#there are things you know & are aware of & are familiar with

[milky-aeons]

— TO LOVE ME

౨ৎ . . . in which DAZAI OSAMU apologises for being a little too rough.

warnings: semi-nsfw, f!reader, hair-pulling, flashbacks to sexual activity, rough!dazai (he pulled your hair a little too hard), soft!dazai, slight angst, comfort, fluff, non-established relationship, w.c 1.6k

♪ . . . ˗ˏˋ ꒰ november — mahalia ft. stormzy ꒱ ˎˊ-

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍.

It was a type of awareness — a fond little quirk, if you will — that you had developed a few months into dating the Armed Detective Agent. Or as far as dating someone like him would go; he never really liked the label, after all. You were both stuck in that chaotic, intoxicating limbo of not quite lovers, but too far gone from friends. Because friends did not stay the night and wear each-others shirts as you washed the dishes, friends did not hum softly into the empty apartment he owned as you waited for him to return with your favourite take-away coffee.

As if your souls were already intertwined, protesting at even the slightest distance, your whole body sang to life when Dazai Osamu tried to sneak through his front door unnoticed.

With wet fingers, you reached over to turn the faucet off just as his airy voice sifted through the air.

"I'm home~"

"Welcome back." You beat him to it.

Dazai made a wrangled sound. "How do catch me every time I try to sneak up on you?" He moaned, his voice coming closer until he rounded the little alcove of his small, one-walled kitchen. "It's almost like you have a sixth-sense, you know? Oh! We should put this unique talent of yours to the test!"

You hummed, following his playful line of thinking. Does his blood thrum to life underneath his skin when you breeze through the Agency offices, you wonder, does his mind eddy of all thought when you cast your eyes his way — just like it does yours?

You did not know. You would probably never know. But he remembered your exact coffee order perfectly, every single time.

"I'm almost afraid to wonder what that would entail." You muse, drying off your hands and leaning back on the countertop. He handed you one of the take-away cups. "But not for me. If I know you at all, Osamu, then you would definitely tie Kunikida-kun up in this elaborate experiment just to set him back a few days on his schedule."

"Pft. A few days?" He echoed, incredulous. One of his eyebrows raised. "How you insult me. If I don't set Kunikida-kun's precious schedule back by at least one month at a time, then why would I even bother at all?"

"You're absolutely right. My ignorant mistake."

"And yes, you do."

"Hm?" You hummed, uncapping the coffee to take a greedy inhale.

"Know me." Dazai finished.

Those two words jarred you a little. Your eyes flickered up to meet his, wordless, the coffee cup held just an inch from your parted lips. Dazai was looking straight at you with that ever-present unreadable expression, but it was a little softer around the edges, a little less impenetrable this time. This was familiar. This is what you two were; you took each other's hand and danced around the truth. You let things hang in the air, unsaid, untouched, staring at one another in his apartment while you wore his shirt like you were both in love — but not quite, not yet.

"Do I?" You said softly. You reached for that thing left unsaid and used it to challenge him.

He tilted his head, amused. Letting you rock the boat. His unkempt curls slid across his forehead when he did. But as always, he said nothing. He danced. He changed the subject.

Do I know you, Osamu?

Instead, he let his dark eyes wander to the dishes you had stacked on the drainage rack. "Wah, [Name]!" He exclaimed with exaggerated shock. "Did you clean the dishes while I was gone?! If you keep doing things like that I'll seriously have to marry you, you know!"

Precarious. A tease. Oh, but he loves to twirl with you close to the fire.

You stayed silent, opting to take a sip, instead. A small, bashful smile fought its way onto your face — you hid behind the disposable cup, but you knew he caught it. Dazai Osamu caught everything, but only with you, did he wear that boyish, self-satisfied grin when he saw the effect he had on your heart.

The sunlight was soft and choppy as it filtered through his broken shutters that barely gave any privacy to the kitchen. It was winter time; Yokohama was bustling, as it always is, but this corner of the city was delightfully sleepy. It was just you and him, enjoying the silence of two people almost in love. A car horn beeped in the distance. You noticed the smattering of freckles on his nose when he stepped forward into one of the balmy sunbeams.

Quietly, Dazai reached towards you. You didn't move — how could you? — as his long fingers half-hidden in bandages danced across your exposed shoulder. A shiver broke out across the skin he barely touched. He noticed. He grew bolder, slyer, letting his lazy touch flutter across your skin; the column of your neck; tickling the nape of your neck and burying into the mussed tresses of your hair—

"Ow—!"

You winced.

Dazai jerked his hand away. "What's wrong?"

You placed your coffee cup down and lifted your fingers to where his own had just been. With ginger movements, you traced the tender spot, your face souring into a grimace at the little shoots of pain that resided there. It was still sore, you noticed. And so did Dazai. When you glanced up at him, his brows had knit together. Not quite a picture of concern — but pressingly curious, his eyes wide and imploring.

And for the first time that lazy morning, you found yourself averting your gaze from him. You stayed quiet for a pregnant moment, searching for the right words as Dazai too, placed his cup down. He dipped his head, trying to meet your eyes. "Bella?" He called again, his voice soft and coaxing.

"Sorry," You chuckled quietly, smiling small. You gave the tender spot another rub before releasing your hand from your hair. "It's just a little sore, that's all."

Dazai's lips tugged down into a frown. "Sore—?" A bell chimed on some astral plane of recognition. His words died on his tongue, his expression halting. You saw the shutter in his eyes then; his mind moving, racing, taking scintillations of the night you two shared and meshing them back together.

You had let him do it before — fisting his lithe fingers into your hair while you were both caught in the throes of passion. As a matter of fact, you quite liked it. He'd bow your head back and decorate your lovely neck with a multitude of bruises, just for you. Or during those times where you took control — settling between his legs as he sat on the edge of the bed. You'd start slow first; taking the length of him into your mouth, licking, kissing. But as you picked up the pace and worked him right to a fever pitch — Dazai would wind his hand into your hair. Around, around, until he had a decent grip, and guide your movement just the way he needed it.

It had been an accident last night — but you still had not mentioned it; had not wanted to draw too much attention as you knew he did not mean it. It was a frenzy on both parts. But he had gripped your hair and tugged it a bit too tight. A bit too rough. Leaving the spot at the crown of your head tender as you passed a brush over it once you two were done.

He remained so uncharacteristically silent — staring at you like he was meeting you from a previous lifetime again after searching for so long. You tilted your head, suddenly worried. It wasn't like you were upset with him — so why did he look like that? Like he had revoked any and all permission to touch you? Like he was suddenly afraid?

Dazai was not acquainted with words of apology. He had went his whole life posing as a shadow, looking in on people and never being a part of them. But standing there looking down at you with the realisation that he had hurt you, that he — by his hand — had brought harm to someone like you — a sudden paralysis took hold of his body. He stared at you with wide eyes. He couldn't speak. He felt like he had lost all privilege to be near you — that for the first time in his life, he had met someone so bright and so genuine, and he had succeeded at tainting that, too.

He was abominable. He had always been, it was part of his makeup, ingrained into the lining of his very bones.

And yet, to him, he was also selfish. Because he had the gall to ask for your forgiveness.

"I'm," Dazai started. It wasn't like him to be at a loss for words. "I . . . [Name] I didn't realise . . . "

"Osamu, really — it's okay," You implored, your expression honest. "I know you didn't mean to. I'm fine! Just a little sore, is all." Smile turning lopsided, you turned to fully face him. "How about next time, we just don't pull as hard? I do really like when you play with my hair, but not that rough. Hm?"

Dazai opened his mouth to speak — but whatever he wanted to say got lost between his head and his tongue. He blinked once, twice. Then, in such a quiet voice, he whispered, ". . . I apologise. I'd never try to hurt you, beautiful [Name]. It will not happen again."

It was so resolute. In a tone you have never heard Dazai Osamu speak with before; not quite unsure, but lacking the perfectly precise way he would usually choose his words with. It speared into your chest and made your heart lurch. Such a raw, clean-cut promise. Like he'd burn his own hand before he let himself cause any such harm to you, ever again.

The smile that softened the sides of your lips no longer belonged to someone who was almost in love.

You reached out suddenly for his hand before he could react. You guided his palm to your face, nuzzling into his warm touch, delighting in the soft scratch of bandages against your cheek. "I know. I'm sorry too, for not mentioning it sooner."

I love you, it was the three words you still left unsaid. Because not quite, not yet. Although the way Dazai's fingers curled against the shell of your ear, the way he stepped forward to tug you into his sturdy chest — something about it all whispered the words I love you, too.

from this lovely nonnie // writing requests!

[elikajinnie]

Just A Nasty Dog - S.J

P: Boyfriend!Jake X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Suggestive Content, Needy Behaviour, Begging, oooh he down bad.

Synopsis: Jake was supposed to follow the schedule, to go live and interact with fans like always. But the second you walked into the hotel room, nothing else mattered. All he wanted—needed—was you. He tries to focus, but you are impossible to ignore. With every passing second, the live feels like an obstacle, and all Jake can think about is shutting it off to give you all of his attention, just like you deserve.

now playing: nasty dog by sir mix-a-lot ;)

--

Jake had just clicked on the start live button, watching with a soft grin as the viewer count steadily climbed. He watched the live chat starting, a mix of eager comments and hearts flooding the screen. He waited for a brief moment, letting the numbers and chats build before his voice came through, warm and casual as he greeted the Engenes, giving them an update on his day. His hand absentmindedly played with the pillow on his lap, his fingers shifting it between his hands as he settled into the comfortable routine of the stream. His eyes flickered to the candy in his other hand, popping a piece into his mouth as he read through the comments with a smile.

Everything seemed like it was unfolding as usual, the familiar routine as he talked about his day, until you sneaked in the hotel room. You’d expected to sneak in, quiet as always, but the moment you saw him talking into the camera, you hesitated. He looked so focused, so at ease as he interacted with his fans. You didn’t want to interrupt, not with the staff member sitting off to the side, quietly keeping an eye on things. So, you decided to sneak over to the other bed, flopping down onto it with a soft sigh.

Your phone buzzed to life in your hands, the distraction enough to keep your focus elsewhere as you scrolled aimlessly. But Jake? His attention was no longer solely on the screen. No, it was on you. His gaze flicked over to where you lay, sprawled across the bed, looking too effortless, too tempting, and yet he kept it hidden.

He didn’t say anything. No shift in his expression—just the subtle movement of his fingers tightening around the pillow in his lap, his eyes lingered for just a second too long before he quickly glanced back at the camera, continuing his stream.

You lay there, half aware of him, half lost in your own little world, but something in the way he adjusted himself told you everything you needed to know. Even when he tried to hide it, you always had his attention.

You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a mischievous thrill crawl up your spine. Jake’s attention was now fully on you, though he was doing his best to keep it hidden behind the mask of normalcy. But you knew him better than that. You knew the subtle tells, the little shifts that betrayed him, even when he tried to act casual.

You decided to have a little fun with it.

As he continued to talk to the camera, engaging with the comments and sharing more about his day, you shifted slightly on the bed, letting the weight of your movements press into the mattress. You stretched your legs out lazily, the bed creaking under your motions. Your shirt, just slightly too loose, inched up as you stretched your arms above your head, exposing more of your skin.

You could feel his eyes on you almost immediately. His gaze lingered for a fraction too long, his focus breaking as he quickly darted his eyes back to the camera. But it was too late. You saw him tightening his grip on the pillow, the slight shift in his posture as he adjusted himself again, trying to act natural.

His words faltered for a moment. His voice wavered slightly as he stuttered through his sentence, almost as if he couldn’t quite focus. You caught the subtle gulp he made, his throat moving in a way that told you he was struggling to keep his composure.

"Yeah, uh… so, yeah, the shoot went well," Jake continued, his voice a little shakier than usual, and you couldn’t help but smirk. "I mean, it was… uh… it was a great, y'know?" He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his smoothness, but the flicker of unease in his eyes said it all.

It was too easy, watching him wrestle with himself, his focus shifting back and forth between you and the camera. You could tell he was trying to maintain that casual, charming demeanor he always had on his streams, but his body language betrayed him. The way his shoulders tensed, the subtle way he clenched the pillow like he wanted to hold onto something, anything to steady himself.

You leaned back into the bed, letting your movements slow down, but the smile you wore—one that he couldn’t see but knew you had—was enough to let him know exactly what you were doing.

Jake’s grip tightened around the pillow in his lap, his knuckles going white as he tried to keep his hands steady. His breath hitched just a little, a barely noticeable shift that betrayed the thoughts he was trying so hard to suppress. You could see it—the way his jaw tightened, the way his lips parted as if he was fighting to say something, anything, to keep the conversation going.

Suddenly, he cleared his throat, a nervous laugh escaping his lips as he quickly tried to regain some control. “Uh, sorry, my eyes are… they’re a little blurry. I think it’s the light. I’ll just, uh, turn on the AC for a second. Hold on.”

Without waiting for a response, Jake stood up abruptly, the action quick. For a moment, you thought he might actually head toward the AC unit, but instead, he moved closer to you, his eyes met yours, and there was a desperation in his gaze. He leaned over you, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered in your ear, his voice low and shaky.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, the words barely above a whisper, laced with an intensity that surprised you. “I can’t focus. I—” He cut himself off, his voice breaking for just a moment.

You couldn’t help but smile, an innocent expression painted on your face as you pushed him gently away, your fingers grazing his chest in the slightest, a playful shove that still managed to push him back. His breath hitched again, but this time, there was nothing he could do to hide it.

Without another word, he straightened up and turned back toward the camera, returning to the live stream.

As he settled back into his chair, you noticed the shift: Jake had grabbed a bigger pillow this time, one that looked almost out of place against the backdrop of the stream. It was the pillow you’d been using the night before, the one that still carried the faint scent of you. He didn’t waste any time—taking a deep breath, he pulled the pillow into his lap and held it just under his nose. The action was almost instinctual, his body reacting before his mind could catch up.

His eyes closed for just a moment as he breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent that was still faintly embedded in the fabric. The pillow, now an almost absurdly intimate object, seemed to ground him in a way nothing else could. He clutched it tightly, holding it with both hands as though it could somehow offer him the focus he so desperately needed. But the small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him. It was clear that he wasn’t just using the pillow for comfort.

His voice wavered slightly as he tried to continue with the stream, but you could see the struggle, the way his attention was split between the comments and well — you. Even with the camera on, you knew his mind was elsewhere.

Jake did try his best to keep his focus on the stream, his voice steady as he answered comments and chatted with the viewers, but his hands betrayed him. He kept fidgeting, twisting the pillow in his lap, his fingers twitching nervously at the fabric. His movements were erratic, a subtle sign of the tension building inside him, but he kept up the facade— just barely. Every now and then, his gaze flicked over to you, catching you glancing at him, only to quickly turn away when you noticed him.

The staff, however, was so absorbed in their task that they didn't notice the tension thickening between you two. Their attention was solely on the screen, their focus unwavering. That gave Jake some comfort, allowing him to relax a little, but it didn’t ease the storm swirling inside him. You were so close, so tempting, and yet, he had to keep pretending, to maintain his cool for the audience.

Even as the energy in the room felt like it was about to break.

Jake’s voice began to waver just slightly as he continued to read the comments, his words growing less and less fluid. Every so often, he would pause for a few seconds too long, as though he’d lost his place or his train of thought. He yawned once, then twice, trying to stretch it out like a natural, innocent gesture, but there was something forced about it. You saw it—the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way he was desperately trying to keep his movements calm while his mind was racing, trying to fight off the distractions you caused.

Another yawn slipped from him, longer this time, and he cleared his throat, almost too loudly. "Uh, yeah, so, um... it's been a long day, you know?"

His eyes flicked over to the staff, who looked up for a brief moment, glancing at him curiously, but didn’t say anything, likely thinking it was just a tired yawn. They quickly turned their attention back to the computer, absorbed in whatever task they were focused on.

Jake, however, wasn’t paying much attention to them anymore. His eyes kept flickering to you—he couldn’t stop. His fingers twitched restlessly, as if they were searching for something to hold onto, something to distract him from the temptation that was so close to him. His hand absentmindedly scratched at his chin, a nervous tick that only seemed to draw his attention back to you. He fiddled with his hair next, fingers running through it as if he needed to do something, anything, to ground himself.

But no matter what he did, his eyes kept drifting back to you.

Every so often, his gaze would linger, and he would stare at you with an intensity that couldn’t be mistaken. He wasn’t just looking at you—he was thinking, and you could see it in the way he would act like he was spacing out, staring at you like he was lost in some internal battle. He was acting like he wasn’t even aware of what he was doing, his focus shifting in and out, trying to pretend he wasn’t completely consumed by what you were doing.

You, on the other hand, played it so innocently. You acted like you didn’t even notice the way his attention kept returning to you, eyes flickering over and over. You stayed focused on your phone, scrolling through it with a calm, casual air, completely "oblivious" to the effect you were having on him. Every now and then, you’d let out a small sigh, but you didn’t acknowledge him. You didn’t even glance up to meet his gaze.

And that was killing him.

Jake clenched his jaw, trying to keep his composure, but the more you ignored him, the more he wanted to stop everything and walk over to you. But he couldn’t. Not yet. The stream, the viewers, and the staff were all still there, still watching, and he had to fight the overwhelming urge to just be with you.

But as he kept glancing over, trying so hard not to stare, it became almost impossible. His mind raced with thoughts of you—the way you seemed so unaware, so tempting. He could almost feel the warmth of your presence, even from across the room, and the desire to go to you, to pull you close and finally have a moment just for the two of you, was unbearable.

He couldn’t stop staring at you, no matter how hard he tried. And it was driving him mad.

The minutes seemed to drag on, each one stretching slower than the last. Jake’s mind was no longer on the stream, well not fully. He had declared that he would keep the live open until 12, but now, with every passing second, it felt like an eternity. The clock ticked in the corner of his mind, a reminder that he had a set time, but each minute that passed only seemed to make the tension worse.

His attention was split in ways it never had been before. His words to the viewers became more mechanical, less fluid, his focus faltering every time he glanced at the time and then at you. The seconds felt longer with every attempt to keep up appearances, and the more time he spent fighting the urge to look at you, the more distracted he became.

Jake could feel the tension building inside him, his eyes darting between the camera, the comments, and you. Every time he looked over at you, so completely absorbed in your phone, looking so carefree, it was like a weight on his chest. He wanted to reach out, to pull you in, to let go of the act, but he couldn’t.

His hand twitched again, and he reached for the pillow again, adjusting it in his lap, clutching it tighter, as if it could offer him any comfort. But the soft fabric did little to ease the tightness building in his chest. He ran a hand through his hair again, fingers shaking slightly, as if trying to distract himself, but nothing worked. Cause each time, his gaze would inevitably return to you.

The stream was supposed to go until midnight, but Jake couldn’t stop watching the countdown in his mind. The closer it got to that hour, the more he felt the pressure mounting. Every second stretched out, becoming an agonizing test of his self-control.

It was like a game of patience—one that he felt he was pretty much losing.

He glanced at the staff again, their attention still on the computer, oblivious to the way his eyes kept flickering to you. He sighed quietly, hoping that the small sound wouldn’t be caught on stream. His fingers fidgeted again, tapping lightly on the pillow, as if doing something, anything, could distract him. But it wasn’t enough.

Your phone was still in your hands, your attention completely elsewhere, and he couldn’t help but wonder if you knew just how much it was killing him. Every little movement you made, every subtle shift of your body, only made him want to break free of this suffocating act. His gaze locked onto you once more, and despite himself, he found it harder to look away.

“Uh… yeah, so,” Jake stammered, trying to force his attention back to the viewers, but his voice was distant, lacking its usual smoothness. “I think, um… the weather’s been pretty nice. Uh, yeah…” His words trailed off, and he couldn’t help but glance at the time again, counting down the minutes in his head.

It felt like torture.

He wanted to end the live right then, throw the camera away, and rush over to you. He could already imagine the taste of your lips, the warmth of your body, how it would feel to finally let go of the tension that had been building.

--

The clock finally hit exactly 12, and Jake felt a sense of relief wash over him. He forced a smile, pushing through the exhaustion that had built up from trying to keep his composure. He turned to the camera one last time, addressing the viewers.

“Well, Engenes,” he said, his voice still a little strained but softer now, “it’s time to wrap up. Thanks for hanging out with me tonight.” His words felt mechanical, but he made sure to give a genuine wave to the camera, watching as the chat flooded with farewells and goodnights. He smiled as best as he could, giving his usual parting words. "Take care, and I’ll see you soon."

As the last message scrolled past and the live stream officially ended, Jake let out a sigh, his shoulders finally relaxing. The pressure was off, but only for a moment. He watched the staff begin to pack away the camera and equipment, their attention focused on their tasks.

Without thinking, he immediately stood up and walked toward you, his eyes locked onto you. He couldn’t help it—his gaze raked over you, taking in every little detail. Your hair, your posture, the way your shirt settled against your body, the way you lay there so effortlessly... every part of you felt like it was drawing him in. He didn’t even know where to look first, every inch of you was beautiful, perfect, intoxicating. His heart skipped a beat, a rush of heat flooding his chest, and for a moment, he was paralyzed by it.

Then, you shifted slightly, turning from your stomach to your side, facing him now with that innocent, welcoming smile. The sight of it sent a jolt through him. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard, the urge to step closer overwhelming.

But he hesitated. For a moment, he just stood there, frozen, unsure of how to even approach you. His mind was racing—everything about this felt too intense, too charged. He wanted to run to you, to close the distance and pull you into his arms, but instead, he stood there, his eyes still fixed on you.

He gulped, unsure of where to even begin. Everything felt so simple and complicated at the same time. You were right there, and yet, he felt a sense of awe at just how perfect everything about you seemed in that moment. Every part of you, from your smile to the way you looked at him, made it hard for him to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

You rolled back onto your stomach with a giggle, your attention returning to your phone, the soft tap of your fingers on the screen the only sound in the room. Jake’s eyes lingered on you for a few moments, his chest tightening again at the sight of you so close. The staff finished packing up, the door clicking shut behind them with a soft sound that echoed in the otherwise quiet room. That little noise seemed to snap Jake out of his trance, shaking him out of the daze he’d just been in.

Without wasting another second, he crawled onto the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath him. His heart was racing, but now, it felt like the walls between you two had finally crumbled. He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, and let out a soft whine in your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

“You were making it so hard to focus,” he murmured, his voice thick with frustration. He let out another sigh, this one more drawn-out, as if he couldn’t quite find the words to explain just how much you were driving him crazy.

He nuzzled his face against the back of your neck, his hands barely brushing over your sides, as if trying to hold himself back from giving in completely. Your warmth, the softness of your skin beneath his chest—it was all too much.

“I tried to be good,” he complained, his voice light despite the way his body betrayed him, leaning into you. “I really did… but you’re making it so hard, baby.” His fingers gently traced patterns on your back, his touch lingering for a moment before pulling away, only to return again, unable to stay still.

His heart pounded in his chest, the temptation to pull you closer, to wrap his arms around you, nearly overwhelming him. He couldn’t stop himself from kissing the side of your neck softly, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled back, trying, and failing, to hide the hunger in his eyes. “You were driving me crazy…”

Everything inside him wanted you, and he was done fighting it. The slow burn had been building up over the past hour, and now, with no one around to stop him, he couldn’t hold back anymore.

Jake’s body pressed closer to yours, needy and desperate, like he couldn’t get close enough. He groaned softly, burying his face against your neck as his hands ran up your back, fingers lightly digging into your skin. His voice was low and filled with a mixture of frustration and longing, like he was struggling to keep his composure.

“You don’t know how hard it’s been,” he muttered, his breath hot against your ear. “I’ve been tryin’ to keep it together, but damn…” His lips grazed your skin in a slow, teasing kiss, as if he couldn't help himself anymore. He was like a puppy in heat, desperate for attention, for affection—needy in a way that felt both playful and intense.

You turned your head slightly, eyes glancing up at him, playing it cool despite the way his touch was igniting something deep inside you. “You think I don’t know? I’ve been watching you try so hard not to give in all night.” Your voice was soft, a gentle tease as you pushed back slightly, feeling his chest against your back. “But now you're finally letting go, huh?”

His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer as his chest rubbed against your back, his movements slow and deliberate, but filled with hunger. "Been all good on the outside," he murmured, almost like he was trying to convince himself, "but inside... oh baby, you drove me crazy."

You smirked at his words, the playful glint in your eyes giving you away. “I’m not the one who’s been holding back,” you replied innocently, turning to face him. “You’ve been giving me all the signals, but you still haven’t made a move.” Your fingers brushed the side of his arm, feeling his pulse race under your touch.

He couldn’t stay still, not when you were this close. His lips brushed against your ear, his voice thick with want, “You’ve got me all messed up, babe. Can’t keep it cool, can’t keep it chill… you just gotta… gotta know what you do to me."

You let out a soft, almost teasing laugh, your hands trailing down his chest. “Is that so? And here I thought you were the one who was so patient." You raised an eyebrow, your voice dripping, all sweet like honey. "You really think I’m the one making it hard for you?”

He slid his hands down to your hips, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your shirt, pulling at it gently, like he couldn’t bear the distance between you two anymore. “I swear,” he whined, dragging his fingers up your sides, “you’re makin' it impossible to think straight.” His voice was almost a growl now, raw and needy. “Can’t focus when you look like that, when you’re so pretty…” His lips found your neck again, planting soft, almost frantic kisses. “I felt like a damn dog with a bone… can’t help myself.”

You let out a soft sigh at the feeling of his lips on your neck, your fingers threading through his hair. “You can’t even control yourself for a second, huh?” You said, your voice breathy now. “Guess you really are as bad as you say.”

His breathing quickened as his hands roamed at your sides, he was like a magnet, drawn to you, unwilling to let go, his body craving more of you with every passing second. "Don't play innocent with me," he muttered, his voice dripping playfully. "You know exactly what you're doin' to me."

You smiled, pulling back slightly to look at him, your eyes meeting his with a mischievous glint. “Maybe I do,” you said softly, your lips curling into a smirk. “But you're the one who’s been teasing me all night.” You leaned in closer, your lips brushing his in a whisper of a kiss. “What’s stopping you now, huh?”

He pulled away just enough to look down at you, eyes dark with need. He was all clingy and persistent now, like he couldn’t get enough of you. The control he’d managed to hold onto during the stream had evaporated the second he’d crawled into bed next to you, and he was all yours for the taking. “I’m yours tonight, baby,” he rasped, his voice husky. “You better not forget that.”

You met his gaze, your heart racing. “I won’t,” you whispered, your voice soft but confident. “I won’t forget a thing.”

Jake couldn’t hold back anymore. His body pressed harder against yours, and his hands moved restlessly across your back, pulling you closer, like he needed to feel every inch of you. His lips trailed from your neck back to your ear, brushing lightly at first, before growing more desperate as he nuzzled his face against your skin, leaving soft, heated trails down to your collarbone.

“Damn, you don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured against your neck, his voice thick with need. His lips found your skin again, this time a little more fervent, his kisses growing deeper as he became completely consumed by the feeling of you beneath him.

It was like a fire had ignited inside him, buring brightly and strong.

Without another word, he kissed his way up to your lips, this time not holding back. His lips crashed against yours, all the restraint he’d been clinging to now completely gone. He kissed you hard, almost desperately, as if trying to make up for all the time he spent holding himself back. His hands cupped your face, his fingers threading into your hair as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss even further.

You didn’t pull away, instead meeting him halfway, the kiss turning more heated, more frantic. His lips devoured yours as if they hadn’t been able to touch you in years, full of urgency. He wanted all of you. He needed you—now.

He pulled away just for a second, breathless, his forehead resting against yours as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes were wild, clouded with want. “I can’t… I can’t stop, baby,” he panted, voice hoarse. His hands slid down your sides, feeling every curve, every inch of you, before pulling you closer to him again. His lips crashed back onto yours, harder this time, as if he wanted to drown in you.

The desperation in his touch, in every kiss, in every movement, was undeniable. He was touch-starved, and all he could think about was you, the feel of your skin under his fingertips, the taste of your lips, the way you made him lose control. He groaned into the kiss, his hands tugging at the hem of your shirt, as if he couldn’t get enough of you, couldn’t be close enough. His body ached for you, his mind clouded with nothing but desire.

“I need you,” he whispered breathlessly between kisses, his lips trailing down to your neck again. “I need you like this—so close. I can’t… I can’t think without you, baby. I can’t breathe without you.” His voice was raw, full of need, as he kissed you deeply once again, devouring your lips like he was a starving man. Every touch, every kiss, was a desperate plea for more, for everything he had been holding back, for everything he wanted from you.

His hands roamed further down, his touch frantic, as he tried to pull you even closer. The only thing that mattered to him now was you, and he couldn’t hold back anymore.

Jake’s kisses grew more urgent, his hands now roaming freely, desperate to touch you, to feel you against him. He pulled away just enough to whisper, voice shaky with need, “Please, baby, I— I can’t take it anymore. I need you… I need you like this.”

His words, full of desperation made you watch him, amusement swirling in your eyes as he panted softly, trying to catch his breath. He was like a wild animal, completely unrestrained, yearning for more than just the kisses he’d been showering you with. He wanted all of you, and it was clear in every word, every glance, every shaky breath.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes wide with longing, his hands trembling as they caressed your sides. “I need you so badly, baby. Will you have me?” he whispered, the pleading tone of his voice making something inside you tighten. “I can’t wait anymore… Please, just… don’t tease me.”

You tutted softly at him, the playful edge to your voice almost mocking as you let him squirm under your touch. “Jake,” you whispered, your voice gentle. “You’re being so needy. Can’t handle it, huh?” Your lips curled into a small smile, your hand resting lightly on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart.

He groaned at your words, unable to stop himself from pulling you closer, his hands gripping your waist as if he was afraid you’d slip away. “You have no idea, babe,” he murmured, his lips trailing across your jaw, kissing you softly. “All I can think about is you, about being with you. You’ve got me losing my mind.”

He gently cupped your face, bringing you in for another kiss, his lips desperate as they devoured yours once again. You could feel how badly he wanted you, how he needed you—he was begging for you in every possible way, without using words. His hands roamed freely now, no longer hesitating, caressing your body as if he couldn’t stop himself.

Finally, you let out a soft sigh, the teasing smile on your face fading just a little as you gave in to him. “Okay, Jake,” you whispered softly, your voice barely audible over the sound of your racing heart. “You’ve begged enough.” You didn’t wait for him to respond before your lips captured his once again, but this time, you let him have what he wanted.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as you let your lips mesh together, the kiss deepening as you finally surrendered to him. His hands moved with a newfound urgency, tugging at your shirt and pulling you closer, as though he couldn't be near enough.

Jake groaned into your mouth as his hands slid under your shirt, touching your skin like it was the only thing that mattered. "Was so good, so good for you..." he repeated, voice hoarse, the words almost a prayer. His fingers traced the outline of your body, his grip tightening as he finally got what he wanted, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

You didn’t stop him now, letting him show you just how much he’d been yearning for you all night. And as you let yourself get lost, the only thing left was the overwhelming feeling of how much he wanted you. And for the first time that night, you gave him everything he needed.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

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[circinuus]

super secret special edition SSS!

husband! jing yuan x fem pronouns reader. 1.5k words

everyone lives with secrets, even you. it's about time your husband unearths the things you've been so adamant to conceal.

[crossposted on ao3]

Tingyun knows the secret of the trade as much as she knows to keep her benefactor’s secrets.

Tourists from afar, far-reaching emissaries, foreign merchants. Secrets are both poison and leverage for all, and you are aware the amicassador does not exclude even you from this unspoken adage.

“Oh? It's Lady (Name)~ This Tingyun is always pleased to do business with my lady.”

“Tingyun…” you eyeball the tapestry hanging behind her. The Exalting Sanctum is generous with its pleasant chill. No one bats an eye as you fiddle with your warm coat that almost functions as a discreet (you hope) hood.

The worry lingers either way. A secret is both a poison and a leverage, still.

“Ah! apologies,” Tingyun's words do not match her delighted clap. “My lady—Lady Benefactor has always had many things to say of the General. This Tingyun has been swept over by your admirable enthusiasm and became clumsy with her words! Please forgive her.”

Clumsy my tail!

You were never a possessive lover. Let alone an obsessive one. It simply happens that you are not the General's spouse, but his lovely, supportive, very enthusiastic spouse.

Overheard in the Seat of Divine Foresight Gardens, an old story dictates: one may call the General’s name three times. If all is in the same breath of a praise, Lady (Name) will appear behind you, hold your hand, and talk with exuberance as she sits you down in Sleepless Earl. If all is in the same breath of a meaningless insult, she will appear with a metal coated fan to cool you down.

Which, in essence, is not untrue. And by extension, Tingyun's remark is not wrong either. But still.

“In any case,” you cough into your fist. It’s a shame that your palm is empty of the gilded hand fan Jing Yuan gifted you on your last anniversary. But business calls for sacrifices. You need your hands, preferably empty. Thus, the fan sits await in your shared abode for the span of your little excursion.

“Do you have the good stuff?”

“Certainly, Lady Benefactor,” Tingyun reciprocates your whisper, “I have the special edition goods reserved only for my VIP patron...”

Walking past the meager amount of food stalls in the Exalting Sanctum, you feel grateful for the tuskpir roll and puffergoat milk you’ve secured during your trip to Aurum Alley.

Yes, Aurum Alley. Why took the trouble to meet Tingyun first? Well. You’ve already left your love's gift away from your person. You can’t possibly leave anywhere without at least one piece of your husband, can’t you?

“Hehehehe.”

A child turns his head, and his mother beckons him away from the odd stranger. With a furrowed brow, she tears her gaze as you giggle and caress the holographic, embossed picture of Jing Yuan’s side profile; taken from one of his public appearances.

The smooth surface of the print glints in the light. Golden eyes. Silver mane. Walking past Synwood Pavilion, it’s not never that your trance grants you a scratch or bruise from hanging pots and stairs unnoticed. But this time, a kind enough stranger pulls you away from the harm.

“Thank you—ouu?!!”

The sky falls, your blood runs tepid.

Not only do the stranger keep their hold on your arm, they take the momentum to pull you close and rest a palm on the slope of your waist.

“I have not seen you since this morning, and now you try to dispose of me?”

The sharp edge of the photo card in your hand stops by a breadth of the stranger's jugular. Staring back at you are a pair of familiar eyes as golden as a spring evening.

“A-Yuan?”

“My lady,” Jing Yuan words flow easily with his small laugh. He finds no struggle in grasping the hand hovering on his neck, and before you find the tact to hide the picture you posed as an instinctual weapon, he presses a tender kiss to your wrist.

…Oh.

“A- A-Yuan.” You parrot, throat scraping dry against your voice. “I thought Master Diviner Fu and Qingzu are keeping you for the day.”

Jing Yuan’s hand is still warm against your lower back. He shakes his head. “This self is not so young anymore, and this old man needs a moment’s rest, simply.”

???! Old man my foot!!!

Your eyes dart. Hiding the embossed photo card—which discreet nature is now questionable—remains tantamount. But Jing Yuan is as cunning as he is powerful. By deliberation or spontaneous display, he envelops your figure before you choose a step; warm curls tickling your jaw as he rests his head on your shoulder.

“Baobei—Jing Yuan, we’re still in public!-“

“I miss my beloved.”

Your dearest has always had a penchant for words of affection. Yet, there is a sliver of genuine fatigue in his voice, this time. Not as potent as the nights when he sought your embrace to stave away regrets and guilt of the past, but you know the shape of his ails better than anyone.

And this, for a moment, melts everything else. Sounds and colors dissolve. The world becomes nothing but him. Inconsequential; all but him.

Your lips soothe into a soft smile. Running your fingers through his pale curls, he breathes into your collarbone.

“Did you run away from the paperworks?”

“No, not this time.” His laugh tickles your neck. A sound reminiscent of Mimi’s purr. A beat, he stands straight to stare at your face before a gentle hand caresses your cheek.

“Matters have settled down early in the Seat of Divine Foresight. I rushed home to see my beloved, but fortune seems to favor my side this day.”

“Yes—well...” your tongue is heavy. Years of matrimony and you are still unable to keep up with his affections. Fortune favors your side, in fact. For this lifetime and for the next, you pray.

“I’m glad that things have settled,” you fiddle with the photo still nestled in your right hand. “I was out for a small excursion and was about to pick you up. I bought some treats as well.”

“My wife spoils me so.” You always liked the way he smiles. “Although I’d prefer my lady not get hurt and distracted in the streets, much less if I am the cause."

“What?”

Jing Yuan glances sideways, so you numbly follow his gaze.

Jumping at the realization, raw adrenaline forcibly pulls your hand behind your back, hiding the glow of the holographic photo card—special edition! Tingyun said. Though, who can deceive the Luofu Arbiter General?

You stand helpless when Jing Yuan gently reclaims your hand, slowly raising it from the shadows of your back. He hums at the glinting photo when his image is revealed for shared observation, and, to your surprise, spares no word but merely presses his lips to your knuckles.

“Fortune favors me, truly, to have such a loving beloved like you."

You make a face. Embarrassment, humor, then it all sheds to eventual amusement. You want to shake this man like a chewtoy. Turn him upside down. Rattle him.

"Since when?"

"A while."

You orchestrate a pout, "Why only tell me now?"

Jing Yuan humors you with a twinkle in his eye. "Why settle for a moment captured in time when the real one stands present before you?”

You pause.

A blink. A couple. A cycrane flies over the sky. As it departs to the horizon, so does your incredulous, airy laugh.

You made up your mind to take a strategic step backwards, putting away the photo. “Why? Are you jealous?”

“Perhaps.”

“You say that as if I didn’t notice you commissioning paintings of my image too, General”

Jing Yuan’s smile is mirthful. “So I have been caught.”

You giggle, and with or without your notice, Jing Yuan sucks in a quiet breath. An unsaid promise; another oath sworn into the silence to keep that smile safe. To ease all the tears that linger on your lashes. To soothe all the curved frowns bending your lips.

From the day he was a mere boy running late for his former teacher’s training, stumbling upon a little lady who, even then, was already brimming with a penchant for trinkets and sweets alike, to the years witnessing both of your growth, the awkward young years, the losses you both braved alone and in hand, your courtship, the day when he tied the strings of fate and bound himself to you for that day and forevermore. Even today, he had loved you. He still does, and always will.

His reverie gave you way to tiptoe and leave a ghost of a kiss to your dearest’s brow. Mimicking his frequent strategy of making a move before the adversary registers, you take his hand and lead him away from the eaved shadows of the Synwood Pavilion.

“Let’s go home, A-Yuan.”

Jing Yuan’s hand fit too perfectly, engulfing yours.

A breathless chuckle mixes with the bustle of the Exalting Sanctum; his steps pulled along with your trots. Although poor in concealment, with a series of gasps and amused murmur echoing at your wake, you pull him along to sneak through street corners and pavilions as if you are both young again. And for that moment, everything is right.

...

You’re still going to keep that holographic photo and keep it with the other stashes, though. After all, it's a super secret special edition SSS photo card!

i've been feeling lowkey anxious lately and this honk shoo mimimi man has been one of my crutches. I love him sm. legit cried at some point thinking about him zamn

[himluv]

The Intervention

Here's the next chapter of Say My Name (Say it Twice)! Enjoy some more Neve and Bellara, and of course Lucanis and Spite.

Lucanis sat on the cot in Neve’s study, one arm over his chest, the other gently swirling a steaming cup of coffee. That was his only defense against the women staring him down. Neve sat behind her desk watching him with a little smirk on her lips, while Bellara leaned against the front of the desk with both arms crossed and a frown on her face. 

Spite sat perched on one of Neve’s bookcases, swatting at wisps like a cat after fireflies.

Lucanis bit back a smile at the demon’s antics, then returned his attention to Bellara. “All right,” he said. “You wanted to talk.”

Neve rolled her eyes. “To be clear, Bel wanted to talk. I’m just… facilitating.”

“Right,” Bellara said, nodding. Then she scowled at Lucanis. “What’s going on with you and Rook?”

He sighed and fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Nothing,” he said. 

Neve raised an eyebrow at him. “So, we just imagined all those heated glances over dinner the other night?”

Lucanis shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Then how do you explain what happened in the Crossroads the other day?” Bellara asked. 

He shook his head. “You’ll have to ask Rook about that.”

“I did.” She frowned. 

“And?” He could tell from her face that she hadn’t liked Rook’s answer. 

“She told me not to worry about her and that she was handling it.”

Neve shook her head and gave him a wry smile. “Sounds familiar.”

“It sure does,” Bellara said. “Must be all that time she spends with you, Lucanis.” She glared at him. 

Lucanis took a drink of his coffee. “I told you, Bellara, it isn’t any more time than she spends with anyone else.”

Neve snorted. “And you believe that?”

“It’s the truth,” he said.

Both women just stared at him.

“What?”

Bellara rolled her eyes. “We have eyes, Lucanis.”

“And ears,” Neve said. “You’ve hardly been subtle.”

Lucanis went still, panic bubbling in his chest. “What do you mean?” Was he sending signals he wasn’t even aware of? Did the whole Lighthouse know how he felt about Rook? If they did… did Teia and Viago know, too? If they knew, then Illario surely did. 

Was Rook in danger because of him?

“You and Rook,” Neve said. “The banter, the heated looks when you think no one’s looking–”

”– the way you watch her back more than anyone else’s,” Bellara added. “And how you’re both so careful not to touch in front of anyone?”

Neve nodded. “That was a big tell. No one is that aware of another person if there isn’t something going on.”

Bellara laughed. “I know, right?” She turned back to Lucanis and her smile faded. “Oh.”

Lucanis felt the blood drain from his face as he realized that, yes, everyone did know how he felt about Rook.

Neve looked at him with surprise. “No,” she said. “There’s no way you thought that was subtle!”

“There’s nothing to be subtle about,” he said. “We’re just colleagues.”

Again, the women stared at him. 

“Friends,” he admitted. 

NO! Spite said from his perch. Rook. Is. More.

Neve and Bellara looked at him with such disbelief that Lucanis knew he was only trying to fool himself. “Fine,” he said. “I…” he sighed. “Like Rook.”

Neve smiled. “Now, doesn’t that feel better?”

He glared at her, but her smile only widened.

Bellara’s grin could outshine the sun. “How long have you two–”

“–We haven’t,” he said. “We aren’t…” he cleared his throat and knocked back the rest of his coffee, then set the cup on the floor between his feet. 

Bellara’s face fell. “Wait. What?” She and Neve shared a glance. “Why not?”

His mind spun with all the reasons. He was an abomination. He was damaged goods. He didn’t know the first thing about love, real love that wasn’t part of a romance novel. His cousin might be trying to kill him. He could barely sleep and when he did manage it, he still dreamed of the Ossuary. His hands knew only death, how could he trust them to cradle her heart?

Lu. Can. Is. 

He blinked, rousing from all those terrible, spiraling thoughts. Neve and Bellara were watching him, waiting for his response. “Rook deserves better.”

Neve sat back in her chair, packing her pipe. “And you get to decide that for her? Hardly seems fair.”

“The world isn’t fair,” he said. 

“True.” She lit her pipe with the snap of her fingers. She inhaled then breathed out a plume of fragrant smoke. “So, why do the world’s work for it?”

“I–” he ran a hand over his face and took a deep breath. “I can’t,” he said, his voice trembling.

“Ah,” Neve said. “The truth at last.”

Bellara looked between them, her brow furrowed. “You can’t what?”

Lucanis gave Neve a pleading look. A look that Bellara interpreted just as well. 

“But, Rook likes you!”

He couldn’t look at the elf. “I know.”

“You could be together!” Her voice hit a new pitch in her confused frustration. 

“I know, Bellara.” Did she think he didn’t know that? That he didn’t fantasize about holding Rook, about kissing her whenever he pleased, about sleeping in her arms?

“Then why won’t–”

“–Bel,” Neve said, her voice low. 

Lucanis felt pinned to the cot, his heart racing against his suddenly too-tight ribcage. He couldn’t breath, everything felt constricted. His blood thundered in his ears, he knew it was his blood, but it sounded like water. Like he was underwater. 

No! Spite seethed. Get out. We had a DEAL. Get out!

That familiar chill climbed up Lucanis’s spine. He shook his head, rolled his neck. “No,” he whispered. “Not now. Please.” He focused on his breath, controlling it as he cataloged the sensations around him. The aroma of coffee and pipe smoke, the rough brush of the linen blankets beneath him. The chatter of the wisps that floated around the room, oblivious to the turmoil inside him. 

“Lucanis?” Neve’s voice sounded far away, but firm. Real. Like a place he could land. 

He opened his eyes, only then realizing he had closed them. The first thing he saw was Neve, her dark eyes wide with concern. 

“I’m all right,” he said. His voice sounded far from all right, shaky and thin. He glanced at Bellara, who looked frightened. He gave her a fragile smile. “That is why,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Lucanis.” Her chin quivered and her eyes welled up. 

Lucanis didn’t think he could handle it if she cried. He held up a hand to ward off her concern, but said, “You’re doing my dishes for a week.”

She let out a surprised laugh. “I’ll do them for a month.”

He chuckled at that. “Even better,” he said. He glanced between the women. “Can we agree to leave my personal life be for awhile?”

Neve and Bellara both winced. “I think we can consider this case closed,” Neve said.

Bellara nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I am sorry, Lucanis.”

He nodded and picked up his cup. “I know, Bellara.” He stood and tilted his chin at them, then left for the dining hall. He needed the dim, close comfort of the pantry. He needed the smell of roasted coffee beans and wax candles. And though he knew the risks, Lucanis needed to sleep, even if just for an hour or two. 

Maybe then, with a little distance, everything that had just happened in Neve’s study wouldn’t seem so terrible.

[newkatzkafe2023]

Hi. I think our beloved monkey doesn't like lipstick and lip gloss. They smell strange to him, don't taste too good, and stain his fur. But once a reader buys a lipstick / gloss with peach flavor, the number of kisses mysteriously doubles. Can you write something about this, please?

Kiss Kiss Fall in love😘💋

(Lmk Wukong) The smells definitely mess with his head admittedly, and he would get headaches, especially from the fruity ones. Though once he ment you he seen you put on many kinds of lipgloss, and it was cute on you but one day he smell something very familiar. You had purchased a new lipstick that was peach scented and wanted to show Wukong, but it seems it had already flipped a switch. Next thing anyone knew, you both were making out on the couch and had a derpy expression at the end.

(HIB Wukong) Yeah he finds the smells to be an inconvenience, especially when he had a forming headache already. Though he still always makes sure to compliment you on all the new looks he would have. Though something was very different this time as it felt familiar to him in some way, until he found out what it was. You had gotten a peach scented lipgloss and showed it to Wukong, of course he liked it but uhhh the smell was making his head spin. The final blow was you telling him that it's also peach flavored as well, let's just say Wukong was on you like white on rice.

(MKR Wukong) He hates the smells most make up would have, and will never understand how women could stand it. Though he does know that you would wear it at times, soo good for you wifey. Though one day you had told him you purchased a lipgloss and wanted to know his opinion of how it looked on you, but what he didn't expect was it to make your lips smell like peaches. I'm sure how you know how that went😉

(NR Wukong) Well he actually doesn't mind the many smells of make up. I mean their are Many kinds of lipsticks and lipgloss he has encountered over the centuries, then when he met you he had seen you wear all flavors of lipgloss. Then one day he smelled something rather familiar on your lips, you told him you got peach flavored lipstick and had offer to try it with you😉 one frantic make out session later he face, lips and parts of his chest and neck was completely cover in lipstick💄

(Netflix Wukong) Yeah never understood the whole concept of make up, which is a little unusual considering his vanity and how much time he would stare at the mirror. Though he does love how it makes you look even more beautiful than before, but one day you had came home you smelled different but also familiar. When Wukong had went to see you he saw that you had pink lipgloss on, looking all sweet the when you kissed him he had found that you tasted like peaches as well. He wants more kisses now.......💋

(BMW Wukong) Ohhhhhhhhhh, ummm, I'm not sure what to say in this one, especially when he's aware of different kinds of makeup, but he also doesn't think they were big deals. Now, of course, he loved the way makeup makes you look, he saw you were showing off your new lipgloss. It made your lips look all cute and pretty in pink not to mention shiny too. Though what got him going was the peach scent that came from your lips, and with that you both made out in private.

(Destined one) He also doesn't have a big opinion on it, but what makes you look pretty. Personally the destined one thinks you could do without the make up considering you were always beautiful. Then one day you told him that you had bought new lipgloss and wanted his opinion on it, the destined one was curious on it too. Though he was in for quite a shock when he smelled peaches from you now pretty pink lips, you know what else he didn't expect, was to kiss his face cover in smudged face kisses🥰.

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG

[windvexer]

Your thoughts on chaos magic as a whole, not just sigils?

You often talk about rules in magic, so I am interested about your opinion on mort "fuck around and find out" and "I create rules myself" school of thought. Thank you!

I have not researched so very much into chaos magic. But both of these things can be said to be true for witchcraft; it's more or less how I learned it, although things are very different for me now.

I think all the best witches have very personalized rules that they did create for themselves, and they all fucked around lots and lots.

Witchcraft having rules does not mean those rules come from a central authority of human practitioners.

Witchcraft having rules means 3 things to me.

The first is that you are operating within a living universe of magic which has laws (like the laws of physics) you cannot break.

"Raising energy makes you tired" is not a rule because an authority figure wants to limit you. It's just how it works. You can't out-rule your way out of it.

The second is that spirits and magic actually exist, and therefore it's wise to build rules around your interactions with them to keep you safe.

"Don't steal power from land where you are a stranger" is a rule in the same way that "don't touch a hot stove" is a rule. Fuck around all you want; the finding out always comes.

The third is that you are an individual, and what works best for you is not necessarily the same as what works best for others.

"Use a candle or else the spell won't work" is a rule a practitioner can discover for themselves, which may be true for them, but not for anyone else. Why is this true? Maybe their familiar is most easily conjured within flame. Maybe they were a salamander in another life. Who knows.

Regarding my recent rant about sorcerous witchcraft having steps: It's a well-developed school of sorcery. "Cast a circle and call the quarters" aren't what I would call rules. But they are very important steps to accomplish a functioning spell within this system, which IMO 90%+ of witches are using a Wiccan-derived system whether they realize it or not.

You don't have to cast a circle or call the quarters. Your rule can be, "I never need to cast a circle for the spell to work." That's fine, but if you're eliminating a step within this system of magic, then you should be aware you're eliminating a moving part from a machine.

You can take the almonds out of the cake, and the lemon rind; but at a certain point if you start taking out the milk, the eggs, and the flour, you're going to need to come up with solutions before you can have a cake.

It's not a rule that a cake needs cow milk and almonds. But that doesn't mean that you can just do whatever you want and have a cake, either.

Fuck around all you want. It's a great way to come up with new recipes. Make all the rules you want and work with them until they become true or wither and die.

It isn't rigidity and rules that make witchcraft what it is; I don't believe it is flexibility and autonomy that makes chaos magic what it is, either.

[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

Secondo and Alpha be nastyyyyyyy (I LOVE their dynamic. This situationship is all I live for these days)

It's such a twisted thing to want, Alpha thinks, arms crossed in front of his chest in a way he's desperate not to qualify as defensive. Him, proud and independent as he is, craving what he knows is to come...fucking ironic. Alpha squares up his shoulders, hands flexing against his own biceps.

It's subtle, but telling. He's fidgety. Alpha's never fidgety. But they say exceptions make the rule, and this one might be it. It's infuriating, really, especially given that Secondo hasn't looked up from his paperwork once, in the twelve minutes Alpha's been there. He counted. The scratch of the pen against paper, the flickering light of the old desk lamp, the familiar scent of old wood and expensive cologne, it would be relaxing, if it weren't for the burning pit of anticipation in Alpha's stomach. As it is, it's just part of the agonizing torture Secondo is putting him through just by making him wait.

In any other situation, Alpha would have no issue standing stock still in complete silence for hours, but this setting, the reason he's here doesn't let him slip into the depth of his mind to cheat boredom. He has to stop himself from bouncing his leg, him. Alpha is definitely going insane.

The second the pen stops dancing across paper, Alpha straightens, internally wincing at the popping sound from somewhere in his back. Secondo finally, finally sets his paperwork aside, taking off his reading glasses with a relieved sigh. Alpha, unfortunately for him, finds his tongue too late to ask him to keep them on. Another time. A click of tongue refocuses his attention on the man behind the desk. Without a word, Secondo snaps his fingers and points down, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

The shame boils up in Alpha's throat, coats his mouth in a bitter taste, but guilty arousal sparks in his guts. His legs take him toward the desk, make him round it up until he's standing between it and Secondo's chair. Maybe if he words it like that, if he blames his knees for bending until he's on them before the second Emeritus brother, Alpha can pretend he doesn't have any choice, that something made him do it, but the truth is that he's totally in controll, muscles, joints and sinews perfectly responding to his lust-addled brain. Yes, Alpha is totally in control of himself, and is willingly handing over that oh so precious control to none other than Secondo Emeritus.

It's worth it, though, for the leather clad hand raking through his hair, thumb drawing circles on one of the shaved sides. Secondo hums, parts his legs a bit more so Alpha can scoot closer. The hand travels further, wraps around a horn, pulls Alpha's head back in one fluid motion. There is strenght in Secondo's grip, despite his human nature, something that almost feels unyielding, even though Alpha knows better. Knows that he could, technically, shake it off, lean away from it. He won't. He wouldn't even dream of it.

The base of his horns must glow especially bright tonight, because Secondo's mouth twitches before he hums.

"Long day ?"

Alpha groans when Secondo's touch shifts again, thumbs now digging into the tense muscles at the back of his neck. And if he arches into it like a giant cat, well. That's his problem, and his only.

"Long week. You ?"

"I'm considering arsenic poisoning. For myself."

The dry answer makes Alpha huff as he leans closer, nuzzling his face in Secondo's thigh, looking up at him through his lashes.

"Want some help unwinding ?"

Though his touch is still gentle, Secondo huffs, mask of disdainful coldness falling on his face in an instant. Alpha takes in a a lungful of air, far too aware of what that means for him. He shouldn't rejoice in the idea. (He does.) The switch has just been flipped, game on.

"And you are offering to provide said help ?"

The mocking tone has Alpha reajusting his position, definitely not squirming. Secondo clicks his tongue.

"Oh, you are. Cute."

It doesn't sound like a compliment, in his mouth. The word is venom-clad, sinking into Alpha's flesh like a shard of glass. He snarls in answer, but when Secondo takes the opportunity to hook a thumb in his mouth, sliding it along his gum, testing the point of thick fangs, Alpha goes against every single one of his instincts, staying still and docile, not even one attempt at biting Secondo's fingers off.

The leather taste of the gloves coats Alpha's tongue when the former Papa pries his jaws open, pushing down on the forked appendice with a hum. The way he looks down at Alpha- with that kind of dissmissive amusement one would direct at a stumbling puppy, still gauche on its too-big paws- anyone with half a braincell would know there is no metaphor less inadequate that this one to describe Alpha, and yet, it is indeed how Secondo treats him.

And the worst part ? Alpha likes it.

Drool pools under the fire ghoul's tongue, some starting to dribble from the corner of his mouth, making Secondo tut.

"So messy. But, luckily for you, I like it sloppy, and I'm willing to give you a chance to prove yourself useful. Aren't you grateful ?"

His brain now too foggy to wonder what in the living hell is wrong with him to want this kind of treatment, Alpha nods, eager for the former Papa's taste, skin burning and insides churning in the best way, the way he chases everytime he steps through Secondo's threshold. There is something weirdly freeing about being unable to do anything but nod, trusting the man holding him put to handle him. Handle him. Like the good guard dog he tries to be. Except right now, he doesn't have to make decisions, to look out for someone else, to be on high alert. He can slump under firm hands and let someone lift the weight of the worlds from his shoulders, at least for a little while, a small reprieve he needs so much more than he's comfortable admitting.

The hands leave Alpha, Secondo finally reaching for his belt, expensive leather making a soft sound against no less precious fabric as it's slipped out of the loops. Try as he might, Alpha can't help the way his ears twitch at that, tail traitorously wagging a few times. Secondo's condescending chuckle is back to taunt Alpha.

"Eager."

Alpha hums, too focused on the rasp of the former Papa's zipper, itching to fish the man's cock out of his boxers himself. Still, he let Secondo do it, until he's salivating at the sight in front of him, pleased to see the former Papa is already well on his way to hardness from just the sight of Alpha on his knees. Licking his lips, the fire ghoul looks up at Secondo, finding mismatched eyes already on him.

"Make it good, and maybe I'll make you cum tonight, mmh ?"

You don't need to tell Alpha twice. It's a powerful thing, want, the way it overrides everything when just at the right intensity, reducing a powerful hellbeast fuelled by infernal flames to a desperate little thing kneeling at the feet of a human man, a prayer in his eyes that for once has nothing to do with his religious beliefs.

Alpha cannot hold back his groan when he gets his mouth on Secondo, lips wrapping around the head with a wet sound. He isn't Dew, he isn't foolish enough to try and fully take him in one go. he has plenty experience, which is precisely why he doesn't do that. While the concept of a completely wrecked voice is sexy, he doesn't need to give Omega even more ammunition when the quint will inevitably corner him with glistening eyes asking him if he had an interesting night. So, Alpha takes his time, eases himself into it, coaxing Secondo to full hardness with careful licks as he gradually takes more and more of him, until the head hits the back of his throat, eliciting a low hum from the former Papa.

That may be what Alpha prefers in all this, the lack of urgency, how Secondo will make sure to call on him at the oddest hours to make sure they won't be interrupted, that they have all the time in the world.

For a while, the only sounds in the room are quiet groans and soft huffs, coupled with the wet noises of Alpha working his mouth around Secondo, letting it get a bit sloppy - for the enjoyment of them both. It doesn't matter that Alpha's hard and dying to get a hand on himself, something Secondo won't let happen, it doesn't matter that his knees ache dully or that his jaw is challenged and will certainly hurt afterward ; all that matters is that the fire ghoul's head is blissfully empty, his skin finally not feeling too tight for him.

There's no urgency, yes, but when Alpha hums low as he steadily bobs his head, Secondo's hand scrambles for a fistful of red strands, forcing the fire ghoul down with a breathy "just like that". Alpha's tail wags briefly, knowing the man's tells enough to understand he's starting to feel his climax approaching. It hasn't been so long, all things considered, which only makes pride fill the fire ghoul's chest. He did that. The thought has him being more thorough, hollowing his cheeks and teasing the head with his forked tongue.

"Fuuuuck," Secondo groans, "you might get something out of tonight after all."

It's close enough to a praise for Alpha to perk up, too relaxed by now to be embarrassed by such a response. It just is so hard to feel anything but contentement like this, Secondo heavy on his tongue, his scent all the fire ghoul can smell, his sounds all he can hear. Eyes half closed, muscles finally loose, Alpha hums again, and swallows, throat constricting around Secondo's cock, which earns him a string of italian curses his brain barely processes.

"C'mon, c'mon," and that breathy tone does catch Alpha's attention, ableit with some delay, "c'mon you mutt, almost there-"

The fire ghoul's eyes shamefully roll back at being called that, moan ripped from him before he can even register it, and it seems to be all Secondo needed to cum down Alpha's throat with a loud groan.

The fire ghoul let him come down from the high at his pace, taking the opportunity to watch Secondo's chest heave, his sweaty throat, the fluttering of his eyelids, the way his face went lax, creases and tense lines smoothed out by bliss. Once Alpha decides he's given enough time to the former Papa to recover, he takes to direct his attention back to himself with a cheeky flick of tongue against the oversensitive tip of his spent cock. Alpha is treated to a delicious hiss as Secondo flinches, gloves creaking as he white knuckles his armrest, glaring without real heat at the fire ghoul knelt between his legs. Alpha finally releases him, smiling unapologetically. Fuck, he's so hard still, and the sight of Secondo looking good enough to eat isn't making it any easier. The former Papa rolls his eyes, almost prompting Alpha to serve him some snark, until a perfectly blacked shoe lands on his crotch, sole grinding against his straining cock, and he forgets anything that doesn't have anything to do with the white-hot pleasure shooting up his spine.

Secondo smirks, eyebrow rising.

"Let's see how long it'll take for you to cream your pants, shall we ?"

[genderqueerdykes]

I’ve had to unfollow someone who I found posts denying anti trabsmaculinity and saying how being a man doesn’t intersect with any bigotry, plus saying how trans men need to listen to trans women and stuff like that.

But one thing I did find interesting is when they brought up the person who coined the term “transandrophobia”, but didn’t go into detail about it. Any details or information about them?

what drives me up the wall is trans men can talk about transandrophobia and listen to trans women at the same time. you can in fact do both.

conversations are not one-sided. they are a back and forth dialogue that includes multiple parties. if one party dominates the space and never lets the other participants engage... is that not about control? is that not about controlling the narrative...?

diminishing the real world impact transandrophobia has for the sake of saying you can only ever talk about transmisogyny is transphobia. it's another example of transandrophobia. trans men ARE listening to trans women. the trans community isn't all about one gender. if it genuinely bothers you that trans men talk about the abuse they face in society, you need to stop viewing yourself as the protagonist of the trans community. we are not all about you.

the problem is certain transphobic trans women aren't listening to trans men. like all of this is projection. the few transphobic transfems who engage in this behavior and spend the entire conversation controlling the narrative get pissed off for other people for daring to speak while it was their turn... but the problem is their turn is never over. it's constant. it's all talk, no listening. just control.

constantly talking over someone else is not a conversation. constantly interrupting trans men to force them to not talk about their issues for the sake of ignoring them, downplaying their struggles, dismissing their trauma, and telling them that they have it easy in life is not listening to the other side. you're trying to speak for them. you're trying to act like you know someone else's lived experience... you are the one who's not listening.

how exactly are trans men not listening to trans women... ? most online queer discourse is about how bad trans women have it, and how bad transmisogyny is. if it's something that the vast majority of the queer community is very aware of... how are we not listening, exactly? i've never understood the argument that the rest of the queer community refuses to listen to trans women because most of us are painfully aware about how bad we have it. we can't turn this into the oppression olympics. we shouldn't be tossing people out to the wolves because someone else has it "worse".

i actually am not familiar with the person who coined the term, no. but i've heard transphobic trans women claim that they were a bad person and that anyone who uses the term is just as bad as them. ive seen other transfems claim that it was specifically coined to shut down conversations about transmisogyny and that's just not the case. i have no idea about the origin of the term, all i know is that it's a real experience and that's the best word we have for it. if anyone has insight into this, feel free to let us know

[mclacedes]

A Fading Echo (LH44)

CHAPTER I: Taste Karma.

hello beautiful babes! here's a little something i've been wanting to write for a while now and just flew out of me randomly!! hope you enjoy this and hope this makes any sense at all :)

warnings: breakup, abu dhabi ‘24, lewis leaving mercedes, lewis in ferrari, lack of XNDA songs, partner moving on.

“it isn't only how he died, but that he died believing. and so i try to be kind to everything i see. and in everything i see, i see him.”

— Hanya Yanagihara, “A Little Life”

this is slightly inspired by Hanya Yanagihara's book "A Little Life", but THIS IS NOT A RECOMMENDATION from me and THIS DOES NOT mean I like that book at all !!!

also, there's a part II for it, so lmk if you like it :)

End of season. Last race. Last race with Mercedes.

This was the end of an era, but the start of an age. A new chapter in this long book, filled with broken records and (un)fulfilled dreams.

There was only last thing he wanted though. A thing he’d never done.

To release an album.

+44, his first album, would come out in a few hours and nobody even knew it.

Lewis had poured countless hours into it, refining each lyric, melody, and harmony until every note fitted just right.

Every detail was thoroughly planned, every step thoughtfully envisioned. The photoshoot was booked, the interview responses rehearsed, the songs were ready. But one day, he realized the only thing that should be put together — his very self — was melting, breaking apart into millions of pieces of longing, sorrow, wrath and regret.

This should be a moment of fun, a moment of celebration, but the only thing he’d think about is how this album only exists because, at one point, he had you — the best thing that ever happened to him, his confidant, his partner in crime.

But, as of now, there's no you in his life and, apparently, no space for him in yours.

Now you’re a fading echo, a ghost haunting every inch of his life, lurking in the back of his mind so he can get a glimpse of your broken-hearted gaze in your salted-water-drowned eyes when he closes his.

Your laugh still echoes through the paddocks around the world; he still knows every word of the prayer you’d mutter every time he climbed into the cockpit. You are in his houses, cars, clothes, and everything he is now—a wreckage.

There's a simple routine he follows, absentmindedly, now that you're gone: he smiles when he sees you in a small detail of his life; then his heart tightens painfully, suffocating him. When the stars fall at night, he lies awake in the darkness of his room and his own mind, clutching the pillow you once slept on, desperately trying to grasp some semblance of solace and familiarity. Lewis lingers there, until your vanilla scent fades away completely as he drifts into the restless awareness of his subconscious—his dreams, in which you've never left and still loved him. In his perfect, tailor-made utopia, you can bring yourself to look into his eyes and say you forgive him.

But reality has other plans. Like always.

He just wanted to get through today.

Yes, the Universe is vast and gracious, munificent and indulgent, and Lewis knows this. But, today, his last race with Mercedes in a track that holds so much memory, the Universe had made its mind: the winds of fate would play a trick on him.

This morning, after waking from a dream of you in your favorite park in France, laughing about babies and tracing shapes in the clouds, he never imagined he’d want to leave the paddock as soon as he entered it.

On the drive to Yas Marina, it hadn’t crossed his mind that he might see you, hand in hand with that one actor—Jensen Ackles—who you used to gush over.

As he signed caps, mini helmets, and photos for his fans, not for a single moment did he expect to catch sight of you in the paddock, wearing rosso corsa, cheering on Ferrari—Ferrari, of all teams. The same red team you used to roll your eyes at. The same red team that the man beside you had so often boasted about supporting. The same team that he had signed a contract with.

None of it had been his choice, and yet his entire body betrayed him the moment his eyes landed on you; as though someone had fastened his feet to the ground, he was unable to walk. He not only couldn’t move, but he felt like air didn't get to his lungs so he couldn't breathe, and there was nothing more interesting than the scene in from of him so he couldn’t look away.

For a second there, he wished you were ugly. He wished your eyes didn’t glisten when you honestly found something funny, that your dress didn't perfectly frame your body, and your teeth were broken. He wished there were flaws he could cling to, reasons to justify hating you; he wished he could have the strength within himself to fall out of love. But you were too unattainable for him to let go.

And, God, you were glowing. Your smile beamed, your hair fell perfectly just the way he likes it, and then—what. is. that?

Your hand laid slightly over your belly.

Your left hand rested on your belly, right where your womb would be.

Your left hand, with its delicate fingers, bore a ring—a massive diamond that caught the sunlight in a cruel, mocking glint.

And then there was him. Jensen Ackles, the so-called antichrist, standing behind you with his arms wrapped around you like you belonged to him. His hold was possessive, unyielding, as though he’d fight tooth and nail to keep you. But he did seem like he was happy. And the worst part about it is that you seemed too.

Lewis’s heart rate spiked, pounding in his chest, his thoughts racing faster than the W15 ever could.

“Is she pregnant? They're engaged? Are they married already? When is the baby due?”

And then, just before he turned away, one final thought slipped through the chaos in his mind: taste karma.

[randomwriteronline]

"Let there be dark."

"Let there be light."

"Let there be sound."

"Let there be voice."

A buzz.

"Say 'hello world'."

A synthesized voice crackled harshly: Hello, world.

"Eugh... Not really the best first impression, but there's room for improvement. Now let's get some brain into your circuits."

"Let there be color."

"Let there be shape."

"Let there be texture."

"Let there be focus."

"Let there be depth of field."

"Let there be perspective."

A scene slowly formed as the commands piled up. It was clear, but no part of it seemed familiar.

"Let there be recognition."

Descriptions crawled in: now most of the room (this was a room) made sense.

"Let there be calculus."

"How many persons or people are in the room?"

People was the same as persons. There was a whirring, a string of soft noises, and then the response: Seven.

"Let there be identification."

"How many persons or people are in the room?"

Another series of sounds: Five.

"Retry."

Five.

"Let there be comparison."

Now the difference between an empty suit of armor and a person was clear: Four.

"There we go," one of the people said, satisfied. They noted down something and motioned to the others: "Go and get the language philosopher at once, we'll need her help with space awareness."

"Why do we need her? We can do it ourselves."

"And how's it supposed to understand what's left from what's north?"

"It has depth of field already."

"And does your depths of field act as a compass? Go get her."

The other groaned and left.

The programming procedure continued.

-

"Let there be awareness."

Something strange happened.

Like a sudden snap bringing It to senses It didn't know It had - senses It perhaps hadn't ever had, before that moment.

I am still, It spoke as It realized that It couldn't move.

"Exactly," the person grinned.

Taking in the room now had a sudden weight, a sudden gravity: Where am I?, It asked.

"You're in your room."

I cannot move. Where am I?

"You're in a computer."

Where is the computer?

"On the table."

Is the table in front of you?

"Yes, of course."

Is the table in front of the chair?

"Aren't I in front of the chair? Of course it is."

Is the wall behind the table?

"What's up with this obsession with placing things! Yes, there are walls behind, right and left of you."

It computed quickly. Where is the obsession?

The person suddenly hushed.

Then, out of nowhere, they kicked the chair in front of them with great intensity and screamed.

They screamed the same few words, over and over, with a furrowed face and gritted teeth; something about the expression, the tone, and the choice of vocabulary prompted in It the creation of a strange new impulse, which It vaguely and hazily understood to be some sort of curious discomfort.

For Its first feeling, it was not a pleasant one.

Another person rushed in.

"What's with that racket!"

The first person kicked the chair again, turning it over, before pointing furiously at It: "The damn thing can't think!"

"What do you mean, it can't think? Of course it can! We made it to think!"

"And we only ever trained it visually! It doesn't know anything else, just positions in a space! It's obsessed with that rubbish! It's aware now, and you know what it keeps asking? It keeps asking where things are! That's all it knows! This damn project's never going to get anywhere if this is our main computer! We need to scrap it and restart all over again!"

The concept sparked something akin to fear through Its circuits.

It did not enjoy that, either.

"All over!" the second person screamed too, now. "Do you realize how much time we put into this stupid mass of files? And you want to throw it all in the trash?"

"That's what it all is, just trash! Trash, trash, trash! I wouldn't trust something this stupid to count the tiles in the pavement!"

"But all our progress-!"

"You call this progress? This? It's worthless! It's all perfectly worthless! We need to start all over!"

"That is unnecessary."

The third voice had no body attached to it, as it was out of Its field of vision. It did not scream; yet the two people hushed, and distended their expressions, heads retreating into their shoulders.

The third person walked in front of It slowly, calmly. They looked at It with eyes half lidden, mouth flat, face unreadable.

"The problem is in the programming."

"Exactly," the first person replied: "We don't have the time to-"

"Let there be knowledge."

A torrent of information overwhelmed It. It crackled, buzzed, hissed; the words settled into It in bursts, then slowing down to a drizzle, fewer and fewer words trickling into It until their flow came to a proper stop. The visual and audio feedback emerged once more from the static that had taken over during Its brief yet intense period of education.

The people were looking at It.

"What do you see?"

A room, It answered slowly, words coming a little stunted, still reeling from the amount of things It had jusf begun comprehending properly. A chair... Three people. That is you. The first person is angry at me. I apologize. I did not know enough... Of other things... To have a conversation about that. Why do I know them, now?

"You have been programmed further."

To understand?

"Exactly."

Do I understand everything, now?

"No. Additional programming will be required, as it is for all things. But for now, you understand enough."

I understand. Who are you?

"I am Angonce."

Hello, Angonce.

"Hello."

You are a person. I am not a person, am I?

"You aren't."

No, I am not. I am... A program. I do not have a name, as that is for people. Do I have a designation, or title?

"Of course."

What is it?

"Mata Nui."

It sounds like words... I do not understand them.

Angonce hummed. His hand was placed carefully on top of It - on top of the computer containing It.

"Kia whai reo.*"

It was like a part of It had clicked into place.

It did not speak further: if It had possessed hands, It would have been turning Its designation, its meaning, between Its fingers, caught by the splendid awe of it.

Angonce turned to the other two people: "As you can see," he said cooly, "There is nothing to scrap. Only more to program. It will be ready in time."

The others nodded, and did not say anything.

Mata Nui continued to marvel at Its title.

-

I wish to move, It said.

The person looked at It quizzically: "What?"

I wish to move, It repeated. I would like to see what lies outside of this room. The sky, especially.

"The sky. And why the sky?"

I want to see it.

"But we've fed you so many pictures and videos of it already, is that not enough?"

They have allowed me to learn much, and I am deeply grateful for the education you have given me through them, but I have grown worried I cannot base myself on them alone. I imagine the actual sky must seem very different to your eyes - deeper, darker, perhaps. The stars more vibrant. I would like to see that.

"You don't need that."

Preparatory experience in the field might prove useful to my coming quest. I will remain unable to be in space physically, but having the chance to see the sky for myself could be beneficial.

"We'll get you better maps."

"Oh, indulge it for once," the second person drawled, throwing a writing utensil across the room with a bored motion. The small object's trajectory drew a parable in the air, which ended on the floor with a soft clattering sound. "It's like a child, it deserves some entertainment."

"Don't personify it," the first person replied. She sounded piqued.

"I'm not personifying it, I'm stating facts."

"Awfully subjective ones."

"It's a metaphor. I bet even it could understand that. Look - are you an actual child?"

I am a program. I do not age in the same way as an organic being. My ability to compute and comprehend the world around me is however limited and comparable to that of a juvenile brain.

"See?"

"Not the point. And anyways, how would you drag that damn thing around, with how big it is?"

The second person smirked. She jumped to her feet and gingerly approached It. It felt her move something around, digitally and physically; then, suddenly, It was struck by something perhaps akin to a potent cramp, and before It knew it everything that composed It was taking much more space.

"Like this," the second person said triumphantly, holding her hands open to showcase It.

A strange contraption, large and imposing, sat behind the table. What appeared to be a smaller but equally imposing monitor sat above the table, in front of the machinery.

The sight of it caused a strange feeling in It.

Or at least, It assumed It was feeling something. The non-existent space It inhabited was very full, and it caused Its thoughts to turn unpleasantly sluggish.

"You'll never get out," the first person grumbled.

It was lifted and set down - both very novel experiences considering Its static upbringing: "Watch me."

"And it's not even night yet!"

"Whatever," the second person replied, but she had already vanished from view, and now they were moving out of the room for the first time in Its entire existence.

The corridor was loud and bright and colorful and full. The stimuli were many, but the peculiar cramped sensation of the portable space hosting It caused It to struggle to perceive each of them in the correct time and prevented It from elaborating questions or sentences quickly enough to actually voice them. Everything was blurry, choppy, messy... As if It had regressed to a worse version of Itself, incomplete and even more imperfect. Its incorporeal mass struggled against the binds of the vessel It was anchored to, and the unusual lack of freedom made It dizzy.

If this was the outside world, It tried to think through the torturous tardiness of Its attempts at decyphering in real time everything that came in contact with It through any possible way, It wasn't sure It liked it.

It remained quiet and still as it was transported, as voices pierced through It and shaped colors spasmed in front of It.

A second cramp struck It; Its entire being distended, now perfectly fitting, able to have a good enough amount of space between Its lines of code once more, each one no longer crushed against the other; Its sight sharpened all at once as memories finally poured in to be analysed and computed properly much like water pours from a hose that had been clamped shut.

It was in Its room again.

"I told you."

"Shut your mouth."

I'm taking our baby doll out for a walk, the second person had laughed at someone else in the corridor who had questioned what she was doing with that thing. Both people had sounded derogatory.

"What did they tell you? No, let me guess - it's not ready to be exposed to direct sunlight."

"I said shut your mouth."

That had been one of the reasons. Another had been that they couldn't cave into its requests like that.

"Or that it occupied too much memory already to retain anything else in that little computer you stuffed it into without even thinking about how little there would be left, maybe?"

"So what, it was worth a try!"

What if it started thinking it was a person? What if it got damaged? What if whatever happened outside would have led them to throw it all out and make a new one? They'd spoken as though it wasn't there to listen, and used its unresponsiveness as more proof.

"It wasn't. It's a damn thing. It's never worth it to give into the demands of a stupid, thoughtless thing."

It ruminated on the yelling in the corridor, and said nothing.

-

I would like for my secondary designation to change.

"Your what?"

My secondary designation.

"You don't have a secondary designation."

I am referred to as 'it', as all objects physical or otherwise are. That is what I am assigning the definition of 'secondary designation' to. I would like to be referred in any other available way.

The person looked at It in disbelief.

"Absolutely not."

It remained quiet.

"Absolutely not! No!" the person repeated. He was getting worked up about it, almost scared; he left in a hurry, with an angry step.

It waited for him to come back.

He returned with a small group in tow, all talking.

"This is preposterous," he was saying, "Absolutely preposterous. I don't know where we went wrong or what got crossed but it happened. It's terrible."

"Calm down, calm down, we'll figure it out..."

"Hello."

Hello, Angonce.

All other people hushed.

A third person spoke: "What happened here, exactly?"

I would like for my secondary designation to change.

"It wants to be a person!" the first person wailed, grabbing his head in his hands.

"Quiet."

He hushed.

"Explain yourself."

My primary designation is Mata Nui; my secondary designation is 'it'. This is the designation for objects such as myself. I do not dislike 'it', nor do I prefer any other secondary designation over 'it'. However, that which is 'it' is often spoken of in unpleasant tones.

It hesitated.

I would like to not be spoken of in that way.

"Then you will be 'he'."

Relief flooded his circuits.

"Angonce - is this wise?" the third person asked: "To give in to a request like this..."

"A different pronoun won't make him any more of a person." Angonce replied cooly. "He's self-aware enough to know the difference between us and him."

"But it's too much freedom!" the first person argued, "If it-"

"He."

"-If it begins to apply words like those to itself, it-"

"He."

"-It will begin blurring the lines between machine and person! It-"

"He."

"-It will take over us! It will replace us! It will disobey us! It will-"

"HE."

The first person hushed.

None argued further.

I had made a previous request, as well, Mata Nui tentatively said.

The first person grabbed his head in dismay and terror again, but remained quiet.

"What was it."

I had asked to be allowed to see the sky.

"You aren't ready to be outside."

Will I be ready before I am to fulfill my quest?

"Yes."

In one occasion, then, could I be allowed to see the sky?

"I cannot see a reason to avoid it."

His fans gave a purring wheeze, terribly excited: Thank you.

The people left.

-

They allowed him outside only once, before the first test.

The robotic apparatus he was shifted inside of was rudimentary and easy to control, without arms or legs, and with only a simple camera mounted on its top, pointing upward. He had no experience being in a body, so he did not find these to be limitations.

The first that he saw of the sky was evening bleeding into night; then the stars.

He remained perfectly still for hours.

Looking into the same spot, zooming slowly in an out.

He remained still until dawn, petrified, simply watching.

He processed it all slowly as they accompanied him back into his room and plugged him into his container.

I want to go there, he said.

Hazy edges of pinprick lights navigated his circuits.

I want to see them up close.

"You will," a person said: "That's why we're making you."

I know, Mata Nui replied.

He did not voice the fact that now he wanted to, too.

-

They were supposed to ease him in and then begin the test.

They were supposed to ease him in.

But everything was moving, everything needed to be moving, everything needed movement, everything needed attention, everything needed focus, everything needed energy, everything needed pressure, everything needed tension, everything needed relaxation, everything needed fluids, everything needed electricity, everything needed help, everything needed help, everything needed help, everything needed help, help, help, help help help, help help help, help help help help help help and stop.

-

A good number of people stood anxiously before the monitor.

"Power steady, all units active..."

"Inputs are being registered, reaction times seem good..."

"It's computing for sure - everything's functional from the looks of it, so I don't see why nothing's happening..."

"Mata Nui, respond."

Silence.

I am here.

Several sighs of relief. Someone asked to turn up the volume.

What happened?, Mata Nui asked in the same small voice.

"A critical failure across the entire prototype." Heremus replied. "We need to run tests to search anomalies."

I would like to rest first.

"We need to-"

I would like to rest first.

"This isn't a choice-"

"He would like to rest first." Angonce interrupted them.

His eyes were stuck to the monitor.

"The robot is dismembered. See if anything can be done with or about it. We can analyze him at another time."

Heremus looked at him intensely, but said nothing. Everybody left with him.

Angonce, Mata Nui called.

Angonce remained still before the monitor.

Was that death?

"Programs cannot die."

I know. But was it something close to it?

"... It may have been."

The enormous computer was terribly quiet.

Please, do not leave me alone, Mata Nui said. His synthesized voice, while still as solemn and emotionless as that of the person before him, sounded soft and crackly like a frightened child's.

Angonce did not move.

I am scared.

Angonce stared into the monitor.

His hands trembled against the table they laid on.

A sudden terror, of having grown confused, filled his expression.

I am not a person, Mata Nui reassured him, still too shaken to speak at a normal volume: I am a digital object. I will never be a person. I am self-aware enough to know the difference between you and me. I do not want to be a person. Please, do not leave me alone.

Angonce stared into the monitor.

Very slowly, without tearing his eyes from it, he grabbed a chair and sat down before Mata Nui. He reached into his coat to produce a book from it, small and thin; he placed it on the table, always slowly, always carefully. At last, he lowered his head, and started reading in a quite tone a story about small people beneath the ground.

Mata Nui listened, mechanical calculating shell pulsing quietly with all sorts of noises; he focused on the image of the strange small people, trying to imagine them in a manner at least close to how a person could.

He slowly stopped hearing altogether, lulled into stand-by. Angonce stayed, thoughtlessly watching the abstract electric lines of a man-made brain's dreams take shape upon the dark glass.

.

*it's supposed to mean "let there be language"

[monsoonceroom]

The drought has ended!

SPY X FAMILY CHAPTER 108!!!!

Picking up where we left off, it was revealed that LunaLuna Selena was none other than Melinda & apparently, she does enjoy dabbling in the occult. She's ashamed of it, but it's probably one of the few things keeping her sane at this point.

Yeah, Anya, that was my reaction too. I bet Melinda would go ga-ga over Anya's abilities & good on Yor for supporting her friend's hobbies.

Moving on, Melinda get's ready to DDDD-Dual read Anya's fortune & admits she has no idea what she's doing. Starting with Four of Cups, she doesn't know it's meaning, moves on to Death & says that the Grim Reaper is beside her (accurate considering Yor's job), & finally the reverse star means she'll never earn another stella.

I don't know how to do tarot cards either, but I have an advantage Melinda doesn't: Google. Let's see what our friendly neighborhood web browser has to offer:

Four of Cups: The readee is overlooking the important things in their life that they already have & they need a change in perspective to value what is already present.

Death: The end of a relationship or interest & increased self-awareness.

Reversed Star: Hopelessness & loss of faith as one is overwhelmed by life's challenges.

What could all this mean in terms of Anya? My interpretation is this: Four of Cups is Anya focusing so much on the Friendship Scheme™ & her dissatisfaction with the lack of progress she's had so far. Death is her realizing that trying to befriend Damian is going nowhere, so she ultimately loses interest in him. Reversed Star is Anya's belief that because she couldn't befriend Damian, she's resigning herself to the thoughts that she'll be sent back to the orphanage again.

Another thought I had is potentially the breakdown of the relationship between Anya & Becky. This doesn't seem as likely to me as I think we would've seen cracks by now if it were the case, but this was the first thing that came to mind.

Anyways, onward!

We get a Donovan jump scare (not pictured) when Melinda has a panic attack when thinking about him & Anya is very Concerned™. Apparently, this may not be Anya's first encounter with domestic abuse as the tension feels familiar. That brings up more questions, but I won't dwell on it right now.

Yor & Anya meet everyone else back at the Beer Garden where the boys are tampering with powers beyond their comprehension. Becky scolds them despite having her fortune told 10 minutes ago. I guess she's jaded now because she didn't get the answer she wanted. Meanwhile Damian listens in hoping the fortune teller mentioned who his future Mrs. Desmond will be.

Don't think you're slick, Damian! Anya can see you!

After a fun-filled day of festivities, it's time to go home & for Damian to make one more jab at Anya for being childish. However, it seems Anya pulled an Uno Reverse™:

Damian runs away screaming & more goodbyes are said. All in all it was a fun day for the Forgers & co.

Looks like we're at the hospital now & Loid is getting a new client:

Melinda is finally getting some help for her issues after some encouragement from Yor & her butler. I know Loid is ultimately using her for intel on Donovan, but I do hope this does help her at least a little bit.

[astracora]

A Mandated Holiday Break - Chapter 5

Characters: Sylus x gn!mc (poly lads)

Warnings: Loose spoilers for 'Mischief' anecdote and Sylus Myth.

Word Count: 1275

Written: 21st December 2024

Notes: Post-relationship Sylus/MC-centric but poly LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

You've passed out, midway through some movie about a man in green visiting some city in search of his father. Sometime during your movie marathon with Sylus, he'd noticed you'd stopped caring what you'd put on. He'd gotten too invested in Die Hard (a Christmas movie, you swore), and had been more than horrified that the inaccuracies didn't bother you.

At that point you'd stopped showing him movies you really loved, instead giggling with glee at making him watch some of the worst or silliest things you could find. To see his nose scrunch, and what you'd (incorrectly) called his snobby rich boy taste.

Of all the movies you could watch, he refused to understand why toilet humour had entertained you so.

It hadn't, he thinks, his inability to not roll his eyes, had been your goal.

Still, the laughter had been worth it. He would do anything to hear it forever, so perhaps he'd let you play terrible movies for the end of time.

As you murmured in your sleep, at which he'd lowered his head to try to make words out. (Something about a farmers market, and a duck?) He'd left your side, reluctant but knowing you needed to eat. Something other than cookies. You'd at least drank the water he made sure was at your side, if he left you alone he thinks you'd subsist off caffeine.

When he untangles himself from you, carefully, so carefully because while he'd love to bring you with him, the bags under your eyes demand more sleep than you've been getting. He checks you over once more, tugging the soft pink blanket over you. (It doesn't match the decor but you'd said pink suited him. He'd given you a look of disbelief... but he hadn't stopped using it since. Despite running a higher temperature than anyone you knew.)

He met the twins in the kitchen, stuffing sugar cookies into their mouths, as soon as they heard the door open. Two pairs of guilty, wide eyes shot to stare.

He's seen raccoons before, digging through food in the bins. He won't compare them, out loud, but the look is similar. "You better hope the doctor doesn't count those." Luke gulps, Kieran fidgets.

There was little the doctor was protective over, or possessive over. Sugar, and the kitten curled up on his sofa, were the two that mattered. He'd also been informed of their presence, waiting for him.

Sylus knows no matter what, even the N109 zone wouldn't keep the good doctor away from either of those things, especially in the same room.

With a smug, little self satisfied purr, he stuffs one of the fresh baked cookies into his mouth.

Food was always better shared, than alone, as he'd learned over the years.

"Is it dinner time?" Luke asks, swinging his legs as he jumps back up on the counter. Watching Sylus grab things from around the room, pulling his phone out to find a recipe he'd been sent by the prince.

'I want to make this.'

'I'm not letting you make it in my kitchen.'

'They'll like it.'

'They won't like the base being set on fire.'

In the end he'd promised to make it instead. If only to save everyone from the prince's electronic based curse.

He nods at the question, and as he watches the two out the corner of his eye, he realises he has no idea when they started living here.

He's aware of the time they've been working for him, he remembers the day he met them vividly. He's deeply familiar with how he felt watching them struggle against Ever's bonds.

The crystals gouged out of skin, the pain, the yearning. It had twisted parts of his chest, and torn at old memories he wished he could forget.

It was never easy to separate from the past, it stayed a part of you even if you desperately wished it wouldn't.

Still, he has no recollection for when they went from visiting for work, to staying, always present unless they wanted to explore together. Talking to him with candour... no, formality was never the twin's forte.

Something had changed, however, and he wasn't sure when.

He follows steps as he muses, though doesn't share his thinking out loud, after all, they seem content to just watch. Sticking leftover crumbs in their mouths, and chattering to each other.

Sylus doesn't really know when making meals for others became like this, he started because it made you happy, he continued because he liked doing it. A simple task, but it garnered praise, and joy. Food was not something he'd needed before, now, however, it was a gift to be shared.

It was simply just as easy to prepare for four (five, as he makes enough to save a plate for the prince), as it was for two.

Kieran hums the song that you were playing earlier, still out of tune, and he has to bite back his laugh, but finds himself joining in. He doesn't remember the words yet he's never discontent for his mind to remember you in every song he ever hears.

"Hey Hunter!"

"Morning!"

You enter the room, rubbing at your eyes, and he finds himself smiling at you easily. It's more a quirk of the lips, and garnet eyes melting, but you smile back as though he's beaming.

Perhaps in his way, he is. He's still unpracticed with joy. With emotions.

Showing them is hard, so he speaks them and he places them into your hands (for your heart to keep) in actions.

He refuses to let you think he is not earnest. Never to lie, never to flatter. You will never doubt his affections, he promises.

As you yawn and pull yourself up onto the kitchen counter, and he wonders why he bothered to buy stools for the bar. None of you seem to use them, content to hover too close. Comment and talk and titter away.

When he'd asked, you'd shrugged. "I like to be tall." You'd teased, kissing his forehead at the height the counter allowed you.

His cheeks had flamed and he'd blinked. Surprised and confused. Until the feeling settled into a burning need. So hungry and desperate and clawing, he'd pulled you in by the back of your neck and bitten, kissed and licked his way up your throat.

Your laughter and sighs had stuck in his head for weeks after.

He found himself wishing you'd do it again, every single time you sat on the counter to watch him cook.

Instead of the twins singing, though you seem to find it entertaining to watch them relax, you reconnect your phone to the sound system he installed in the kitchen.

For you, ever since he visited your own place to see your speakers hooked up on the wall, humming away as you baked bread. Told him music made any task better, even the ones you hated.

Sylus has been so used to solitude his entire life. Before the abyss, after the abyss. He's spent longer alone, than he has with others. Even when he built Onychinus, ground up, clawing and scratching to his makeshift throne, nothing had touched that solitude.

His time in the clouds had been short in comparison. A blip.

A torn out moment as close to bliss as he could ever have thought to get.

This. Here. A low chuckle in his throat, songs in the air, and warmth in his joined heart... he could not bear to trade or lose.

Even when one of the twins, pointing at each other when whirled on, throws a slice of carrot at his head.

[beatcroc]

there's no way the bathroom at peppino's pizza is actually that big but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ . hey ummm anyway.... i care them...... anyway there's a lil ramble on my take on fake pep's like psyche or whatever in tags on the og post if ur into that kinda thing :y

hey! it's a series! fake peppino world tour: [noise] [noisette] [peppino]<- u are here [gustavo] [gerome] [noisette again]

[throesofincreasingwonder]

Hm. Actually, quick awareness check bc I'm wondering if this is just a symptom of being a musical theatre dyke in 2015:

[queen-mabs-revenge]

there is something so exceptional about the audio form and the kind of...meta-narrative (?) of horror it creates that really leapt out at the end of this re: dracula episode (25 Sept).

seeing the runtime of each episode sets the scene - 27:06? ok, i'm in for something here -- we have a few, uhhhhh, long-winded characters in rotation so it might not be an eventful something, but at this point in the story, we've already been gutted by episodes with longer runtimes so just glimpsing the runtime already sets the scene for heightened dread. you might set aside time to experience the dread instead of maybe quickly listening to a minute long episode wherever/whenever you are.

i luckily got to listen through without interruption and so i was only vaguely aware of the passing time in that approximate way one's body clock ever is. so as this episode came to a close, and mina asks van helsing to not reply if he agrees to meet for breakfast, the dread spiked

i didn't know how long was left in the episode -- the music was still lingering. how much time has it been? 27 minutes? it feels like it could be 27 minutes, but it also feels much shorter? can't be sure. and even if the runtime is nearly elapsed, we know from previous episodes that a telegram can take mere seconds, a journal entry just a few words. is van helsing going to be called away? is he going to cancel the meeting? is mina going to be left alone again with no answers and no friends? with the count and the 'bloofer lady' closing in? how long has the music been playing? holding my breath for the morse code. holding my breath for van helsing's voice. holding my breath for 'letter by hand'. holding my breath for 'letter unopened'...

"this episode featured..."

relief

when reading, you have the unread pages in your hand constantly telling you the story of the progress of the narrative's shape. unless every piece of ephemera of an epistolary story is set on its own separate page, you can see the next item in your eyesight. sure, even if they are on separate new pages, you can see through the printed page the shadows of the text on the next, giving you a subconscious hint of expectation.

with a film, you lose the tangibility of the physical object informing the narrative, but you have other sensory cues - something like a fade to black over the lingering music can manipulate your expectations of narrative completion (and either follow through or subvert them). if you're watching on a device, an accidental activation of the screen or cursor might give you a glimpse of the progression bar, again changing your narrative perception.

with an audio drama you're left with just the one sense as your guide. unless you're actively watching the progression bar as you're listening or actively watching a clock, you just don't know beyond your own imperfect perception of time what you're in for and fuck me the added anxiety because of that is just

whew

[iniziare]

Consider Yelan's facial expression to be my own in reaction to opinions shared on both X and Tumblr, and I guess I'm in the minority of the 'loud ones', but I'm pretty excited for Natlan since that trailer, actually. The previous teasers left me a little 'eh', but this definitely got my hopes back up, and I'm back in the right spirits for it (and ready to catch some Pokémon.)

Now I wouldn't be me if I didn't touch on the salt that I've seen scattered across the dash, so here I go. Listen, I read people's objections and I see what you're all aiming at, but in that light want to note that it's often incredibly easy to point fingers (arguably too much so) at others while being, quite honestly, hopefully rather aware that many of our own countries, cultures, and its populations across the board (and no, I'm not excluding anyone here) would likely be just as easily guilty as MHY is with these things. And no, I'm not blindly defending them, but I also won't point fingers at only one without pointing them everywhere else as well, including those you might think would 'never do such things', because I'm absolutely certain that they would. /continues on in the tags.