#the time I try (and fail) to draw something for every day of pride month

[cactus-zombie]

Pride Month day one: Lesbian

[edenityy]

( chapter twenty-five ! )

"You want me to get on.. that?"

Sunlight pours down on the dock below, shining on the many figures that stand and await to board a luxury liner— the Campania. The ship itself is large and a sight unlike any other, dwarfing those below. However, it causes a certain young lady to shift in discomfort.

Amongst the people that wait are the Barrett family. None of them outwardly show any sign of being impressed, but they can't deny that it's something to behold. This is meant to be a simple family getaway, something to occupy their semi-empty schedules for the month of April.

Unfortunately, one is far from excited after a not-so-well-earned break. With a scrunched nose, Leah stares at the ship, her eyes conveying a faint look of concern. She has never been fond of the idea of sailing—or the ocean in general.

"What is wrong with it?" asks Lucius with an apathetic shrug, his focus constantly flickering to Thomas and Anna who stand behind them and carry their luggage.

Leah fiddles with the gloves on her hand. "It is large—a large ship out on the sea. What if it sinks? What if I die? I don't know what is in the sea, what if a giant animal comes up and bites my head off?" the words fly out of her mouth quickly, spewing any incredulous idea that can cross her mind.

To anyone other than Leah, and perhaps Thomas, the girl sounds ridiculous. She has always been one to overthink, though she often tries to keep the thoughts to herself. One part of her brain nags her constantly, while another is logical and fighting a constant battle with any insane thoughts. Her brain can be quite tiring.

Rolling his eyes with a grin, Daniel gently nudges her shoulder. "You think too much," he says, looking up towards the deck of the ship. "The animal would have to be incredibly large or oddly small and agile to jump that high. The chances of your head getting bitten off are low, you're more likely to drown."

Face curling in annoyance, Leah's lips curl into a smile. "Well aren't you feeling intelligent today?" she asks snarkily, not happy with now being reminded of her inability to swim.

"Yes, very," Daniel gives a prideful nod. "How do you think I got into Weston College?" he gloats and earns a smile from Vivienne.

"Money," says Leah, her voice lacking emotion.

Daniel deadpans before a look of annoyance crosses his face. "You think yourself so hilarious, don't you?" his tongue pokes the side of his cheek.

Shaking her head dismissively, Leah looks ahead of herself and at the many unfamiliar faces surrounding her. "I was not trying to be funny."

Unlike his sister choosing to look away, Daniel stares her down. Despite her blatant insults being common, they never fail to aggravate every single time. He takes a deep breath and opens his mouth to retort, but their father intervenes before either of them can embarrass themselves.

"Don't start arguing," warns Lucius, growing tired of the useless arguments that take place every day just for the two to continue like it never happened.

"We aren't arguing," Leah protests with an eye roll, moving some brown locks out of her face. "We are simply having a conversation. A disagreement, if you will."

Vivienne decides that it's her time to cut in, also tired of her children's constant back and forth. "You are very much arguing! Hush, before you are to draw any attention to yourselves," her voice is firm and her British accent is a stark difference to the other three.

Biting back an insult, Leah resorts to balling her fists and rolling her eyes. She knows her mother cares more about how others see them rather than being annoyed by bickering, 'don't embarrass us' is almost a motto in the Barrett family. Arguing with Daniel is enough, her parents will only tire her out.

Letting an audible sigh slip, Vivienne moves her dress skirt and begins to walk. "People are boarding now, come, before we leave you behind."

'I bet you would,' thinks Leah. She has no doubts that her parents would leave her behind if they could. They only bring her around for the sake of image, what are they to say if someone were to question her absence? The last time that happened, it didn't go as swimmingly as they would have liked.

Nonetheless, she takes a deep breath and follows after her mother, being mindful of her space and trying to not bump into another person. Leah can only hope the ship won't be as crowded as the dock.

═╬

Once aboard, Leah is happy to discover that she does in fact have more space. However, that may be because her family is in the first-class section of the passenger deck. Regardless of the reason, her mood seems to brighten just a bit. 'Perhaps this won't be so bad?'

The Barrett's move around with ease, exploring the deck and the people they will be around for a prolonged period. Outside of Lucius—and Vivienne on a good day—, the family isn't very sociable. A wife who prioritizes reputation and looks, a son who is often at school or lounging at home, and a sheltered daughter who is remarkably mean or oddly sweet. That only leaves a man who engages almost purely in business matters, keeping his close circle small.

One would be surprised that Lucius is as popular among society as he is, unsociable in a period where needless chatting thrives. But, his way of doing business, the items he sells, and even his charm are enough to keep him up so high. He is not so certain about his children though.

Moving with a hardly noticeable skip in her step, Leah walks a few steps ahead of the rest of her family and speaks with her head turned over her shoulder. "Can we see our rooms first? I would like—" her voice is drowned out by another that is much louder.

"Oh, Leah! You're here too?"

Her steps falter at the sound of her name, swiveling her head around before her eyes land on a particular blonde. Elizabeth Midford. Leah's hands drop slightly, rubbing against her corn-yellow dress. 'Please no..'

Leah's smile almost slips but she slaps it back on. As much as Elizabeth drains her, she is too nice to be mean to her like she would anyone else. It's not that Leah hates the girl, but rather, she can't envision handling being around Elizabeth for the entire duration of the trip. That is asking to essentially turn her into a robot by the end.

There isn't a moment to think before Elizabeth is wrapped around her. "This is wonderful! With you and Ciel here, the trip will be even better than I thought!" she squeals directly into Leah's ear but doesn't earn a protest.

"Ciel is here too? How lovely.." Leah's words are quiet, trying to focus on her breathing with Elizabeth's arms wrapped so tightly around her.

The idea of her fiancé is not so well met, at least with Daniel. She can hear his groan and mumbles about how it will ruin the trip, ignoring any attempt of their father trying to silence him. His distaste for the Phantomhive, never explained, is to be expected at this point.

Elizabeth doesn't acknowledge this though, opting to release Leah and take hold of her hands. "You should join us for lunch! My family will love to have you," she says as she skips towards her parents, dragging Leah in the process.

Thankfully the area isn't as crowded as the dock, otherwise, this would be a game of shoving through a crowd rather than having a relatively open space to run about. This doesn't make Leah any more excited than Elizabeth, allowing herself to be dragged with the false smile she mastered plastered on her face.

Her eyes squint the closer they get to the Midford's, the sun shining down into her eyes. Nonetheless, she doesn't complain as their footsteps slow to a stop in front of Elizabeth's parents.

Francis Midford's brow raises in faint surprise, looking up at Leah and then her family who approach from behind. "Ah, Leah. It has been some time," her head nods in a respectful greeting. "I am glad to see you've been well."

"The same to you," responds Leah, looking back in the hopes that her father will take the lead in any conversation.

Answering her prayer, Lucius approaches Alexis and Francis with Vivienne in suit. They immediately engage in conversation and, though formal, the two husbands seem to be enjoying themselves, falling on the topic of family. This leaves the 'children' to their own devices, conversing amongst themselves.

"I can't wait for the activities to start! We can all have so much fun together," Elizabeth is the first to break the silence, smiling up at Daniel.

Daniel fails to return the smile as he is too busy glaring at Ciel, staring him down with a look so intense it could burn a hole through him. The cause of such a look? Unknown. But, this doesn't stop him from openly displaying his dislike for his sister's fiancé.

Trying to not show his discomfit, Ciel quietly shifts on his feet with a clear of his throat, scared of drawing his eyes towards Leah in the case that Daniel does more than give him a dirty look. While Ciel isn't scared of others often, the muscle Daniel has compared to his own lanky form is enough to keep him cautious.

Pulling his eyes away from Ciel for only a moment, Daniel plays along with Elizabeth's words. "Much fun we will have," he nods.

Edward, sensing the off vibe amongst the other two boys, tries to diffuse the situation whilst also getting to finally speak to Leah. "You look lovely in that color," he trains his eyes on her to let her know he's speaking to her, and his face flushes.

Smiling but unresponsive, Leah's eyes flash with a look of dread that the Midford doesn't understand.

Beside her, Daniel's shoulders tense and he slowly drags his eyes over toward Edward, processing the words in his head. While he could have taken it as any passing compliment to his oh-so-beautiful sister, the flush on Edward's face says otherwise. His eyes squint, filled with disdain but before he can say anything, their parents beckon the quintet over.

"We are going to lunch!"

Leah doesn't protest despite her reluctance to eat, making the move to gently shove Daniel along and keep him from lashing out at Ciel or Edward. 'God forbid a man breaths in my direction..' she thinks as she passes Elizabeth. 'One of these days, he is going to embarrass himself.'

She has never understood Daniel's distaste for a man showing interest in her. Perhaps it is protectiveness or maybe just not wanting to share her the closer she gets to marriage age. Whatever the reason, it weighs heavily on her relationship with Ciel—or any man who isn't a relative.

Stuck in her thoughts, Leah is pulled from the world called her head when she notices Sebastian a few feet away. Her posture stills, but she doesn't stop walking. The funeral is still vivid in her mind. The way Sebastian sat up as though it was nothing, the memories of his hauntingly dead eyes when he was found on the floor, the way no one seemed to question it. It makes her feel crazy, something she can only mention to Thomas without the risk of being shut down or sent away to a ward.

The storm in her mind only amplifies, her hand tightening against the back of Daniel's shirt. Standing just beside Sebastian is Snake, the white-haired boy she met at Noah's Ark Circus mere months ago. His hair is slicked back, unlike before when it simply laid atop his head, and he wears the suit of a butler. 'Could Ciel have hired him..?' her head is whirling at the thought.

'Will he tell my parents about the circus? I'll be done for!' Leah's hand drops back to her side. 'I can't let him say anything.. Not only will I never hear the end of it from my parents, but my reputation will be in the gutter!' Her eyes are wide and her pupils are dilated, taking hesitant steps in Snake's direction before his eyes catch hers.

He appears just as surprised as Leah at the sight of each other, almost taking a step back as she approaches. She hardly looks any different than the last time he saw her, staring up at him in the same way she had before. "If you say a word about that circus to my parents, I will have you killed," her voice is no louder than a low whisper.

Not bothering to wait for a reply, Leah sets into a light jog to catch up with the others, falling behind silently. 'Was that the right thing to say?' she can't help but wonder if threatening Snake was the correct move. 'As long as he stays silent, I don't care what I have to say..'

═╬

The sound of cutlery against plates and chatter fill the dining hall of the ship, passengers cheerily enjoying their meal. It's a calm atmosphere, and those in it simply enjoying their time.

The Barrett's and Midford's—as well as Ciel—sit around a circular table covered in a white cloth, their respective servants off to the side.

"It's such a treat that we'll be together for three weeks!" smiles Vivienne, half-focused on cutting the food on her plate.

Francis nods along, a content look on her face. "It is," she takes a sip from her glass. "You'll be with us the whole three weeks?" her head tilts, as though looking for confirmation.

"Yes," Vivienne takes a bite of her food, glancing over towards Leah who is begrudgingly letting Daniel place some of his food on her plate. "Leah will be debuting this season, so we want to enjoy ourselves before we are surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the season!" she gives a lightheaded laugh, but it lacks true feeling.

Hearing the words leave her mother's mouth, Leah glances up from Daniel and her plate to stare incredulously. "Mama, no!" a giggle from Daniel slips past her. "Surely I have another year left?!"

Lucius lowers his gaze when Leah looks at him, trying to not get involved. For years now, both he and Vivienne knew that Leah had an underlying dread at the thought of having to be out in society. It only deepens since she is betrothed, the girl finds no point in socializing at pointless balls when she has no need to search for a potential husband.

"It's merely a year early, Dear," Vivienne shakes her head as casts her gaze toward Ciel. "Besides, I'm sure you and Ciel will be married any year now! It will be less tedious to come out before you get married."

Unable to find a bone in her body willing to fight, Leah groans and succumbs to the inevitable. 'I suppose I can just get it over with now and not have to care later..' She allows Daniel to subtly fuss over her, taking small and hesitant bites of food. Her brother is one of the few people who knows of her struggle with food and as much as he annoys her, she can't deny that she appreciates him in more ways than one.

"Well," Alexis swallows his bite of food before he continues. "I'm certain Leah will be knee-deep in suitors. Elizabeth will be debuting as well, do make sure to spare her some!" his chuckle rings out through the dining hall, the other adults—and Elizabeth—following suit.

'The sooner the better, I guess..' Leah tries to reassure herself, stealing a glance at Ciel who has an almost unnoticeable flush on his cheeks. 'At least I won't be alone,' her eyes lower onto her plate as she takes a bite, her body language full of annoyance.

'She could have at least warned me before the trip.'

═╬

Later that night, moonlight shines through the windows to illuminate the dance floor of the ship. Guests fill the room, everyone's voices being drowned out by the music that flows through their ears. It's the epitome of high society.

Leah stands up against a wall, lost in her thoughts. She adorns a scarlet gown that stands out against her pale skin with a headpiece of jewels to match. Despite her typical distaste for attention, she is unintentionally one of the main views in the room, constantly catching glances from people across the room.

On the far right of the room, she can see Ciel and Elizabeth dancing, her friend having the time of her life with a large smile painting her face. An invisible cloud forms over her head, almost out of jealousy. ‘At least Elizabeth is having fun.’

“Can I—” Edward appears beside her, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “May I have this dance?”

Her head whips to the side at the sudden voice, her demeanor softening when she recognizes the blonde. “Edward..” Leah’s lips curl up into a small smile. “I would enjoy that.”

The Midford’s face flushes at her acceptance, a grin growing on his face. He outstretches his hand, looking at her expectantly. Leah lifts her gloved hand towards his, the material hardly grazing his skin before it’s intercepted.

“A dance?”

With her hand lifted above her head, Daniel interrupts the moment and squeezes himself past Edward with a slightly bothered look. Placing himself between the two, he looks down towards Leah with an exaggerated smile.

“I never thought you would ask!” he begins to drag her off towards the dance floor.

Leah’s previously blank face curls up in annoyance. “I didn’t ask,” she rolls her eyes and glances back towards Edward who looks defeated, mouthing a ‘Sorry..’

Nonetheless, she allows herself to be led through the crowd of people until Daniel finds a suitable spot, immediately taking to the dance. Her hands find his neck, wrapping themselves around it gently as she sways and looks around at the people next to them.

She can’t help but feel bad for Edward. However, she has a faint feeling of relief. Dancing with Edward would mean having to potentially make small talk, Daniel can at least understand her emotional cues.

“You know,” Daniel starts, trying to relieve the underlying tension, “I think Mama and Papa would be thrilled to see that you’re the belle of the ball.”

Mood almost dampening at the mention of her parents, Leah scowls and looks off to the side. “Please.. They only care about you—only notice you and how you’ll take the family name,” she sneers. “They just want to get me out of the house.”

Daniel goes quiet at the mention of their parent's favoritism. He knows how it has affected Leah since she was a child. How he was her primary shoulder to lean on her entire life while knowing he could lean on their parents.

“Well.. Others notice you. That I’m certain of,” he jests, recalling how he’s seen people eyeing Leah all night. “I’m surprised more men haven’t asked you to dance.”

Leah purses her lips, her hand squeezing Daniel’s. “Do you think Ciel notices me..?” she whispers. “I feel like.. he hardly considers me sometimes.”

Jokingly groaning in annoyance, Daniel can’t hide the smile on his face. “Don’t bring him up. If he doesn’t notice you, there are plenty of men who would be glad to take his place. I notice you.”

A small smile grazes Leah’s lips.

“Why don’t you break off that engagement anyway?” asks Daniel, keeping his voice low as they twirl around the room.

“I like him,” Leah pouts. “As conflicted as I can be with him, he isn’t terrible. He offers stability. I won’t have to find a husband during the social season,” she drones.

Daniel snickers. “Ahh, yes. The bare minimum that is expected of a nobleman,” he openly shows his amusement, despite Ciel being mere feet away. “Even I could do better.”

Their feet move to the rhythm of the music, swaying playfully. For once, the siblings have a good time without arguing at least once, twirling past the other nobles that fill the room.

“Mmm, yet which one of us is terrible with women and has never been betrothed?” Leah retorts.

Feigning a gasp of offense, Daniel loosens his grip and lets Leah twirl to the point that she almost trips. “I still have plenty of time to find someone!” this earns a look from his sister.

The music slows to a stop and so do their bodies, signifying the end of the dance. Dropping her hands back to her side, Leah stares up at Daniel with a smile of contentment. Even with her jabs, she has fun when she isn’t in a bad mood.

“May I dance with Edward now, Your Highness?” she asks mockingly, a giggle escaping her.

Sighing in defeat, Daniel tilts his head. “Must you?”

Leah starts to walk away, her brother on her trail. “Edward isn’t some villain just because he complimented me. He’s quite kind,” she eyes the dispelling crowd, trying to find the Midford boy.

“I suppose,” with a roll of his eyes, Daniel reluctantly leaves her side.

Parting ways, the siblings wander off around the room to their desired goals.

═╬

Just three days later, Leah, Ciel, and Elizabeth are roaming around the first-class passenger lounge. It isn’t the first on Leah’s list of thrilling activities, but when Elizabeth invited her, she couldn’t bring herself to deny. There aren’t many options for entertainment that aren’t on a scheduled time—or filled with people older than her. Might as well keep herself happy for the three weeks.

Leah is now in an emerald green dress made of velvet material, an evening gown in her favorite color. If anything, the dress is her favorite out of all of the ones she has owned. Her necklace and earrings match, emerald jewels hanging from her pale skin.

Ahead of her, Elizabeth is dragging Ciel around while Leah sticks closer toward the back. She can feel Sebastian’s gaze on the back of her head but she ignores it, focusing on not losing Elizabeth in the crowd as everything catches her eye.

“Look, look!” says Elizabeth, pointing at slices of cake that sit on a table. “That cake is so cute!”

‘I don’t know how she eats so many sweets.. Do her teeth and stomach not hurt?’ Trying to look past the heads that surround her, Leah almost notices the cake that Elizabeth is talking about before her wrist is grabbed with an oddly tight grip.

Before she knows it, Leah is being dragged away from Ciel by none other than Elizabeth who is determined to grab some of the cake. “We’ll get some for you too, Ciel!” she smiles.

“Elizabeth—”

The Barrett has no time to protest, simply succumbing to being led around like a toy. It’s worthless for her to try and argue with Elizabeth and get her point across without having to turn to yelling, Leah has known her long enough to know that.

“I don’t think I’m in the mood for cake,” sighs Leah, wanting to avoid any food before dinner.

A pout covers Elizabeth’s face. “But it looks so tasty!” she ignores Leah’s words in favor of diving for two plates. “You’ll love it, a little treat. I haven’t seen you touch dessert on this trip yet.”

While Elizabeth’s words are in good faith, Leah can’t help but want to run away. Regardless, she takes a few bites to appease her friend.

Neither girl notices time has passed until Elizabeth casts her place aside, done with her slice. Leah almost places her half-eaten cake down as well before she decides to hold onto it. ‘I shouldn’t waste it yet, someone else might want it..’ she considers finding Anna and giving it to her.

“Can we take the cake back to Ciel now?” asks Leah, wanting to get on with her night.

Remembering the initial objective, Elizabeth nods excitedly. “Come on,” she begins to drag Leah once more. “I think we left him near the staircase?”

Retracing their steps back to the last place they left Ciel, they find themselves near Snake but with no sign of Ciel or Sebastian in sight. Both Leah and Elizabeth’s heads are on a swivel, trying to see if they can see their heads in the crowd—Leah being off more use as the tall one. But, when neither manages to see anything other than the new and strange footman, the two girls frown.

“Where did he go in such little time?!”

[atinylittlepain]

Of Saints and Sinners - Chapter 7

Joel Miller x f!reader/f!oc

series masterlist

warnings | 18+ SMUT (yeehaw), angst, canon-typical violence

a/n | happy TLOU night, y'all :) at long last, Joel fucks, but not until after some serious angst

It’s been two weeks since she first came over to listen to records. Since Joel finally made a fool of himself for her. She spent the night with Joel, after that shared moment, just holding onto each other, talking. She’s spent the night every day since, listening to music, lazily kissing like teenagers. Joel’s learning how to talk to her, draw her out, without pressing too hard to the point she shuts down. He doesn’t ask about the childcare center, though he hears from Maria that she’s been visiting daily. He doesn’t ask anything about Steve or Alex, or her time in Seattle. She likes to talk about Ellie, whom she’s grown pretty fond of, and they can trade stories about the girl. He lets her ask a lot of questions about him and he does his best to be open, even telling her about Sarah. And if all else fails, Joel’s figured out that she can talk about music until she’s blue in the face. 

She’s been turning up around the same time every night, dusk settling in. She’s still strangely polite, knocking lightly on the door, even though Joel has started unlocking it right around sunset for her, told her to just come in. When he opens the door to her, she’s always got this worried look, a warbly smile and furrowed brows, like she’s questioning if she’s still welcome. It’s no different tonight. Joel easily pulls her in by her wrist, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her in tight. She’s quick to slip out of his hold though, and Joel can see that worried look is still on her face.

“Don’t even ask me,” Joel speaks first, before she can needle at him.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask,” she huffs, stepping back and crossing her arms over her chest.

“You were gonna ask me if I’d talk to Tommy about getting you back on shifts. The answer is still no.” Steve’s been doggedly working to keep her off of patrol and Joel can see that she’s getting restless, the last two nights asking him if he’d talk to his brother about getting her back on the schedule. 

“I’ve been back for almost a month, I feel fine, all the bruising is practically gone, but everyone’s treating me like I’m fucking broken or something.” 

“You’re not broken. We’re trying to keep you safe.” She scoffs, “I don’t need to be looked after like a child. I can handle myself perfectly fine, I was handling myself perfectly fine. I just… slipped.” 

“So why risk slipping again? There’s plenty— “ Her eyes flash at Joel and she’s instantly up in his space again. “Do not tell me there’s plenty of work around town when you know that’s not what this is about.” He huffs, stepping back and dragging a heavy hand down his face.

“No, of course not. It’s about some sick pride you have in constantly putting yourself in danger. People love a martyr, right? And you’re more than happy to give them one. Pfft, you worried people are gonna stop calling you the saint? Is that what it is? Some sort of self-righteous bullshit?” She swallows hard, getting small, and Joel realizes too late he let his frustration push too far. He goes to reach for her, but she shuffles back, bumping into the banister at the foot of the stairs. She keeps her gaze on the floor as she speaks.

“I didn’t ask for that, any of it. I did what I’m good at, tolerating danger, pain, risk. That’s what I’m good at. I don’t give a fuck what sorta meaning people give it. That’s not my business. But don’t you ever suggest that what I do is done for pride because lord knows I haven’t got any.” Joel’s come to find that she doesn’t really cry, her voice gets a little shake to it and her eyes get watery, but that’s it, no tears fall. That’s the state he sees her in as she says this to him, harshly scrubbing at her nose afterwards.

Joel opens and closes his mouth a few times, drowning in what he wants to say. Before he can get anything out, she sighs, “Think I should probably just go home.” 

“Oh, right, because god forbid anyone push you even a little bit. You act so tough, but really if someone so much as looks at you the wrong way you wilt. What you said? About being good at tolerating pain? That’s bullshit. You ain’t as tough as you think you are, darlin. You’re just real good at running.” The frustration in Joel has snapped, and now it’s all just racing loose in him. He knows he’s going to regret what he just said, but right now, all he feels is relief in telling her how he sees it. She shoves at his chest, a hard push that makes him stumble back.

“Fuck you, Miller. Stay the fuck away from me.” She cuts towards the front door, Joel still too stunned by her seething anger to do anything but watch her slam it behind her.

Joel lets out a ragged exhale. What the hell just happened? He knows what he said came out all wrong, but he also knows there’s some truth to it. He was walking on eggshells around her, worried he’d bring up the wrong thing and she’d spook. It seems like it finally happened, he pushed too hard and she bolted. He had been open with her, was it so wrong to expect the same thing in return? 

Joel doesn’t sleep that night. When Ellie comes home later, she finds him, sitting on the stairs with his head in his hands.

“You messed up, didn’t you?” She’s smirking at him. “Is it that obvious?” 

“You’re looking pretty pathetic, old man. That and I saw her shooting darts with Steve at the bar. She only does that when she’s really pissed.” He huffs at that, standing up with a groan.

“Got any advice, genius?” Ellie shrugs, “not really, just don’t let her stay mad at you too long. If she doesn’t like you anymore she might stop spending time with me.” She’s already shuffling off to the garage as Joel mutters “gee, thanks.” 

…

Things go back to how they were before, and Joel is embarrassed to admit how agonizing it’s been. He only got close to her for a blink of time, but it was enough that her absence feels like a physical wound. He goes out on patrol, and goes straight home most days. She left her albums at his house, and he listens to them all night, even though he doesn’t like either of them at all. He can picture her listening to them, that content look she’d settle into, and sometimes it’s enough peace to send him to sleep.

Ellie tells him that she’s back on patrol shifts with Alex. No raids anymore though. He supposes that’s her idea of compromise.

Finally, after two weeks of what Ellie has been referring to as his “recluse routine,” Joel is coaxed out to the bar by his brother. There’s a small group formed around Roger, that young man Joel had started taking shifts with previously. The town was in a bit of a stir, heard that Roger had handled a proper hoard of clickers that morning up at the dam. Watching Roger, Joel thought to himself that the kid was acting a little too big for his breeches, regaling his audience with his over-dramatized kills. He also saw her, throwing darts in the back with Steve. Joel did his best not to look at her too long. Johnny Cash was playing tonight.

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine

I keep my eyes wide open all the time

I keep the ends out for the tie that bands

Because you’re mine, I walk the line…

Joel’s only partly engaged in the conversation he’s having with Tommy, keeping an ear to Roger’s musings.

“You know, I think we’re all capable of killing, really, when it comes down to it. It just gets drawn out of us by different things. I think for most it’s purely a matter of survival. When it comes down to life or death, I think we’d all kill.” Joel watches her and Steve pass off the darts to another pair, sitting down at a table in the back. Both seem keenly interested in what Roger’s spouting off, sipping idly from their glasses.

I find it very, very easy to be true

I find myself alone when each day’s through

Yes, I’ll admit that I’m a fool for you

Because you’re mine, I walk the line…

“Now, don’t get me wrong, there are other folks that it doesn’t take much to get them to kill. Loose cannons.” She’s getting up to leave, squeezing Steve’s shoulder before starting to push through the crowd. 

As sure as night is dark and day is light

I keep you on my mind both day and night

And happiness I've known proves that it's right

Because you're mine, I walk the line…

“Take the saint, for example. Now, if you ask me, that one’s got a dark streak in her. I don’t care how holy you folks think she is. I’m telling you, that girl’s got a few screws loose.” Joel’s already on his feet, ready to shut Roger up himself, but she beats him to it, spinning on her heel where she stands and walking back to his table. Everyone parts for her and she hoists him up by the collar, punching him square in the jaw. Roger falls to the ground and she’s on him in a flash, jostling him by his shirt.

“You better watch who you talk about Roger, those loose cannons are prone to friendly fire.” She stands abruptly, briefly catching Joel’s gaze before shoving out of the bar.

Joel looks to Steve, “you gonna go check on that?” The young man shrugs, taking a swig of his drink, “don’t see the problem, she handled it. No use talking to her when she’s mad.”

Joel huffs, shouldering his way out of the crowd and into the cooling night. He finds her out back of the bar, leaning against the wall, head tipped back with her chin jutted at the sky.

She glances at him as he nears, sighing.

“Busted my fucking hand on that asshole’s face.” Joel snorts at this, “He had it coming, way he was running his mouth.” She scoffs, “gonna be the talk of the town tomorrow.”

Joel presses his back against the wall next to her, their shoulders brushing. He grasps her wrist, pulling her hand up to study the damage across her knuckles.

“Why don’t you come with me, get this cleaned up?” She nods mutely and lets Joel lead her back to his house. 

They’re in his bathroom. Joel has her sit on the edge of the sink as he stands between her legs, daubing a washcloth at her bloodied knuckles. She’s keeping her focus on her hand, not glancing up at him.

“How have you been?” He pauses, lets out a humorless chuckle, “you’re asking how I’ve been?” She just shrugs, “haven’t seen you around.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Joel murmurs, getting ready to wrap some gauze around her knuckles. She sighs, bringing her hand over his.

“I need to apologize, Joel. For how I reacted that night.” He stops his ministrations, flipping his palm to let their hands entwine. “I’m sorry too. Shouldn’t have said all that, let my frustration get to me.” She shakes her head, looking up at him.

“No. What you said. It hurt. But it had some truth. I am good at running. I’m always running. From everything, everyone.” She lets out a shaky exhale, “but I don’t wanna run anymore, not from you, if you’ll still have me.” Joel feels his shoulders slacken, not even realizing the tension that had been simmering in them. He swallows thickly.

“Don’t even gotta ask. Even if you did have a few screws loose like Roger said, I’d still have you, darlin.” She laughs wetly at that, and Joel didn’t realize how badly he wanted to hear that sound again. 

They fall into a simpering silence as he finishes wrapping her hand. When he’s finished, he rests both his palms over the tops of her thighs, giving a light squeeze before stepping back to let her hop down from the sink. She brings her hand to the side of his neck, thumb brushing the curve of his jaw as she draws him down to a fluttering kiss. She whispers a thank you before taking his hand, drawing him out into his bedroom. Joel feels like he’s in a hazy dream as she gently presses him to sit on the end of his bed, standing in front of him.

Joel’s breath hitches as he watches her start to work at the buttons of her shirt. She keeps her gaze fixed to his, and he doesn’t dare look away, only catching glimpses of skin in the periphery as she reaches the last few buttons. And she finally slips the shirt down her shoulders, letting it fall around her feet, and Joel’s heart is hammering so hard he thinks she can hear it. She’s smiling and Joel can see the nerves jumping in the corners of her eyes, her lips, as she reaches behind her to unclasp her bra, letting the straps slide down her arms until the fabric falls to the floor as well. Suddenly, Joel is painfully aware of the fact that it’s been a long time since he’s seen a naked woman. His hands are shaking where they’re balled in the bedsheets, and he has to remember how to breathe for a second. 

She steps forward, gently grabbing his wrists to pull him up with her. She guides his palms to splay across her stomach, fingers curling around her waist. He can feel the push and pull of her breath, the way it’s catching on each inhale. Slowly, he lets his hands wander, mapping the curve of her sides, grazing over her ribs, flickering over the birds tattooed below her collarbone. He drags his fingertips across her shoulders, down her arms until he tentatively circles behind her. He takes in the expanse of her back and can feel how she tenses under his gaze. The scars that he remembers glimpsing are there, both heartbreaking and breathtaking in the endurance they suggest. Joel drops his head, letting his lips drag across the tops of her shoulder blades, the hilt of her neck, from one shoulder across to the other, murmuring the word “beautiful” like a prayer into her skin. She draws in a ragged breath before turning in his hold, pulling him in by his neck until they meet in a hot tangle of tongues and teeth. The way she licks into his mouth draws a low groan from Joel’s throat, wrapping his arms around her to pull her in deeper. She draws away for a moment, fumbling with the hem of his shirt before he’s quick enough to yank it over his head by the collar. When they pull back together they’re pressed skin to skin in a way Joel thinks he could become addicted to. He walks her back until they both stumble onto the sheets, huffing with the awkward shifting and tangling of limbs before they’re meeting each other again, dragging desperate kisses. 

She lets her nails graze down his torso before settling on his belt. Joel pulls back when he hears the metal clinking as she undoes it. Her eyes are blown wide as she looks him over.

“Is this ok?” Joel can barely get an answer out, just grunting an “mm-hmm” and then she’s smiling as she pops the button of his jeans, moving her hand through the thatch of curls there before taking him in the softness of her palm. He lets out a broken moan, head falling into the crook of her neck where he starts to leave bruising kisses that make her gasp his name. She’s stroking him as best she can in the confines of his boxers and he’s letting the most pathetic whimpers ride from the back of his throat. He grasps her wrist, drawing her hand to rest by the side of her head. 

“Too much?” He breathes a laugh, “just don’t want it to be over too soon.” She smiles, craning her neck to peck the corner of his mouth. He presses back so he’s kneeling between her legs, drawing his palms down the sides of her torso until settling at the waist of her pants. He looks to her and she nods, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, hiding the quirk of her lips. His hands are shaking again as he unzips her pants, whispering a hoarse “hips up, darlin” as he slides them down her legs, shuffling back so he can get them all the way off. Joel’s mouth goes slack. She’s left before him, bare, save for a pair of plain cotton underwear. He leans back in before he can think too hard about this being the prettiest sight he’s ever seen, resting his elbow beside her head before meeting her for another drawn kiss. He lets his other hand wander down the center of her chest, fingertips grazing over her peaked nipple before sliding further down the dip and swell of her stomach, finally slipping under the band of her underwear. He swipes through her folds, drawing the wetness pooling there to slide over her clit, and she preens, stretching out her neck and pressing her head back into the sheets. Joel rests his chin on her sternum, watching how her brow furrows, the little whines he can draw out of her with how he moves his fingers through her. 

“So wet, baby. It’s all for me?” She gasps as he slips one finger into her curling it just so. “Yes, Joel. It’s all you. All for you.” He grins big at that, pressing another finger into her, knees feeling a little weak at the stretch, the tightness. He lets his mouth smear across her chest, head dipping to take one of her nipples into his mouth, grazing her with his teeth. The noise that draws from her, from the back of her throat, makes his cock pulse.

He can feel her getting tighter around his fingers as he brings his thumb to swipe over her clit. “I want you to come for me, baby. Can you do that? Come undone for me?” She nods hard, gasping as he continues to thrust into her, eyes scrunched shut.

“Yes I wanna come for you– please don’t stop– p-please don’t stop,” her one arm has come to wrap around Joel’s back, nails digging into muscle. 

“Open your eyes for me, baby. Wanna see you when you come. Let me see you, darlin,” her eyes blow wide, staring up at Joel as he dips down to kiss her. And then she’s pulling away, letting out a broken cry and Joel can feel how she flutters around his fingers. He works her through her high, pulling away only when she starts to squirm. Her eyes are bleary, chest heaving as she cards her fingers through his hair. He leaves kisses along her jaw, her cheeks, before settling for a firm peck at her lips. She smiles up at him.

“I wanna feel you. I want you.” His head spins at her words. He leaves one more kiss on her lips before slowly standing, shedding his jeans and boxers in one sweep, finally aware of just how painfully hard he is. She shimmies her underwear off her legs before sitting back on her elbows, feet planted on the mattress with her knees bent wide as she watches him stroke himself a few times. The image is obscene. The image is divine. He kneels back between her legs, drawing her ankles to wrap loosely at his low back while he hovers over her. Her hands fall at his shoulders, one reaching up into the back of his hair, scratching lightly. He slides his cock through her wetness, both of them breathing ragged, trembling. He slowly starts to press into her and she gasps, a broken whimper in her throat. Joel stills.

“Did I hurt you?” She shakes her head, looking up at him with watery eyes, “just need it slow. Been a long time.” He nods, pecking her temple before tentatively starting to press further in, drawing gasps out of her with each experimental thrust. How he hasn’t come already is beyond him, the way she’s throbbing around him. Their hips finally meet and she lets out a sharp sigh, pulling him down to wrap her arms fully around him.

“Need a minute like this.” He nods into her neck, leaving light kisses across her collarbone. Her grip on his neck slowly loosens and he presses up to gaze at her. She nods, letting him know he can move. Joel groans as he pulls out, letting his hips roll back into hers, keeping his pace slow and drawn out. She’s a vision beneath him, flushed and preening, little pants of his name as he finds a steady rhythm to push and pull them to. 

He reckons that nothing has ever felt like this before, so terrifyingly right. He dips back down, keeping her close, chests brushing with each thrust, limbs tangled and slick with sweat, lips swallowing each other's sighs.

Pleasure is pulling taut at the base of his spine, his pace starting to falter. “‘M sorry, baby, gettin close. Need you to come for me. Need to feel you, darlin.” His voice is thick, whatever’s left of his Texan accent rolling deeply now, making his words feel like molasses in his mouth. She grips the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing a low groan from him as she nods desperately, “gonna come for you, Joel. Please– make me come.” He brings his hand back to her clit, a firm and fierce pressure that makes her clench around him. His eyes roll back at the sensation, and he can vaguely hear himself muttering please, please, please into her sternum, feeling himself teetering at the edge of release. She gasps his name when she comes undone and it takes all his strength for him to pull out, stroking himself a few times before he’s releasing over the soft planes of her stomach. They’re both breathing hard as they come down, Joel shifts to the side, laying down beside her. 

“Get you cleaned up in a minute. Just– need to not move– for a little while.” She laughs at that, throwing a forearm over her eyes before glancing over at Joel. He feels like he’s died and come back, white noise behind his eyes, heart still racing.

He finally starts to calm down, turning his head to look at her, being met with her very smug appraisal of him. “Thought you might be done for, Miller.” He scoffs, rolling over to stand up and walk around to her side of the bed, pulling her up by her hands. “Can you blame me?” She blushes at that and he dips his head to give her a brief kiss before leading her back into the bathroom.

They shower together, both touching the other like they might break. She still flinches when his hands pass over her scars, but she’s also starting to soften. Joel has never felt anything as gentle as when she washes his hair for him, letting her guide his head back into the stream of water. All clean, he gives her one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers to sleep in. They slip into the sheets and she rests her head on his bare chest, right above his heart. He reckons it’s all hers anyways. He lets his fingers idly brush along her arm. She clears her throat.

“I-I’m gonna try– to let you in. And I’m probably gonna do a shit job at it. But I’m gonna try.” Joel pauses, holding his breath, before he dips slightly to press a kiss into her hair. Words fail him, so he settles for holding her a little tighter and bringing his hand down to entangle with hers giving a firm squeeze that she reciprocates. 

Both of them sleep soundly, wrapped up in each other. A silent understanding settles between them in the still of the night.

[alexa-fika]

Tell me about your favorite pieces of work. What's an art piece and a writing piece you're just really proud of?

Oh boy Oh boy, it’s my time to shine ✊🏽

Among my writings, I have many that I am attached to mostly because of the love you guys have shown have really helped me be proud of them but at the top of them I have Demonically Adorable

I wrote the first ‘fight scene’ that I was genuily proud out, I think it was actually my first one in general and I think a smooth job in it.

I ‘ve also struggled with those types of fics where you introduce a Reader into a canon series of events because I struggle to find the balance between keeping it true to egents but also not making it a copy paste.

The funniest part about this is that this fic was I think the first request I rejected. I was telling @cosmocup1d, the requester, bless their heart btw, that I had spent days trying to think of a plot but I had failed only to get inspiration a day later. And man on my I was in the zone. I loved how it turned out from start to finish, which usually I end up insecure about one part of the fic but this one I felt so accomplished.

That being said I also feel great accomplishment for Hungry for truth, the one shot that I had written thanks to you and 💧’s prompts and ideas ( please let me work with you guys again, i am in my knees begging you). I think I have mentioned it before but I am a fan of yandere but am horrible at writting it. I gave a try on Delivery for one and Locked Database and I felt okay about them, I liked them but Hungry for truth was top of the top. It was something that I felt so proud to show both you and 💧.

With it I felt like I had truly ashieved that dark theme, yandere theme that I had attempted to reach with the other true but failed to truly achieve.

Now on to art, it’s funny I don’t think many of you know I draw 😂, thats how this blog originally started and was intended to be, an art blog but then you inspired me to actually try to publish my writings and so here we are.

I did many types of art, including the abstract art lgbtia event where I published a couple of them every day in pride month. I like those but they were pretty simple, fast, something to show my pride more than the art. Now if we are talking about my favorite one’s it has got to be this one.

In it I drew my oc Alexa ( the pink haired girl) along with the representation of two other friends who back then were anons who identified themselves with the 🧶 and 🌻 emoji. I felt proud of how I did the backround, something that I had been practicing for a while and finally aces to the creation of emoji representations like them. The autumn representation I did is also up there, I remember at first it was just a witch but when I started doing a bunch of hair do I was like wait pumpkin? (Please ignore the words on the post they are a mess of pretend family tree that even back then I din’t understand)

And an honarable mention to my soulmate compass, less up there because most of it was simply tracing the photo of my actual compass with just a pretty backround

So yeah there they are! My proudest pieces. Thank you so much for asking quin 😂, I love answering questions of the stories I write, what was the thoughts behind it and I like even more interacting with each and every one of you.

As promised take your smooch

[botched-lineart]

There's something that's been weighing on me.

I feel like the only reason I'm not seen as a notoriously narcissistic flaky failure is that I've never had a bigger following than 200 people who occasionally pay attention to what I do.

Because like. I disappoint people all the time. Daily, even. I'm selfish with my time, only make what I impulsively want to make, sit around being jobless on my parents' dime...

It's not cute. I feel like a vile creature trying to pretend to be a decent human being. And I can't even pretend all that well.

Some of my mutuals and discord acquaintances follow this blog and may even take the time out of their day to read this post and... There are so many things I could say. I'm sorry for being a chronic ghoster and for never following through on my promises. Sorry if I hurt your feelings by barely reacting to something you made or failing to pretend to be interested in a collaborative project because it wasn't exactly the way I wanted.

But I'm not sorry?

God, it feels horrible to say, but it's true.

"But Rocket, if it's sooo hard to say and you feel really bad, why are you vagueposting about it instead of working on yourself?" Because like I don't know what to tell you, man. I've been kind of an asshole my entire life. No matter how many years I've spent in therapy or obsessively dissecting every facet of myself, combing for flaws that I think other people might see in me, my actual pattern of behavior is iron clad.

When I look at myself on a deep, fundamental level, I know that I care more about what others think of me than about having real integrity.

I'm a fucking narcissist. It isn't cute, quirky, relatable, or something I can easily train myself out of or fix with the right meds. I have a deep, cloying pathological need to be seen as excellent. Cool. Admirable. But I know the truth about myself better than anyone else. If you cut me, I bleed green. I'm envious to my core.

I work hard, in my own way. The skills I have are things that I've been practicing my whole life. I started writing stories when I was four. I think I first drew fanart even earlier. I've never paid for attention or begged for exposure for my work. I've never intentionally posted ragebait or blindly chased viral trends just to feel important. Hell, I haven't even whined about how entitled I feel in public until now.

But that's the thing - I do feel entitled!! I want to reblog every single one of my drawings with a big fat PAY ATTENTION TO ME in the caption. Look at me!! I am being excellent over here!! I've been on this bitch of an internet since I was in first grade, so where the hell are my flowers??

I don't feel pride and joy when my peers get their big break. I feel disgusted at myself for not being good enough to be in their place. And I have to spend hours, days, weeks, months, years burying that feeling so deep that no one would notice how sweatily I'm typing out a simple "Nice job, dude. Happy for you."

I have no excuse for this. It's villain shit. But it's the emotional reality I live, and I hate pretending like I'm more passive and friendly than I am. It's fucking exhausting sitting by, politely toiling in my dark corner and occasionally looking up to see everyone around me living their best lives in the sun. I'm done pretending like that doesn't make my blood boil.

And I hate that I feel that way. I know that's not how a friend feels about friends. Right? Like, I've been learning about being supportive and courteous since before I knew how to talk, and yet it has never come naturally to me. I'm a bad friend. A sweaty, slimy, envious worm pretending to be something that I'm not.

And saying that out loud is terrifying. Because friends, if you read this and I've let you down and now openly admit that I only feel superficial remorse, like.... What more is there to say? You don't need someone hot and cold and fake like that in your life. And I wouldn't blame you for walking away and never looking back.

But God, it'd tear me apart. I think that's the thing that people don't understand about narcissists. You only glimpse us acting cocky, suave, confident, and cool because there are people to admire us while we crowd surf. Once we're alone, all of that ego is gone. No matter how authentically we worked to get that admiration, none of that is intrinsically valuable to us.

Your attention is all I care about in my heart of hearts. Not you. Not me. Your eyeballs as they watch me.

I don't want to sugarcoat it. By pretending to be better, I'm straight up being two-faced. It's better to just own being a full-on villain than sneak into people's lives as a covert friend.

"Rocket, who cares? You have maybe five friends on a good day and a microscopic following compared to most lousy assholes on the internet. You're being verbose and grandiose and showing your entire ass on camera for what?"

Attention. Duh. Narcissist, remember?

Like I can't even deny that while I write this for my own sanity's sake and the disillusionment for my friends, on some level I want someone to come pat my shoulder and say, "It's okay, Rocket. You may be an energy vampire to your social circles, but we forgive you. Please don't slink away, we love you!"

Uuuuuuugh.

Don't let my pathological need to be liked and called a good girl soften your opinions. Fucking tell me if I'm being a flaky bitch and it's hurting your feelings. It'll ruin my day and fuck my ego up so bad, but push on! Grab your sword and hold it to my neck!! Because I'm a fucking villain and violence is the only answer!!!

[hospitalterrorizer]

diary286

6/30-7/1/24

sunday - monday

the end of pride month. ..

i did not do anything, i sort of wish i had.

i am also up way too late again. i slept until 5 pm today for no reason??? so idk. screwed up... everything was going okay too it felt like, w. sleep.

anyway, i did draw more for the cover art, and maybe a couple more draw-y bits and then it'll come to collaging some more stuff together.

i also worked on music more.., other songs again. it's really fun, i forgot that, it distracts me though, i need to get to other stuff and writing songs that i want to use for b sides, while good, just probably results in more stuff i end up needing to figure out... but it does make me happy. it's just a mess to keep lists and things, which is how i tend to try to manage that stuff, keeping stuff i want for full things, stuff i wanna stick on b sides to singles, and filenames written in a notebook i have so i can memorize it all better. even just writing helps keep stuff in mind.

oh, here's something i ought to write down, i learned a new word today:

solecism.

it can be a grammatical error (speech or writing (though inclination tells me that i ought to think more for speech? idk)). it can also be a faux pas, is one way to put it but that's only sort of it i think, it's also, according to webster 'a breach of social etiquette,' another meaning is 'a deviation from the proper/normal/expected order', all of this together colors the word interestingly, where grammatical failures represent a kind of social blight/failing to exist within, not just the normal i suppose but the order/ideal handed to you, to represent that thing as well. a solecism is a kind of floating tumor upon the norm, in language, perhaps then too the grammar of the body? as in, body language, reactions as solecism, that kind of thing. this all helps me, new words are important to cling to, develop relationships with.

it's good to discover a new use for this diary, i should be explicitly doing this every time i see a new word, unless it's a bunch in a day.

listening to majority rule before bed now... i did play more elden rign, but i didn't do a lot today, as i am at the final boss of the dlc without much else to explore, but i do think there is some, i am going around and doing that. it's really sad that it's gonna be over soon. i love wandering around that world they made, the overcast harsh autumn, the green/pretty places uncanny and scary by their proximity to that lovely and gnarled tree. i killed the big sunflower boss, and i really loved its design, and the fight was fun too. having seen the final boss i figure it will probably make me feel a little crazy and irritated but idk, that's kind of the arc you go through with these bosses, where at the end of it, you're like, i kind of love you. which is beautiful to me.

also having seen a lot of the dlc, it's really kind of awful to me how people seem to be responding to it, like totally hating it, or like, saying it's awful because the bosses are 'cheap'. the ways gamers get can be really freaky. it's insane that people feel their egos are wounded because they couldn't kill a boss in a videogame. the worst i ever feel is like, bothered in the moment that it killed me in two hits, which i think is a misstep, it should be a minimum of 3 hits, some bosses need a little less hp, some attacks need to be tuned too i guess, but nothing, so far, feels like malenia waterfowl dance in the base game, at least when i fought her unpatched when the game came out. that was maybe the most bs feeling thing ever, and still i really like her, she's like perfectly designed as a character, it's hard to be frustrated for long with a game that has such perfect art + design. another criticism i have... they didn't put something that looks like this in the game:

i need it ! i need something leather in the game!! why didn't you put anything like this in the game... more tight fitting light armor plzzz!!.

anyway, as is evident, my complaints are rather thin, nothing is outright even approaching bad and all that needs to change are like, idk, maybe some deeper things related to numbers that it seems like they're getting to with this little patch they put out.

anyway.. idk what else to say about today... today a beetle got in and crawled on me? that was funny.

oh i also downloaded a bunch of free plugins of this person's site:

they're awesome, the person, and the plugins, very strange little things that feel useful already, i got one cuz it looks good for bass synths and then some noisy/freaky stuff. excited for all that.

so,

byebye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[mint-yooxgi]

hello there, hope you've been doing well! can I ask for a part 2 for the Test of Love (Yandere!Yuta) drabble if its ok? thanks!

Part One

***

Two months into your relationship and Yuta swears he’s never been tested so much in his life. Normally, he prides himself on his patience. It took him two semesters to confront you about you brushing off his advances, after all. However, this is a brand new can of worms he never realized would be as trying as it is.

Never in his life has he wanted anyone as badly as he wants you. 

So far, your relationship has been going pretty smoothly. Some days he has to remind you about his affection, reassuring you that it’s really you he wants, and no one else. Yuta, of course, doesn’t mind at all, especially not when you reassure him right back, unprompted. He’s willing to be patient with you, that’s what he keeps telling himself. Only, you don’t seem to realize the power you hold over him.

How far can he push you until you crack?

Every time he’s able to fluster you, he can feel his heart racing in his chest. Seeing that adorably shy expression cross your features is everything to him, and flustering you has become one of his new favourite hobbies. Whether it’s out in public, around your friends, or even just home alone, Yuta never fails to make your own heart race from his words and actions alone.

Only, Yuta wants more.

He wants his hands roaming your body. He wants to hear those sweet little whimpers fall from your mouth while he kisses every inch of you. Yuta wants nothing more than to make you his in every meaning of the word, and show you just how much he loves and appreciates you.

The only problem is, he can’t. At least, not yet.

Respecting you and your boundaries is, of course, his number one priority. Never would he force you into something you’re uncomfortable with. He just wishes he could take things a little further during those private moments together, but you’re just so shy.

It’s adorable. It really is. Especially when you let him take control like this. He lives for it.

However, what he's not expecting is this specific turn of events.

The two of you are currently at your place, curled up together on the couch watching a movie. His hand is on your thigh, drawing small circles on your skin with his thumb, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as your head rests on his shoulder.

Shifting slightly, Yuta turns his head to look at you as you lift your head off of him. His heart flutters at the way your one hand comes to cup his cheek in our hand. A moment later and he feels your lips pressed to his.

Humming his content, his grip tightens on your thigh, lifting it so that you’re leg is now across his lap. He always wants to be as close to you as possible. No, he needs to be.

Slowly, his hand creeps up your thigh, and the small hitch in your breath he hears has him smiling into the kiss.

“So needy,” he hums against your lips, pulling back slightly to rest his forehead on yours as he looks into your eyes. The pout you give him in return is nothing short of adorable. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

The way your lips part as his free hand slips beneath the material of your shirt has him smirking once more.

Only, what he doesn’t expect, is for you to smirk right back. “Oh, I think I do.”

In an instant, you’ve pulled yourself into his lap, pushing him back onto the couch. Yuta’s eyes are wide as your fingers tangle themselves in his hair, pulling his head back slightly and exposing his neck. Immediately, your lips are on him, and his breathing deepens, hands tightening their hold on your waist as he pulls you in closer.

“You little minx,” he sighs, eyes slipping closed in bliss as he feels you begin to grind down on him from above.

Your giggle has his eyes opening to meet your hooded gaze, a devious look shining behind your own, “you’re not the only one who knows how to tease.”

[mandoinevarro]

WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 1

Words: 8.4k 

Rating: E

Warnings: shooting, non-descriptive death, SMUT, fingering, mentions of masturbation, AND masturbation now that I remember, penetration, creampie! just general filth, gambling?

a/n: SO literally nobody asked for this, but I decided to turn NO REFUNDS into the prologue of a short series (you don’t really need to read NO REFUNDS, it’s only for context.) Anywayyys heavy feelings, heavy plot, heavy smut. Have fun. 

……………

Maker, you need to start cheating. That way you wouldn’t be in the middle of a staring contest with your cards, like you can change their colorful drawings and numbers if you only glare hard enough. You’ve never been particularly good at sabacc, but a little luck wouldn’t hurt, especially since this is the third round in a row you lose.  Duma deals the last couple of cards across the coal black table and stacks the deck, signaling the start of the game.

Well, you suppose it doesn’t really matter; you doubt your sabacc buddies have better hands. These days, everyone in Nevarro is short on luck. Luck and food and water. Others are less pessimistic: As soon as Greef Karga glances at his hand he leans back on the carcass of a cantina booth and slaps his belly. “Ha!” he bellows, “by the end of this round, you filthy gutter womp rats will have to borrow from your womp rat mothers to pay me.”

“Quit bluffing, Karga. We know you don’t have shit,” Cara mutters. She picks up her cards and pulls a face like she bit on lemon, but still the veteran goes all in, pushes forward a couple of stabilizing coils, an identity beacon you could’ve sold at a decent price some months ago and—maker—even a pouch of nova crystal dust. Nobody here is stupid enough to gamble with food, but you’re surprised that even nova has lost its worth and been demoted to casino chip status. “This place smells like shit.”

“Bad bluff, piss-poor trash talk too,” you taunt. “Looks like all that time doing business with Imperials smoothed your brain, Karga.”

“Ex-Imperials,” he corrects. The ex-Guild leader slides a few more credits to the center of his ex-cantina’s table. “We live in a jolly Republic now, didn’t you hear? You’ve been liberated.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Duma turns her head, spits on the melted floor. “Can’t eat liberation, can I?” She throws a few more worthless credits onto the growing pile of nothing. At least, for now, it’s nothing. Credits and ship parts and every other type of currency haven’t meant anything but props in Nevarro for five months, when the siege began. That whole mess with troopers and Greef and Cara was bound to bring some repercussions—aside from making Karga’s cantina look like a volcano erupted inside. For five months, Imperial forces have surrounded the planet, and for five months, food and resources haven’t been allowed inside. They won’t let up, rumor has it, until they find the culprit: one particular Mandalorian with a valuable asset. They think he’s still hiding somewhere in the planet, but you know better. You watched the Razor Crest’s fly off-orbit and leave everything behind. Everything and everyone.

“This place smells like shit,” Cara repeats.

“Not shit,” replies Duma, “ash.” She picks up a card from the deck with long fingers. “You never did explain how that Mandalorian managed to torch this place.”

Cara’s sabacc face melts. Her fingers tighten and bend her cards as she exchanges a complicit look with Greef. “Never said it was Mando.”

“Who else? I was there in the first shootout. That hunter was fierce.” Duma dons a wolfish smile, because this is how she always wins: She plays with people, not cards. In fact, she abandons her hand face-down on the table and—oh no—gives you a once-over. “You knew him well, didn’t you?” You almost want to show her your garbage hand so she doesn’t bother trying to throw you off your inexistent game.

“Swung by the store a couple of times,” you answer as casually as you can manage and pretend the most interesting book is written on your cards. “But we weren’t exactly chummy, if that’s what you’re asking.” Creeping warmth attacks your face and there’s no stopping it. Shit.

“Funny, could swear I saw him leaving your store more than a couple of times.” You feel Duma’s eyes piercing into your forehead. “Pretty late at night, too.”

“Is that so?” Cara pipes with a lopsided grin.

“I thought you two were…friends,” Duma adds.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “you thought wrong.” Friends don’t leave friends to their luck in the middle of a fucking siege. It’s the same prickly thought that’s plagued you since you watched the Mandalorian take off triumphantly. It’s a stupid feeling. He was under no obligation to take you with him. You didn’t lie to Duma, you two weren’t friends. You couldn’t even call what you had a fling, even those require some degree of making-love-below-the-stars, quoting-passages-of-Naboo-Nights-to-each-other romance. Flings are shooting stars. No, your…thing, whatever it was, did not belong to the heavens. It was earthy. Human. It was counting credits and arguing about fuel prices or old modulators. It had weight—too much, apparently, to escape gravitational pull and fly away with him on the Crest. It was doomed to planets, both feet planted on the ground.  

Still, you remember times when earthy was good. There was never anything airy or celestial in the way he’d take you. The shoved clothes, the harsh grunts, the rough hands, the pleasure, it was all palpable and primitive; earthy was dirty. Your furtive encounters had beating heart of their own, and there was always hard evidence left behind in case either of you ever needed a reminder: marks on the skin, ripped clothes, stained bedsheets. The bruises he left always took too long to heal, as if his touch enhanced your mortality, made you more human. Stars, those moments are what you miss the most. Five months is a long time to be neglected of touch—six, actually: five months since the siege, six since he last came to you. Earthy expires.

It’s not like there’s nobody in the planet willing to help you soothe your needs; quite the opposite, actually. Lately, it seems like handjobs are the new Nevarran handshake. Just last week you caught Cara feeling up some pretty market girl in an alley. You saw her, she saw you, you rolled your eyes, she grinned and got back to work. You were almost offended. Everybody’s screwing their time through the siege, while you’re left with nothing but reruns of filthy memories with the Mandalorian. You just know nobody but Mando will do. You replay your moments with him like a sad, mental porno on the nights you spend trying to get yourself off. Trying and failing, like having to put out a fire by spitting on it, because the only person in the galaxy with a hose is too busy playing hero lightyears away.

“Last round. Place your bets,” Karga announces and pushes a few more trinkets forward. Cara follows, and you pat around your pockets for something to lose. It’s all just rusted metal anyways. Only…shit, the last three games drained you. And Duma reads it on your face like you’ve got “BROKE” written all over your forehead.

“All out, huh?” She reaches down the table for her bag and drops a beskar pauldron on the table with a thud. A Mandalorian pauldron.

Cara purses her lips and balls a fist, but Greef shoots her a warning look. As if cantina brawls could make this place look worse.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t take anything that day,” Duma continues, shaking her head. “Regret it?”

“I’ll regret it,” you answer and go fish, as if a new card—the right card—could fix a life’s worth of bad luck, “when you learn how to chew beskar.” That earns you a signature “Ha!” from Karga and a cocked eyebrow from Duma. She can arch her eyebrows all she wants, but that much is also true. You don’t regret leaving the Mandalorian covert empty-handed.

You were the first on scene that day. After the smoke cleared, the remaining imps left to lick their wounds, and the Crest flew away, you went to check on Karga’s child, his pride and joy. You were met with a gruesome scene. The cantina, Nevarro’s most sacred landmark, had been reduced to its black skeleton, third-degree burns all over, gone. It sounds dramatic, but the cantina used to be the closest thing to a place of worship on this planet. God Booze was dead.

You kicked around the bar’s guts, until you found a gaping mouth on a wall, leading down, down, down into Nevarro’s entrails. Finding purgatory would’ve surprised you less than what you stumbled upon: an underground tunnel, an abandoned covert, and a sinister, unguarded pile of Mandalorian armor. Stars, it would’ve been so easy. You could’ve hoarded the spoils and stashed them away for better days. That amount of beskar could’ve bought you a one-way ticket out of this dumpster and an early retirement. But when you lifted a helmet, it stared back. It was blue and definitely not his, but Mando was all you could think of while you studied the helmet’s unique curves and creases. You heard his exasperated sighs when you got on his nerves, his moans when you’d touch him. And you just couldn’t do it. You sat back and watched as this skughole’s scavengers crept into the tunnels to pillage. Easy as that, everyone in Nevarro but you and Cara now has a beskar toy or two. Soon enough, this planet will house the wealthiest corpses in the galaxy if the siege is not lifted before reserves run out.

Karga clears his throat. “Well, ladies first. Let’s see those cards.”  

Duma ignores him. “You know,” she tells you, “I’ve more beskar than I know what to do with. I’ll trade you a vembrance for a couple of ration packs.”

“And what am I supposed to do with a Mandalorian vembrance, play dress up?”

“The cards,” Greef urges.

“You’ll be rich.”

You snort. “The rich don’t starve.”  

“Give me a break, we both know you’ve got portions to spare.”

Elbows on the table, you lean forward and closer to Duma. She sniffs weakness like a Corellian hound, and if you falter she’ll sink her fangs. “I’m not interested in your fucking loot.”

“Cause it’s stolen? You never had a problem with that before.” She mimics your move and leans closer. Karga fiddles with a coinage of calamari flan, like you’re both Canto Bight slot machines and he’s trying to decide where to put his money. “What, did you grow morals all of a sudden? Or maybe, you’re too worried of what your Mandalorian friend would think.” You flinch. She smirks. “Oh my, what would the disgraced hunter, code-breaker, cult member say—”

The tiny noise of Karga’s coinage clinking on the table is not enough to distract you from the verbal beating Duma is laying on you. But his voice—like he got the air knocked out of him—is enough to grab your attention when he murmurs, “Ask him yourself.”

Cara, Duma, and you turn to Greef Karga, who stares saucer-eyed at the window. All three of your heads move simultaneously, guided by the line of his eyesight. Outside the window, on the deserted street, stands a trooper barking orders. It’s one of those in all-black armor, the extra trigger-happy ones with a side of god complex because they think the change of color magically makes their aim less shitty. His blaster is drawn (surprise, surprise), and on the receiving end of its barrel…

Maker’s fucking mercy.

You don’t even see the blaster shot, only smoke snaking out of a hole on the shiny breastplate. The trooper plummets to the ground like his puppeteer cut off his strings: no last steps, no resistance. Now, anyone else would’ve walked away from what’s clearly worm food without a second look, but one does not become the best bounty hunter in the parsec by taking chances. A mountain of unpainted beskar looms over the corpse and kicks the blaster off the imp’s limp hand. The Mandalorian sheathes his own weapon—that blaster you’ve tweaked and polished so many times you know it as the palm of your hand—and scans the perimeter for danger.

You don’t tell your legs to move, but they don’t need the command. You find yourself trailing behind Cara, Duma, and Greef, rushing for the door. Outside, all four of you stumble and stop on your tracks to blink stupidly at the Mandalorian, the way children stare wide-eyed at soldiers on military parades. But this warrior stands grander than any Republic or Imperial officer you’ve ever seen. He’s clad head to toe in silver beskar—except for one armorless thigh that makes his other leg look even bulkier. His old armor, the one you used to shine and buff, is gone. This one you’ve only seen from afar, on that day he crashed the imps’ safehouse, and later when the battle broke out. You know it’s him, but in this new getup it’s easy to doubt. Maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he won’t recognize you.

The Mandalorian studies each of you one by one, his hand near the blaster in case he spots any enemy faces. The hand twitches when he sees Duma—she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation around here—but she’s shocked and unarmed, so his arm relaxes. To Greef and Cara he gives short nods that they return.

And then you. He actually takes a step back when he spots you, like you pushed him square on the chest. The helmet lingers on you and tilts, shamelessly rakes over every feature like he’s memorizing you. You hold your breath. It reminds you of the day you met, that weight on your chest from knowing you’ve been seen. That’s how you know it really is Mando: Whenever he stares at you, you feel it in your bones.

You realize the moment’s dragged out for too long when Karga clears his throat. The spell breaks.

You and Mando look bashfully away from each other. You squint up at the clouds, your hands stiff on your waist in a forced, generic, looks like rain! pose. He turns to his boss (ex-boss? enemy? You never asked for an update on Mando’s most recent status in the Guild) and mutters a short, “Karga.” To Cara he’s warmer, offers a comradely clasp of hands and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Cara drawls, as she stares suspiciously between you and Mando. You squint harder at the clouds. “Didn’t expect you back during a siege, though.”

“I have to…” he spies a furtive glance at Duma and lowers his voice, “I’ve something to do here.”

Duma rolls her eyes and clasps her bag across her chest. “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll leave you girls to catch up on the hot goss.” She strides into the cantina (probably to bag the bets, the asshole), and goes back outside.

She points at the window of a crumbling building. “Careful with snitches.”

You glance back to the window. Nothing. Jerk. Duma’s not above a made you look moment, apparently. You turn back to her but she’s already disappearing into an alley.

Cara waits until she’s gone to grab the Mandalorian by the arm. “Mando, where’s the…” she glances at you and hesitates. You fold your arms and raise your eyebrows at the veteran. If she expects you to leave graciously like Duma she’s got another thing coming. You’re actually very, very interested on the Mandalorian’s hot goss. Especially it comes with an explanation as to why he left you stranded here. Even though he doesn’t owe you one. Technically. “Y’know,” she finally says and drops her hand. “The asset.”

“On the ship. I need to get back.”

“You, my friend, need to lay low,” Greef says with a raised index. “Every imp in Nevarro will be looking for you. Maker—” he spreads his arms “—they already are! And someone must have heard the blaster shot. You have ten minutes or so until an Imperial squadron gets here. The, uh, asset will be fine.”

“The asset,” Cara exclaims, “is a ch—is…is delicate. He can’t just leave it on the Crest!”

Mando interrupts their game of taboo. “Cara,” he starts, “you go to the ship and check on…the asset. Please. I landed where I did last time. I…I’ll lay low in the covert.”

“About that,” Greef mumbles. He looks at Cara for support, but she steps back and raises both hands: You say it. Greef sighs. “They…they found the tunnels, Mando.”

The helmet crooks slowly to study Karga.  “Who’s they?”  

“Everyone. Half of Nevarro is living down there, you…you can’t go back.”

Silence.

You imagine all four of you go through the same checklist: Even if Cara didn’t already have a top-secret assignment with whatever the asset is, she doesn’t have a place of her own yet. Every week, she crashes on one of her sweethearts’ couches. On their beds, more likely. There’s no way Karga is letting him near his house, not after what happened at the cantina. That leaves…

“Stay with me,” you blurt before you can really think it through.

≈

The cramped storage room you call a home sits a story above your store. It’s four walls and only the essentials: a bed, an armchair, a table, a stove, and the only detached room is the refresher. It’s enough for you. But the Mandalorian looks like he squeezed into a dollhouse when you usher him inside and close the door behind you. He stands in the middle of the room, all fighter’s bulk and grandiose armor, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he moves. As if he’s never been here before, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The apartment may be small, but it’s so filled with memories you could turn it into a museum of your dirty escapades with him. And if you look to your right, you’ll see the armchair where he sat while I went down on him on a stormy night.  

“So,” you say and lean against the front door, “business or pleasure?”

He moves to stand to the side of the window opposite the front door and his glove moves the old washed out curtain to the side to peer into the street. The sun is setting, and the last streaks of light paint the beskar with warped yellow-orange streaks that stay as still as an undisturbed pond. So this is how he wants the evening to go: quietly and with a reasonable amount of distance between you. Disappointment knots in your stomach.

“Business.”  

You open your mouth to cut into the silence, but you’re all out of words. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It used to be so easy to tease him, but now…a heaviness seems to weigh down on his shoulders, some heightened sense of duty. But also determination: He stands taller now, prouder, like he woke up one day and knew exactly what he needed to do and why. Whatever that purpose is, you’re pretty sure it doesn’t involve you. You’re a detour, and not even the fun kind, judging by the space between you. Maker, this man used to pounce on you. Has the siege really battered you up that much?

“Been busy?” The sudden question startles you. He’s never been one to break the ice, that was usually your job.  

“Sure.” Nope, not at all. “Store and all.” You closed the store three months ago. Turns out nobody buys equipment for their ships when they can’t fly past the atmosphere. “Plus, somebody needs to keep Karga distracted from his mourning. You owe him a cantina.”

“He told I did that?”

“Just a guess.” You move a couple of steps forward, like you’re approaching a nervous lothcat. When he doesn’t move away, you sit on the armchair, a little closer to him. “You like that flamethrower too much.”

“That what you four were doing in there?” The helmet moves to the side so he can spy deeper down the street. Always careful. “Assessing my damage?”

“No, just sabacc. Different kind of damage.” He’s making small talk. The Mandalorian, whom you’ve overheard have conversations solely based on grunts and sighs, is chatting with you. He’s not just answering out of politeness, he’s prompting you to go on, to keep running your mouth. That’s something he said once between thrusts, perched over you right on this floor: Keep running your mouth, see what happens. The memory warms your neck. Maker, not the point. The point is, before, he always said you had a smart mouth. Sometimes he’d chastise you for it, other times he’d encourage it. And you used to have the suspicion (or, let’s face it: fantasy) that he actually liked it. That somewhere hidden, beyond his pride and honor’s jurisdiction, he enjoyed the teasing and the banter, the challenge of having to deal with you. Better yet: More than once it crossed your mind that he got off on it, too. It’s been a long time, but some of that might remain. Maybe you’ll take his advice: keep running your mouth, see what happens.

You sit straighter, arch your back a bit just in case he’s watching. “You interrupted a round with your little stunt.”

“Yeah?” The helmet doesn’t move, but his hand runs up the curtain, considering. “Sorry. I bet you were winning.”

That makes you smile. It’s a dig at you. Far and wide across Nevarro, your uncanny ability to lose every single game of sabacc you play baffles locals and foragers alike. Yes, you know you suck, but the game amuses you anyways. You like the trash talk, the double-guessing, the bluff-calling. So much so that you forget to actually play. But what’s important is he’s teasing you, and that’s more than charted territory with him, a match you have a shot at winning. Okay. Game on.

“I was, actually.”

He huffs. “Don’t believe you.”

“Then I don’t believe you’re here on business.” Pause for effect. You can almost see a question mark form in a cloud above the helmet. You lean forward and lick your lips, lower your voice. “I think you missed me.”

You’re used to the helmet’s features remaining impassive, so you don’t look for clues on there anymore. Mando’s hands are more telling. You want to believe you actually see his fingers twitch and clutch the curtain a little tighter, that he takes too long to answer. That’s what trying to read him is all about—blind-guessing and wishful thinking.

“Don’t know about that. Six months and two weeks without your cons, I’m almost rich.”

Down to the week, huh? “Okay, if you want to make it about money we’ll bet on it. Twenty credits says you missed me.”

“Last time I was here you weren’t a compulsive gambler. Store’s doing that bad?”

“Last time you were here,” you coo, “there was a lot less talking involved.” You stare into the visor, and pray he can’t see the desperate hope in your eyes.

Your prayers are answered. In a way. Mando ignores you, doesn’t even look at you.  You hear your clumsy attempt at seduction buzz around him like a one-winged bee, crash into the unmoving, unmoved Mandalorian, and fall to the floor in a pointed-lined spiral. You’re so embarrassed you want to step on it. Well, that settles it. Six months is apparently enough for a Mandalorian to lose interest.

“And store’s doing fine,” you lie to try and sway the conversation away from that lame innuendo that missed its mark. He really just wants to talk, then. No big deal. It’s fine. “Nobody gambles for money anyways.”

“Then why?”

You shrug. “Why do you hunt?” He’s never told you, but you saw him chase down a bounty once. He was ruthless, sweating adrenaline and with far too much stamina to only be chasing a bag of credits. “For the risk. The thrill.”

He lets your words float for a second. “You get a thrill out of losing?”

You roll your eyes. “I only lose cause everybody knows my bluff.” That is, except you. “You need to know someone to know their bluff. Greef and the others already know me too well. You, on the other hand.” You smile. “If you and I played, I’d get to keep so much of your stuff you’d think I’m half Jawa.”

And, only then, he seems to tense. That stupid throwaway line is what makes his spine grow visibly rigid and his hand drop from the curtain to his belt, where the leather of his glove creaks with how tightly he clutches the buckle. White and blue streetlights that reflect on his armor glide around like it’s water instead of beskar, and they’re your only indication that he’s shifted slightly. Slowly, so slowly you expect his neck to creak like a door, the Mandalorian turns away from the window to look at you. He holds there quietly, and you feel ants running down your back…stars, you’re nervous. For the first time in a while, he makes you genuinely anxious.

“You’re saying I don’t know you?” he rasps under the helmet. No, not really, but if it gets a reaction out of him…

“All I’m saying,” you start, summoning all your strength to keep your voice from faltering, “is you’ve been gone too long.” You try to make it sound a bit playful, but the words come out tasting bitter when you remember the sharp little edge that’s been digging on your side. He left you here, it whispers, he left you here and didn’t bother looking back. But a heavy boot suddenly drops forward and you’re forced to stop nursing your grudge to try and predict what Mando’s next move will be.

With every step he takes, you’re instinctively swallowed deeper into your armchair, until he’s looming over you. Stars above, the sheer size of him is enough to block out most of the artificial light coming in, and you’re left to squint in the blue twilight. Maker, you don’t remember him this big, this intimidating. Five months ago you would’ve smirked and opened your legs wide. C’mon, I don’t bite unless you ask, you would’ve teased, but now…now you think maybe you are the one who doesn’t know him anymore.

But some things never change, and having him so near still makes your thighs press together. If anything, this new foreignness, the inherent threat of a bounty hunter in your home that never quite poked the right nerve before now pulls on your most sensitive areas. It propels your heartbeat on a sprint. His arm moves, and—oh, you want him to touch you.

Visor trained on you, Mando points to the floor instead. “You hide your credits here.” To illustrate (or just to rub it in that he knows) his boot presses down on the loose tile and shifts from side to side. The sharp sound it makes irritates you less than knowing he found the fox clever hiding spot you used to pat yourself on the back for. “You don’t keep them in the store because it’s too easy to break into. The security panel downstairs is broken, but the one up here works fine.”

You can almost hear his proud smirk under the helmet. There’s a reserved side to him, sure, but bastard can be arrogant when he wants to. And no, you have no idea how he found the spot, but you’re not about to admit it.

“Congrats, boy scout. You can spot a busted panel and you have flat feet. Want a badge?” Your irritation brings back some of your old snark, but you still flinch when he moves closer and his legs brush against your knees.

“You also keep expensive parts inside the stuffing of this—” he takes a tiny step forward and frames  your knees with his legs “—armchair.”  Your blood freezes at his words, but it abruptly runs hot as the city’s lava river when you realize how close he stands now. His legs press against the armchair and there’s nowhere to go. You’re cornered.

A leather glove moves close and you hold your breath, before you realize he’s only toying with the tips of your hair. But his fingers dig deeper, tangle on thicker strands and, without warning, give a short but firm tug. It’s a tiny pull, but maker’s mercy, you feel your core pulse. And then, before you can regain some lucidity, his fingers dip lower, where the tips trace a slow line down your nape. He draws featherlight circles on that spot between your neck and your shoulder that he knows makes your toes curl, and—stars, it’s just been too long—you whimper.

“Still so sensitive here,” he whispers.  

Once, this shielded man knew his way around your body like it belonged to him. You thought that part of him was lost, that he forgot, that he’d truly been gone too long. Those fears dissipate when his palm curls around the back of your neck to hold your gaze on him, while the thumb of his other hand brushes your lips. You know the drill—you open your mouth and give the orange tip some kitten licks. Mando huffs: You can do better than that. Maker, it should be a red flag, how quickly you comply. That urgent need to please him that had never, ever felt so crucial. An O forms in your lips before you can stop them, and his thumb pushes down on your tongue deep and deeper. You should play hard, make him earn it, bite him. But his finger starts to retreat and you panic—no, he can’t change his mind, not now. You seal your lips, trap him inside your mouth and suck. But his grip on the back of your neck grows beskar stiff, and he forcefully removes his finger…only to glide the spit over your lips. Just like that first time.

The visor looms closer to your face, and you catch a ruptured sigh, the pleasured kind that these four walls know so well. If Mando wasn’t holding you down, your chest would balloon with satisfaction and you’d float. His thumb trails down your throat, wetting its path and no doubt feeling the vibration when you chuckle. He cocks his head to the side in a silent question.

“You owe me twenty credits,” you explain, your breath clouding the helmet’s surface. “You did miss me.”

Mando crouches lower, where his helmet brushes your nose, and gropes the tops of your thighs with those wide palms you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

“Yeah? You like bets?” You’ve never heard his voice so coarse, scratchy like week-long stubble. Did he change the settings of his modulator? Or is it just rash, pent-up need? “Then thirty credits says you’re fucking soaked.” His fingers butterfly higher up your thighs, almost at the apex. Your legs jerk.

“That’s cheating,” you gasp.  

He takes one glove off and settles the covered hand on your hip, while the other disappears between your legs until—stars—he cups your core through your pants. You mewl and he hums when he feels the hot, damp fabric.

“I still win.” He presses the heel of his palm right into your clit and grinds it back and forth. Oh, if you thought you were wet before. The pressure, the friction, him—it all scalds you from head to toe like a fever, but you chase it, greedily push your hips into his palm. His fingers flatten along your slit and grope you tighter. “Gonna pay me? Doesn’t have to be credits.” He pushes viciously into you with that wide, hard palm, preening at the little gasps that escape you. Whimpering, you let your eyes fall shut and focus on something sprouting in your belly. Stars, you’re close—how the fuck are you so close already? It must be all the repressed desire, all that time. Fuck, you’re close—

The Mandalorian halts. You’re eyes flash open to see him straighten and step back, take his other glove off to stuff it snug between his belt and his hip, and remain still as a building. Still catching your breath, you study him head to toe, scanning for a sign of what went wrong. He’s clutching his belt, his stance is too smug. This isn’t him fighting temptation, he’s toying with you. Maker help him, you’re going to kill him. Some corner in your brain reasons that it’s kinda fair, as payback for all the times you messed with him. But in the forefront of your mind pulses the climax he just denied you, cast aside and angry.

Before you know what you’re doing, you push yourself off the armchair. “You—”

Mando beats you to it. A hand on your shoulder and a vembrance across your chest, he lunges forward and slams your back against a wall. He hovers over you, tightly pressed against your body. A fleshy, hard bulge covered by his pants throbs against your belly. Of course. You forgot how much he likes it when you look like prey; how much he enjoys the hunt, whether he admits it or not. The hand on your shoulder trails down to cup your breast. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shaky exhale.

“You need it bad,” he breathes as his fingers massage your chest. The movement shifts the fabric of your tunic, brushing it against your nipple. You roll your hips to try and stimulate him, to show you’re not the only one worked up. His erection twitches and you smile.  

“You—mmm—you’re projecting.” You grind again to prove your point, but he catches on to what you’re implying and retaliates by shoving his hand inside your cleavage. Stars, you have to punch down the moan surges up your throat when he pinches your nipple.

“You missed this,” Mando hisses, and whether he’s trying to convince you or himself, you don’t know. What you do know is he’s plotting to settle this stupid inkling of a bet in his favor. He wants you to admit you missed him so he doesn’t have to. You know, because it’s exactly what you are trying to do.

You sneak your hand down his torso, aiming for the hem of his pants—but before you can get even with him, he crushes his hips against yours and traps your palm between them. And he’s not done—he wedges his thigh between your legs and rubs it up and down, drags your clit just right. Your mouth gapes in a silent moan as white hot pleasure lights up your spine. You want to get away from it but, maker, his forearm is still stiff against your chest. Even when you grab the vembrance with your free hand it doesn’t budge. You’re trapped between him and the wall.

“Can take care of m-myself just fine,” you croak as a last attempt to hold on to your dignity. “At least when I’m alone I don’t have to fake any orgasms.”

Yeah, it’s a low blow. A dirty fucking lie too, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all. Good news is it gets you a reaction—he immediately stops moving, as if your words punched him off balance. Bad news is you hit a nerve—his breathing becomes harsh like a bull’s, so much so that you expect clouds of smoke to come out from under the helmet. The Mandalorian creeps closer to your face and his forearm digs deeper into your chest. There’s a promise of danger in the dark visor that makes your pulse race, and a primitive instinct blasts emergency sirens. Maker, this won’t end well for you.

Just as you’re about to backtrack and whisper you didn’t mean it, Mando lets go of you—only for a split second, before he grasps your shoulders and turns you around to push your front into the wall. You jerk back on instinct, but he flattens a palm between your shoulder blades and squishes you right back against it.

The helmet rests right next to your ear when Mando growls, “You expect me to believe that?” His hands drop to your hips as he replaces the pressure on your back with his chest. His body weight holds you in place, and he rocks the hard outline of his erection along your ass. “That I don’t make you cum, you little fucking—” You curl your back as much as his body allows so he can stroke himself tighter against you. He groans and kneads your cheeks, moves the flesh in tandem with his thrusts. “I shouldn’t let you tonight, t-teach you a lesson.”  

The mere suggestion feels devastating enough to let a pathetic whine tumble from your lips. Before, you could’ve turned this into a game, held out a little longer just to watch him break first. But you’re too pent up, too desperate, too sick of waiting. Your fingers hook on the hem of your trousers and push them down. Mid-movement, he traps both of your wrists in one hand and keeps them pressed against your lower back, while the other one gets your pants the rest of the way down, underwear too. You barely have enough time to step out of them before his free hand reaches between the apex of your thighs. You’re sticky, leaking around his fingers, and pushing back against his crotch like you’ll drop dead if he doesn’t fuck you.

“Fucking wet, fuck…” he mutters. His fingers follow the heat and your pussy clenches around nothing. Stars, if he just moved higher, a little higher where you’re hot and soaked and throbbing for him. But he takes his sweet time, molds the inside of your thighs like clay, pulls the flesh, squishes it together, until you’re writhing against him and leaking down your leg. Your vision blurs. “Can—can I…?” He lets his index finish the sentence, teasing at the edges of your outer lips.

Even with the side of your face against the wall, you manage to nod. “Yeah,” you breathe.

Two fingers slide around your folds and you gasp. Mando moves slowly, collecting your arousal and coating his fingers. Your breath catches when the tips finally push into your entrance—only a fraction before they slide back out, so the rest of his palm can cup along your cunt and drag more slick behind it. He’s strategically avoiding your clit, though, and with both arms behind your back and at his mercy, you can’t reach for it yourself. Fuck, you…you only need to hold on a bit more, he’ll get bored of his game soon enough. That’s it, just a little longer. You waited six months, no way he’s making you beg after a few minutes of teasing.

The Mandalorian eventually pulls his fingers away from your thighs and curses under his breath. You hear the familiar rustling of fabric and a divine zip that fills your eyes with tears of relief. Fucking finally. You brace yourself and relax your pelvic floor in preparation, but it’s barely necessary—you’re so ready for it. Your cunt is open and weeping, he can just slide it in. All this time, with nothing substantial inside you, your lower muscles pump and twist painfully with demanding want. Even with his size and in this position, you’re so turned on he might even be able to bottom out. Fuck, he doesn’t have to move much, a few good pumps and he’ll have you cumming, easy. Stars, what’s taking so damn long—

A modulated, battered moan and a wet noise make you turn your head over your shoulder and look for the source. The low light makes it difficult to make out shapes, but there’s no mistaking what you find below you. Hand wrapped solid around his cock, Mando is jerking himself off. With your cum as lubricant. While he treats you like a piece of furniture he’s only gripping for support. A chemical cocktail of lust mixed with fury spikes your blood.

“Is…wh-what are…what the fuck do you think y-you’re…”

“Say it,” he spits between his teeth, “say you f-fucking need me.”

No, no fucking way. As much as the words burn on your tongue and your clit tugs and begs, you’re not saying it. He left, not you. You waited for him. You turn your head as far back as your neck allows without snapping a ligament and look straight into the visor. And pointedly curl your lips inside your mouth, sealed.

Your act of rebellion lasts a good ten seconds.

“You’re so fucking difficult,” he snarls. He stops tugging on his cock, and for a moment you hope he might indulge you, push into you and stop the masochist torment you’ve talked yourselves into. But when it comes to Mando and you, it’s never that easy. Still not releasing your wrists, he grabs the base of his cock, glistening with your stolen juices, and rubs it up and down the swell of your uncovered ass. You gasp, let your lips part and your gaze fall to where he’s rubbing up against you and refusing to push inside.  

He's not going to last long. Swollen and a strangled purple, the head of his cock dribbles warm precum and smears it on your lower back. The veins on his length throb against your ass, and stars, they’d feel so much better inside you. The Mandalorian’s grunts and groans ring more frustrated than lost in pleasure; it’s not enough for him either. He’s torturing you and himself just to prove a point, while you refuse to speak the magic words just to keep your pride. Desperate tears threaten to spill, but you shut your eyes to push them back. Either of you could put an end to it, right now. Maker, it’s on the tip of your tongue: I need you. Spit it out, end it. I need you, Mando, I need you, do whatever you want with me. It doesn’t matter that you abandoned me in this shithole, that you discarded me like faulty equipment, that you didn’t even have the decency to tell me—

The thrusting stops. When you open your eyes, you find the visor fixed on you, cocked slightly to the side, like there’s writing on your face. Mando’s grip on your wrist softens, his frustrated panting slows. Maybe he sees the unshed tears, or maybe your face really is that transparent, because he takes pity on you. Gentle palms on your shoulders, he turns you around to face him.

Night has fallen. Fragments of fluorescent light pour inside through your worn out curtains and give the helmet a fuzzy silver halo. The rest of the armor is shiny black, smudges of light here and there. His head moves around the features of your face, one by one, taking its time. Showdown’s over. He’s not playing a game anymore, not trying to get you to break, he’s just…studying you. Staring his fill of you farewell-style, even though he just came back. It hits you that you don’t know how long he’s staying this time. You open your mouth to ask, but stop yourself in time. If he leaves, he leaves. He doesn’t owe you any explanations.

But when he curls an arm around your waist and holds you against the wall and his cold breastplate, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like old times—pre-siege, pre-battle, pre-everything—when he confidently grabs your left thigh, sinks his fingers into the plump flesh, and hooks it on his lower back. You drape your arms around his shoulders and hold him closer. You’ve always liked the bulk of him against you, it makes everything feel more real. Buried on the crook of your neck, you hear him sigh when he lets go of your thigh and blindly searches your cunt. With your leg around his back you’re completely open for him, so it takes him no time to find your bud. He presses against it and rubs it in slow but tight circles that make your legs cramp.

You push down on him, demanding more. He groans and complies, inserts one finger and continues rubbing on your clit with his thumb. Maker, this has no right to be so good. He’s doing pretty much the same you’ve done to yourself these past months, but with Mando there are never any ghost sensations, no what ifs. It’s all here and now, and you swear you feel the pleasure of his fingers picking up speed in every corner of your body. He has you moaning and rocking your hips, dripping down his hand, and when he starts rubbing you harder and tighter, you finally whine a tiny, “Please.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t need to ask what you want, but he moves his helmet to look at you square in the face, check if you mean it. You stare droopy-eyed into the visor and nod: yesyesyesyes. Mando groans and grips you tighter. Maker, he’s right, you need it—need the bruises, need his cock, need all of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand leaves you to grab his cock and guide it to your entrance. He moves it around your lips and brushes his tip against your clit as he looks for your hole in the dark. It doesn’t take long for the head to poke right outside where it needs to go. “Fuck, I don’t—don’t think I can hold back, don’t want to hurt you—”

“Stars, please,” you whine, “I want it rough.” You want it more than rough. After six months, you want it fucking depraved, but neither of you is going to last long enough to make it elaborate. Maker, you don’t care. Right now, you don’t care for risky positions or clever techniques, you want him.

He groans and pushes inside—only the head, still testing, but your walls immediately grip him tightly to hinder any attempts to move away. That’s not what you should’ve been worried about. Fingers tight around your waist, Mando pulls you down as he pushes up. Stars. The brutal thrust reaches the end of you and then some more. Fuckfuckfuck. The dull bam of your skull hitting the wall is suddenly drowned by a slicker, filthier sound coming from between your legs. His length begins to pull out, your pussy complains the whole way, and you can almost hear the Mandalorian gritting his teeth through the sweet torture of feeling you squeeze around him…and thrust back up—harder. He likes the pace and sticks to it—fast, rough, deep, repeat—while you make sounds like you’re choking on air. Stars, it has been long. Long enough to partially forget his size, his fucking girth, currently filling you to the brim and punching high little sounds from your throat.

“Mmmando,” you sob.

Mando groans in response, snakes a hand down to your clit and rubs with the same wild abandon as his pounding. Maker, your memory was never this fucking good. No matter how many details you recalled, there’s nothing compared to the real, human meat of his cock pulsing urgently inside you, hitting your cervix, making you whine. Nothing like his fingers around your waist, or knowing there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The pleasure has teeth, carries a painful bite, but it’s exactly what you need. That tangible grit in his thrusts and his fingers is the missing piece. Your muscles start cramping, you pull him tighter against you—Maker, right there, you can feel it. It reaches your head and makes you dizzy, sheds light on some hidden, shameful words.

“Mando, I…”

“I—fuck—I n-needed this,” he grunts and brings his hand down to feel where his cock is inching out of you, like he has to double check it’s actually happening. Thrust. “Used—used to d-dream about you.” Thrust. Three fingers now push into your clit and draw frantic shapes. You clench your jaw, feel the hot tide in your belly rise faster. Thrust. “Wake up so f-fucking hard—cum in my pants.” Thrust—thrust—thrust.

Maybe it’s his words, maybe the rough pace, but something holds a flame to the dynamite building inside you and it explodes. Maker, your head’s going to burst. You moan long and deep into the spot Mando’s ear might be. Your legs shake, your arms cramp. Months’ worth of frustration gush hot and wet around him, as he babbles encouragement: There you go, just like that, make it fucking good. Your walls are still fluttering, your ears are still ringing, you haven’t even ridden out the last of your climax when his hips pick up the pace.

“Let me—let me cum inside,” the warrior pants, “let me f-fill this cunt…I—I haven’t since—fuck, I didn’t—”

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, please, Mando, cum, cum inside—”

There’s no space left between you, but Mando finds a way to squish you tighter against him as he pounds into you for a few last moments, until you hear a strangled grunt, and a half-forgotten warmth pools inside you. The extra lubrication drives his last thrust as deep as your body allows. A few more lazy thrusts inside you, short and stunted as you take his load inside you, before he stops. A warm string trails down your leg, and—stars, he’s leaking out. How much did he cum that it didn’t fit inside you?  Fuck.

You take turns panting, whimpering, listening to each other’s heartbeats slow to a semi-normal pace. The Mandalorian moves away from the crook of your neck to meet your glossy eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you think will. You can almost hear his mouth opening, words boiling and rising in bubbles up his throat—

Zium!

It’s your imagination. It’s your ears ringing from that orgasm, your mind making stuff up. But. You could swear you saw a red flash glade right past your cheek. And from the way Mando’s helmet cocks to the side, you know he saw it too. You turn your heads in unison, to see smoke coming out of a hole a breath away from your ear. It takes both of you too long to put two and two together, and—before he can pull out—more of those red flashes are raining down on you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 2 let’s goooooooo

Taglist: @rosetophighlander​ @hellomothermoon @newyorksins​ @leo-moon​ @benedrylcumbersnatch

[omiscurls]

hi!! could i request a diluc x fem!reader angst where they were childhood friends, and when reader gets a fiancé, diluc tries to confess his feelings but reader rejects him, gets married and moves from mondstat, and every now and then diluc sends reader letters (apologizing, asking how readers day was, hoping they come back). thanks!

unrequited

plot: reader rejects the character

contains: diluc

warnings: angsty and like one curse word, that’s all

diluc was a cute kid.

as the heir to one of the most wealthy and powerful families in mondstadt, he was polite not only to his senior, but also incredibly nice to his friends, as well. different that most boys his age, he didn’t go around yelling dumb, inappropriate jokes, and didn’t take pride in making girls feel bad.

he was always sweet to those doing worse than him in class, be it theory or sparring, and acted like an absolute saint to his adopted brother.

naturally, how could one not adore a kid like that? how could the mondstadt girls not line up to see him each time, how could the boys not want to play with him? how could anyone resist, when he had that charm to him that seemed to draw people near almost against their free will?

finally, how could you not take pride in the fact that out of all those over-the-top girls who fought over each other to talk to him, out of all those boys that never failed to bug him in each little scrap of his free time, he chose to try and get close to you?

you didn’t understand it at first, but it seemed like he genuinely wanted to know you, his eyes looking as though they were studying your expression at all times, a warm smile welcoming you each time you passed him by.

his words were careful and his sentences always strained, as if he struggled to talk, but a sense of honesty and genuine sympathy always seeped through his words, confusing your little childish brain, but also forming a warm and fuzzy feeling inside your chest. 

over the years, not only did you finally answer to his advances, but also befriend the kid. his rare smiles were reserved for your eyes only, and his mind opened up before you each and every time you talked, no restrain and limitations between you two. 

he’d sit behind you in class, sometimes passing you notes with an answer to questions you didn’t know, or a funny note about the teacher, or just simply asking if you want to hang out after school. 

you’d go to windrise and sit under the tree, talking for hours about the most useless of things, about what you thought the clouds looked like, but also your futures, your dreams and hopes. 

he’d explain math to you before every exam in the dark rooms of dawn winery, hair pulled up and tea made for the both of you, looking at your struggling with unmistakable patience and affection, but what could you know? you were kids, barely even teenagers. why would you think anything of the way he said he’ll “always be there for you” after some simple math tutoring? how could you analyze his kind stare that you never saw him wear for other people? 

and so you didn’t. 

he’d sit with you on the counter of his kitchen, carefully caressing your back as you wet his shirt with tears, quietly telling you that “they didn’t deserve you anyway” after your first ever heartbreak. to hell with the fact that his own heart was breaking a millimetre more with every word he spoke, if what he said calmed you in any way, he’d talk all night, going on and on about how you deserve the world, and nothing less. 

you held his hand at his fathers memorial service, letting him tighten his grip on your fingers harder every time, you wiped away the tears, you listen to his sobs and pleas when the two of you were alone. you offered solace to him over the next painful months, you justified every word he hurt kaeya with, only to make him feel better about himself. 

to him, you were like an angel sent from above. you restored the faith he had lost in the world, you stuck by his side and lighted up his days one after the other, how could he not adore you?

how could he not fall in love? 

and trust when i say, he did really try to avoid it. he tried pushing his thoughts away, he tried focusing on something else, tried avoiding you, tried everything. no matter what he did, his mind circled back to your smile, and unconsciously he smiled as well, even if the next second he’d look in the mirror and wipe it off his face as if it was a crime to smile. 

diluc was a cute kid, and he grew up to be a polite gentleman, whom you called a friend. and as any polite gentleman, he wouldn’t dare do anything to loose the honor you had given him, so he stayed silent. stayed silent since his in-class notes, through talks about the future, through your breakups, through all the times you had been there for him. in no universe would he ever mention how the weight was lifted off his shoulders every time you as much as looked his way, how all the clouds went away at the sound of your laugh, and how he was ready to do anything in the world to keep you happy. 

somewhere in his mind, perhaps he thought you had somehow known all along, and would reward his efforts to not complicate your life with his emotions with loving him back, but how could you know? how, if he kept it a secret that well? 

in the end, his own plan backfired on him, and he realized he had lost when you ran through his door, tears in your eyes, but a smile on your face, showing off a ring, shining in sunlight, resting on your finger.

if he ever thought “they didn’t deserve you” hurt him, “i’m so happy for you!” stabbed his soul a thousand times more painfully. 

to normal people of mondstadt, there was no change in behavior from the gloomy and serious owner of angel’s share, but a few noticed how heavy his presence was, how desperately he blinked back the sheen layer of tears, glistening in the candle light while he was serving drinks, and you were off somewhere in the back, laughing with your lover by your side. 

he had lost his chance, and now there was no way in which he could get you back. no way at all. all his life, he had built up a hope inside that one of these days, he’ll get a happy ever after, and lived with that thought through all the bad moments that came along the way, and now these years of carefully building this scenario came crushing down with the realization. 

in a desperate search of any relief, he came to the conclusion that the only thing to be even remotely at peace with himself was to... simply just tell you. 

so there he was, right outside your door, the watch on his wrist striking ten in the evening, stars shining brightly on your doorstep, as you appeared before him, merely a nightgown shielding you from the cold air of the night, a soft smile adoring your lips from the moment you realized it was him. 

“diluc? what’re you doing here this late?” you said, grabbing a coat from behind the door and closing it behind you. a foolish hope sprung inside him when you joined him outside, as he stared at you with a little grin, working up the courage to speak up. 

“there’s something i wish to tell you about” he merely whispered, gesturing you to come with him.

the walk to windrise was longer than the ones you remembered from your childhood days, and the sharp air nibbled on your skin mercilessly, to the point your legs hurt a bit when you reached the tree.

diluc turned your way and spoke for the first time in what felt like forever, but was thirty minutes.

“i hoped not to burden you with the secret i’ll share with you now, and i’m sorry for whatever bad outcome it might cause, but… truth is, i can’t keep it to myself anymore, and if i want to have some peace for myself, i have to trouble you with it.” he said quietly, settling worry in your gut.

“you can tell me anything” you assured calmly “your secrets are always safe with me”

he took one last look into your caring eyes, feeling a little better just having you smile at him, and took a breath before spilling.

“i might’ve been in love with you for the last ten years” he said calmly “and i know this is hardly the time, i really do, but i just-“

“what?”

you looked at him in surprise, blood audibly pumping through your veins as you tried to comprehend what he just said.

“i do understand that you’re engaged, but-“

“do you? do you, really?” you said bitterly, making his heart sink in regret. “because to me it seems like i waited for you all those years, i hoped, and i prayed, and i wished, and after i finally, finally gave up, you decide to mess with my emotions right when i thought i had them figured out?”

diluc was stunned. so you felt the same way about him, once? he could’ve had all he hoped for? he didn’t even comprehend the rest of your sentence fully, focusing on how you just admitted to having feelings for him somewhen in the past.

“no, i’m not trying to mess with you, I’m-“

“but you are! honestly, diluc, i knew you were somewhat insensitive, but this is blatantly cruel! what- i don’t- why didn’t you say this to me earlier?”

“i wish i did, but to me it seemed like you were always chasing someone else, and i didn’t want to-“

“bother me? is that it? you didn’t want to bother me so now you decided to try and mess with my relationship? god, i- i need to be alone right now. sorry.”

and with that you were out of your usual childhood spot, leaving him alone under the tree that shared both of your secrets and plans for so long.

a longing stare pierced through your back as you ran back to mondstadt, not going home right away, but trying to find a spot where nobody would find you.

“fuck” he muttered. he was familiar with the feeling of loss, but the fact that it was nobody’s fault but his own made it a hundred times worse.

diluc was a cute child, and grew up to be a polite gentleman. so he was there to apologize to you on countless occasions, ready to beg forgiveness for his recklessness and lack of thought, but you were never there to hear his pleas.

and so it went on, a huge wedding covered the streets of mondstadt in white while he stood in the sidelines, his friends said goodbye to you as he watched from a safe distance. you left, and so did every remaining proof of his embarrassment.

nevertheless, he sent countless letters, no address on the envelope, save for the name of the city, hoping that one of them would eventually reach you. sorrow and tears almost spilled from the words written in a tidy cursive, but he never had any certainty about wether they reached you or not.

and while he hoped you forgave him,

he knew you didn’t.

[redbeansoups]

Move-In Day

Cove Holden x Reader

In which Cove Holden helps you move into your brand new dorm, and wishes you farewell before your freshman year.

Takes place after Step 3.

*

Like it or not, your life has always revolved around one Cove Holden. One bright-eyed, silky-haired, infuriatingly endearing Cove Holden. It’s always been him, in everything you’ve done, forever a spectator and participant in one. You have never known a time without him: your classmate, neighbor, best friend and boyfriend-extraordinaire.

Even now, as you edge into adulthood, Cove Holden is all you know: seated beside you with one hand on the wheel, wavy hair tucked behind his ears, his eyes longingly on yours. He catches your gaze, and offers you a smile, full of sincerity as always.

The journey upstate had been a long time coming; a goal, ever-present, but inching along so slowly that you’d opted merely to brush it off. But as the summer of your senior year came to a close, your move-in day had sprung up on you like an unpleasant (albeit somewhat enthralling) surprise.

Cove, forever a gentleman, had insisted on driving you all the way. You’d argued against him, only to be shut down–and quite firmly at that. “If you’re going to be moving so far away,” he’d told you one night, “then the least I can do is go and see you off.” He was a much better driver than you anyway, you’d reasoned with yourself, and it’d be nice to have another pair of hands to unpack. The idea of flying alone didn’t quite appeal to you either, so, after hardly a moment’s hesitation, you’d agreed to let him tag along.

College, all the way up north–you can hardly believe you’d come so far. You’d dreamt of this for years, spent months drafting application essays and crafting resumes. Years of preparation and research, though, hadn't seemed to brace you for the anxiety to come.

Even now, sitting in the car with Cove, hands intertwined, the idea feels more like a dream than your living, breathing reality. But the car trudges along, movements never once faltering for your thoughts.

You’d be on your own soon–a stray left for dead. You’d be nowhere near Sunset Bird anymore.

Lost in thought, it takes you more than a moment to grow cognizant of your surroundings. The scenery has shifted, the sky around you having faded to a pale purple hue. The change in atmosphere is instant. High-rise buildings litter the skyline; the shopping districts, no longer limited to a single street, bustle with activity.

It feels, beyond anything else, unfamiliar.

Isolating.

Realistically, you are far from alone. Derek, having gotten his scholarship, lives right down the hall. Your parents and sister are always a call away, and your friends have never failed to remind you of their presence. And Cove, despite being far from technologically adept, is still a better texter than most–and a relatively consistent one at that.

These thoughts, at least, are reassuring.

But the fear remains–and all you can do is try and work alongside it.

You turn to Cove. The window has been rolled down; you feel the cool evening breeze against your skin, fresh and foreign all at once. His hands are running mindlessly through his hair, detangling the inevitable wind-induced knots. Your eyes flit down to his fingers drumming against the steering wheel, then lower down to his scar, the pale white mark running gently down his forearm.

Sitting there, so unaware of himself, sunset illuminating soft features–Cove is beautiful, in every possible way.

You smile, content.

*

The hours pass, and before you know it, you find yourself on campus for the first time.

You tap the keycard to your door, and it opens with a soft click. The two of you are met with the sight of the dorm, the yellow-tinted wood somehow even less impressive than the photos you’d seen online. Barren walls, popcorn ceilings, worn-down linoleum from decades past. Sparsely decorated as it may be, the room puts you at ease.

You let Cove move past you to enter. “What a joy.” You scoff at the drawl in his voice. “Where’d you say your roommate’s from?” he asks, his shoulders nudging the door wider. His set of boxes is significantly larger than yours, and he looks smaller than ever with the stack cradled against his chest.

“Florida,” you answer, following his footsteps.

“Oh.” He sets the cardboard down on the ground, the impact resounding with a solid thump. “I hope they won’t mind the mess we’re about to make.”

That draws a laugh out of you; you think back to all the times you’ve stepped into his room, only to find it a complete bird’s nest. “They’re not moving in until tomorrow.” Another thump resounds as you drop your own load. “We have time to clean. But don’t mess things up too bad, please. I’d like a good first impression.”

“No promises.”

You roll your eyes, and, cracking open the first box, begin the arduous process of unpacking.

*

“Well,” Cove says finally, brushing dust away from his hands. “I think that was the last of your stuff.”

Setting the last of your books in place, you take a moment to revel in your surroundings. Despite his messy tendencies, Cove had done a pretty good job–with your assistance, of course. All your clothes had been folded neatly up in the closet, and your posters were hung all over the walls, like a delicate reminder of home. On the desk sat two small photo frames; one with you and your family, and one with you and Cove.

“I guess so, huh,” you mutter.

There’s a weight in the air around you, and you bow your head.

There’d been too much to discuss. Hell, even now the topic was one you wanted nothing more than to avoid. The ‘what-ifs’ had littered your mind for months now, hanging over you like a constant reminder. And though Cove had tried his best to dispel them, they’d inevitably come back–and with a vengeance. You didn’t know what the future held, nor did you know whether the two of you would last. Uncertainty riddled your mind: what if he grew bored? What if the two of you lost interest? What if, after all your time together, the physical distance became too much?

His hand comes to rest on your shoulder. The gesture is light, gentle–a welcome pressure.

The tension dissipates.

You sigh, lifting your chin up to meet his gaze. There’s a softness in his eyes you’ve come to recognize as sadness. And there’s a warmth behind your own that threatens to grow hot, to liquify and pool before you. You choke back the urge to cry, stifling yourself by clearing your throat. “You’ll text me, won’t you?”

He chuckles softly at that, thumb stroking circles into your skin. “Of course. I’ll call you so often you’ll grow sick of me.”

“I’m counting on it, Cove.”

You give him one last hug, inhaling his scent and pressing your cheek to his chest. He smells like Sunset Bird, a mixture of the ocean and the beach and all the pleasantries that come along with it. His pulse, slow and steady, beats in your ear.

Devoting the moment to memory, you angle your head to plant a peck on his cheek. “Thanks for helping me move in.”

He grins at you. “Of course.” The expression sparks something strange in you, something equal parts melancholy and equal parts pride. You so badly want him to stay–you want to reach out, pull him down into the bed and sit right atop him so he might never escape your grasp.

“I love you,” you whisper, part-plea and part-farewell; you see the pain in Cove’s eyes. “Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone, alright?”

He lets out a breathy laugh and, shaking his head, shoots you a smile. "I love you too."

You smile, and breathe him in just once more. Then, with one last teary kiss, you let go, and wish him a safe journey home.

You’re on your own now–

But you know he’s with you, always.

*

A/N: Another self-indulgent piece as always, because I've fallen in love with one Cove Holden. My freshman year of college starts soon, and I guess my worries culminated in this piece. Thanks for reading, though–I hope this was alright! Any reblogs or likes are appreciated!!

[erule]

The frat party | t.h.

Title: The frat party

Pairing: Frat boy!Tom Holland x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1823

Warnings: frat boy Tom, angst, nakedness (nothing sexual though, no smut in this chapter), mention of sex, implied smut, cliffhanger at the end, jealous Tom, language, OC Oliver, violence (one punch), blood, plot twists.

Summary: Tom and the reader met at a frat party, but a year later they broke up because of some reason. Now, rumor has it that the reader is dating one of Tom’s friends and he gets jealous.

A/N: Hello hello, I’m back! Have you seen Tom’s recent pics in Monaco?? He looked amazing! Anyway, I don’t know why, but I just had to write a fic with frat boy!Tom, so enjoy!

If you wanna be tagged in my Tom Holland fics, just let me know in my ask box! You can also find me on AO3 and Wattpad. Feedback is always appreciated by a writer!

Main Masterlist

Tom Holland Masterlist

Peter Parker Masterlist

Chapter 1

Break up with my ex girlfriend

Frat parties. Am I right? Worst part of college life. A lot of people drink to forget about their grades and how their lives went wrong, while someone’s just hoping to have some fun with them (if you know what I mean). For the first year, I hated them with passion, but it was before I met him. At a frat party. Oh, the irony! And then, frat parties were the only chance I had to actually talk to him. It didn’t take us long enough to start dating. I think that adults tell you fairy tales to make you grow up with a hope, the hope to find your real happy ending, your true love. Well, I wasn’t used to believe in them, but the year I spent with Tom… that was close to the definition of happy ending. The problem with happy endings? They don’t tell you what happens after them. And that’s because they’re a nightmare.

“Tell me that now or you’re not gonna find me in this bed tomorrow”, he says and there’s a part of me that wants to die right here and right now. I shake my head. I don’t want to do that. Not because I don’t feel anything for him, but I’m scared that this will complicate things between us and it’s the last thing I want. “Are you serious, Y/N? You really think that saying something like that during sex doesn’t count? Calling someone on the phone means something, even if you’re drunk as Hell. So tell me what you really feel about me right now or I swear, I’m out of this room. I’m out of this kind of weird relationship that’s going on between us for years,” Tom says and the veins on his arms draw a beautiful map on his body, in which the moles are cities and his eyes are volcanoes. They’re burning, unlike my skin, that is freezing because I’m not wearing anything at the moment. Except for my shame, perhaps. My insecurities, that never leave me. Even in front of Tom.

“You don’t mean that,” I try to say, my mouth dry. But he’s insanely angry. In another situation, it would be hot.

“I do, Y/N,” he replies. I swallow. His expression softens, like he’s in pain. He comes closer to me, brushing my cheeks with his hands. My eyes are full of tears. His words feel like a prayer on my skin. “Please, tell me”.

And even if I don’t wanna do that, my hands are tied. Even if that’s a lie. I remain in silence. One second after that, he’s gone. Tom always keeps his promises, after all.

2 months before

Harrison sat down with a strange look on his face. It only meant one thing for Tom: trouble. He sighed, throwing away the third cigarette of the day. Jacob raised an eyebrow, trying to get rid of the stench of smoke with one hand.

“I thought you wanted to quit smoking,” Jacob said.

“Relax, I only smoke before finals now,” Tom said. “What’s up, mate? Come on, talk”.

Harrison raised a corner of his lips in a smirk.

“Rumor has it, that Oliver’s got a girlfriend,” he said.

“No way!” Jacob exclaimed.

“Oh, fuck me,” Tom said, laying on the grass with his hands behind his neck, glancing at a couple of girls who were passing by.

“I haven’t said the best part yet, though,” Harrison continued. Jacob urged him to speak further. “He’s gonna throw a party for his birthday and he’ll introduce her to his friends. But since we’re his friends, I was wondering why I haven’t told us anything about this gal in weeks. So I played Sherlock Holmes for a couple of hours and I found out that… we actually know this girl,” he said.

“I bet she’s someone of the campus,” Tom joked, as if it was obvious.

“I bet she’s someone’s ex girlfriend,” Jacob replied.

Harrison remained quiet, but he was smiling.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Tom said, astonished, while sitting on the grass again.

“I won!” Jacob yelled.

“Who’s she? I hooked up with…”

“Ex girlfriend, Tom. It’s not some random girl you hooked up with. She’s someone you remember very well,” Harrison said.

“So we’re talking about me, uh? Well, let’s see… is it Janine? We lasted two weeks, I wouldn’t be mad about her,” he shrugged. Harrison swallowed.

“It’s someone you would be mad about,” Jacob guessed. “And there’s just one person that you would be mad about”.

Tom’s eyes widened at the realization.

“He’s fucking dead”.

Two days after that conversation, here they were: the three of them were laying with their backs on the wall like they were sustaining it from falling down. Tom had threatened Oliver with a Dare to explain, mate?, but his answer was just an I’m sorry Tom, but she’s just your ex. I don’t have to ask for your permission. Or does this mean that you’re still not over her? So, since Tom values too much his pride, he said that he was over her and that Oliver was right, he didn’t have to ask for his permission. Oliver apologized for not telling him that before and then walked away, leaving Tom to smoke the whole pack of cigarettes. Tom was watching Oliver talking with Elizabeth, one of your friends, when he saw you and Zendaya arrive at the party. In his opinion, you were stunning. You immediately caught his gaze. You just never failed to amaze him, even after a year. His heart ached at the view, but it ached even more when you greeted Oliver. You gave him a kiss on his cheek, clenching your hand in a fist. It seemed like you were uncomfortable. So, he came up with a plan to save you.

“Wait for me here,” he said to his friends, then he walked fast to reach you. “Hey mate, happy birthday!” Tom said to Oliver, who hugged him.

“Thanks, Tom. I think that you already know Y/N, Lizzie and Z,” he said and you smiled along with your friends, even if you looked more surprised than happy.

“Of course, I do,” Tom said, looking directly at you. You looked down. “Could I please talk to Y/N? We haven’t been in touch for quite some time and I’d like to catch up with her,” he asked.

“Sure!” Oliver said, while Zendaya seemed looking at you with a concerned expression. You winked at her.

Tom made you move away from Oliver by brushing your back, walking to the next exit. He lowered his voice in order to talk with you only, speaking to your hear: “You look ravishing, darling”.

He noticed that you closed your eyes for a very long second, but you didn’t say a word about that.

“Are you here to show that you still own me or something?”

“I don’t own you, darling. You’re absolutely free to do anything you like,” he said, lighting a cigarette outside the building.

“Z said you wanted to quit smoking,” you said, furrowing your eyebrows.

“I only smoke before finals”.

“Finals were yesterday,” you replied.

“Are we here to talk about me or you? I noticed that you were uncomfortable with Oliver, but I thought that you were his girlfriend. Wouldn’t it be weird?”

You smirked.

“Oh, now I get it. You’re jealous”.

“Nah, If I’d be jealous, you would know, trust me,” Tom said, with a playful tone.

“What would you do?” You asked, curiousity eating you alive. You wanted to know so bad if he still had feelings for you.

“Don’t play with fire, darling. You’re gonna burn your pretty hands, otherwise,” he replied, running a finger over his lip. Shivers ran through your spine, but you hoped that Tom didn’t notice it.

“Don’t try to seduce me, Holland. You’re not gonna win this time,” you said, chuckling. “And for the record, we’re not dating. He’s just insistent,” you explained.

Tom looked inside and saw Oliver staring at the two of you. An idea came up into his mind and he couldn’t quite get rid of it. It was smart, but also terrifying. It was very dangerous, yet he had to try.

“We could be in a fake relationship. It could fool everyone,” he proposed.

You turned to look at him, astonished.

“Even after what happened?”

Tom’s eyes were locked with yours, but his facial muscles didn’t move at all. If he still was hurt by the reason that made you two break up, he didn’t show it to you.

“He’s coming here,” he said instead, glancing at Oliver.

“Tom, this is insane,” you kept going. “You said you couldn’t forgive me after…”

It happened all too fast. All the lights went out at the same time. Tom's lips were on yours in an instant. Everything was on fire, every inch of your body. Every cell your flash was made of exploded like a dying supernova. A moment later, someone snatched him from your hands, leaving you in the cold.

Oliver hit him. Tom laughed, nervously, but then he grabbed the collar of Oliver’s shirt and slammed him against the wall, angrily. You pounced on Tom, trying to pull him away from Oliver. At first, Tom looked at you confused, thinking that you just wanted to keep Oliver safe from him, but your eyes told him another story: you prevented him to be kicked out from the campus.

“I told you, you’d know,” he said, while wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth, pretending to be the tough guy he wasn’t.

“Guys, I think we should leave,” Jacob said, while Harrison was taking Tom away from Oliver by his arm.

“I thought we were friends, Tom,” Oliver said, an inch of hurting in his voice tone.

“That was before you came after the only thing I care about,” he said harshly. And then, he left with Harrison and Jacob.

That night, while Tom was cleaning himself of blood in the bathroom, Jacob was staring at him worried, while standing with one arm against the door jamb.

“You never told me what happened, you know, with Y/N last year. Haz doesn’t want to tell me, he thinks it’s up to you. You said that you were over her, but I don’t think you are, since what you did tonight,” he said. Tom kept wiping away the blood from his shirt, ignoring Jacob’s words. “Why have you broken up with her, Tom? It seems pretty obvious that you’re still in love with her”.

Tom gulped, while looking at himself in the mirror. He had tried to bury all of his memories deep down, but it seemed that now the demons wanted to come back and play with him once again. Maybe it had finally come the time to confront them.

When he spoke, his voice was low and hoarse: “Because she cheated on me”.

Read chapter 2 here!

[parvuls]

fic: need seek no further

Jack shrugs. “Eh. Bittle likes Cabot butter best.”

a disgustingly fluffy, plotless ficlet about how well jack knows bitty and how he perfected the skill of nonverbal communication through the force of sheer will. also, the frogs.

read on ao3

.

.

Dex called Bitty one evening in early May, let Bitty shower him with hellos, and then stated, “We won the NCAA championship.” He said it matter-of-factly, like maybe Jack and Bitty hadn’t been there when it happened, like Jack hadn’t watched him cling to Bitty for a full minute after the stands had spilled onto the ice.

“You did,” Bitty replied, raising his eyes to meet Jack’s with confusion wrinkling between his brows. His phone was set on the kitchen island between them, Dex’s voice filling their kitchen through speaker phone while Bitty’s floured hands were busy kneading dough. Jack was keeping him company on another last-minute testing session for his rhubarb pie recipe, even though the last proof of his book had been approved by his editors over two weeks before. Jack was running out of team members to send leftovers to.

“And Whiskey got voted captain,” Dex continued.

Jack watched as Bitty squinted down at his phone. Bitty had spent half an hour on the phone with Whiskey the night of the banquet; he hadn’t disclosed the details of their conversation to Jack, but his face when he’d returned to their room, had sat down next to Jack on the bed and had leaned his forehead on Jack’s bicep for a long while -- Jack had seen that face before. Had known that expression meant pride.

“So we were talking about it just now,” there was the sound of more people whispering furiously in the background, and Jack thought he could maybe hear Chowder’s unsteady voice calling out, hey Bitty!, and only then he began contemplating the solid possibility that Dex may have been a little drunk. “And -- so we won last year, with you, and now we won again, and we wanna keep winning, right? So we gotta make sure to keep doing everything that’s working.”

“Sure, sweetheart,” Bitty said agreeably, faintly amused. It was obvious to Jack from his tone that Bitty, at least, had already realized Dex was a little drunk, but was only too happy to play along.

“‘Swawesome,” Dex said fervently, like Bitty had agreed to something very important. “So you see why Whiskey’s gotta learn to make a pie.”

That stopped Bitty in his tracks. Jack blinked, watched Bitty’s long fingers halt their motions in the dough, the pressure of his fingerprints leaving crescent grooves behind. “William Joseph, that doesn’t make a lick of sense,” he said, and narrowed his eyes at the screen of his phone like Dex could feel their weight on him through the line. But then he seemed to think it over again, and the pitch of his voice rose as he demanded, “Wait, are you sayin’ Whiskey’s willing to learn how to bake?”

“He says he’ll do it for the win,” Dex said, and Bitty gaped at the phone, then gaped at Jack, and with his cheeks pink and his eyes wide he exclaimed, “Of course I’ll do it!”, like there’d ever been any other option to consider.

Jack kept it to himself, but he had no doubt in his mind that there hadn’t been.

.

.

.

Dex, Chowder and Nursey wait for them at the doorway of the Haus, broad shoulders wedged together in the narrow doorframe.

Bitty had said before they left home, “You don’t have to come, sweetpea,” and Jack had said, simply, “I want to,” and had meant it. It was only in the summer months that Jack had the privilege to see his friends whenever he wished to, and now that the Falconers were out of the playoffs -- well, Jack was feeling a little more withdrawn lately, even quieter than usual, but this felt like something he genuinely wanted to do with the time on his hands. There was also the fact that soon the frogs would graduate, and with them gone Jack would be too far removed to visit the Haus comfortably, even if Bitty still could.

Right now Jack could, and he wanted to, so Bitty and he got in Bitty’s car and drove the forty-five minutes down to Samwell, Bitty’s phone hooked through the aux and his hands tapping on the wheel to the beat. He was nervous, although Jack wasn’t sure exactly why -- only knew it was obvious in Bitty’s restless hands and the frequency he switched songs midway through. Jack reached out and placed his hand on Bitty’s thigh, squeezed, and let Bitty burn his nervous energy whatever way he deemed best.

“We did all the shopping!” Chowder announces as Jack and Bitty walk up the porch steps, and then immediately bounces forward and wraps Bitty in a hug. His long limbs envelope Bitty within them, and soon Jack’s dragged into their circle, too, feels Nursey’s arms fold around his shoulders and Dex’s tentative hand patting him on the back. It doesn’t overwhelm him like it could’ve, maybe, a year or two ago -- it just feels nice, familiar, welcoming. A display of affection he readily returns.

When the huddle breaks, the five of them shuffle through the door and head straight into the kitchen. It looks about the same as it has since Bitty took over it five years ago -- no longer just a room with a fridge full of beers and a broken down table, but a real kitchen, with Suzanne’s hand-sewn curtains and clear countertops and the oven that Jack is still irrationally fond of. Although it seems like it’s been revamped in the months since Jack has last seen it; the cupboards’ hinges are no longer busted, and there are actual shelves stacked along the walls. Jack assumes the likely suspect is Samwell Men’s Hockey current captain, and has to curb a revealing smile that would surely draw questions. It’s another unspoken team tradition, Jack thinks, recalling freshman Will Poindexter: no one leaves it entirely unchanged.

“Y’all are joining us for some baking lessons?” Bitty asks Nursey and Chowder, hand almost unconsciously drifting over the edge of the counters. He looks good there, really, looks right. He’s not the same as he was when he graduated and certainly not the same as when he first claimed this kitchen, but to Jack, Bitty would always look right in the sun streaming through the Haus’ dusty windows, puttering between pots and pans.

“Nah, C and I will get out of your hair for that, but Whiskey isn’t back yet so we’ve got some time. And anyway --” Nursey glances sideways at Dex and Chowder, fails at stifling a smile, “uh, the waffles heard you were coming today, Bits.”

“Going by their reaction, they’ve definitely missed you,” Dex says, arms crossed over his chest, his face serious but a single upwards quirk to the corner of his mouth. It could be a chirp at the waffles, maybe, but Jack is almost certain that it’s sincere nonetheless.

Bitty turns to the shopping bags spread across the counter and starts picking them apart, taking out the ingredients for inspection before setting them down with that same nervous energy, the one that rarely ever follows Bitty into his domain in the kitchen. Jack watches him smile at Dex, honest but jittery, and realizes what he should’ve already known -- how very important it is to Bitty that this goes perfectly.

“Oh, bless them, I’ve missed them too! I’ll tell them hello so we can get started right after,” Bitty says, setting down a bag of brown sugar and taking out a packet of butter from the bag. He looks -- momentarily disappointed, and Jack frowns, searches Bitty’s face. It’s probably only visible to Jack, who recognizes the subtle shift in Bitty’s jaw and the fleeting movement of his eyebrows, but still. He follows Bitty’s eyes down to his hands and to the butter in them, and surveys it for a moment, deep in thought.

“You’ve got two seconds to prepare yourself, bro,” Nursey warns, and then Bully, Hops and Louis descend loudly into the kitchen, flock around Bitty like ducklings. Bitty’s always had that effect on hockey players, on people, even before he got the C. It’s with intense fondness that Jack thinks it, knows the feeling intimately as someone who’s lucky enough to experience that affect every day. He can’t blame them for the way they beam down at Bitty, fight for his attention, laugh when he laughs at the rising volume of their clashing, simultaneous stories.

It’s a good opportunity if nothing else, though, so Jack shoulders his way between Bully and Louis, brushes two fingers over Bitty’s elbow to get his attention. When Bitty turns his head, Jack takes advantage of his height to lean in and say into Bitty’s ear, “Hey, bud, I’m stepping out for a moment.”

Bitty smiles at him, reaches up to stroke a hand down Jack’s cheek just warmly enough to be soothing, just quickly enough to be appropriate. “Yeah, of course. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, and thinks, it will be. He pauses, looks down threateningly at the waffles, and leans in to kiss Bitty's temple swiftly, before someone he can’t intimidate as easily as these sophomores could try fining him for it. The space he leaves between Bully and Louis closes as soon as he leaves their side, Bitty disappearing from sight behind their tall forms, but the sound of his cheerful laughter rings after Jack as he walks out of the kitchen and exits through the front door.

.

.

.

When Jack comes back he has to open the door one-handed, the other one busy clutching the handles of a grocery bag. His cap is pulled down low, a protective measure from the crowd that swarmed the Stop and Shop on Pemberton, so it takes a few steps into the Haus’ hallway for him to notice Whiskey hovering in the kitchen doorway, apparently stopped right on his way out of it.

“Jack,” Whiskey looks surprised -- or maybe still mildly star-struck, Jack has always had trouble telling with his face. “You’re here. I haven’t seen you.”

“Got some stuff from the shop,” Jack raises the bag by way of explanation, adjusts his hat, and after a brief moment of stillness hunches his shoulders to bypass Whiskey into the kitchen.

Whiskey bends his neck to peer down into the bag as Jack passes. He looks somewhat horrified at what he finds, as much as Whiskey ever betrays his emotions -- a slight frown, a barely noticeable widening of his eyes. “We need more groceries for this thing?”

Jack shrugs, noncommittal. They don’t, really, but. “Eh. Bittle likes Cabot butter best.”

The frogs and waffles have moved to the den while Jack was out -- he can hear them now, Bully’s low voice and Chowder’s quick speech and Hops’ rolling laughter -- but Bitty must’ve heard Jack come in, because he appears next to Whiskey in the kitchen doorway. His gaze darts between the two of them before it lands on the bag hanging from Jack’s fingers, and Jack reaches in to pull out one stick of butter, holding it out so Bitty can see the brand. Bitty’s eyes light up when he realizes, go round and bright, and he declares, “Sweetpea, you shouldn’t have!”, in the tone that means he’s beyond pleased that Jack did.

“That's more butter,” Whiskey says, staring at Bitty and then at the butter already stacked on the counter from the frogs’ shopping trip, clearly bewildered.

Jack twists his body, turns his back to them to find an empty spot somewhere on the counter. “Cabot has a half percent more fat, and Bittle likes his crust flaky,” he explains absently while emptying the contents of the bag onto the spot he chose. It’s important to Bitty that this goes perfectly, and while Jack can’t control Whiskey's abilities in the kitchen, wouldn’t be able to fix baking mishaps if those occur, this is something he can do. Make sure Bitty has the best conditions to work in, grant him a little peace of mind.

When he turns back around Whiskey is gone, and it’s only Bitty standing behind him, his eyes twinkling and his lips parted slightly.

“What?” Jack asks, confused.

There’s a long stretch of silence while Bitty just looks at him. Jack’s rarely comfortable with intense scrutiny from others, but Bitty -- Bitty’s gaze is soft, and he looks at Jack like he’s something good, something to admire. It’s a look he gives Jack often, usually accompanied by the gentlest of kisses, the warmest of hugs, the kindest of words. Sometimes Jack’s mind is slow to catch up, too stubborn to be convinced of his own worthiness, but this is the look Bitty gets when his emotions are broadcasted so loudly that even Jack’s mind has to pipe down and listen.

Bitty takes a few steps closer, grabs Jack’s palm between both his hands. “Marry me?” he asks breathily, with a smile curling at his lips.

Warmth flutters in Jack’s stomach at the words, and an answering smile grows on his own lips. The ring glints on Bitty’s finger whenever he moves his hands, is glinting now, where his fingers are curled around Jack’s in the sunny kitchen. It’s been a distraction many times in the past year, but each time Jack sees it he’s reminded of what Bitty and he have promised to each other. The future that is still to come.

There’s no one in the kitchen but them, and the Haus residents sound busy enough in the other room that no one would notice if Jack stole a lone moment. “Sorry, I can’t,” Jack deadpans, grabs Bitty by his hips and gathers him into his arms. His fingers slide over the soft fabric of Bitty’s clothes and find the gap between his top and his shorts, dipping inside to rub against Bitty’s warm skin. “It’s a tempting offer, but I’m already engaged.”

“Leave him, then,” Bitty says without missing a beat. He tilts his head up to nudge Jack’s cheek with his nose, wraps his strong arms around Jack’s neck. His face is so close to Jack’s that Jack can count his pale eyelashes, can see the splotches of fading pink on his skin. He’s been spending a lot of time editing his cookbook on their balcony since springtime has arrived, and his body tans nicely but the bridge of his nose has been reddened and peeling for a while. “Run away with me.”

Jack can’t help the temptation, kisses Bitty’s right cheek and then his left one. “Sorry, bud.”

“Why ever not,” Bitty sighs, most dramatically, and uses his grip on Jack’s neck to lean his upper body backwards. “A man who knows his butters? You better believe I’m willing to fight for you, mister.”

It’s the sincerity in his voice that has heat prickling across Jack’s skin, raw pleasure squirming in his chest. It’s a futile battle, though, a battle Jack realized was lost when he dropped Bitty off at this very Haus after their very first summer together, longingly watched him skip up the stairs and thought, oh, I wanna marry him. “I can’t,” he tells Bitty quietly, pulls him closer so the words stay trapped between them, rough and intimate like a secret. “I love my fiancé too much.”

“Oh,” and Bitty flushes at this, red blossoming on the apples of his cheeks like he’s flattered -- like the ring around his finger hasn’t been there for a year, like Jack hasn’t taken to kissing it before kissing Bitty goodbye on nights he leaves for games; like Jack loving him too much to ever consider anyone else is still a novelty, a compliment, after all this time. “Well. Lucky him.”

Lucky me, Jack thinks, and bows his head to fit his mouth to Bitty’s in for a lingering sweet kiss.

[kingandfireheart]

YOUR MATING BOND IS SHOWING: Some underrated Nessian scenes pre-ACOFAS

alternatively titled: how did no one in the Inner Circle accidentally tell Nesta?

I didn't include the big moments (the Cauldron, the Bone Carver, Next Time, Emissary, I'll Come Say Hello, CASSIAN, and Hybern) because they are longer scenes, but these are some small and medium sized moments.

When Cassian can't stop staring at Human Nesta:

Cassian was sizing up Nesta, a gleam in his eyes that I could only interpret as a warrior finding himself faced with a new, interesting opponent.

...

Nesta didn’t bat an eyelash as she studied the handsome features, the muscled torso. Then turned to me. Dismissing him entirely.

Cassian’s face went almost feral. A wolf who had been circling a doe … only to find a mountain cat wearing its hide instead.

...

Rhys gave me a warning look. I gripped Nesta’s arm, drawing her attention to me. “Can we just … start over?”

I could almost taste her pride roiling in her veins, barking to not back down.

Cassian, damn him, gave her a taunting grin.

But Nesta merely hissed, “Fine.” And went back to eating.

Cassian watched every bite she took, every bob of her throat as she swallowed.

...

“That’s very beautiful,” she said. “Is it not—frightening, though? To fly so high?”

“It is sometimes,” Azriel said. Cassian tore his relentless attention from Nesta long enough to nod his agreement.

When Nesta gives Cassian the finger:

He’d given Nesta a mocking bow, and she’d given him a vulgar gesture I hadn’t realized she knew how to make.

Cassian had merely laughed, his eyes snaking over Nesta’s ice-blue gown with a predatory intent that, given her hiss of rage, he knew would set her spitting. Then he was gone, leaving my sister on the broad doorstep, her brown-gold hair ruffled by the chill wind stirred by his mighty wings.

When Cassian comes back from Wings & Embers:

I assumed seeing Nesta went about as poorly as could be imagined, because my lesson the following morning was longer and harder than it’d been in previous days. I’d asked what, exactly, Nesta had said to him to get under his skin so easily. But Cassian had only snarled and told me to mind my own business, and that my family was full of bossy, know-it-all females.

When Cassian declares he'll defend the humans (ACOMAF version)

His voice was rough as he said, “Five hundred years ago, I fought on battlefields not far from this house. I fought beside human and faerie alike, bled beside them. I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.”

I watched a tear slide down Nesta’s cheek. And I watched as Cassian reached up a hand to wipe it away. She did not flinch from his touch.

When Feyre notices the mating bond:

When I looked ahead, I found Cassian staring back at Nesta as well.

I wondered why no one had yet mentioned what now shone in Cassian’s eyes as he gazed at my sister.

The sorrow. And the longing.

When Cassian tells Nesta exactly what is going to happen to Briallyn:

“You come between a male and his mate, Nesta Archeron, and you’re going to learn about the consequences the hard way.”

When Cassian speaks of his own intentions:

I blew out a breath. “Who else thinks it’s a terrible idea to leave the three of them up at the House of Wind?”

Cassian raised his hand as Rhys and Mor chuckled. The High Lord’s general said, “I give him an hour before he tries to see her.”

...

Cassian’s hazel eyes shuttered as he crossed a booted ankle over another, stretching his muscled legs before him. “I go up there every other day. It’s good exercise for my wings.” Those wings shifted in emphasis. Not a scratch marred them.

When Cassian wants revenge:

Mor’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if she was trying her best not to say anything. Azriel was trying his best to shoot a warning stare at Mor to remind her to indeed keep her mouth shut. As if they’d already discussed this. Many times.

“I don’t blame her,” Cassian said, shrugging despite his words. “She was—violated. Her body stopped belonging wholly to her.” His jaw clenched. Even Amren didn’t dare say anything. “And I am going to peel the King of Hybern’s skin off his bones the next time I see him.”

His Siphons flickered in answer.

Rhys said casually, “I’m sure the king will thoroughly enjoy the experience.”

Cassian glowered. “I mean it.”

When Cassian realizes how beautiful his mate is:

Yes, devastating was a good word for how lovely she’d become as High Fae. And in a long-sleeved, dark blue gown that clung to her curves before falling gracefully to the ground in a spill of fabric …

Cassian looked like someone had punched him in the gut.

When Cassian got out of an uncomfortable situation:

Mor blinked, but confided to me with a wince, “I think we’re going to need a lot more wine.”

Nesta’s spine stiffened. But she said nothing.

“I’ll raid the collection,” Cassian offered, disappearing through the inner hall doors too quickly to be casual.

Nesta stiffened a bit more.

When Nesta wants revenge

“Were they made immortal?” This question went to Azriel.

Azriel’s Siphons smoldered. “Reports have been murky and inconsistent. Some say yes, others say no.”

Nesta examined her wineglass.

Cassian braced his forearms on the table. “Why?”

Nesta’s eyes shot right to his face. She spoke quietly to me, to all of us, even as she held Cassian’s gaze as if he were the only one in the room. “By the end of this war, I want them dead. The king, the queens—all of them. Promise me you’ll kill them all, and I’ll help you patch up the wall. I’ll train with her”—a jerk of her chin to Amren—“I’ll go to the Hewn City or whatever it is … I’ll do it. But only if you promise me that.”

When Cassian is mad at Feyre and lies:

I studied him, the wings tucked in tight, the shoulder-length dark hair. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He stalked past me to the ring.

“Is it Nesta?”

“Not everything in my life is about your sister, you know.”

I kept my mouth shut on that front.

When Nesta shows up to training:

Something drew Cassian’s attention behind me. And even as his body remained casual, a predatory gleam flickered in his eyes.

I didn’t need to turn to know who was standing there.

“Care to join?” Cassian purred.

Nesta said, “It doesn’t look like you’re exercising anything other than your mouths.”

I looked over my shoulder. My sister was in a dress of pale blue that turned her skin golden, her hair swept up, her back a stiff column. I scrambled to say something, to apologize, but … not in front of him. She wouldn’t want this conversation in front of Cassian.

Cassian extended a wrapped hand, his fingers curling in a come-hither motion. “Scared?”

I wisely kept my mouth shut as Nesta stepped from the open doorway into the blinding light of the courtyard. “Why should I be scared of an oversized bat who likes to throw temper tantrums?”

...

Cassian was saying to Nesta, “Seems like you’re a little on edge, Nesta. And you left so abruptly last night … Any way I can help ease that tension?”

When Cassian has manners: (and realizes his mate may never fly)

Mercifully, or perhaps not, Nesta’s retching filled the silence. Cassian gaped at Rhys. “What did you do?”

“I asked him the same thing,” I said, crossing my arms. “He said he ‘went fast.’ ”

Nesta vomited again—then silence.

Cassian sighed at the ceiling. “She’ll never fly again.”

The doorknob twisted, and we tried—or at least Cassian and I did—not to seem like we’d been listening to her. Nesta’s face was still greenish-pale, but … Her eyes burned.

When Cassian helps her calm down:

There was no way of describing that burning—and even painting it might have failed.

Her eyes remained the same blue-gray as my own. And yet … Molten ore was all I could think of. Quicksilver set aflame.

She advanced a step toward us. All her attention fixed on Rhys.

Cassian casually stepped in her path, wings folded in tight. Feet braced apart on the carpet. A fighting stance—casual, but … his Siphons glimmered.

“Do you know,” Cassian drawled to her, “that the last time I got into a brawl in this house, I was kicked out for a month?”

Nesta’s burning gaze slid to him, still outraged—but hinted with incredulity.

He just went on, “It was Amren’s fault, of course, but no one believed me. And no one dared banish her.”

She blinked slowly.

But the burning, molten gaze became mortal. Or as mortal as one of us could be.

When he calls her "Nes" for the first time:

Both males went a bit still. But Azriel sketched a bow—while Cassian stalked for the dining table, reached right over Nesta’s shoulder, and grabbed a muffin from its little basket. “Morning, Nesta,” he said around a mouth of blueberry-lemon. “Elain.”

---

Cassian finished the muffin, licking his fingers. I could have sworn Nesta watched the entire thing with a sidelong glance. He grinned at her as if he knew it, too. “Ready for some flying, Nes?”

“Don’t call me that.”

The wrong thing to say, from the way Cassian’s eyes lit up.

When she flies with him for the first time:

My sister’s face was wind-flushed as Cassian gently set her down. Then she strode for the glass doors without a single look back.

“You’re welcome,” Cassian called after her, more than a bite to his voice. His hands clenched and slackened at his sides—as if he were trying to loosen the feel of her from his palms.

When he rescues her and can't hide his disappointment the she didn't hug him:

He said nothing as Nesta launched herself toward him, her dress filthy and disheveled, her arms stretching for him. He opened his own for her, unable to stop his approach, his reaching— She gripped his leathers instead.

...

Cassian only stretched out an arm for her. As if in a trance, she walked right to his side. His arms tightened around both of us, Siphons flaring, gilding the darkness with bloodred light.

When Nesta is recovering from the library attack and he's an attentive mate:

Nesta looked like she was going to be sick. Cassian wordlessly refilled her glass.

When he's protective and we find out about their height difference

Cassian was staring at Nesta—hard enough that my sister at last twisted toward him. Met his gaze. His head tilted—slightly. A silent order.

Nesta, to my shock, obeyed. Drifted over to Cassian’s side as Amren replied to Rhys, “No.”

...

Cassian casually slid Nesta behind him, his fingers snagging in the skirts of her black gown. As if to reassure himself that she wasn’t in Amren’s direct path. Nesta only rose onto her toes to peer over his shoulder.

When Cassian still isn't back from Adriata:

Nesta was waiting at the breakfast table the next morning. Not for me, I realized as her gaze slipped over me as if I were no more than a servant. But for someone else. I kept my mouth shut, not bothering to tell her Cassian was still up at the war-camps. If she wouldn’t ask … I wasn’t getting in the middle of it.

When Cassian is proud of Nesta:

“I would.” Nesta surveyed us all, her gaze jumping past Cassian. Not to slight him, but … avoid answering the look he was giving her. Approval—more. “It was some distant thing,” she said. “War. Battle. It … it’s not anymore. I will help, if I can. If it means … telling them what happened.”

When Nesta defends Cassian for the first time:

Beron only sneered. “I don’t take orders from the bastards of lesser fae whores.”

...

“That bastard,” Nesta said with utter coolness, though her eyes began to burn, “may wind up being the only person standing in the way of Hybern’s forces and your people.”

She didn’t so much as look at Cassian as she said it. But he stared at her—as if he’d never seen her before.

When Feyre dismissed Nesta but Cassian doesn't:

The door opened, and Cassian stalked in, face grave. The sight of the wings, the Illyrian armor in this opulent, pink-filled room planted itself in my mind, the painting already taking form, as he said, “What’s wrong.”

He studied every inch of her. As if there were nothing and no one else here, anywhere.

But I said, “She senses something is off—says we need to leave right away.”

I waited for the dismissal, but Cassian angled his head. “What, precisely, feels wrong?”

When the Cauldron made Nesta barf and Cassian is an attentive mate

“What’s wrong?” Mor demanded, holding my sister upright as her face contorted in what looked to be—pain. Confusion and pain.

Sweat beaded on Nesta’s brow, though her face went deathly pale. “Something …” The word was cut off by a low groan. She sagged, and Mor caught her fully, scanning Nesta’s face. Cassian was instantly there, his hand at her back, teeth bared at the invisible threat.

“Nesta,” I said, reaching for her.

Nesta seized—then twisted past Cassian to empty her stomach into the reflection pool.

When he touches her forehead:

Cassian stepped in Nesta’s path when she tried to walk past him. Put a tan, callused hand on her forehead. She shook off the touch, but he gripped her wrist, forcing her to meet his stare. “Any one of those human pricks makes a move to hurt you,” he breathed, “and you kill them.”

He wouldn’t be coming—no, he’d be mustering the full might of the Illyrian legions. Azriel would be joining us, though.

Cassian pressed one of his knives into Nesta’s hand. “Ash can kill you now,” he said with lethal quiet as she stared down at the blade. “A scratch can make you queasy enough to be vulnerable. Remember where the exits are in every room, every fence and courtyard—mark them when you go in, and mark how many men are around you. Mark where Rhys and the others are. Don’t forget that you’re stronger and faster. Aim for the soft parts,” he added, folding her fingers around the hilt. “And if someone gets you into a hold …” My sister said nothing as Cassian showed her the sensitive areas on a man. Not just the groin, but the inside of the foot, pinching the thigh, using her elbow like a weapon. When he finished, he stepped back, his hazel eyes churning with some emotion I couldn’t place.

When Nesta watches Cassian in Battle:

Only Nesta strode toward the edge of the tents to watch the battle on the valley floor below. Mor joined her, then me.

Nesta did not flinch at the clash and din of battle. She only stared toward one black-armored figure, leading the lines, his occasional order to push or to hold that flank barking across the battle

...

Cassian was trying. Azriel had lunged into the fray, nothing more than shadows edged in blue light, battling his way toward where Cassian fought, utterly surrounded.

“Mother above,” Nesta said softly. Not in awe. No—no, that was dread in her voice.

...

By the time I strode away, Nesta had already faced the battle once more, rain plastering her hair to her head. Resuming her unending vigil of the general battling on the valley floor below.

When she wraps up his wrist (and when he's an idiot and focuses on Mor)

But Nesta had jolted to her feet, staring at Cassian....But she surveyed his seven Siphons, the dim red stones. And then she said, “You’re hurt.”

Cassian’s face was grim—his eyes glassy. “It’s fine.” Even the words were laced with exhaustion.

But she reached for his arm—his shield arm.

Cassian seemed to hesitate, but offered it to her, tapping the Siphon atop his palm. The armor slid back a fraction over his forearm, revealing—

“You know better than to walk around with an injury,” Rhys said a bit tensely.

“I was busy,” Cassian said, not taking his focus off Nesta as she studied the swollen wrist. How she’d detected it through the armor … She must have read it in his eyes, his stance.

I hadn’t realized she’d been observing the Illyrian general enough to notice his tells.

“And it’ll be fixed by morning,” Cassian added, daring Rhys to say otherwise.

But Nesta’s pale fingers gently probed his golden-brown skin, and he hissed through his teeth.

“How do I fix it?” she asked ...

Cassian slowly sat on the log where she’d been perched a moment before, groaning softly—as if even that movement taxed him. “Icing it usually helps, but wrapping it will just lock it in place long enough for the sprain to repair itself—”

She reached for the basket of bandages she’d been preparing, then for the pitcher at her feet.

I was too tired to do anything other than watch as she washed his wrist, his hand, her own fingers gentle... Cassian seemed too weary to speak as well while she wrapped bandages around his wrist, only grunting to confirm if it was too tight or too loose, if it helped at all. But he watched her—didn’t take his eyes off her face, the brows bunched and lips pursed in concentration.

And when she’d tied it neatly, his wrist wrapped in white, when Nesta made to pull back, Cassian gripped her fingers in his good hand. She lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

Nesta did not yank her hand away. Did not open her mouth for some barbed retort.

She only stared and stared at him, at the breadth of his shoulders, even more powerful in that beautiful black armor, at the strong column of his tan neck above it, his wings. And then at his hazel eyes, still riveted to her face.

Cassian brushed a thumb down the back of her hand. Nesta opened her mouth at last, and I braced myself—

“You’re hurt?”

At the sound of Mor’s voice, Cassian snatched his hand back and pivoted toward Mor with a lazy smile. “Nothing for you to cry over, don’t worry.”

Nesta dragged her stare from his face—down to her now-empty hand, her fingers still curled as if his palm lay there. Cassian didn’t look at Nesta as she rose, snatching up the pitcher, and muttered something about getting more water from inside the tent.

Cassian and Mor fell into their banter, laughing and taunting each other about the battle and the ones ahead.

Nesta didn’t come back out again for some time.

When Cassian almost dies, and she's worried sick, and then she looks him over to make sure he's okay:

Nesta stood by the nearest tent, an empty water bucket between her feet. Her hair a damp mess atop her mud-flecked head. Watching us emerge, grim-faced—

“He’s fine. Healed and awake,” I said quickly.

Nesta’s shoulders sagged a bit.

...

Still coated in mud up to her shins, my sister paused on the other side—away from where Cassian now sat. Looked him over. Her face revealed nothing, yet her hands … I could have sworn a faint tremor rippled through her fingers before she balled them into fists and faced Amren. Cassian watched her for a moment longer before turning his head toward Amren as well.

...

Your sister came immediately when I explained what we needed, Rhys said. I think seeing Cassian hurt convinced her not to pick a fight today.

Or convinced my sister to pick a fight with someone else entirely.

When Nesta Scries: No harm no harm no harm

Nesta still didn’t move. She could not use the bathtub, she’d told me. Because the memories it dragged up—

Cassian said to her, “Nothing can harm you here.” He sucked in a breath, groaning softly, and rose to his feet. Azriel tried to stop him, but Cassian brushed him off and strode for my sister’s side. He braced a hand on the desk when he at last stopped. “Nothing can harm you,” he repeated.

Nesta was still looking at him when she finally shut her eyes. I shifted, and the angle allowed me to see what I hadn’t detected before.

Nesta stood before the map, a fist of bones and stones clenched over it. Cassian remained at her side—his other hand on her lower back.

...

With a gasp, Nesta’s fingers splayed wide, scattering stones and bones over the map. Cassian caught her with an arm around the waist as she swayed. He hissed in pain at the movement. “What the hell—”

When Cassian makes an offer most women would not refuse:

“Eat or bed?” Cassian had asked Nesta, and I honestly couldn’t tell if he’d meant it as some invitation. I debated telling him he was in no shape.

Nesta only said, “Bed.” And there was certainly no invitation in the exhausted reply.

When Elain is taken:

“We’ll get her back,” Cassian rasped from where he perched on the rolled arm of the chaise longue across the small sitting area, watching her carefully...

Nesta lowered her hands, lifting her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, lips thin. “No, you will not.” She pointed to the map on the table. “I saw that army. Its size, who is in it. I saw it, and there is no chance of any of you getting into its heart. Even you,” she added when Cassian opened his mouth again. “Especially not when you’re injured.”

When Cassian declares he'll defend the humans, pt. 2 (ACOWAR)

“Good,” Cassian said, glancing at Nesta. “If I end my life defending those who need it most, then I will consider it a death well spent.

When Cassian was going to say something before the last battle:

Rhys only asked, “How long do you think we have?”

Cassian clenched his jaw, glancing at my sisters. Nesta was watching him keenly; Elain monitored the army from our minor elevation, face white with dread....

Cassian took a step away, but looked back at Nesta. Her face was hard as granite. He opened his mouth, but seemed to decide against whatever he was about to say. My sister said nothing as Cassian shot into the sky with a powerful thrust of his wings. Yet she tracked his flight until he was hardly more than a dark speck.

When they decide to lure away Hybern:

Nesta stared toward that armada, toward our father fighting in it. “Use me. As bait.”

I blinked at the same moment Cassian said, “No.”

...

“He will kill you,” Cassian snarled.

Her hand clenched on his arm. “That’s—that’s where you come in.”

To guard her. Protect her. To lay a trap for the king.

...

Cassian said steadily, “It’s the only shot we have of a diversion. Luring him away from that Cauldron.” His hands tightened on Nesta.

...

But Cassian asked Nesta, “Do you have what you need?”

Nesta nodded. “Amren showed me enough. What to do to rally the power to me.”

And if Amren and I could control the Cauldron between us … That distraction they’d offer …

Nesta looked down to Elain—our sister monitoring the bloodbath ahead. Then to me. She said quietly, “Tell Father—thank you.”

She wrapped her arms tightly around Cassian, those gray-blue eyes bright, then they were gone.

[headcans-oneshots-and-stuff]

Hogwarts No.1 Ship

Fandom: Harry Potter  Pairing: Draco Malfoy x reader Word count: 3.4k Summary: You - Rubeus Hagrid’s niece and a surprising slytherin - have a crush on the Slytherin prince himself, but you are sugar and he is spice and there is no world where the two of you would fit together...right? Warning: Swearwordsm concussion, broken bones, but mostly fluffffffffff Requested by the amazing and patient (I’m really sorry it took so long) @onlycherryblossom​: Hi! I love your work and I was wondering if you could right a Draco Malfoy x Reader. you know, the one we talked about. It'd be so awesome! i hope you have a good day/night! (I won’t put our chat in here so that I don’t spoiler anything)

Hogwarts had rarely ever known two students who were as opposite to each other as Draco Malfoy and Y/N Hagrid. Draco - who was the embodiment of how people imagined the stereotype of Slytherin to be - was (most of the time) a prideful, cold, unempathetic prick, while you were a selfless, positive thinking, kind and gentle soul that could‘ve been a descendant of Helga Huffelpuff herself. The two of you did have one thing in common though. Your house. The hat had made you both into Slytherins which was on Draco’s side not surprising at all, but quite a shock for everyone who had talked to you for even a minute. Probably the biggest shock was courtesy of Rubeus Hagris - Half-Giant and your adopted uncle (on his father’s side) - who insisted that the hat must have made a mistake, but was quickly shot down by Dumbledoor who assured that the hat didn‘t make any mistakes. After some initial tumbling though, Hagrid realized that the house didn‘t make the person and that it didn‘t matter in what house you were sorted into, you’d always be his little pumpkin. And he was quite right. Even after you had been a Slytherin for just about five years, you had only grown more kind and loving - having bonded with many people in the other houses and years, but not quite as many in your own house. You’d call Blaze and Millicent maybe something close to friends and Pansy tolerated you which is why you gave her the title of ‘good acquaintances‘, but other than that you didn‘t really have a lot of contact with them in your free time. The most complicated relationship you held though was the one to the aforementioned Draco Malfoy. In a weird twist of fate the two of you somehow became the main ship in Hogwarts (with Harry and Ginny or Harry and Hermione as close second) even though you couldn‘t remember more than two or three times that you had talked to the boy outside of a classroom or study environment. Sure, he had never bullied or teased you which already differentiated you from most of the students, but you simply explained it by the fact that you were a good student - especially in potions class - and behaved well enough to gain a number of house points which made you into a good asset to Slytherin and as such made you a less logical target. Now all in itself that would‘ve been more than fine with you, but for some stupid reason your heart decided to betray you against it‘s better judgement and fall for him. Somehow, even after years of seeing him kick others down and behave like a complete douchebag you couldn‘t help but blush slightly at the mention of his name and feel your heart flutter when you walked by him in the hall or in the common room. The worst part was in potions class where he sat right beside you after Snape deemed your former partner as way too unqualified for one of his best students and exchanged him for Draco. Working with him in and of itself was actually rather nice. He was a good student and did his work thoroughly and mindfully, but you found it hard to concentrate when his hand brushed yours as you read a passage in the book or when he poured ingredients in the coultron that you were stirring. You really tried to ignore your feelings and ban every thought of him, but it seemed like you weren‘t doing the best job at it since your uncle kept asking about what it was that was distracting you all the time. On a rainy October day fairly at the beginning of your fifth year you decided you had enough. You were sitting in your Uncles hut with a plate of more or less edible cookies in front of you and a cup of something that was surely supposed to be tea when you finally gathered the courage to say what you had been meaning to say for weeks now. “Uncle Rubeus, can I ask you something?” Hagrid turned to you with his usual smile as he patted fang who was drooling all over his lap where he had laid his head. “Course ya can pumpkin. What’s it about?” “Uhm...well… you know there is this boy that I-“ “Ohhh Ah see,” Hagrid quickly interrupted you before you could even ask the question, “Ya know, usually I’d be more than happy to help ya with every question you have but ah really don’t thin’ I’m the right person for this, I’m sorry.” A little bit disappointed but not really surprised you just sighed and shook your head, telling him that it was okay, before bidding your goodbyes and making your way back to the castle quietly mulling over what exactly your plan b should be now that plan a had failed and you still had no idea what to do with or how to get rid of your stupid crush on Draco.

“You know what I would do if I were you?“ Ginny asked and pointed the end of her quill at you. The both of you were sitting in a corner of the library where you had planned to help her study for her upcoming potions exam, only for her to basically interrogate you until you admitted that you had an unlucky crush, even though she luckily hadn‘t pushed you to tell her who the guy you had a crush on was. “I‘d probably just tell them, I mean what do you have to lose. Either he‘ll say yes and you‘re happy or he says no and you just avoid him like he doesn‘t even exist - which would honestly be the appropriate reaction if he refuses a snack like you. See, no real downside to it.“ “Oh really? Hmmm, I wonder why you haven‘t told Harry how you feel yet then,“ you teased her and tapped your chin. Ginny‘s face immediately started to rival the colour of her hair and the way she crossed her arms in front of her chest and pouted reminded you of an overgrown toddler - but in a cute way. “I-I don‘t like Harry, okay? I mean I did when I was like ten because he was famous and I was a child,“ she tried to make sure you really knew how silly she wanted you to believe she thought it was by drawing out the word child for a good few seconds before rolling her eyes and looking to the side, “And anyway, it‘s not like he‘d date his best friend’s sister…“ “Oh Gin,“ you immediately felt bad and grabbed one of her hands with yours, “Have you looked at yourself? You‘re amazing and if Harry doesn‘t see that through his stupid invisible cloak and these glasses than he doesn‘t even deserve you.“ “Even though I admit that yes, I am amazing, this isn‘t the topic that we should be conversing about right now, remember? I think there‘s a certain blond Slytherin that you should be worried about more right now.“ Immediately blood shot right to your cheeks and you quickly looked around to make sure no one could‘ve heard her before leaning forward and hissing: “What? No? I don‘t like Draco? Why would you even think that? I never said that he is the one I have a crush on.“ Ginny just raised her eyebrows in an unimpressed manner, leaning back in her chair and picking the quill back up to play around with while she talked. “Listen honey, I‘m not judging you or anything. Don‘t get me wrong, I still and probably will always think Draco is a major asshole and doesn‘t even deserve to breath the same air as you-“ “He isn‘t that bad…“ “Yes he is, but anyways, no matter what I think of him I also know that you are a clever girl that knows how to protect herself and who knows, maybe you‘d even have a good influence on him.“ Images of you and Draco together with your friend group laughing and having fun crossed your mind and you could feel your heartbeat fasten involuntarily. “That‘s all great and good, but like I said, I don‘t have a crush on Draco,“ you gave the hope of getting out of this situation with the lie you‘ve been telling yourself for months still intact one last try, but Ginny didn‘t give it the time of day. “Oh please, I see the way you look at him in the dining hall and how your eyes are always on him when he‘s playing quidditch and just now you defended him even though the two of you aren‘t even friends. My love-radar is pinging like crazy around the two of you which is why I, Ginny Wealey also known as the love witch-“ “No one calls you that,“ you interrupted her only to be shushed by an evil glare. “I, Ginny Weasley, will help you in fulfilling your desire and getting together with Draco and I already have the perfect plan.“ “No no no no, please don‘t! Don‘t do this! Ginny no!“ you tried to make your point clear but she was already cleaning up her stuff and getting ready to leave. “Don‘t worry oh sweet Y/N, the next time we‘ll talk everything will be set in motion,“ she winked before dashing off leaving you standing in her figurative dust with your mouth agape for a few seconds before you let your head sink onto the table. This would definitely take an interesting turn…

After that you definitely started to actively avoid Draco which was - surprisingly enough - not as easy as you thought. Somehow he was almost always at least in your near vicinity. Besides the obvious factors of class (where you tried to focus on working and on praying whatever Ginny had planned wouldn‘t happen) and when you were eating in the great hall (where you had resorted to sitting at the very end of the table as far away from him as possible) he seemed to also be there in your free time. You were relaxing in the common room? He was there reading a book. You were outside with Harry and co.? Guess who’s coming their way to insult them (while not saying a single bad thing about you). By now there were just about three places where you were sure that he wouldn’t be able to pop up at any given moment. Your room, the bathroom and the potions classroom on Wednesday and Friday afternoon when class has already ended. After Snape had realized that he had some real potions-potential sitting in front of him he offered you extra credit as some sort of teaching assistant which basically meant that you helped him prepare lessons, helped him grade the first to third years tests and that you cleaned up and organized the potions classroom twice a week. Now usually, knowing that you were more than capable of handling the potions and ingredients standing around on your own after having seen you do it for a few months, you‘d be alone while you cleaned up except for the occasional visit of your professor to tell you which ingredients you should put on the students desks for the next class, but for some reason the next Friday - three days after Ginny had made her promise to you - the door already stood open and you could hear Professor Snape talking to someone. “I really expected better of you, your action is the reasons Slytherin has lost 50 housepoints and I hope you know that it is on you to gain them back, no matter your status,“ Snape‘s voice carried to where you stood and you wondered who the student was if Snape went so easy on them with his lecture. Usually you‘d be afraid for your life after losing even ten house points so getting such a calm reaction for 50 must‘ve really meant something. Your questions about the identity of the student were answered when you entered the dungeon room and immediately felt yourself freeze. Of course not even you (time dependent) sanctuary was safe anymore. Of course Draco just had to stand there and look at you without any identifiable emotion in his gaze. “Ah, Miss Hagrid, right on time as always,“ Snape nodded after he also noticed you and you felt slightly more at ease knowing that with him there nothing could really happen. “Should I come back later?” you asked politely, not sure if you had interrupted something. “No, you may stay. Mister Malfoy over here has got himself caught trying to sabotage McGonagall class, a childish act which I would’ve expected of the Weasleys but really not from you. As a punishment he will be the one to clean the potions classroom bi-weekly from now on until he has regained the house points lost. You’ll supervise him.” “I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure I understand.” “Malfoy will do all the cleaning but since he has no experience with it I can’t just leave him alone so, since you’d be here anyway, you can watch him and make sure that everything goes orderly.“ It wasn‘t really a question as much as a command, something that you were used to from Snape, so you just nodded and bid him goodbye as he went to his office, leaving you and Draco behind. By now you had seen through what was happening. This was Ginny‘s plan. Somehow she must‘ve managed to blame Malfoy for the prank on McGonagall - something rather extreme given the taken house points- hoping (or somehow knowing) that his punishment would force you to spend at least an hour with him alone in a dimmed room twice a week. Inwardly you cursed your friend, while outwardly you tried everything to avoid directly looking at Draco as you explained his tasks to him before you sat down at your usual place and pulled out a book really hoping you could get him to not talk to you that way. Either your plan was working great or Draco just really didn‘t care for you, because an hour later you still hadn‘t exchanged any words, instead he dutifully, but slightly pouting, had done his job while you shot him the occasional glance to make sure he was doing it correctly. “I think that was all, you should be good to go now,“ you told him with a small smile, relieved that you were finally free to leave the room and with that the tension that had built up inside you as a mix of nervousness and fear. Draco had opened his mouth to respond when a third year came rushing inside with at least twelve books in her arms that almost towered over her which she quickly placed on a table, slightly out of breath. “Professor Snape sent me. He said these have to be sorted and put away.” You could probably feel Draco’s sigh before he had made it and - not really fond of spending more time so frustratingly close to your crush and yet so far - you just nodded and told both of them that you’d take care of it and that they could leave, which both promptly did. You took the books and carried them to the back of the room where a sole, old bookshelf was standing - since the students mostly had their own books - and started putting them away when you heard a sickening crunch before suddenly the shelf including books came crashing down at you and before you could even think to pull out your wand, the world turned black.

“I’m so so so sorry, you were right I shouldn’t have interfered, if I’d just listened to you you wouldn‘t be lying here now,“ Ginny whined from beside your bed where she had been sitting for the past twenty minutes apologizing over and over again and blaming herself for the broken arm, leg and the concussion that had you unable to leave the infirmary for the next three days to a week. “Ginny, how often do I gotta tell you, it isn’t your fault! I would’ve sorted those books in anyways - no matter if you had pulled that prank or not - and it would’ve fallen anyways,” you tried to reassure her and gave her a soft smile. “But-“ “No but, okay? We can’t change the past anyways, and even if we could I wouldn’t because thanks to you, I don’t have to take that stupid DADA test.” Your attempt to lighten the mood seemed to work, because soon you and Ginny were back to your usual conversation-style and it relieved you immensely. It made you feel okay again. She was just telling you of a stung Harry had pulled in the Gryffindor Common room when she suddenly paused mid sentence and looked up. You followed her eyes to where they were placed firmly on a certain Platinum blond boy that looked simultaneously like he’d rather be everywhere else and like he was glad to be there, it was a sight to see. “I think I’ll leave for now, I’ll come back later with tons of sweets that Luna and I are going to steal from Harry’s personal stash,” Ginny said goodbye and gave you a wink as she walked away making you torn between wanting to roll your eyes and feeling yourself blush. Unsure of what to do next you motioned to the chair that Ginny had just occupied and Draco seemed to get the hint because he quickly sat down. “Hey-“ “Hi-“ “Sorry, you first.” “No it’s fine, you’re injured, you go first.” “Well, uhm-“ you took a deep breath to calm yourself down, “-I wanted to thank you, for bringing me here I mean, Madame Pomfrey told me you carried me all the way.” You looked away hoping that he wouldn’t see how nervous you were. “You don’t need to thank me, I couldn’t just let you lay there buried under books, your not Granger after all,” he said, seemingly trying to joke but immediately noticed that it was probably not the best thing to say given that you and Hermione were good friends. “Listen, what I came here for,” now it was Draco’s turn to take a deep breath, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something, but you were always with Potter or avoiding me or whatever, but after I saw you lying there… I guess I was just worried for you, I really don’t want you to get hurt.” Now that definitely caught your attention. For a second you played with the thought that this could possibly not be Malfoy but just someone else playing him with the help of polyjuice potion because he was definitely not acting like himself, but something in his word convinced you otherwise. “Thanks, I think, but would you mind me asking why? I mean...we’re not really the closest of friends,” you asked him, looking directly into his face to search signs of a possible answer. “Fuck it, I like you, okay? Happy?” You were completely stunned. Stunned, speechless, shocked. In all the time that you had been crushing on him you had never even really considered even the slightest possibility that he could reciprocate your feelings but now here he was telling you straight up. “You-You like me? Like like-like me?” You asked, just really wanting to be sure. There was a hint of nervousness and worry in his eyes, but he hid it behind a wall of annoyance. “You heard me, didn’t you? So, just get it over with, do you like me too or do you not, because if you don’t then I don’t want to waste my time any longer.” This definitely sounded more like the Draco you were used to and you had to giggle a little bit. “Yes, yes I like you too,” you confessed and like it was the most natural thing in the world you moved the uninjured hand over to where he laid on your bed and took it in yours. For the moment, you were caught in the shimmer of happiness and glee at having your crush there with you, definitely something more than your crush, and it would probably take a while until you‘d realize that there were some interesting things to follow, like telling your uncle about this for example...

[corpsentry]

january: an art retrospective

i did some stuff last month (but it’s a lot of stuff and there’s a photodump + some Serious Fucking Reflection, so it’s all below the cut)

so ok, let’s start with this. here are some heads. each head has a red arrow. that red arrow is what i call the red line of the devil. it’s the slope of the face from the side of the eye to the cheekbone and then down towards the chin. up until like 2 weeks ago, i couldn’t draw it. i couldn’t fucking draw it. i would edit over that part of the face over and over again until i was frustrated and tired and i had a raging homosexual headache and it still never looked right. notice that each head is different. notice that each head looks wrong.

at the start of 2021 i finally admitted to myself, as per the image above, that i was deeply, deeply unhappy with my art. what was the problem? i dunno. but i decided i was going to fix it and i was going to do so via another one scribble a day event wherein for every day of january i would find a photo of a human head, and i would draw it.

january 1st, 2021. i was embarrassed to tweet this even on my private account where like 5 friends and a rock would see it. in retrospect, you can also see all of my bad habits emerging like dicks from a hole in the ground. it’s disproportionate. the brows look flat. the eyes are slanting upwards. the entire drawing looks flat, like this isn’t a 3d person but a caricature of one.

january 2nd, 3rd, 4th:

on the 2nd i decided to start a separate thread for doodles and applied learning. here’s the first set of tests

the rest of the week is kind of uneventful so we’re going to skip those. fast forward to january 11th

this one is especially bad. i am acutely aware, suddenly, that i am not changing anything at all. i’m stressed and miserable about it because i’m still trying to see people as people and trying to draw people that look attractive and proportionate and hot. my friend, leny, reminds me that i need to think about faces in terms of planes. i have a moment. my other friend masha sends me some links to anatomy tutorials. i have another moment.

january 11th. applied sketch

january 13th is when i start the troubleshooting process. the link above drives me mad because i’m pretty happy with the face but then i realize that there’s something very fucking wrong with the shape of the head LOL and then i realize that i’ve never had any idea what the proportion of the face to the rest of the skull is so i grit my teeth and i open a new canvas and i

bald studies. it seemed like the right thing to do. can’t draw heads? ok draw some heads. look at some photographs. i traced each photo but tried to stick to straight lines so that i could replicate the shapes more easily. i broke each face down into shapes. i thought about airplanes

i got really excited. i started doing studies, then applied studies, then stylized studies.

sketches. i’m not sure what’s going on (as always) and it’s very rough, but they look different from the sketches i did on january 2nd. that’s a start

january 16th’s daily study. looks more like a person now. juuuuuust a bit

more applied studies

on the 18th i take a break and go stare at some lips because i don’t understand how the fuck they work. again, i focus on shapes, on volume, on the fact that these things exist in 3d. holy fuck lips exist in 3d. holy fuck we are real

january 19th. i’m working on it.

january 22nd. some sketches + a daily study. it has finally occurred to me that heads can tilt up and down and that things look different accordingly. yes i was not aware of this before. yes i have been drawing for over a decade.

january 23rd. by this point after doing my daily sketch i almost always go back and do an applied study which is basically to say i drew a lot of fucking links. this one looks kind of okay. i’m kind of proud

january 25th. links. trying to make sense of everything i’ve learned

26th, 27th, 28th. daily studies

january 1st. january 31st

The End Of The Photo Dump (dab)

ok NOW i get to talk about what i discovered while studying the shit out of human beings

FIRST OF ALL, there is something precious and magical about drawing shit without the explicit knowledge that you’re going to tweet that shit out to 45 people later. it takes the burden of perception off your shoulders and that does something to you, or at least that’s my theory. i told myself i wouldn’t post any of this stuff until the end of the month (if i wanted to post it at all) and kept everything off my public social media accounts and that meant i could draw ugly as hell without worrying about who would point and laugh, which i absolutely fucking did. a lot of these are fucking trainwrecks. most of these are fucking trainwrecks. why do they look like that?? why??? this doesn’t look like the work of someone who’s allegedly been drawing since they were in kindergarten, does it?????

here’s why: because that person took a huge motherfucking swing at everything they’d ever known about art and spent a month building something new in its place. the abstract explanation is that i grew up on shoujo and weird old anime and my understanding of anatomy was unironically kamichama karin and while i love kamichama karin, when kamichama karin is your rule even if you try to break it, you’re going to end up going nowhere. “you have to know the rules to break them”, yeah? well i didn’t know shit. the abstract explanation is i’ve been miserable about my art for a few years now because i saw other people doing things effortlessly which i couldn’t and instead of going back to the basics, i tried to do what they did (not plagiarism, mind you, i mean i literally tried to copy the red line of the devil i mentioned above because i couldn’t even make that happen) and then i fucking failed.

the simple explanation is this. i had to unlearn everything, and relearn it again (like some kind of new renaissance clown, what the fuck is this?)

take this for example. all my life i’ve drawn faces in the order: eyes, nose, mouth, face shape, head. this works for some people, im aware, but it was something central to how i had always drawn, so i decentralized it. i said fuck you to the old me and changed the order up. now i start with the nose, then the eyes, mouth, the chin line, and the sides of the face. now i force myself to think about the human head as a series of parts interacting with each other instead of a bunch of disparate features which i want to look pretty.

or let’s use this zelda from last year. something about this looked wrong last october, the way something about all of my drawings looked wrong, but i couldn’t pinpoint it for hell the way i couldn’t articulate Any of my feelings about the visual arts. now, looking back, here’s what i see. that nose is sticking out far too much given how she’s not really facing very far away from the camera. that ear at the back shouldn’t be there. her forehead is too big. she doesn’t have a forehead. what the fuck is up with the shape of her head?

so apparently reject modernity embrace tradition has its roots in alt-right terminology and i’m not very horny for the alt-right (you understand), but the spirit survives here. you know sometimes you have to admit that you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing and draw people for 31 days. i’ve spent my whole life drawing stylized people and while again there are artists who have no issue with this, i veered off the track of the Good and the Holy and couldn’t get back on. i had no point of reference because i’d never thought about what an actual human being looks like, so i had no way to fix what i knew in my gut looked wrong but wouldn’t come out better.

this was hard. this was like oikawa tooru swallowing his worthless pride and admitting that ushijima wakatoshi had gotten the best of him for the last time in his high school career, but in haikyuu!! by furudate haruichi oikawa tooru fucks off to argentina and then joins the argentinean national team, and you know what, i think i’ve made it to argentina (not the team just the country). as per the golden rule of dont fucking move until you’re at least two thirds of the way through the month, i only started trying to draw Shit shit on like the 22nd or something, but i was happy with that i created. i am happy with what i’ve done. i’ve posted like 2 things this month that involve people with what i now call ~applied Knowledge~~ and they’re, like, not perfect obviously (perfection is an unattainable ideal), but i’m fucking proud of them. i didn’t spend 5 hours hunched over my laptop adjusting the red line of the devil because it’s not a devil’s line anymore. because i finally sorta get how people work. because i sat down and i said ‘we are not going to fuck with this misery shit anymore’ and then i did that. it’s just a line now.

here are 2 collages tracking my painstakingly carved out progress from january 2nd to february 2nd because i’m a slut for collages

and here’s what i’ve done to my art! the same person drew these but also Not Really! you know! for the first time in a year i don’t immediately hate what i’ve drawn. you know what guys? art is fucking fun. zelda’s forehead doesn’t scare me anymore because i know how foreheads fucking work now, and i don’t know everything, and i’m going to keep troubleshooting stuff as i go (i want to draw a skeleton. like a. i want to draw a goddamn skeleton guys) but i’m honestly and genuinely proud of what i’ve done in the span of a month, and i’m also in disbelief. i started this month-long challenge out as a last ditch effort to make peace with my art because i’ve been tired for a long time and i was ready to kick the bucket on drawing people altogether. i didn’t think anything would happen. nothing’s happened for years. i’ve been miserable for years.

this was the caption for january 1st, 2021. i was super, super fucking embarrassed and it looks like super fucking shit, but you know what, i think i did in fact triumph over the bullshit. surprisingly enough, when you put in consistent effort into something, You Will See Results. didn’t see that coming, did you? i know i didn’t.

this isn’t a success story. it’s a happiness story. i never gave a shit damn about the institute of art or whatever, i was just mad at myself because what i saw in my head didn’t match up with what was on the canvas. and now it’s getting better. now i’m calibrating the compass. now drawing not just backgrounds but also people is exciting to me, and i can stick my links in your face and tell you ‘they hot’. i’m going to keep doing that. i’m going to keep going until i drop off the side of the earth and then spiral towards mars like some kind of fairy, and then i’m going to create something beautiful.

thanks for reading. here’s a pr department link for sticking around until the end

[lovebugcody]

i can’t draw but i can write, so here is what i have for the mcyt/dream smp fandom. (inspired by a lot of fanart i have seen) 

3k words baby. i was going to do a second half but i’m tired so i’ll write it tomorrow

anyway here is dadza collecting his boys

--

Philza had always known he wanted to be a dad, but with adventures and quests, he hardly had the time. So he made the difficult decision to wait until one day he had the time to properly care for and raise a child (or children) of his own. But circumstances and his own paternal instinct seemed to decide for him when was the perfect time for him to finally become a father. 

The day he found his eldest, he was passing through an abandoned village. They were common in the parts of the world where Philza was known for exploring, which created a sad but beautiful landscape. Philza had always had an appreciation for the forgotten towns, so he made sure if and when he saw them, he travelled through. While he felt a touch of guilt when rummaging through items that were forgotten in a haste and deemed disposable, that never stopped him from opening every house and chest to find goods. There were occasions where he forgot a small home, or didn’t see a chest or two, but that day was not one. Philza was being careful and made sure to open every door. 

A quiet shuffle and the tiniest whimper caught his attention, and he poked his head around the corner. Curled up, as small as he could, was a boy. Dressed in a dirtied, no-longer-yellow sweater, with a holey maroon beanie over long curls. He tried squeezing behind a chest next to him, and Philza could feel his heart break as the small boy started to cry.

“P-please, don’t h-hurt me.” His voice was tiny, broken, and one again Philza felt his chest tighten. This tiny thing couldn’t have been more than 4 or 5, and already looked terrified of the world. Philza quickly hid his sword in his pack, taking off his helmet to reveal his own hat and hair in need of cutting.

“It’s okay, little man. I promise I won’t. My name’s Philza.” He squatted down, and reached a hand out slowly. He quickly retracted it though when he remembered he had an apple in his bag. He swung his pack to be in front of him, unzipping it. “You hungry?” The small boy slowly looked up, wide and teary brown eyes watching as Philza moved to pull a bright red apple out. He nodded rapidly, curls falling out of the front of his beanie into his eyes. The boy crawled over to Philza, then sat cross-legged in front of him, patiently waiting for the apple. Philza let out a soft laugh, before handing him the apple. 

“Thank you, Philza.” The words were muffled by the apple already in his mouth. Philza laughed again before dropping his own butt onto the ground, to mirror the boy.

“What’s your name, little man?” Philza had his own apple in hand, moving to bite into it.

“Wilbur.” The young boy looked proud as he said his name, promptly taking another bite of the apple. 

“Well then, Wilbur,” the decision was made almost immediately, as soon as he saw the young boy really, “would you like to come adventure with me?” Wilbur visibly sat up straighter, excitement in his eyes. 

“Hell yeah!” Apple was spat out as Wilbur scrambled to his feet in excitement.

It only took three months for Wilbur to start calling Phil “dad”.

---

His second child was under far more surprising and saddening circumstances.

An seven-year-old Wilbur bounced along in front of Philza, swinging his iron sword pretending to be defeating zombies. As he swung his sword, he once again recounted how he battled three zombies in the cave earlier that day.

“I know, Will. They were no match for you!” Philza laughed as he spoke, watching with unmatched joy and pride for his son. 

“I’m the best monster fighter, dad!” Sword held above his hair, Wilbur spun to look at Philza. “I can even help you fight some zombie pig guys in the nether next time!”

“Pigmen, Will.” Wilbur rolled his eyes at the correction. “And we’ll see.” Punching their air and continuing to bounce forward, Wilbur didn’t notice the ruined step and tripped over it. Immediately, Philza rushed forward to catch his son. 

A quiet pig-like snort caught their attention, and Philza, hand still holding Wilbur’s arm where he caught him, whipped his head around, other hand reaching for his sword. He had expected to see a pigman - maybe even a zombie one - to have somehow made it into the overworld and gotten lost, but instead saw a cardboard box. Scrawled across the front of the box in a dying sharpie was the word “FREAK!”. He pushed Wilbur, who was gripping his sword tightly in both hands, behind him as he took a careful step forward. 

A tiny face popping up, giving both Philza and Wilbur a fright.

“Dad?” Wilbur’s voice was small, giving away his fear despite the confident aura he tried to portray. 

“Stay here, okay?” Philza didn’t give Wilbur a change to reply before he continued to move closer to the box. The small child within the box stood up slowly, his features becoming more clear. The snout and ears were piglin in nature, but other than those and the pink complexion, it was clear to Philza that this was simply a scared child. Much like when he approached Wilbur those years ago, Philza moved slowly, crouching in front of the box and child contained within, peeking inside to see if there was anything else within it.

In the box, being stood on by the child, was a manilla folder. It looked as though at one point it had been official, but had been muddied and chewed on periodically. The small child looked up at Philza with tears in his eyes and hands gripping the side of the cardboard box with white knuckles. Philza noticed that one of his ears was stood up, the other - a yellow cattle-tag with the letters “TB” in faded black written on it was pierced through it - was hanging, exaggerated by the fact that the small boy had his head tilted to that side. 

“Can you pass me that folder, bud?” The boy in the box blinked once before looking down at the folder. He squatted down and his stubby fingers picked up the dirtied paperwork. He stood slowly, then held it out proudly. “Thank you.” Philza smiled softly as he accepted the folder from the tiny boy. He sat in front of the box and carefully read over the words written on the cover. As he sat, Wilbur moved forward and sat next to him, watching the child carefully as he placed his sword next to him. 

The top of the folder read “Experiment #14 [unreadable] -lin and human genetic cross- [unreadable]”, with a large red “failed” stamped across the middle of the entire cover. Philza glanced at the boy sadly. An experiment, a discarded experiment, that was all he was deemed to be. He shook his head in disapproval as he opened the folder. He didn’t want to read the majority of the papers within the folder, but he wanted to at least know how old this boy was and what name he had been given.

Technoblade. It was an odd name, undoubtedly, but if that was the name he was given, who was Philza to argue. He looked at the apparent birthdate, and quickly counted back in his head to calculate his age. 

“Four?” The word was barely a breath, but Philza just could not believe that this tiny boy stranded in a box was only four years old. He had been experimented on, tested, and disposed, marked as a freak and a failure. He slammed the folder closed, turning to Wilbur. “What do you think?” Wilbur blinked, tilting his head. 

“What?” He hadn’t looked away from Technoblade since the boy had poked his head out of the box, but he finally turned to look up at his dad. 

“Think he could be your new brother? Come on adventures with us?” Just like when Philza had asked Wilbur if he himself wanted to travel with him, his whole body lit up with excitement. 

“Really? That would be awesome.” He was bouncing again. Philza breathed a laugh at Wilbur, before turning back to look at Technoblade.

“What do you think, Technoblade?” He tilted his head the other way, glancing between Wilbur and Philza. “Want to come with us?” The tiny boy thought for a second before nodding, holding his hands up to Philza, indicating he wanted to be picked up. Philza happily obliged, moving to his feet and reaching down to the excited boy, who now had a huge smile that showed off tiny tusks growing from his bottom row of teeth. He placed Techno on his hip, offered a hand to Wilbur to help him stand, and the now-trio walked away from the broken cobble stairs. 

As they walked away, Wilbur began to ramble about all the adventures he would have with his new brother, and telling him about all of the adventures past. 

It took Technoblade a month to finally start talking to Philza and Wilbur, and only four more for him to start calling him ‘dad’.

---

Dealing with two teenagers was not something that Philza had ever prepared for. Granted he had not even planned for children, but instead found the two boys that now called him dad. This meant that, of course, he never had to mentally fortify himself for any of what he was dealing with. 

Wilbur and Technoblade were constantly trying to fight mobs, and when there were no mobs, each other. Twelve and fifteen, and so much energy. Although Wilbur was slowly starting to lose that youthful energy that Techno still gripped on to. However, the day they found the third of Philza’s boys, he began to learn that some people are always fueled by a youthful energy.

Just as Philza always passed through villages old and new when he travelled alone, Techno and Wilbur had been taught to develop that same habit. Philza had sent them down the centre of the ruined village, going around the outskirts himself. He figured that while they had been travelling with him for a while, fighting mobs in the overworld and nether alike, it was better to be safe than sorry, and so decided on sending them off alone for the first time through an empty village would be best. 

Philza skirted the village, picking up crops that had grown on their own and checking small buildings the excited boys would have no doubt skipped over. He knew that the two of them together would be looking for a fight, but would also keep each other safe. They had grown very attached to each other in the eight years they had been with Philza, referring to each other as brothers. It always warmed Philza’s heart when they called him ‘dad’ or each other as brother - they had bumped into a young man with a creeper mask on his own adventure a couple of years prior and Wilbur had introduced Techno as his little brother, a memory which still makes Philza smile. 

He had made it to the centre of the village, trailing behind the boys, when he heard a scream. Less of a scream but more a shout of surprise, but Wilbur had an unfortunate voice crack in the middle of the cry and it sounded as if he had let out a short scream. Immediately, Philza sprinted towards the sound of his son’s voice, hoping that both were still together and alive. He skidded around a corner and paused.

The sight in front of him was rather amusing. A small boy with matted blonde hair and a formerly white and red shirt was blindly swinging a stone sword while shouting and swearing, while Techno had his iron sword held in front of him in both hands, and Wilbur had his by his own hanging limply by his side. Both of Philza’s sons were wearing very confused expressions. 

“You aren’t stealing my shit!! Go away!” The small boy pushed the oversized helmet resting on his head back as it had slipped in front of his eyes. “This is my house!” 

“Dude!” Technoblade attempted to calm the shouting child, but the boy was having none of it.

“Don’t ‘dude’ me. Go away!” Though amused, Philza decided it was probably time to step in between the children before someone actually started swinging a sword with the intent to seriously injure the other party. As he walked forward, Techno kept his eyes locked on the blond boy, but Wilbur turned to look at him.

“We didn’t do anything, dad. He just… jumped out at us screaming.” The boy on the steps finally turned to Philza, who was nodding in understanding at what Wilbur said. 

“I know.” He stepped in front of Techno, after pushing his hands down, forcing him to lower the sword. “Hey bud. What’s your name?” The stone sword had finally stopped being wildly swung, but was still pointed (though it was clear that the boy was struggling with the weight of it).

“My name’s Tommy.” He finally gave up on holding up the sword. “What’s it to you old man?” Philza scoffed. This kid was ballsy and loud and needed somewhere to channel his energy. He took another step forward and slowly reached forward. Tommy’s grip on his sword tightened again, but even though he wouldn’t show it, his arms were clearly sore and exhausted from the wild swinging, so the sword remained with it’s tip pressed into the step. Hand on either side of the large helmet engulfing Tommy’s head, Philza lifted it up and tucked it under one arm, ruffling the blond locks with the other hand.

“Well, Tommy, my name is Philza and do you want to fight mobs with us and go adventuring?” Philza didn’t know for sure if this young boy was alone or not, but he was hanging out alone in a village ruin defending a tiny shack, so it was a safe assumption. 

“Dad.” The ‘a’ sound was dragged out in an exaggerated groan from Techno. “Does he have t-” He was cut off but a ‘thwap’ sound that resulted from Wilbur smacking him upside the head. 

“Shut up.” Wilbur hissed, hoping that for once Techno would listen.

“What? The kid tried to slice me!” Philza whipped his head around and glared at the boys, and they both quickly straightened, pretending to do nothing wrong. He turned back to look at the boy who was sticking his tongue out at Techno.

“Tommy?” Just like with Techno and Wilbur, Tommy straightened his posture and pretended to look at his feet. “Are you coming?” The boy held out his sword for Philza to take, which he did, before turning and racing inside. Sounds of rummaging came from behind the door, before Tommy reammerged, a much-too-large backpack strapped on. 

“Let’s do this!” 

In a matter of days, Tommy was calling out ‘dad’ to get Philza’s attention. 

--- (original post that inspired this part) --- 

Campsites had gotten harder to find with three boys. Each had developed their own ideas of “safe”, and none of them wanted to listen to Philza. The only solution was to allow them to take turns. Tommy had decided that forests were best, while Techno and Wilbur at least agreed that underground was safest. Unfortunately for the eldest pair, it was Tommy’s night to decide. So the four of them had to march through a thickly wooded area in search of a clearing for the night. 

“Here!” It was barely a clearing, but it was enough space to pitch tents for the night. Tommy spun in a circle with his arms out wide after dropping his backpack, while Wilbur and Technoblade looked at each other. 

“Alright, you three set up camp, I’ll check the area.” Philza dropped his bag beside Tommy’s and retrieved his sword, bow and quiver already over his shoulder. He knew that the boys would be safe, and trusted them to keep each other safe, so he had already turned his back and was already on the move.

“Don’t forget to call out if you find anything!” Techno’s voice echoed slightly in the empty area, and Philza waved his empty hand above his head, indicating that he heard and would do so. 

Checking every possible hiding spot was important to do during the day, to make sure that there were no mobs during the day when they would burn that would later add to the number of mobs that night. Places like the hollowed out trunks of trees. 

Philza had ducked into each as he moved and only saw the occasional spider, with one exception.

He had reached what he had decided was the last tree he would check, and bent down to duck his head inside, only to be met with a curled up figure with a faded yellow and grey striped sweatshirt. They had their arms wrapped around their knees and there was what looked like dried blood in their matted hair.

“Hey buddy.” The figure looked up, and Philza saw more dried blood on his face and sweatshirt. “Are you okay?” The boy shook his head.

“My dad…” His voice broke at the end, and his eyes began to water.

“It’s okay, you don’t need to tell me.” Philza held out his hand, which the boy cautiously took. “What’s your name?” The young boy wiped his eyes with the end of his oversized sleeve.

“Tubbo.” He snuggled slightly and looked up at Philza with wide eyes. 

“Well, Tubbo,” Philza still hadn’t let go of Tubbo’s hand, noticing that Tubbo simply adjusted his hand in Philza’s to hold it better, “do you want to come eat with my and my sons? I think my youngest is the same age as you.” The small boy wiped his nose on his sleeve and nodded. “I’m Philza, by the way.”

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