table in front of you were bandages and a wrap for your hand. As the tears began finding themselves more and more scarce at the hope of relief, the smaller of the words at the back of your throat began to find their way out.

“Georgie?” you asked, coming out in a high-pitched whimper.

His deep, worrying eyes looked to you, hands finding your cheeks. He followed your eyes to the table and the equipment laying on it. An embarrassed blush came to his cheeks as his brows furrowed. Supplies. It was pathetic, he thought. He should’ve been the one being punished. But instead, it was you and there was absolutely nothing he could do except for find some simple supplies. Unable to even think about sleeping, he had snuck his way over to Madame Pomfrey in the medical wing as soon as you had exited the Common Room. He asked her for some supplies and after more than a lot of convincing that everything was okay and that he wasn’t up to anything that would get her in trouble, she suspiciously obliged. He knew you would refuse to see her anyways, not wanting to take up her time. And deep down, he too knew that there was not much she would be able to do for you, no matter how much he begged. Afterall, this was a punishment enacted by Umbridge herself, and no matter how much she wanted to, Pomfrey could not disregard the rules set in place by the self-proclaimed headmaster and inquisitor.

He turns back to you quickly trying to cover the look of shame and guilt on his face.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry,��� his voice breaks, tears of his own forming.

You could see him fighting with his own mind over something that you were sure would split your heart right down the middle.

“George?” you squeaked out once more.

“I’m so sorry…It’s my fault. I was behind in class. It should’ve been me. Not you. I should’ve protected you, I-,” he finally lets it all come rushing out.

You cut him off by placing your good hand on his cheek, giving him a difficult and very broken smile. Your voice comes out raspy from the sobs you had forced down but determined now, as soon as you hear the pain in George's own voice. “No. This decision was mine, George. All mine…” you give the faintest of laughs, almost in disbelief. “And yet, I can’t find the mind to regret it… I would do it again… and again.”

He leaned into your touch, eyes wincing as you revealed to him that you would take this punishment and this pain for him once again.

“Look at me?” you whispered.

He brought his eyes up to meet yours. Your voice was a little bit clearer now, although wavering ever so slightly.

“My decision. Please do not take that away from me, Georgie. It was my decision to make, and I am so glad that I did. You are so smart. You know that, right?” You looked up at him from under your eyelashes through the now silent and mild tears that streamed down your face.

He shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to even begin to describe himself as smart. If that were true, he thought, he would’ve found a way to be there with you. If that were true, you wouldn’t have been there at all. He couldn’t understand, how through all of the terror and pain, you were the one to comfort him. He simply began to unwrap the bandages from their place on the table and started to wrap them tightly around your hand to stop the blood from dripping any longer, a lot of it starting to dry already. When he was finished, you took your good hand and placed it on his cheek once again. You pulled him into a sweet, soft, salty kiss.

“Smart. Clever. Kind. Brave. Gentle,” you muttered these words in his ear as you rested your head on his shoulder, and he once again pulled you into his lap, this time, towards him.

“The strongest girl I know, so beautiful, so loving…,” he muttered back, caressing your hair, trailing off into magical, sweet nothings that mean quite everything to both of you.

“I love you, Georgie,” you whisper.

“I love you, darling,” he says.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” you ask the beautiful, ginger boy that you love so dearly.

“I will always stay with you, my love,” he says as he begins to lift your body from the couch to carry to your dorm. There the two of you find comfort in each other’s embrace, finally drifting off into a deep sleep.

[smallishzine]

very important official zine stuff for real this time guys please spread this around

we realized we haven’t asked you what you want this zine to be, so here is poll with some different options for things we could do, but this still won’t set things in stone cause we’re aware that we’re working with a relatively small albeit amazing awesome and extremely appreciated audience, but it’ll give us a good idea for what direction you want the zine to go in.

some examples of what we mean for added coherence, please read before voting unless you wanna be like that guy in the Simpsons movie:

an eras tour zine (yes this is a Taylor swift joke shut up if you’re judging us you’re wrong) would be like different pieces dedicated to each, for lack of a better word, “thing” that Joel has done. @/inthelittlezine is a great example of this concept, except the mod has far better organizational skills than we ever could hope to

tourism brochure would be like we pick a specific thing Joel, such as esmp 1 or 2, or x life, or one of his hardcore/survival worlds (I haven’t listed Hermitcraft season 10 cause that’s still in progress but if you guys really really wanna, that too), and make an in universe guide to it expanding upon the lore and characters and builds and stuff. @/scarland-artbook is an amazing example of this, though of course we would be a much smaller scale of a project.

do you wanna tell a story? Or ride our bikes around the halls? We can’t help with the second one, we’re not very sporty people, but this option is both the most difficult and dangerous to the success of the zine, and the one that intrigues me specifically the most. Like, guys, I know I’m polling this, but I’m secretly hoping that this one wins. Like all the hoping. Ever. But I’m not gonna just say yeah let’s do this because if like only three people also wanna this zine will never get made and I will be really, really sad. This option is basically do we wanna take something Joel has done and work together to create an original universe/story based off of it, each contributing a small part of the story in comic or writing form. Unless you’ve been living under a rock and/or this post broke containment sorry if it did I assure I’m usually mostly sane, you probably know where I’m shamelessly stealing taking inspiration from. We heart you @/hotguycomiczine. If we went with this we would obviously create our own universe and storyline, and we’d try to base it off of one of Joel’s characters if possible. Also, if we went with this, we’d start the mod and application process and stuff and once we knew everyone who was going to be in the zine then we’d all get together and start working on the story, and this is the part I’m worried about because if we’re all stumped then I guess the zine is out of luck and I’d be sad. Also even if we did do this, like preemptively temper your expectations I am no where near as good as the legends at hotguycomiczine at organization and promotion and story writing and all that good stuff. However, if you have an idea for a story and want to share, send us an ask cause we might just end up using it.

I think the last two are mostly self explanatory.

please reblog for reach.

[lacontroller1991]

Celebration (Ernest Lawrence x F!Reader)

Main Master List || Misc Master List

Requested by Anon: Ernest Lawrence x Wife!Reader "Honey I'm home!"

Author's note: SO I PASSED ALL OF MY CLASSES THIS SEMESTER WITH TWO Cs 1 B AND 3 As AND I JUST HAD TO CELEBRATE AND GET ACADEMIC VALIDATION FROM MY HUBBY SO HERE WE ARE

Also based on Movie!Lawrence and has no correlation with IRL EOL, the classes I listed I just found on Berkeley's course catalog.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 702

----------

The room is still aside from your constant pacing. He said he’d be home by 5 at the latest. Looking down at your watch, you frown when you read the time. 5:48pm. You normally don’t care if he comes home late, after all it’s a common occurrence for Ernest to come home later than he initially said. Ernest wouldn’t be Ernest if he didn’t have the ability to keep time. Still, the envelope on the table keeps your teeth pulling on your lip and your fingers picking at your nails. Exam season is over. The results are on the table. The results that will dictate whether you pass to the next class or if you’re stuck retaking it. 

The class that causes most of your worries is quantum mechanics taught by none other than J. Robert Oppenheimer. Ernest had assured you ‘oh you’ll be fine, Oppie is a good teacher’ and ‘just go ask for help’, and you have, on several occasions. Oppenheimer has always been more than generous in lending you a hand, helping you with the concepts to better understand the course as a whole, but still, Oppenheimer’s “Intermediate Quantum Mechanics” is a class that 85% of people take a second time. Regardless of what you made in the class, all you could really do is try, a fact that Ernest has stated multiple times when all you needed was comfort.

“Honey! I’m home!” Ernest announces, walking into the kitchen, setting his briefcase down on the table with his keys, a soft smile on his face. Pulling you into his arms, he holds you close to his chest, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead as you let out a sigh of relief, sinking in his grasp. “Is that it on the table?” Nestling further into his chest, you nod your head, relishing the way his heart beats against his clothed chest. “Well, let’s not waste anymore time!” He pulls away, picking up the envelope and beginning to tear it open but you stop his movements.

“I’m scared,” you offer meekly, almost embarrassed, especially if you failed. Shaking his head, he smirks, a surprising level of calmness and assurance that you didn’t fail. Maybe he already knows? Maybe he begged Oppie to allow you to pass? Either case, he’s more optimistic than you thought he would be. Letting out a sigh, you take the envelope from his hands and carefully tear away at the envelope, revealing a neatly folded piece of paper. Feeling the weight of Ernest’s hand lightly rubbing your pack, you open the paper, heart hammering in your chest as your eyes move over the page, immediately going to that one class. Your stomach drops. How is that possible? 

“Well?”

“A. I made an A in Oppie’s class!” Letting out a shout of happiness, you turn around and jump into Ernest’s arms while he laughs, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“I knew you could do it. Oppenheimer told me that you made an A and offered his congratulations. You and two other students made an A.” Setting you down, he looks back to the paper still in your hand. “What else did you make?”

“Uh- B in Special Relativity, A in General Music, and an A  in particle physics - thanks to you.” Setting the paper down, you swing your arms around his wide shoulders, dragging him down into your grasp. “Oh I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you Ernie.”

“I was only supportive, you did all that yourself. I’m proud of you,” the words take you aback for a second as you burn them in your brain. He’s told you several times before that he’s proud of you, but it always helps hearing them again. Looking down at his watch, he lets out a low whistle as your stomach grumbles. “Well, how about we go down to that Italian spot on seventh and celebrate? Does that sound good?” 

Placing the paper down on the table, you grab your purse and place a kiss on his cheek. “Sounds great honey. I’m driving though.” Raising his hands in surrender, he dangles the keys from his fingers before you take them into your hands. 

“Be my guest.”

[momoliee]

Here Is Why You Should Read Priest’s Modern Danmeis :

As much as i love priest’s period novels, i absolutely adore her more recent, modern novels even more. You can tell that her writing style has completely changed as she grew and gained more experience, giving an edge to her work. I definitely believe her modern books NEED to be as popular as her wuxia ones cause COME ON?

(i’ve written in depth reviews on my page for each title i mention)

First, my absolute all time favorite, one of my top 3, Mo Du :

I’ve read this series a total of two times so far, and I’m about to read it a third time cause it’s just that good. And here’s the thing, i almost NEVER reread or rewatch stuff ok.

Fei Du is one of the most complex characters that i’ve encountered in my reading experience, with the worst type of mental trauma that i could come across. His relationship with Luo Wenzhou is one of the most enjoyable and perhaps, priest’s best written romance. Theyre both equally flirtatious, equally bold, their back and forth bickering is full of sexual tension and their progression from enemies to lovers is IMPECCABLE.

And the plot? PHENOMENAL. The BEST mystery and thriller detective series that I’ve ever encountered, with each book having it’s own individual mystery, and no two mysteries are similar. From child trafficking to serial killers to drug dens and even terrorism….you name it. Each arc is well crafted, and by the end, you’ll truly be able to sigh in satisfaction. For priest to be able ro make you enjoy both the romance and the plot equally…shes a genius. a 27/10.

Trigger warnings: this book discusses heavy topics such as pedophilia, rape, drug abuse, suicide, self harm, and a lot of similar topics

Next: Can Ci Pin:

Her most underrated work and i cant even begin to understand why. I mean yes it takes place in outer space in a futuristic society where people live for around 200 years across the span of 8 galaxies (not there are no aliens, but there are concepts such as ais and robots) but like….you’ve all read sha po lang with its steampunk theme and you all KNOW just how good priest is at world building. Dare i say, priest is the best danmei author when it comes to world building.

Yes, this is perhaps her slowest and longest piece of work and i get why so many would get bored after the second book. But here’s the thing, ccp has one of the most complicated worlds and plot. the plot is actually one of the most confusing and heavy plots that i’ve encountered. so in order for the story not to fall apart, it was very necessary for priest to spend the first two novels and half world building as well as slowly laying out a proper foundation for the plot. That way, when she starts speeding up the pace, you are basically a pro who doesn’t need to backtrack, reread or double check anything. By the time i was done with the third novel, i felt like i knew everything about space politics, wars between galaxies, Ai and microchips, and everything in between. And that’s saying something cause im an IDIOT when it comes books and shows politics ok.

In this series, priest has seriously invested into every single side character, even those who’ve been dead since before the series even started. With extensive backstories, each and every single character grows on you as much as the main pair if not more, and you fall in love with the found family priest created as well as all the characters who are only talked about in flashbacks and past tense. Another favorite part about this series.

Now the main characters and the romance….chefs kiss. Lu Bixing has one of the BEST character arcs that i’ve come across. He starts off as this bright sunshine boy, goes through hell, becomes this depressed cynical man then finds his way back to his old self again all in the span of the novel itself. Being able to go through the pain with him then watch him heal, makes you very attached to this baby. Li Jingheng my all time cold prince biggest crush ok i love him. Their romance was SOO entertaining cause EVERYONE was rooting for them and everyone played matchmaker and wingman with them it was HILARIOUS. The comedy was top notch, the second hand embarrassment was real, but it made the reading experience feel much more organic idk i just enjoyed myself so much and laughed so hard. 20/10

Trigger warnings: human trafficking and experimentation, self harm and suicide

Third : Lie Huo Jiao Chou

Xuan Ji’s wings of flame are the highlight of the series ok. Almost every single scene has him whipping his wings out just to show off and his boyfriend eats it up everytime ok.

I absolutely love the amnesiac plot line where two past lovers meet again and yet are unable to recognize each other. Yet, slowly, as they spend more and more time together and one of them starts regaining his memories, the pining and longing begins. And oh does Xuan Ji YEARNS in the most beautiful way possible. And once they BOTH regain their memories in full, the angst is just the cherry on top. Being unable to resist each other yet still trying to pull away, the tension, trying to hold back…delicious.

The plot is so easy to keep up with and enjoy too. Both the story taking place 3,000 years ago and the one in present time are equally entertaining, where we see scenes of war and tomb raiding and investigations and a little bit of magic too. The visuals are fantastic, and the contrast between the two parallel settings is new and refreshing as a concept. 8/10

Trigger warning: main characters experience severe child abuse and neglect

Fourth : Guardian

Guardian is the most popular out of priest’s modern novels so i dont feel the need to say much.

Guardian discusses heavy topics such as death and what’s beyond. With an element of mystery where an investigation team search after where dead souls are being stolen to or why some souls are being sucked out of living people, the premises has an element of horror and goth that gives it this edge. Coolest ghost story around.

The main cast is also a hilarious bunch, and you sort of grow attached to the entire office especially a fat black talking cat. 7/10

Trigger warning: death and murder

I hope this is enough to convince you all to check out more and more of pipi’s work. Yes, sha po lang, lord 7, faraway wanderers and fuyao sect are amazing…but if you haven’t read priest’s modern work then yall are missing out ok. that’s it for now xxx

[sicknessbysalem]

I am absolutely loving caretaker lex, seriously. The soren fics you’ve done plus the novak one (i didnt know they knew each other thats so fucking cool!). I am absolutely loving seeing lex in a caretaker position because the way he gauges everyone’s needs/wants and cares exactly how they need it is so amazing. However, that said I am such a sucker for burnt out caretakers getting sick/needing to be taken care of. Can we possibly see maybe its been a rough time for the band, everyone except for lex has been sick or something go wrong and Lex is just running himself down taking care of everyone. Maybe we can see them take care of him (as many of the group as you want!). Can we see some caretaker burnout (feel free to include any symptoms or whatever, i'm not picky!)

hello nonny!

i love this concept. especially with the way lex cares for everyone, i was already planning a fic with this general concept.

this fic is a mix of angst/plot and illness scattered throughout, as well as caretaker burnout.

if you have any more requests, questions, comments, etc., send them my way!

tw mentions of various illnesses (migraines, chronic fatigue, stomach flu, food poisoning), fever, pushing oneself until they break, guilt, panic, fainting, emeto

It had been two grueling weeks. Lex hadn’t kept count of the exact days—it all blurred into one exhausting stretch—but his body knew. It felt like he hadn’t sat down for more than five minutes without someone needing him. He was used to late nights and long days, but this was different. This wasn’t music or travel; it was the three people he loved dearly being struck by various sicknesses in rapid succession, leaving him scrambling to hold everything together.

It started with Soren. A migraine from hell had crashed down on him with no remorse, leaving him curled up in his darkened room, clutching his head with trembling hands. Lex had known what to do—Soren’s migraines were brutal, but they weren’t new. He brewed his strongest ginger and peppermint tea, fetched the migraine medication, and whispered reassurances as he rubbed Soren’s back in slow circles. He made sure Soren stayed hydrated and ate light meals when the nausea abated. It had taken four days for the migraine to finally loosen its grip, and in that time, Soren had barely moved from bed, his chronic fatigue compounding the ordeal.

The same night Soren emerged from the haze of his migraine, Malik stumbled into the living room looking pale and disoriented, clutching his stomach. Lex felt bad for the guy, really. He'd just abandoned his apartment and moved in with Lex an Soren a month ago and now this was happening to him. Lex recognized the look immediately and barely managed to guide Malik to the bathroom before the retching started. The stomach virus hit hard, leaving Malik feverish and weak, his body wracked by relentless nausea and vomiting. Lex stayed by his side, cleaning up when necessary and ensuring he sipped electrolyte drinks between bouts. He’d run the washing machine more times in those three days than he had in a month, all while trying to keep Malik comfortable and shield Soren from catching whatever Malik had.

When Malik finally stabilized, Ksenia was next. Her case wasn’t as severe—likely food poisoning—but Lex knew better than to downplay it. She’d been curled up on the couch, clearly miserable, as he brought her tea, crackers, and a gentle herbal remedy to soothe her stomach. Ksenia hated being fussed over, more so than the rest of them except maybe Lex, so Lex had tread lightly, offering support from a respectful distance. Even so, she’d still let him drape a blanket over her shoulders and check in quietly every hour or so.

Now, as the days stretched on and the worst seemed to be over, Lex felt the weight of it all settling into his bones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly or eaten anything more substantial than a granola bar or a hastily grabbed piece of toast while making something for everyone else. His stomach twisted uneasily—a sensation he’d chalked up to stress rather than illness. His throat felt scratchy, his limbs heavier than usual, and his head carried a faint pressure that wasn’t quite a headache but hinted at one waiting in the wings.

But Lex couldn’t afford to stop.

Everyone else needed him, and now that they were recovering, it was his job to make sure they stayed that way. Soren still looked drained, his energy levels slow to return. Malik, though no longer bedridden, was cautious with food, his appetite fragile. Ksenia had been back to her usual sharp-edged wit for a day or two, but Lex caught the occasional wince when she moved too quickly.

He stood in the kitchen, the hum of the kettle filling the quiet space as he prepared another round of tea. His fingers trembled slightly as he measured out the loose leaves, but he ignored it, chalking it up to the caffeine withdrawal he was definitely flirting with. A cough bubbled up in his throat, and he swallowed it down harshly, not wanting to hear it echo in the silence. He couldn’t afford to get sick. Not now.

“Lex?” Soren’s voice was soft, cautious. Lex didn’t jump, but he stiffened slightly before glancing over his shoulder.

Soren stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame for support. His hair was still mussed from sleep, and there were faint shadows under his eyes, but he looked better than he had in days.

“You should be resting,” Lex said lightly, his voice carefully neutral as he turned back to the tea. He busied himself with pouring the hot water, not giving Soren the chance to study him too closely.

“So should you,” Soren replied, his tone carrying a pointed edge of concern.

Lex ignored the comment, focusing instead on steeping the tea just right. “I’ll bring this to you in a minute. Go lie down.”

Soren didn’t move. “Lex.”

The weight of Soren’s gaze was unbearable, but Lex refused to meet it. “I’m fine,” he said shortly, hoping the tone would end the conversation.

“You’re not,” Soren said quietly. He took a cautious step forward, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground for two weeks. When’s the last time you sat down?”

Lex exhaled sharply through his nose, finally turning to face Soren. “Everyone else needed me. Someone had to step up.”

“And now we’re okay,” Soren countered, his voice still soft but unwavering. “But you’re not.”

Lex bristled at the statement, instinctively tightening his grip on the counter behind him. “I’m fine,” he repeated, his voice sharper now. “Don’t worry about me.”

Soren studied him for a long moment, his brows knitting together in quiet frustration. “I always worry about you, Lex.”

The words hit like a blow to the chest, but Lex couldn’t afford to let them crack his carefully constructed façade. “You don’t need to,” he said, turning back to the tea. “Just focus on getting better.”

But as Lex lifted the tray of cups, the weight felt heavier than it should have. His arms trembled under the strain, his body screaming at him to stop, to rest, to let someone else take over for once. But he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to move forward, refusing to let the cracks show.

Because Lex wasn’t just holding the tray—he was holding everything together. And if he stopped now, he was terrified of what might fall apart.

-

The house was quiet now, save for the distant hum of the dishwasher cycling through its last rinse. It was a rare moment of peace, a stillness that Lex had come to treasure in the chaos of the last two weeks. Malik was resting in his room, still pale and moving carefully after his stomach virus had finally run its course. Ksenia was stretched out on the couch, her blanket pulled to her chin as she nursed a mild but stubborn queasiness, scrolling absently through her phone. Soren, predictably, was back in his room, likely working through the lingering haze of his latest chronic fatigue spell.

Lex stood in the laundry room, methodically folding towels. His movements were precise, rhythmic, the kind of task that didn’t demand much mental energy but kept his hands busy. The warmth from the dryer seeped into the room, turning the air heavy. He should’ve opened a window to let the fresh air in, but that would require stopping, and stopping wasn’t an option.

The truth was, he couldn’t remember the last time he felt this drained. His legs ached like he’d run miles, his chest felt tight, and his head swam with a faint dizziness that he stubbornly ignored. It wasn’t sickness, he told himself. He was just tired. A little worn down. Nothing he couldn’t push through.

He carried the basket of folded towels down the hall, his bare feet padding quietly against the wood floors. Halfway to the bathroom, the dizziness surged, making the walls tilt slightly in his periphery. Lex froze for a moment, gripping the basket tighter, grounding himself by focusing on the weight of it in his arms. Just breathe. He clenched his teeth and forced his legs to move again, each step deliberate and steady.

By the time he reached the bathroom, he was lightheaded, his heart thrumming a little too fast in his chest. The towels slipped from his fingers, falling into a messy heap onto the counter. He cursed under his breath, leaning heavily on the sink as he tried to steady himself. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye, and he winced. His skin was pale, almost ashen, except for the flush high on his cheekbones. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his hair hung limp, stuck to his temple with a faint sheen of sweat.

“Pull it together,” he muttered, splashing cold water on his face. The chill helped for a moment, shocking his system into clarity, but the reprieve was short-lived. His chest tightened again, his pulse fluttering erratically, and nausea twisted low in his stomach.

Still, he pushed on. There were dishes to finish, the trash needed to be taken out, and he’d noticed Malik had left his favorite hoodie in the living room. He grabbed the laundry basket, taking slow, deliberate breaths as he made his way back toward the kitchen.

He put the next load of laundry in, though he leaned against the washer more than he wanted to admit. Then, he went back to the kitchen.

The room seemed brighter than before, the overhead light too harsh, glaring against the countertops. Lex blinked hard, trying to clear his vision as his legs wobbled under him. He started working on the dishes. There weren't many at the moment, Lex had been working on them throughout the day, now it was just a few stray dishes. A few mugs, a bowl, silverware. Lex remembered grabbing a plate before the kitchen seemed to lurch sideways and next thing Lex knew he was staring at a broken plate on the floor.

“Damn it,” he hissed, crouching down to pick up the pieces. But the movement sent a rush of vertigo through him, his head swimming as black spots peppered his vision. His body swayed involuntarily, and he dropped to his knees, clutching the edge of the counter to keep himself upright.

“Lex?” Ksenia’s voice came from the living room, sharp and alert. He hadn’t even realized the noise had drawn her attention. Her footsteps were hurried, the sound of her socks against the floor growing louder. She appeared in the doorway, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene.

“What the hell happened?” she asked, crouching in front of him. Her hand hovered uncertainly near his shoulder, unsure whether to touch him.

“I’m fine,” Lex croaked, though the words sounded weak, even to him. His heart pounded in his chest, erratic and wild, like it was trying to escape. His breathing was shallow, uneven, and he couldn’t seem to make his limbs cooperate.

Ksenia wasn’t buying it. “Soren!” she called over her shoulder, her voice urgent.

“No, don’t—” Lex protested, trying to push himself up, but his arms gave out, and he sank back to his knees. The dizziness surged again, and he swallowed hard against the nausea that threatened to rise.

Soren appeared moments later, his movements slow but deliberate. His tired eyes widened when he saw Lex slumped on the floor, his chest heaving as he struggled to steady himself.

“Lex,” Soren said softly, dropping to his knees beside him. His hands were on Lex’s shoulders immediately, grounding and steady, pulling Lex away from the broken glass, “Hey, breathe. Slow it down.”

“I’m fine,” Lex whispered again, his voice cracking. He shook his head weakly, but Soren’s hands didn’t budge.

“You’re not,” Soren said firmly, pulling Lex closer so that Lex’s back rested against his chest. Soren’s hand pressed gently over Lex’s heart, feeling the erratic rhythm beneath the fabric of his shirt. His other hand rested on Lex’s abdomen, his touch firm but reassuring.

“Too fast,” Soren murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Ksenia, water. Maybe some salt?”

Ksenia disappeared, returning moments later with a glass and the salt shaker. She crouched beside them, her expression unusually soft as she placed the glass near Soren’s hand.

"I couldn't find the packets," Ksenia said, "I'll get this glass."

Lex fought to sit up straighter, but his body refused to cooperate. His heart was racing so fast it made him dizzy, his vision narrowing to a hazy tunnel. His stomach twisted violently, the nausea so overwhelming he gagged once, hard, before managing to clamp it down.

“Just breathe,” Soren said again, his voice low and calm. He kept Lex pressed against him, his fingers moving in slow circles over Lex’s abdomen. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Lex’s pulse was still erratic, his body trembling from head to toe. He hated this—hated being weak, hated being the one everyone had to look after. He was supposed to be the caretaker, the one who fixed things, not the one who fell apart.

But his body had other plans. The world swayed around him, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he might actually pass out. His breath hitched, panic rising in his chest like a tidal wave. “I’m fine,” he gasped, the words choked and desperate. “I’m—”

“You don’t have to do this,” Soren interrupted gently, his hand brushing over Lex’s sweat-damp hair. “You don’t have to be fine. Just let us help you.”

The words hit Lex like a blow, and for a moment, he felt the fight drain out of him. His body sagged against Soren, his breathing ragged and shallow. He could feel Ksenia’s hand on his arm, her touch uncharacteristically gentle.

“Here, open your mouth, let's try this,” Soren murmured, his voice steady as he grabbed the salt shaker.

Lex tried to shake his head, his breaths shallow and uneven. “No… I don’t need—”

“Lex,” Soren interrupted, his voice low but firm. “Just try.. It usually helps...”

Lex reluctantly opened his mouth, letting Soren tip a pinch of salt onto his tongue. He grimaced at the sharp, acrid taste, his stomach recoiling instantly. The nausea surged violently, and he gagged again, his body lurching forward despite Soren’s steadying grip.

“No, no, no,” Lex gasped, his voice rising in panic as he tried to suppress the heave. His trembling hand clawed at Soren’s arm, seeking stability, but his stomach had other plans. The gag turned into a retch, and Ksenia barely managed to shove a trash can under him in time.

Lex lurched forward, a dry, wrenching sound tearing from his throat as he heaved. The effort left him gasping and shaking, the world spinning faster around him. He groaned weakly, his forehead falling against Soren’s shoulder.

“Okay, no more salt,” Ksenia said quickly, snatching the shaker and setting it aside so Soren could hold back Lex's hair. She crouched closer, her brow furrowing as she took in Lex’s pale, clammy face. “This isn’t working, Soren. He’s getting worse.”

“I know,” Soren murmured, his hand brushing soothing circles over Lex’s back. His other hand remained firmly on Lex’s abdomen, grounding him. “Lex, listen to me. You need to stop fighting. Just let it happen.”

“No,” Lex croaked, his voice hoarse and weak. “I can’t… I can’t stop.”

“You can,” Soren insisted, his voice steady but kind. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. Your body’s literally begging you to stop, and you’re making it worse.”

Malik hovered nearby, his expression torn between concern and helplessness. “What can I do?” he asked, his voice tight. “I want to help.”

“Grab another glass of water,” Soren said, not looking up. “Something cool—not too cold. And a wet towel.”

Malik nodded and darted off to the kitchen, his hurried footsteps echoing faintly. Ksenia adjusted her position, reaching for Lex’s wrist to check his pulse. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she felt the erratic, racing rhythm beneath her fingers.

“Lex,” she said quietly, her voice softer than usual. “You’ve got to let us take care of this. You’re scaring the hell out of yourself for no reason. Just let go.”

Lex’s head lolled weakly against Soren’s shoulder, his body trembling uncontrollably. It killed Soren, but Lex was fighting with everything in him to stay conscious and Soren could see it, could feel it.

“I can’t,” Lex whispered, his voice barely audible. “I have to… I owe it to you. To everyone.. I can't... I can't go back to that person. It's only been two years...”

Those words felt like a stab to Soren's own chest as he pieced it together "Angel, you're not that person anymore. You haven't been that person, you could never be that person again. You don’t owe us anything, Lex. We love you. That’s it. There’s no debt to repay.” Soren said firmly, his hand moving to tilt Lex’s head back gently, keeping Lex's head tilted back and stroking his hand along the top of Lex's head.

The words hit Lex like a physical blow, his breath hitching as fresh tears welled in his eyes. He shook his head weakly, his voice cracking as he whispered, “You don’t understand.”

“I do,” Soren countered, his voice unwavering. “I know you think you’re making up for the past, but you don’t have to. We’ve already forgiven you, Lex. You need to forgive yourself.”

Lex’s chest heaved, his breathing shallow and uneven as he clung to Soren’s arm. The dizziness surged again, the room spinning so violently that he thought for sure he was about to black out. His heart raced even faster, and his stomach twisted painfully, threatening to bring up what little remained in it.

Malik returned with the water and towel, kneeling beside Ksenia as she helped drape the cool cloth over Lex’s forehead. “What’s happening to him?” Malik asked, his voice edged with panic. “Why is he—?”

“It’s his body forcing him to stop,” Soren explained, his tone calm despite the tension in his jaw. “He’s been running on fumes for days now, if not as long as all three of us have been sick. It’s catching up to him.”

Lex whimpered faintly, his body sagging further against Soren. “I can’t—” he began, but his voice broke off as another gag overtook him. His stomach heaved violently, and he clutched at Soren’s shirt, his entire body tensing.

“Let it happen,” Soren said softly, holding him steady, “Stop fighting it, Lex.”

Ksenia moved the trash can closer again, her free hand resting on Lex’s arm as a silent reassurance. Malik sat back slightly, his hands clenched tightly around the glass of water, unsure where to step in.

After a few more dry, wrenching heaves, Lex’s body seemed to give out completely. His head lolled back against Soren’s shoulder, his breathing ragged and shallow. His eyelids fluttered, the fight draining from him as he hovered on the edge of consciousness. He was closer now than he had been before, Soren could see that despite Lex's fight, he'd definitely go under.

“Lex,” Soren murmured, his voice soft but commanding. “It’s okay. Let go. Just let yourself rest.”

Lex’s lips parted as if to argue, but no sound came out. His body sagged further, and after one final, shuddering breath, he went limp in Soren’s arms.

Ksenia’s hand shot out to steady him, her brow furrowing as she felt the heat radiating from his skin. “Fever’s climbing,” she muttered, glancing at Soren. “You’ve seen him do this before. How long does he stay out?”

“Not long,” Soren replied, shifting slightly to cradle Lex more securely. His hand rested over Lex’s heart, monitoring the erratic rhythm that had begun to slow. “He just needs to stop fighting it. Give him a few minutes.”

Malik sat frozen for a moment before setting the water aside and leaning closer. “Are you sure we shouldn’t… I don’t know, call someone? He just fainted.”

Ksenia shook her head, her voice unusually gentle as she said, “This isn’t new for him. It looks worse than it is. If you're really stressed, you can go grab Lex a knew shirt? That fight soaked him through this one.”

Soren nodded in agreement, his fingers brushing through Lex’s hair in slow, soothing strokes. “We’ve got him. He’ll come around. Just give him time.”

The quiet in the room was thick, broken only by the faint sound of Lex’s uneven breaths and the occasional shift of fabric as Soren adjusted his grip. He sat firmly on the floor, his back against the couch and Lex cradled securely against him. The heat from Lex’s feverish body bled through Soren’s shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care. His fingers continued their rhythmic stroke through Lex’s damp hair, a motion as much for himself as for Lex.

Malik hovered awkwardly, his eyes darting between Lex’s pale, slack face and Soren’s calm expression. “I don’t know how you’re so calm,” he muttered, his voice strained. “This is—he’s out cold. This isn’t normal.”

Soren glanced up briefly, his gaze steady. “It’s normal for Lex,” he said quietly. “Not ideal, but normal. Sort of. He doesn't really pass out much, just comes close to it. But when he does, it's not long. He’ll come around soon. He just needs the time.”

“That doesn’t make it less terrifying,” Malik shot back, his grip tightening on the fresh shirt he’d brought back from Lex’s room.

“Trust me,” Ksenia interjected, her voice sharper now, though still measured. “If it were something worse, we’d know. Right now, panicking isn’t helping.”

Malik looked like he wanted to argue but bit his tongue. Instead, he moved to sit on the edge of the armchair, still clutching the shirt like it was a lifeline. His leg bounced nervously as he watched Soren settle Lex’s head more comfortably against his chest.

“Lex,” Soren murmured, his voice low and soothing. “It’s okay. You’re safe. Just take your time.”

Lex stirred faintly at the sound of Soren’s voice, his body giving a weak, involuntary jerk. His breathing hitched, a soft groan escaping his lips as his head turned slightly against Soren’s shoulder.

“There you are,” Soren murmured, relief evident in his tone. “Take it easy. You’re okay.”

Lex’s eyelids fluttered, his lashes damp with sweat as his eyes cracked open. For a moment, his gaze was unfocused, darting around the room in disoriented panic. He tensed in Soren’s arms, his breathing quickening again as a faint whimper escaped him.

“Hey, hey,” Soren said quickly, his hand moving to cup the side of Lex’s face, anchoring him. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Look at me.”

Lex’s eyes locked onto Soren’s, wide and glassy with fear. “I—I’m sorry,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t…”

“Shh,” Soren soothed, brushing his thumb gently over Lex’s cheek. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I—I couldn’t stop,” Lex stammered, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. “I should’ve—”

“Stop,” Soren interrupted, his tone firm but kind. He adjusted his hold, pulling Lex closer so that their foreheads nearly touched. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for. You pushed yourself too hard, but you’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

Lex let out a shaky breath, but the panic in his eyes didn’t fade. “I let you down,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I couldn’t even—”

“Lex,” Soren said, his hand sliding to rest over Lex’s chest, directly above his heart. “You didn’t let anyone down. You’ve been taking care of us nonstop, and we’re so grateful. But you can’t pour from an empty cup. It’s okay to stop. It’s okay to rest.”

Ksenia crouched beside them, her expression uncharacteristically soft. She reached out, placing a steady hand on Lex’s leg. “He’s right,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. “You’ve been running on fumes for days, Lex. Nobody blames you for needing a break. Hell, we’re more mad at ourselves for not stepping in sooner.”

Malik stood abruptly, crossing the room to hand Soren the clean shirt. “Here,” he said awkwardly. “He’s… soaked through.”

“Thanks,” Soren said, his hand still rubbing slow circles over Lex’s back. “We’ll swap it out in a minute.”

Malik lingered, his brows furrowed deeply. “Lex,” he started hesitantly, his voice softer now. “You’re always the one helping everyone else. You didn’t… you didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know what we’d have done without you this week.”

Lex’s hands were trembling as he gripped weakly at Soren’s arm. “I just… I didn’t want to be a disappointment again,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I was so selfish before. I hurt everyone, and I—”

“You’re not that person anymore,” Ksenia interrupted firmly. “And you’re not a disappointment. You’ve worked so hard to change, Lex. We see it every day. You don’t have to prove anything to us.”

Soren nodded, his hand brushing gently over Lex’s damp hair. “You’re enough, just as you are. You don’t have to push yourself to the brink to prove your worth. We love you, Lex.”

The words hung in the air, wrapping around Lex like a warm blanket. He let out a soft, shuddering breath, his body sagging further against Soren. The fight drained out of him completely, leaving only raw exhaustion in its place.

Ksenia reached for the discarded water bottle, twisting off the cap and holding it out to Lex. “Here,” she said gently. “Small sips, okay?”

Lex hesitated, his eyes darting between her and Soren before finally nodding. He took the bottle with trembling hands, letting Soren guide it to his lips. The cool water soothed his parched throat, though it did little to ease the tight knot of nausea in his stomach.

“You’re okay,” Soren murmured again, his voice steady and grounding. “Just breathe. We’ve got you.”

[dekusleftsock]

Yada yada, kudou looked through Izuku’s memories and saw big gay thoughts, but we already knew they were gay. Of course they were gay. They’ve always been gay.

YOU KNOW WHAT I WANNA TALK ABOUT? THIS OFA QUIRKLESS THING!

It’s so FASCINATING! And I know I’m late to the party (school, work, life, depression, art block, the list could go on) but all I can think about is the trust that this entire situation holds.

On one hand, Izuku has to trust Kudou and his abilities. Defeating him from the inside out is probably the only way Izuku will win at this point.

And on the other hand, Izuku in his own way, is having to trust shigaraki, something he hasn’t done nor even considered before. He sees that little boy inside of him, but there’s more to that little boy. The man that stands before him, broken and beaten and shattered emotionally by society, is a person too. It truly doesn’t matter that the boy exists; yes it’s a way for Izuku to understand that concept of “heroes and villains are cut from the same cloth”, but it’s also the understanding that even when someone has fucked up their life, still deserves to be treated as a person for doing so. Everyone, EVERYONE, deserves the right to be and feel like a real and alive human being.

To me, it’s in the same vain as Izuku as a little boy. We could go over he details ALL DAY as to how he became the person he is, what could’ve been different, what could’ve happened. But at the end of the day, the only thing that changes the past is how we view it; Katsuki knows this.

There’s a part of me that whenever I see a fanfic where Katsuki meets his old middle school self that he hates him, wants to kick him down, humble him, whatever other verb here:

But that small part of me always thinks that it’s… oddly out of character.

Okay, comparing Katsuki and Izuku, who is more ashamed of their pasts?

If you guessed Izuku (and you agree with me), tell me what exactly inclines you to think that?

Because the difference between them is who accepts themself, and who doesn’t.

Accepting yourself doesn’t just mean, accepting that you were a bad person but you’re better now so it’s okay. No, I think that’s actually more complex than implied.

In my opinion, seeing your past actions as something to forgive is important too. Katsuki meeting his middle school self may seem like an aggressive cat fight in idea, but it practice may turn into high school Katsuki being unaffected by middle school him. He knows why he thought what he did, understands that it was bad, but also understands why that mindset came to be. He can be sorry to Izuku AND sorry to himself.

Izuku I think feels a sense of shame for his middle school self, especially that weakness. He cried more in middle school too; he didn’t try. That’s what he’s most mad about and unable to forgive himself for, he didn’t try.

And to an extent, Izuku has to learn that his perception of his past is what matters most: Shigaraki is the same.

Shigaraki as a little boy could’ve lived better circumstances. He could’ve found a hero and been saved. He could’ve had this or that or made a better decision. And I think a small part of him feels guilty for it. Shigaraki also doesn’t accept his past.

Ofa being taken away, as saddening as it may seem to fans, was always an ending I was hoping for. Of course I could be wrong and by the end of the manga he still has it, and while I’d still be happy with that ending… I just really want Izuku to let himself be a human being. A flawed one, with things he could or could not change, and accepting that fact.

After all, “You’re still human.” Right?

And sorry to bring up the girls again, but part of the key components to saving Himiko were trusting her, and not clinging to a small part of her. She wanted to see and know Himiko as she is, not who she was.

That’s this dudes problem; even if he wants to tear that rug to pieces, there’s certain ideas that hold him back. Think, the idea that your emotions matter less over others, or hating yourself for flaws that nearly every human being has.

Izuku saving Shigaraki has always always always been about saving himself too, and I love that.

Izuku had to trust Katsuki in this battle, trust allmight, trust Ochako, trust people. He had to let them take the wheel, the burden. Maybe he and Shigaraki can lift that burden for themselves too. His mask is broken, he’s become a monster blackwhip thing…

What’s your move Izuku?

[milkywaydrabbles]

Meeting the Haitani brothers in their clubs

A/N: literally no one asked for this but I am a firm believer the Haitani brothers are raveheads. Rindou is for sure a wook, while Ran stays in his progressive house lane. I could literally talk about them and their music taste for hours, writing a dissertation as we speak.

Haitani Rindou Artists inspo: ATLiens, Svdden Death, Rezz

⁍When you first met Rindou you were at one of his smaller clubs. Definitely an edm club, one that he owned for fun and not to push drugs or be a cover for any other illegal activity. He knew it was a silly club but it's one he often visited for the fun of it if he wasn't doing business. That's when he was his most casual. ⁍He was by the bar area, leaning by the rails of the elevated section and looking out to the sea of ravers. That's when he saw you. Across the masses, you were on one of the pillars that has some footing (not its intended purpose but you know what it worked). It let you be above the crowd for some air, really taking in the lights and visuals of the artist performing.  ⁍He’s seen it done before, not a new concept, so he let it be. Though his eyes lingered for a beat longer than normal of any other girls that frequented his club. For one, he hadn’t seen you before, a newcomer he assumed. But you were so comfortable in the scene it must have not been your first rave. Second, your attire might have matched his aesthetic in terms of rave gear than anyone else. All black, showing skin in a tasteful way, but paired with spikes and chains. Hot.  ⁍He watched you every now and again throughout the night, but not acting on anything. And then he saw you next weekend. And the weekend after that. And each time, no matter the artist, your aesthetic regularly stayed the same save for a jersey or pashmina that matched the artist. Each time you were heavily involved. Either fanning the crowd to give some air, trading kandi, hell even turning up in the pit.  ⁍The third time he saw you Rindou decided to say something. He got there early enough before the crowd started to form. You turned to him with a bright smile, and he thought just for a second you were too pure to be here.  ⁍You got to talking before it got too loud, and he learned you were new to the city, and you just found this club. He asked you your opinion, almost anxious on what you thought of his club. When you gushed over how amazing it was, he almost preened. ⁍Rindou wasn’t much of a smooth talker, didn’t really continue much conversation from there but he lingered, dancing and headbanging with you to each of the performers. You gave him a piece of kandi for the great night and wished him a safe trip home. ⁍He spoke to you again the weekend after that, and ultimately decided to just man up and ask for your number. You gladly gave it to him. Your hangouts eventually made it out of the club, now turning into breakfast dates, lunch dates, park dates.  ⁍Rindou over time confided in you, telling you that the club you frequented was his, and your eyes almost popped out of their sockets. He laughed in your face, immediately apologizing but it was too funny not to.  ⁍The two of you continued to see each other in and out of the rave scene, promise of this new found relationship blooming into something more.

Haitani Ran Artist inspo: Slushii, Dabin, Elephante

⊛Like his brother, Ran owns an edm club too, though a much different vibe. You were a bottle service girl at his club, and a diligent one at that. You’ve jumped in to help on nights you weren’t supposed to work, and even took on cleaning shifts if the rest of the bar was understaffed. ⊛All the bottle girls knew Ran, he liked to hire them personally to make sure they all fit the bill he was looking over (aka running background checks on them and making sure they were clean.) ⊛Every night he’d show up you greeted him with a cheery ‘good evening, Mr. Haitani!’ to which he responded with ‘you can always call me Ran, pretty girl.’ It ended with a giggle and a roll of the eyes, before heading off to your duties. ⊛You weren’t any different than the rest of them, not really, but he did notice you tended to get more tips than the rest and he was interested to know what you did. Maybe it was heavy flirting? Or maybe you ended up taking shots with the poor bastards and you milked them dry of their money that way? ⊛When he started watching you more, he noticed he was completely wrong. While the other girls tried to dance sexy with their tables you actively ended up singing all the words to the songs the performers would play and headbanged with them. That’s what got you more tips, you genuinely enjoyed the music. Huh.  ⊛At the end of the night while you cleaned up Ran came to find you and ask you about it. Oh boy, your face heated up so much you swore you could fry an egg on your forehead. You apologized for your behavior, stating that you ‘just really like the music, so working is really fun’.  ⊛Ran threw his head back and laughed, and asked you out on the spot. You paused, confused at the random offer and started to decline. That was your boss and you were pretty sure it was definitely against policy. ⊛But Ran was so pleasant and asked so pretty it was hard to say no. ⊛So you went on a date with him, thinking it would be one and done, and that it’d be short. Turns out, you had the best night of your life with him.  ⊛Every shift after that started the same, with your eager ‘good evening, Mr. Haitani’ his rebuttal ‘Call me Ran, pretty girl’, a giggle and smile.  ⊛And ended the same, Ran driving you home with a kiss and finally getting to hear you say ‘good night, Ran’.

[staybabblingbaby]

Soulmate Garden AU (Prologue) a2 d4

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Growing up, you knew Soulmates weren't all that they cracked up to be. So when, on your 18th birthday, your skin is painted with a garden of flower buds, you resolve to hide it from everyone. Who had ever heard of someone with 8 soulmates, anyway?

Or; Reader has 8 soulmates and no issue avoiding all of them. It's up to SKZ to show her that while every soulbond might not be made of fairy tales, theirs certainly could be.

Word Count: 1,308

Notes: I don't like this. It's not. Bad. It's decent writing. I just don't like doing world building this way. But I'm flying by the seat of my pants and everybody need to know the base information before we're all lost as hell. Also! Prologue + Ch 1 are the longest single piece of writing I've ever done. SG lives in my brain rent free. These are also the most polished pieces on the archive, because I have a tendency to reread smthn to get back into writing it after I put it down, and these are long so they got put down a BUNCH. So. Enjoy?

Dividers by @saradika

Warnings: Fighting Parents, She/Her Reader

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist <3 | Next Part

On your 18th birthday, you wake with a garden wrapped around your torso.

You analyze the unbroken ring of vivid greenery in the mirror, tracing the lengths of stems and branches with your eyes. They wind lovingly around your curves, looping all the way up your ribcage and sloping back down around your sides. It takes some maneuvering, a handheld mirror, and your phone’s camera to get a good look at your back, but your soulmark continues in the same manner all the way around.

Perhaps even worse on your back, you think, as you eye one tree that rises all the way up your spine, stopping just below the nape of your neck. The branches spread out in long, willowy tendrils along your shoulders, pale and droopy frond-like buds dripping down the expanse of your back.

You count eight types of flower bud in your explorations, noting that they’re the only things really in focus on your mark, despite the image being connected through all sorts of greenery. The implications of that make your jaw clench, and you turn around to hastily pull on a long t-shirt with shaking hands.

You study yourself in the mirror again after, lifting the bottom of your shirt to various degrees at different spots. You eventually make your choice and nod to yourself. You continue your morning routine as usual with the addition of a rapid heartbeat and unsteady breathing.

When you emerge from your room, mostly ready for the day, you’re met with the expectant gazes of your family.

Feeling sort of nauseous and like you’d rather refuse entirely, you shyly lift the part of your shirt you’d rehearsed earlier. You reveal a part of your mark on your right side. Just a small section of green, almost bush-like, from your hip to just above your waist. It trials off underneath your shirt, but not in a way where you’d think there was anything but more bushy green.

Your family celebrates for you. Your mom hugs you tightly, your father crows about how his baby girl deserved all that and more, and your sister shakes your shoulder with excited glee. They’re so proud of you for having such a large and vivid soulmark, your parents happily bragging about the small but colorful ouroboros on each of their thumbs and how they just knew their kids would be just like them.

You exchange a look with your sister when your parents somehow start an argument in the middle of their cheers for you. About something they had been enthusiastically agreeing upon moments prior, no less.

You push your sister out to your car with promises of breakfast fast food, the inevitable daily screaming match already beginning as she steps out the door. You follow her once you've left a note by your mom’s purse and take your usual food money allowance from her wallet. She wouldn’t notice until well after she’d stormed out of the house again, you knew.

Your soulmark celebrations are halted there, since you decline to show anyone at school your fresh mark. After all, while your family had just seen a bush with little droopy purple and fuzzy white flower buds, what you’d shown them was two very separate flowers on a backdrop of green.

The thing was, it wasn’t like you hated your soulmark. That’s not why you hid it, why it caused you so much anxiety. You adored your soulmark, in fact. As the years go by, there are many nights you spend feeling cradled by the comfort of being so ensconced in love that evidence of it literally always surrounded you.

Nights when tear tracks stained your face, and you could almost feel the tree branches on your back warm as if holding you.

Nights where everything seems pointless, interrupted by tall stems seeming to tickle just beneath your breast, a sound like twinkling laughter ringing in your ears.

Nights when the yelling in your house reaches a crescendo and you spiral into panic, wondering if tonight was the night someone went too far, brought out of the oceanic tides of fear only by counting little white buds across your tummy.

So yes. You love your mark. It’s just that you had no intention of ever sharing it with the world, and even less intention of seeking out the eight individuals behind those precious symbols of love.

See, you knew a thing or two about soulmates. You spent quite a while researching them when you were younger, trying to find a reason why soulmates like your parents could fight so viciously.

Turns out, while ‘love’ was the common interpretation of soulmates, all they really were was ‘destined’.

You can see this truth in action in your parents nearly every day. Always yelling, always fighting, always resentful. And yet, neither of them ever thinks to leave. It’s almost like they’re connected by the world’s strongest rubber band, constantly springing back together no matter how hard they pull apart from each other.

But even rubber bands can snap, and you don’t really want to be around when this one does.

Your parents had married, you know from your mom’s drunken ramblings one evening when you were twelve, because their families had expected them to. Their friends had expected them to. Even their coworkers had expected them to. After all, they were soulmates, and with such vivid marks at that! Surely they’d fall deeply in love, have a million babies, and live happily ever after.

You wish the reality had been that kind.

In your opinion, your parent’s ‘destined’ relationship with each other was one of enemies. Enemies with benefits maybe, but definitely not people who should live under one roof and raise children together.

But the public theory is that the bigger and brighter the mark, the bigger and deeper the love. And so your parents got married, and you were born. Lovely, really.

A research rabbit hole when you were fifteen had informed you that not only was this public theory not fact, but that it was entirely unprovable. Given that every normal relationship was different, it was only a given that every soulmate relationship would be different too. The most science could prove was that more vivid marks tended towards more intense feelings.

So yeah, no matter how much you loved your marks, you weren’t going to trust the relationship it promised you. You considered yourself the type to learn by example.

Besides your unwillingness to seek out your soulmates, your situation was also just plain weird. It wasn’t like clusters of soulmates were unheard of, rare as they may be. It was just that they were usually threesomes or foursomes, the largest on record being a whopping six person soul-cluster from South Africa. And you may be bad at math, but you’re fairly sure that having eight marks meant you were part of a nine person cluster.

You didn’t really want to be the latest study on the limits of soulmate bonds. So, you turned to what you knew, and started hiding.

Your closet filled with long camisoles of every color and pattern imaginable, and your sock drawer was quickly loaded with waterproof privacy wraps and rolls upon rolls of concealment tape matched to your skin tone. No one questions you, simply figuring you private with your marks.

It gets to the point where you wear your flimsy shields around the house, too. The only time you really get to see your marks is late at night when you’re drifting off to sleep, and early in the mornings when you’re getting dressed.

You live your life like this, flinching when your parents fight, barely acknowledging your soul marks, and pretending that everything is just fine to your little sister.

And then, freshly graduated and twenty-two, you move clear across the country. 

Perma Tag List: @mbioooo0000

[beesmygod]

What are some of your favorite pieces of art/ art that has made you think a lot?

this is such a cheesy cop-out answer, but there's a lot of things that im going to struggle remembering because of 1. how situational the experience was (as in, the context in which i experienced the piece) 2. how wide the word "art piece" is. 3. the great fortune to have been born to parents with strong artistic sensibilities and a love of travel/education. so these are like. really weird and specific but maybe thats the way it should be:

let's start with the most overly dramatic: st. paul's cathedral in london has guided tours where they take you into rooms and let you mill around before moving to the next one. my family took a trip overseas as a really, really big special vacation to celebrate my sister and i graduating from high school (we're not twins, we just combo'd it after she graduated) that i was too brain-broken and teenage to fully appreciate. its a beautiful cathedral but i was in my edgy internet atheist stage and refused to be impressed by it until i stood over a grate in the floor. through the grates you can see the crypt that you visit next. but standing over the grate, someone below started to sing something hymnal and very catholic. and i realized i was the only one who could hear it because of the crowd chatter. and it made me feel, in the moment, so special and so lonely in a way that i still think about, a lot. it was for me only. divine providence.

a date with adam to a place i had no idea existed but he had been to before: the bad art museum, which is split over like 3 different buildings in a bizarre way. we only went to the one where you have to buy a ticket to a movie as entry and it was some truly lovely bad art and made me sad how inaccessible it was but resolute about my love of the nuances of uncelebrated anti-art masterpieces. then we watched "assassination nation" and it was fucking terrible. great date.

reading the theory regarding the "venus of willendorf" being a self portrait as a 20-something year old and running into the bathroom to take my clothes off and look down at myself and having my mind blown. not just by how much i instantly understood it, but because of the tugging feeling on my heart when i feel that strand of history connecting women artists driven by that unknown compulsion to create for creations sake!

similarly, seeing artemisia gentileschi's work next to her fathers and realizing how much she outclassed him in every single way and feeling the tugging feeling again, but this time with a dark woe of realization of how history minimizes achievement and talent when it eases a narrative

reading jane erye's descriptions of herself and her approaches to her plights and for the first time feeling like someone had walked a path that i currently found myself lost on.

reading 1984 as a middle schooler and becoming so angry at the ending i threw the book across the room (something i had never done before and never did again in my life) and stormed out of my room to complain to my mom lol. IT REALLY UPSET ME!!!

reading les miserables for the first time and weeping piteously for days after the ending and having it impact my brain so hard it re-wired how i think about the concept of "legacy" and what it means to matter in the world and how love is nothing without the courage to stand up for it. and that mercy should, and will, always supersede unwavering justice (hard lesson to remember, maybe im due for a re-read)

sneaking into my parents room to read the books i wasnt supposed to yet as a really little kid lol. my mom used to get "dykes to watch out for" in a newsletter she was subscribed to! but i didnt read those bc they were dumb relationship comics for grown-ups. i wanted to read about opus the penguin and lee iacocca, as if i knew who that was. my mother's comic collection was the single most influential constant in my life. knowing that i was exposed to bill watterson's commentary about his own work via the big collections my mom owned probably explains a lot about what's wrong with me. but she also had a lot of berke breathed before he fully wussed out

the general experience of playing a video game that you arent supposed to/when you arent supposed to is probably one of the most freeing means of meaningless rebellion as a kid that everyone should experience. i used to be up playing pokemon past my bedtime under my covers with a huge heavy rubber flashlight i stole from the kitchen and had to replace every morning without getting caught once i was done with it. god, the days before backlit screens we had to get really fucking wild with it. in high school i would wake up at 5:00am, sneak into the computer room where the ps2 was and play an hour of FFX bc its the longest fucking non-persona game in the world, stop playing before my mom woke up at 6:00am and sneak back into bed. if i hit a part where i couldnt save i would just turn the screen off and come back to it tomorrow lol. secrets......

reading the "pictures for sad children" arc about paul, who is a ghost, finally losing it and going on a rant about how it has never mattered how thin a computer screen is. they were right and reading it helped me articulate and understand a growing feeling of restless frustration at the world around me that i felt singular and alone in. im glad that last i heard that artist is doing ok. i hope they recognize the incredible value in their work as imperfect as they perceived it to be. i do not think they would be happy to know that their old work was impactful, but i hope they realize that what people are able to tease out of their work is meaningful, at least to me it is. ill transcribe the comic rather than repost it i think: paul [while smashing electronics]: "have i told you about [bam] how nerds destroy the world take conspicuous consumption as a lifestyle choice and combine it with early hardware adoption and you have great swaths of gadgetry out of stock because they're incrementally better than the last model and there are landfills full of functioning electronics wasted time, resources, money, etc. the best part is that these things were never necessary it has never mattered how thing a computer is." [smash]

this is too long. i like art.

[poorly-written-fiction]

replay (logan howlett x oc) chapter 3 - teenage dream

A/N: hello everyone! chapter 3 is here! this one is obviously inspired by katy perry's "teenage dream" which i started associating with hugh jackman after that one video he did lipsyncing to the song. concept made me giggle. this was actually the very first thing i wrote about logan and inez together, and from there, inez became a character of her own! i hope you all enjoy.

Summary: Kate invites Inez to some "girl time".

word count: 1600

tags: canon x oc, logan howlett x oc, mutant! oc, slow burn, enemies/rivals to lovers, some swearing, inez is "white girl dancing" and logan has A Reaction™, spelling and grammar errors because i didn't proofread too hard, okay bye i hope you enjoy

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In the weeks that followed, Inez hadn’t gone to help Logan like she usually would have for his classes in the mornings. As much as she felt guilty for what she said, there was a small part of her that felt spiteful. Despite her anger, she couldn’t escape her helpful and loyal nature. As much as she wanted to jam her claws and teeth into Logan every time he looked at her, there was a small part of her that only felt satisfied by helping him. Maybe it was her pride, knowing that there was something she was good at that he was terrible at. Maybe it was the fact that she was always a team player. She didn’t know, and she didn’t care as long as it kept him from trying to talk to her.

It was early one Monday morning when she had passed by his classroom. He wasn’t there, of course he wouldn’t be there until then minutes before class started. Inez rolled her eyes, and placed a hand on the door. “If the door is unlocked, I’ll just get everything plugged in and turned on so he won’t try to ask me for help. If I can’t get in, then he’s shit out of luck,” she thought bitterly. She took the door’s handle into her hand, and pushed. The door swished open quietly. Inez felt like an inexperienced criminal who hadn’t done anything wrong yet, but it was too late to turn back now. She worked as fast as she could, not wanting anyone to find out what she was doing. It was now her dirty secret. She left almost as quickly as she came in, and she slipped away before anyone knew she had been there.

At 7:45, Logan walked into his classroom, finding already been set up for him. He paused for a moment, trying to think back to last Friday. Had he completely forgotten to shut everything down? He walked over to his desk, checking through his files, making sure nothing had been disturbed. No signs of life anywhere, He took a deep breath, and as he sighed, the realization hit him. He could smell the very faint scent of Inez. He called out to her, but she wasn’t in the room. He shook his head, thinking passively about how kind she had been to help him. There was a slight pang of guilt that hit him, he wasn’t blind to the fact that he had upset her. He sipped his coffee and brushed it off, deciding that dwelling on it wasn’t going to help anything.

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The rest of the week went by quickly and uneventfully. It was one of those rare times of peace and quiet around X Mansion. The world itself was more peaceful than usual, so everyone was able to collectively sigh with relief. It felt like there was no weight of priorities or hell breaking loose in the world. The students were all in relatively good spirits as well, which made work easy for the professors. On Friday evening, Inez found herself sitting at the kitchen counter, organizing some spare electronic pieces she had kept on hand from a few of the previous projects she had worked on. She didn’t want to hold onto any parts if they didn’t work. 

“Hey Wolfy, how’s the project going?” Kate leaned in the doorway, smiling. Inez had been so deep in her thoughts, she didn’t hear Kate in the area. 

“I mean, it’s just a bunch of scraps. I’m mostly checking to make sure I didn’t keep them for no reason.” Inez collected the loose pieces and put them in a small box she kept handy for spare parts.

Kate walked over and sat next to Inez, “Well, if you’re not busy, I was wondering if you’d like to do something. It’s a Friday night, everyone else is either busy or sleeping, and I thought it’d be fun to have some ‘girl time’?”

“It sounds like you already have a plan in mind?” Inez eyed her friend with faux suspicion. Kitty never had bad ideas, just questionable ideas.

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Several hours - and several alcoholic drinks later - the two girls were laughing, dancing, and “living their best lives” as they say. The mansion was still aside from the alcohol-induced joy the girls were radiating. They decided to make the living room their makeshift nightclub. Alcohol wasn’t allowed on the premises, but Kate had learned a thing or two about hiding some cans of seltzer. They mixed the alcohol with some juice to make it go down easier, and before too long, they were having a wonderful time together. The girls had enough wherewithal not to do anything stupid, except maybe play their music a little louder than what was preferred. Thankfully, the mansion was almost empty, which meant no one was really around to scold them.

Except maybe one person.

Logan’s senses were under attack from the girls’ shenanigans. The sound of the music and the smell of the alcohol were the most prominent. He had come downstairs to grab a beer he had hidden himself, and saw the girls dancing and having a great time. Part of him was warmed to see them so happy, and another part of him was annoyed, because of how loud the music was. He decided not to disturb them, and slipped into the kitchen without catching their attention. The Wolverine wasn’t exactly known for liking girly pop music, but he tried to ignore it as much as he could as he drank his beer in the kitchen. He couldn’t lie, it did make him smile to see Kate having fun with friends, even if he and Inez didn’t get along at the best of times. She was just a little too much like him, but in this moment he saw a side of her that she hadn’t shown very much. She actually seemed like fun in this state. The twinge of guilt hit him again.

Maybe things could be different.

Before he could get too lost in his thoughts, the girls were giggling excitedly, “Oh my god, I love this song!” The song playing was “Teenage Dream” by Katy Perry, which in truth wasn’t either of the girls' favorite song, but they knew the words and it was catchy enough that they were having a good time.

“You make me

Feel like I'm livin' a teenage dream

The way you turn me on, I can't sleep

Let's run away and don't ever look back, don't ever look back”

Inez swung her hips to the beat of the song, rolling her shoulders and tossing her hair around. In this moment she was the definition of “dance like no one is watching”. Except Logan had been watching, but she hadn’t noticed him yet, so she had no reason to feel embarrassed. Kate could now see Logan in the kitchen, sipping his beer and smiling at them. She smiled back, but didn’t pay him too much attention, continuing to dance with her friend.

“I'ma get your heart racing in my skin-tight jeans

Be your teenage dream tonight

Let you put your hands on me in my skin-tight jeans

Be your teenage dream tonight”

Inez ran her hands from her chest down to her legs, still swaying and rocking with the beat. Something about that suddenly made Logan inhale sharply, mid-sip, sending him into a coughing fit. Inez whipped around quickly, suddenly feeling very sober, and very mortified. Kate, who had noticed Logan, started laughing. She didn’t know whose reaction was better - Inez's or Logan’s.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you I-” Logan was at a loss for words, still trying to clear his airways from the alcohol.

Inez yelled, “How long have you been watching us?!” Her body was hot - she was already warm from the alcohol and the dancing, but now she felt like her body was on fire. She was embarrassed. She barely let anyone see her with her guard down, especially not Logan. She wanted to be her toughest self around him. She didn’t even let him answer before she left the room, leaving quickly to get out of the situation she was now in. She was already up the stairs, heading to her room before Logan could follow her.

“You might want to give her a second,” Kate suggested, a smile still on her face. “It might actually be better if I go talk to her.”

Upstairs, Inez was in the bathroom splashing water on her face, trying to cool down. She was definitely sober now, and kept reliving and replaying the moment in her head. She genuinely wondered how long Logan had been watching. What was he thinking? She didn’t want to think about it for too long. She walked out of the bathroom and straight to her room, silently hoping there was still enough alcohol in her system that maybe she would still forget the events by morning.

Logan wasn’t any better. He couldn’t stop asking himself why he had reacted like that. She wasn’t anyone special to him, she was just Inez, the stupid little pup who would mouth off to him, or side-eye him every chance she got. But in that moment, she was something. She was always fearless and carried herself with a lot of confidence, but when she was dancing in the living room, she was entirely herself. She was radiant. Logan couldn’t think straight for the rest of the night, and questioned himself at every chance he got. It kept him awake for a long while before he could shake the feeling enough to get some sleep.

[midorisudachi]

“The Inquisitor And Her Commander”

As some of you may have noticed, I am a huge fan of the Dragon Age games, especially Dragon Age Inquisition. Last year, I had planned on drawing all the main [playable] characters up until Dragon Age Day (which took place on December 4th), but I just didn’t have time to draw more than three characters (the Inquisitor, Solas, & Varric…please check them out in my gallery) due to being busy with work and other things. I’ll eventually draw the other characters when I gather more motivation to do so.

For now, please enjoy this piece. I hope everybody likes this. I worked very hard on this artwork. It took longer than usual to create, due to all the small details, the poses, & the armour. (Armour is not easy to draw for me!) For those of you who are DAI fans, you may recognize the flowers: Crystal Grace on the bottom and Andraste’s Grace on the top. I know Andraste’s Grace is not in DAI, but I thought it would be pretty to add to the artwork (since it technically exists in the Thedas world).

 My OC Inquisitor is named Bryony Trevelyan. She is actually my 2nd Inquisitor character, the first one having been an elf (which I may draw someday). I had been playing DAI for the 3rd time, a few months ago, as a male character (since I wanted him to be in a romance with Dorian, so yes, my male Inquisitor is gay), but I stopped for a bit since I am playing Skyrim at the moment (with updates & mods). Anyway, back on the main subject: I drew Inquisitor Bryony Trevelyan in the Armor of the Dragon Hunter outfit (from the Jaws of Hakkon DLC), which I had altered the colours by tinting it with Veil Quartz. I based her crown from concept art for DAI. So much armour in the game! Which I love, especially since the DA games don’t give female characters the stereotypical skimpy outfits…I love that I get to make my female characters wear bad-ass armour.

Cullen Rutherford is such an adorable and slightly awkward character around my Inquisitor. I knew I had to romance him right away, because his looks are the type of man I am attracted to in real life. (I’m not going to lie…in the game, he’s hot for a video game character. Ha ha!) I’ve always enjoyed the flirting in the DA games when it comes to the relationships. The best scene was right before their first kiss, when Cullen got interrupted by a member of the Inquisition, and then got mad about it. Ha ha. I liked when my Inquisitor asked Cullen, “The day you kissed me on the battlements…how long had you wanted to do that?” And Cullen replied (with a laugh), “Longer that I should admit.” Awwwww.

I also liked the part in the Winter Palace, when all these people were flirting with Cullen, and one asked him, “Are you married, Commander?” And Cullen replied, “Not yet, but I am…already taken.” Double awwww, because a loyal man is so dreamy. :3 I actually had Bryony & Cullen get married in the last DLC. :3 They adopt a Mabari (dog), too!

I love DAI too much. :D It’s such a fun game with the most gorgeous graphics (especially on the Xbox Series X).

Drawn with Sakura Pigma Micron pens, then coloured in with a mixture of Copic Markers & Ohuhu Markers. I used Koi Watercolours for the background. White accents done with both a gel pen and white watercolour. Gold acrylic was used for the Inquisition Symbol & the lines, which the scanner absolutely murders...the gold is such a pretty, shimmery metallic in real life. The light green around my art was done in Photoshop Elements.

Dragon Age Inquisition © Bioware & Electronic Arts

Fan artwork © Jacqueline E. McNeese